“I would not try it, if I were you,” Dieda said, and he returned her laughter.
“I do not intend to try it at this moment; in another month or two it may be a very different matter. I do not grieve at Ardanos’s death; nor should you, Eilan. He was all too eager to have all things ordered as he chose.”
“He was indeed,” she said honestly, though her blood ran cold as she connected what Gaius had told her with Cynric’s words.
“Good; you are honest so far,” he said. “I wonder, foster sister, how far your honesty goes.”
She said warily, “I, at least, know what I want.”
“Do you? And what is that, Eilan?”
“Peace!” So that my son can grow to be a man, she thought grimly. But there was no way she could say that to Cynric. Ardanos had blighted her own happiness, and that of Cynric and Dieda as well, but at least in the West, the tribes had been at peace for a dozen years.
Cynric grimaced. “Peace—women think too much of it,” he snorted. “You sound like Macellius’s mouthpiece, as I sometimes thought old Ardanos was. But he is gone. Now we may have a chance to drive out these Romans. Brigitta waits, knowing what we want of her.”
“I should think Brigitta had seen enough of war,” Eilan said.
“Say rather that she has seen enough of Roman justice,” Cynric said bitterly. “But there are strange rumors going about these days. If the Romans do fight each other, perhaps we can free ourselves of what they call justice. Then every Roman home shall be laid waste as was the home of Bendeigid!”
Eilan interrupted. “Have you forgotten it was not the Romans who leveled the home of my father and killed my mother, but the Hibernians and the wild tribesmen of the North? The Romans themselves punished them.”
“For our own homes, who but we should be responsible?” asked Cynric. “It is for us to punish or to spare as we see fit. Are we to accept all this like tame dogs, and let the Romans determine whom we should fight and where?” An angry flush was building beneath the weathered skin.
Eilan said stubbornly, “However it comes, peace is a good thing.”
“So you will still speak the traitorous words of Ardanos? Or are they the words of Macellius, or perhaps of his handsome son?” he asked, sneering.
Behind him the giant bodyguard shifted weight uneasily. Eilan hardly noticed, she was so distressed. “At least Macellius has the good of both our peoples at heart.”
“And I do not?” Cynric demanded, his eyes flashing.
“I did not say that, or anything like to it.”
“But that is what you meant,” he threw back at her. “I know Macellius’s cub came here. What did he say to you? With you in the high seat, it seems we hardly need the Romans. But we shall hear such traitorous counsels no longer. Bendeigid has been chosen as Arch-Druid—that is what I came to tell you—and he will give you a very different set of instructions at the next festival!”
Dieda was looking from one to the other, her face flaming. Eilan strove for calm, knowing that Cynric was simply trying to hurt her.
“It is true that Ardanos told me what he wanted and interpreted the Oracle’s answers. But what the Goddess says while I am in trance is not my doing. I do not declare my own will, Cynric,” she said quietly.
“Are you trying to tell me the Goddess wishes for this treason?”
“Why should She not?” shouted Eilan. “She is a mother.” As I am. Eilan swallowed the words, and added angrily, “You have no right to speak so to me!”
“I am the vengeance of the Goddess,” snapped Cynric, “and I speak as I will—and punish—”