Marilyn Todd - Scorpion Rising

'Soon.' A knife twisted her gut. 'Soon, darling. Somehow I'll have you released from your torment, that I really do promise.'

But the words could not get past the lump in her throat. Poison might yet be his only escape Outside the Cave of Miracles she took care, but the Guardian of the Sacred Spring wasn't watching the path. He sat on a stool with his head in his hands, sweat darkening the shirt round his underarms, his ponytail limp with the heat. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought Gurdo was praying — but for what? she wondered. Pod? The boy would be coming round soon, he could not keep him in a drugged sleep for ever. But what then? Pod had found Clytie, Pod had found Sarra, and the man who adopted him wasn't stupid. His mind would be turning back a decade in time, to the day he found the boy wandering among the reed beds. A boy with spiky dark hair, a broad elfish grin, and no memory whatsoever Creeping past the cave mouth, Claudia half-expected the forbidden side to be blocked by a guard of priestesses, but it seemed resurrection was a lengthy process. Presumably it would only be once Sarra's body was cremated that any rituals would transfer to this cave. Inside, sheltered from the howls of the wind and the drumming rain, she strained both her eyes and her ears. But the spirits remained invisible, even in death, and their buzz was silent as ever, while deep underground the rumble of thunder echoed like the Minotaur's hoof.

She could turn back. Kill time in her room, pacing the floor. There was no need to do this, it could wait. But as long as her mind had nothing to occupy itself with, it tumbled with images of blood. Of broken bones. Of the rotting remains of animals that had fallen into the pit. Of the whimpers of previous victims…

She pushed deeper into the tunnel. Where the bloody hell was it? That scrap of paper that talked about millstones had to be a draft of the original letter. A draft Ailm had torn up because it wasn't nasty enough, and Claudia was sure it was around here that she'd found it. Ah, there you are! A fragment, but enough to confirm her suspicions that Ailm penned her poison down here, hiding the evidence where it would not be found. As the Death Priestess, she had the freedom to come and go as she pleased, no one would question her right to be here, not even Gurdo. But if the parchment and ink were squirrelled away, Ailm would need a place where the damp couldn't penetrate. Funnily enough, Claudia had a hunch about that, too.

Guided by the channel of softly trickling water, she felt her way through the Stygian blackness until she reached the great painted chamber, still mercifully illuminated by the glow from a score of candles. Once again she was struck by its beauty. Unlike the frescoes that adorned Rome, they lacked subtlety and style, and the colours were severely limited. But there was something deeply compelling about those stylized antelope, about the handprints of men and women long dead, and the sinuous lines of the lynx. High above, on ledges gouged out of the rock, the ashes of three hundred years watched over them from their communal urns. Yellow for gorse, purple for heather, red like Luisa's shiny bright rowans.

It was tempting to dismantle the cairn of white stones, but Beth had already tried that. Maybe she'd received a letter herself, but either way she knew about the poison-pen letters, because there was only one reason why the Head of the College would fail to reprimand an outsider from setting foot on sacred soil. Forget that nonsense about too many problems inside the College. That was false confidence, designed to distract Claudia from Beth's presence in the cave and the lie about visiting old friends. She'd been crouched down, behind that cairn, searching for the same thing Claudia was after today. Evidence. And she remembered the sighs that had echoed down the tunnel. Sighs, she realized now, that had been born of exasperation.

No evidence to connect these letters to me.

Wherever Ailm hid it, Beth hadn't found it, but the point is, Beth wasn't Ailm. Ailm would have hidden her secret in the one place Beth wouldn't dream of disturbing. Among the dead. Dragging the ladder against the ledge, Claudia picked up one of the candles and began to climb. It was wider up here than it looked from below, several feet deep in places. But with fifty funeral urns, each as high as her shoulder, where on earth to begin? Walking between the lines of colourful urns, running her hand over their painted imagery — birds, clouds, fruit trees, nuts — she wondered which one Ailm would have chosen. The resting place of her predecessors, perhaps? Claudia heaved off the heavy black lid and saw only ash staring back at her. Damn.

She promised.

Of course! Ailm would have hidden her secret inside the great silver urn, the one marked with the birch that she had seen as her birthright. By the flickering lamplight, Claudia flipped through draft after sickening draft.

Does your wife know about your trysts with that slutfrom the locksmiths?

Have you studied your son's profile? Have you studied yours?

The cask is best flavoured by the first fill of wine. This is why brides must be virgins. But can't you smell wine lees on your fiancee?

Page after page of stomach-churning venom, penned by a woman whose only means to fill the void in her life was to make others more miserable than herself. Claudia saw her rich peat-dark hair, her finely pleated robe and exquisite cosmetics. Resenting the other priestesses' busy days and multi-faceted lives, Ailm lavished attention on herself because she had nothing else to do with her time. Another woman might pitch in with the chores, take up outdoor pursuits, even a succession of lovers. Instead, spite became Ailm's reason for living. Well, let's see how she takes to the kitchens! See how much time she has on her hands then!

From the corner of her eye, Claudia caught the glimpse of a shadow below. Saw silver robes flash in the lamplight.

'Good,' she told Beth, 'I'm glad you're here, because not only do I have the evidence to convict Ailm, I know what it is that you're hiding.'

So simple. All she'd had to do was look at the problem with sense and not sentiment and even before Claudia had reached this great painted chamber, she realized Swarbric hadn't killed Clytie.

'I know the reason Clytie died on the spring equinox,' she said steadily. 'I know why she died, I know why that particular rock was selected, I know why the body was moved, why her face was painted, and badly at that.'

Standing stiff, almost rigid, with her hands clasped behind her, the priestess's face was as blank as the stone that surrounded her. Round her neck hung a heavy bronze choker.

'But most of all, Beth, like you I know who took Clytie's life.' Her smile was sad. 'I know the secret you're hiding.'

Then three things happened at once.

First, as Claudia lifted her flame for a better view, she saw it was not a bronze choker round Beth's neck, but an arm. Holding a knife to her throat.

At the same time, the ladder was kicked away from the ledge.

And a man stepped out from the shadows.

Stepping out of the shadows, the Whisperer smiled. Better and better, the Roman whore, too. Proof that the old gods were wise gods, and on his side. He cocked his ear to their low, insistent growls as they rumbled through the tunnels and caves. To their wails and keening cries. The gods were calling out to the Druids for blood. Blood to redress the balance and turn back the tide of neglect. His smile broadened. Who was he to disobey their demands?

'It is time,' he said, testing the rope that bound the bitch's hands behind her back. 'Tonight, at midnight, the battle cry will echo over this land, the earth will drink of the blood of the innocent and there will be carnage like no one has seen.'