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Chapter 11 - The Plain of Stones

The afternoon sun broke from behind unseasonal clouds, and warmed Pierrette's clammy skin. A breeze out of the northwest carried fresh scents of warm grass, devoid of the salty tang of sea and salins. The Crau—the Plain of Stones—lay ahead.

Once before she had smelled that aroma, debarking from Caius's boat on the far side of the plain. Then it had enticed her with a promise of a warm hearth at nightfall, a lost love awaiting her. But then she had not known a lover, except in daydreams and visions. That impression, that someone awaited her on the broad, flat plain was what she had alluded to with Ortagion.

But the plain was open and exposed. She would have to leave the shelter of willow and tamarisk, and would be visible to her pursuers. She had no sense of being followed, yet, but she could not believe Cunotar would forego revenge for the burning of the nemeton and its grisly contents. But what good were visions like hers, if she ignored them? With a tremulous sigh, she set out onto the plain.

* * *

The stones must have been laid down in some cataclysmic event long past. They ranged from gravels to bulging boulders, but most were rounded cobbles long overlain by soil. A casual observer would not have known most of them were there unless he set plow or shovel to the ground—neither would have penetrated more than inches. Yet there was enough dirt for a thick carpet of short grass, and exposed cobbles to turn an ankle on, if she were not careful. Despite that, she made good time.

Her first sight of pursuit was a line of heat-distorted specks miles east of her. Men on horses. Had she been spotted? If so, why were they spread out so? Wouldn't they be in a single file, if they were hurrying toward her? She concluded she was less visible to them than they to her. She pressed on, frequently peering anxiously backward. The distant specks became no clearer, but neither did they fade.

Her heart sank. They didn't see her, but they were trailing her. Her trailing skirt had left a broad swath of bent grasses. She loosened the skirt, then wrapped it in a tight roll, grateful now that she had not had time to change that morning, and still wore bracae. She would keep to bare patches where her passage would not show. She eyed the distant line of trees, then set off at an angle to her earlier straight course. She would not make as good time, but if they continued straight on, she might lose them.

The sun was past zenith, the hottest part of the day. The heat was intense, but her sweat dried immediately, cooling her—and its loss made her thirsty. Her pursuers probably had water sacks. She pressed on, careful to avoid grass and keep to bare gravel, or to hop from cobble to cobble. Her trail was now so intermittent—some grass was unavoidable—that the horsemen would have to know her direction already, to know where to look for it.

The sun moved too quickly; all too soon it was shining in her eyes, which made it easier to look back. The line of horsemen was no less visible. Were they actually closer?

Another hour's walk convinced her they were. They had not been fooled by her change in direction, or her efforts not to leave a trail. Why didn't they just ride her down? While looking backward, she tripped and sprawled on the hard ground. That was why. The horses could easily break legs here. But still, they gained on her. They were soon close enough for her to see that there were more horses than men; they had brought remounts.

Over a long stretch, an unburdened person afoot could outdistance a horse. Horses could only outrun a man for a short burst. But with fairly fresh horses, unridden, riders could keep up. The sun was still too high. Darkness would be her friend; they would have to stop, or lead the horses—but she did not think she could last that long. Every time she looked, they were closer. There was not enough time, and there was too much of it.

Time? Was it possible to use time to . . . Her thoughts raced. She had gotten here—already in the distant past—by using the spell Mondradd in Mon, to escape one terrifying circumstance. Dare she use it again? A spell within a spell? Could she flee further into the past? What choice did she have? When she recognized Cunotar's cowled figure atop the leading horse, she began to speak those words, ancient even in this time long ago . . .

* * *
Mondradd in MonBorabd orá perdó.Merdrabd or vernArfaht ará camdó.
* * *

There was no way to tell if anything changed. Always before, it had seemed gradual: she would wait, perhaps dozing in the sacred grove of beech trees, and awaken in another time, or outside of time. Or, walking, her surroundings would shift gradually, a change definable only by the presence of works of man—a church spire visible one moment, then gone the next time she looked . . . because it had not yet been built.

Here there were no churches—nothing but boulders bulging up from the ground, cobbles, grass, and gravel underfoot. Behind her, the riders loomed taller than before. The sun's low-angling rays glanced from polished bronze-trimmed helmets.

She staggered. Her feet were battered and sore, and she was woozy with heat and water loss. But the ground underfoot felt softer. . . . She was walking across a patch of short leafy stuff. How could that be? She had seen the Crau from the other side; it continued all the way to the boat canal that paralleled the Rhodanus. There were no patches of leafy green. She splashed through a rivulet. Her feet were wet. Ahead, several small channels or streams glistened.

She reached down and cupped water, sweet and fresh. Forcing herself on, she waited until the next small waterway—almost knee deep—to dash her face with water, to gulp down several mouthsful.

Thus freshened, she stretched her pace. The ground was hummocky and soft now, with few rocks to trip her up, but vinelike vetch tangled her feet instead, and slowed her. She was confused. If this was no longer the Crau, the Plain of Stones, was this before the cataclysm that had deposited the rocks? Then why had the horsemen not faded away between one glance and the next?

She heard distant shouting. Cunotar. He waved an arm over his head. "You aren't the only one who knows the spell, seeress—or whoever you really are. I'll follow you to the beginning of time."

Pierrette stumbled on. It was getting dark. The horsemen were no nearer. The beasts must be exhausted, or they would have galloped the last stretch, on the soft ground, and overtaken her. Ahead was a blaze of red and pink clouds surrounding a sun half-set. Darkness was minutes away. Her pursuers would have to stop. How much longer could she continue? She parted tall, sharp-leaved rushes. She had seen their like before, in the Camargue, the delta of the Rhodanus. Was this also a delta? But what river? No stream crossed the Crau.

She could hardly see to place her feet. She had to find dry ground where she could rest. . . .

* * *

Firelight, and warmth on her wet clothing, awakened her. She tried to sit—but could not move.

"Ah! You're awake." It was Cunotar. What had happened? She remembered making a nest of dry reeds, and falling asleep. Then, like a nightmare remembered over a morning's porridge, it came back: Cunotar, still far off, holding a torch high, chanting words more ancient than the Gaulish of his day; the torch's smoke, curling outward like a swarm of bees, seeking . . . And finding her, pointing her out, hovering above her. She ran, but ended facedown in shallow water, between a horse's hooves. Now she lay bound at wrists and ankles.

The dryade had thrown back his cowl. Pierrette was surprised how young he looked. His hair was auburn, his teeth fine, large, and white, his brows bushy. She had imagined him as old as his corrupt spirit, with gapped yellow teeth. His youth made him even more frightening. "I've had time to think what to do about you. At first I thought I'd use your head to replace one of those you burned. But you're no warrior. What good would your feeble ghost be? There will come a time when women's and children's spirits will serve—cooking and sewing. Imagine—an immortal slave to polish my armor and . . . But that's the future, and now . . ."

She now knew why the Gauls of Entremont had beheaded children. Just because "ordinary" fantômes had been warriors didn't limit fantômes' use to war. Now she understood also that many possible futures, Gaulish, Roman, pagan and Christian, led toward the Black Time of her visions. Instead of machines that damped all magic, and written knowledge that snuffed out the awe and mystery, Cunotar's vision was of a world where the bodies of enslaved spirits labored endlessly. The trap was more elemental, but the result was the same: a world of dead ashes, where despairing souls inhabited bleak cities, where the sea and the sky were like sheets of gray, featureless lead.

Pain jolted her from her miserable thoughts. Cunotar had kicked her. "Don't drift off again," he snarled. "It's your future I'm talking about. Don't you care?"

Did she? Either way it was the same. Either way, it was hopeless. She turned her head aside—the only gesture of rejection her bonds permitted.

"You can't block your ears," the dryade said. "Know this: when we get back to Heraclea, you'll have a temple of your own, priestess. It won't be Veleda's tower. It will be Brigantu's house—and you'll have plenty of worshippers there." He laughed.

Brigantu. A fertility goddess. A corruption of what Ma once was. Cunotar knew that she was not of this remote past where he had pursued her, or of his own time. He knew just how to trap her, to nullify her. It was both less hideous than beheading and more. She would not long remain virgin in Brigantu's house.

She imagined her lost body growing cold on the slopes of Sainte Baume, of pilgrims to Belisama or Magdalene—it wouldn't matter whose time she died in—passing her by, perhaps covering her with earth and stones when her corpse began to stink, calling a priest to mutter words over her. She envisioned her other self in Cunotar's temple, living out her useless life, nursing the children of unknown men. . . .

"No!" she screamed, rolling over, struggling with her bonds. Cunotar laughed again, and as she stared hopelessly into his eyes, she saw the hot flames of his own personal hell—and she knew who looked out from those tormented eyes. The Eater of Gods was not bound by place and time, or by the traditions of men. It was not gods alone he consumed.

 

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