Stone Keeper Read online

  BETH WEBB

  Stone keeper

  The book of earth

  also in this series

  Star Dancer (book 1)

  Fire Dreamer (book 2)

  Wave Hunter (book 3)

  Praise for Star Dancer

  Daily Telegraph Family Book Club choice

  Carousel (Editor’s Choice): An absorbing tale

  Achuka: A book with genuine buzz

  Books for Keeps: A many layered and satisfying tale

  *

  Praise for Fire Dreamer

  Undercover: Rarely do sequels come as good as this

  Teen Titles: A fantastically good read

  Love Reading: Thrilling and crackling with magic

  *

  Praise for Wave Hunter

  Book Trust: Vividly described … absorbing.

  The Book Bag: Vivid and accurate

  *

  Praise for Stone Keeper

  The Book Bag:

  I've thoroughly enjoyed this series … the thought of another whets my appetite.

  Stone Keeper

  The book of earth

  BETH WEBB

  Golden Scale

  This edition published by Golden Scale Media 2020

  Yanworth, Northleach,,Cheltenham, GL54 3LQ

  First published 2011 by

  March Hamilton Media 2013

  Text copyright © Beth Webb 2013, 2020

  Cover and illustrations copyright © Tom Ralls, 2013

  The right of Beth Webb to be identified as the author of this work

  has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act I988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Golden Scale

  *

  For Tom

  a painter of dreams

  Acknowledgements

  with special thanks to:

  Dr John A. Davies,

  Chief Curator Norwich Castle Study Centre

  and Dr Paul R. Sealey,

  Curator of Archaeology, Colchester and Ipswich Museums

  For their invaluable help and advice about Boudica and the British rebellion against the Romans.

  Also to Andy, Chloë, Lucinda, Philippa, Charlie and Yael

  and all my friends and family for

  their unfailing support.

  *

  The story so far …

  It is the end of the Iron Age and the Romans have invaded Britain. The druids are looking for a ‘Star Dancer’, a warrior-mage who will bring hope in the midst of despair.

  Desperate to find and train the boy, they overlook the birth of an insignificant girl –Tegen.

  As she grows, her wild, untutored magic attracts two archenemies: the scheming Gorgans, who longs to be the Star Dancer himself, and Derowen, a malicious witch with dark powers.

  With the help of Griff, her ‘half head’ foster-brother, Tegen begins her training as the Star Dancer and a druid of the Winter Seas, but she is tricked into poisoning Gilda, the kindly midwife who believed in her from the moment of her birth. Tegen’s confidence is further crushed when Gorgans steals the green silk shawl that she believes holds her magical powers.

  Derowen and Gorgans raise a cave demon to destroy Tegen, but they have summoned more than they can control and are killed by their own warped magic.

  Tegen brings the catastrophe under control. At last, the druids recognise her powers and offer her a place of honour amongst them. She refuses, believing she must fulfil her destiny on Mona, the druids’ sacred island.

  On the way she meets Owein, a young ovate travelling in the opposite direction. He has a past he’s trying to hide, and an uncle, Admidios, who is hell-bent on vengeance and power. Against her will, Tegen becomes entangled in Admidios’s dark plots, beginning with the murder of Owein’s foster father and ending with betrayal and the destruction of the stronghold at Sinodun.

  But Tegen has learned one important thing from Admidios: that she has the power to summon fire, and in those flames to divine the future.

  As Sinodun burns, Tegen flees, once more determined to reach Mona. She has with her Epona – a white mare, Wolf – her dog, and Kieran – a boy she helped to rescue from slavery.

  But Tegen has not left everything behind.

  She is being watched. The cave demon is still alive … And it’s following her.

  Kieran leads Tegen to his own home in Y Fenni, but the Romans who are systematically devastating the lands of the Cymru have destroyed the town. Kieran agrees to take Tegen as far as the House of Bera at the foot of Cadair Idris, but the demon follows them, first as a mist, then in the body of a half-dead bear. They find refuge in Bera, where Tegen makes a friend and learns wisdom, but the demon’s lust for Tegen’s powers brings betrayal and hatred in its wake, and once more she is forced to flee.

  She reaches the sea, where Brigid, the Goddess’ daughter puts her into a boat. But the waves take Tegen to Ériu, not Mona. Ill and alone in the stronghold of Tara, she is controlled by the well-meaning but unwise queen Étain, and is married to Étain’s youngest son, prince Tonn.

  Together they sail to Mona, only to witness the slaughter of the druids by Roman troops. Tegen is convinced she has failed in her life’s work to save Britain. The few remaining druids decide that one of them must become a human sacrifice to rid the land of the Romans, once and for all.

  The lot falls on Tonn, and despite Tegen’s arguments that to live and fight takes more courage than to die as a sacrifice, he submits to the ritual knife.

  Tegen is left bereft and alone, her faith in the Goddess destroyed – and she is pregnant.

  She longs to return to Ériu, but the druids insist she joins Queen Boudica of the Iceni. It is time for her to take her place as the Star Dancer and become the battle druid for the great rebellion.

  Tegen knows she’ll have no peace until her destiny is fulfilled, so she agrees – but on her terms.

  *

  Notes on who’s who in Tegen’s world, ancient festivals,

  Gods and Goddesses, historical characters, place names and pronunciations, can be found on page 362

  *

  The Game

  The Gaming Board was spread out in the late summer sun: square brown fields and green woods, criss-crossed by bright dividers that sparkled towards the sea.

  The demon had chosen and placed its pieces with care.

  In the top western corner, a war-maker raged amongst the mountains. He commanded an army that carried out his cruelty without question. His bloodied armour matched his scarlet cloak.

  This one pleased the demon.

  It cast its gaze towards the marshy islets in the east. There, a proud queen stoked the furnaces of vengeance. Her wind-tossed hair tangled in her golden jewellery, as knots of grief strangled her reason. Her minions were ageing and battle weary, but fired by her molten hatred.

  And the demon lusted after her madness.

  Around both these pieces, warriors gathered like flies on corpses. Soon town streets would echo with wailing, and fields would be drenched with gore
. Both leaders would betray their own with unforgivable wounds.

  The demon surveyed the board again.

  Riding towards the queen was the game piece he wanted most: a druid girl on a white horse.

  But without a hold on her spirit, or a physical host to follow her, she was insubstantial and intangible. The demon could only catch an occasional whiff of her presence.

  Before the end, it swore, she will crawl to the gates of Tir na nÓg begging for power to contain the horrors I will unleash. The cost will be exquisite. Her compassion for humans will compel her to agree to my terms. Her obedience will bring the Time of Stone to her world.

  A winter of death, emptiness and fear – with no bright spring to follow.

  The demon did not care which pieces won the coming battle. Victory was simply a lull between cycles of mayhem, slaughter, hatred and revenge.

  And soon the Star Dancer would become the demon’s own hands and feet.

  Bringing all to pass.

  The Soothsayer

  A deadly miasma drifted eastwards on a steady wind. The demon would arrive before the girl. But without a physical presence it had no voice to speak, it needed a messenger with plausibility – and drama. Swathed in mist, the demon sniffed its way through the fenland marshes. At last it found the partly rotted corpse of a fisherman and donned it like an old coat.

  Manipulating the cadaver was not easy. The demon struggled to grip unwieldy bones and sinews with spirit-fingers. At last, it hauled the stinking puppet to his feet. The dead hand pulled his hood low. Unsteady legs stumbled through peaty waters.

  Marsh birds screamed and flapped in panic. Somewhere, a dog howled. Step by dragging step, the demon found an island camp hidden by sedges and scrub.

  The place was bustling with warriors, smiths and horses. The savour of oily roasting meat hung in the air.

  Away from it all, a cloaked woman stood alone on an outcrop of rock with the wind tossing her red hair like a Samhain blaze.

  The demon-corpse drew closer. The reeds rustled.

  The woman turned, knife in hand.

  A chill wind caught the torches. They guttered and went out. Night was closing in.

  Boudica shuddered. Behind her, the fire gave little light. She squinted into the dark. Was someone there, or was it just one more shadow against the shifting gloom of the fen?

  ‘Show yourself.’ She raised her blade. ‘Your tribe? Your name?’

  The corpse jerked his limbs up the muddy bank. The demon’s spirit-tendrils were slipping on the slimy bones and rotting flesh. It would have to be quick, before its host fell apart.

  The cadaver swayed before the queen. Mist seeped from its mouth. ‘Aah … I am a friend, lady. I bring good news.’

  Retching at the putrid stench, Boudica forced herself to peer under the messenger’s hood. White orbs gleamed back at her.

  The dead fisherman stretched out a pale hand. ‘A white-robe is coming to stand at your side, an advisor of kings and queens.’

  ‘I know that,’ she retorted impatiently. ‘The wise ones promised me a battle druid three moons ago. I’ve been waiting ever since.’

  ‘This one has untold power. Stronger than any other.’ The demon worked at the dead lungs, struggling to form the words, ‘You must not trust. Must control … her. ’

  Boudica gripped her knife, staring with disgust and fascination. Who, or what, was this creature?

  The demon was losing its grip on the corpse. It heaved the soggy lungs and the voice bubbled. ‘Take … my spirit in … to yourself. Control … druids … win victory … you crave …’

  The corpse staggered.

  Boudica’s mind swam. ‘How do I know you’re speaking the truth?’ she demanded.

  The demon opened the dead mouth. A tiny trail of mist wound towards Boudica, sniffing, sensing and learning her fears.

  The corpse cracked his spine upright and whispered, ‘Your daughters suffered … Unless you obey me, it will happen again. But worse.’

  Then he collapsed at Boudica’s feet.

  And the spirit oozed free – towards the camp.

  Moments later, a girl’s screams pierced the night. Boudica span around. ‘Megan!’ she gasped, holding her arms wide. ‘Not more nightmares!’

  A slim figure darted between the warriors, past the campfires and flung herself into Boudica’s arms. ‘It’s those men that did nasty things to me,’ she sobbed. ‘I dreamed they came again.’

  She paused, looked down at the mottled waxen corpse. Then with a shaking hand she pointed, ‘Lead by him!’

  Hugging her distraught child, Boudica did not notice the trickle of mist that drifted away into the darkness.

  The moon was just rising in the southeast. The night was noisy with bitterns booming above the perpetual hissing of the reeds.

  ‘No one threatens my children,’ Boudica told the wind.

  Claudia Prima Metella

  Leaping flames – frayed, tossed and tattered by the wind. Gold and red, yellow, with sparks of blue. Spangles, crackling and spiralling into the midnight sky.

  They weren’t the fine, gauzy tongues of a campfire; these were huge, towering and intense – smoke-laden and filled with fear – blocking out the stars beyond.

  Tegen shielded her face from the raging heat and fought to breathe. She knew she was dreaming, but there was no way to struggle through the unbreakable silken web that held her strung between her own world and the mystical realms of Tir na nÓg. What were the spirits trying to tell her? Was this a warning or advice?

  Or was something evil tormenting her?

  Lady Goddess, she prayed, what is going on?

  Then she remembered: she was no longer sure the Goddess existed. But the spirits of fire were real enough. Tegen held her breath.

  From out of the flames, a charcoal shadow strode towards her. It was roughly human-shaped, but bigger and made of charred wood, ash and soot. As it moved, its fragile skin cracked, exposing the crimson heat that raged beneath.

  It stood before Tegen, bowed, opened its red maw and …

  ‘Excuse me, Miss,’ said a small voice.

  Tegen opened her eyes and was blinded by the late afternoon sun. She sat up and rubbed her face.

  Kneeling before her was a skinny girl a little younger than herself, maybe fourteen summers old. Behind her, seven or eight Roman soldiers waited with drawn swords.

  ‘Sorry to wake you, Miss …’ the girl spoke British, but with a heavy accent.

  Tegen sighed. She shouldn’t have rested by the roadside in broad daylight, but sleep had overtaken her – she’d been unable to resist. It happened a lot since she’d become pregnant. She glanced around. Epona, her white mare was grazing close by. She ought to just get up and go.

  The girl touched Tegen’s arm timidly. ‘Please?’ she began again.

  ‘What do you want?’ Tegen demanded, more curtly than she’d intended.

  The girl looked nervously over her shoulder. ‘It’s my Lady, Miss; she’s in that litter. She wants to speak with you.’

  Tegen followed her gaze beyond the cordon of soldiers to a canopied bed slung between four broad-shouldered slaves. The curtains twitched and a hand appeared, made an impatient gesture, then withdrew.

  ‘Mistress doesn’t like being kept waiting,’ the girl urged.

  Tegen’s heart sank. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ula, Miss.’

  ‘Very well, Ula, please tell your lady, that I regret that I’m unable to speak with her today, but I wish her a safe and pleasant journey.’ She stood, brushed herself down and stepped around the soldiers towards Epona.

  Ula leaped ahead and grasped the horse’s reins. ‘Don’t say that, Miss, please. I’ll be beaten, hard.’ The girl’s cheeks bore old purple-yellow bruises and her white linen veil only partly hid three vermilion scars.

  The soldiers laughed. Obviously they understood.

  Tegen considered the bulging muscles of the litter-bearers. She sighed. This foreign girl had done nothing
wrong except become a slave of a cruel Roman matron. ‘Very well.’ She touched the girl’s hand. ‘I’ll talk with your mistress.’

  Ula bowed and stepped aside. At a sharp command from behind the curtains, the slaves lowered their burden to the ground. The men eased their necks and backs as the fine drapery was drawn back and an eerily white face looked out.

  She said something in Latin and when Tegen did not reply, Ula translated, ‘Miss, my lady wants to know who you are and where you’re going?’

  ‘My name is Tegen of the Winter Seas and I’m searching for lost relatives. I’ve heard they’re trading with the Iceni, so I’m going east.’

  Ula translated, then her lady spoke again.

  ‘She asks why are you riding a Roman horse with a military saddle?’

  ‘I bought it from a man who didn’t need it anymore,’ Tegen replied. It wasn’t far from the truth.

  The mistress clicked her fingers at Tegen. ‘You will bow whilst addressing me,’ she demanded in British. Her voice sounded younger than the heavily made-up face implied.

  Tegen bit back her anger. As a druid, she was equal to royalty and this stranger should bow before her. But if the woman so much as suspected the truth, Tegen knew she’d be dead within moments. Only three moons before, the Romans had slaughtered nearly all the British druids on the isle of Mona. Now they were scouring the land for any survivors.

  Tegen was wearing druid’s white, but the gown was not embroidered and she wore no amulets to betray her. She hoped she looked like a lady of status, no more. Pulling her green silk scarf over her tattoo, Tegen approached the litter and lowered her head. ‘Greetings, lady,’ she said quietly. ‘How may I be of service?’