Janice, her face grim, tossed the sheaf of papers down onto the desk in front of Kaitlyn. "So. This is what led to it all." Her hands gripped the sides of the desk with enough force to turn her knuckles white, and her eyes flashed dangerous fire. Her shoulders heaved with her deep, even breathing, its steady rhythm projecting ominous calm.

At the other end of the desk, Mel's eyes darted nervously between Janice and the discarded papers. With her hands folded tightly in her lap to keep them from twitching with anxiety, she bit her lip, afraid to speak.

Kaitlyn, seated at the center of the desk, heaved a sigh and stared at the wooden surface in front of her. "Apparently so," she mumbled. Gritting her teeth, she kept her gaze fully on the desk, not daring to meet the eyes of either the archaeologist or the translator. Tension radiated from both of them in waves so palpable that the young linguist expected to be hit by the physical force of a storm front at any moment.

She fumbled for her cigarette case and put a Dunhill between her lips. Her hands were shaking, and it took several tries to ignite her lighter. Finally, she managed to spark the wick into flame and lit up, inhaling the acrid smoke from the cigarette deeply into her lungs, hoping that it would smother the nauseating feeling that was starting up again in her stomach, stronger this time than she'd felt in a while. Neither Mel nor Janice said a word, and the heavy silence only made Kaitlyn more nervous, as if she were only waiting for the inevitable.

Then, the inevitable happened. Janice's temper broke, and the storm was on them in full. "Son of a bitch! " the archaeologist exploded, slamming both fists into the desktop so hard that everything on it jumped. Mel flinched and backed away, frightened by this display of aggression. She had seen Janice angry many times before, but she'd always been clearly provoked, those times. Now Janice was as furious as Mel had ever seen her, yet the dark-haired woman was at a loss as to why.

This latest Scroll had hit them both with a shock that numbed them with its impact. Ever since learning of the incident in which Xena had stormed into the Amazon village and dragged Gabrielle behind a horse for several miles, Mel had been appalled by the events of the Rift. Now that they apparently knew of all the events behind it, she felt even more strongly so. Janice, however, had voiced nothing of her reactions, and Mel had no idea how the archaeologist was taking all of this. She had a feeling, though, that she was about to find out.

She was right.

"Goddammit!" Janice howled again, kicking the desk. "Of all the stupid, blind, idiotic fucking things to do! How could she . . . what the hell was she thinking?"

"Whoa, whoa, Janice, hold on! " Kaitlyn jumped up from her chair, both hands reaching out to her friend, trying to calm her down. "What's got you so ticked? Take it easy, Janice, come on!"

Janice whirled on Kaitlyn, sparks snapping in her green eyes. Her face was bright red and twisted into a mask of anger. "Take it easy? I find this out-"she pointed accusingly in the direction of the discarded translation-"and you want me to take it easy? ?"

I know you're upset, and I am too, and I'm sure Mel's upset!" Kaitlyn sputtered. "But there's no reason to be this mad!"

"No reason? No reason? Dammit! She lied, Kaitlyn! She lied, and betrayed Xena, and people died because of it! She knew what she had to do, and she didn't do it! How stupid could she be?"

Kaitlyn realized the cause of Janice's anger with considerable alarm. Gabrielle. She's mad at Gabrielle. I was afraid of this! Through her peripheral vision she caught sight of Mel's face, and knew that the translator had come to the same conclusion. She sighed and took a step toward the irate blonde woman. "Janice, come on . . . Don't tell me you haven't lied before!"

But Janice ignored her and turned away to stare into the fireplace. "Kaleipus died, Solan died, those kids damn near got killed, and Amazons got hurt. All because she couldn't see that her demon-spawn daughter was nothing but trouble. I can't believe Xena went so far as to drag her behind a horse, but I'd say she probably fucking well deserved it for all of that."

Those poisonous words fanned the slow-burning fuse of Mel's temper to its end, and it was the Southerner's turn to explode. "Deserve it? Janice Covington, how dare you! Nobody deserves to be treated like that-nobody!" Mel spat out. "I never thought I would hear you say such a thing!" In disgust, she stormed away to the far side of the room, gazing out the window to hide the tears brimming in her eyes. As hurt as she was by these latest revelations, her true pain was the shock of witnessing this vindictive, condemning side of Janice, which she had never seen before.

"And what about Solan? And Kaleipus?" Janice tossed over her shoulder in return. "Did they deserve to die?" She leaned against the mantelpiece, closing her eyes against the oncoming tears, willing them away. She couldn't understand how Mel could stand up for Gabrielle's actions, when it was so obvious that the bard had been blind to the consequences of her decision. My ancestor, the irritating blonde, she thought angrily. Was she even thinking? I should have known it was all her fault.

"They-well . . ." Mel found, however, that she had no good answer for that question. "I don't know," she admitted, shamefacedly.

They fell into silence once more. The small library of the Velasquez summer home was heavy with tension in the unspoken emotional backlash of the moment. Kaitlyn ran a hand through her rumpled hair and sat down woodenly in the desk chair, feeling positively nauseated. She felt herself stuck in the middle of the situation, a position she hated to be in.

While she could understand how Gabrielle had clung to the possibility of Hope's redemption-Kaitlyn herself never had the heart to fully condemn someone-she, like Janice, couldn't understand why Gabrielle had never apparently thought about the inherent potential for danger in her daughter's continued existence. While she could understand the extremity of Xena's reaction to her son's death, she, like Mel, couldn't understand how the warrior could fall so far as to avenge herself on Gabrielle, let alone in such a vicious manner.

Taking sides would be unfair to both Mel and Janice, and to their ancestors as well, Kaitlyn felt. Besides that, she found that she couldn't fully agree with either of their viewpoints. Yet being impartial was difficult for her; the Rift was too complicated a situation for anyone to take easily, even with ambiguous feelings toward it. Kaitlyn felt as though she were almost obligated to take a stance on the issue, but saw no way to do so without alienating either of her friends and making their current argument worse. She wondered if Rhonwyn had felt the same way-after all, the Druid herself had been something of a middle ground between Xena and Gabrielle. She wondered briefly how the ancient Celt had felt, in the face of the Rift that had threatened her friends.

"You two," she said softly, "I know this is a hard thing to ask-it's tough to be impersonal when your ancestors are involved-but can't we try to be more objective about this? You both feel very strongly about the whole situation, I know, but until we get it all figured out, can you please . . ."

Not sure she was at all convincing them, Kaitlyn sighed. Yeah, you get jealous of them, and then this happens. Real good, Velasquez, real good. Just like clockwork, like every other time you've gotten jealous of someone. This is probably all your fault. She suppressed the troubling thought and her growing nausea, taking a last long pull from her cigarette and stubbing it out in the ashtray. A thick cloud of smoke dissipated above the linguist's head as she eyed her two friends apprehensively. Neither of them spoke, and their reticence hung more thickly in the air than the smoke from Kaitlyn's cigarette.

After what could have easily been two hours, two minutes, or two seconds-none of them could really tell-Janice broke the silence. "Aw, geez, Mel, I'm sorry," she stammered, half swallowing the words. "I didn't mean to blow up like that." The sensation of being emotionally distant from her lover was, after the three years they had been together, utterly foreign to her; its presence robbed her of her sense of security, and reflexes born of that loss of security were what compelled her to speak. The archaeologist took a few tentative steps toward Mel, who came toward her, the hurt expression still evident on her face.

"It's all right, Janice, it's all right," murmured Mel, laying a hand on her lover's arm. "I suppose I shouldn't have lost my temper either."

They stood like that for a moment; Janice's eyes bored through the floor, and Mel gazed absently into the empty air over the blonde woman's head.

The muscles of Janice's clenched jaw worked uncertainly beneath her taut skin. I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean it . . . nobody really deserves that, but I just can't believe Gabrielle would do something so dumb . . . okay, so maybe it was dumb, but it was an honest mistake . . . Phrases raced through her head, but none of them rang true enough for her to voice. "Let's just forget about it, huh?" she asked instead, awkwardly. If I said what I really felt, it'd hurt her so much . . . she'd never forgive me.

Mel nodded in silent agreement, not daring to express any of the thoughts churning about in her mind. I wish you'd tell me what's really wrong . . . I can't believe you'd be so unforgiving . . . if only you knew how much it hurts to see you acting this way . . . but how can I tell you? You'd just say I was being sentimental and . . . The slight, subtle jerk of Mel's head was all but invisible, and in fact Janice felt more than saw the affirmative gesture. "Just forget about it," echoed Mel dully.

Kaitlyn sagged-not visibly, she hoped-with relief. Well, at least one of them won't be sleeping on the couch tonight. The sudden explosion of anger between these two, who had always been so close ever since she'd met them-just those few loaded minutes had encompassed one of the most terrifying experiences of her life. Seeing Mel and Janice standing on opposite sides of the room, backs toward each other, Kaitlyn had seen, with a strange, surreal sort of second sight she'd never before experienced, the immeasurable depths of a gaping abyss. The vision left her gasping for breath, her body enclosed in the chill of what could only be described as a supernatural numbness. The Rift . . .

The two words echoed hollowly in her mind. Aw, come on, Velasquez, that's stupid . . . it's not going to happen again! But looking at her two friends, standing together in the middle of the room and yet never once looking at each other, she couldn't convince herself of that. Side by side we stood, so close together, and yet so vastly torn apart . . . The voice in her head spoke again, and this time, she found, it was not so easy to dismiss.

"Look," she said simply, the unearthly chill in her body spreading to her throat and choking her voice. "It's been a long day, we're all tired, and we're not any of us in the best of moods. How about just calling it a night, going to bed and maybe sleeping it off?"

Mel looked furtively at Janice, who met her gaze with difficulty. The taller woman nodded. "I think that's probably a good idea."

Janice mumbled her agreement almost inaudibly, and the two of them said their goodnights to Kaitlyn before going to their room. Not side by side, like usual; Mel trailed halfheartedly a few paces behind Janice, and neither of them spoke a word.

Watching them go, the young New Englander felt like crying, overwhelmed by the knowledge that the emotional balance was upset, and haunted by the abyss she'd seen in her fleeting vision, if that was what it had been. Well, now you've done it, Velasquez, she thought angrily. The Scroll is translated, and they know what happened now. There's no going back from here. Panic and hysteria threatened to overwhelm her, but with great effort, she fought off the mounting emotions. She shook her head violently, as if to physically rid herself of the feelings, and headed for her own room, hoping to get some work done on Rhonwyn's lifesong. It might at the very least distract her from the fear and regret for a bit, if nothing else.

But fatigue proved too strong for the linguist to withstand; she had barely gotten three lines into the piece of parchment before her when her eyes, heavy-lidded from need of sleep, fell shut. Lying fully clothed on the bed, the small gilded case of Rhonwyn's lifesong beside her, Kaitlyn began to dream.

Rhonwyn stumbled through the woods, grief forming a lump in her throat and bringing tears to her eyes. She forced herself to keep going, to keep moving away from the two friends she'd left behind. Ever since meeting Xena and Gabrielle, she had been aware of the tension smoldering between them; it was fear-fear that her growing love for the bard would fan that ember into a blaze-that drove her away. For two weeks now she had been traveling, spreading the news she had learned, trying to absorb herself in the duties of the wandering bard.

Time to go warn the other tribes about Caesar's plans. You've neglected your duties long enough, you fool of a Druid, she told herself. Yes, a fool all right . . . you knew right from the start that she was Xena's lover, and yet you allowed yourself to fall in love with her? Annwn take you, Rhonwyn! What danger does that put them in now? How could you be irresponsible enough to let that happen? The young Druid berated herself harshly, and her tears flowed freely now-not because of her pain at leaving Gabrielle behind, but because of her growing terror at the damage that the power of her will could have wrought.

That fear drove her to her knees beside a small, still pool of water half-concealed in a copse of young trees. The Druid dug her fingers into the soft green moss at the pool's edge and, her breath rasping in her throat, forced herself into a studied calm. She wiped one hand on her cloak and reached into her belt pouch, withdrawing a hazelnut from the small supply secreted there. Putting it into her mouth, Rhonwyn began to chew, drawing on the insight that the Seed of Wisdom would provide. She stared into the smooth, dark surface of the water and began to withdraw into herself, reaching deep within her soul. All conscious thought slipped away from her, and, entering into her awen, she began to gaze into the shadowed Otherworld paths of a near future.

Turmoil leaped out at her from the glassine stillness. She saw Xena's face, anger and vengeance burning wildly in those blue eyes. She saw Gabrielle abandoned, left in the company of a strange young priest who deceived her into killing a young woman dressed in robes like his own. A terrifying childbirth in a barn stable; a baby surreptitiously set adrift in a river; a young boy dead in Xena's arms, the reticent warrior openly wailing in agony; Gabrielle lying, bloody and battered, near the edge of a high, windswept cliff.

With the images came pain, excruciating pain, pain that radiated from the visions of her friends to pierce Rhonwyn's very spirit with the clarity of their projections. The shock of fear and betrayal, and the simmering heat of hatred, ripped at Rhonwyn's soul, taxing every last reserve of her strength and plunging her into the blackness of oblivion.

She awoke an indeterminate time later, prone on her back next to the pool. Her head was pounding and she felt sick to her stomach; not since she had entered her awen for the first time as a young child had she been so affected, and never had the awen gripped her so strongly. Her insight had been clear-far too clear. The answers were not supposed to be revealed so plainly in the awen, not even to the best-trained of the Druids.

With a groan, the Druid raised herself into a sitting position and looked around her. Dew on the moss beneath her left an outline around her form. Her hands were muddy from the clumps of dirt whichdirt that she'd clawed from the ground in the Otherworldly agony that had overwhelmed her. Rhonwyn rested her head on her knees and sat for a while, trying to recover her strength. When she felt sufficiently rested, she took some food from her pack and ate before setting off in the same direction from which she had come. She had to try and stave off the tragedy she had caused; gods willing, she would not be too late.

* * *

Kaitlyn awoke with a cry. She felt like she'd been bodyslammed by that thug of Dobson's, the big guy he'd called Ming. Ming . . . Ming . . .. The name ran through her head with a nagging yet elusive familiarity. In frustration she grasped mentally at the end of that thread, clamping down and pulling it toward her. Ming T'ien! The connection, crazy as it was, seized her so strongly that she regretted trying to make it. It shook her from her groggy state into full alertness. She fumbled with the double-Windsor knot of her burgundy-and-grey tie to loosen it; beneath the silk, her shirt collar was damp with sweat.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!" she muttered as an uncontrollable shiver rippled through her. Although she'd often had dreams that might be described as "prophetic," she'd never had one this vivid before, and never about Rhonwyn. Kaitlyn's eyes fell on the parchment that lay beside her, and read over it quickly. Her jaw dropped as she realized that the story it told was exactly the same as the dream that had just visited her. Frightened, she reached for the leather cord around her neck and withdrew Rhonwyn's amulet from beneath her shirt, fingers wrapping tightly around the gilded knotwork in a grip of desperation. Gotta calm down . . . gotta calm down!

Thoroughly rocked by the dream, Kaitlyn fished a ragged old lumber jacket from her closet, threw it on, jammed her feet into her boots, and stumbled out her bedroom, down the hallway, and out the back door. In the darkness, she collapsed by the pool and stared searchingly into the blue-black dome of the night sky.

"But how . . ." she murmured, her mind racing in an attempt to explain the clarity of her dream. Her hand tightened even further around the shield of Cerridwen, and the sensation of the metal digging into her fingers anchored her to calmness. With her fingertips she traced the elaborate knotwork of the Celtic amulet. Celtic . . . the Celts . . .

"The time-between-times! Of course!" Kaitlyn burst out. Between sunset and dawn, or "the time-between-times," was, to the Celts, the period when magickal energy was the strongest, when the barrier between this world and the Otherworld the thinnest. None of her usual ready skepticism countered this explanation; it came to her as the most natural thing in the world, and she accepted it without question. "I must have reached through the barrier . . ." she murmured.

She gazed into the sky, her dark brown eyes piercing past the distant beacons of the stars. Taking a deep breath, she felt the night chill reaching deep within her and felt the deeper chill of knowing, without uncertainty, that the story they were translating was about to happen all over again. If I don't do something to stop it, all the chaos from every nasty underworld, in any mythos you care to name, is gonna break loose . . . which means I'd better stop it . . . and I'd better find out how! She splashed cold water from the pond onto her face, leaped to her feet, and ran back into the house without another moment's hesitation.

Chapter Twenty-One

Mel awoke shortly after the sun had breached the horizon, feeling well-rested but not particularly happy. Janice, as usual, was still sound asleep-and probably would be for at least two more hours-but Mel noted sadly that the archaeologist was sprawled next to the far edge of Kaitlyn's parents' bed, instead of snuggled up next to her like she always slept. With a sigh, the Southerner got up to dress, causing Janice to roll over and mumble something incoherent in an annoyed tone.

Mel shook her head. They'd gone to sleep early the night before, awkwardly avoiding conversation for fear that the topic of the Rift might come up. Instead of the usual good-nightgoodnight kiss and embrace, Janice had simply run a hand across her lover's face and told her to sleep well. The familiarity and gentleness that usually permeated their relationship had still, for the most part, been there, and in fact an outside observer would have hardly been likely to notice the change. But to Mel, that little bit of distancing, as imperceptible as it might be to others, gaped wider than a chasm . . . and it hurt. But somehow, she couldn't bring herself to speak to Janice about that hurt. With a final glance over her shoulder at the slumbering archaeologist, Mel shut the door behind her.

She walked into the kitchen to find Kaitlyn sitting at the table amid a pile of papers, still in her clothes from the previous night, shirttails hanging out and collar undone. The casualties of at least two pots of coffee were in the trashcan by the kitchen counter, and another pot was brewing.

Despite her depression, the translator couldn't help but giggle. The tie Kaitlyn was wearing, rumpled and half-undone as it was, was the first one she'd ever seen the graduate student sport more than once.

"Hey, Mel," Kaitlyn said in a raspy voice, stubbing a cigarette out into a nearly-full ashtray. "You're up awfully early. Want some breakfast?" She got up stiffly, groaning as she straightened up.

Mel realized that Kaitlyn couldn't possibly have gotten more than two hours of sleep. "Oh, Kaitlyn, it's all right, I'll fix it," she protested as the younger woman shuffled across the wood floor and began to dig through the cabinets.

"No, no . . . it's okay. I need a break anyway. My ass is numb from sitting down so long." Kaitlyn punctuated the statement with a jaw-cracking yawn and set about cracking eggs into a bowl.

"Have you been up all night?" Mel asked worriedly, coming over to lend a hand. She set a frying pan on the stove and lit the burner beneath it, eyeing the young linguist with concern.

"Just about," Kaitlyn replied. "I think I got an hour or so of shut-eye, but I as good as didn't get any real rest, with that dream . . ." She caught herself, but just a bit too late. After Mel's fight with Janice the night before, Kaitlyn saw no reason to start the morning with more negative news. She had the acute awareness of actually being able to sense Mel's mood-a new and unsettling experience for her-and didn't want to make her friend feel any worse.

But Mel noticed the catch in Kaitlyn's voice, the way she'd left the sentence unfinished. "Dream?" she asked, turning to retrieve the bottle of cooking oil from the far end of the counter.

"Nothing," said Kaitlyn dismissively, beating the eggs mercilessly with a fork. "Just a bad dream I had. More vivid than most of my dreams, too."

Mel decided not to press the subject any further; the linguist was clearly uncomfortable as it was. All she said instead was, "Bad dreams will work havoc on your sleep, all right." Changing the subject, she asked, "You've been translating all this time? Since last night?"

"Well, yeah, since I woke up around midnight. Working on Rhonwyn's lifesong. Hell of an ancestor I have. Quite the radical. Runs in the family, I guess, even though that trait doesn't seem to pop up much." She was rambling now and she knew it; but as far as she was concerned, anything to steer the conversation away from the dream would do. Kaitlyn poured some milk into the bowl and started in on another round of punishing the hapless mixture. "Want to read it while we eat? Oh, and will Janice be up any time soon? Should I fix breakfast for her too? Or can it wait?"

"Yes, probably not, no, and yes, it can wait," Mel replied, a trace of bitterness creeping into her voice. She fumbled the cap off the bottle of oil and poured a slow trickle of the viscous substance into the frying pan.

"Not going to eat breakfast together?" The question held a note of concern. That's a first, thought Kaitlyn. She decided, though-wisely, perhaps-not to voice the words. Quickly slicing up a bit of ham, she mixed it in with the beaten eggs and remarked, "You know, ordinarily, at this juncture I'd find myself compelled to make a really smartass comment, but I've a distinct feeling that it would be highly unsuitable in light of recent developments in the current situation."

She most definitely was uncomfortable, and it showed; the quasi-intellectual talk was the graduate student's usual way of speaking to people she didn't know. It was part of the mask of cool, detached professionalism that was her primary emotional defense. Only her friends put her at ease enough to let down that guard and show her more easygoing side. But now, even with these two women whom she'd come to know and trust so well, she was withdrawing into that professional demeanor again. Kaitlyn couldn't be quite sure as to why; she knew that it had something to do with last night's fiasco over the Rift. Maybe, she thought, I'm just afraid that there's enough uncontrolled emotion going on with the two of them . . . that if I'm anything but professional about this, it'll only make things worse. Maybe it's just that I should stay neutral about all this, but it's just so damned hard to . . .

The linguist just shook her head and began pouring some of the egg mixture into the frying pan. "Well," she said with forced casualness, "there's plenty of, uh, omelet stuff here. Whenever Janice wakes up, we can just heat up the pan and pour it in." She cast a glance over her shoulder at the mess of books and papers that obscured the surface of the table, and groaned. "Watch the pan while I clean up, would you, Mel?"

Mel agreed, and Kaitlyn shuffled tiredly across the floor again to clear away the byproducts of her night's work. Setting aside the notebook that held her final translations, she gathered up the books and the parchment case and wandered off to deposit them in the library.

By the time she got back to the kitchen, Mel had one completed omelet lying on a plate by the stove and a second sizzling away in the pan. Kaitlyn inspected the omelet as she got out silverware and mugs, and remarked, "Beautifully done, Mel. If you don't mind my saying so, I think you'll be on breakfast detail from now on."

The taller woman flushed. "Actually, I-"her voice dropped-"I learned that from Janice. I really can't cook all that well, but my lord, I tell you, when she gets a mind to, Janice can cook up a storm!"

Kaitlyn's mouth was open, and she laughed despite her weary depression. "Mad Dog Covington, the cordon bleu? I never would've guessed!" she exclaimed, setting forks and knives down on the table with more energy than she thought she still had in her. "More of those 'many skills' of hers, I suppose. But here you've been doing the cooking half the time, when I haven't been doing it, and I never knew . . ."

"Oh, I can manage well enough to get by," Mel explained, her face red. "Just nothin' fancy or special."

The smile on Kaitlyn's face was wide and genuine, the first she'd cracked in two days, and it felt good. "Well, hell, Melinda Pappas, you ain't killed me yet." She grabbed the coffeepot off the counter and gestured toward the table. "Shall we eat?"

Mel's response was to pick up both plates and lay them on the kitchen table. "Well, breakfast is served." She took a seat across from Kaitlyn, who filled both their mugs with coffee before sitting down herself. The Southerner put two spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee and poured a precise amount of milk into the mug, daintily stirring the steaming mixture. Her eyebrow shot up as Kaitlyn took the sugar bowl, dumped about half its contents into her mug, and liberally supplemented the coffee-flavored sugar with a healthy dose of scotch from her hip flask.

"Hals und Bein bruch, " the linguist announced laconically, raising her mug into the air and swirling its contents a bit to mix them. Mel, feeling sick, watched the young woman down the concoction in a single breath, and sincerely hoped she wasn't turning green at the sight.

Kaitlyn set the empty mug down with a gusty sigh. Her dark-ringed, bloodshot eyes were more alert now, something resembling energy reflected in her smile. "Good morning!" she declared with a flourish. Noting the ill expression on Mel's face, she added, "Oh, believe me. It doesn't taste half as good as I'm pretending it does. But hell, it works, and that's all I care about."

Mel shook her head and dug into her omelet. "I hope you haven't been doing that all night."

"Coffee, yes. Coffee with scotch, no. Good gods, I should hope not, or I'd never have gotten all this work done. I got the primary translations and the final version here." Kaitlyn waved her fork at the notebook lying on the counter nearby.

"May I?" asked Mel, putting a small bite of omelet into her mouth.

"All yours," Kaitlyn told her, putting the notebook into the translator's hands with a grand gesture. The graduate student poured herself another mug of coffee-this time without the scotch-and sat back to wait while Mel read.

* * *

By the time I returned to the Iceni, it was too late. Xena and Gabrielle were gone-to where, Boadicea could not tell me, for she did not know.

"All I can tell you is that Gabrielle fell in with some trouble with the Romans, and that Xena went to save her. After that, I can't say I know where they've gone. They never came back here. They may have gone back to Greece." The warrior queen looked at me, the light of a strange request glimmering in her eyes. "We still have the Romans to deal with. Our Druid was killed by a stray javelin. Will you join us? We could use you."

"For the moment," I agreed. The question was unusual, that was true; for a Cymry bard to be asked to side with the Iceni was no common thing. But I knew that, as much as I feared for Gabrielle and Xena's safety, I would be of no use to them if I could not gain control over the tumult of my emotions. That, instead, would endanger them far more than I could help them. For now, at least, I felt that my place should be here, where I could focus on other concerns. Gabrielle would have wanted me to help stop the Romans, and if I could aid Boadicea's army in doing so, then so much the better. "Yes, Queen Boadicea; I will stay, for now. I will uphold you in battle, as is the bard's way."

Boadicea looked at me in surprise. "Xena spoke well of your fighting abilities. Will you not do battle alongside me?"

"A bard's place is ever at the ruler's side," I amended. I knew this was important, for the bard is the soul of the kingship; that is the way of our people, as it has ever been. And that is why I hesitated to put myself at risk by committing to the fight. But as I well knew, my path has never been the easiest one, nor the simplest. So this was the answer I gave her: "I will fight alongside you as I must, though my place first and foremost is to uphold you in the battle. That is, after all, my duty."

Her gaze fell on my sword, and then on my staff of rowan, which was clenched tightly in my right hand. "I have heard that you were a strange one," she said, no rancor in her voice. "But powerful. I'll gladly accept all aid you choose to bring me, Rhonwyn of the Cymry."

"My service is yours, my queen," I told her, placing the back of my hand against my forehead in the salute of respect.

"To think that I would ever have the service of the renegade Cymry Druid at my command, and welcome," Boadicea observed with a strange smile-for the Cymry and the Iceni, it is true, had often been at odds in the past.

"The time for strife among our tribes is past, my queen. A greater threat comes from without, and if we are to overcome it, we must do so together. For the good of Prydein."

"For the good of Prydein," she echoed, stumbling over the unfamiliarity of the name my people give to this beloved island. "We face the Romans in five days. I'll give you a mount; do you think you can get to your people and back, and enlist their aid?"

It would mean long hours in the saddle, and hard riding. But perhaps I could lose myself in the journey, and I agreed. "I will do my utmost, Queen."

She called to one of her men, who hurried away and returned shortly, leading a magnificent young mare. Truly it would be the finest steed I had ever ridden; tall, well-muscled, her proud head held high, golden skin glistening in the sunlight. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of her; that golden mane reminded me so much of Gabrielle, and her demeanor of power, of Xena. Cernunnos take me, perhaps forgetting the cause of my pain would not be so easy after all.

"She is magnificent, my queen," I said. "I will do my best to make myself worthy of her."

Boadicea smiled. "Rhonwyn, you already have." She strode around the horse and stood at my side. "The naming of her is yours. She is well-trained and will serve you well, I think."

I fixed my pack to the horse, and swung myself up into the saddle. "Queen Boadicea, I could not ask for a finer gift. But it is time now for action, not words. I'll go to my people now, and return to you soon."

She reached up, and extended her hand to me; I clasped her forearm solidly. "Then go," she said, "and may Epona speed your journey."

"And may Lleu be with you, my queen," I responded, saluting her with a hand to my forehead. She slapped the rump of my horse, and at a gallop, I was off.

I rode until well into the day; I was halfway back to Caer Dyvi by the time the bright disk of the sun was on the horizon and I and my horse were too tired to go on. Already the mare seemed to know me well, and we were comfortable enough with each other that I knew I could leave her untethered without fear.

Alaeth, I named her; the word means "sorrow," and to me, every sight of her brought to my mind images of the two friends whose fate weighed so strongly on my heart. And truly, I thought, if I succeeded on my mission, then I would ride back to the Iceni accompanied by the Cymry warbands, bringing sorrow to the Romans who had dared set foot in our land.

The wind blew strongly that night. I abandoned myself to it, hoping, perhaps, that its unseen power would blow the roiling emotions from within my heart. I let the elements punish me, instead of drawing strength from them as I usually did. Each lash of cold wind, each stab of the night's chill-I gave myself over to these things, trying to believe that the ever-increasing discomfort was my heart's penance for betraying me. And so when I set off again at sunrise, I was battered and ill-rested, and dreading the confrontation to come.

I was in Balach's stronghold shortly after the sun had reached its zenith. In between the silver torc I wore and the staff of rowan I carried, I had no trouble gaining admission to the king's hall. And well I should not have! "Renegade" though they may have called me, I was still a bard, and yes, the king's daughter as well. Despite the ill nature of my relationship with Balach, honor and tradition demanded that he at least give ear to what I had to say. And I knew my father to be an honorable king. It was that faith alone that gave me courage to go on.

I stood before Balach's throne. His gaze swept over me critically, taking in the sight of my sword and mail; they had not been in my possession when I first left the caer some four years and more previously, and so, likely the sight of them was a shock to him.

"I give you good greeting, Rhonwyn," he said, stumbling over the words as though they were reluctant to leave his mouth. "You have been absent for quite some time now . . . and changed-rather much, I see. What, tell me, is it that brings you home on this day?"

The fear and tension of an uneasy reunion gripped me, and for all my bardic skill and training, I could not find the words to speak. I raised my gaze to Balach; despite his golden torc of kingship and the lavish surroundings of his hall, it was not the ruler of this realm that I saw standing before me. In the figure that faced me, I saw the man who had cradled me as a child; who had indulged me with a smile when, at eight winters, I displayed genuine interest in learning the Druidic ways; who had looked on in worry as I grew older and more entrenched in my studies, realizing that I would not follow a conventional path; whose angry face had been my last sight of home when the Druids cast me out of the Brotherhood and I left Caer Dyvi for the wider world. No-searching with my heart as well as with my eyes, looking on with a sight more of the spiritual than of the manifest world, it was not a king that I beheld, but merely my father. That insight gave me the assurance I needed to accomplish my mission, as my faith in his honor had given me the courage to begin it.

My gaze was fixed upon Balach's face. His regard was steady, and as I searched the depths of his eyes-hazel like my own, though without the peculiar flecks of gold that grace mine-I saw there, beneath the turmoil of his inner struggle to accept what I had become, a fierce love for me still smoldering. The sight of that bright ember ignited the voice within me, and I began to speak.

"Danger from without, o king," I told him. "Already Caesar's legions are becoming more brazen, and with swords he cuts furrows across the jewel of Prydein. At this very moment, he makes ready to advance upon the Iceni."

Balach's brow creased at the mention of his sometime enemies. "And this should concern me how, Rhonwyn?"

Quickly I strode across the hall and snatched up a handful of sticks from the hearth. "Caesar plans to advance westward, and we lie in his path. King Balach . . . Father . . . do you not see? The threat to all of Prydein is far too great for us to allow past rivalries to stand in the way. The fate of this whole land hangs in the balance."

I took one twig from the bundle I held and snapped it in two easily, then another twig, and then yet another, casting the pieces at his feet. "Divided, we are doomed. It is only by standing united that we may hope to succeed." I raised the four remaining twigs and helpdheld them together, gripping them with both hands in an attempt to break them. They did not yield. In the compelling tones learned during the course of my bardic schooling, I continued. "Let the sun set on strife between the people of our land. I come from Boadicea. She wishes me to entreat you to join her against Caesar, and it is my dear hope that you will do so." It was said. Try as I might, I could not read the expression on my father's face, so I gritted my teeth and waited to see what response greeted my words.

Gasps echoed about me in the hall, and I heard someone whisper, "Traitor!"

But Balach held up a hand, halting the whispers before they multiplied. "No," he said. "Rhonwyn . . . is right. Our differences with the Iceni are nothing in the face of Caesar's would-be conquest." He flung his arms out, taking the whole of the magnificent hall into his gesture. "You all know the prosperity that we now enjoy! Are we to let petty quarrels distract us until we find that hard-earned bounty stripped away from us?" He looked at me. "How long before Caesar reaches them?"

"Three days," I told him.

He nodded grimly, then, unexpectedly, smiled at me. It was a genuine smile, full of warmth and . . . yes, of love. "Then we have no time to waste," he said gently. Raising his voice to the people, he announced, "Ready the warband; have messengers sent to the neighboring cantrefs with orders to do the same. We ride today to ally the Iceni, and to stop Caesar!"

Tears came to my eyes. "Thank you, Father," I whispered.

He strode toward me with more deliberate purpose than I remembered from him in years, and gripped my arms solidly in a heartfelt embrace. "Thank you," he responded. "You have done well, my daughter, Rhonwyn Bach. I did not realize it before, but I am indeed proud of you."

Cuall, my first instructor and the king's bard, stepped forward. "Then we are divided no more," he proclaimed. "United, the people of Prydein will be victorious, and we will remain free. Caesar's legions will not take this land." He took my right arm and raised it in the air, holding his rowan staff before him. Presenting me to the people, he declared, "Cesair, Rhonwyn y Cymodwr!"

"Cesair! " echoed the Cymry.

Cuall turned to me. "Then this is truly what I have foreseen. I'll confess, Rhonwyn, I could not understand your path; even in my awen that knowledge was denied me. But I see now where your . . . strangeness . . . led. Truly, I would never have been able to comprehend the necessity of this, not as one versed in the ways of battle would. But in that wisdom, which I would have denied you, you saw it. You were right."

I smiled. "What would I have learned of wisdom, had you not first taught me?"

He acknowledged this with a nod. "I will speak to the Brotherhood," Cuall said. "You are an outcast no longer, Rhonwyn. From this time onward, you are once more a true Druid in name."

I opened my mouth to thank him, but he spoke again. "In name," he repeated, "but in no more than that did you need to be restored. You have ever been a true Druid, Rhonwyn y Cymodwr-that is your name from now on. You have understood the higher value of our ideals, and brought our people back together."

Bittersweet emotion filled my heart. "The greater good," I answered slowly. "That's what my friend Gabrielle would have called it. And that's a truth I never would have understood fully, if I hadn't learned to see it through her innocent eyes."

"Who is this Gabrielle?" asked Cuall. "This is a story I must hear."

I sighed. "That's a story whose end is not yet clear. One day I'll tell it . . . but first I need to see it through."

He sensed my worry, heard the catch in my voice. "Yes. You will need to do that. But the greater good . . ."

"Yes. First we must see to Caesar and his legions. It's . . . what she would want me to do." My eyes met Cuall's, for the first time in mutual respect and understanding, and in common purpose.

And so we rode off to meet the Iceni that same day. The outcome of the battle was yet to be determined, but my first victory was won. For that day, I regained the trust of the Cymry, restored my relationship with my father, and earned the name that would be my destiny.

Mel laid the notebook down in awe. "Well, I'll be. Rhonwyn must have been something. You must be proud to have her in your family, Kaitlyn."

Kaitlyn nodded. "Yeah . . ." But the thought of Rhonwyn's will-magick and how it could have affected Xena and Gabrielle's relationship tainted that pride, a detail that she didn't much care to mention to her friend.

"What does this name mean? 'Rhonwyn y Cymodwr?'" asked Mel, her finger underlining the words. "She said the name would be her destiny . . . so what does it mean?"

"It means 'the Reconciler,'" Kaitlyn answered. "Among the Celts, a name was often earned as a result of your deeds. Rhonwyn was able to unite the Cymry and the Iceni against Caesar, restore her relationship with her father, and regain her place among the Druids all in one day. It's a hell of an achievement. And I'd guess that she'd wind up helping other people resolve their differences along the line."

"Like the Rift." Mel looked at the linguist, understanding dawning in the ice-blue of her eyes.

"Yeah. That's what I'm thinking. The Rift." That simple phrase hung in the air for a few moments. Then, without warning, Mel began to cry.

"Oh, Kaitlyn," she whispered, "this whole thing is making everything between Janice and me so hard! She's so upset by it, but she won't tell me why and it's almost as if she seems to be blaming me for something. It's not like her to hold back from me, but she's been so withdrawn ever since we read that last Scroll, and . . ." The tall woman started to sob, cutting off any further speech.

Kaitlyn jumped up and walked around the table, pulling Mel into a hug. "Aw, Mel, I know it's hard for you, and I wish I knew what to say, but really I don't. I don't know her as well as you do, obviously, but, well, have you tried to tell her how you feel?"

Mel sniffled and shook her head. "No. I want to, but she's so angry, and I'm not sure she'd listen to me, not in the state she's in."

Kaitlyn bit her lip. "How do you feel about all this, anyway?"

"Well . . ." The translator pondered for a moment. "I'm as shocked as Janice is that Xena would actually do something as horrible as dragging Gabrielle behind a horse. And I know she must have snapped from the pain of losing her son, so I can't blame her too much. But Gabrielle . . . I feel bad for her too. What all she went through! It doesn't surprise me that she thought there could be good in Hope; she could see potential for good in anything, the dear girl. Or woman, should I say . . . after all, she is Janice's ancestor, even though I always think of her as the young girl who followed Xena from Poteidaia. But no, I don't blame her for that."

"No," Kaitlyn murmured, "I think you may be right."

"But Janice," Mel went on. "I can't believe she'd be so quick to condemn Gabrielle for her actions, and it hurts me to see how much she resents her for them. And when she made that comment about Gabrielle deserving to be treated like that . . ." A fresh wave of tears overwhelmed the translator. "She's never been so vindictive before. And I just don't know how to deal with her when she's angry this way!"

"Well, hell . . ." Kaitlyn searched the tabletop desperately, as if she thought she could find solutions in the food and papers scattered there. "You've dealt with her when she was pissed off before, haven't you?"

"Yes," Mel conceded, "but it's never been so . . . personal. I've never seen her get this upset before, not at me."

"And this is something that goes back generations." The Harvard graduate student nodded. "Yeah, I see. That makes it that much harder." . . . but this was now personal. How could she say this to me? The line from Gabrielle's scroll popped into Kaitlyn's head again, giving her that nauseating feeling of déjà vu all over again. Gods, but I hate my memory sometimes!

"I'm not gonna tell you what to do, Mel," she said finally. "I don't even know what that should be. All I can promise you is that I'll get to the bottom of this. I'm gonna finish translating these Scrolls if it kills me." The next words were out of her mouth before the linguist even realized what she was saying, or had time to regret it. "And I'm gonna do that, and make sure it fixes things between you and that girl of yours, or I'll never see myself as worth this damn job of mine again."

Kaitlyn cleaned up after breakfast and sent Mel off on a walk in the woods behind the house. "You shouldn't get lost. Just don't wander too far," she advised her friend. "It's so peaceful there, and maybe some time alone will help you feel a little better."

After Mel had left, Kaitlyn busied herself washing the plates, and sang softly to herself as she did. "His father's sword he has girded on, and his wild harp slung behind him. 'Land of song!' said the warrior bard, 'though all the world betray thee, one sword at least thy rights shall guard, one faithful harp shall praise thee!'" The story of the minstrel boy made her think of Rhonwyn, which in turn made her think of Gabrielle and Xena. She'd spent enough time on Rhonwyn's lifesong for now, she decided; it was time to get back to the business of the Rift Scrolls.

She'd just gotten the dishes dried and put away when Janice came downstairs, still in her pajamas. "Hey, kid," yawned the archaeologist, stretching her arms slowly above her head.

"Oh, there you are," remarked Kaitlyn offhandedly, shutting the cupboard and turning to light the burner beneath the frying pan again. "Just a second, let me get your breakfast started up."

"Thanks. Do it myself, but I'm not awake yet." Janice sat down at the table and reached for Kaitlyn's notebook. "This what you get done today?"

"Today and all of last night, yeah." Kaitlyn, wondering if the pan was hot enough, poked a finger at its metal surface and immediately yanked it back with a hiss of pain. "Hot enough, all right," she mumbled, sucking on the injured fingertip. She poured oil into the pan and added, "About time you woke up." The words were meant as a light jest, but the linguist just couldn't summon up the humor to communicate that, making the comment come across more like a rebuke. She winced inwardly at the sound. "Sorry . . . it was supposed to be a joke, y'know."

Janice eyed her listlessly. "I figured as much. God, our moods have all been shot to hell lately."

"Yeah." Kaitlyn poured the last of the egg mixture into the pan and turned to face Janice. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Like shit." The blonde woman looked around the kitchen. "Where's Mel?"

"Out. She went to take a walk out back. Left about half an hour ago."

"Oh."

There was awkward silence for a few minutes. Kaitlyn kept an eye on the cooking omelet, poking at it periodically as it coagulated. Janice played with the notebook, making a soft rustling sound as she ran her thumb up the edges of the paper. "Hey," she asked finally, "mind if I read this?"

"Nah, go right on ahead. It's more of Rhonwyn's lifesong."

Janice skimmed through the most recent pages, reading the story of the Druid's mission to the Cymry. She had just finished when Kaitlyn set a plate down in front of her, then went back to the counter to get two mugs of coffee.

"Here you go," said Kaitlyn, pushing one mug toward Janice.

"Thanks." Janice picked up the mug and took a gulp of the steaming brew.

Kaitlyn grimaced. Straight black coffee . . . yuck. "No sugar or anything?"

"Not today."

"More for me, then." The linguist poured the last half of the sugar bowl's contents into her own coffee, added more scotch, stirred the mixture with her pen, and then casually drained it.

Janice's jaw dropped, and she nearly spit out her own mouthful of coffee. "Oh, that is disgusting. "

"Keeps me awake, though," responded Kaitlyn, somewhat acidly. Her voice was just the slightest bit slurred from the effects of the scotch, but she seemed to be shaking it off.

The archaeologist shrugged, dropped the subject, and read over the translation again. "Holy shit!" she burst out around the bite of omelet in her mouth. "Uh . . . kid?"

"Huh?"

"How much exactly of that revolting stuff have you had all night?" Janice's eyes were wary.

"That's only my second cup of it. Relax. Why are you asking?"

Janice tapped the notebook with her fork and set it down, studying Kaitlyn's face for any hints that the younger woman might be hiding something. "Because from some of the stuff you've translated here . . . it sounds like Rhonwyn was in love with Gabrielle."

Aw, fuck! The graduate student cursed inwardly. She had to go there! "Uh . . . yeah. That's, um . . . two sections back," Kaitlyn stammered. She opened up a fresh box of Dunhills, pulled one out, and lit it, taking a good long drag. She took care to avoid Janice's gaze, choosing instead to suddenly find the smoke spiraling toward the ceiling the most fascinating thing in the world.

"You're serious, aren't you?" Janice's penetrating stare froze Kaitlyn. "She really was?" At the student's uneasy nod, she continued, "Jesus. That's something new. The question, though, is why."

"What do you mean, 'why?' Why would she fall in love with Gabrielle, you mean?" Kaitlyn, put on edge by Janice's inquiry about Rhonwyn, was getting defensive now, though she was relieved, relatively, that the conversation hadn't gone in the direction she'd thought it would. She blustered on, "Obviously Xena did. And you definitely admire her a hell of a lot."

Janice flinched. "Well, okay, yeah. I do. But I never could quite understand that either. Why Gabrielle? Why the little tagalong? You read the Scrolls, you know how many times Xena had to go and rescue her when she did something dumb and got herself in trouble. She was so naïve, so out of her league, so . . . useless! " She was on a roll. "And I can't believe that she couldn't see how Hope had to die! You'd think . . . she got impregnated by a demon god who had a smarmy little shit for a high priest, and she didn't even stop to think that maybe, just maybe, some of that might rub off on the kid? Son of a bitch! How stupid could she be?"

In disgust, Kaitlyn blew out a cloud of smoke, hurt and shocked by Janice's tirade. "Gods, Janice, you're so harsh on her!" she burst out in retaliation. "You know damned well that Xena probably would have gone back to her warlord ways-that time with the Horde comes to mind-if it wasn't for Gabrielle! You call that useless?"

"Okay, so . . . she got lucky!" But Janice's voice lacked conviction; it was a weak attempt at a verbal parry.

Kaitlyn could tell from her friend's reaction that she'd managed to slip through and score a touch. She took that momentum and pressed her advantage. "Luck . . . or fate, Janice? I know how much of an idol Xena is to you. If she had slipped-if she had gone back to being the ruthless, heartless killer she once was-if she had become that monster that Gabrielle made her promise never to become again-tell me, Janice Covington, would she still be the hero in your eyes then?"

Resentment smoldered in the archaeologist's green eyes. Kaitlyn's deft little maneuver had definitely hit a very sore spot. Oh, the younger woman was right, and she knew it, but admit to that . . . ? No way in hell. Not here. Not now. She knew that the introspective young musician looked up to Gabrielle much in the same way that she idolized Xena; in that, she thought she could see the hole in Kaitlyn's defense. Well, well, well . . . if you can use that tactic, I can too, kid. Now here's hoping you don't know how to counter it. She went on the offensive.

"You tell me then, Kaitlyn Velasquez. After refusing to kill Hope, not once, but twice-not until it was too late-and then deliberately lying to Xena about it . . . after somehow managing to beat Xena to China and then turn her over for arrest there . . . after harboring the demon brat who freed Callisto and killed Solan and Kaleipus . . . after she did all that, are you going to sit here and tell me that your opinion of Gabrielle hasn't changed one iota?"

Touché. Very good, Janice Covington. But Kaitlyn simply schooled herself to calmness, raised bloodshot eyes to meet her friend's gaze, and said, "You know, I'll go so far as to admit that, at this point in time, those do look like they were damn stupid choices to make. But you know I don't like to judge people, Janice. And as tempted as I am to say that yes, Gabrielle did some stupid things and that they probably do make me think less of her, I refuse to come to an opinion on the matter until we have the whole story laid out."

Janice snorted. "Oh, bullshit, Velasquez! Quit dancing around the question. Why don't you cut the academic talk and tell me what you really think? Or are you going to keep up the fancy footwork and turn this into nothing more than a fencing match?"

"That's all it has been, Covington," Kaitlyn snapped at Janice, striding up to within a hand's breadth of the taller archaeologist and glaring up into the angry green eyes. "You and I could go back and forth on this, nitpicking at every last minute detail, for hours without stopping, and you know it. But if you really want to know, yes, I do think it was . . . not a smart move on Gabrielle's part."

Janice saw the opening in that admission, roundabout as it was, and lunged for an attack of her own. "Damn right it wasn't! You know she was being stupid!"

But Kaitlyn's move had been a feint; she easily sidestepped the comment and came back with a quick counterthrust of her own. "In retrospect! We can both say now that her decision was probably not the right one, but you're forgetting one important thing: we already know the outcome! It's easy to say that she made the wrong choice when we know what happened as a result. But don't even try to tell me that you haven't made some choices that didn't pan out the way you planned. Hindsight's always twenty-twenty. Foresight's a damn bit more myopic in comparison."

The linguist's quick riposté knocked Janice off-balance, but to her credit, she managed to recover quickly and counter it. "Then maybe she wasn't looking as far ahead as she should have. Maybe she wasn't looking ahead at all. And I'd think Xena would have taught her something about that."

Kaitlyn acknowledged the hit with a curt nod. "Fair enough. I'll concede that. You want to know the truth, Janice?" She sighed, feeling dangerously close to the edge of hysteria. "I don't want to take sides. Because I don't know which side to take, without alienating the other. You and Mel have obviously taken sides, but if we're going to finish this project, one of us has to be able to see clearly on both sides of the issue. If I try to place blame either way, we lose the balance in our view of the big picture here, and we can't afford that! " Suddenly very tired after her tirade, she fell into a chair and looked down at the long stick of ash that was all that remained of her cigarette. She dropped it into the ashtray and sighed. "Fighting like this isn't going to do a damn thing to help, you know." Not between you and me, and not between you and Mel, either.

Janice sat down across from her friend and poked at her now-cold breakfast halfheartedly. "You're right. It's not. I guess we'll call it a draw . . . for now." I just wish it was that easy to say that to Mel, she added to herself. "Honestly, kid, how do you feel about all this?"

The graduate student sighed again and pulled a new cigarette out of the gold-and-red box, lighting it up before pushing the carton and lighter across the table to Janice, who took one and followed suit. "Confused," she said after a moment of contemplative puffing. "Appalled, confused, hurt . . . and completely lost. It's hard, you know?"

Emotion and self-control warred on Kaitlyn's face, and self-control won, but only just barely. She continued, "Through the Scrolls, I feel like I've come to know them so well, Xena and Gabrielle, and the strength of their relationship is something really beautiful and powerful to me. It's something I can . . . only wish for. And now, to translate all this and to see how it all fell apart . . . it's like watching the death of someone you love." She winced, sudden memories of a bedroom in Boston and Joni's limp form flashing through her mind. "And I do feel like I'm stuck in the middle. Yeah, I think Gabrielle should have killed Hope. But birth and death, they're such extremes. And killing someone you gave birth to, well . . . that takes a kind of mindset that I don't think Gabrielle was capable of. After what happened with that priestess Meridian, I doubt she would've ever wanted to kill again. It's something she never wanted to do in the first place."

Kaitlyn stopped to take a long drag off the cigarette, and went on, "I understand why she didn't want to do it. She was so idealistic, so full of optimism and love. But maybe she was a bit selfish; maybe she lost sight of the greater good in her concern for her daughter. Or maybe she just couldn't see how taking anyone's life in that situation could work toward the greater good. Hope was still her daughter, so I don't think I can blame her for that selfishness. Love will make you do some crazy things." The rest of the Druids do not seem to realize that where I am concerned, at least, love can be a dangerous thing.

"Some crazy things . . ." echoed Janice dully. "Like . . . snapping because your son was killed, and blaming your best friend and lover for it."

Now we're getting somewhere! If I can just get her to see the other side of the coin . . . "Yeah," said Kaitlyn. "And that's why I can't really blame Xena either. It hurts the hell out of me that she would have done what she did to Gabrielle, but shit, there's a really fine line between love and hate sometimes, you know? I have to give her credit-thanks to Gabrielle, she never really reverted to being an evil warlord like she used to be. She tried hard, and succeeded most of the time, but even the strongest person slips. She was a very passionate person, and so haunted by her past . . . it could have been a lot worse."

Janice exhaled a mouthful of smoke. "But what about going to Britannia after Caesar in the first place?" she pointed out. "If Xena hadn't wanted to do that, none of the Rift probably would have happened."

"I thought about that too." Kaitlyn shrugged. Aha. Now we've got it! "On the other hand, though, do you think that Gabrielle would have wanted Xena to just stand by and let the Romans take those prisoners? Even that bastard Khrafstar? It's a tough call, and if I look at it that way, maybe there's blame to place on both sides."

"What was the deal with Khrafstar anyway?" asked Janice. "How'd they run into him again after they got to Britannia?"

Kaitlyn reached for her notebook and flipped through it, consulting her translations. "Seems Gabrielle was pretty interested in all his vague talk about a 'one god.' He probably knew they were off to find Boadicea, and followed them there, trying to draw her in. He did have his little agenda to bring Dahak into the world, after all, and needed her innocence. Hell of it is, he got it. Good fucking gods, but I hate religious fanatics sometimes!"

"The little shit. And his pissant toady of a god, too." Janice took a bite of her omelet, and made a face at how cold it was. "At least they made hash of his temple."

"Yeah. Blew it to standing stones and flattened the hill into . . ." Kaitlyn's eyes widened. She turned back a few pages in the notebook, searching for a key phrase, and found it. Her face was incredulous as she looked at Janice again. "Into Salisbury Plain." She threw her head back and laughed, immediately regretting how badly it hurt her tired, aching body. "Stonehenge! How do you like that? I'll be damned. Stonehenge! It fucking figures! "

Janice wondered if the scotch really was getting to the graduate student's head. "What figures?"

In between pained guffaws, Kaitlyn managed, "Scholars . . . spend hundreds of years . . . trying to figure out who created that ancient structure . . . and here we go . . . and find the answer completely by accident!" She leaned back in her chair and groaned. "The kinds of things that happen in this line of work!"

"God." Janice shook her head and puffed on her cigarette. "I didn't see that one coming. Well, I'll tell you one thing, kid . . . you've given me a lot to think about. I don't know if I'm ready to accept everything you've said, but I'll think about it."

Kaitlyn glanced at her friend with concern. "Why don't you talk to Mel about it?"

The archaeologist shook her head and stabbed at her breakfast with her fork. "She'd never see things from my point of view, kid."

"But how do you know that for sure, unless you talk to her?" Kaitlyn persisted.

"Kaitlyn, I know her. Better than anyone." There was a stubborn set to Janice's jaw that made the younger woman, exhausted as she was, completely unwilling to even bother arguing any further.

"Well," she said, wishing she had the energy to make a more convincing statement, "I still think you should talk to her. But that's up to you. Gods know, I won't force you to." No sense in forcing the subject anyway . . . they're both mad enough as it is. And there's no arguing with Janice when she's being obstinate. "Listen, I'm completely beat. I won't be good for anything unless I get some rest. Just leave the dishes in the sink when you're done, and I'll clean up later, okay?"

"You got it. Thanks for the food, kid."

"Not a problem." Kaitlyn put her cigarette out in the ashtray and looked up at the blue-grey haze that hung over their heads. "You know something, Janice? We smoke too damn much."

Janice chuckled softly. "Don't look at me, kid. You're responsible for most of that, not me. I don't know about smoking too damn much, but we do smoke a hell of a lot."

"That's for sure." Kaitlyn coughed, feeling the effects of the two or three packs she must have consumed over the course of the night. "And that," she added, getting up to empty the ashtray, "is something that I really hope we didn't get from our ancestors."

Janice rolled her eyes. "Get some rest, kid. You're really losing it now." She went back to her cold breakfast and watched the young linguist stagger down the hall, and wondered why a fight with Kaitlyn could end so amiably, while the aftermath of a fight with her own lover lingered unresolved.

Continued in Part 7.