Part 7

There was a tremendous thundering of hooves as the united Cymry warbands rode into Boadicea's camp. At the fore, her green cloak streaming behind her, came Rhonwyn on her horse Alaeth. To her left rode Balach, and to her right Cuall; the three torcs about their necks glittered brightly in the sun like a herald of glory.

The young Druid swung down from her saddle to greet Boadicea, who had come to meet them. Grasping the Iceni queen's arm in greeting, she said, "Queen Boadicea, I give you King Balach of the Cymry, and his Druid, Cuall. And with them, the warriors of Balach's warband."

"King Balach." Boadicea addressed the king, who had dismounted and come to his daughter's side. "So today we meet on common ground. I never thought I would say this, but today I'm honored to fight side by side with you."

Balach smiled. "Side by side, and not crossing blades with each other. Were it not for Rhonwyn, this would not be so." Rhonwyn flushed and bowed her head, unaccustomed to such open praise from her father, who chuckled and continued, "But as she says, we have a greater enemy than each other now."

"That is true." Boadicea's voice was quiet. "But come. We leave to join the battle now. Caesar surely would not wait for such . . . pleasantries as these."

"That he will not." It was Cuall, dismounting from his chestnut gelding, who spoke. "Queen Boadicea, will you summon the warband?"

"At once," the queen agreed. "We have no time to lose." Within moments of her giving the order, the warriors of the Iceni were assembled in full force, armed, mounted, and ready to fight.

Cuall laid a hand on Rhonwyn's shoulder. "Cymodwr, will you speak the lorica? It is only fitting."

The young Druid nodded and took her rowan staff in hand. She stood on the field between the assembled warbands of the two tribes, raised the staff above her head, and addressed them. "Fellow warriors, companions of the sword, I give you good greeting!" she shouted. "Today you face each other, not as enemies, but as friends. Today we ride to confront Caesar and his legions, who lay waste to this land that we share. Today we fight together to save our homes and our lives. Hear, if you will, a blessing upon the battle we must now join."

She closed her eyes and descended deep within herself, to the place in her heart where the awen found her. That Otherworldly inspiration, which only a bard could seek, alighted upon her, unlocking her tongue and sending the words flowing from her mouth with an ease and volition all their own.

A massive cheer rose from the assembled warriors, the voices of the Cymry and the Iceni mingling in fervor. Rhonwyn lowered her staff and called to Alaeth, who loped obediently toward her. Swinging up into the saddle, the young Druid took her place at the side of Boadicea, who was already astride her own horse. Likewise, Cuall and Balach mounted their steeds, the elder Druid flanking the king. And at a joint command from the two rulers, the united army set off to face Caesar.

Rhonwyn rested the point of her sword on the ground long enough to wipe the sweat from her brow with the already-damp sleeve of her checked siarc. She had long since abandoned the hampering folds of her cloak, and left Alaeth behind at the Celts' encampment. Though she was a good rider, she was not trained to fight on horseback like the rest of the warband, but on foot, she knew, she was more than a match for most of Caesar's men. That said nothing, however, of how weary she was of battle.

Countless weeks of fighting had gone by. Samhain had passed, the second one since they had first ridden off to battle. Alban Arthyn, the Winter Solstice, was soon to come, and the way things looked, they would be seeing not only Imbolc, but possibly Beltane and the next Lughnasadh as well, from the confines of a war encampment.

The Celts were faring rather well, having lost relatively few warriors in the continued series of skirmishes. To be sure, they were outnumbered, but a longsword in the hands of a Celtic warrior had a distinct reach advantage over the short, broad blade of a Roman gladius, and sheer number was not enough to overcome experience and a canny battle sense. The Celts' well-trained war horses were an asset as well, with their lethal hooves that could serve as an extra set of weapons. All the same, Boadicea and Balach knew that they could not last forever. Skirmish had led to skirmish, and battle to battle, and the continuing clashes between the two armies had stretched into a full-fledged campaign. Neither army had much time to rest, but the constant warfare was taking a much more severe toll on the considerably smaller Celtic forces.

Rhonwyn gripped her sword again in both hands and, quicker than thought, whirled to bring the blade crashing against that of an attacking Roman soldier with enough force to send sparks flying from the meeting of metal. The soldier's shorter sword glanced easily off the curving length of the blade named Lludchen-Lightning-and his sword arm went flying out to the side, leaving his body exposed. Before he had time to regain a defensive position, Rhonwyn's right foot slammed into his chest and knocked him back several steps. He staggered forward again, but Rhonwyn switched Lludchen into a single-handed grip and whipped her arm up so that the sword's pommel punched the hapless soldier in the face. He crashed to the ground and did not get up again.

Reaching out with her senses, the young Druid caught the faintest movement in the air to her left and brought the sword around in a hard, fast arc. It neatly deflected a javelin that had been hurled at her, not only out of her way, but into the chest of another Roman soldier.

"Damnation," she muttered. "I hadn't wanted that." But there was no time for regrets, not in the middle of a fight. The javelin-hurler was making his charge. The warrior-Druid faced him, dancing easily out of the way of his swordpoint run and batting the blade from his hand. Lludchen cut a quick pattern in the air, and the dull edge of the sword hooked around to deliver a painful blow to the soldier's kidney. Rhonwyn redirected the remaining momentum of the swing to smash the flat of her blade against the back of the man's neck, so that he crumpled into an unconscious heap.

She looked up. On the slope of a nearby hill stood Cuall, rowan staff upraised, upholding the Celt warbands as was the Druid's way. When the fighting had first begun, she herself had been atop that hill alongside Cuall, but it had become clear that her steel was needed more than her staff. And this time, her former teacher had made no attempt to stop her, but instead had urged her to go.

Rhonwyn winced as the haft of a clumsily-thrown javelin glanced off her mail shirt. Daydreaming now, Rhonwyn Bach? That's a sure way to get yourself killed! She snatched up the fallen javelin and rammed its butt into the pit of a soldier's stomach before throwing it down and punching him with Lludchen's hilt. This man was good, better than most she had faced today; he wielded the short gladius like an extension of his arm, and cut much closer to Rhonwyn than she would have cared for him to reach.

He was forcing her onto the defensive far too often. Don't make me do this! the Druid pleaded inwardly, parrying his overhand blow and shoving back to smash the dull edge of her sword into his chin. But still the Roman pressed on with a series of vicious thrusts, the last of which Rhonwyn only barely managed to dodge. The expression on her face was acutely pained as she countered with a whirlwind of glinting steel that culminated in Lludchen's point plunged through the Roman's throat. She ripped the blade out with a strangled cry and reversed her grip, bringing the sword to bear behind her to stab another soldier who was approaching at her back.

Just then, she caught a glimpse of Boadicea signaling to her from a few spearlengths away. She grimaced, kicked the dead man off her sword, and ran to the queen's side. The Iceni ruler was facing off against three soldiers, and Rhonwyn quickly flanked her, drawing some of the attacks toward herself and away from the queen.

"This war is not going well, Rhonwyn," hissed Boadicea, countering one soldier's thrust with a grunt and a muttered curse. She slashed at his leg, opening a long gash in it and diverting him long enough to reverse the direction of her sword and slit his throat. "I'm afraid we'll need . . . help."

With the sickening sensation of knowing that a dreaded confrontation could no longer be delayed, Rhonwyn understood. "Xena. You want me to go find Xena." Her stomach churned at the thought of having to go and seek out the friends whose future she had foreseen, a troubled future that was by now, no doubt, a reality.

"I'm afraid so," said the warrior queen, ducking a sword-swing. "I'm loath to lose you, Rhonwyn, but we need her help. This has gone on too long . . . far too long." A devious cut of her blade hamstrung the soldier she was facing. When he fell, she drove the sword point through his chest, half out of the frustration that came with admitting she needed the assistance of the Warrior Princess. But Rhonwyn's words echoed in her mind, and she knew that personal strife would be a poor ransom for the freedom of her land and her people. So she raised her head, let the last of her rancor flow away from her, and said in a clear voice, "Rhonwyn, you must go find her. Bring her back here, and tell her we need her . . . Cymodwr." The final word held a note of pleading.

Rhonwyn nodded and slashed with Lludchen, leaving the last soldier's sword arm useless. Undaunted, he switched his sword to his other hand, but the Druid slashed again, mangling his fingers. The pain was too great to allow him to maintain his grip on the weapon, slick with blood as it was from his ruined hand, and he dropped it. A smash to his temple from the flat of Rhonwyn's blade killed him instantly. She winced, and muttered a curse.

Time to stop running, Rhonwyn Bach, she chided herself, calling herself by the diminutive epithet-Little Rhonwyn-that had been her father's pet name for her throughout childhood. Yes . . . time to stop running away. You knew you'd have to face this sooner or later. Galvanized by Boadicea's invocation of her new title, she swallowed hard and spoke. "I'll leave right away then, my queen." You are the Cymodwr, after all . . . it is your duty.

Boadicea laid a hand on the young Druid's shoulder. "Thank you, Rhonwyn. Lleu of the Long Hand be with you."

"And with you, my queen," Rhonwyn responded in kind, touched by the Iceni queen's usage of the Cymry name for the god. "I'll . . . inform Cuall of my departure right away." And seek encouragement from him for what's to come, she added mentally. For I've a feeling that what I have to face is no less of a battle than what we face here.

With a final salute to the queen, she was off and running back to the encampment, stopping only long enough to wipe every last trace of blood from Lludchen's blade onto a fallen soldier's cloak, before sheathing the sword again.

The galloping of a horse caught Cuall's attention, and he turned to see Rhonwyn, her cloak once again about her shoulders, riding toward him on her horse Alaeth. Without averting his gaze from the battle going on below him, he addressed his former student.

"Then the time that you feared has come," he said softly.

Rhonwyn dismounted, and strode to his side. "Yes. Boadicea has sent me to bring Xena and Gabrielle back to Prydein. The battle goes badly, as you know, and we will need their aid."

Cuall looked at her. "It is a necessary thing. You know this. Yet you hesitate. What frightens you so much about the task set before you?"

And she told him. Told him of the strife she had perceived beneath the surface of the relationship between the warrior and the bard, of the vision she had seen in the forest pool, and-most secret of all, her most shameful fear-of her feelings for Gabrielle, and how she feared that her willpower had wrought some kind of magick to bring about this turn of events.

"This . . . this Rift, Cuall. Have I caused this to happen? How can I face them, knowing this?" The gold-flecked hazel of the young Druid's eyes glimmered with pain. "How can I go to them, and witness this turmoil, when I am the one to blame? How do I find the strength to fix what I've caused?"

"Rhonwyn." Cuall's face was stern. "You know that you have not seen the cause of your vision. How can you be so sure that you are at fault?"

"Cuall, what else could it be?" Anguish ripped at Rhonwyn's voice as she turned and began to pace in agitation.

The elder Druid gestured to the side, where a black-oak seeing bowl rested, half-filled, on the ground. He waved to one of his filidh, a Druid apprentice named Cynan, and gave him the rowan staff, instructing him to take over the task of upholding the warband.

Cuall got to his knees next to Rhonwyn, who already knelt reverently beside the seeing bowl. He held out his hand to her; a fire-roasted hazelnut rested in his palm. Rhonwyn readily accepted the profferred Kernel of Knowledge and ate it, savoring the sharp, bitter taste that brought new insight to her mind.

"Look into the seeing bowl, Rhonwyn," instructed Cuall, his voice low, steadfast, compelling. "Think of your friends, and what has brought them to this pass."

Wordlessly, Rhonwyn obeyed. The tang of the hazelnut still lingered in her mouth, somehow transporting her beyond conscious thought and onto a plane where she understood with her heart rather than her mind. The awen came to her as she gazed into the dark water of the bowl, and a new vision greeted her there.

It was the recent past she saw this time; she knew it to be so. She saw Xena traveling to a land in the far East, in order to fulfill a debt to an old mentor. She saw Gabrielle making a deal with the war god the Greeks called Ares, in order to reach Chin before Xena did. She saw an arrogant young prince-one they called the Green Dragon-and the bard, preventing Xena from taking his life through an elaborate deception.

The black-oak water of the bowl showed her that same prince throwing Xena into prison for her attempt on his life . . . and then, the sorrow of secret betrayal etched onto the warrior's face as she and Gabrielle turned away from the Green Dragon, dead by the warrior's hand, despite her promise to the bard to spare his life.

The vision shifted again, and Rhonwyn saw the near future: Gabrielle lying to Xena, saying that she had killed Hope, the child who, in a previous vision of the Druid's, had been set adrift in a basket. That same child, supernaturally grown several summers older, conspiring with a mad immortal woman to kill Xena's son. The images grew steadily more familiar to Rhonwyn, and as she saw, for the second time reflected in water, Xena cradling the dead form of her son in her arms, the awen faded away.

Rhonwyn raised her eyes from the seeing bowl and looked at Cuall. "But how do I know that I had no hand in forcing these things to happen?"

"You love her, do you not?" asked Cuall simply. "And the warrior as well, though not in the same way?" His erstwhile student nodded, and he went on. "Do you remember the story I told you long ago, of the men who stumbled upon the foundation-stone of this worlds-realm?"

"They lifted up the foundation-stone, and what they found beneath it was love," responded the younger Druid in tones dull and wooden, weighed down by fear and guilt.

"Love," Cuall repeated, the majestic ringing of his voice etching the single word like a firebrand into Rhonwyn's mind. "Love is the foundation of this world, Rhonwyn. And no matter your experience as a warrior, no matter the extent of this wild will-talent of yours, I know all too well that love is what truly drives you. And-what did you call it? What Gabrielle helped you to understand? The greater good. Your love for Gabrielle, your concern for her well-being and that of Xena, and your desire for the greater good: these things would never allow your power to tear them apart. Love speaks to love, and thus unified, the currents of love in your heart far overpower your will-magick and its harmful effects. The forces behind this Rift are not of your making. You have only to search your heart, in order to know that this is the truth of it."

He fell silent, and sat calmly, expectantly, as his words sank in. At his side, the young warrior-Druid was lost in contemplation.

"Yes," said Rhonwyn after a long pause. You are right, Cuall. I thank you-that assurance was what I needed." There was much more to be said, but emotion threatened to overwhelm Rhonwyn, and for once she did not care to entrust it to the far-too-expressive channel of her voice.

The elder Druid smiled, understanding what had been left unspoken. "Then go, Cymodwr," he admonished gently. "Your love did not cause this Rift to happen, but it must be used to help end it! For their sake, and for ours. That, you see, is now the greater good: the future of their love, and the freedom of Prydein. The two will be intertwined. Ah, to be sure, it is a problem worthy of solving! But the solution of it . . . that, Rhonwyn y Cymodwr, is entirely for you to find out."

Cymodwr. Rhonwyn raised her head high at the title that had been bestowed upon her, and got to her feet. "So then . . . this is my destiny. Enough words-for Xena and Gabrielle, and for Prydein, I have to fulfill it!" She gripped Cuall's arms in embrace, and sprinted for Alaeth. "Farewell, Cuall!" she called as she leaped into the saddle.

The last thing she saw, as she rode away at full gallop, was the sight of her old teacher standing upon the hill, his hands raised toward her in a gesture of blessing.

"Daaaaaaaaaaaamn." Kaitlyn stretched the word out so long, she could make out at least four extra distinct phonemes. She sat up and yawned, and glanced at the mess of papers strewn across her rumpled bedspread, then picked up her notebook and looked at what she'd scrawled just before falling asleep. Sure enough, all the details matched up. Rubbing a hand across her face, she mumbled, "Second time I've dreamed my translation. I've really got to stop doing that, especially with a touch of a hangover . . ."

She groaned, cleared the papers off the bed, and fell back onto her pillow, covering her eyes with her forearm and trying to shut out the sound of the rising voices that she figured were what she deserved, after all that scotch.

Janice looked up at the faint click of the front door latch. Mel, looking calmer and more subdued, slipped into the house and quietly shut the door behind her.

"Where have you been?" Janice's voice was tight.

"Out for a walk," came the equally tense response. "I thought Kaitlyn told you."

The archaeologist stared into the tumbler she held, half full of scotch she'd swiped from Kaitlyn's ample supply. "Oh yeah." She took a gulp of the alcohol, felt it burn her throat, and continued, "You shouldn't have been gone so long. Something could have happened to you."

Why she'd said it, she wasn't really sure. To tell the truth, she'd been worried sick the whole time Mel had been gone. As always, she was fiercely protective of her lover, but in her current state of mind, irritation was the only way she felt . . . well, comfortable expressing that instinct. A shake of her head, and the glass was drained of its contents.

Irritated by the condescending tone, Mel strode across the room and snatched the empty glass away. "Janice Covington, I am an adult, you know! And I think you've had quite enough to drink. Besides," she added, before she could help herself, "I'm Xena's descendant . . . I should think I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself!"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them horribly. Melinda Pappas, what an awful thing to say! There was no taking them back now, though.

That was the last thing Janice needed to hear. She leapt off the couch and stormed up to Mel, glaring furiously. "Damn it all to hell!" she exploded. "I'm not exactly a kid either, and I think I know better than you how well I can hold my liquor!"

"Oh, I'm sure," retorted Mel. "That explains why we nearly got detained in Paris on our way back to the States, doesn't it? I'm sure you were holding your liquor quite well when you picked a fight with that customs official!"

"Don't even bring that up," growled Janice. "You know Smythe's men would have wasted you a dozen times over back in Macedonia if I hadn't bailed you out!"

"Well, do you think you would have found the Scrolls if it hadn't been for me?" retorted Mel. "You'd probably still think Xena was Callisto now, and you wouldn't have those Scrolls, either!"

"I would have found them eventually," the archaeologist muttered sullenly.

The argument had descended into being truly petty, and they both knew it . . . but neither one would back down now.

So Mel struck the next blow. "No, you wouldn't! I declare, Janice, you're just as stubborn now as you ever were, even back then!" Sparks were snapping in her eyes, her face was flushed with anger, and her lips were trembling.

Janice flinched, and lashed back with the only thing that came to mind, inane as it sounded. "I may be stubborn, but I never would have found the Scrolls if I weren't, God damn it, Mel!"

Ouch. The voices were too loud to shut out now, and they were starting to sound awfully familiar. Kaitlyn recognized Mel's singular accent, and the sound cut through the fog in her brain, jolting her awake.

"Shit!" The linguist jumped out of bed, flinging herself out the door and into the hallway.

"Bullshit, Mel!" the archaeologist bellowed. She was dangerously close to losing control now-her lover's accusations had stung, and as much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, most of them were right on.

"Don't you take that tone with me, Janice!" Mel shot back. "After everything we've been through, you can't just brush me off like that! You may not want to admit that Gabrielle was more than you like to give her credit for, but I'm not about to let you dismiss me-or her-that easily."

Back to this again! She's not going to let it go! raged Janice inwardly, quite forgetting in the heat of the moment that she wasn't about to let go of the topic either. Resentment simmered in the pit of her stomach and finally exploded into boiling rage, and almost before she knew it, her right hand was curled into a fist, her arm drawn back and tensed to strike. She barely saw the horrified shock in Mel's blue eyes.

"Janice Covington, don't you fucking dare!" The hoarse bellow from the doorway stopped her cold. Both she and Mel snapped their attention toward Kaitlyn's disheveled figure.

The linguist was haggard, exhausted, her two-day old clothes in a sad state. "Take a step back, Janice," she said, her voice cold. "Breathe, drop that arm, and take a step back, now."

The pain in Kaitlyn's voice was just as intense as that in Mel's eyes, and the one gnawing at Janice's own insides. Suddenly dumbfounded, the archaeologist quickly complied and fell back a few paces, her shoulders sagging.

Kaitlyn sank into a chair, running her fingers through her tangled mop of hair. "I didn't bring you two out here to beat each other up," she said, intensity crackling in the quiet of her voice. "You're out here because you wanted to get a job done, and this was the only way we could accomplish that. And I hope you both know, I cannot continue to let things slide like this. Damn it all, I'm doing my best to help you with these Scrolls, but I can't do that if all this fighting is going on."

Both Mel and Janice were silent, their downcast eyes showing that they both felt somewhat ashamed of their behavior.

Fixing each of her friends with a piercing look, Kaitlyn continued, "Watching the two of you carry on this way is tearing me up-which leaves none of us in any condition to accomplish a damn thing. Now please-Janice, go take a walk, get out of here and try to calm down. Mel, get some rest. Spend some time apart. You're only going to hurt yourselves and each other more if you stay in this house together right now."

She stood up, buttoning her shirt collar and tucking its tails into her pants before picking her keys up off the coffee table and heading for the door. "I'm going into town for a little bit . . . I'll see you both soon."

Janice was already halfway out the back door, Kaitlyn's unspoken "And behave yourselves" nagging at some corner of her mind, when she heard the jeep's engine roar to life and fade away down the driveway, on the road toward Housatonic.

The little café was already half full when Kaitlyn entered. She scanned the crowd, finally settling on the familiar face of her friend Pete, who sat alone at a corner table. With a tired smile, she threaded her way through the crowd toward him.

"This seat free?"

The musician looked up. "Velasquez! Sit your bum down," he exclaimed heartily. "Where are those friends of yours?" After a pause, he examined her face closely. "My God, you look terrible . . . what's going on?"

"I feel like a civil war in hell, Pete," groaned Kaitlyn, collapsing into the empty chair. "Mel and Janice are at each other's throats, and I've barely slept in days. I'm trying to get this project done, but . . ."

"The conditions aren't exactly ideal," finished Pete, nodding sagely. "And you're trying to fix things up between them, but you don't know where to start."

The linguist managed a weak smile. "That obvious, am I? Damn . . . I'll have to work on that."

Pete chuckled. "You wear your heart on your sleeve sometimes, Velasquez. Comes with the sensitive folk musician bit." He looked across the table, gazing thoughtfully at her. "Have you ever considered that maybe you're not in the right position yet to really help them?"

Kaitlyn's brow furrowed, her head tilting slightly in confusion. "Not in the right position? The hell you talking about, Pete?"

"Well . . . here's what I think." The older man leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and scrutinizing Kaitlyn. "If you're going to make peace between two people, you have to understand what peace is. You have to be at peace, yourself. Do you have any unresolved issues eating at you, for one? I know you haven't been on the best of terms with your family . . ."

Sudden understanding racked Kaitlyn's body. "You mean . . . unless I stop resenting them for practically disowning me . . ."

Her friend's smile was gentle, encouraging. "Right."

"But once I do that, how do I help them?"

Pete patted her hand. "I can't tell you for sure what to do. All I know is . . . just do what you do best, kiddo." He canted his head in the direction of the stage. "Shakespeare said that music has charms to soothe the savage breast, you know. And you've always been good at touching people with your music."

"Words of wisdom from the Bard." A broad grin broke out across Kaitlyn's face. "It's always the bards! Pete, I'll owe you forever for this!" She leaped up and circled the table to grab him in an uncharacteristically fierce hug. "Thanks . . . thanks a whole fucking hell of a lot . . . and I better get going now. Things to do and all, you know."

"Think nothing of it, Velasquez." The knowing twinkle in Pete's eyes matched the one in Kaitlyn's. "Now get out of here and do what you have to do . . . and get some sleep sometime soon, huh?"

"You bet I will. Bye, Pete!" Kaitlyn just barely managed to avoid several near-collisions with other patrons in her mad sprint for the front door.

It was dark by the time she pulled the jeep up outside the Cambridge cemetery. She hadn't been here in more than three years, but the memory was still vividly raw, and Kaitlyn headed toward the Leyton family burial plot with no hesitation.

"Hey."

The linguist knelt tentatively beside a gravestone, tracing the inscription with a trembling hand. Joni Elizabeth Leyton, it read. October 5, 1918 - August 19, 1941. Forevermore sheltered in God's loving arms.

"Hey, Starshine . . . it's me." She stumbled a bit over the affectionate nickname, nearly forgotten for so long now, but the words tumbled freely after that, rough and honest. "I know it's probably damn rotten of me to show up now . . . I didn't even show up at your funeral . . . isn't that awful? I came with you when they buried your father, and he hated me, but when they put you here, I was drunk out of my mind over at the Plough and Stars. And I'm sorry, Starshine, I really am . . . but the truth is, I just couldn't face up to you."

Kaitlyn stopped and sighed, running her hands back through her tangled hair. Her voice cracked as she continued brokenly, "Our relationship wasn't the most stable, I'll admit . . . loved you more than anything, though. Never could find a way to tell you that."

She stretched out next to the grave, the marble of the headstone cold against her cheek. "Ironic, huh?" she managed. "Good with words . . . you were always telling me I was . . . how I wasn't afraid to express myself . . . in my songs, I mean. Some crowd I didn't even know, I could stand there in front of them and be pouring my heart out . . . then come home and just shut you out. I saw in your eyes, that it hurt you . . ."

A gulping sob wrenched its way out of Kaitlyn's chest. Taking a deep breath, she regained some semblance of composure and went on, more coherently now. "I never treated you right, Starshine, and I'll be paying for that the rest of my life, 'cause you won't be here to share it with me. You never heard me say I loved you-do you know how that's been killing me slowly ever since?"

The young linguist groaned, letting the tears flow freely for the first time since she'd fled that North End apartment two years ago. "And now I'm watching the two best friends I ever had start into that same spiral . . . while something inside me screams the whole time that I have to do something, stop it. But I can't even get over you . . . how can I help them? And I can't forgive my family unless I forgive myself first."

Kaitlyn ran her fingers through the grass that grew over Joni's grave. "I gotta go on with my life, Starshine. You'd want me to. So I'm here to tell you that I'm sorry, and that I never blamed you for what happened to us." A smile edged her lips. "I read once that the dead can hear our thoughts . . . I have a lot of respect for the writer, and I believe it's true, so I know you can hear me now. It feels like I finally have something besides my work to really live for again. I just want you to know that you'll always be with me-always have been. I love you, Starshine . . . and now if you'll excuse me, I have some things to take care of." She pressed her lips against the gravestone, closing her eyes. "I promise I'll come back soon, but right now, I have things to do, and you'd kick my ass if I let them slide any further."

She got to her feet, bone-weary and emotionally drained-but the silent gravestones were the only witnesses as Kaitlyn Velasquez strode out of the cemetery and jumped into the front seat of her jeep with more energy than she'd felt in nearly two years.

Janice saw the headlights pulling into the driveway just as she was emerging from the woods at the side of the house, and jogged over to meet Kaitlyn.

"Hey, kid. Where've you been?"

"Cambridge." Kaitlyn looked up and met Janice's gaze, and the older woman was surprised to see that whatever had been weighing her friend down seemed to have partly lifted; her eyes were less shadowed, and she was walking a little bit taller. "I . . . was visiting an old friend. We had some unresolved issues to take care of."

"Help any?"

"Yeah." A grin broke across Kaitlyn's face. "You have no idea. And you, Covington-taking a walk do you any good?"

Janice nodded slowly. "A little, maybe. You're right, it's calming out there."

But . . . ? Kaitlyn sensed that there was more left unspoken. She only reached up to put a hand on the archaeologist's shoulder, and pulled out her cigarette case, offering it to Janice before helping herself. It was quiet for a few moments, except for the clicking of the metal lighter.

"It's damn late," Janice remarked finally, exhaling. "Think I'll go in and get some sleep. You should too. And, uh . . ." She flicked a slightly diffident look at Kaitlyn. "You, uh . . . have any extra blankets lying around?"

Aha. "Couch?" Kaitlyn posed the question as nonchalantly as she could.

"Yeah."

Well . . . better that than pretending nothing's wrong, I guess, the linguist conceded to herself. That'd be more harmful in the end. She tossed her cigarette butt into the driveway and ground it out with her heel. "Sure. I'll get you some when we get inside. Come on . . ."

Kaitlyn laid the fountain pen down and picked up the sheet of paper, blowing on the still wet ink and scanning over what she'd written.

Hello, Mom and Dad.

I'm sure you're pretty surprised to be hearing from me. But this can't go on any more.

Let me just make a couple of things clear first. I'm not writing this to apologize for who I am-there's nothing I can do to change that. I know that I didn't turn out to be the kind of daughter you wanted me to be, and that I've disappointed you in so many ways because of that. I wish it didn't have to be that way.

I want you to know that I don't blame you for reacting the way you did, not any more. If I could go back and do it all over again, I would have come clean with you from the start, instead of rebelling in roundabout ways, doing things to deliberately make you mad, being contrary just for the sake of it . . . It shouldn't have been a letter that told you I was gay. It should have been me.

The fact is, I knew you'd be hurt by it, no matter how I went about it, and I just began to resent the inevitability.

If there's one thing you ever taught me, it's that love is the most important thing we have in this life. And when I fell in love with Joni, I just didn't know what to do, because I knew you wouldn't approve, and I didn't want to disappoint you, but I just couldn't deny it any more. When I was a kid, you told me to be true to myself even if other people made fun of me or thought I was wrong. I always believed it. So what it all came down to was that this was just the way things were, and there would be no point in trying to change myself. Please, if you can, understand that.

So I just want to tell you that on my part, at least, there is no more resentment. I don't hate you any more for not being able to face what became of me. I hope you can forgive me-if not now, then someday. In writing this, I'm tearing down the last barrier between myself and the possibility of reconciling with you. I love you both, and I miss you.

I've got two friends right now who are becoming all but estranged, and it's breaking my heart to watch their relationship fall apart this way. I have to help them, but I can't truly do that before I do my part to heal what's happened to this family. I've got to be true to what I say, or nothing I try to do for them will be worth a thing. Just like you always taught me.

Thank you for that . . . and for everything.

Love always,

Your daughter, Kaitlyn R. Velasquez

"Well, Rhonwyn could have made this sound much better than I did, but it's from the heart . . . it'll do."

The linguist sighed as she neatly folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, and addressed it. When it would reach her parents, she didn't know. But she'd done her part-her cards were all out on the table, and it was all up to them, from here on out. At any rate, she felt a whole hell of a lot better.

Kaitlyn looked around her mostly-tidy bedroom and announced to her desk lamp, "And now, to do something about this Rift . . ."

She wasn't really sure she knew which one she meant. But she didn't really think it mattered.

"Morning, kid . . . don't tell me you've been up all night again?"

Kaitlyn glanced over her shoulder at Janice, deftly flipping the pancake she was cooking at the same time. "Afraid so."

"For God's sake, Velasquez, why? You keep this up, and I'm gonna walk in one morning and find you dead on the kitchen floor!" Janice's expression was more than a little concerned as she made her way across to the stove and grabbed the younger woman by the shoulders, looking at her intently. "I'm worried about you, kid . . . we don't need you killing yourself over this project!"

"Hey now . . ." protested Kaitlyn, trying for a diversion. "Easy! I'll burn your breakfast if you don't let me keep an eye on it!"

Janice let her hands drop, but persisted, "Come on, Kaitlyn . . . what's the deal? Are you afraid to sleep or something? All you ever do is work on translation these days." She jerked her head toward the notebook and parchments on the table. "I know we all want to get to the bottom of all this, but it won't do a damn bit of good if you go and die on us because you were so wrapped up in working!"

"All right, all right." Kaitlyn slid the pancake atop the stack that rested on the counter by the stove, buttered it, and turned to face her friend. "You want to know the truth, Janice . . . I'm scared of dreaming." She spit the words out and turned away, looking disgusted with herself.

That made no sense. "Of dreaming? "

"Yeah. I know it sounds crazy, but . . . lately, whenever I sleep, I start dreaming about Rhonwyn. I don't know what's triggering it. Hell of it is, I'm dreaming things from her lifesong.." The graduate student crossed to the table and sat down heavily. "And not only that . . . I'm dreaming things from her point of view, almost reliving them, and I wake up feeling as drained and battered, physically and emotionally, as she gets in those dreams. Bad enough that the things I'm reading in those scrolls take as much of a toll on me as they do, but with what these dreams to me . . ."

Janice blinked in confusion. "You mean the accounts in the Scrolls are wearing you down? How?"

Kaitlyn raised haggard eyes to her friend's face. Fatigue and stress were slowly driving her to hysteria. It was beginning to show. "You don't understand. Mel might, but you don't. I'm not just sitting here, finding a word, and matching it up with one in English. I'm translating an account that's the combined effort of two very formidable bards. These words don't just sit here on the page, Janice . . . they live. They burn. And with every word . . . with every phrase, every line, every chapter, this story becomes more and more real to me. And dammit, Janice, it hurts. It's one thing to know in my mind what happened, but this-" She smacked the notebook with her pencil. "This is driving it into my heart with every word I write down!"

"You're right," Janice responded evenly. "I don't understand. Translating's not my strong point . . . never has been. It's always . . ." She paused, visibly struggling with the next words. "That's Mel's specialty, not mine."

"So what are we going to do about the two of you?" The question was blunt and direct; it came out of nowhere and caught Janice off guard.

"What about us?" Defensiveness crept up around the edges of the archaeologist's voice.

"You slept on the couch last night, every time we've started to discuss the Scrolls you two start arguing, you're barely speaking to each other . . . and now you can hardly even bring yourself to say her name." Kaitlyn's gaze was intense and steady, and Janice found herself wincing under the scrutiny. "Speaking of keeping things up, this can't go on any longer either."

Janice tried a halfhearted evasive tactic. "What can't?"

Kaitlyn saw right through the maneuver. "You know damn well what I'm talking about, Covington."

"All right, all right . . ." Janice had fished a cigar out of her pocket, clipped it, and lit up. "So what do you propose we do about it?"

"We? She's your lover, Janice . . . it's between you and her." Kaitlyn picked up her mug of lukewarm coffee and took a gulp, continuing, "But there is a bit that I can do. A couple of days ago, you yelled at me for 'dancing around the question,' as you put it. And I realized you were right-I've always tried to run away from issues that I don't want to deal with, usually if they hit too close to home. It's really kind of funny-I can get up in someone's face and be the millennium bitch from hell if I want to be, but let the issue get too personal and all I want to do is run like a scared rabbit."

"Like with the question of who's to blame in the Rift?"

Kaitlyn nodded, looking somewhat ashamed. "Right. I'm damn well afraid to take sides here. You know that. So I'm trying to stay neutral, and all it seems to have done is make things worse. I could have taken a stand from the start . . . maybe none of this would've happened. Stupid mistake on my part, but I intend to do something about it."

"Like what?" asked Mel, who had slipped into the kitchen unnoticed.

Janice jumped, nearly swallowing her mouthful of cigar smoke. "Jesus, Mel! You've got to stop scaring me, sneaking up like that!"

The Southerner laughed, and apologized. "Oh, Janice . . . I didn't mean to . . . I suppose it's a bad habit."

"Well, you'd better break it, or I'm going to have a heart attack for real one of these days." Janice was amused despite herself-she didn't sound quite as disgruntled as she had a few minutes ago, and a bit of a smirk was defeating her last efforts to hide it.

Kaitlyn observed the two women carefully. Oh, good, she noted with satisfaction, some of the ice has been broken here. Beneath their anger with each other, there was still that familiarity and love between Mel and Janice. It was still there-it always had been. All she had to do was figure out how to bring it to the surface again.

The scrolls she'd spent the night translating, as well as Pete's words from the night before, gave her an idea, and her mind quickly put it into motion. "Well then," she began slowly, a grin forming on her face, "are you two up for a night on the town?"

The jeep pulled into the parking lot outside the small Housatonic café known as Richfield's. It was still early in the evening, and only a few of the die-hard regulars had already trickled in and staked out their tables. Therefore, since tonight was Open Stage Night, there were still ample performance slots open.

Kaitlyn, as one of those die-hard regulars, was counting on that fact. She launched herself out of the car seat and sprinted to the back of the vehicle as soon as her feet touched the asphalt, snatching her guitar case and barely stopping to wait for Mel and Janice.

"Hold on, kid! What's the rush?" demanded the archaeologist, catching up to Kaitlyn, Mel two steps behind her.

Kaitlyn paused, a bit thrown off by the question. "You know . . . I'm not sure, really. Just feeling this sense of urgency about tonight?"

"Like getting a chance to perform, maybe?" Janice ribbed her.

An enigmatic expression scampered across the young woman's face. "Yeah . . . that has something to do with it, I suppose."

Mel sauntered up next to Kaitlyn and cast a sidelong glance down at her. "Why," she asked teasingly, "do I get the feeling that whatever you're not telling us, we're going to find out later tonight anyway?"

"Because you're damn intuitive, that's why," was the amused retort. "Now come on, let's get in there."

"What? You afraid we'll get inside and all the tables will be gone?" Janice pulled her fedora down over her eyes and arched an eyebrow.

Kaitlyn snorted and made for the front door. "I am not dignifying that with a response."

Richfield's was less crowded than Mel remembered it from their first night in Housatonic, but the same easygoing atmosphere rippled through the room in the currents of laughter and low conversation. It was soothing and comfortable, and put her somewhat at ease.

That was a welcome feeling after the day's tension. Breakfast had been a fairly benign affair, but from then on it had all been downhill. Only Kaitlyn's presence seemed to maintain the uneasy peace, and without her there to serve as neutral ground of a sort, Mel found herself and Janice at odds again. She'd taken her cue from the previous night and discovered that it was easier to just get away for a while. So she had, retreating into the library and immersing herself in Kaitlyn's wealth of linguistics texts. The graduate student's passion for languages equaled her own, a fact that pleased her despite the difference in the tongues they studied.

Could it really be a coincidence that this girl, whose ancestor had been such a trusted friend to Xena and Gabrielle, was working with them on the Scrolls now? She didn't think so. Some circumstance, far greater than she understood, had brought Kaitlyn to them, and Mel was grateful for that, whatever it was. Another person could have translated these Rift Scrolls, but probably wouldn't be trying as hard as Kaitlyn was now to heal the account's effect on her relationship with Janice.

She wondered about the strange twists of destiny. A telegram amongst her late father's papers had led her to Macedonia and to the love of her life; a naïve mistake on her part had catapulted her and Janice into Ares's Tomb, where the first Xena Scrolls had been found. A few stray clues in those Scrolls had eventually sent them to Wales, where the discovery of that peculiar replica scrollcase had brought Kaitlyn, and this moment, to them.

The thought that the Rift Scrolls were more trouble than they were worth still bothered her-if it hadn't been for them, she and Janice wouldn't be having these problems now. They'd committed themselves to learning Xena and Gabrielle's whole saga, but now because of that, the strength of their commitment to each other was under threat. She wanted to resent the Scrolls, blame them for what had happened, wish that they had never been found . . . just go back to the way everything had been.

But could she? Could they both? Even if it were possible, Mel wasn't sure she would want to go back and act as if none of this had ever happened, as if they'd never brought up these buried problems and lost their tempers. The look she'd seen in Janice's eyes the previous night was so completely foreign to her that she'd been shocked to realize that it really was her lover who'd been about to hit her. She couldn't go on, pretending that she'd never seen that look. So really she had no choice left but to deal.

The preface to the Rift Scrolls was lingering in her mind, for some reason: It is by going through the fire that we emerge stronger; it is by weathering the storm that we truly grow. She seized onto that line and began to build her own hopes up from it.

If they made it through this-she and Janice together-nothing would be able to tear them apart again.

Janice felt someone studying her, and looked up to see Mel's blue eyes locked on her face, contemplating. "You okay?" The words sounded gruff and awkward.

"Just thinking."

The archaeologist nodded silently and glanced down at the table. Kaitlyn had gone off to talk to someone or other, and left her alone with her lover. For being the first time all day that they'd been in each other's company, she was actually surprisingly glad that this encounter was in a public place-the prospect of making a scene here in the café was decidedly unappealing. She didn't really want to, anyway.

A tightening of the muscles in her hand caught her attention, and she looked down to see her fist clenched, white-knuckled, on the tabletop in front of her. That fist had so nearly had an up-close-and-personal encounter with Mel's face the day before . . . the thought shook her. Had she really let things slide this far? She was tired of arguing, tired of keeping up this front of not caring if Mel was shutting her out, but feeling so vulnerable that she didn't dare show what lay behind that façade. She wanted to make amends, but her stubborn nature was in the way, and she didn't know how to take the first step.

It didn't look like she had much of a choice, though. Caught in the visegrip of learning the full truth of the Scrolls or losing the only person she wanted in her life forever, she was willing to give up her life's work. No question about it. If only she knew how to admit that to Mel . . .

"Can I have everyone's attention, please?" A rotund, affable-looking man-the owner of Richfield's, Janice surmised-had stepped up onto the small stage platform and was holding his hands up for quiet.

Accordingly, conversations trailed off, and the café's patrons awaited his announcement.

"I'd like to welcome you all to the weekly Open Stage Night here at Richfield's. This is where you get to hear some of the finest musical talent the Berkshires have to offer, and I hope you'll find that you're in for a good time tonight!" Applause seemed to indicate that the audience agreed. He continued, "Our first performer has been performing for us for several years, even though she's away a lot more than we'd like her to be. So please, give a warm welcome to Housatonic's very own Kaitlyn Velasquez!"

The audience broke into another round of applause that peaked and then faded as Kaitlyn stepped up onto the stage, the leather strap of her guitar slung over her shoulders.

"Evening, everyone," she said, offering a smile to the crowd. "I've only got one song for you tonight . . . not a song, really, so much as a poem, or just a story set to music, I guess; I've had new influences on my writing as of late. It's new, anyway-I wrote it just last night, in fact, and it doesn't have a title yet. And . . . it's dedicated to two very good friends of mine."

She plucked out a soft, flowing accompaniment on the guitar, closed her eyes, and began to sing.

"On all the roads life leads us down, there are people that we meet,

And some of them, we'll pass right by, but some we'll stop to greet.

And out of those we'll meet a few who'll stay near to the end

And journey along through hard times-those we're proud to hail as 'friend.'

Now some who travel find one who'll complete and make them whole;

Apart, they're just two beings, but they make a single soul.

I dreamed I saw a road, down which two journeyed side by side;

Nothing had destroyed their love, though who knows how many tried?

But circumstance and fate conspired to try them once again-

For who can tell what lies in store around the trail's next bend?

The trials were hard, the doubts ran wild, the stormclouds gathered fast,

Hate and anger battered them, idyllic days now past.

My heart, it broke to see the anger rising in their hearts,

A chasm, ever widening, to tear these two apart.

I stood alone, some distance off, and watched the chasm grow,

Afraid, I think, to intervene, but more afraid to know

That what I felt in my own heart was the selfsame kind of hate,

That I was not immune to it, and that I could relate

To how they felt-before I could step forward, help them through,

I had to learn to overcome the hate my own heart knew.

And when I finally took that step, I was surprised to find

That love returns so easily, once you leave the past behind.

It's always there-we just forget, when hard times block the road,

That love will carry us each step, though we stagger 'neath the load.

'Love strengthens love,' a wise one wrote, 'as hate can strengthen hate.

And if you strive together, you can lift the anger's weight.'

I looked again, and realized their love had never gone,

That it could see them through the night, and soon would come the dawn.

I said to them, 'You both lost sight, but just reach out again,

And all the wounds your anger's caused, both time and love will mend.

It won't be easy-love never is-but well worth fighting for,

And working through the pain will make you stronger than before.'

So still they travel down the road, toward the rising sun,

United once again in love-the hatred has not won."

Dizziness overwhelmed Kaitlyn as she opened her eyes-a strange feeling, as though she was just now coming back to awareness. It wasn't until she saw the audience break out cheering that she realized what she'd been doing. It's done. Rhonwyn, she whispered internally, I hope you'd be proud of what I just tried to do.

The cheers and applause erupted all around them, practically shaking the café, but Mel and Janice were oblivious to it, silent, still lost in the world Kaitlyn's song had woven for them. Somehow their young friend had managed to make every note of that simple ballad strike a sympathetic resonance with everything in their hearts, and they had been transported by it.

It seemed like forever and no time at all before Janice turned to look deliberately at her partner, her green eyes locking firmly on Mel's own blue orbs.

"She's right, Mel," she said slowly. She reached across the table, and Mel responded in kind, her soft, slender hand closing over Janice's rougher and more calloused one. It was their first physical contact in three days-it electrified them both. Such a simple little gesture, but so much was wrapped up in it.

"I know," the Southerner responded simply as her fingers brushed the back of Janice's hand.

"I'm sorry, Mel, I really am . . . I know I shouldn't have taken my anger out on you. You never realized just how much it's hurt me to know that Gabrielle was my ancestor, not Xena, like I always dreamed it would be. And yeah, it hurt me, and I was jealous of you. I never admitted it though . . . I was ashamed to. Pretty stupid of me, huh?" Janice swallowed hard, trying to fight back the tears and failing. The unbelievable relief that came when the first warm drops rolled down her cheeks, though, was enough to make her forget her tough demeanor. She hardly noticed the cracking of her voice as she continued, "And then we found all this out . . . about the Rift and all . . . and it just scared me so much to find out that their relationship could fall apart like that. Because if a love as strong as theirs could be hurt so badly, then . . ."

"Then what might that mean for us?" Mel finished. "I felt the same, you know. But I thought I could just forget about my doubts if I kept them to myself, and everything could go on and be just fine. But it came to this anyway . . . I couldn't forget . . . and I got so scared that I started to forget just how much I love you."

"Yeah. That's exactly how I felt, Mel. Can you believe we were so stupid that we didn't even talk to each other?" Janice raised their joined hands to her lips, brushing a kiss across Mel's knuckles. "You're the first person I've ever loved enough to let into my life the way I have, and I love you more than . . . God, I don't know what. And the one thing I kept back from you is the one thing that nearly took that away from me. It's all my fault, Mel."

"Now, Janice, honey, don't you go blaming yourself for everything! I made you think that I didn't care if you were upset . . . I was too afraid to talk to you. We were both wrong about that." Mel squeezed her lover's hand tightly. "I don't blame you for being angry about what Gabrielle did. You're right, it wasn't the best thing to do . . ."

"But she was only doing what she thought was right," interrupted Janice. Now, she felt like she could concede that point-whatever ridiculous pride had kept her from it before was gone. "I've realized that. It's just the way she was. Hell . . ." She paused, a wistful look coming into her eyes. "I wish I could be that trusting, sometimes. But with the life I've led . . . that's damn hard to do. And you know what? I'll admit it. Xena was wrong, too, to go after Caesar in the first place and then leave Gabrielle behind to get duped by Khrafstar."

Mel smiled. Hearing those words from her lover's mouth gave her a new perspective on the Rift account. "After what he did to her, though, I can see how she would have wanted to."

"Well, we all make mistakes. Big ones, sometimes-really damn big ones. But I guess the important thing is to make up from them, and learn from past mistakes. Even the ones that run in the family."

"Especially those."

Janice enclosed Mel's hand in both of her own and gave the taller woman a tender look. "Look, sweetie, promise me something? If there's ever anything-anything at all-bothering you, or hurting you, I want you to tell me, and not be ashamed to admit to anything with me. I might not take it so well at first, but I love you enough to work through things with you."

Grateful tears slipped down the aristocratic planes of Mel's face. "I promise . . . and I promise to do the same for you." She held Janice's gaze, her eyes full of more love and trust and devotion than she thought a glance could hold. "We won't let anything get between us again, will we? I love you, Janice Covington."

Blue eyes bored into her own, and to her immense relief, Janice no longer feared what that piercing gaze might discover in her soul. "Melinda Pappas, I love you too."

Continued in Part 8.