The Grail King Page 8

  His words, however, were anything but lusty.

  “Can ye nay find your footing? I wish to reach the stones before summer.”

  “You might walk a bit slower,” Clara muttered.

  “A Celt woman would have little trouble keeping pace.”

  “I’m not a Celt woman.”

  “Aye, I ken that only too well, lass. ’Tis why I wished ye to remain in my roundhouse.”

  “My name is Clara,” she ground out. She shook the wet snow from her hem. “Not lass. I’ll thank you to remember that.”

  “I hadna forgotten, lass.”

  She scowled. He snorted—the closest sound to humor she’d heard him make since morning. She couldn’t define his mood. She hefted her satchel, the only part of their provisions Owein had allowed her to carry. The rest—food, blankets, and a waterskin—were bound in a pack on his broad back. The bone hilt of a dagger protruded from a sheath attached to his belt.

  Toward evening, they encountered a circular stone shelter, a smaller version of Owein’s roundhouse. The thatch was missing in several places, and the small door was gone. It was clear from Owein’s nod of satisfaction that he’d been looking for the place.

  “A shepherd’s sleeping hut. We’ll make our beds here.”

  Clara peered through the doorway, a small flare of panic rising. “It doesn’t look large enough for two.” Especially when one of the pair was as large as a bear. “Surely you don’t expect us to share such a small space.”

  Owein had bent to gather some scattered deadwood. He straightened, regarding Clara with brows raised. “Ye wish to sleep outside?”

  “Not me,” she said. “You.”

  He snorted. “I’ve no urge to freeze my stones.”

  Clara shivered inside her cloak. The sun had already dipped below the top of the mountain, leaving the valley dark and cold. “Promise not to touch me, then.”

  Owein piled more wood by the doorway. “I canna promise that. The shelter is far too small.”

  Clara closed her eyes against a sudden image of the two of them pressed into the small space. She bit her lip. “You promise you’ll not force me to couple with you?”

  The corners of his mouth turned down. “Barbarian I may be, but I dinna take unwilling women.”

  She watched as he shredded dry bark for tinder and sparked a blaze with the flint from his pack. Clara lowered her satchel to the ground and stretched out her frozen hands to the fire. The stone wall at her back was already warming.

  She chewed the strip of dried venison Owein offered and washed it down with a sip from his waterskin. Her teeth and jaws ached with the effort of chewing—never in her life had she eaten such rough fare. From Owein’s knowing glance, he guessed as much.

  He kept the fire small, prowling at the edges of the light before settling down beside her. The night wind gusted, causing the flames to dim. Clara drew the edges of her cloak together, blessing its hood and its thick fur lining. By contrast, Owein’s cloak was thin, ragged wool. But he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’d give all the jewels in my satchel for a hot bath,” Clara sighed.

  Owein merely grunted.

  “Could we build up the fire, at least?”

  Owein raised his head. The meager flames glinted red-gold on his thick mane. “The deadwood I gathered must last us the night.”

  “Oh.” Clara huddled in her cloak. “Of course.”

  Owein nodded toward the hut. “ ’Twill be warmer inside.” Retrieving the blanket from his pack, he crouched in the doorway and spread it over the dirt floor.

  Clara was too cold and exhausted to protest the tight quarters. Drawing her cloak about her shoulders, she crawled past him. Some of the heat from the fire had found its way into the hut, but the wind whistling through the doorway and roof dispersed it quickly. It would be a long, cold night.

  She curled up in her cloak as tightly as she could. Owein eased into the shelter beside her, placing his large body between her and the open door, blocking most of the wind. She lay on her side facing him, carefully avoiding contact. Unfortunately, that meant lying on her bruised hip.

  He was as warm as a brazier filled with coals. Her shivering soon abated, but the sharp dart of pain in her hip prevented her from getting comfortable. She wriggled, shifting first to lie a bit more on her stomach, then more on her back.

  She was startled when Owein’s gruff voice reached out to her, almost in her ear. She hadn’t realized his lips were so close. “Can ye nay be still, lass?”

  “The ground is hard,” Clara said crossly.

  “My apologies for that. I neglected to pack a down-filled pallet for our journey.”

  “It would be no matter if I hadn’t fallen on my hip.”

  “Turn over, then.”

  “And lose sight of you? I think not.”

  He snorted. “If I meant to seduce ye, I’d have done it by now.”

  She went still. “Are you saying you don’t want to seduce me?” She cursed herself as soon as the words left her tongue.

  Owein muttered a rough Celt word—one that Aiden hadn’t taught her. She heard a long sigh, then, a moment later, he reached for her. His hand closed on her upper arm. Before she could summon a word of protest, he turned her in his arms and tucked her against his body, her back pressed to his chest. One strong arm settled on her waist, pinning her firmly in place.

  She gasped. “Let me go.”

  “Nay. Ye wriggle too much. Go to sleep.”

  “With your hands on me? Impossible.”

  He chuckled and drew her even closer, until she felt the length of his phallus hardening against the cleft of her bottom.

  She went still, her heart pounding against her chest so wildly she couldn’t fill her lungs. Owein shifted, his arm brushing the underside of her breasts. His hot breath bathed her neck. His touch had her melting like beeswax in the summer sun. She waited, both dreading and longing for his next move.

  It never came. His arm grew heavy and his breath deepened to a soft snore.

  He’d fallen asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  “Shouldn’t he be coming around?” Marcus peered over Rhiannon’s shoulder at the ugly mark Valgus’s boot had made on Aiden’s temple. “It’s been hours.”

  “He needs time,” Rhiannon murmured. She probed the bruise, then moved her fingers to the back of Aiden’s head, pressing his scalp in various places.

  Breena sat on the opposite side of the bed. “His response depends on the cruelty of the trauma,” she told Marcus. “When the head receives a blow, it must heal in stillness. The more severe the blow, the deeper the stillness it seeks.”

  Marcus sent his sister an incredulous look. “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been reading Hippocrates,” she said with a note of defensiveness.

  “In the original Greek, no doubt,” Marcus grumbled. He hated Greek.

  “Of course,” Breena replied airily. “Too much is lost with translation.” At Rhiannon’s nod, she dipped a length of linen in a bowl of wine and daubed a raw scrape on Aiden’s elbow. She was the picture of competence, her hair tamed in a thick braid.

  Marcus shook his head. Rhys seemed bemused by the changes in Breena as well. The Celt stood leaning against the wall, his gaze fixed on her hands.

  Marcus scowled. Surely his eyes were playing tricks on him. Rhys had twenty-two years to Breena’s twelve. He thought of her as Marcus did—as a sister.

  “Come,” he said abruptly, turning. “Let’s leave the women to their work.”

  He started for the door, only to hear a low moan from the bed. He turned back in time to see Aiden’s bleary eyes fall on Rhiannon, then travel to Breena.

  “So much Light,” he said in wonder. “But … where is the one who saved me?”

  “Here,” Marcus said, stepping forward.

  The old man’s head turned. He blinked once, then his awed expression turned surly. “Nay,” he said impatiently. “Not this one. He has no magic. No Light.”
He struggled to rise on one elbow.

  “ ’Tis I ye seek, elder,” Rhys said.

  “Aye, there ye are, Wise One. Shining green I see behind ye. Ye are strong in the magic of the forest.”

  Rhys’s gray eyes registered his surprise. “Ye can see this?”

  “Aye,” Aiden said. “That and more.” He reached a trembling hand to Rhiannon. “Your Light is gentle. A soft glow.”

  “My magic is slight,” Rhiannon said, tilting a cup of wine to Aiden’s lips.

  The old man’s scrawny neck bulged as he swallowed. It reminded Marcus of a chicken. He flexed his fingers.

  “But ye, lass.” Aiden’s bony hand descended on Breena’s forearm. “Ye are shining white. Ye are a Seer. Like him.”

  “Like who?” Rhys said sharply.

  Aiden’s shriveled shoulders started to shake, and a tear leaked out of his eyes. “He is from my life … before. Before the soldiers came. Like a son he was to me. They didna take him, though. He is alive. Hiding.” His gaze darted to Breena. “This lass’s magic is strong, like his.”

  Marcus’s stomach turned. He could do without all this talk of magic.

  “My power is not so great, elder,” Breena murmured.

  “Dinna deny your strength, lass, as he did.” He licked dry lips. “Ye favor him in other ways as well. Ye have the same hair … same eyes. He’s young, though nay so young as ye. The Romans brought him from the northlands as a slave. I saved him, ye know, after they flogged him nearly to death.”

  Rhiannon gave a small cry. Her hands, usually so steady, shook. Wine sloshed over the edge of the cup she held. Marcus stepped forward and took it. He steadied her with one hand on her shoulder, but she didn’t seem to notice his quiet support.

  “This Seer,” she whispered. “Where is he?”

  “Alone,” Aiden said sadly. “ ’Tis not a good thing for a man to be alone. ’Tis why I sent Clara to him.”

  Marcus’s jaw went slack. “What?”

  “Clara has the Light about her, too. It glows like the sun. Aye, she is Roman, but her link to the Deep Magic is strong. She bears the Lost Grail. The cup fashioned by the Daughters of the Lady.”

  It was Rhys’s turn to gape. “Nay. That cannot be.”

  Aiden’s voice was fading. “I assure ye it is. I held the grail in my own hands. It bore the mark of Avalon—the triple spiral of the Great Mother and the four-quarter circle of the Prophet. Gracchus was all but dead, but Clara held the grail and called him back to life.” He lay back with a wheeze. “The grail is gone now. Stolen. But the Seer will find it.”

  Rhiannon leaned forward and clasped Aiden’s hand. “This Seer, elder. What is his name?”

  Aiden looked confused. “Ye dinna know?”

  “Nay. I do not.”

  The old man lay back on the cushions, his breath wheezing from his lungs in a long sigh. “But of course, ye dinna know Owein. He came from the northlands.”

  Marcus’s gaze darted to Rhiannon. The color had drained from her face.

  “Owein,” she whispered. “My brother.”

  “You think Rhiannon’s Druid brother conjured the storm?” Marcus asked.

  Rhys paced the width of the forge. As always, Marcus seemed as calm and steady as the anvil he leaned on. But Rhys knew his friend too well to think he was unmoved. Color rose on Marcus’s neck and ears.

  “It is possible,” Rhys said.

  “Owein’s no stranger to dark magic,” Marcus muttered.

  Rhys stopped pacing. “Ye know him?”

  Marcus studied a pair of tongs. “I’ve seen him. It was thirteen years ago. I was a boy of ten. Owein’s Druid master, Madog, slaughtered my uncle and cast a dark spell on his soul. When Madog died trying to imprison my father in the same way, Owein tried to complete what his master began.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “If Owein has grown in power since that time … by Pollux! I don’t know what’s worse—thinking Clara lost in the hills, or believing that she has found Owein.”

  “If what you say is true, then Owein could very well be the Druid who called the storm.” A curious sense of relief washed through Rhys. As much as he loved Rhiannon, contemplating Owein’s guilt was far preferable to believing what was whispered by the Druids of Avalon—that Rhys’s twin, Gwendolyn, was the rogue Druid.

  “If Owein is calling the Deep Magic, I need to learn his purpose. I have to find him,” Rhys said.

  “Rhiannon begged Father to locate Owein after the fighting died down in the north. Father put out some inquiries, but nothing came of them. It will cause my stepmother much pain if Owein has once again aligned himself with dark magic.”

  “Rhiannon is a strong woman.”

  “She loves too deeply.”

  “And ye do not? What of Clara?”

  Marcus scowled. Pacing to his workbench, he plucked a dagger from the clutter. Rhys eased to one side, away from the slab of wood that Marcus used for a practice target. For all Marcus’s unflappable good nature, Rhys knew his friend could turn deadly when sufficiently provoked.

  “I should have pressed Clara more.” He grimaced. “Spoken to her of something other than the weather. If I had, she might have come to me in her distress, rather than taking the counsel of a senile old man.”

  “I dinna think Aiden has lost his wits.”

  Marcus brought his arm forward with a sudden motion. His dagger sliced the air, rotating once before thudding into the center of the target. “What kind of man would send a delicate Roman woman into the mountains to seek a wild Celt?” he demanded.

  “What kind of Roman woman would act on his advice?”

  “A desperate one,” Marcus said. “A grieving one. Rhiannon’s been to Gracchus’s bedside. If she couldn’t cure him, the man is all but dead.” He expelled a rough breath. “If Clara succeeds in finding Owein, he’s likely to hold her for ransom, if he does not kill her outright. By Pollux, her father commands the Second Legion! Owein will hardly be moved to help her retrieve a magic cup.”

  “If the cup Clara’s looking for is truly the Lost Grail of Avalon, I have no doubt that he will help her,” Rhys replied. “He will want the grail for himself.”

  Marcus looked ill. “What is this vessel? What power does it hold?”

  Rhys shifted uncomfortably, sweat trickling down his neck. He could hardly reveal the secrets of the Lost Grail to Marcus, but he sensed his friend wouldn’t accept silence for an answer.

  “Many years ago,” he began carefully, “before the Roman army marched on the west country, a ship from the east was wrecked on the shores of Avalon. The only survivor was a woman, heavy with child. In her arms, she cradled a plain wooden cup. She spoke of a carpenter prophet from the East, who followed the way of the Light. She gave no name, so the Druids called her simply ‘The Lady.’ ”

  Rhys shifted his stance. “The Lady birthed twin daughters. Soon after, she disappeared into the swamps. The Druids succored her babes. Before many years passed, they discovered the twins were bound to the Deep Magic.”

  “What is this Deep Magic? Is it good? Or evil?”

  “Neither. Or both. The Deep Magic existed long before the Dark parted from the Light. For those able to call it, Deep Magic can take either form.”

  He paced toward the furnace, despite the heat. “The twins were taught the Ways of the Old Ones. They learned the craft of silver and the magic of crystals. As young women, they combined their powers to create a silver and crystal casing for their mother’s wooden cup, in which they had discovered great healing power.” Among other powers, he added silently.

  “This cup was lost?”

  “Aye. When the Legions marched on the west. Druidry was declared outlawed. The Druids fled Avalon. Many were captured and put to the sword; others went into hiding. The grail was lost.”

  “And you believe Clara’s cup is this grail?”

  “If Aiden’s description is accurate, it can be nothing else. It bears the mark of Avalon. I must find it.”

  “The cup can go to H
ades,” Marcus said. “It’s Clara’s safety I care about.” He slammed his open palm on his worktable. “But how can I leave Isca to search for her with Father gone? My first duty is to Rhiannon and Breena. Even if I do go into the hills, where would I look?”

  Rhys could have solved that problem easily enough with Hefin’s help, though he dared not reveal that fact to Marcus. But the merlin had been absent for more than a day. Rhys’s concern for the bird was growing. Hefin rarely strayed.

  The door to the forge opened, admitting Rhiannon, her face pale and weary. Marcus went to her at once. Putting an arm about her shoulders, he guided her into the room.

  “How is Aiden?” he asked.

  “A bit improved. Breena sits with him now. But he is old. I canna be sure—”

  “You can’t blame yourself if he dies,” Marcus told her. “The fault is Valgus’s alone. That bastard—”

  A sharp crack of wood on stone nearly caused Rhys to jump out of his skin. A gust had blown the forge door inward, slamming it against the wall. Rhys moved to close it, only to be knocked backward by a flurry of wings.

  He only just managed not to lose his footing on the ash-strewn floor. “Hefin!”

  The merlin executed a tight circle of the forge before landing on Rhys’s raised arm. Rhys was stunned—to his knowledge, the bird had never before entered a building. A glance at Marcus’s face told him his friend recognized how significant this behavior was. For a Roman without magic, Marcus Aquila had uncanny perception.

  Marcus, in his typical stoic manner, said nothing. Rhys ran a hand over Hefin’s back. Something was amiss. Not an injury; a quick survey of breast and wings told him the animal was healthy. No, he sensed the bird had a message, one Rhys would not like.

  “What is it, friend?” he murmured.

  Hefin cocked his head, regarding Rhys with an unwavering eye. There was a glint of urgency in the animal’s gaze. The realization unnerved Rhys; at times, Hefin seemed almost human. He sent a soothing thought to the bird. He couldn’t converse with the animal here—he needed solitude and the magic of the forest.