Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  “It’s extremely difficult to smelt. The heat that’s needed is incredible, and must be sustained for hours.”

  “Ah,” Breena said, reaching for yet another drawing. “Now I understand what this is.”

  She smoothed the wrinkled page, which bore a diagram of a furnace. She squinted, trying to read the notations Marcus had scrawled in heavy, messy letters.

  “Will building a deep furnace chamber within the existing chamber and increasing airflow truly produce enough heat for your purpose?”

  Marcus grimaced. “I’m not entirely sure. A higher quality of charcoal will also help, I expect. I mean to explore all possibilities.”

  Breena grinned, showing the gap between her front teeth. “You’ll do it, Marcus. I cannot remember one of your designs that didn’t come to life.” Her gaze drifted to the shelf above the worktable. “But that silver wolf you’re always playing with is more alive than anything you’ve ever made. Look at its face! It almost seems human.”

  Marcus closed his eyes, his throat suddenly tight. The wolf was human. Memories, more than a year old but still as vivid as yesterday, flashed behind his eyelids. He was back in the dank, dripping cave, the dying light of his torch illuminating feral gray eyes.

  The she-wolf snarled and leapt. But weak as it was, the attack fell short. The animal collapsed at Marcus’s feet. Battling every sane instinct he possessed, he bent and gathered it in his arms. The beast shuddered, sending vibrations up his arms. And then it began to change …

  Until the wolf’s fur smoothed into a woman’s damp and feverish skin, Marcus hadn’t fully grasped the depth of the magic he held in his arms. Rhys called it Deep Magic. It was the raw power of the gods, a primal force that existed independently of any human notion of good and evil, Light and Darkness. It was a primitive and dangerous force. Unpredictable. So much so that Cyric, Rhys’s grandfather, had forbidden the Druids of Avalon from calling it.

  Deep Magic. The refuge of the truly desperate, and the truly depraved.

  Which was Gwendolyn?

  The transformation he’d witnessed had been a perversion of nature. Why, then, had it aroused him so? What did it imply about his character that now, more than a year later, he still woke in the dead of night with his cock stiff and his stones aching for … her. For her magic.

  “… do you think, Marcus?”

  With a start, he realized he’d completely missed whatever question Breena had asked. “What?”

  She gave a huff of exasperation. “See what I mean? You were gone again. Whenever you look at that wolf—”

  “I’m listening now.”

  She glanced at him and frowned, then looked away. Her earlier good humor had fled. Marcus’s attention was drawn to the circles under her eyes, more visible now that she was silent. Her freckles stood out starkly against too-pale skin. She hadn’t been sleeping. His heart sank. With Breena, that meant only one thing.

  Her hand crept to her throat, fingering the silver pendant that hung there. It was a Druid charm, one that Rhys had given her. Marcus knew Gwendolyn had made it.

  “I need to talk to you about Avalon,” she said.

  “Breena, no. We’ve talked about it enough already.”

  “But … Rhys says I must go. And I would go, if not for the babe …”

  “Mother needs you here.”

  “I know. I would not leave her, not now.”

  “Even afterward,” Marcus said. “Avalon is no place for you.”

  “But Rhys said—”

  “It’s a primitive place, Bree. Do you really want to live in a hut of mud and straw? With nothing but a meager peat fire and a dirt floor? There will be no plaster, no tiles, no soft beds. No wine, no wheat bread. You can forget hot baths.” He paused, catching her gaze fully. “And if all that isn’t enough, consider this: no library.”

  He felt a grim satisfaction when this last pronouncement caused Breena to wince. Truly, he couldn’t imagine his sister without her nose in a scroll or codex.

  “And another thing,” he continued ruthlessly, “the settlement on Avalon is illegal. Druidry is illegal. What if the Second Legion were to discover the existence of a secret clan of Druids? Every man, woman, and child would be put to the sword.”

  “That will never happen. Rhys says Cyric has hidden the isle within magical mists.”

  “Yet another reason to stay away. Who knows what dangerous spells the Druids have conjured?”

  “None!” Breena stood so abruptly her stool tipped over and clattered to the stone floor before Marcus could catch it. “Rhys says the Druids of Avalon practice only the Light!”

  Marcus retrieved the stool and set it upright with a deliberate thud. “Except that a little more than a year ago, Rhys’s own cousin called up the darkest form of Deep Magic, and nearly killed Clara and Owein. And Rhys himself”—Marcus flattened his hand on top of the stool—“Rhys is no stranger to Deep Magic. You know that as well as I do.”

  “But that was only one time! Rhys said—”

  “Enough” Marcus ground out. “I am sick to death of hearing what Rhys said.”

  Breena stared at him, stricken.

  “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly, shame flooding through him. “I shouldn’t lose my temper. Not with you, at any rate.”

  A moment passed before his sister responded. When she did, her voice was quiet, but calm. “Rhys is your closest friend, Marcus.” She paused. “And I … I care for him.”

  “Jupiter’s throne, Bree! The man is nearly twice your age. He thinks of you as a sister—nothing more. Don’t shame yourself by chasing him to Avalon.”

  Breena flushed bright red, but her voice remained steady. “I’ll not be chasing Rhys if I go to Avalon. He’s hardly ever there, anyway.”

  “Then why go? There’s nothing for you there but danger.”

  She walked to the furnace and stared at the cold coals. The sense he’d done something wrong niggled at the back of Marcus’s mind. He pushed it away. He wanted only happiness for Breena. He was sure she would not be happy on Avalon.

  “I … may not have any choice but to go, Marcus.”

  He swore softly. Breena had the Sight, as did her uncle, Owein. But it had been half a year since a vision of the future had come to her. Marcus had hoped the curse had deserted her. “The dreams have returned, haven’t they?”

  “One dream. I started having it again about a month ago.”

  “A month? And you didn’t tell anyone?”

  “It doesn’t come every night. But when it does …” She gripped her pendant so tightly, he thought the chain might break.

  Anguish dimmed her bright eyes. Marcus drew her into a firm hug, one arm encircling her shoulders. But Breena did not turn and cling to him, trembling, the way she had when she was small and suffering some hurt. She stiffened and twisted her fingers together.

  Marcus sighed. His Bug was nearly a woman now. She eased out of his embrace and he let her go.

  He did not ask her what she’d Seen in her dream. He knew she wouldn’t tell him. But whatever it was, it upset her deeply.

  “You haven’t told Mother?”

  “No! The babe …”

  “Of course, you’re right. It would distress her greatly.” He paused. “Is the pain very bad?”

  “The worst it’s ever been. My skull feels as though it will split in two. I … I prepared a draught of valerian and willow bark. It helped. But Marcus, I can’t bear it much longer. Not alone.” She paused. “I told Rhys when he was here.”

  Marcus tensed. Rhys had left just a few days earlier. He’d said nothing to Marcus about Breena’s visions. But then, he wouldn’t. “What did he tell you?”

  “He wanted to take me with him to Avalon. He told me his sister has crafted a spell that’s helped Owein ease the pain of his visions. She could help me, too, he thought. But … I told him I couldn’t leave Mother. Not until the babe comes.”

  Marcus made an effort to keep his voice steady. “Breena, listen to me. There must be
some other way. Some other remedy than traveling into the wild to live with Druids.”

  A tear traced a path down her cheek. “Why do you hate Avalon so? It must be more than the magic. Mother casts healing spells often enough.”

  “Mother’s magic is herbcraft. Any Roman or Greek physician might employ it. Druid magic is far more dangerous. It’s a power best avoided.”

  “You only say that because of our uncle. The one who died before I was born.”

  “Father’s brother was murdered by a Druid, his soul imprisoned by a dark spell. Father nearly met the same fate.” And Marcus, ten years old and cowering in the mud, had watched Lucius battle for his life. The events of that night had haunted him for years afterward.

  “The Druids of Avalon are not like that,” Breena said. “They practice only the Light.”

  “You’re exceedingly naive if you believe such a thing. Where power is possible, someone always seeks it out.”

  “But you must trust Rhys! He’s your best friend.”

  “Friend or no, Rhys hid his powers from me for years. Would he have done that if he were completely innocent?”

  “He had no choice! He knows how much you distrust magic.”

  “That’s no excuse for his deception.”

  “Perhaps not,” Breena allowed. “But I know he regrets not taking you into his confidence sooner.”

  “It wouldn’t have changed my mistrust of magic. Forget Avalon, Bree. Please.”

  “Sometimes I wish I could,” she said, her voice betraying a tremor. “But Marcus, you don’t understand. These visions—if they get any worse, they’ll break me to pieces. If there’s a chance Gwendolyn can help me, I have to go to her.”

  A wolf’s eyes flashed in Marcus’s mind. Gwendolyn. What kind of aid would such a woman offer his innocent sister?

  “What is she like?” Breena asked.

  Marcus blinked away his thoughts. “What? Who?”

  Breena exhaled. “Gwendolyn. Were we not just talking of her?”

  “Oh. Yes. We were.” He groped for something to tell her. He’d never spoken to Breena, or to anyone else, of the wolf. “I have no idea what she’s like.”

  “Marcus, how can you say that? You saved her life!”

  “I say it very easily. She was unconscious. I left Avalon before she woke.”

  “She’s fair-haired, like Rhys, isn’t she?”

  Marcus sighed. “Yes. They look very much alike.”

  “She’s his twin.” Breena was silent for a moment; then her eyes widened. “Do you think she can shift, like—”

  “By Pollux, Bree!” Marcus’s palm slapped the worktable, nearly upsetting the cream pudding. “This is why you need to stay away from Avalon. Deep Magic is far too tempting. Even Rhys succumbed to it. By Jupiter, the man was a merlin! A bird! He flew over our heads.”

  “But afterward—”

  “Yes, afterward, Rhys admitted he should not have gone against his grandfather’s teachings. Afterward, he vowed never again to call the Deep Magic. But will he be able to keep his word? I highly doubt it.”

  Breena crossed her arms over her chest. “Surely Rhys’s actions were not so evil. He had to reach Clara quickly, or people would have died! The good he achieved justified his action.”

  “That’s precisely the kind of logic that can get you killed.”

  Breena threw up her hands. “By the Great Mother, Marcus, there’s no reasoning with you.” Her gaze lit on the redware bowl. “Fine thanks I get for sending Lavina away. Next time she comes around with a pudding, I’ll escort her to your door!”

  She whirled about and stomped out of the smithy. Marcus winced as the door slammed. That was Breena—generally even tempered, but capable of erupting when pushed too far. Marcus should know—he shared the same traits. With a worried sigh, he turned back to his worktable. Something had to be done about Breena’s visions, especially if they were getting worse.

  But what? Last summer, Rhiannon brewed potion after potion, but nothing had helped the pain that accompanied Breena’s Sight. The family had breathed a sigh of relief when, three months later, the nightmares abruptly ceased. Now they were back.

  Rhys insisted Avalon was the only solution. The sacred isle, he claimed, would temper Breena’s gift. But Rhys had made no mention to Marcus about Gwen’s spells. The only information that Rhys had imparted about his twin on this visit was that she was soon to be handfasted to a Druid Rhys had brought from Caledonia last summer. The revelation had churned in Marcus’s gut like rancid meat.

  And yet, he couldn’t help gazing at the silver wolf. He reached for it again, balancing the figurine on his palm. The beast’s eyes challenged him. He stroked the silver fur, lust coiling and uncoiling in his belly. The sharp, sweet arousal cut like a finely honed blade.

  What was Gwendolyn like? Marcus did not know. And likely, he never would.

  Chapter Three

  Gwen found Rhys on the shore near Avalon’s dock. Hefin was already perched on a branch overhead. Gwen thrust her pole through the murky water and pushed her raft closer to shore, thinking her twin did not appear the least bit angry with her. Yet.

  He stood with one shoulder propped against the trunk of a great oak, watching her approach. His rangy body exuded a careless grace. His white-blond hair was clipped short, and his beard was no more than three days’ worth of stubble. Both features were oddities among Celtic men. For the first time, it occurred to Gwen to wonder if Rhys actually preferred shorn locks and a bare chin, or whether he’d adopted Roman grooming customs in an effort to move more easily in that world. It bothered her that she did not know.

  Their eyes met briefly as her raft touched shore. A sense of joy at his homecoming flooded her. She always felt more complete when Rhys was home. They’d shared a mother’s womb, had entered the world together. Rhys had been first. Gwen had emerged gripping his heel.

  Looking into Rhys’s gray eyes was like gazing at her own in a clear pool of water. They were very similar physically—male and female images of the same person. Their hair was unusually fair, and they were both slender and tall, though it had been years since Gwen had been able to claim superiority in the latter trait. Aye, on the surface, she and Rhys were much alike.

  Inside, another tale unfolded. Inside, Rhys was so much more than Gwen. More loyal, more thoughtful, more truthful. Rhys did not disobey Cyric’s commands—even the ones he did not agree with. He accepted his duty with grace and humility.

  Gwen did not.

  To be fair, Cyric’s orders had been no easier on Rhys than they had been on Gwen, though it had taken Gwen years to realize it. Why had their grandfather seen fit to assign his grandchildren tasks that went against their natures? Rhys, who would have thrived on Avalon, had been ordered to travel in the outer world, seeking Celts touched by magic—children, especially, for their Light was not yet polluted by Darkness. Gwen, who longed to roam, was told her duty lay on the sacred isle, teaching the initiates Rhys brought home.

  For many years, their differing paths had torn a deep rift between them. Through their adolescent years, they’d barely spoken. But last winter, when Cyric had been struck down by a Dark spell, and all of Avalon believed Gwen guilty, Rhys alone had believed in her innocence. He and Marcus Aquila had saved her life. And learned her secret.

  Rhys met Gwen at the dock, taking her pole as she looped the raft’s rope around the mooring post.

  “Well met, sister.”

  She smiled. “Well met, Rhys.”

  He grinned down at her, pulling her into a brief embrace. “It’s good to be home.”

  “It’s good to have ye here.” She settled her basket on her arm. “Ye’ve come from Isca?”

  His brows arched. “Are ye a Seer now as well as a spellcrafter?”

  “Nay.” She gnawed her bottom lip, wondering how to broach the subject of the Roman officer who had trailed him from the fortress city. She did not want to announce the fact she’d been snooping about the Roman camp. Rhys would be liv
id, especially if he realized she’d done her spying as a wolf. She was loath to lose the good feelings between them so quickly.

  She cast about for a safer topic. “Did ye … did ye stay at the Aquila farm?” Perhaps not so safe, after all.

  “Aye. I sought Lucius Aquila’s permission to bring his daughter to Avalon.”

  “Is he still unwilling?”

  “Nay. But Rhiannon is with child, halfway through her term, and Breena will not leave until her mother is delivered safely.” He made a gesture of frustration. “Breena should have come to Avalon last year. Her magic is far too powerful to be left untrained.”

  “She is young yet, nay? No doubt her parents do not want to part with her so soon.”

  “She’s no younger than I was when Cyric sent me away. Her visions cause her to suffer greatly. The dreams had ceased for a time, but now they have returned, though she would not tell me much. But they are more troubling, I think, than before. She needs your help, Gwen. She needs to be here.”

  An uneasy note had crept into his voice. Any discussion concerning Breena seemed to strike a raw chord within Rhys. But the lass was so young! Gwen’s curiosity burned, but her brother’s eyes had already shuttered, and she knew she would not succeed in prying any more information from him. At least not about Breena. But about Breena’s half brother …

  She affected a casual tone. “How does Marcus Aquila fare?”

  Rhys shot her an inscrutable look. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. “Marcus is well,” he said at last.

  “His work prospers?”

  “Aye, I think so. His skill as a bladesmith is well known in Isca. His swords and daggers are as beautiful as they are well crafted.” He gave a small shake of his head. “But I do not know if Marcus will achieve his latest goal. He means to smelt a metal he calls bright iron.”

  “And ye think he will not succeed? Why? What is this bright iron?” Gwen worked only in silver, a softer and more delicate metal than iron. She knew little of blacksmithing.

  “ ’Tis a rare, shining metal, born of the hottest furnace. ’Tis very difficult to smelt. Few smiths can smelt enough to make up an entire blade. But Marcus swears he will do it.”