Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  He came more fully awake. Gradually, he understood he was alone in his bed, but the image of the woman did not clear from his mind. If he closed his eyes, he could see her stretched out like a goddess, white-blond hair cascading over smooth, naked shoulders. But she was not here.

  The last remnants of his dream scattered like hard grains of wheat spilled on a clay-tiled floor. Marcus shook his head, trying to settle some sense back into his skull. Just a dream. The inferior mattress on his bed in the smithy was not conducive to deep slumber. He should have a new one made.

  But he doubted it would make a difference. He’d slept little in the past week—almost every moment had been spent in his smithy, pursuing what had begun to look like a fool’s task. He’d built the new furnace chamber, shoveled in great heaps of unadulterated charcoal, added the purest iron ore. He’d set two boys on the new, larger, bellows, instructing them to keep the air flowing over the coals.

  The heat had been tremendous. But each attempt to smelt the bright iron called chalybs had failed. He’d fallen asleep wondering what technique was left to try. Surely he’d missed something.

  The gate bell rang again, insistent. Marcus blinked. So that had not been part of his dream. Frowning, he disentangled himself from his blanket and rose to peer out the smithy door. It was not yet dawn; no light shone in the windows of the main house. The bark of a dog sounded from the servants’ cottages beyond the orchard and kitchen gardens, but he could see no movement near the stables near the front gate. Was Linus deaf? More likely the stable master was visiting the latrine.

  Nighttime visitors to the farm were rare. Was some neighbor in urgent need of Rhiannon’s healing skills? Marcus stripped off his wet shirt and grabbed a clean one. Lifting the gate key from its hook by the door, he started across the yard, peering ahead.

  The night air was cool, but the clear sky carried the promise of a warm spring day. His boots crunched on the crushed-stone path as he strode past Rhiannon’s budding roses. A vague, hooded shadow was visible beyond the main gate’s iron bars. Was it his imagination, or did the figure stiffen as he drew near?

  “Who’s there?” The question was sharper than he’d intended.

  “Many apologies for ringing so early, but I have traveled far to reach ye.”

  Marcus hesitated. He’d called out in Latin, but the visitor’s reply had come in Celtic—in a lilting, feminine tone. The sound was a soft melody, like petals on fragrant dew.

  “Who’s there?” he asked again, more softly, in Celtic this time. He spoke the language as well as any native.

  The hood fell back. The woman’s features were fine, her gray eyes clear. Moonlight gleamed on her white-blond hair.

  Marcus could do nothing but stare.

  It was not possible. It could not be her.

  He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Ran a hand over his hair, then clenched his fist and let it drop to his side. His heart seemed to have taken up residence in his throat. He could not force a single word around it.

  “I am—”

  “I know who you are,” he managed.

  Their eyes met. Hers were the color of the mist in the valley, the shadowed veil that hid so many of Britain’s secrets. Marcus, with his pure Roman blood, could never hope to uncover all the mysteries of his adopted home. No matter. There were many Celt secrets he did not wish to know.

  “Gwendolyn.” Her name felt strange on his tongue. “Is something wrong? Is it Rhys? Has he been hurt—”

  “Nay,” she replied quickly. “My brother is well.”

  “Did he travel with you?” The question was inane—there was no one with her. But why would she travel from Avalon alone?

  “Rhys is in Avalon. He … he advised me to seek ye.”

  “He did?” Marcus couldn’t keep the note of disbelief from his voice.

  Gwen flushed and looked away. “Aye. He …” Her voice trailed off, her attention darting past him toward the stuccoed villa. When she looked back at him, a half smile was playing about her lips.

  “Marcus Aquila,” she said softly.

  He started at the sound of his name. “Yes?”

  She gestured toward the iron bars that separated them. “Do ye intend to open the gates?”

  Marcus stared blankly at the key in his hand. Then he looked up and grimaced. “Of course. Just a minute.”

  He fitted the key in the lock, the temperature of his skin notching upward as the action brought to mind a more sensual deed. Avoiding Gwen’s gaze, he swung the gate open and stood aside. She brushed by him, almost touching. His lower body clenched.

  He relocked the gate and led the way to the main house, his skin tingling at her nearness. He was intensely aware of her every step, her every breath. Her wild, earthy scent. Gods.

  He cleared his throat, intending to speak, but could think of absolutely nothing to say. Why in Hades didn’t she fill the silence? In his experience, most women were happy to do just that. But Gwendolyn, it seemed, was not most women.

  He dared a sideways glance. Now that the sky was beginning to lighten, he could see the lines of stress around her mouth and the dark smudges under her eyes. Her cloak was but a thin scrap of wool against the night’s chill.

  She carried no satchel or bundle, a detail Marcus thought odd. On foot, Avalon was a hard two days’ journey from Isca. No woman traveled so far with nothing but the clothes on her back.

  But a wolf? A wolf might travel with nothing.

  He drew a sharp breath. Gwen glanced in his direction. Their eyes met before he could look away; he had the sensation that the world around him was collapsing. A jolt of pure lust shot through him.

  “I … is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No,” Marcus muttered, reaching for a lifeline in the form of the farmhouse door. He yanked it open and held it for her. “You’re welcome here, of course. I only wonder why you have come. I can’t believe this is a casual visit.”

  When she did not reply, he did not press her. She hesitated, then entered the house. He escorted her along the entry gallery, past the altar to the household gods and the formal Roman-style receiving and dining chambers his family rarely used. They stepped into the hearth room, where Rhiannon, a habitually early riser, was already stirring the coals under her cauldron, one arm curved protectively under her burgeoning belly. She looked up as he entered. Her amber eyes alighted on Gwen, widened, then moved to Marcus in silent question. He shrugged a reply.

  Gwen’s brows rose as she took in the circular room’s curved walls, the center hearth, and the high, peaked ceiling. Herbs hung from iron hooks; open shelves held a jumble of pottery, cups, and glassware. A long table flanked with chairs occupied one side of the room. A large loom bearing a colorful, half-woven blanket stood on the other.

  “Why, ’tis like a Celt roundhouse,” Gwen said.

  Rhiannon came forward. “Aye, so it is. My husband was gracious enough to build this room at my request.” She smiled. “After I told him I wouldna eat lying on a bed, as many Romans do. This hearth room is much like the home of my childhood.”

  “Except that the walls are brick and plaster, not mud and straw,” Marcus commented, striving to keep his tone light. He and his father often teased Rhiannon about how accustomed she’d become to the comfortable aspects of Roman life. “The floor is tiled, with heated air flowing beneath it. Smoke doesn’t collect under the roof, but is funneled outside. Not to mention that clean water, and a hot bath, are only a few steps away.”

  Rhiannon laughed easily. “Aye, I’ve found Roman cleverness has its purposes. My husband and stepson do not let me forget it.” She reached out and took both Gwen’s hands in her own. “Ye can only be Rhys’s sister. Ye favor him most strongly.”

  “Aye. I am Gwendolyn.” She inclined her head. “I’m honored to meet ye, Lady. I’ve … I’ve never met a queen.”

  Marcus shifted, uncomfortable with this reminder of his stepmother’s heritage. If Rome hadn’t conquered Britain, Rhiannon would be a pow
erful ruler, not the wife of a retired Legionary soldier-turned-farmer.

  “A queen is but a woman,” Rhiannon said lightly, taking Gwen’s arm and drawing her toward the table. “And as any woman might, I welcome ye to my home. Sit, for ye look weary. I’ll make ye a warm draught. Marcus, remember your manners and take Gwen’s cloak.”

  Gwen shrugged the thin woolen garment from her shoulders. Marcus, glad to have a task to distract him, took it. He still could not believe she was here. Did Gwen’s sudden appearance have something to do with Breena? Maybe Rhys had sent her. Maybe he believed Gwen would succeed in bringing Breena to Avalon, when he had not.

  If so, Rhys was destined to be disappointed. Marcus moved to the hearth and dumped a shovelful of coals under Rhiannon’s cauldron. No woman, no matter how beautiful, how desirable, how powerful, would make Marcus believe his sister should live a primitive life with a band of outlawed Druids.

  As if summoned by Marcus’s dark thoughts, Breena appeared in the doorway, followed closely by Lucius. Aiden, the old Celt who was the father of Owein’s first wife, hobbled in close behind.

  Breena’s eyes went as round as two platters when she saw Gwen. “I thought I heard the gate bell ring.”

  “I did as well,” declared Aiden, “but I ne’er dreamed our visitor would be so comely.” He gave Gwen a broad wink. The old man’s walking stick clicked on the tile as he made his way to the table. He managed a bow before lowering himself into a chair at Gwen’s side.

  “Ye must be Aiden,” she said with a smile. “Owein has spoken of ye. As has Rhys.”

  Aiden looked Gwen over with unabashed curiosity. “Well, lass, your brother speaks precious little of ye.”

  Gwen’s smile faltered.

  “Gwendolyn is Rhys’s twin,” Rhiannon told Lucius in Latin. Marcus’s father was less comfortable speaking Celtic than his children were.

  Lucius nodded. “Welcome,” he said in heavily accented Celtic. “What brings you to Isca? I was given to believe that Rhys was the only Druid who traveled outside Avalon.”

  Gwen cleared her throat. “Aye, that is usually true,” she told Lucius. In very passable Latin.

  Marcus regarded her with some surprise. Rhys’s Latin was flawless, of course, but Marcus hadn’t expected Gwen to speak it.

  “I come regarding a matter of great urgency.”

  “If this urgent matter concerns Breena,” Marcus muttered, “you’ve wasted your time.”

  Gwen frowned. “Breena?”

  “Have you come here thinking you’ll be more successful than Rhys in convincing us to send her to Avalon?”

  “Ah. ’Tis true enough that Rhys and Cyric believe Breena must be trained in Avalon.”

  “And ye, Gwen? What do ye believe?” Rhiannon handed Gwen a cup of a fragrant herbal potion. Marcus knew Rhiannon did not want Breena to leave home any more than he did. But Breena’s visions troubled Rhiannon deeply.

  Gwen’s gaze traveled from Rhiannon to Lucius, and from there to Breena. Marcus’s blood boiled. What right did this Druidess have to appear uninvited in his home and …

  “I believe Cyric and Rhys see only one path, when in truth there are many. They do not believe one can reach the Light unaided.”

  “And you believe the same,” Marcus said.

  She shifted her gaze to him, her gray eyes shadowed. “Nay. I cannot say that I do. I believe there are many paths to the Light, though perhaps more paths that lead into Darkness. Certainly there’s an advantage in learning from others. But some who are touched by magic must travel alone.”

  The unexpected declaration took Marcus aback. So Gwen hadn’t come to plead Rhys’s case. Twin vertical lines had appeared between her brows. He was struck by an urge to smooth them away with his thumb.

  Their gazes collided once more. “Whatever Breena’s path,” she said slowly, “I would not advise her to travel to Avalon now. Legionaries have set up camp in the hills across the swamp. They are searching for silver, in Avalon’s mine.”

  Rhiannon gave a cry of dismay, while Lucius swore softly. “Rhys told us nothing of this.”

  “My brother only learned of it after he left ye.”

  Marcus advanced from his position by the door. “Thank Jupiter we didn’t send Breena with him.”

  Rhiannon looked ill. “But what of Owein and Clara, and all the others?”

  “Surely Cyric’s mists will protect the isle,” Lucius said.

  “So far they have, but my grandfather’s health is failing.”

  “If that’s so,” Marcus interjected, “why aren’t you at his bedside? Aren’t you his successor?”

  Gwen’s hand trembled as she placed her cup on the table. “I would not have come here if the need were not great. There’s a sorcerer in the Roman camp. The man is not looking for silver, but for Avalon.”

  “The army is harboring a sorcerer?” Lucius asked sharply.

  “Aye. He is their leader. His name is Strabo.”

  “Titus Strabo? The Second Legion’s new legate? Why, that’s impossible!” Marcus couldn’t contain his astonishment. He’d seen Strabo many times, even met him once. The man struck him as solid and unimaginative. He was certainly not Marcus’s idea of a sorcerer.

  “I assure ye, ’tis true,” Gwen said. “Strabo followed Rhys from Isca. He suspects my brother is not the simple minstrel he pretends to be. He knows our settlement is near. I’ve felt his magic, probing the mist.” She met Marcus’s gaze. “If he should find us, the Druids will have only two choices. Fight, or flee.”

  “Flee, then,” Marcus said. “Better yet, disperse.”

  “To scatter would weaken our power!”

  Marcus placed both hands on the table and leaned toward her. “Exactly.”

  For a long moment, silence hung in the air between them.

  “Marcus—” Rhiannon began.

  He straightened. “It would be for the best, Mother. Avalon cannot hide forever. With so much power concentrated in one place, it will grow beyond any man’s control. The Druids of Avalon profess to follow only the Light, but for how much longer? How long before they delve into Deep Magic?”

  Gwen made no reply.

  “I don’t understand why you’ve come here, of all places,” Marcus went on. “What can any of us do if the Second Legion forces the Druids to abandon Avalon?”

  Gwen rose and faced him. She was tall, Marcus realized with a start—not as tall as Rhys, but very nearly of a height with Marcus. Her chin lifted and her shoulders went back, as if her spine were made of chalybs.

  “The Druids of Avalon will not flee. We will not grovel before the Roman army or before any Dark sorcerer. I will see my own death before I allow the sacred isle to be defiled.”

  “And yet you left it,” Marcus challenged. “Why?”

  She turned her palms upward. “I came to ye, Marcus Aquila. I need your help to stand against Avalon’s enemies.”

  Marcus regarded her with patent disbelief. “You think I will help you battle the Second Legion? And a sorcerer? You must be insane!”

  A feral light sprang into her eyes. The wolf. For an instant, he saw the beast clearly there, within her. In the same instant, sudden, irrational lust surged hotly in his loins.

  Gods.

  “I’ve not lost my wits,” she declared hotly. “I’ve come to ye, Marcus Aquila, because ye have the skills I seek. I need a sword.”

  “A sword?” Marcus said the word as if it were a syllable in Greek—a language he hated with a rare passion. He shook his head. “I don’t understand. You wish to … what? Offer me a commission?”

  Gwen’s eyes did not stray from his face. “Aye. A commission.”

  “Then I trust you’ve brought coin.” He knew she had not. She’d carried nothing.

  “Marcus,” Rhiannon chided. “Must you be so blunt? Gwen is Rhys’s sister. Almost family.”

  “Even so, my skills do not come cheaply.”

  Gwen did not blink. “I did not bring coin, no. But I can promise you a portion
of Druid silver.”

  “Can you?” His tone was blunt. Beside him, Breena sucked in a breath. It was unlike Marcus to be intentionally rude, but standing so close to the woman who had been his private erotic fantasy for more than a year was driving him stark raving mad.

  “Avalon will pay whatever price you name,” Gwen said.

  “You cannot want a common sword,” he said tightly. “Do you mean for me to forge a weapon of magic?”

  “Aye, Marcus. I do.”

  Marcus was well aware that every eye in the room was fixed on him. It was no secret he hated magic. His immediate instinct was to spit out a refusal, and yet, he hesitated.

  His gaze flicked to Breena, then back to Gwen. “I’ll need to know more before I agree to anything. We’ll speak of it in the smithy. Later.” Alone, he added silently.

  Gwen hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

  From the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Lucius and Rhiannon exchange a glance. A moment of awkward silence ensued, until Rhiannon broke it. “Ye must be hungry after your journey, Gwen.”

  “A little.”

  Breena sprang into motion. “I’ll see to the food.”

  “Nay,” Gwen said, half rising. “Do not trouble yourself—” But Breena had already left for the kitchen.

  “ ’Tis no trouble,” Rhiannon told her. “Alma—that’s our cook—will not have today’s bread ready yet, but there will be one of yesterday’s loaves and some meat left from last night’s supper. Sit, Gwen, and finish your draught.”

  Gwen sat, though she looked ill at ease. Marcus guessed she was unused to being waited upon. Life on Avalon was primitive. Not for the first time, he wondered how Clara was dealing with it. Did she regret the loss of the luxuries she’d known in Isca? He thought not. Clara and Owein shared a rare love. Lovers were blind to inconvenience.

  Lucius took a seat at the table with Gwen and Aiden, awaiting Breena’s return from the kitchen. Rhiannon poured mugs of cervesia for all but Lucius, who had never developed a taste for the Celt barley beer. He received a cup of wine instead.

  Aiden wasted no time in plying Gwen with questions. “Now then, lass. Rhys told us Clara’s babe is very close to coming. I trust your healer is competent.”