Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  “The kitchen. I’ve been working all night and I’m starved. That’s why I was in the house in the first place.” He chuckled. “I’ll feed you as well, I promise. You’re in sore need of it. Will you come? Please?”

  She tilted her head and touched a finger to her lips. “Since ye ask so politely, aye.”

  He laughed then, and she did, too. She put her hand in his, and he fought to conceal his reaction to the contact. She’d be out of his life—and married to another man—as soon as he forged her sword. But for as long as she was living under his roof, he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to be alone with her.

  To his surprise, she didn’t take her hand from his as he led her out of the sleeping wing of the house and into the entrance gallery. They passed the formal receiving and dining rooms and Rhiannon’s hearth room; the kitchen lay beyond. When they reached it, he reluctantly dropped her hand.

  He busied himself rummaging around in a cupboard for a tallow taper. Touching it to the banked coals in the oven, he used the flame to light one of the hanging oil lamps.

  A cozy glow settled over the room. Gwen’s gaze skimmed over the long table and the bank of brick ovens. Three tall ovens were for baking; the other two were waist high, topped with iron frying grates he’d made himself, years ago. Shelves held clay pots and copper bowls, and jars of herbs and spices. Bronze and iron skillets of all sizes hung from hooks overhead. A bronze-bladed knife with a bone handle—another example of Marcus’s work—gleamed on a chopping board, beside a wooden mortar and pestle and a pebble-studded bowl used for making soft cheese. A washing basin and bins for firewood and charcoal occupied either side of the door leading to the vegetable and herb gardens. He watched Gwen’s eyes go round as she took it all in. No doubt cooking facilities on Avalon were far more primitive.

  He pulled out one of the high stools flanking the table with a flourish. “Your throne, my hungry queen.”

  Gwen laughed, and sat. He felt her eyes on him as he inspected the contents of several cloth-covered bowls and platters, the apple barrel, the cheese chest, and the bread and pastry cupboards. He piled his selections on a platter, then lifted a pitcher and filled two large mugs with cervesia.

  Gwen shook her head, a smile playing about her lips. “Do ye always eat so much in the middle of the night? Even after all ye ate at supper? There will be nothing left for breakfast.”

  He pretended offense. “Would you have me starve?” A mischievous voice in his head prompted him to lean across the table and pitch his voice low. “After all, I have to keep up my strength if I’m to be of any use to you.”

  A becoming blush stained her cheeks, but to his surprise, she didn’t back away from his teasing. “I have no doubt your … strength … is equal to any task.”

  Gods. Was she flirting with him? He set down his mug with a thump. “Don’t you?”

  “Nay.” Her teasing demeanor ebbed far too quickly. “I sensed your strength that night,” she said quietly. “When ye carried me from the cave.”

  He didn’t know if her oblique reminder of the wolf he’d encountered in that cave was meant to entice him or warn him away. Studying her, he thought perhaps she didn’t know, either.

  The silence between them stretched into awkwardness. He reached for a plate piled high with fried dough dipped in honey.

  “Try one,” he said, sliding the platter toward her. “These are my favorite.”

  “Oh, nay. I couldn’t. I’m not hungry.”

  Marcus frowned at her. “I can’t imagine why not. You’re as slender as a sapling and you ate hardly anything yesterday. You probably had even less during your journey here. It won’t do you any good to get sick.” He snagged one of the pastries between his thumb and forefinger and held it out to her.

  She took it with a sigh. “I suppose you are right.”

  “I often am. It’s a talent of mine.”

  That earned him a laugh. “Arrogant man.”

  Leaning forward, she bit into the pastry while he still held it, her lips closing hardly a hairsbreadth from his fingers. Drawing back, she chewed slowly and swallowed. “ ’Tis delicious.”

  Marcus’s gaze clung to a drop of honey shining at the corner of her mouth. When the tip of her tongue darted out to catch it, he nearly groaned out loud. Hades. Perhaps he should have let her go back to her bed—alone.

  He ate the other half of her pastry—a simple act that seemed suddenly steeped in intimacy. A question hammered in his mind. He formed a casual version of it on his lips.

  “Did you really tell no one in Avalon that you meant to come to Isca?”

  She blinked. “I told ye I did not.”

  “No one at all? Not even … your betrothed?”

  Her jaw dropped. “But—I am not betrothed!”

  He met her gaze frankly. “Rhys told me you were.”

  “My brother should not have said such a thing. ’Tis not true. No matter how much he and Cyric may want it.”

  Marcus’s chest expanded as his lungs filled. “You don’t like the man your grandfather has picked for you?”

  “Oh, I like Trevor well enough. He is a fine man. Everyone on Avalon holds him in high esteem. He’s broad and strong, but also kind and respectful.” She grimaced. “And quiet. ’Tis as if the man must pay in silver for each word he utters.”

  Marcus reached for an apple. “He sounds boring.”

  Gwen sighed. “The other women adore him.”

  “But you do not?”

  She shrugged. Marcus’s mood lightened rapidly as he bit into his apple. He made short work of the fruit, tossed the core in the rubbish bin, and applied himself to the bread and cheese, handing thick slices of both to Gwen. “Eat this. All of it.”

  She did, and washed down her meal with a long draught of cervesia. Meanwhile, Marcus swallowed seven honey confections.

  “Ye must have truly been working hard,” Gwen said, a smile in her voice.

  “I was. I’ve done two days’ worth of work in half a night. There’s a commission—a set of daggers—I needed to complete before I start on your sword.”

  “And did ye finish?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow I’ll deliver them and use the money I get to purchase more ore. When I return, we’ll discuss the design.”

  He drained his mug. He was surprised to find he was actually looking forward to the challenge of forging a magic sword. Especially if Gwen’s Light could help him smelt chalybs …

  “Do you know much about ironworking?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Very little. We do not have an iron forge on Avalon. It would be difficult to get enough fuel, even if we had a smith, which we do not. I work only in silver, and small quantities at that.” She slipped a finger past the neckline of her tunic and drew out a chain that held a silver pendant. “Just enough for this.”

  He studied the Druid pendant. “It’s like the one you made for Breena.”

  “I craft a pendant for every woman Rhys brings to Avalon.”

  “And the men receive tattoos of the same symbol?”

  “Aye.”

  He examined her pendant more closely. “You couldn’t have made this one. It’s far too old.”

  She dropped the charm back inside her tunic. “Ye have a good eye, Marcus. This pendant is the pattern for the others. My great-grandmother crafted it. She was one of the twin Daughters of the Lady. Has Rhys told ye the story?”

  “A little. The Lady came from the East a century ago, carrying the grail Owein and Clara searched for last year. It belonged to a powerful carpenter prophet.”

  “That’s right. Her ship ran aground on Avalon in the days before the Romans drove the Druids from the sacred isle. She was heavy with child, and soon after gave birth to twin Daughters. One became my great-grandmother, the other, Clara’s.”

  “And now you both are expected to bear more Daughters, to continue the Lady’s line.”

  “That’s right. The Lady’s magic passes to her female descendants. That’s why Cyric is so anxious
that I wed. Truly, I was very happy when Clara’s ancestry was discovered and she came to Avalon. It enabled me to avoid my own handfasting.” She grimaced. “For a while longer, at least.”

  “You don’t wish to marry at all?”

  “ ’Tis not that.” She worried her lower lip with her teeth. Marcus’s eye was drawn to the movement. “I know ’tis my duty to join my magic with that of another Druid and bear a Daughter. Trevor is as fine a man as any. He is quite eager to wed me.”

  Marcus could well imagine he was. But he obviously didn’t deserve Gwen. If he did, Gwen would not be here in Isca, conversing with another man in the dead of the night.

  “Why haven’t you accepted him? Why did Rhys tell me you had?”

  “I cannot say what is in my brother’s mind, but as for me … Trevor does not know of the wolf. I cannot marry him with such a secret between us. But I am not ready to tell him.” She crushed her last bit of bread into crumbs. “I’m not sure I ever will be ready, but the time will come when I must.”

  “Well,” Marcus said carefully, pushing the plate containing the last honey pastry in her direction. “At least you don’t have to think about him while you’re here.”

  Gwen’s startled eyes met his. A moment later, a reluctant smile curved her lips. She reached for the last sweet. “I suppose I do not.”

  Chapter Six

  Gwen fell asleep just before dawn, with Marcus’s words wrapped around her like a blanket. You don’t have to think of him while you’re here. Not of Trevor, nor of her future as his wife. Nor of the Elders’ anger, nor Cyric’s decline. Nor Rhys’s inexplicable deception. For a short time, while she lived with Marcus and his family, she could forget all that turmoil. She would think only of the Lady’s sword, and the man who would forge it.

  It was almost noon when she awakened from the deepest sleep she’d enjoyed since her captivity. She hastened to the hearth room, where she found Breena and Rhiannon sitting at the table. Breena worked the pestle of a small stone mortar, grinding a pungent root, while Rhiannon mixed dried herbs from several piles, tying them into small squares of linen.

  They greeted Gwen as she entered. The great mastiff lying by the hearth was less amenable to her presence. Its lips drew back in a snarl. When Gwen met its gaze calmly, it heaved to its feet and slunk out the door, head low and tail tucked between its hind legs. Breena’s puzzled frown followed the animal. “That’s odd. Titan is generally quite friendly.”

  Gwen shrugged, not surprised at all. As a rule, few animals other than Ardra and Hefin tolerated her presence. She studied Breena’s face. The lass seemed much recovered from her ordeal of the night before, in the way that only the very young could manage. Her eyes were calm, and her cheeks had regained their color. Rhiannon, by contrast, looked weary.

  “ ’Tis good to see ye looking so well,” Gwen told Breena.

  “I have no headache, or fatigue, as I usually do after a vision. I have your magic to thank for that, I think.” She paused. “Father told me you agreed to teach me spells to take away the pain.”

  “Aye. Marcus asked me yesterday to give ye lessons.”

  “It was Marcus’s idea? I can hardly believe it. He hates magic.”

  “He loves ye,” Rhiannon chided. “It distresses him to see ye suffer. And Gwen will be teaching ye the Light, after all. Not Deep Magic.”

  Gwen inspected the contents of Breena’s mortar, avoiding Rhiannon’s gaze. The lass was rhythmically reducing a lumpy root to a dull gray powder. The strong, pungent odor was unfamiliar. “What herb is this?”

  “Valerian,” Breena replied. “It aids in sleep. Though in my case, it’s not effective.”

  “If the Great Mother wishes to send ye a message, no herb will prevent it,” Gwen agreed. “How often are ye visited by visions?”

  “There’s no pattern to it. I can go months without one, then suddenly I’ll be visited every night.” A shadow passed over her expression. “That’s how it’s been for the past fortnight. Each night has been worse than the one before.”

  “Tell me a little of what ye See.”

  Breena met Gwen’s gaze briefly, a shadow crossing her blue eyes. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

  “Please. If I am to help …”

  Breena’s knuckles went white as her grip on the pestle tightened. “In the past—even as a small child—I’d see flashes of the future, or sometimes people and things that were lost. The visions would be repeated over and over, until the event I saw came pass, or whatever was lost came to be found. These new visions are different. I can hear nothing. I See very little. Only the figure of a woman, veiled with silver shadows.”

  Silver. The same color Gwen had seen in Breena’s aura.

  Breena set the pestle on the table. “There’s nothing distinct at all, and yet I know …”

  “What?” Gwen asked gently, exchanging a glance with Rhiannon. The older woman’s eyes were very grave.

  “It’s not what I See that’s upsetting. It’s what I feel. The woman … I’m linked to her emotions. Someone is enraged with her. Beating her, choking her … I feel her terror, her helplessness. Somehow I know I’m the only person who can help this woman, but … how can I? I cannot move. I can’t get to her.”

  Gwen absorbed Breena’s words, reflecting on them for several long moments. “I cannot tell ye what the vision means. Ye must discover that on your own. But I can tell ye this: the Great Mother would not send ye a vision without guiding ye to its meaning. Once ye learn to banish the pain, perhaps ye may be able to find the vision’s meaning.”

  “I hope so.” Breena picked up a small silver spoon.

  With a trembling hand, she scooped the powdered valerian root from the mortar into an earthenware jar. Gray dust spilled down the sides of the container.

  Rhiannon spoke. “I thank the Great Mother for sending ye to us, Gwen. Surely your arrival here when Breena is in need of your skills was not by chance.”

  Gwen was grateful for the quiet conviction in Rhiannon’s voice. It did much to ease her conscience. If the Great Mother had guided her steps to Isca, surely leaving Avalon had been the right decision.

  Rhiannon layered her bundles of herbs in a long, low basket. “Lucius will soon return from observing the planting of the north field. And Aiden will be finishing his morning walk. They’ll both be wanting the noon meal.”

  “Will Marcus be eating with us as well?” Breena asked. “I haven’t seen him yet today.”

  “Marcus went into town,” Rhiannon told her. “He doesna expect to return before supper.” Depositing the last bundle in her basket, she rose. “I will see how Alma’s meal is progressing.”

  Breena sprang to her feet and urged her mother back to her seat. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. You were up half the night with me, and you’ve already done far too much this morning. Sit and rest while I make you another draught of raspberry leaves and honey.”

  Gwen rose. “I’ll see to the meal.”

  Breena shot her a grateful glance. “Thank you. The kitchen is at the end of the wing.”

  Gwen didn’t tell Breena she already knew well enough where the kitchen was. Once there, she found Alma and two helpers, a stout old Celt woman called Mab and a slight, pretty Roman girl named Celia, laying out the noon meal on two large trays. Gwen had never seen such a variety of food in her life. Meals on Avalon consisted most often of barley stew flavored with venison or fish and whatever wild greens or fruits Avalon’s women gathered. Hard barley bannocks served as both bread and spoon. Only rarely did she have wheat bread, and then only dense brown loaves—never light, herbed bread that gave off such a heady aroma that it caused her mouth to water.

  Alma’s meal was a dizzying medley of texture and color. Gwen did not even know what most of the food was. The stout, smiling cook was more than happy to enlighten her.

  “Coddled eggs to start,” Alma declared. “Followed by a plate of oysters and mussels cooked in spiced wine—Master Lucius is especially fond of that dish.
For the main course, a hare stuffed with chestnuts and thyme; sliced veal in a sauce made with raisins, honey, and vinegar. Leeks and asparagus. For dessert, soft cheese and fresh forest berries, and a peppered sweetcake.”

  Gwen could only shake her head in wonder. “It all looks delicious. May I carry one of the trays for ye?”

  “Ah, no need, child. Has the master arrived yet?”

  “Rhiannon expects Lucius any moment.”

  “Good. He hates when his dinner grows cold. Celia, tend to the drink.”

  The slight lass, who could not have seen more than eight summers, hefted a pitcher of cervesia and another filled with wine onto a tray. When Gwen offered to carry one of the pitchers for her, she shook her head with a smile. “I’m strong enough,” she said proudly.

  “Go back to the table,” Alma admonished Gwen. “There’s no work for a guest here.”

  Sensing it would be an insult to the cook to insist, Gwen retreated. Being a guest in a Roman household, even one as informal as the Aquilas’s, took some getting used to. On Avalon, there was always more work to be done than there were hands to do it.

  Returning to the hearth room, she found Lucius and Aiden already seated with Rhiannon and Breena. Gwen slipped into an empty chair as the kitchen women entered with the meal. The food had barely been served when Gwen heard the faint tang of the gate bell.

  Breena grinned. “That will be Lavina. She has uncanny knowledge of our meal hours.”

  Lucius rose. “I’ll go see.”

  When her father had gone, Breena turned to Aiden, her eyes dancing. “Adenarius says Lavina has brought Marcus a dessert.”

  “Ah, lass,” Aiden responded with a croaking laugh. “Surely ye doan’ think I’m fool enough to take such a losing wager. The woman never arrives without a sweet for your brother.”

  Rhiannon smothered a smile. “Lay an extra plate on the table, Breena. Did ye invite Lavina?”

  Breena rose and took a plate from the cupboard. “I did, when she brought a pudding a few days ago. And I am vexed that Marcus isn’t here to greet her. Lavina would make a lovely sister.”