Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  Gwen nearly spit out a mouthful of cervesia. “Marcus means to marry?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t mean to,” Breena told her. Aiden chortled and sipped his beer. “But he can hardly avoid it. My brother is handsome, strong, uncommonly good-natured, and well past the age when most men marry.”

  “He is only five-and-twenty,” Gwen protested.

  “He’ll fall soon—it’s inevitable. Lavina isn’t his only admirer, but I much prefer her to Claudia or Portia.”

  “What of Marcus? Whom does he prefer?” Gwen found herself asking, though she really did not wish to know.

  Rhiannon sighed. “None of them, though they are all fine lasses. Marcus was smitten with Clara for such a long time—since she married Owein, no other woman has held his interest.”

  “Except the kind of woman a man doesn’t bring home to his family,” Breena interjected darkly. “At least whenever Rhys is here. The two of them spent more time at that brothel—”

  Aiden coughed loudly.

  “Breena.” Rhiannon’s tone was sharp. “Mind your tongue.”

  “Yes, Mother,” she muttered. Then, under her breath, “It’s only the truth.”

  Gwen took a deliberate sip of cervesia. It did nothing to calm her churning stomach. She knew what a brothel was—Dera, who had come to Avalon from the northern city of Eburacum, had told her of houses where men paid to couple with women. But it had never occurred to Gwen that her staid and cautious brother frequented such places.

  It should not bother her. She’d never assumed Rhys was chaste, and she hardly expected Marcus to be celibate. They were men, after all. That rationalization, unfortunately, did little to ease the sudden tightness in her chest when she thought of Marcus with another woman.

  She was even more discomfited when Lucius returned with Lavina. She was lovely—young, and dark and lush in the way of Roman women. Small and curvaceous, she had black hair, generous breasts, and lips the color of wine. Gwen felt suddenly scrawny and pale. Last night, Marcus had mentioned more than once how thin Gwen was—had he been comparing her to Lavina? She eyed the covered basket that swung on Lavina’s shapely arm. The anticipated sweet, no doubt.

  It soon became clear that Lavina’s family had been friendly with the Aquilas since Lavina’s childhood. Rhiannon asked after Lavina’s young son. Gwen gathered the woman was a widow from a neighboring farm. She could not be more than twenty—her marriage must have been over soon after it had begun. For Lavina’s benefit, and Lucius’s, the conversation switched from Celtic to Latin. Gwen’s head soon ached with the effort of translating.

  Lavina was disappointed to find Marcus away from home, but she accepted a place at the table between Rhiannon and Gwen. Her basket contained the same honey-dipped pastries Marcus had declared his favorite the night before. Apparently, Lavina was well versed in Marcus’s likes and dislikes.

  She did not seem to know what to make of Gwen, whom Rhiannon introduced as a visiting cousin. Gwen did not elaborate. Lavina’s eyes were inquisitive; she darted glances in Gwen’s direction all through the meal. At last, her curiosity could not be contained. She addressed Gwen directly. “From what town do you come?”

  The question caught Gwen off guard. “Dumnovaria,” she blurted. It was the first Roman town that came to mind.

  “Indeed! Why, I have an uncle who lives in Dumnovaria. Felix Cassius. Do you know him?”

  “I’m sorry, I do not.”

  “But you must! It’s such a small settlement, and my uncle is the town’s only textile merchant. You must know his name, at least. It’s not possible that you—”

  “Lavina,” a male voice said. “How good to see you.”

  Lavina looked up, her expression brightening with pleasure, the mystery of Gwen’s home forgotten as swiftly as yesterday’s weather. “Marcus! Rhiannon did not expect you.”

  “Nonetheless, I am here.” Marcus sent Gwen a swift glance as he strode to the table.

  Gwen could not take her eyes from him even after he looked away. The room seemed smaller for his presence, somehow. And warmer. He did not look like a man who had worked through the night without sleeping. His short, curly hair was tousled, and his dark eyes sparkled with health and recent exertion. He must have ridden into town, for he smelled pleasantly of horse and leather.

  Rhiannon smiled as her stepson strode to the table and greeted her with a touch on the shoulder and a kiss on the cheek. “We would have waited before eating had we known ye would be home for dinner,” she said.

  “Don’t trouble yourself about it.” Marcus turned to clasp Lavina’s outstretched hand. He slid into the empty seat beside her without looking again at Gwen. “My business in town concluded earlier than I expected. I trust there’s still some food left?”

  “Of course,” Rhiannon said.

  Lavina smiled sweetly and laid a proprietary hand on his arm. “And I brought dessert—honeyed pastries. Your favorite.”

  Marcus looked discomfited, but he managed a charming smile. “Er … how nice.”

  Breena smothered a laugh with her hand. Rhiannon shot her daughter a reproachful look. Gwen looked down at her food as Lavina fussed over filling Marcus’s plate.

  She was no longer hungry.

  “Dumnovaria?” Marcus asked Gwen later, after Lavina’s horse-drawn cart had rattled out the front gates. Gwen had never been so happy to see a woman go. Marcus had eaten fully half of her honeyed pastries. And he had clearly enjoyed every one.

  It was irrational, Gwen knew, but his pleasure made her feel inadequate. She hated cooking. If she were to attempt to make a honeyed pastry, no doubt it would taste like a honeyed lump of charcoal.

  “Her question surprised me. Dumnovaria was the first town that came to mind.” They stood in the center of the herb garden, where Marcus had sought her out after seeing Lavina to her cart. “Rhys was in Dumnovaria last autumn,” she added defensively.

  “Dumnovaria is little more than a cattle track. You might have said Londinium. That city is huge, and far away. Lavina’s never been there.”

  “Ye would know, wouldn’t ye?” She did not care for the notion that Marcus had intimate knowledge of Lavina’s comings and goings.

  He looked at her, clearly baffled. “Why wouldn’t I? I’ve known Lavina since she was eight years old and I was Breena’s age. Her husband was one of my best friends. He died of a fever two years ago.”

  “Oh!” Gwen felt suddenly very mean-spirited. “Ye must have been saddened by his death.”

  Marcus crossed his arms, still eyeing her. “I was.”

  She made a show of examining some yellow mustard flowers. “ ’Twould be fitting, then, if ye married Lavina.”

  “Jupiter. That’s Breena’s wish, not mine. I’m no more eager to marry than you are. Lavina’s beginning to lose patience with me already. Soon she’ll turn her efforts to a more likely prospect.”

  “I don’t know why ye would not want to wed her,” Gwen said perversely. “She’s a lovely woman. Very … shapely.”

  “Yes, she’s shapely enough, but she chatters incessantly.”

  Gwen made a dismissive gesture. “All women chatter.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Aye, well, I am different from most women.”

  Marcus laughed. “That’s true enough. Most women are not prickly, wild-born Druidesses.”

  Something in his tone raised her ire. “I am not prickly. Nor am I wild-born, much to my regret. I was born right here, in Isca Silurum.”

  Marcus’s brows shot upward. “You were? You and Rhys both?”

  She sent him a look of amused disdain. “Of course, both of us. We are twins, after all.”

  Marcus gave her a sheepish grin. “Right. I’m just … surprised.” He shook his head. “No, more like astounded. Rhys never told me he was born in Isca.”

  She moved down the row of herbs. “My brother can be very secretive, I am learning.”

  “How old were you when you left Isca?”

  “We had seven y
ears, I think, no more, when Cyric took us to reclaim our heritage.”

  “The three of you returned to Avalon alone?”

  “Nay, we traveled with Mared—she is Cyric’s cousin-by-marriage. Padrig, my mother’s brother, and his wife, also came with us.” She paused. “Their daughter, Blodwen, had nine years.”

  Marcus’s tone sharpened. “Blodwen is the cousin who imprisoned you with Deep Magic.”

  Gwen swallowed hard. It was difficult to think of those hopeless days, not least because her memories of that time were not human ones. They belonged to the wolf. She felt Marcus’s hand on her arm, and realized she had turned away from him.

  “It still distresses you.”

  She looked up into dark eyes tinged with pity. Unreasonably, his sympathy prompted a hot rush of dark emotion. The wolf, sensing her agitation, stirred. Its hackles rose. Her mind’s human focus slipped.

  Marcus’s gaze narrowed. “Gwen? What is it? Are you all right?” His fingers tightened on her arm.

  The wolf viewed his touch as a threat. The beast tensed. Gwen squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a steadying breath. One heartbeat passed, then two, three, as she summoned Words of Light. The beast relaxed, put its head on its paws, and returned to its sleep.

  Thank the Great Mother.

  When she opened her eyes, she found Marcus staring at her with a strange expression. Did he suspect how weak she was? How much the wolf controlled her? The thought made her ill.

  “I … I do not like to think about that time.”

  “Of course.” His voice was soothing.

  His touch on her arm turned into a caress. She felt ashamed, deceiving him this way. But she didn’t know what else to do. She could hardly tell him how close the wolf was to the surface of her emotions.

  After a moment, he asked, “Was Cyric also born in Isca?”

  Gwen shook her head. “My grandparents were born on Avalon. My grandmother’s mother, as ye know, was one of the twin Daughters of the Lady. My grandparents were babes when their parents fled the sacred isle.”

  Marcus nodded. “It would have been soon after Queen Boudicca’s revolt. Governor Paulinus was convinced Druids had stirred rebellion all over Britannia. Druidry was outlawed; Druid learning centers were ordered destroyed.”

  “Many Druids were killed when the Roman army marched on Avalon. But not all. Some, like my grandparents, escaped.”

  Marcus was silent for a moment. “So it was Cyric’s idea, years later, to return to the sacred isle?”

  “Aye. By then my grandmother had been dead many years. When my mother—” She stopped suddenly, swallowing her words. She hadn’t meant to take the story so far.

  But Marcus, of course, would not let it be. “What of your mother? And your father? Rhys rarely speaks of them.”

  “They died before we left Isca. First my father, then my mother. Mama was a Daughter of the Lady and Cyric’s only child. He took her loss hard.”

  “How did they die? Illness?”

  “Nay. They were murdered.” Once again, she sensed he was waiting for her to say more. Strangely, she found herself wanting to confide in him. “A soldier killed them.”

  “What happened?”

  “I hardly know. Rhys and I—we were so young. Our memories of that time are clouded. Cyric never speaks of it, nor do Mared and Padrig. They say only that the Lady’s carpenter prophet teaches us to forgive our enemies.”

  “I would not forgive such an offense,” Marcus said grimly.

  “Sometimes I think Cyric has not truly forgiven, either. Certainly he still grieves. I think … I think that is the reason he has kept me close to him on Avalon. Mared tells me I’m the very image of my mother.” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “Sometimes …”

  “Sometimes, what?” Marcus prompted gently.

  She did not answer until she was sure she could do so without tears. “Sometimes, I wonder if my grandfather has ever truly seen me. Or if I have always been the ghost of the daughter he lost.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was dusk before Cyric’s rantings quieted completely, after Mared managed to force a calming draught down his throat. Rhys left the healer sitting by his grandfather’s pallet. He was exhausted by his search for Gwen’s trail, and the spell she’d erected to block his mental calls was still in place. He wanted only a quiet place where he could give himself over to oblivion for a few hours.

  Unfortunately, it was not to be. When he emerged from Cyric’s hut, the whole of Avalon’s population was gathered in the village common. As they caught sight of him, their hushed conversation died. The youngest children hid behind the skirts of the women.

  “Cyric rests peacefully,” he told them. “Mared says he will sleep till dawn.”

  Padrig stood alone in the doorway of his roundhouse, leaning on his staff. “And the enchantment?”

  Rhys looked at his uncle’s sour, lined face. Never cheerful or hearty, even in youth, Padrig had grown ill-tempered and haggard since the disgrace of his daughter. Blodwen’s power had permanently shattered when the Deep Magic spell she’d called against Avalon had turned against her. Afterward, she’d been banished from Avalon. In his shame, Padrig had also spoken of leaving. Cyric had begged him to stay.

  Rhys wondered whether it might have been better if Padrig had been allowed to go. The old Druid had turned bitter. Rhys could discern little of the Light in his uncle’s countenance.

  “The enchantment, if indeed Cyric’s affliction was an enchantment, is gone,” Rhys told him.

  “An enchantment it was. A Dark one.” Padrig shook his staff. “If your sister were here, as she should be, the sorcerer’s spell would not have taken root.”

  “If Gwen is gone, ’tis for a good reason.”

  “What reason could there be to leave Avalon, especially when Cyric forbade it?”

  Rhys strangled his anger and summoned a tone of respect. “When Gwen returns, she will explain.”

  “If she returns. And if she does not, will ye do your duty and take the role of Guardian? It should be yours by right.”

  Rhys squared his shoulders. “There will be no need for me to hold the mist,” he lied. “Gwen will return soon.”

  The old man made a derisive sound. Jabbing his staff into the dirt, he turned and stalked into his hut.

  Rhys crossed the yard to Owein and Trevor, who had been watching the exchange. Clara sat nearby, warming herself before a small fire. Her belly was enormous—Rhys could hardly believe the babe hadn’t yet emerged. He had limited experience with such things, but even his untrained eye could tell Clara’s time would not be long in coming.

  “Dinna mind Padrig,” Owein said, clapping a hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “The old man looks for Light, but sees only Darkness.”

  “I fear this time he is right. The visions Cyric endured were not of the Light.”

  Clara cradled her belly. “Strabo has pierced the mist with his Dark spells? How can that be? Cyric’s Light is strong.”

  “My grandfather’s health fails.”

  “Many Druids are most powerful when they are closest to death,” Owein said.

  There was truth to Owein’s words, and it disturbed Rhys greatly. Cyric’s mists should not be thinning—if anything, his dying in the Light would strengthen Avalon’s protection. But it did not seem to be so. If not for Rhys’s magic, Avalon would have already been exposed.

  “The Roman is strong with Outland magic,” Trevor said.

  “Our Druid Light is also strong,” Owein argued. “It should not—” He halted as Clara went stiff, stifling a gasp.

  Owein’s face paled, making his red hair and beard seem even more vivid. He crouched at his wife’s side and laid a steadying hand on her shoulder. “What is it, love? Is the babe coming?”

  Clara’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. Her hand remained on her stomach. “No, I don’t think so. Not yet. There is no pain, only a tightening. Mared says my womb is preparing, but it will be some days yet before the birthing be
gins.”

  “Ye must rest. Do ye wish for me to lie with ye and rub your back? Ye look worn.”

  Clara looked at Rhys. “If you can spare my husband for a short while …”

  “Go,” Rhys told her. “Take care of the babe.”

  Owein helped his wife to her feet. Together, they disappeared into their small round hut, a dwelling that was a far cry from the Roman luxury Clara had known in Isca. But she had never, to Rhys’s knowledge, voiced a complaint. A Daughter of the Lady, Clara was strong in fortitude as well as magic.

  Trevor’s rough northern burr claimed Rhys’s attention. “Ye must take on the role of Guardian before Cyric weakens further.”

  “That time has already passed.” Rhys met Trevor’s gaze. “I’ve been holding the mist alone since the day after Gwen disappeared.”

  Trevor’s expression did not change, except for a slight widening of his eyes. “Cyric’s magic is spent?”

  “Not spent. More like … frozen.” Rhys was silent a moment. “Overwhelmed by Darkness and Deep Magic.”

  Gwen could tell Marcus wanted to know more about her childhood. She didn’t want to speak of it—the memories were too painful. It was with some relief that she turned to greet Breena, who was walking toward them.

  “Mother has ordered a bath for us,” she told Gwen. “The water is already heating. She said it would do us both good.”

  Beside her, Gwen felt Marcus tense. “A bath? Now?” His voice was suddenly hoarse.

  Breena frowned at him. “Yes. The water has been warming for hours. Gwen’s had a long journey from Avalon, and after last night, I …” she trailed off. “Is that a problem, Marcus?”

  Gwen was amazed to note Marcus’s cheeks had gone pink. He darted her a glance, then, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, his gaze swept her from head to toe. Abruptly, she understood. He was imagining her unclothed.

  Her own cheeks heated.

  “No problem,” he muttered. “I’ll be in the smithy. Meet me there, Gwen, when you’re … when you’re ready to discuss your sword’s design.” Turning, he stomped off through the garden, his boots barely missing a clump of pennyroyal.