Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  The raft bumped Avalon’s shore. Rhys’s muscles unwound. They tightened again almost immediately when he spotted Owein on the dock. His expression was grim.

  “ ’Tis Cyric,” the red-haired northerner said. “His dreams have darkened. He wanders, sobbing a woman’s name. Tamar.”

  Rhys’s chest tightened painfully. “My mother.”

  “She didna die a kind death, did she?”

  “Nay.” Rhys’s heart shrank from the memory. “She did not.”

  Gwen’s days settled into a steady rhythm, much like the melody of Marcus’s hammer on the newly smelted chalybs. She never tired of gazing upon the bright iron, nor of watching Marcus’s arms flex as he heated and worked the misshapen blooms into one mass of shining metal. When she cast her senses, a nimbus of white light appeared around it. Within the Light, there was a flicker of blue.

  Deep Magic, pure and steady, encased in Light. The blade was truly awesome in its power. Marcus had taken to calling it Exchalybur—“cutting bright iron.” Gwen only hoped her magic was equal to the task of wielding such a weapon, and that Rhys could hold off Strabo until it was ready.

  While Marcus worked steadily, hammering and folding the metal, Gwen crafted intricate spells she hoped would ensure that the Deep Magic stayed subject to the Light. She sent the magic through Marcus into the bright iron. Each day, she grew more hopeful that she would reach her goal.

  But there was an unexpected quality to Gwen’s collaboration with Marcus—each spell she set fanned the heat smoldering between them. Her instinct was to shy away from the intimacy, because she was not so sure the wolf had been cowed completely. Marcus, however, would not allow it.

  Each day he made love to her—most days, more than once. He pleasured her in his narrow bed, or while she sat with legs spread on his worktable, or with her spine pressed against the warm walls of the smithy. He took her hand and led her through the north gates and into the woods, to lie with her in the place where she had first touched him intimately. As he moved deep inside her, Gwen gazed up at the sky and wished her life, her duty, belonged to another woman. But it did not. It was hers alone, and she could not abandon it. She could only savor each moment with Marcus, hoarding them like gems in her heart.

  If Gwen’s days were wreathed with bittersweet love, her nights contained only worry. Rhys still called, each time more desperately. Strabo’s spells affected Cyric deeply, and Rhys was not sure he could hold the illusion on the Druid mines and grain field as well as the mist around the sacred isle. “Come home,” he called. “Soon,” she wanted to tell him. But she kept her silence.

  Rhys’s calls were not the only trouble of the night. Despite Gwen’s most fervent efforts, the ill effects of Breena’s visions did not lessen. Though Breena had learned the Words of the protective spell perfectly, the Light the lass called did not lessen her pain, nor her terror. Over and over, Gwen’s Light was needed to draw Breena out of her vision before she suffocated. What would happen when the sword was completed? If Breena did not travel to Avalon with Gwen, she would be completely at the mercy of her visions. But the thought of putting Marcus’s sister in the way of Strabo’s Deep Magic was equally chilling.

  And so Gwen made the decision she’d been dreading.

  She sought out Breena—she found her in the hearth room, sitting before Rhiannon’s loom, passing the shuttle listlessly through the warp of a half-finished blanket. The stones that weighted the threads swayed and clacked. The last few lines of the weave were lumpy and uneven, and no wonder. Gwen doubted the lass managed even two hours of sleep each night.

  Breena grimaced as Gwen approached. She sent the shuttle back along the path it had just taken, undoing the weft thread. She wound the unraveled wool back in place on the shuttle with a sigh. “I’m horrible at weaving, even on a good day.”

  “The design is pleasant,” Gwen said.

  “That’s because it’s Mother’s. I’m no artist, not like Marcus.”

  “The Great Mother does not give everyone the same talents.”

  “That is true, of course, but it would have been nice to have been born with only two thumbs, rather than ten.”

  Gwen smiled. “Surely it’s not that bad.”

  “Oh, it is. I have no talent for any craft. I dislike working with my hands.” She fingered the upper half of the blanket, where Rhiannon’s weave was tight and even. “I shouldn’t touch Mother’s work, but … I need something to occupy my days, or I’ll go mad with worry about the nights.”

  “The spell I taught ye does not help at all.”

  “Perhaps I didn’t learn it correctly.”

  “Nay, ye say the Words perfectly. The magic of the vision interferes with your Light.” Gwen paused. “The aura of silver that surrounds ye—”

  “I cannot break through it, no matter what I try. I know I must—the woman in my vision needs me, but …” She rose abruptly, a sound of frustration in her throat. “I am blind and deaf, and cannot help her! Is there nothing else I can do?”

  “There is another spell I might teach ye. More powerful than the first.” She drew a breath. “Deep Magic.”

  Breena’s eyes widened. “Is that permitted?”

  “Nay,” Gwen said truthfully. “But I do not know what else to do. Ye cannot go on as ye have been, especially after I leave Isca. And what good is the Great Mother’s message if ye cannot understand it?”

  “True enough,” Breena replied shakily. Her chin came up, and her slender shoulders squared. “If you think this spell will help, I am willing to learn it.”

  “Then we will begin immediately. But …” Gwen glanced at the loom. “Not here, I think. Your mind needs to be as untroubled as possible. Is there a place where ye feel more at ease? A personal sanctuary?”

  “You mean like Marcus’s clearing in the woods?”

  Gwen blushed, thinking of what she and Marcus had done in that sanctuary just that morning. “Aye. Like that. Do ye have your own place in the woods, perhaps?”

  Breena took Gwen’s arm. “No, not in the woods. My sanctuary is here, in the house. It is Father’s library. I’ll take you there now—Father has gone to town, so no one is likely to bother us.”

  The library was indeed empty. “Marcus never comes here,” Breena explained. “And no one else on the farm is able to read.”

  Gwen regarded the room with amazement. She’d never seen anything like it—this dark, slightly musty space was so far removed from her life on Avalon as to belong to a different world entirely. If this were Breena’s sanctuary, it was no wonder Marcus believed his sister would not be happy on Avalon.

  How odd Rhys had never mentioned Breena’s intense love for books and learning. But then, she reflected, Rhys was reticent on most things having to do with Breena.

  The room was almost oppressively neat. No wonder Marcus did not come here! The space was high, long, and narrow. Six square windows punctuated the wall just below the coffered ceiling, providing diffuse illumination. Each wall was covered with shelves taller than Gwen could reach. The wooden planks all but groaned under the weight of their treasures. A polished oak table flanked with cross-legged chairs occupied the center of the room. Wax tablets, styluses, parchment, pens, inkwells, and other paraphernalia marched neatly down its center. Three hanging sconces, each holding four oil lamps, hovered over the table ready to provide increased illumination.

  “We have over two hundred scrolls,” Breena announced proudly. “Each is labeled with a brass tag. We also have a good number of codices, which are not so old as the scrolls.” Breena lifted a sheath of square-cut leafs, bound along one edge, and demonstrated turning the pages. “Parchment is sturdier than papyrus,” she explained, “and reading pages bound this way is much less trouble than unrolling a scroll.” She beamed at Gwen. “Is it not a wonderful invention?”

  “Aye, certainly,” Gwen murmured politely.

  Breena replaced the codex and went to close the door that led to the entrance gallery. Gwen would have preferred to leav
e it open; the library shelving seemed to loom inward, giving her a feeling of being pressed in upon. The slight odor of mold turned her stomach. She’d always preferred open spaces to closed ones, even more so after her imprisonment. She chafed her cold hands, reminding herself that it was not her feelings about the library that mattered, but Breena’s.

  “Father had most of these scrolls sent from Rome when he sold his properties there.” Breena lifted a scroll and reverently unrolled it. “There are texts in both Latin and Greek, of course.”

  Gwen squinted at the incomprehensible Roman runes. Her own language did not have a written form. Her people passed on knowledge in stories and songs. “Ye can read them all?”

  “Yes. Father taught me. We’ve spent hours upon hours here together. I love it. Mathematics is my favorite subject, but I also like philosophy and medicine, and the great epics of Homer.” She nodded to the scroll she’d opened. “This is a text by Titus Livius. It’s a history of Rome.”

  “I’m afraid the runes mean nothing to me. I cannot read Latin.”

  “How did you come to speak it at all?” Breena asked as she carefully rerolled the scroll.

  “Cyric taught Rhys. Rhys and I did not understand why our grandfather did not teach me as well—we didn’t know at the time that Cyric meant for Rhys to leave Avalon. But in those days, Rhys and I shared everything. He would receive his lesson, then come and teach me everything he learned.”

  At the mention of Rhys, Breena’s eyes lit up. “But Rhys can read and write Latin. Why did he not teach you?”

  “He learned those skills after he left Avalon. We were not … often together after that.”

  “I can teach you, if you’d like.”

  Gwen smiled faintly. “I thank ye, but I will not be here long enough to learn.”

  “I will miss you when you’re gone.”

  Gwen watched as Breena replaced the scroll on the shelf with the sort of care most women reserved for a newborn babe. Her love for the scrolls was clear. Marcus was right. It was difficult to imagine Breena in a primitive Celt settlement.

  Breena motioned to the sconces above the table. “Shall I light the lamps for our lesson?”

  “Nay. There will be no need.”

  She motioned for Breena to take one of the chairs flanking the table. “The Deep Magic spell I will teach ye now is very powerful.”

  “And dangerous.”

  Gwen exhaled. “Aye. Dangerous. Deep Magic is the power of the gods. It can turn against any human who dares to call it. And it always demands a price—often in the form of weakness after the spell has abated. Though not always. Sometimes the gods do not demand their payment right away.”

  “Is there no other way to control my vision?”

  “Not without journeying to Avalon. Even then, I’m not sure the pain could be assuaged with Light only.”

  Breena raised her small, pointed chin. “Then show me.”

  “All right. Clear your mind, as I taught ye before.”

  Breena nodded and closed her eyes. Soon her breathing slowed. Gwen positioned herself behind the girl and placed her hands on Breena’s shoulders.

  “Feel how heavy my hands are,” she murmured. “Let them press your body into the chair, into the floor. When I speak, repeat the Words exactly.”

  Closing her eyes, Gwen summoned Words from the deepest depth of her being. They were Words no one had taught her. Certainly Cyric had not allowed them to be uttered on Avalon. But Gwen, soon after her first woman’s blood—when she’d discovered the wolf that lived inside her—had found the Words waiting inside her.

  It was her emerging talent as a spellcrafter that had led her to use the Words of the Old Ones—syllables of Light as well as sounds of Deep Magic—in new ways and unique patterns. She said such a spell for Breena now. The lass repeated the Words carefully, with precision.

  Her silver aura flared, then settled into a gentle glow.

  Gwen swallowed hard. Leaving Breena’s side, she retrieved a small knife used to trim the wicks on the oil lamps, which had been lying in the center of the table among the pens and wax tablets. Taking Breena’s hand in hers, she cradled it, palm up, her conscience prickling. Breena was so trusting.

  She contemplated the small sharp blade. Had Marcus made it? Most likely. The thought made Gwen even more uneasy about what she had to do. Shoving her doubt roughly aside, she said a single Word. At the same time, she slashed the blade across the fleshy part of Breena’s hand, just below her left thumb. Blood welled from the wound, pooling inside her pale palm. Breena did not so much as flinch. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing sure and deep.

  Gwen let out a shaking breath. “Open your eyes.”

  Breena’s eyelids fluttered open. For a moment, she stared at her bloody palm, her brow pursed in confusion. Her gaze shifted to the knife’s red-stained edge.

  “Did … did you cut me? How could that be? I felt nothing.”

  “The Deep Magic spell ye spoke shielded ye from the pain.”

  Breena sucked on the cut, her eyes meeting Gwen’s. “And this spell will wipe out the pain of my visions? The same way it blocked the pain of this cut?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why, that is wonderful!”

  “And perilous. Most pain serves a purpose, and the spell cannot distinguish one type of pain from another. A person who feels no pain when it’s vital that he should …”

  Breena’s eyes widened. “Might be destroyed, without ever feeling a thing.”

  “Ye understand, then. Ye must not use this spell outside your vision.”

  “I … understand. I’ll be careful, I promise.” Breena’s expression was troubled. “Marcus … he would be furious if he knew what you’ve taught me. Promise me you won’t tell him.”

  Gwen ignored a pinch of guilt. “I assure ye, I would not dream of it.”

  Rhys struggled to match his short strides to his father’s long ones. Da did not like it when Rhys lagged behind. But when they reached the forum market, Da surprised Rhys by catching him around the waist and lifting him into the air. Rhys laughed aloud at the brief, heady feeling of weightlessness. It was almost as if he were rising into the air on bird’s wings! An instant later, Rhys found himself on Da’s broad shoulders, gazing out over the crowd.

  His eyes widened as he clutched at Da’s hair. He had to see everything, no matter how large or small, so he could describe it to Gwen. She’d been very angry to be stuck at home, helping Mared with the weaving.

  It was her own fault, Rhys reflected. She shouldn’t have run off into the fields last night after supper. For once, he hadn’t let her talk him into joining her in disobeying Mama. But he had worried about her the entire time she’d been gone. Especially after Da had gone looking for her.

  Da had whipped Gwen’s arse soundly, but she hadn’t cried even one tear. Rhys didn’t know whether to be proud or envious. He would have bawled.

  It was market day in Isca, and the merchant stalls were piled high with wares. Fruits and vegetables, cookware and pottery, livestock and clothing, fabric and jewelry. The market, a jumble of stalls squeezed between the fortress gates and the amphitheater, was packed to overflowing.

  “Two Roman soldiers are shopping for boots,” Rhys told Gwen in his mind.

  “I hate soldiers,” his sister replied.

  “A Roman matron is frowning over some blue glassware,” he reported. Glass was very costly. He’d never touched it. Was it cold, like the ice it resembled?

  “How many slaves does the matron have with her?” Gwen wanted to know.

  “Two. A maid and a lad to carry packages.”

  He told Gwen about two patricians coming out of the barber’s shop, their chins scraped clean. They were wearing short white togas and their limbs looked like chicken legs. Gwen giggled.

  Rhys thought the Celt women, in their colorful plaid and checkered tunics, were much prettier than the Roman women in their pale stolae. Gwen agreed.

  Da turned down the aisle leading to
the stall where Mama sold the blankets she and Mared and Aunt Carys wove. Rhys loved climbing the piles of soft, colorful wool. But it was more fun climbing with Gwen. Everything was more fun with Gwen.

  “I wish ye were here,” he told her.

  “Me, too,” she sighed.

  They were nearly at Mama’s stall when Da stopped so abruptly Rhys nearly pitched over his head. He clutched Da’s ears, suddenly pierced with fear. Da had gone still, the muscles in his shoulders tensing until they were hard as rocks.

  Angry. Da was angry.

  Had Rhys done something wrong? Or maybe forgotten to do something he was supposed to do? He racked his brain, but could not think of a single thing. And Da seemed to have forgotten all about him, so it was probably not Rhys who had angered him.

  Nay, not Rhys—but just as bad. Da was staring at Mama. A Roman soldier had stopped at her stall. Mama stood with her hands on her hips and her head tilted to one side, smiling up at her visitor. The Roman reached out and brushed a lock of blond hair from Mama’s forehead. Mama laughed, her eyes sparkling.

  Da made a low, growling sound, deep in his throat. Gripping Rhys about the waist, he jerked him off his shoulders and set him roughly on the ground. Without a word, without even glancing down, Da strode away.

  Rhys darted after him, only to run into the legs of a portly middle-aged merchant. The man grunted and cursed, landing a sound kick to Rhys’s ribs. “Little rat.”

  Rhys sprawled on the ground, tasting dust. He coughed and spit, then rolled once and jumped to his feet to dash after Da. By the time he reached Mama’s stall, the soldier had gone. The leather flap that separated the rear of the stall from the front was down. The barrier did little to mute the voices behind it. Da’s was deep and angry, Mama’s soft and pleading.

  There was a loud thump and a sharp, feminine cry. Rhys yanked on the flap. It did not open. Da had tied it down.

  “Mama!”

  The voices stopped, but no answer came. Rhys’s chest squeezed so tight he could not breathe.

  “Rhys? What’s wrong?”