Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  The buzz of conversation around her was largely in rapid Latin. Most of it flowed past in a meaningless stream. There was a fair bit of conversation in her own tongue, though, as Celts mingled freely with the Romans. Some were as finely garbed as the conquerors, others less so. Farmers and merchants, buying and selling foodstuffs and other wares, switched between Latin and Celtic with fluent ease. Many, Gwen thought, were of mixed blood, like Breena. Nearly two centuries after Julius Caesar’s invasion, Romans and Celts were blending into one people. Britons, they called themselves.

  There were many soldiers, of course. Some wore bloodred tunics and segmented Legionary armor, others dressed in braccas, their wool shirts covered with more flexible chain mail. No matter what their garb, she couldn’t stop her pulse from pounding whenever one of them passed too close. She reminded herself she was nothing to them. Just a faceless woman in the crowd. They couldn’t feel her magic. Had no reason to single her out. Still, she was glad for Marcus’s presence beside her.

  Breena and Lucius stopped before a spice merchant’s stall. She and Marcus strolled on to the next shop, which featured an elaborate display of iron and bronze cookware. There were also long-handled Roman cooking pans of various sizes as well as Celt-style cauldrons.

  “Great Mother, how many cauldrons there are!” She began to count, and was past twenty before she stopped. “The entire village of Avalon has only three.”

  The vendor, an older woman with a sharp face, spoke in Celtic. “A new pot, miss?”

  “Nay, I think not. But thank ye.”

  The next booth was a potter’s. The man’s wares—redware plates, bowls, and pitchers—were exquisitely etched with black figures of people and animals. Past the potter was a mercer’s. Fabrics unlike anything Gwen had ever seen cascaded over the edge of a long table like a rainbow-hued waterfall.

  “The finest wools and linens,” the middle-aged Roman woman sitting behind the display declared with a smile. “Just arrived from Rome and Egypt.”

  Her husband took a slightly different tack. “Your wife is very beautiful,” he told Marcus, inclining his head in a slight bow. “You are a fortunate man.”

  “I’m not—” Gwen began, but Marcus cut her off. “Yes. She is lovely, isn’t she?”

  The merchant grinned widely and spread his hands. A jeweled ring glittered on each of his thick fingers. “Such a beautiful woman must be adorned with beautiful cloth. As my own beautiful wife is.”

  His wife blushed. Gwen could not tell if her reaction to her husband’s compliment was genuine or part of a practiced sales effort. The merchant turned back to his wares, making a show of lifting and examining each fabric with a critical eye.

  “None of these common cloths will do your wife justice,” he told Marcus seriously. “With hair like moonlight, she should be clothed in radiance. If you will wait just a moment …”

  Rising, he inclined his head and disappeared through the leather flap that served as the door to the rear of the stall. A moment later, he called his wife to help him locate something. The woman rose. “Please stay just a moment longer. It will be worth the wait, I promise you.”

  “Let us go,” Gwen whispered as the tent flap closed behind her. “Before they come back.”

  Marcus covered her hand with his and leaned close. “That would be quite rude. And anyway, don’t you want to see what they bring out?”

  “Nay. I do not. He thinks—”

  “You don’t like being mistaken for my wife?” Marcus’s tone was light, but his eyes were grave.

  Her heart lurched; her next words were sharper than she’d intended. “That man cannot truly think we are married!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because ye are a Roman and I am—”

  “Perhaps he simply believes we are lovers,” Marcus said bluntly. “But does not wish to embarrass you.”

  “Marcus …”

  The merchant, followed by his wife, emerged from the back of the stall, carrying a large package wrapped in oilcloth. Sweeping a fine blue wool aside, the man laid it on the table and unrolled the covering.

  “When my eyes beheld your lady, even before you approached my humble shop, I knew she must have this. Only one as fair as she could do it justice.”

  The oilcloth fell away, revealing a silver fabric so fine and delicate it looked like liquid moonlight. The merchant reverently lifted the material, shaking out the folds. It rippled over his outstretched forearm.

  Gwen stared. She had never envisioned such finery. Hesitantly, and only after much urging by the merchant, she reached out and touched it. The fabric was cool and smooth, almost like water—it felt as if she were dabbling her fingers in a stream. What would it feel like on her bare shoulders and breasts?

  “Silk,” the merchant said proudly. “From the East. It looks delicate, but I assure you it will not tear. When I purchased this particular length, I vowed I would not sell it until I found a woman worthy of its brilliance.”

  Leaning forward, he draped a length of the fabric across her torso. “You, my lady, are that woman.” His gaze shifted to Marcus. “Your wife is a rare treasure.”

  “Yes, she is,” Marcus agreed. He paused. “How much do you want for it?”

  The merchant named a sum that had Gwen gasping. Even with her limited knowledge of Roman coins and prices, she knew it was exorbitant. It was very near to the amount Marcus carried in the purse hidden in the folds of his toga, with which he meant to purchase two Celt slaves.

  He caught her gaze. “If you’d like the cloth …”

  “Nay,” she said swiftly, taking a step back, away from the sensation of the silk on her skin. It was beautiful beyond anything she’d ever imagined, but it was not for her.

  Nothing of Marcus’s Roman life was for her.

  “I do not want it.”

  It was a lie, and from the look Marcus sent her, he knew it. But he did not insist. “I’m sorry,” he told the man.

  The merchant gave a theatrical sigh as he folded and rewrapped the silk. “Your wife is a modest woman. Such a prize is indeed worth far more than silk.” Leaning toward Marcus, he added in a low voice, “All the more reason to reward your lady’s virtue. I am not at all sure the fabric will be here tomorrow. I am afraid if you pass it by now, and later change your mind …” He trailed off suggestively.

  Marcus smiled and shook his head. “I’m sure such a rare and beautiful cloth will be gone before the day is out. Regrettably, I will not be its new owner.”

  He guided Gwen toward Lucius and Breena, who’d already moved several stalls past them and stood inspecting a brace of haddock at a fishmonger’s. “The mercer spoke truly. That silk was made for you.”

  “I cannot agree. It was beautiful, aye, but not for someone like me.”

  “You sell yourself short. You deserve to be draped in silks.”

  “Silk has no place on Avalon.”

  He sighed, and she felt him withdraw a bit into himself. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

  She stopped and turned to him. “And I would not have ye waste your money on something so trivial. Far better you grant freedom to some of my people instead. That’s worth far more than all the silk in the East.”

  “Still, I would not have minded seeing you lying in my bed with nothing but that silk draped across your body.”

  She felt her cheeks heat.

  “Tonight I’ll spread furs for you to lie on. I’ll—”

  Fortunately, Breena’s call interrupted Marcus’s erotic musings. “Marcus! Gwen!” She waved from across the aisle. “Father and I were wondering where you had gotten to.”

  “We were giving you an opportunity to shop,” Marcus said with a laugh. Matius’s arms were already overflowing with parcels. “And it looks like you took advantage of it.”

  “I’m hungry,” Breena declared. “We should find some food and drink.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Marcus said. His gaze strayed to the far end of the market, where the temporary slave pe
ns had been erected. “Father and I need to leave now,” he said to Gwen. “Will you be all right in the crowd without me?”

  Stay, she wanted to tell him, but his purpose at the slave auction was far more important than her petty fears and memories. “Go. I’ll be fine with your sister.”

  “I’ll take good care of her, Marcus,” Breena said, linking arms with Gwen. “Matius won’t let us be crushed.”

  “Oh, well, that’s all right, then,” Marcus said with a wink at the lad.

  They made an agreement to meet at the cart for the ride home, then Marcus and Lucius strode toward the slave pens. A toga-clad patrician coming out of the viewing area gave them the barest of nods as he passed.

  “The other patricians think they are crazy, to buy slaves and then free them,” Breena said with some amusement.

  “And they truly don’t care that they are ridiculed behind their backs?”

  “They are mocked to their faces as well. Father barely notices—he was a soldier, after all. He says after what he’s seen in battle, no idle talk can ever have power over him. And Marcus? He has the thickest skin imaginable. He does what he wants, always.”

  They stopped at a food vendor’s stall, where Breena ordered Gwen and herself sausage and warmed spiced wine. By the time the sun was overhead, and they had visited a dozen more stalls, Gwen was more than ready to abandon the shopping expedition. The crowds frayed her nerves. The odors of people, spices, perfumes, and garbage, combined with the greasy meal she’d eaten, made her head ache and her stomach churn. Each time a passerby jostled her, she fought a fresh surge of panic. She desperately needed some open space and fresh air.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when Breena declared her purchases complete. They left the crush of the market and headed down the road leading out of town. They’d almost reached the field where they’d left their cart when several mounted Legionary soldiers came pounding up the road. Sunlight glinted off their crested helmets; their horses’ hooves sprayed mud. Immediately, Breena and Matius moved to the side of the road.

  Gwen didn’t follow. Sudden fear had paralyzed her limbs. One of the two lead soldiers shouted at her; the pair of riders split, flowing around her, leaving her staring at the officer riding in their wake. The man reined in his mount, drawing up sharply an instant before he would have trampled her.

  His head and shoulders were cloaked with blue-black light.

  Strabo.

  “Gwen! What are you doing?” Breena shouted as Strabo’s escort reined in around their commander. She hurried to Gwen’s side and tugged her arm. “Get out of the way!”

  Gwen barely heard her. Strabo, here in Isca! What did it mean? Had he given up the search for Avalon? Abruptly, Gwen realized several days had passed since she’d felt Rhys in her mind. Was she too late? Had Avalon already fallen? Merciless fingers of fear closed about her throat.

  Strabo’s angry voice accosted her. “What is the meaning of this? Get out of—” He stopped, his dark eyes widening above the cheek guards of his helmet.

  Gwen’s breath left her. Breena’s grip was firm on her arm, and Matius had moved to stand beside her. Strabo’s aura flared dangerously, then settled into a dark, angry glow. His eyes challenged her. The wolf inside her responded, rising on all fours, its hackles lifting. Its silent growl vibrated deep in her bones.

  Great Mother! She could not shift here, in front of half the population of Isca! A Roman sword would slice her in two before the transformation was complete. Closing her eyes, she fought the Deep Magic with every shred of her will.

  The wolf snarled, but backed off. Gwen exhaled a long breath.

  “Good day, Legate,” she heard Breena say. “Please excuse my cousin. She should be more careful.”

  “Indeed.”

  Gwen’s eyes flew open. Breena had stepped in front of her, attempting to shield her from Strabo’s scrutiny. As Gwen stood half a head taller than her would-be defender, it was a fruitless effort.

  Strabo examined Breena intently for a moment, then, to Gwen’s great surprise, he inclined his head. “I am sorry to have startled your … cousin, is it?” He eyed the mud splattered on Gwen’s tunic. “I fear I may have ruined your clothing,” he said to Gwen. “Where may I send reparations?”

  “ ’Tis not necessary,” Gwen choked out.

  “Is it not?” His dark aura flared.

  The wolf, barely settled, raised its head. Hastily, Gwen averted her eyes. The beast laid its head on its paws, but remained watchful.

  “May I respectfully suggest, ladies, that you keep to the side of the road in the future?”

  “Of course, Legate,” Breena replied. “Good day to you.”

  “Good day.”

  Gwen’s knees went weak as Strabo kicked his mount’s flanks and continued toward the fortress. She had to grip Breena’s arm to keep herself upright.

  “Don’t worry,” Breena said, her arm encircling Gwen’s waist. “I don’t think he recognized you.”

  On the contrary. Gwen was sure that he had.

  Marcus did not know if the woman he’d bought, or her newborn son, would live.

  Heart heavy, he carried the young mother’s slight body through the maze of carts. She weighed next to nothing. Malnourished and still ill from the delivery of her child, she’d lapsed into unconsciousness soon after Marcus had bought her, as if she’d been waiting for a safe haven in which to close her eyes.

  Her chestnut hair was tinged with auburn, but her tiny son’s hair was as dark as Marcus’s own. “It’s a miracle she lived through the birthing,” he muttered to Lucius.

  “Yes.” Lucius peered down at the bundle in his arms. “Though this babe is so thin and quiet, I wonder if he will survive.”

  Marcus had wondered the same thing. Perhaps he should have passed over these two wretched souls in favor of two who might have lived. But when he’d seen the woman’s eyes—a vivid green, filled with lost hope—he’d not been able to pass her by.

  He turned up the aisle leading to their cart. Breena was already seated in the vehicle while Gwen paced between the rows. When she saw him, she halted. Her eyes were haunted. He thought he knew why. Governor Julius Severus had arrived unexpectedly from Londinium two days before. The market was abuzz with gossip; Severus had not been pleased to find Legate Strabo away from the fortress. Swift riders were sent to summon him, and the legate had just ridden into town. Had Gwen seen him? Marcus thought she must have.

  But if Gwen meant to speak of Strabo, her intention abruptly changed when she saw the woman in his arms. “Oh, Marcus! She is so ill!”

  “I’m not sure she will live.”

  Gwen touched the woman’s flushed cheek. “She’s hot.”

  “Childbed fever, no doubt.” He nodded toward his father.

  Gwen’s gaze shot to Lucius, her eyes widening as she realized what he held. “Her babe lives?”

  “Yes. The slaver knew how much I wanted them, and raised his price accordingly.” He grimaced. “No one but me would have made such a poor bargain.”

  “I’m very glad that ye did,” Gwen said softly. Her eyes did not waver from the babe. She lifted the infant from Lucius’s arms, drawing back the swaddling rags from his face.

  The child was strangely silent. His eyes were the same vivid green as his mother’s. Gwen gazed down at the babe, and at the mother, and for a long time said nothing. Then she lifted her head.

  “The Great Mother must have led ye to this child,” she said in a low voice. “His aura is very strong. He is touched by magic. As is his mother.”

  Marcus exhaled. More magic. He could not seem to get away from it.

  That evening, Gwen helped Breena settle the ailing mother in a small servants’ hut that often served as an infirmary. The woman regained consciousness briefly, moaning for her son. Gwen eased the baby into his mother’s arms, but the woman held the infant only long enough to press a kiss to his brow.

  The babe did not utter a sound. His mother’s hand fell from his bottom, and Gwe
n caught the child before he wriggled to the ground. She handed the tiny lad to one of the female field workers, who had offered to put the child to breast with her own infant.

  Breena bathed the woman’s face with a damp cloth. Rhiannon had brewed a potion of willow bark, but Lucius had forbidden her to visit the sickroom. Rhiannon acceded to her husband’s order grudgingly.

  Gwen watched Breena and Mab tend the unconscious woman. Rhiannon’s draught had done the patient some good; her fever no longer raged so hot, and her slumber was peaceful.

  “I think she will live,” Breena told Gwen.

  “I hope ye are right,” Gwen replied. The woman showed signs of having been beaten, but her aura was strong and steady. Green, the color of the earth. The babe’s aura held all the colors of the rainbow, as was often the case with children. It was impossible to know what his talent would be. But it would be strong, of that much Gwen was certain.

  “You look ready to drop,” Breena told Gwen. “You had a fright, encountering Legate Strabo in the road as you did. Go to bed. Alma will look after the woman during the night. I doubt she’ll awaken, in any case.”

  Gwen was sorely fatigued, but she knew she would not rest tonight. She and Marcus had to complete Exchalybur. By this time tomorrow, she meant to be well on her way to Avalon.

  She nodded and slipped out the door. As she walked up the orchard path to the main house, voices drifted toward her, and Gwen’s steps slowed. Rhiannon and Marcus stood on the rear terrace of the farmhouse, talking and looking out over the herb garden. As Gwen neared, Rhiannon reached up and touched her stepson’s jaw.

  “Ye have sore need of a razor, Marcus.”

  “And you have need of rest. I don’t want my new brother or sister coming early, as Breena did.”

  Rhiannon’s hand went to her stomach. “Dinna worry. I am tired, aye, but the babe is fine.”

  “You shouldn’t take chances.”