Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  Breena twisted her fingers in her lap. “They did, for a time, until Gwen taught me how to stop them.”

  “Stop them?” Rhys’s head jerked up. “Gwen taught ye to stop your visions?”

  She nodded.

  “Only a spell of Deep Magic could halt a true vision.” He cursed. “My sister has no respect at all for Cyric’s teachings.”

  “She only did it because I was in such pain—and choking! One night … one night, I almost died!”

  “What?” He was on his feet, gripping her upper arms. “What happened? Tell me.”

  Briefly, Breena recounted her ordeal. “If Gwen had not come in time, I would have died! She only taught me to stop the visions so it wouldn’t happen again. And … nothing bad has come from the spells she taught me.”

  “Except that your visions have stopped.”

  “I don’t consider that a bad thing.”

  “And the Great Mother’s message? What of that, Bree?”

  “I couldn’t see what it was, in any case! Everything was silent, and draped in silver.”

  “When you were ready to understand, the vision would have cleared. Gwen should not have interfered.”

  His fingers bit into her flesh. “You’re hurting me, Rhys.”

  He looked down at his hands as if he’d forgotten he’d taken hold of her arms. Abruptly, he let go, his scowl deepening. “My apologies.”

  Breena rubbed her arm. “It’s all right.”

  He turned and paced toward the hearth, his meal forgotten. “Gwen should not have done this. If your need was so urgent, she should have brought ye to Avalon, to gain the wisdom of the Elders and the protection of the sacred isle.”

  “With Legate Strabo assaulting the mist? My parents and Marcus would never have agreed to let me travel into such danger.” She paused. “Would you?”

  He pressed two fingers to his temples and winced. “I do not know.”

  “Does your head hurt?”

  “Aye,” he said after a moment.

  His pallor alarmed her. “You look ready to drop from exhaustion. I know you and Trevor want to leave soon, but how can you travel without rest? You have to sleep, if only for a few hours.”

  She thought he would protest, but after a moment he looked up and nodded.

  “Aye. But two hours only, and no more.”

  * * *

  The bed was soft. The closed shutters cast the room in gloom. Sleep descended upon Rhys almost immediately. And with it, came another dream …

  Rhys crouched at the edge of the grandmother elm’s drooping branches, peering into the space formed by the curtain of leaves. He and Gwen had stopped coming here to play ever since they’d seen Mama with … him.

  Mama and her centurion were here again, now. He caught a glimpse of Mama’s white-blond hair and the soldier’s red cape. The Roman’s voice was low and urgent.

  “Tonight, Tamar. It must be tonight. I’ve received my orders. I’m to leave at dawn.”

  “But the children … they’ve only just lost their father …”

  The soldier gave a harsh laugh. “No doubt they will be grateful to me for that someday.”

  “But … what of my father?”

  “Tell him you mean to marry again. He will understand.”

  “Nay. He will not. You are Roman, and we are Celts. Druids.”

  “I am not so different, Tamar. You have shown me that. My magic may be as powerful as Cyric’s.”

  “It will not matter to him. I am a Daughter of the Lady, and Gwen is as well. My father will not allow us to leave Britain.”

  “I do not care. I only care that you believe in me. In us.”

  “But, Titus—Egypt? ’Tis so far away. How can I carry my children to a place so unlike their home? There will be sand and heat and wind …”

  Rhys felt for Gwen’s hand. She squeezed his fingers tightly.

  “Rhys and Gwen will be happy there,” the soldier said. “It will not be forever, I promise you. When I am able, I will bring you back to Britain.” A pause, then, “Tamar. Tell me you will come with me.”

  “Oh, Titus—”

  “Tamar!” Grandfather’s voice called from the road behind Rhys and Gwen, sharp and angry. “Tamar! Where are ye? Answer me, lass!”

  The scene dissolved into darkness, but the dream did not end. Rhys was running now, but slowly, as if his feet were stuck in mud. He heard a man’s shout, a woman’s terrified scream.

  A nauseating roll of power shook the ground. Rhys stood paralyzed, his chest heaving with the effort of drawing breath. Up ahead, in the darkness, shone blue-black light.

  Deep Magic, pulsing like life. Like death. Rhys wanted to run away. He couldn’t move. He felt for Gwen with his mind.

  “Gwen?”

  “Rhys! Where are ye?” She sounded as terrified as he felt.

  “I … don’t know. Where are you?”

  If there was an answer, he didn’t hear it. A deep rumble shook the ground. The next instant, the blue-black orb exploded in a shower of sparks.

  “Rhys!” Gwen was beside him, her grip on his arm painful. She hauled him to his feet. “Come quick!”

  She was sobbing. It scared him; Gwen never cried. He clung to her as she pulled him after her. He could see more clearly now. They were on the path leading to the river.

  “What happened?”

  “The soldier. The one who Mama …” She bit her lip. “Something happened. Something bad.”

  “Where?”

  “Under the grandmother elm.”

  They lunged down the hill toward the tree, skidding to a stop when a figure emerged from behind the charred branches that had once been a green, leafy curtain.

  Grandfather, carrying Mama. Her body was limp, her dangling arm rocking with every heavy step Grandfather took. Tears ran down Grandfather’s face. Rhys’s whole body went cold.

  Nausea churned his stomach.

  “She’s dead, Gwen. Mama is dead.”

  Rhys sat bolt upright in bed, gasping. Strabo. Strabo had been his mother’s lover.

  He’d seen the legate’s face clearly in his dream. The man had been eighteen years younger, but his identity was unmistakable.

  Rhys thought he might be ill. His shirt was little more than a sweaty rag plastered to his body. The contact was unbearable. He tore at it, ripping the wool as he stripped the garment over his head.

  He rose and paced the tiled floor, covering the distance from one smooth wall to the other, then moving to the window to throw open the shutters. His stomach was in knots, the nightmare images shifting sickeningly. The fresh air did little good. He did not want to remember.

  But now that he did, there was no undoing it. Mama had loved the Roman; she’d helped him discover the magic within him. Strabo had wanted Mama to accompany him to a posting in Egypt. Mama had refused, and he’d become enraged. Magic had exploded. Deep Magic. When it cleared, Mama was dead.

  Now, eighteen years later, Strabo was the commander of the Second Legion, in the town where he’d killed Rhys’s mother. He must have seen Rhys on one of Rhys’s many trips to Isca. Rhys’s age, his unusual white-blond hair, his gray eyes, his features and height—all were clues to his parentage. Strabo must have suspected the itinerant minstrel was Tamar’s son. And when he had encountered Gwen near Avalon—well, it was apparent to anyone with eyes that she was Rhys’s twin. But why would Strabo pursue the children of his Celt lover so many years after her murder?

  Rhys’s nausea intensified. Bile seared a path up his throat. Quickly he crossed to the washbasin, bracing himself over it on rigid arms. He wanted to call Gwen in his mind, to tell her what he’d dreamed and ask if she remembered, too. His pride would not let him. He was a man. He did not cling to his sister’s skirts.

  He started trembling, cold sweat beading on his brow. His stomach heaved, emptying its contents into the washbasin. At the exact same moment, the door behind him creaked open. He gripped the edge of the washstand, too dizzy to lift his head, or even speak to
his unwelcome visitor.

  “Rhys! You’re ill!” Breena’s soft footsteps flew across the room. She touched his shoulder, his brow.

  Great Mother. Now his agony was complete.

  He focused all his will on drawing his next breath. Then, hoping his head would allow it, he slowly straightened and turned.

  Breena, practical soul that she was, was already busy. She located a clean linen towel and dampened it with water from the washstand’s pitcher. She offered it to him; he took it and mopped his face. Still breathing hard, he watched her pour a cup of watered wine from a second pitcher on a sideboard.

  She offered it to him. He took it and drained it, then surrendered the empty cup. “My thanks.”

  Her blue eyes were soft with concern. “You’re very pale, Rhys.”

  “I’m fine.” He took a step, then, afraid his stomach would heave again, sat down on the edge of the bed.

  A mistake, because Breena sat down next to him, far too close. She smelled faintly of perfume from her bath. Not rose or lavender, though. Breena shunned the lighter floral scents, preferring earthier musks and spices. Great Mother. This was more than any man could be expected to bear.

  He was aware of a choking wave of self-loathing. This was Breena, who not long ago had been a sticky-faced little lass he’d tickle and swing over his head. He used to love her squeal of glee when he teased her. She was as much a sister to him as Gwen—and a much younger one, at that. She was an innocent, barely more than a lass, though many girls married at her age. But Breena was destined for a life on Avalon, while he … was not. He could not be attracted to her.

  And yet, he was.

  He covered his face with his hands and groaned.

  Which only made Breena more anxious. She leaned into him, her breast pressing against his arm as she laid a cool hand on his forehead. “Are you going to be sick again? Do you want me to bring the basin?”

  “Nay,” he said quickly, shifting away from her on the bed. He bent one knee to hide his reaction to her nearness. “I am well. Truly. It was just … a bad reaction to a dream.”

  She frowned. “I have never known a mere dream to cause anyone to vomit. And I’m sure I’ve never read about it in Hippocrates’s Book of Prognostics.”

  He almost laughed. Breena could not know how refreshing her bluntness was. In Rhys’s experience, few people were brave enough to be so genuine. But Breena … since the day he’d met her, when she’d been barely three summers old, she had disarmed him with her honesty.

  “Was it truly a dream, Rhys? Or something more? You look as though you’ve seen the dead.” His expression must have changed, because her eyes widened. “Have you seen the dead? In a vision?”

  “Not precisely. I saw the past.” His temple throbbed again; he rubbed it and Breena frowned. “Another of Strabo’s spells.”

  “Then he knows you are here.”

  “Most likely. I need to leave, soon. Where is Gwen? I need to—” He tried to stand. The sudden movement made the room sway. He sat back down.

  “You’re unsettled still.” Breena fussed over him like a little mama. Or a wife. He blocked off that thought the instant it rose.

  “I’ll be fine in a moment. Go. Find Gwen and Trevor and tell them—”

  “You can tell them yourself. I’ve already awakened Trevor, and he went to find Gwen. You’re to meet them in the hearth room. Until then … will you tell me what you dreamt that upset you so?” When he did not answer, she added, “Please?”

  Her clear, blue gaze disarmed him. She was young, yes, but her eyes held the promise of uncommon maturity and strength. He found himself wanting to tell her everything, though she was hardly the person he should confide in. Gwen would be a far more logical choice. Or Trevor. And yet, the words tumbled from his lips.

  “I dreamt … of my mother’s death. It was not something I remembered until now. I had thought—”

  He broke off as Breena slipped behind him on the mattress and started massaging his shoulders. Belatedly, he realized his shirt was still on the floor. The sensation of her strong fingers on his bare skin was intoxicating.

  He went very still.

  “You had thought what?” Breena prompted gently.

  He struggled to remember their conversation, but for a moment all he could think of were her fingers, kneading and soothing. Then he gathered his wits and shook his head.

  “Gwen and I … neither of us remember seeing our mother die. Cyric never spoke of it; Mared and Padrig would not answer any of our questions. We knew she was killed by a Roman soldier, a man she’d taken as a lover. In my dream … Gwen and I were there, just before Mama’s death. I saw her lover’s face. It was Strabo.”

  Her hands stilled. “But how could that be?”

  “He was a centurion eighteen years ago. Unknown to him, he had magic. Mama helped him discover his power. He wanted her to accompany him to Egypt, but she refused. He became enraged and killed her with the same magic she had helped him discover.”

  “Oh, Rhys. I’m so sorry.” Her fingers started working on his rigid muscles again. She put all her weight into loosening a particularly tight knot. He let out a gasp, then a groan of deep pleasure. He felt her body go quiet.

  “Lean forward,” she whispered.

  Some subtle shift had occurred in their rapport. It had become much more intimate than anything he’d shared with Breena before. It was wrong—he should not be sitting half naked, taking a fierce and guilty pleasure in her touch. She was too young, too innocent. Even if she were older, and his life were not that of a homeless wanderer, he did not have the luxury of time. He should be gone, already on the road to Avalon with Trevor and his sister.

  But he made no move to rise.

  Instead, he did as she asked. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and letting his hands dangle between them. She went up on her knees behind him, pressing into him more deeply, using the weight of her body as leverage. He closed his eyes as her warm palms covered his shoulders. Her thumbs kneaded the tight muscles on either side of his neck.

  She did not speak—sensing, perhaps, that he wanted silence. That was another quality that drew him to Breena. She had the uncanny knack of knowing just what he needed, and providing it.

  Her soft hands urged his upper body toward the mattress. “Lie down.”

  Gods.

  “That’s not a good idea,” he replied shakily.

  “You’re wrong, Rhys.” Her voice dipped so low he had to strain to hear it. “And … I think it’s time I showed you just how wrong you are.”

  Her lips touched his neck, just below his earlobe.

  Pure lust spiraled through his body. Her kiss felt like a brand on his skin. Her teeth, when they caught his earlobe and nibbled, sent a rush of fire to his groin. And when her tongue swirled into the shell of his ear …

  Great Mother. How did she know to do such things?

  His mind reeled with shock as she licked a wet path along his jaw. She shifted onto his lap and entwined her arms around his neck. He was stunned. Paralyzed.

  If the entire Second Legion had chosen that instant to pound down the door, demanding his head on a spear, he could not have moved.

  “Rhys.”

  She brought a heady breathlessness to his name. Unbidden, he began to harden. She melted against him with a sigh. Sanity slammed back into his brain; wrenching his mouth from hers, he gripped her shoulders and pushed her back. Blue eyes, filled with an adulation he absolutely did not deserve, blinked up at him.

  He tried to keep his voice as gentle as possible, but his words came out rough. “Breena. What is this?”

  “I love you, Rhys.” She shut her eyes briefly. “There. I’ve said it.”

  “You don’t mean that,” he said hoarsely.

  “Oh, but I do! I’ve always loved you!”

  He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Aye, Bree, but not like this. Ye love me as a sister loves a brother. Like ye love Marcus.”

  “No.”
She shook her head for emphasis. “Never like that. Not even when I was small. I always knew you were different. That you would marry me someday.”

  “You cannot be serious.” A note of desperation crept into his voice. “It cannot be like that between us. I am fond of ye, ’tis true—”

  “Fond? Is that what you call it? Odd, it felt more like—”

  He launched himself off the bed, all but throwing her across the room. She stumbled and fell, landing with a sharp thump on the floor. Rhys caught a glimpse of the stunned hurt in her eyes before he turned his back to her.

  He fled to the opposite corner of the room, shame obliterating every trace of desire. He schooled his features into a blank mask and pivoted.

  Breena stared up at him from the floor, having made no effort to pick herself up. Crossing his arms, he stood looking down at her with what he hoped was an expression of amused condescension.

  Her eyes filled with tears, making them bluer. “Rhys.”

  “Get up, Breena. What could ye have been thinking, to shame yourself so?”

  She scrambled to her feet, choking on a sob. “I … I thought you’d be pleased—”

  “Pleased? That ye would throw yourself at me?”

  “Yes. And you were pleased, at first. You wanted me.”

  Gods, how would he survive this?

  “Breena, any man would respond so, to any woman. It means nothing. When you are grown, ye will understand.”

  Her chin came up, her lips thinning with anger as her tears abated. Good. He preferred her angry to sobbing. At least, he thought he did.

  “I am grown. I am nearly fifteen. Many girls my age are already married!”

  “Ye know as well as I do that your father will not allow ye to marry for several years yet.”

  “He would not object to you, Rhys. I’ve loved you forever, and I would make you a good wife.”

  He felt a tugging sensation in the vicinity of his heart, but refused to be swayed by it. He let his tone grow harsh. “Put this fantasy out of your head. I am not the man for ye. I am too old, for one thing.”

  “You are only five-and-twenty!”

  “And ye are fourteen, and like a little sister to me.”

  “You wouldn’t kiss a sister the way you just kissed me.”