by Joy Nash
She would belong to him, always.
“Gwen.”
His face was very close to hers now. He’d bared his throat to her. He would not attack. It would be nothing to kill him. Nothing at all.
“Gwen.” His urgency arrested her. His voice was hoarse, trembling with an emotion she did not understand. “I know you are not lost to the wolf. Not completely, or I would already be dead. Look inside, Gwen. Find yourself. Come back to me.”
She cocked her head.
His beautiful eyes shimmered with moisture.
“Come back, Gwen. Love me. As I love you.”
I love you.
The words touched something deep inside. The vibration touched a dark, hidden place—a part of her soul she hardly knew.
Love.
What was love? Did she know? She thought perhaps she had known … once.
“Love me, Gwen.” His voice broke on the words. Water ran down his face.
She did not like that. She went to him. Nuzzled his hand. Licked his cheek. His arms came around her, pulling her to him, clutching her tightly to his chest. Trapping her. She should have been afraid. Enraged. Panicked. She was not. His big body heaved, his shoulders shook. His grief flooded into her mind.
She wanted his pain to stop. She could stop it.
A Word formed in her mind. A Word of Light. A Word that meant … surrender. A Word the wolf hated.
And yet, she let it come. Because somehow, she knew it would bring her back to him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gwen woke in Marcus’s arms. She was naked, and he was crying.
For a long moment, she couldn’t find her voice. He wasn’t trying to hide his tears, or wipe them away. The emotion in his eyes was so deep, so true. She was truly humbled.
She reached up and wiped a tear from his cheek with her thumb. Catching her hand, he shut his eyes and pressed his lips to her palm.
“Gods, Gwen. I thought I’d lost you.”
“I’m not so easily put aside,” she said shakily.
“I thank the Great Mother for that. Are you hurt?”
“Nay. I do not think so.” She moved slightly in his arms and he winced.
“Your wound!” His shirt gaped open; blood was crusted on the angry gash left by the demon’s claws. “And your hands are burned. Strabo’s fire—”
“It’s nothing.” He exhaled and shook his head, as if to clear the horror from it. “What was that thing Strabo turned into? I wouldn’t have believed it was real if it hadn’t been trying so hard to kill me.”
“A Dark god. Strabo traded his pain for its foul magic.”
“It wasn’t equal to the power of Exchalybur.”
She shuddered. “The lady’s sword … I am not sure I should have asked ye to forge it, Marcus. I almost lost myself to its power.”
“If we hadn’t forged it, we would most likely be dead. And Rhys and Trevor, as well.”
“And Cyric. My grandfather is the one Strabo wanted.”
“So Rhys said. But I don’t completely understand. Why come after Cyric after all these years? Strabo killed your mother long ago.”
Gwen was silent for a moment. “I do not think Strabo killed her, Marcus. He claimed he did not. He may truly have loved her, when he was young and capable of that emotion. He told me it was Cyric’s Deep Magic that killed Mama. My grandfather tried to kill Strabo, but struck Mama instead.”
Marcus swore. “Do you believe that?”
“Aye. I think I do. It explains much about my grandfather’s refusal to talk of the past, and his abiding hatred for Deep Magic. Strabo vowed vengeance—it took him eighteen years to return to Britain to enact it. He meant to kill Cyric and take me as wife in Mama’s place.”
“He may have been wronged all those years ago,” Marcus said. “But I cannot say I am sorry he is dead now. The man was mad.”
“He was lost in Deep Magic. As I very nearly was. Until ye came for me. Until ye called me back.”
“I will always come for you. The wolf will never take you away from me.”
She did not answer. He stood and helped her to her feet. “You can hardly return to Avalon unclothed,” he muttered. “I’d offer you my shirt, but—” He spread his arms. His shirt was little more than bloody rags.
“We should be able to find my tunic. And my pendant.”
They returned to the site of the battle. Gwen dressed, shuddering when her gaze fell on Strabo’s charred and bloated body. “Rhys and Trevor,” she asked shakily. “They are both unharmed?”
“Rhys is well enough. Trevor took the brunt of Strabo’s assault. He was barely conscious when Rhys and I carried him to the raft. Rhys took him to Avalon.”
Gwen gave a cry of dismay. “Trevor cannot die because of me! I must go to him at once.”
Marcus stiffened. “Of course. I’ll take you to him.”
Rhys’s stomach churned as Mared straightened from Trevor’s pallet. “How bad is he?”
“He sleeps,” the old healer replied. “His wound is clean, and the Deep Magic that touched his soul did not enter. He is strong. He will live.”
“Thank the Great Mother,” Rhys said. He looked up. “And Clara’s babe—?”
Mared laid a hand on his shoulder. “A fine little lad, who is at his mother’s breast this moment. But ’tis not Trevor and Clara ye should worry over, Rhys. ’Tis Cyric. He has not stirred from his pallet since he tried to kill Marcus Aquila.”
“But surely he will recover now that Strabo is dead.”
Mared shook her head. “I do not believe he will. The past weighs too heavily on him. Losing your mother was a blow from which your grandfather never recovered. Strabo’s magic has brought too much of that time back.”
Rhys ran a hand down his face. “What happened that night, Mared? I remember so little. Gwen and I … we were there, I think, when Strabo cast his spell.”
“Padrig and I know little more than ye do,” the healer replied. “Tamar had taken ye and Gwen. When Cyric realized she’d gone to her Roman lover, he went after her. He returned carrying her body. We buried her and fled that same night—we were afraid soldiers would kick down the door by morning. We came to Avalon and dedicated our lives to the Light and the teachings of the Lady. But Cyric … for all his talk of forgiveness and comfort, he never knew peace after that night. A part of his soul has remained untouched by the Lady’s Light. That Darkness consumes him now.”
“Where is he?”
“We have carried him to the high slope, to await the Great Mother’s call near the stone that marks the entrance to Annwyn. It will not be long now.”
When Rhys ascended the hill and set eyes upon his grandfather, he knew Mared had spoken the truth. Cyric’s countenance was as waxen as that of a corpse. He slept fitfully, muttering in his sleep. Death would not be long in coming.
Mared and Eleri, who had been watching Cyric, slipped away. Not willing to disturb his grandfather’s sleep, however troubled, Rhys lowered his aching body to the ground by Cyric’s pallet, and waited.
He was still sitting motionless some time later when Gwen appeared, tired and wary, but whole and—thank the Goddess—human. Her gaze went immediately to Cyric. “He lives still?”
“For now.” He stood. “Ye are unharmed?”
“Thanks to Marcus.”
“He is here? In the village?”
“Aye. Your mist did not prevent his approach.”
“Cyric’s mist did not keep him from Avalon before, when he came here seeking help to rescue you from Strabo.”
“How is that possible?”
“Perhaps it had to do with the sword.”
“The sword is gone now,” Gwen pointed out. “But the connection Marcus and I created in forging it remains. I feel and hear him in my mind.”
“But now you do not hear me.”
Gwen’s eyes were infinitely sad. “Aye. It would seem so, brother.”
He clasped her hands. “It was the blow from Cyric’s staff that severed
our connection, I think. Not Strabo’s magic. Now the place I once occupied in your mind and in your heart has been filled by Marcus. I will miss ye, Gwen.”
She did not blink back her tears. “Ah, Rhys. Ye will be in my heart always. That will never change. But I need to know … why did ye never tell me ye had shifted?”
He studied their joined hands. Why, indeed? “I was too proud,” he said at last. “I’ve always envied ye, Gwen. I used my righteousness to hold myself above ye. It was wrong of me. I hurt ye deeply.” He met her gaze. “Can ye forgive me?”
“Oh, Rhys.” She was crying in earnest now. “How can I not? Ye are a part of me. The better part of me.”
“Not better, Gwen. Our strengths are different, that is all.”
She smiled through her tears. “Perhaps that is true. After all, a wolf could make a short meal of a falcon.”
Rhys flashed her a grin. “If she could catch him.”
He embraced her then. Gwen clutched his neck fiercely for a moment before drawing away. “There’s something ye should know, Rhys.”
He searched her gaze. “I think I already do know it. Ye do not intend to stay in Avalon.”
“Aye. I want to be with Marcus. And ye—ye want to be here, I know ye do. Ye can hold the mist as well as I. If we exchange roles, we will both be happier.”
Rhys shot a troubled look toward Cyric, who had begun to mutter in his sleep, almost as if in protest of Gwen’s declaration. “Is that what ye truly want?”
“More than anything, Rhys. And I will visit often. If ye wish to leave the sacred isle, ye have only to send for me.”
It was the life he’d always dreamed of, during eleven long years of roaming. “But Cyric—”
Gwen’s expression grew sober. Her voice was low. “There is something ye should know, Rhys, about the night Mama died. Something I’ve only just—”
A deep moan cut off her words. Rhys and Gwen both started; an instant later they were kneeling on either side of Cyric’s pallet. Gwen took her grandfather’s hand.
“So cold,” she whispered.
Cyric’s thin breath rattled in his lungs. His eyes opened. They were weary and rimmed with red, but lucid.
“I am sorry. So sorry, my children.”
Gwen leaned close and placed a kiss on Cyric’s forehead. “Ye have grieved for so long. Have ye not always preached the wisdom of forgiveness? ’Tis time to forgive yourself.”
Rhys’s brow furrowed.
Cyric clutched at Gwen’s hand. “Ye know.”
“Aye.”
The old man’s shoulders shook as tears spilled from his eyes. “I did not mean for it to happen. I wanted only to keep her by my side. I wanted to kill him. Not her. Never her. My child, my light.”
Horror seeped into Rhys’s brain. “Ye killed Mama?” His gaze cut to Gwen. “Ye knew this.”
“Strabo told me,” she whispered. “I did not want to believe it either, but … now I know for certain.”
Cyric covered his eyes, his hand shaking. “Aye, ’tis true. The Deep Magic I called to drive back Strabo … it went away. I tried to call it back—I could not.” He shuddered. “Deep Magic. Power of the gods. No human can control it. No human should try. Remember that always, my children.”
Rhys felt as though the earth beneath his feet had fallen away. He struggled to find some sense of balance. He opened his mouth to ask Cyric more, but Gwen caught his gaze and shook her head. Rhys shut his mouth. It would do no good to question Cyric. Not now.
Gwen’s voice was low and soothing. “Ye carried this guilt so long, Grandfather. Ye must let it go now. Be at peace.”
“Ah, peace. I think … aye, I think ’tis close. It will come with death. ’Tis time, Gwendolyn. Soon. I hear the Great Mother’s call.” His chest rose and fell with a wheezing sound. “When I am gone, carry out your duties. Guard Avalon as I have taught ye. The mist will protect the sacred isle as long as ye are here.”
Gwen exchanged a glance with Rhys. “Grandfather … I cannot make that promise. I wish to leave. To marry elsewhere. Rhys has agreed to hold the mist in my place.”
Cyric’s gaze swung wildly to Rhys. His bony hand clutched Rhys’s arm as the old man struggled to rise. “Nay, Rhys! Ye cannot. That is not your role! Ye must never stop seeking those touched by magic. There is no other way!”
A fit of coughing overtook him. Alarmed, Rhys eased Cyric back onto the cushions. “Rest, Grandfather. We will speak of this later.”
“Nay—” He broke off, gasping for breath. “I know … I know ye do not understand. I know ye both feel the weight of your burdens. Many times have I asked the Great Mother if her will could not be served another way. The answer is always the same. If Avalon is to live, if the Light of the sacred isle is to nurture the King who is to come, then the Son and Daughter of the Lady must fulfill the roles the Goddess has revealed to me. If ye do not …” Another fit overtook him.
Gwen hastened to fill a cup with water. Rhys supported Cyric’s thin shoulders and pressed the rim to the old man’s parched lips. He took but a sip, then waved the cup away.
He took Gwen’s hand in his left, Rhys’s in his right. “Listen well, my children, for this I have Seen many times, in visions the Great Mother has sent to me since your birth. Her will is clear. The Daughter must stay, the Son must roam. Only then will the King be born. Only then will the King call Light to battle Darkness. If he does not … Britain will be lost. The world will be lost.
“Ye two … ye have so much Light inside. Ye must fight against Dark Magic, always. Ye must fulfill your duty as I have taught ye. There is no other way.”
“Grandfather—” Rhys began.
Cyric’s grip closed painfully on Rhys’s fingers. “Promise me, Rhys. Gwen.”
Rhys was never quite sure what happened in the next instant. Cyric’s voice rose. His infirmity seemed to fall away. His voice strengthened, his bleary eyes cleared. Light lit his features, making his white hair and beard glow with ethereal radiance. Magic filled the air, causing Rhys’s skin to prickle.
“You promised your obedience to me long ago,” Cyric rasped. “I will have those promises again. Gwen, ye will hold the mist. Rhys, ye will seek outside it. ’Tis the only way. The only way.”
White Light shimmered about Cyric’s head and shoulders. It flowed from Cyric to Rhys and Gwen, enveloping all three in a nimbus of deep, unearthly power. The flash of a vision appeared—a man, a king, clothed in Light. Astride a tall horse, the man surveyed a peaceful, fertile countryside. Another flash, and Rhys saw the same countryside cloaked in Darkness, fields burned, cottages laid to waste. And in that instant Rhys knew—knew, in the marrow of his bones—that Cyric spoke the truth.
There was no other way.
Something inside him broke.
He would never call Avalon home. And Gwen— He met his sister’s gaze and his heart twisted. She understood as well as he did. And her anguish was even greater.
“Promise me, my children,” Cyric begged.
“Aye, Grandfather,” Gwen whispered. “We promise.”
And so Rhys’s future, and Gwen’s, slipped into place.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Will you be leaving soon, then, Marcus?”
“On the morrow,” Marcus told Clara. “Now that Cyric is buried and Gwen has assumed the role of Guardian, I have little choice.” He still could not quite believe it. When he’d brought Gwen back to Avalon after the wolf had released her, he’d been sure she was his. Then she’d disappeared with Rhys to the high slope of Avalon, where Cyric lay dying. Two days later, when she finally returned to the village, after Cyric had breathed his last, she had told Marcus in calm tones that she would not marry him.
She had not shed so much as a tear. And since that moment, Marcus had not heard her thoughts in his mind, and she had not answered his unspoken questions. But Marcus was not fooled by Gwen’s silence. He knew that behind her stoic facade, she was breaking.
It had been left to Rhys to explain Cyr
ic’s vision to Marcus. And after he had, Marcus had seen clearly enough that Gwen truly had no choice but the one she had made.
Cold comfort, that.
Clara’s dark eyes told him she understood his grief. She looked so peaceful, nestled in a bed of furs, nursing her infant son. The babe’s fuzzy red head—his hair was exactly the color of his father’s—was just visible amid the swath of blankets. A new life, so small and innocent.
Marcus felt something clutch in his chest. Gwen would never hold his child at her breast. Not now. He shut his eyes briefly against the pain the realization brought.
“Marcus? Are you all right?”
He opened his eyes. “Yes, of course. But what about you? Owein said you had a rough time of it.”
Clara laughed. “I fear Neill’s birth was far more difficult on his father than on me. Mared assured me my son came quickly, though during my labor I confess I didn’t think he would ever arrive. But once I held him in my arms, I forgot all about the pain.”
Marcus forced a smile. “Rhiannon will want to see him, of course. Her own babe will come in a few short months.”
“Owein and I will make the journey as soon as I’m able.” She gave a sigh of anticipation. “I cannot wait. I’ve been dreaming of a real bathhouse, Marcus. As soon as I get to the farm, I’m going to sink into the calidarium up to my neck and stay there half the day. Here on Avalon, I’m lucky if I get a whole bucket of hot water to myself.”
“I’ll be sure I have a good supply of charcoal waiting for you,” Marcus said. Then he frowned. “But I don’t see why things should be so primitive here. The flow from the spring is very good. It would be a relatively simple thing to divert some of the water to a cistern, and build a simple hypocaust and bathhouse nearby.”
Clara laughed. “Surely you jest.”
“No. I’m serious. Has no one ever considered it?”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe that they have.”
“I don’t understand these Celts,” Marcus muttered. “It’s as if they want to be uncomfortable.”