by Joy Nash
“I am,” Rhiannon replied quietly. “Marcus, any man may use power for ill purpose—a Druid as well as a Roman. But how can ye count Rhys among that number? There’s no darkness in him. He’s your friend.”
“Friend?” Marcus spat out the word. “A friend doesn’t present himself with deceit.”
Rhys spoke at last. “Ye have the right of it, Marcus. I am sorry for that. I should have been truthful with ye from the start, no matter the cost. I ask your pardon.”
A measure of Marcus’s anger seeped away. Still, he gave no reply as he nodded to the pendant still nestled in Breena’s palm. “What is this thing? This … circle. Is it enchanted?”
“Aye,” Rhys said. “ ’Tis a talisman of the Light. It’s for Breena’s protection.”
“She’s in danger?”
“Until she learns to control her gift, aye. An untrained power as great as hers may be used by one of stronger will.” He paused, his gray eyes pained. “Cyric senses a Druid calling the Deep Magic, an act he has forbidden. Yesterday’s storm—’twas but a hint of the power abroad.”
“Who is this Druid?”
“Some in Avalon believe it is one of our own number.”
“And you?”
Rhys’s eyes were haunted. “I canna say.”
Owein stared at the scrap of papyrus. On it, drawn in ink, was a symbol sacred to the Celts. A triple spiral, signifying the three faces of the Great Mother. But the mark didn’t stand alone. A circle, divided in four equal parts and entwined with a pair of vines, encircled the spiral. The magic of the Old Ones, merged with another power. What did it mean?
He touched the Great Mother’s spiral with the tip of his index finger. At once, a sacred Word sprang into his mind. A sound in the language of the Old Ones, the ancients who had raised great circles of stones and planted groves of sacred oaks. The silent acknowledgement of their power vibrated through Owein’s body.
He spread his hand flat on the papyrus, covering the mark completely. His palm burned. The heat expanded, surging up his arm. The strange symbol seared his flesh. But when he opened his palm, his skin was unmarked.
“What is this?” he demanded.
“This mark is engraved on the cup I seek. Aiden bade me draw it on the papyrus to show you.”
“This mark is on a Roman cup?”
“Once inside the bowl, and three times on the outside. But … I do not think the cup is Roman. Aiden said it was not.”
Owein’s brow furrowed. “Describe the vessel further, lass.”
“It’s … old,” she said, hesitantly, as if the word were inadequate. “It’s smithed in silver, inlaid with crystals. Tarnish darkens its surface, yet somehow the metal is no less radiant for the passing of time. The crystals are polished like glass, revealing a core of wood.”
“And where did ye come by it?”
“I told you. It belonged to my mother.”
“Aye, so ye’ve said. Did your merchant father trade for it?”
Clara’s eyes swept down, and her cheeks flushed. “He … no. My mother received the cup from my grandmother. It’s a family heirloom.”
“Impossible. Some marauding ancestor of yours must have stolen it. No Roman could own such a treasure by right.”
Clara bristled. “The mark holds magic, does it not? Celt magic? Aiden insisted it did.”
“Aye, the old man spoke truly for once. Only a Druid Master could have smithed a grail such as ye describe.”
“Grail?”
“A sacred vessel,” Owein clarified. “Imbued with Deep Magic.”
“Deep Magic,” she repeated. “Aiden spoke of Deep Magic as well. But I don’t understand.”
“The Deep Magic is the power of the gods. A power that existed long before man, long before the Dark and the Light. It’s a power a mortal cannot hope to control. And yet,” he added softly, “many have tried.”
Clara stared at him. “I think … I’ve felt it. Even as a young girl. My mother promised to tell me more of the cup when I became a woman, but she died suddenly, and Father locked it away. I know so little. I only know that when I touch the cup, I feel”—she paused, a crease lining her forehead—“more.”
Owein watched her closely. “More what, lass?”
“I don’t know. Just … more. There’s no other way to describe it.”
Owein shook his head. It was impossible that a Roman woman could claim a connection with the Deep Magic of a Druid grail. And yet, he could sense no deception in Clara. Still, there was no possibility the grail belonged to her family. No Roman had the right to hold a sacred Druid relic.
Suddenly, Aiden’s intentions became clear. The old man had sent Clara to tell Owein of the grail’s existence. Surely Aiden meant for Owein to claim the grail as his own.
Aware of Clara’s eyes upon him, Owein lifted the papyrus and scrutinized the mark. Again a sacred Word reverberated in his mind, and this time, more gently, in his throat.
The papyrus vibrated in his palm. Power ran up his arm like a shock, to land sharply in his temple. He spread his palm on the table, trapping the mark beneath it. It burned, but he couldn’t summon the strength to throw the scroll aside.
A vision formed. Owein braced rigid arms on the table, waiting for the pain he knew would come. It did not forsake him. It rushed like flame though his veins, struck like a sharpened spear behind his eyes. He gasped with the violence of it. Dimly, he was aware of Clara, her delicate hand at her throat, her dark eyes frightened. He had but a moment to feel shame that she would witness his weakness.
The vision overtook him. His legs crumpled beneath him, knees connecting with the hard ground. The edges of his dwelling blurred. His body felt heavy, then light, as if his flesh had suddenly evaporated from his bones. His spirit rose, traveling into a gray mist.
He stood in an otherworldly place, surrounded by fog, the grail resting in his hands. He gazed at the relic. The metalwork was exquisite, far finer than any he’d ever seen. The sign of the Old Ones gleamed. The quartered circle, entwined with vines, surrounded the triple spiral.
Owein knew magic, but never had he touched an object so potent as this. Even though he held the grail in spirit only, his fingers tingled with its power. The Druid who had smithed this cup had fashioned no less than a portal to the Deep Magic.
Some of that magic seeped into Owein’s skin. The tingling in his fingertips intensified, igniting something akin to fire. The sensation raced like lightning through his veins. Every fiber of his being thrummed with it.
His blood stirred. This simple cup held power enough to defeat thousands. Power enough to drive the Second Legion from the western mountains.
But what human was strong enough to pay the price such power demanded? Owein’s own Druid Master, Madog, had not been able to control the Deep Magic. The forces Madog had unleashed against the Romans had turned against him, killing him as surely as the Roman sword that had pierced his flesh. If Owein dared call the Deep Magic, would he fare any better?
But what of the Druid who had summoned the storm? It took vast power to control the elements of nature. The Deep Magic would respond to such power. Perhaps the Hidden One had strength enough to wield it.
He cupped the grail in his hands. The vessel was not large—indeed, the bowl almost disappeared between his palms. Its inner surface was smooth, save for the pattern in the center of the bowl. As Owein gazed at it, the triple spiral began to spin. Liquid bubbled into the cup, viscous and dark, deep red and shining.
Blood.
Its power drew him in, claimed a piece of his soul. Pain drove through him like a shard of white fire. An animal’s cry tore from his throat, but some dark part of his mind welcomed the suffering. For gazing into the grail, Owein knew a fleeting glimpse of invulnerability. Of immortality. In the face of such power, what worth did one man’s frail body hold?
A shaft of pain impaled his right eye. A bead of sweat dripped from his brow to mingle with the blood in the grail. An image appeared on the liquid’s s
urface, indistinct and wavering. He reached for it with his mind, not willing to let it escape.
It was like grasping the fire-reddened tip of an iron rod. The pain of the embrace was too great. He flinched and his vision blurred. Mist surrounded him, blocking his Sight, as if the god of the grail had looked into Owein’s dark soul and found him wanting.
His arms spasmed, causing his grip to falter. The grail slipped. He felt something drop from his fingers—no, not the cup, but the slip of papyrus bearing its mark. It tumbled into the fire and was lost. All at once, he felt someone’s hands grasping his. The touch was cool, like healing water.
Clara filtered slowly into his vision. She crouched before him, her dark gaze probing. He had no idea what she sought, but her intimate scrutiny disturbed him. He tried to pull away.
“No!” Her grip was remarkably strong for such a delicate creature. The vision had weakened him. He couldn’t shake free.
“Let me be.”
“No. You’re in pain. I …”
And then he felt it. The whisper of a presence in his mind, like a flicker of light at the edge of his vision. Another consciousness, seeking to merge with his own.
By the might of the Horned God!
He’d felt such a sensation once before. Then it had been Madog in his mind. But the woman kneeling before him was no Druid master. She was Roman! It was not possible she could touch him so.
And yet she had.
Her expression was dazed, her eyes wide. And yet awareness flickered there. She knew what she’d done. She’d slipped in through the pain. Through his weakness.
This small Roman lass was far more dangerous than he’d thought.
He could feel her inside his mind, trying to align his will more fully with hers. He sensed she was drawn to his memories. She wanted to dive from the surface of his soul into his darkness.
He could not allow it. He tried to wrest himself from her grasp. In his weakened state, he couldn’t summon the will to break her hold.
Perhaps he could repel her another way. He filled his mind—and hers—with an image sure to repulse. In his mental picture, Clara was naked, standing with her breasts pressed against a wide tree trunk. Owein was behind her, his rigid cock stroking the cleft of her buttocks. One knee urged her legs to part, while his hands adjusted the angle of her hips. His hand snaked around the dream Clara’s body to delve between her thighs.
The true Clara’s eyes widened. She gasped, color flooding her face. A flash of her shock filled his mind—along with an unexpected flare of arousal.
Her reaction to his crude thoughts stunned him. He’d anticipated disgust. Revulsion. Not … curiosity.
His body responded instantly. The image in his mind shifted. Now the dream Clara lay beneath him, moaning and arching into his hand. A pleading whisper fell from her parted lips. Owein sensed the true Clara’s surge of panic. Felt her control on her magic slip.
Her touch vanished from his mind.
Thank the Horned God! Owein crouched, one hand gripping the edge of the table, his chest heaving with relief. He didn’t attempt speech for several moments, until he was sure his voice would be steady.
He looked up, and with an insolence he didn’t feel, forced a challenge into his eyes. “Did ye enjoy what ye saw, lass?”
Her countenance flushed crimson.
He tried to rise, but his legs were unsteady. He lowered himself into the chair instead.
She regarded him warily. “What … happened between us?”
“Ye dinna know?”
She shook her head. “I think … was that magic? Aiden thought I had a talent for it. He said he saw a light around me.”
“Let me tell ye about Aiden, lass. He once saw a light around a carp. He hung the dead fish in his house, until the stink brought the entire village to his door.” He exhaled unsteadily. “But to answer your question—aye, ye have magic.” A master’s talent. But he didn’t tell her that.
“Could you … teach me to use it?”
At the risk of baring his soul and his past to her scrutiny? He would offer himself at the fortress gates in Isca before he would allow that to happen. The ache behind his right eye intensified, blurring her in his vision.
“I’m no teacher,” he said gruffly.
“But—”
“I told ye—no.” The pain in his head pounded. His hands burned. He opened his fists and looked down.
His stomach lurched, his head spun. His fingers were red, as if they’d been dipped in blood.
He pitched forward. The ground rushed up to claim him.
Clara leapt as Owein’s large body tumbled from the chair. But she could no more have stopped his fall than she could have halted the plunge of an oak. He fell hard, his head striking the ground near the hearth.
She put all her strength into rolling him away from the fire. By the time she succeeded in heaving him onto his back and out of harm’s way, stars spun in her vision. His body was dead weight, solid and heavy with muscle. His face was deathly pale behind his beard. His eyes were closed and his breathing shallow.
Had the trance harmed him? It surely had frightened her—almost as much as the lewd image she’d seen in his mind. The thought of that scene filled her with shame, yet at the same time, it sparked a fire low in her belly. What kind of woman was she, to feel this way?
Tentatively, she picked up his hand. It was heavy and cold, and his skin was damp. How could the heat have gone out of him so suddenly? Was this the price of his magic?
How long before he recovered? Would he recover? Or would the darkness she’d sensed inside him rise? Panic clawed at her lungs. She’d been drawn to the black depths of his soul. For one frightening moment, she’d feared she would lose herself in his darkness. She might have, if she hadn’t been so shocked by his lewd thoughts.
She shook his shoulder, trying not to let her desperation show. “Owein?”
If he heard her call, he gave no evidence of it. She hesitated, then gave his shoulders another shake. “Owein!”
He uttered a low moan. Beneath closed lids, his eyes fluttered. She shook him again, and he moaned a second time. His arm flung out, nearly striking her in the face.
She jumped back. “Owein!”
He murmured something she couldn’t make out. He rolled to his side, facing her. His countenance relaxed. Clara’s breath slowed. In repose, he seemed much less formidable.
But in no way harmless. Her eye lingered on the muscles of his upper arm, then drifted across his powerful torso. When she caught herself staring at the bulge between his thighs, she jerked her gaze away. The dream image of him readying himself to thrust between her spread legs had been more than she could bear.
She shifted, trying to assuage a sudden ache between her thighs. Was this the feeling the kitchen girls giggled about when they thought she couldn’t hear? She’d never understood their giddy talk. Certainly, she’d shuddered at the thought of abasing herself before Valgus that way. She’d never understood what appeal lay in opening one’s legs to a sweating, grunting man.
Until now. For some reason, imagining herself yielding to Owein in that way didn’t inspire the same disgust. Much to the contrary. It brought a curious warmth to her belly, and below.
Owein grimaced and opened his eyes, as if he’d felt the heat seeping into her belly. He stared at her for several seconds, then an amused light flitted through his blue eyes. Belatedly, Clara realized she’d snuck a glance at the bulge between his thighs.
Her face heated.
“If ye dinna mind straddling me,” he said in a conversational tone, “I might try to accommodate ye.”
Clara blinked. “What?”
He lifted his torso on his elbows, then groaned and lay flat again. With a rueful smile, he nodded at a point lower on his body. Clara couldn’t help following his gaze. Her eyes widened. The bulge had grown considerably.
“One limb at least seems to be working,” he said.
Her gaze snapped back to his face. Despite
his obvious humor, he looked haggard and weak. “Is it always like this?”
He chuckled. “Generally, when I’m near a fair lass.”
Clara’s cheeks burned so hot, she wondered her skin didn’t burst into flames. “I meant to say, are you always weak after a vision?”
His amusement died. “Aye. But it passes quickly.” Rolling to his knees, he placed a hand on the overturned chair and heaved himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, then planted himself as firmly as an oak. Clara scrambled to her feet. She felt far less steady than Owein looked.
She needed his help, yet even at his weakest he was frightening. He put her in mind of a lion she’d once seen at the arena games. The beast had fought to the death. She’d been moved to pity, but her father had scoffed at her sentiment. “Given the chance,” he’d told her, “that lion would tear you to shreds. Pity! Did Caesar show pity to Vercingetorix in Gaul? No. If he had, the Celt king would have destroyed him. One cannot coddle a lion.”
Clara regarded Owein through narrowed eyes. Perhaps it was true one couldn’t coddle a lion. But perhaps one could make use of its strength.
Owein righted the chair and sat. Clara seated herself on the bench opposite, studying him. Every line of his body was weary, yet she sensed his lingering magic.
“Did you See the grail in your vision?”
“Aye,” he said after a moment.
A surge of hope washed through her. “Do you know where it is? Who took it?”
“Nay. The place in my vision—’twas not of this world.”
Clara shut her eyes against a wash of disappointment. “Can you find out more?”
“I could seek a vision. Ask the Horned God for his aid.” His hard tone indicated his reluctance to do such a thing.
“I would pay you well,” she said. “I have gold and jewels in my satchel, along with some coin. I gathered all that I could—”
He shook his head. “I want no payment for my trouble.”
“But you will seek the vision? You’ll help me?”
“Aye.” His blue eyes shifted away. “For Aiden’s sake.”
“When?”