The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  He turned to find Rhiannon and Marcus watching him closely—Rhiannon, with an expression of understanding; Marcus with a look of horror. A muscle ticked in his friend’s jaw. Marcus’s fingers flexed, as if itching for one of his daggers.

  Rhys felt his cheeks grow warm. The weight of the deception he’d foisted on Marcus weighed more heavily now that the truth had come out. He’d handled the situation badly—had he transformed friend to enemy? How many times had Cyric told him that the purpose of the Light was just the opposite—to turn his enemies from the path of hatred?

  He all but fled the forge. The chasm between Cyric’s teaching and Rhys’s fulfillment of his duty was wide and deep. How could Rhys hope to lead Avalon after Cyric’s death? For that was his birthright, the one promise that made all his years of wandering bearable. And yet … sometimes he could not help wondering if Gwendolyn would be better suited to the task.

  Gwendolyn, with her quick laughter and daring ways. Her loving heart and her unflagging energy. She was the younger, but she’d ever possessed the stronger will. Even so, their differences had struck a perfect balance. Together, they’d been invincible.

  They had even shared one mind, their thoughts passing between them as easily as spoken conversation. But now? Now Rhys could barely remember what it was like to have Gwen speak to his soul.

  He passed through the gates enclosing the villa grounds, Hefin circling above him. He felt his estrangement from his twin in the deepest part of his being. The rift had begun nine years ago, when Cyric had presented them with differing tasks. Rhys was to wander Britannia, searching for those with latent Druid power. Gwen was to remain in Avalon, tending the needs of the clan and teaching the initiates Rhys brought to her.

  Their duties had been the opposite of their desires. Gwen envied Rhys’s wandering; Rhys envied Gwen’s home on the sacred isle. Why had Cyric set them on such conflicting paths?

  Rhys clenched his jaw. The estrangement was more Gwen’s doing than his. He’d come to peace with Cyric’s command. For nine years, since he’d been little more than a lad, Rhys had traveled in Roman towns, never passing more than a fortnight in one bed. He sought those linked to the Deep Magic.

  By contrast, Gwen had railed against her duty. Whenever Rhys made a brief visit to Avalon, he heard the accusations. Gwen was forever disappearing into the swamps and forests, telling no one of her purpose. When she returned, she gave no explanation. For some reason, Cyric refused to curb her insolence. The clan had been tolerant at first, then impatient, and finally, angry. But no one, least of all Rhys, could discover how Gwen passed her time away from Avalon. Like Rhys, Gwen was strong in the magic of the forest. She was adept at covering her trail.

  Then, a fortnight ago, the first ill winds had risen, and Cyric had fallen sick. Gwen had not been present.

  Rhys’s breathing ran shallow. Mared, Avalon’s healer, had declared Cyric’s malady magical in nature. Avalon had buzzed with suspicion. Rhys couldn’t believe what they’d whispered—that Gwen’s absence proved she was responsible for her grandfather’s malady. Surely, surely, Rhys’s twin could not have embraced the Dark. Surely Gwen was back in Avalon now, assisting Mared in nursing Cyric back to health.

  Snow crunched under Rhys’s boots as he traversed the stubbled field and ducked into the forest beyond. Once surrounded by trees, he halted and looked up. Hefin perched on a high branch, running his long wing feathers, one by one, through his beak.

  “Just get on with it. Tell me what’s happened.”

  Hefin settled his wings. A moment later, a thought formed in Rhys’s brain. Or not a thought, precisely, for the language of animals was different from that of humans. Image. Instinct. A series of sensations, a deep knowing. Rhys closed his eyes and let his human mind merge with that of his companion. For an instant, he became the merlin.

  In that instant, he learned more than he wished to know.

  He broke the connection with a gasp. The magic had weakened him; he staggered forward, grasping a limb to stop his fall.

  He bowed his head, fighting tears. His grandfather’s illness had worsened. Avalon’s healer had given up hope of his recovery.

  With his last breath, Cyric was calling Rhys home.

  Chapter Eight

  Clara woke slowly, sleep seeping from her mind as did wine from a cracked cask. Her dreams had been warm and pleasant, like sunshine. The sensation of a summer garden lingered. High walls surrounded a profusion of blooms in every color; an azure sky arched over head. A sky, she thought, that reminded her of someone’s eyes.

  She snuggled into her covers, desperate to steal a few last moments of sleep before Father’s voice boomed through the courtyard. Father’s habit was to rise before dawn, and Clara always rose early to greet him.

  But perhaps she would remain abed today …

  A warm stream of air tickled the back of her neck. She wriggled and shifted, but for some reason couldn’t manage to roll onto her back. Something solid and uncomfortable prodded her bottom. What was a big stone pestle doing in her bed?

  The last echoes of her father’s voice faded. Reality asserted itself in the form of a heavy arm pinning her torso. A large hand lingered dangerously close to her breast. A bearded chin tickled the sensitive place just below her ear.

  Her back was pressed up against Owein’s chest. His thighs cradled her lower body. And that stone pestle pressing against her buttocks? Her body went rigid, her chest no longer able to send air into her lungs. That was no pestle!

  She tried, gingerly, to shift away. Owein started, his sudden gasp of breath rasping her ear. He murmured a soft word and drew her closer. His hand found her breast. Squeezed.

  Flames licked her belly, and lower. Panic clogged her throat—panic and breathless anticipation, wrapped together in one inextricable Gordian knot. Owein murmured again. A soft kiss brushed her shoulder. His hand left her breast to travel a slow torturous path down her stomach, across her hip, along her outer thigh. Catching the hem of her undertunic, his warm fingers delved beneath, stroking upward on bare skin. Her tunic rode up around her waist, baring her lower body. Clara pressed her legs together, dreading, wanting …

  The heel of his hand pressed the triangle of curls that guarded her sex. There was an exquisitely sensitive bit of flesh there, and he sought it out, rocking and shifting his hand against it. The movement sent a spiral of heat through Clara’s limbs. A soft moan escaped her lips. Instinctively, she moved her hips, mimicking his rhythm.

  “Aye, Eirwen, like that,” he murmured, nuzzling her ear.

  Clara froze. Eirwen? Owein’s wife?

  His fingers stroked, teased. Her unruly body ignored the panic in her brain, opening to accommodate him, her legs parting as if of their own accord. His fingers slipped between, into slick wetness.

  His next stroke was more intimate than she could bear. It was as if he’d touched the very center of her soul. A soft sob escaped her lips. Moisture gathered in her eyes.

  “Eirwen,” he murmured again.

  She closed her eyes. Oh gods. She didn’t want him touching her this way—not when he thought she was another woman.

  She shrank back, trying to evade his probing fingers. The movement only served to press his phallus more firmly against her bottom. His braccas were undone, she realized with a sickening start. His hard flesh pressed like a hot brand on her skin. His hands drifted to her hips, lifting her slightly as his erection probed between her legs. The tip of his shaft pressed against her slickness.

  By Jupiter! He could take her this way! It would be like the image he’d sent into her mind.

  It was all she could do to haul enough air into her lungs to speak. “Owein!” Another breath. “Stop!”

  “Hush,” he said, planting a wet kiss on her ear. “Let me love ye. There’ll be little enough chance after the babe is born.”

  Hot tears gathered in her eyes. Behind her, Owein’s phallus withdrew slightly. His hands positioned her hips for the joining thrust.

  �
��No!” Taking advantage of the slight space between their bodies, she twisted her torso hard, rolling toward him. His surging shaft jabbed her hip.

  She wrenched one arm free. Planting her hand on his shoulder, she shoved with all her strength. “Owein. It’s Clara. Stop this.”

  “What—?” He blinked and jerked back as far as he could manage in the close quarters of the hut. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he stared at her, his expression blank. His braccas hung open, revealing the shadow of a huge erect phallus.

  Clara wrenched her eyes from that. She shrank back against the opposite wall, hastily pushing her tunic over her legs. Dawn light streamed through the door and the gaps in the thatch ceiling, creating a haze inside the shelter. A patch of light landed on Owein’s chest, drawing her eye. A sprinkling of russet curls were visible through the loose lacing of hide shirt.

  Clara reached for her cloak, pulling it across her lap. Scant armor, but all she had. Owein’s gaze flicked over her, then down at his phallus. A sheepish expression crept over his face. He did up his laces.

  “You were having a dream,” Clara said shakily. “You thought you were with your wife.”

  Owein’s eyes turned hard and his mouth went down at the corners. Clara’s hand crept to her throat. A Legionary had killed Owein’s wife. One of her father’s men. What would Owein do if he discovered Clara’s lie?

  She should tell him the truth. Confess her identity and be done with it. But if she did, would he abandon the quest for the grail? She couldn’t take that chance.

  Owein shook his head and sighed, seeming to force himself from his bleak memories. “ ’Tis sorry I am if I frightened ye.”

  Clara sat up and attempted a smile. “Think nothing of it.” After a brief silence, she added, “It’s morning. We’d best go.”

  “We have time yet.” His eyes did not waver from her face. The blue of his irises appeared almost black. “ ’Tis best if we wait for the morning sun to soften the ice on the paths. Meanwhile, ’tis warm enough in this shelter for even a pampered Roman lass.” His voice grew husky. “I could warm ye even more, if ye wish.”

  Clara stiffened. “I don’t wish it.”

  He chuckled. “Ye do. Or at least your body does. I was nay so deeply caught in sleep that I didna feel the welcome between your thighs.”

  Her cheeks burned with shame. “You’re mistaken if you think I welcomed your attentions. I … I was caught in my own dream. My eagerness was meant for another.”

  He raised his brows. “Your blacksmith?”

  Clara grasped at the suggestion. “Exactly so. It was Marcus Aquila I dreamed of.”

  Owein’s amusement abruptly vanished. “Marcus Aquila. Commander Lucius Aquila’s son?”

  “Yes,” Clara said, startled. “How did you know?”

  His expression was grim. “I once encountered Lucius Aquila in battle.”

  “Oh. Well. Lucius Aquila is no longer in the Legions. He’s a farmer, and he has a Celt wife. She’s the healer who visited my father.”

  “Rhiannon.” Owein had gone so still, Clara wondered if he breathed.

  “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “I did.” His tone clearly indicated the matter was closed. He levered his large body into a crouch and ducked out the door.

  Clara stared after him. Owein had met Lucius Aquila in battle? Perhaps he harbored a grudge against him. Had she endangered Marcus’s family by making their whereabouts known? She rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled.

  She left the hut and ventured into a thick copse to take care of her personal needs, after which she scrubbed her face and hands vigorously with a handful of snow. Owein shattered the thin coating of ice on a stream and filled his waterskin.

  They broke their fast with more strips of dried venison. Clara tore off a piece with her front teeth and chewed until her jaw ached. She would have had less trouble gnawing her satchel’s leather strap.

  Owein, apparently, had teeth made of stone, for he devoured his portion easily. To her relief, the shadow that had passed over him at the mention of Lucius Aquila had lifted. He watched her eat, the amusement returning to his eyes.

  “ ’Tis not the soft fare ye are accustomed to, I am guessing.”

  Clara swallowed a mouthful of what tasted like burnt wood shavings. “It’s fine.” She took a swig from the water skin, wishing it held wine. She grimaced, then scowled when Owein’s amusement deepened.

  “I suppose a merchant’s daughter spends her life within easy reach of every luxury,” he said.

  Clara studied her clasped hands. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “No wonder ye have such little sense.”

  Her head jerked up. “I have sense!”

  “Oh, aye. Sensible Roman lasses often wander the hills in winter seeking outlawed Druids.”

  “I had no choice about that,” Clara said quietly. “Not with my father lying ill.”

  “The danger was too great.”

  “I had to find you. I’m sorry I disturbed your home, but—”

  “ ’Twas nay much of a home, lass, in case ye hadn’t noticed.” He sighed. “But I was content there, for a time.”

  She hesitated. “Until the Second Legion came?”

  “Aye.” Bitter hatred crept into his voice. “Until Gracchus’s men arrived.”

  “I … I’ve heard Commander Gracchus is respected by Romans and Celts alike in Isca. He’s known as a hard man, but a fair one. I … I also heard that the raid on the hills was ordered by the governor in Londinium. Perhaps … perhaps Commander Gracchus regretted what he had to do.”

  “A fine notion, lass, but one I canna credit. Ye may not have noticed, safe in your merchant father’s house, but to the Legions Celts are no more than beasts. Best killed, or at the least herded to the city and fenced.”

  “Many Celts in Isca are free. In the city, they have comforts they could only have dreamed of in the mountains.”

  “Glass cups and deep cushions. Aye, a fine trade for the home of one’s fathers.” He shook his head in disgust. “Comfort. It leads only to weakness.”

  “Romans are not weak.”

  “Are ye so sure? Aye, ye have armies and fortresses. Fine weapons. Standing together, surrounded by walls, ye are strong enough. But alone? One Roman alone is as weak as a babe.” He stood and started assembling his pack. “Especially a woman.”

  Clara pushed to her feet. “That isn’t true!”

  “Nay? Could you defend yourself if the need came upon you? Could ye use a knife on a man in a fight?”

  She blinked. “Me? You jest. No woman could best a man.”

  “Ah, but I say ye could, if that merchant father of yours had looked up from his money long enough to teach ye how to wield a knife. No Celt father would do less than give his daughter the means by which to defend herself.”

  “A Celt father teaches his daughter to handle a blade?” Clara couldn’t believe it.

  “Aye.” He unsheathed the dagger at his waist and pressed it into Clara’s hand. Her fingers closed on the hilt. Bemused, she looked down at it.

  “Not like that.” His hand covered hers, adjusting her grip. “You’re a slight lass. Nay tall enough to hack into a man’s chest.”

  Hack into a man’s chest?

  If Owein noted Clara’s revulsion, he ignored it. “Even if ye had strength enough in your arm …” He lifted her hand and brought it down in an arc. “See? Ye couldn’t stab down at such a high target. But that doesn’t mean ye canna hit your mark.” He reversed her grip on the knife, so the blade pointed upward.

  “But—”

  “What ye must learn to do is to use your size to your advantage. Attack from below.” He made a fist and demonstrated with an imaginary knife. “Slice upward into the stomach. Or better yet, stab between the legs.”

  The dry venison Clara had swallowed threatened to make a reappearance. “I couldn’t.” She tried to loosen her grip on the dagger. His hand covered hers, preventing it.

  “This is ludicrous,�
� she said. “I could never kill a man. Or even wound one.”

  “Do ye know how many men wouldn’t hesitate to use your body and slit your throat after?”

  “Hundreds, I’m sure,” Clara said dryly.

  “ ’Tis nay a jest I’m making, lass.”

  “But I’m traveling with you,” Clara protested. “That’s protection enough from any brigand.”

  “I canna be at your side always,” he said, his voice tight.

  Clara met his gaze, still holding the knife between them. “Is this … because of what happened to your wife?”

  His jaw clenched. “Eirwen was a tall, strong woman.”

  “But she was heavy with your child.”

  “Aye.” He released her hand and stepped away, grief and sorrow warring in his eyes. With an effort, he mastered both emotions, turning brusque. “The first thing ye must remember is that surprise is the greatest advantage a woman brings to a fight. Ye must be quick—wound your attacker, then make your escape.” He illustrated an attack with an imaginary dagger. “Try it.”

  Clara sighed. She didn’t see the point in the exercise, but there seemed to be no recourse but to humor him. “All right.” She mimicked the thrust, jabbing upward into empty air.

  “Put some passion into it, lass.”

  “My name is Clara,” she muttered. “If you can’t remember that, I’ve a mind to sink this blade into your gut.” She thrust upward again, venting her frustration. Would he perish if he pronounced her name just once?

  “Aye, that’s better,” Owein said, intent on her form. “But put your whole weight behind the thrust.”

  Clara tightened her grip and gave another sharp jab.

  Owein nodded his approval. “Twist the blade at the end of the motion, when it’s buried in your enemy’s flesh.”

  Ugh. Clara considered dropping the weapon right then and there. But one look at Owein’s expression told her that wasn’t an option. Bending, he produced a second dagger from a sheath hidden beneath the leg of his braccas. She blinked. She hadn’t known he carried another blade.