The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  “Fall into a crouch and dip one shoulder, like this …” He executed the move. “ ’Twill give ye better leverage.”

  She imitated the best she could.

  “Ye can do better.” He resheathed his blade and spread his arms wide. “Take me for a target.”

  Clara was aghast. “Attack you? I couldn’t!”

  “Afraid?”

  “No.”

  “Weak, then.”

  “No! I … just don’t wish to hurt you.”

  His blue eyes glinted. “Abandon your denials, lass. Your weak Roman blood tells.”

  “Oh! You—” She swung.

  He jumped aside, laughing.

  “Are”—she slashed again, her blade meeting nothing but air. Abandoning all restraint, she flung herself at him. “—a”—slash—“barbarian”—slash—“brute!”

  His arm shot out, snagging her wrist and lifting her blade over her head. Caught by her forward momentum, Clara stumbled into his chest. With an efficient motion, he divested her of her weapon. Laughter reigned in his eyes. Clara inhaled a sharp breath. Had he staged this futile lesson just to humiliate her?

  If so, he’d not had his fill of amusement. He gave a mock bow and extended the dagger, hilt first. “Another try, lass.”

  She looked from the blade to his face. “What?”

  “Again,” he said, exasperation plain in his voice. “Perhaps this time, ye’ll trouble yourself to remember my instruction. Dip and come up. Use your weight to your advantage. Ye’ll never best a man trying to overpower him from above.”

  “You mean … you truly want me to learn how to fight?”

  “Of course. What do ye think?” He extended the blade.

  Clara took it. “But … why?”

  “The road can be a dangerous place. I don’t know where my vision at the stones will lead us, but wherever it is, I canna watch ye every second of the way. I’ll rest easier knowing ye can at least defend yourself until I come to your aid.”

  “No. I meant … why do you care?”

  He stared at her, the blue of his eyes as intense as the sky above. Two spots of color showed on the high ridge of cheekbone above his beard.

  “Again,” he said gruffly.

  “No. My arm aches.”

  “I dinna care. Again.”

  Clara sighed as she adjusted her grip. Owein spread his stance. “Have at me, lass.”

  “Clara,” she said through gritted teeth. She slashed upward, but he danced away. How was it a man so large could be so light on his feet?

  With a blur of movement, he grabbed for her. She ducked under his arm and jumped aside, using her lack of height to her advantage. What other advantage might she draw upon? A sudden thought sparked. She eyed him, noting the position of his feet and the shift of his weight. When he lunged for her a second time, she was ready. Her shoulder dipped, drawing him forward. Then, with a sudden movement, she shifted the blade from her right hand to her left, reversing the pivot of her torso. She thrust her left arm upward, the entire weight of her body behind it.

  He deflected the move with a grunt and a curse. She’d done him no damage—he was far too swift for that, and he’d been expecting her attack, after all. But the flash of respect in his eyes told her that she’d succeeded in taking him by surprise.

  The small victory left her flushed with pride. She met his raised brows with a sweet smile.

  “Ye favor your left hand?” he asked curiously. “I hadna noticed.” He gave his head a small shake, as if not able to believe he’d been so unobservant.

  “I favor the left, but my tutor insisted I hold my pen with the right. Now I can do most tasks as well with either.”

  Owein nodded approvingly. “ ’Tis a fine advantage in a fight.” Reaching for her shoulders, he pivoted her and pulled her into his body, pressing her against his chest. Heat skittered down her spine and snaked into her belly.

  His lips whispered close to her ear. “Try it like this, lass …” Taking her left hand in his, he drew her into a low crouch, then guided her arm in a sharp upward thrust.

  “In a fight ye may only have the opportunity for one good blow. Ye must make the most of it.”

  He released her. Deprived of his support, she swayed, trying to regain her equilibrium. It was a difficult task.

  Owein hefted a short, stout branch in both hands and held it before him like a shield. “Again.”

  “Again? But what of the element of surprise?”

  “ ’Tis the motion you’re practicing. When danger comes, ye must fight without thinking.” He revealed a flash of white, even teeth. “Or is your Roman blood too weak?”

  Clara’s grip tightened on the dagger’s hilt.

  Owein’s smile broadened. “That’s it.”

  He egged her on, urging her to sink the blade. He watched each movement with a critical eye, directing her to spin right or left as circumstances warranted. Each blow sent a jolt up her arm.

  Her shoulders burned with fire, but she gritted her teeth and said nothing. She spun and slashed again and again. Finally, when the sun had succeeded in hoisting itself over the upper edge of the mountain, Owein lowered the branch and called an end to the lesson. Clara blinked into the sunlight.

  Owein inspected the gouges she’d inflicted on the wood like a sculptor appraising the work of an apprentice.

  “ ’Twill do,” he pronounced at last, tossing the branch aside. Facing her, he grinned. “Until the next lesson, at least.”

  Chapter Nine

  The stone stood on a rise of snow beneath a cerulean sky. It was not so large as Clara had imagined, nor so broad. It was but a single weathered lump of rock, a far cry from the massive ring of smooth-hewn pillars and lintels Clara had once seen on the southern plains near the old Celt fortress of Sarum.

  “Are you sure this is the place?” She wasn’t inclined to be generous, not when Owein had left the shelter of the valleys to trek over treeless, ice-covered mountaintops. The wind bit through her cloak. Her thighs ached with climbing and she could no longer feel her toes inside her boots.

  “I thought we were looking for a circle,” she complained. “That’s but one stone.”

  “The smaller stones lie hidden in the snow.”

  “Wonderful.” Clara let out a long sigh as she trudged in the white furrow left by Owein’s long legs.

  Owein glanced back. “Wishing for a fire? Or a hot bath?”

  “You know that I am.” She caught a glimpse of his grin before he turned.

  “Ye should have stayed—”

  “Don’t say it,” Clara warned, drawing her hood tightly about her ears to block both the wind and Owein’s taunting. She’d wished a thousand times over that she’d stayed behind. But the earth would shake to pieces before she’d admit it.

  Owein’s mood sobered with each step toward the stone. It took longer than Clara had hoped to traverse the downward sweep of snow-covered hillside. Distances in the high mountains were deceiving—more than once she’d thought a landmark near only to watch it recede as they approached. The rock did the same. By the time they reached the stone—which Clara was surprised to realize stood taller than Owein—the sun had sunk behind the hills.

  Clara swallowed her dismay. The wind was frigid on the exposed slope. With a sigh, she resigned herself to a night spent huddled in her cloak. Owein lowered his pack to the ground. Clara rubbed her hands, trying to work the life back into them.

  His gaze swung toward her. In two great strides, he closed the distance between them. Large, warm hands enveloped hers and took over the task of making her blood flow.

  “I’ve pushed ye too hard.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He gave a half snort and continued rubbing. Gradually, her fingers warmed. Other parts of her body heated as well. The places he’d stroked before—while he dreamed of his wife—came to life. Her stomach, her shoulder. The sensitive place just below her earlobe. The tips of her breasts …

  She stepped away, pulling her hands
free. He let her go, but his eyes remained watchful.

  “How long will this take?” she asked, unnerved.

  “The Horned God keeps his own time, lass.”

  He turned and paced a few steps from the great stone, then bent to clear away an armful of snow. A smaller stone appeared, lumpy and gray like its sire. Wholly unremarkable, and yet … when Clara closed her eyes she imagined she felt a faraway tingling.

  Owein paced a wide arc, exposing about twenty stones in all. Then he retreated a good distance from the stones and fashioned a crude shelter with snow walls. He transferred the pack inside it. Unfastening his cloak, he spread it on the ground and indicated Clara should sit. “You’ll await me here, lass.”

  “My cloak is warm enough,” she said. “You’ll need yours.”

  He gave a tight smile. “Nay.”

  She plucked the well-worn garment from the ground and offered it to him. He took and spread it again inside the makeshift walls.

  “Be biddable just this once. Sit.”

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  With an aggrieved sigh, she obeyed. In truth, it was a relief to be off her feet. And the snow walls did break most of the wind.

  He paced a circle around her, his lips moving silently, his head bowed. Clara felt a subtle force rise in his wake—with a start, she realized he was enclosing her in a ring of magic. When he returned to his starting place, he lifted his gaze. “No matter what happens, what ye see or hear, ye must stay in this circle.”

  “You mean to cage me?”

  “I mean to protect ye.”

  “The two are one and the same.”

  “I willna argue. In this ye will obey me.” His tone was harsh.

  Clara hesitated, then nodded.

  “I’ll have your word.”

  “I will stay.”

  He gave her one last look, as if gauging the honor of her pledge, then turned and strode toward the circle. He made a circuit of the stones, touching each one and standing before it for a time in silence. When he reached the headstone, he stepped past it into the center of the circle.

  Owein lifted his arms. A Word emerged from his lips. The power of the syllable struck Clara’s mind like a mallet. Around her, the night fell silent. Even the wind ceased its howling.

  Owein stood motionless half the night, waiting. But when the vision finally came, it took him by surprise.

  First, there was darkness. No vision at all, but blackness so thick and dry that it took all his effort to breathe. Gradually, his eyes picked out flat, hard shadows.

  He was inside walls. A Roman chamber, to be sure, for the enclosure was small, square, and airless. A line of light spilled from beneath a closed door. Owein willed it to grow, expanding the illumination until he could see his surroundings.

  The chamber appeared to be half-completed. It was empty of furnishings, with a single door and no windows. An unfinished mural wrapped three sides of the space. Pots of pigment and brushes lay scattered on the floor, atop an oiled cloth, as if the artist had stepped out for a breath of air. No doubt he needed one—his painting was not for the faint of heart. It depicted a city under siege. Flames consumed the town’s timber walls; bloody bodies, some with limbs and heads hacked off, lay in heaps. In the foreground, soldiers streamed from the belly of what looked like a giant wooden horse.

  Owein’s gaze scanned the room, alighting on a sack he’d not seen earlier. It lay half open, its contents spilling across the mosaic floor. Plates and goblets of gold and silver tumbled atop each other like bright children’s toys.

  One goblet caught his eye. It was wrought in silver and crystal. The intricate ornamentation upon it matched Clara’s drawing. A triple spiral encircled by a circle woven with vines.

  He reached for it, though he knew that his spirit-hand would not be able to touch it. All the same, his disappointment was keen when the familiar mist swirled into his vision. When the fog cleared, he found himself within the stones.

  He bowed his head and braced himself for the pain.

  Clara gasped as Owein’s body jerked, his back arching as if someone had lain a lash across it. His powerful legs crumpled. Pain battered the edges of Clara’s mind—just a shadow of what Owein’s agony must be, but still she flinched from the savagery of it.

  Was this what Owein endured each time his god sent a vision? How in Jupiter’s name did he bear it?

  The urge to go to him was fierce. She wavered within the protection of the circle he’d made for her, watching as he struggled to his feet. She felt the pain wash over him; with a start, she realized their minds were joined. She was a specter hovering on the edge of his consciousness. Did he even realize she bore witness to his suffering? If so, he gave no indication.

  Her breath hung motionless in her lungs. Owein swayed on his feet; attempted a single step. Even such a small task was beyond him. Once again, his large body collapsed in the snow.

  “No!” Clara leaped over the wall of her makeshift shelter. A pulse of energy resisted her progress. She pushed through it. The sensation was like passing through fire, but she hardly registered the discomfort. In a heartbeat she was free and running.

  She dropped to her knees at his side, her heart pounding, panic twisting like snakes in her belly. “Owein?”

  He stirred within her mind. A moment later, he heaved himself up on one knee, his arms trembling with the effort. His face had gone pale beneath the red of his beard.

  She cradled the side of his face, his temple plait brushing the back of her hand. Raw, blistering pain bubbled into her mind. Emotions far too violent for her to grasp. Sorrow, anguish, hatred—the searing darkness of Owein’s memories struck her like a physical blow, sending her sprawling backward into the snow.

  How could he bear such agony alone? Tentatively, she made her way to him and placed her palm on his forehead. This time she expected the pain. She sucked in a breath as the memory of a day long past flashed from Owein’s mind to hers.

  Flames licked like red tongues along the slope of the thatched roofs. A Legionary’s helmet flashed in the sunlight. Soldiers advanced, swords drawn. There were so many. More than Owein could count.

  The attackers had hacked through the front line of Celts. As the youngest of the warriors, Owein had been left in charge of the village. But he hadn’t stayed at his post; he’d run ahead to the fighting.

  He’d not expected the Romans to slip in behind and attack the children and elders.

  Owein had managed to stay alive during the battle, though not without cost. He’d lost his sword when a Roman blade sliced his upper arm. The limb dragged, bleeding freely as he ran toward the screams. He felt no pain. At least, not yet.

  A child’s shrill cry assaulted his ears. Moira—Enid’s little lass. He lurched toward the sound, not willing to believe he couldn’t save her.

  A rough hand halted his progress, spinning him about. “By the gods, lad, ye canna mean to go back.”

  With difficulty, he focused on the speaker. His kinsman, Cormac. “I have to,” he gasped out. “It’s my duty.”

  “Ye must count it lost, then,” Cormac said, all but dragging Owein from the slaughter. “There’s naught ye can do.”

  Darkness rushed the edges of Owein vision. He swayed on his feet. “Nay. Nay—”

  “Nay,” he moaned. “Nay.”

  “Owein?” He trembled under her touch. Shifted, and cried out again. She felt the exact moment he became aware of her crouching by his side. His body tensed.

  Anger flared along the thread of their mental connection.

  “Nay.” He tried to shake her off. “Let me be.”

  “I want to help you. I … I see a village burning …”

  “Nay.” With a burst of scorching power, he snapped the connection between them. The pain and horror of his home’s destruction vanished from her mind. His big, powerful body slipped from her arms and slumped on the ground. His eyes fluttered closed.

  “Owein?” She shook him, hands on his sho
ulders, but her strongest effort barely stirred him. She framed his face in her hands, fingers threading through his mane of red curls. Climbing half atop him, she shook him again.

  “Owein! Answer me!”

  Nothing. She pressed her thumbs to the side of his neck, seeking the pulse of his life’s blood. It was weak and uneven. “No,” she whispered. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck. Was he dying? Because of her? Tears squeezed from her eyes. She aligned her body with his, shifting to lie atop his torso. Slowly, his arms crept around her.

  “Lass,” he rasped. “Could ye kindly climb from my chest before ye squeeze the last bit of breath from my lungs?”

  But his arms didn’t relax. If anything, they closed more tightly around her. One large hand covered her bottom.

  Clara went still. Her hands framed his face. Her breasts were squashed against his chest. Their hearts pounded together in one uneven rhythm. She lowered her forehead into the crook of his neck and breathed his scent deeply. Pine and heather, and rough-cured leather. Her leg—oh gods!—her leg had somehow become wedged between his. His hard phallus pressed against her thigh.

  “Lass …”

  She struggled to produce an answer from a throat gone as dry as an old well. Her fingers curled on his shoulders. His hands found their way to her waist.

  Instinctively, she rocked her hips against his hardness.

  He gave a weak chuckle. “Have ye changed your mind, then, about coupling with me?”

  Clara lifted her head and stared. “You cannot even stand! How can you think of … of that?”

  His phallus hardened even more, and his eyes, when she looked into them, glittered like polished gems. “There’s hardly any time when a man canna think of coupling,” he said.

  One large hand covered her breast, squeezing softly. Her breath came in a gasp. The last connection she had with her magic fled. Fear and anticipation rose, entwined as one.

  Two women warred in her brain. One, shameless and wild, wanted to open for him. The other, dutiful and civilized, clung desperately to her father’s instruction. His face rose in her mind. Father hadn’t considered a Roman blacksmith worthy of her. What thoughts would he have concerning a wild Celt?