The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  Shame washed through her. “No,” she whispered. “Owein, please. No.”

  His hand stilled on her breast. “I can give ye pleasure.”

  “I’m … sure that’s true. But please, I want to stop.”

  Did the slight tensing of his muscles mean she’d hurt him by her rejection? But, no, that couldn’t be. He was toying with her. He’d been so long without a woman—any female bold enough to straddle him would serve.

  She stifled a hysterical laugh and shoved herself off him. He let her go. He pushed himself up, wincing at the effort.

  “You’re still weak,” she said, alarmed.

  He leaned on one arm, his breathing heavy. “ ’Twill pass soon enough.”

  She eyed the circle of stones, wanting very much to be outside them. “Can you walk?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But you wanted to couple?”

  “I told ye, a man always wants to couple.”

  “Not all men,” Clara said seriously. “My father and mother … they kept separate rooms. Mother nearly died birthing me and I think Father couldn’t bear the thought of risking her life for another child. After she was gone, I thought he might take another wife, but he didn’t. He said he hadn’t the heart.”

  “He loved her too deeply, perhaps, to seek another.”

  “Yes, I think that’s true.” She hesitated. “But you … you didn’t …” She looked down.

  “Love my wife so deeply, ye mean?”

  She nodded.

  Silence stretched between them. Finally, Owein sighed. “Eirwen was a fine woman. Tall, strong, and brave, and pleasing to the eye as well. She …” His voice drifted off.

  “Tell me.”

  He sighed. “When my clan in the north was conquered by the Romans, it was many years before I … before I found a new home. Aiden—he helped me when I …” He swallowed. “I owed him my life. His granddaughter nursed me, and when she wanted me for a husband, he was pleased. So I joined hands with her. She was a dutiful wife. She never gave cause for complaint.” His tone told her he would say no more.

  He pushed unsteadily to his feet. When it became apparent he wouldn’t be able to walk unaided, Clara fit herself into the crook of his arm. Together they passed out of the stone circle.

  “Ye gave me your word ye’d stay within the protection I conjured for ye.”

  “I couldn’t. Not when I knew you needed me.”

  He stared at her for a long moment before lowering himself to the ground inside the snow shelter. Clara reached for his pack. “Do you wish for food? Water?”

  He shook his head, then winced and pressed two fingers to the center of his forehead.

  She eyed him with concern. “Does it hurt?”

  “Aye. ’Tis the Horned God’s payment.”

  “Then … your request was answered? Your god sent you a vision?”

  He nodded.

  “Was it … did you See the grail?”

  “Aye.”

  Hope leapt in her breast. “Where is it?”

  “That I dinna know.” He paused, looking inward. “The room had no window. I saw only a sack of gold and silver plates and goblets. The grail you described was among them. ’Twas a small chamber, with a mural on the wall.” He shook his head. “I dinna pretend to understand Roman sensibilities, lass. The scene was a battle, running with blood. Even half-done, it was a horror. Who would want to look upon such a thing?”

  Clara’s head came up. It couldn’t be. “An unfinished battle scene? What did it look like?”

  “ ’Twas a city under siege, its attackers pouring from the belly of a giant horse.”

  “The siege of Troy by the Spartans,” she whispered. “My father was especially fond of that battle.”

  Owein gave her an odd look. “It seems a strange favorite for a merchant.”

  Clara swallowed. “Yes. But Father commissioned an artist to paint it nonetheless.”

  Owein eyed her. “Ye know the room I saw in my vision?”

  Clara stifled a hysterical laugh. She’d trekked halfway across the mountains only to discover her mother’s cup had been within arm’s reach. “The chamber you describe is in my father’s new country villa. But how did the grail get there?”

  “Perhaps your father brought it there.”

  “He couldn’t have. He never left the fortress the day that the cup was stolen.” He eyes widened. “But Tribune Valgus did. I heard the steward mention it. He’d been in the house the night before, asking after Father’s health. Valgus had been assisting Father with the villa. He could have taken the cup and the other treasures there.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “My guess is that he wants to sell them. It’s no secret Valgus’s father is in debt. That’s why the tribune agreed to our betrothal—and why he insisted on a marriage in manu. Father has no heir but me. Valgus wants control of Father’s property.”

  Her jaw tightened. “He couldn’t even wait until the wedding to begin his thievery.”

  The last rays of the evening sun set the swamps afire.

  Rhys poled his raft through the reed-choked channel. From a distance, the sacred isle of Avalon formed the aspect of the Great Mother. The tallest of Avalon’s two rounded hills formed her breast; the smaller mound, where the apple trees spread their branches, was her pregnant belly. A long, gentle ridge formed her outstretched thigh.

  Rhys guided his craft to the hidden dock. Above, Hefin spiraled in tight circles. A wisp of smoke rose from the village. He started up the path, his footsteps sluggish. In some childlike recess of his mind he half-believed his haste would create the tragedy he dreaded.

  The palisade gate was barred. A small, squat figure loitered before it, a Roman sword at his belt. Rhys’s gaze narrowed. Cormac was not of Avalon. Why had he been allowed to act as sentinel?

  Rhys greeted the northern Celt with an abrupt nod. “What brings ye to Avalon?”

  Cormac drew himself up to his full height, which was no higher than Rhys’s chest. The rough warrior had a man’s torso, but his fleshy limbs hadn’t grown past the length of a child’s. His head was large and bulbous, his features coarse. The dwarf roamed Britannia, as Rhys did, but with baser purpose. He gathered information and offered it for coin.

  Cormac sheathed his gladius. “I arrived yesterday, with news of Legionaries scouting in the Mendips.”

  This brought Rhys up short. “Will their route bring them close to Avalon?”

  “Nay. They remain at least a half day’s march from the isle. They’re poking about some old silver mines.”

  Rhys’s shoulders eased. “No trouble for us, then.” But Cormac, no doubt, would still want payment. Why did Cyric allow this man in Avalon? If it were up to Rhys, he would kick the dwarf back to the northlands.

  “Your grandfather worsens,” Cormac informed him.

  Rhys sobered. “Aye, I know. Give the signal for the gates.”

  Cormac placed two fingers in his mouth and gave a series of sharp whistles. The palisade gate swung open almost at once.

  In less time than it took to string a bow, Rhys was surrounded by friends. Hushed greetings sounded in his ears; arm after arm pulled him into an embrace. Smiling, he unshouldered the pack that held his harp and returned their greetings.

  Very few of the clan were Rhys’s true kin—the connection they shared was born of magic. He’d plucked most of them from dim lives in Roman towns. All were dear to him.

  He searched the gathering for Gwen as tall, balding Trevor related news of Cyric. Two days before, Rhys’s grandfather had slipped into a steep decline. Mared, the healer, and Rhys’s uncle, Padrig, had carried the Druid Master to the high slope of the sacred isle. Cyric lay in a healing hut near the white stone that guarded the entrance to the Lost Land, the vestibule to the Celtic Otherworld, Annwyn.

  Rhys drew Trevor aside, out of hearing of the rest. The older man nurtured a tender feeling for Gwen, and was one of the few who still believed her innocent of calling dark mag
ic.

  “Is my sister on the high slope with Cyric?” Rhys asked.

  Trevor’s habitually serious expression grew even more sober. Silently, he shook his head.

  “Gwen left when ye did, a fortnight past. She hasna returned.” It was Rhys’s cousin, Blodwen, who spoke. Rhys greeted her with a quick embrace. Their mothers had been sisters, and he harbored a deep affection for her. As always, Blodwen’s face was shadowed by her cloak’s deep hood.

  “I canna believe Gwen would be so neglectful,” Rhys said.

  Blodwen’s fingertips grazed his forearm in sympathy. Rhys covered her hand with his own. Together they left Trevor and crossed the village yard, halting near the small stone building that housed Gwen’s forge.

  “I am glad ye are here, Rhys.”

  “I came as quickly as I could,” he told her.

  Her gray gaze touched his, then skittered away. Familiar pity tugged at Rhys’s heart. His cousin never looked at anyone for long, as if by averting her eyes she could hide the long, hideous scars on her face. Though she was only two years his elder, she seemed far older. Her hair had prematurely turned gray and her shoulders were as hunched and bent as an elder’s.

  Yet if Rhys looked hard, he caught an echo of the beauty Blodwen had once possessed, before two Roman soldiers slaked their lust on her body and sharpened their daggers on her skin. That had been eleven winters ago, when Blodwen was a girl of fourteen. The promise of magic had been strong within her, but after the attack it had vanished. She was a gentle soul, the only one of the Druid clan barren of magic.

  “All will be well now that ye’ve returned, cousin.”

  Rhys shook his head. “If Mared and your father canna drive off the evil that sickens Cyric, I surely cannot.”

  “Ye can if ye find Gwen. Surely she will listen to ye. Make her put a halt to this!”

  “My sister has nothing to do with Cyric’s illness,” Rhys said sharply.

  Blodwen’s bit her lower lip. “Just last summer, ye worried Gwen sought magic deeper than her talent. Is our grandfather’s illness not proof of it?”

  “I canna believe Gwen would do Cyric harm.”

  “They quarreled before she left the last time.”

  Rhys stilled. “What of?”

  Blodwen darted a glance toward Trevor. “What do ye think? Cyric urged her to clasp hands with Trevor—or with any man of Avalon. Gwen refused. Her defiance troubled Cyric deeply. He wants her to wed.”

  “Gwen and Cyric have had words on that subject many times. There’s no reason to believe she would call the Dark against Cyric because of it.”

  Blodwen’s pitying expression was worse than any argument. “I love Gwen as ye do, Rhys. But I ask ye: if Gwen hasna cast this evil, then who?”

  “I may have the answer to that,” Rhys said. “I’ve learned of a Druid living in the mountains of Cambria. Owein, of the line of Queen Cartimandua.”

  Blodwen’s eyes widened. “A Druid and a king as well?”

  “Aye. Owein is a Seer, like Cyric. But where Cyric serves the Great Mother, Owein is bound to the Horned God.”

  “The Horned God’s power is vast,” Blodwen said in a hushed voice. “And easily turned to darkness.”

  “There is more. Owein seeks a magic grail. The cup has been in the possession of a Roman family in Isca, but was recently stolen. I believe the vessel is the Lost Grail of Avalon.”

  For several seconds, Blodwen only stared. She licked her lips. “The … the Lost Grail has been found?”

  “Aye, it would seem. Found and lost again. I mean to search it out and bring it home.” He shifted his pack to the ground. “But right now, Blodwen, I need to see Cyric.”

  “Of course.”

  He turned toward the village gate. Cormac jumped aside, clearing a path. Rhys stared at the dwarf. By the Great Mother, had the meddling spy heard every word he’d spoken? Rhys sent the misshapen brute a scowl.

  He strode through the palisade gate, Blodwen at his heels. “Please, Rhys. Take me with ye.”

  Rhys halted. “Ye know it is forbidden.”

  A tear rolled from her eye, catching on the ridge of a long scar. She dashed it away with the back of her hand. “I would be with our grandfather when he draws his last breath. My own father is there! Am I nay as much kin to him as ye and Padrig?”

  “Of course,” Rhys said, his tone gentle. He reached out and cradled her scarred cheek in his palm. “But I canna bring ye to the high slope. One’s magic must be strong to venture so close to the Lost Lands.”

  “I dinna care.”

  Rhys let his hand fall. “Ye are needed in the village.”

  He felt her eyes upon him as he departed. The urge to relent was strong. Blodwen was right; she should be at Cyric’s side. But it had been Cyric himself who had enchanted the high slope against those with no magic.

  Rhys forced his steps along the winding trail to the summit, resisting the temptation to plow straight up the incline. To cut the spiral path short was an insult to the Great Mother.

  When he reached the peak, he spied Padrig sitting before the entrance to Mared’s healing hut, a fire crackling beside him. The elder Druid’s arms rested on his knees; his dark head was bowed. He looked up at Rhys’s approach, and for a scant moment, his weary expression relaxed.

  “Rhys,” he said, rising to envelop the younger man in an embrace. “Nephew. Ye are here at last.”

  “Aye,” Rhys said simply. He inclined his head toward the shelter. “May I …”

  “Of course. ’Twill do Cyric good to see ye.” The lines of exhaustion returned to Padrig’s face. “If he wakes long enough to know ye.”

  The numbing tones of Mared’s death chant seeped around the edges of the hide-draped doorway. Was Cyric’s end truly so close? Steeling himself, Rhys drew aside the skin and entered.

  Billowing heat and cloying herbs assailed him. A blazing fire gave rise to a haze of smoke; the only illumination came from the coals in the crude hearth, visible between the soaked packets of herbs. Rhys swallowed the urge to cough, his breath exploding in a violent wheeze.

  Shadows blurred in a sudden wash of tears. Rhys blinked back his grief and the shapes resolved themselves. Cyric lay on a straw mat, a woolen blanket covering his frail body. Mared knelt by his side. She nodded, never wavering in her song.

  If not for the spread of the snow-white beard across the blanket, Rhys mightn’t have recognized Cyric at all. He’d been ailing a fortnight ago when Rhys had left Avalon, but the change that had been wrought by fourteen days was frightening. The Druid master’s lanky frame had shriveled to a thin, sunken shell. Red rimmed his eyes; his skin was the texture of mottled papyrus.

  Rhys knelt at Cyric’s side and took his frail hand in his own. There was yet a glimmer of warmth, and Rhys found himself nurturing a frail hope.

  “Rhys.”

  “I am here, Grandfather.”

  Cyric’s eyes blinked open. “Ye spend far too much time away from Avalon, my son.”

  Rhys all but choked on his grief. He’d become a nomad at Cyric’s order—was he now to be berated for his obedience? Or had his grandfather’s mind already drifted into the mist?

  “ ’Tis true,” he said simply. “I’ve been too long away.”

  “I am sorry for that,” Cyric said. “I”—he paused to draw a rattling breath—“have felt your absence in my heart.”

  Tears stung Rhys’s eyes. “I have missed ye as well.”

  Cyric stirred, as if trying to rouse himself. “Listen closely, Rhys. ’Tis an urgent task I give ye. Ye must gather the blessed, so they may learn the way of the Light. Away from Avalon, the Dark may touch them first.” A cough scraped his throat. “An ill wind rises. Ye canna let it destroy the clan.”

  “I will fight by your side, Grandfather.”

  “Nay. I willna fight. My path is one of acceptance.”

  Rhys bowed his head and pressed his grandfather’s shaking hand to his forehead. “There are other paths,” he whispered.

>   “I willna do battle with evil as my spear, Rhys. And yet … it seems the Light inside me is nay shield enough for the Dark that oppresses me.”

  “Light ever conquers Dark, as the sun ever rises,” Rhys said. “Ye taught me that even before I had words enough to understand.”

  Cyric’s eyes were gentle. “Lean close.” His words were so weak they were naught but a pale whisper.

  With a sick heart, Rhys obeyed Cyric’s request. He was surprised to feel a soft laugh against his ear.

  “Tell Mared to take her unending dirge outside. Her chants scrape sparks on my soul like a blade on a honing wheel.”

  Rhys found himself blinking back a new wash of tears. He straightened and turned to Mared. “Please,” he said, with a nod to the door. “I would be alone with Cyric.”

  Mared’s chin jerked down and the notes of her healing song roughened. Clearly, she disapproved of Rhys’s request. When Rhys didn’t look away, she nodded once and retreated.

  “At last,” Cyric said, his relief evident. “Help me sit, Rhys. And bring water. My throat is dust.”

  Rhys slipped his arm behind his grandfather and raised him against the backrest. His aged body seemed naught but a bundle of bones covered with sagging skin. Rhys’s heart squeezed painfully. In his mind, Cyric still loomed tall and powerful. Nine years earlier, he’d gathered what was left of his family. Defying Roman law, he’d returned to the sacred isle to practice the magic of the Old Ones and the ways of the Lady of the Grail. How could a man so strong in the Light be brought low by darkness?

  He tipped water to his grandfather’s lips. For all his thirst, Cyric drank but a sip before motioning for Rhys to take the cup away. “I …” A wet cough shook him. “I ask for Gwen, but Mared refuses to bring her.”

  Rhys’s throat went dry. “ ’Tis nay Mared’s choice. Gwen is … gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “I dinna know.”

  “Ye should.” Cyric’s quiet statement rang like an accusation.

  Rhys felt ashamed. “ ’Tis true, that.”

  A tremor passed through Cyric’s body. “ ’Tis so cold. Can ye nay build up the fire?”