by Joy Nash
If the fire were any hotter, the walls of Mared’s hut would surely melt. But Rhys only nodded and added another block of peat to the coals.
“Gwen is strong in the Light. Strong enough to stand against the Dark. If ye stand behind her.”
“Gwen has left Avalon.” Anger colored his words. How could his twin have abandoned her grandfather? Could it be that Gwen truly had conjured Cyric’s illness? Rhys didn’t want to believe it, and yet …
“Rhys.” Cyric’s eyes lost their focus. His brow contracted.
Rhys’s breath stalled in his throat. A vision? Now, when the veil between Cyric’s life and death was drawn so thin? The stress of the magic could kill him.
Cyric’s eyes drifted to a point above Rhys’s right shoulder. His head cocked to one side, his expression intent. A subtle light illuminated his face—not the red glow of the hearth, but a white light that seemed to come from within.
The air was thick with smoke from the peat Rhys had added to Mared’s blaze. Rhys struggled to breathe, but curiously, Cyric’s breath grew stronger. His eyes focused, but Rhys knew whatever scene he viewed was not of this world.
Cyric’s voice rang true. “A new line forms. A line of a Future King, who will unite Britannia in Light. He will be born of the line of the Lost Grail, a vessel wrought by blood and filled with tears. Cloaked in magic and silver by the Daughters.”
Blindly, Cyric put out a hand. Rhys caught it. A tingle like lightning raced through him, pure power that belied the weakness in Cyric’s body.
“The grail of the Daughters must return to Avalon. When it does, the gates of the Lost Land will open. A Daughter of the Lady will enter.”
“Grandfather—”
Cyric’s hand tightened like a claw on Rhys’s arm. “Gwen is a Daughter of the Lady. She must marry and bear a daughter if her line is to continue. Ye must—” A fit of coughing broke his words. “—bring your sister home, to await the grail’s coming. If ye fail … I See a bleak future. The King will not be born. Britannia will fall to darkness. Please, Rhys, find her. Promise me.”
“Ye have my word,” Rhys whispered. “I will find Gwendolyn.”
Another fit of coughing broke over Cyric. Wordlessly, Rhys slipped onto the pallet next to his grandfather and held him until the spasm passed. The hide at the door lifted, admitting a stream of sunlight. Rhys blinked against the intrusion.
Mared entered, with Padrig close behind. “Ye’ve tired him,” she said, accusation clear in her voice.
“I’ve done no more than listen.”
Cyric lifted his hand. “Padrig. Come to me.”
Padrig knelt by Cyric’s pallet.
“I will soon sail to the land beyond the west.”
“Nay, Cyric! We can fight this curse upon ye! If ye would but allow the clan to call the Deep Magic—”
“Nay.” Cyric’s eyes closed briefly. “No mortal can control the Deep Magic. I willna risk the Dark. I would have only Light.”
Padrig’s jaw set. “Light fades.”
“Ye are wrong, uncle,” Rhys said.
Padrig’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing.
Cyric’s voice trembled. “Death is near. Come close—I would name the one who will guide the clan after my passing.”
The air expanded in Rhys’s lungs. To lead in Cyric’s stead was a burden he would shoulder with a heavy heart. And yet—he’d always understood this was his life’s purpose. In truth, he welcomed the duty. Finally, he would be allowed to set roots in the fertile soil of the sacred isle.
He felt the weight of Cyric’s gaze upon him. Lightheaded, he drew a deep breath, but the air, thick with peat smoke and herbs, only made his mind spin faster.
“To lead the clan is the path of duty,” Cyric whispered. “Avalon’s master must tread this path with wisdom and courage.”
Rhys bowed his head, felt his grandfather’s hand come down upon it. Cyric said a Word in the language of the Old Ones, sealing his word as law. Mared and Rhys, and, after a brief hesitation, Padrig, murmured their assent.
Stillness descended. Cyric drew a breath, and then his frail voice dropped into the silence like a stone tossed on the silver-still surface of a meadow pool.
“Gwendolyn,” he said. “Gwendolyn will rule in Avalon. Rhys will bring her home.”
Chapter Ten
A day after his ordeal within the stones, Owein had recovered enough to insist that Clara practice a full hour with the dagger before retiring for the night. Clara endured his goading with poor grace, grumbling as she thudded the blade over and over into the stout pine branch he held in his hands. By the end of the lesson, she would have been more than pleased to sink the knife into his thigh.
She guessed he knew it well enough, too.
They’d descended from the high country, but the terrain was still rocky. As the sun disappeared over the ridge of the mountain to the west, Owein called a halt to their exercise. He examined the knife for nicks, then pulled a flat stone from his pack and honed the edges. When the blade was sharpened to his satisfaction, he surprised Clara by removing his leg-sheath and presenting it to her.
“Ye’d best be armed at all times,” he said, watching as she reluctantly fastened the sheath to her calf. He handed her the sharpened dagger. “But I must warn ye—there’s scant advantage to possessing a weapon if ye dinna mean to use it.”
“I’m not sure I’d be able to. I’m not very strong.”
He tapped his finger on her head. “This is where your strength lies. Are ye a woman grown? Or a pampered child, trained to weakness?”
Clara flexed her fingers on the dagger. In an odd way, she’d grown accustomed to its feel in her hand. She slid the weapon into its scabbard. The weight on her calf felt strange.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
She moved to the mouth of the shallow cave where Owein had made their camp. Every muscle in her body ached. She rubbed her upper arm, wincing when she probed the muscle too deeply. Armed or no, she was exhausted. At least the nook was relatively dry and blessedly free from the wind. Beyond that, the accommodations left much to be desired.
Sighing, she sat on the ground and opened her satchel. Extracting her vial of rose oil, she dabbed the scent on her throat. For a moment, she closed her eyes and imagined herself in the bathing room in her father’s house. When she opened her eyes again, it was to find Owein watching her, his expression as sharp as her newly honed blade.
Abruptly, she straightened, clearing her throat while she stoppered the vial and put it away. She cast about for something to say. “How close are we to the sea?”
“A half-day’s journey, no more.”
“Then we’re near the road! The last miles to Isca will go quickly.” She hugged herself. “We can rest tomorrow night in a mansio!”
Owein gave a noncommittal grunt. “Dinna raise your hopes. There may not be an inn to be found.”
“Oh, but I’m sure there is. And I have coin enough in my satchel.” She frowned, looking at Owein with new eyes. She’d grown accustomed to his wild appearance, but if they were to travel on the Roman road, something would have to be done about his wild mane and uncivilized garb. There was no merit in asking for a fight.
“I think,” she said cautiously, “if we are to travel the road, you should cut your hair and remove your beard.”
Owein’s hands, bearing flint and dagger, paused in the air. Clara’s gaze skimmed his strong jaw, her imagination shearing away its red fur. Her heartbeat quickened at the prospect of seeing him without it.
He eyed her. “Only Romans clip their beards.”
“And free Celts who wish to advertise their wealth.”
He gave a swift shake of his head. “I’m nay one of those.”
“But you must shave! We’re sure to meet other travelers. What will they think of us? A Roman woman would never travel in the company of a wild Celt.”
“And yet,” he mused. “Here ye are.”
She sent him a scowl.
“This is not a jesting matter. The first military complement we meet will detain you.”
Flint and blade connected with a crack, showering sparks. “A wealthy Roman woman wouldn’t travel alone with any man.”
“She would travel with her husband.”
“On foot? With no slaves to trail behind? Who would lift her hem across the puddles?” He struck the flint a second time, only to have the sparks die on the damp tinder. He muttered a curse.
“The wife of a free Celt would not be expected to travel in luxury.”
He shot her a look she couldn’t interpret. “Put that scheme out of your mind. I’m nay of a mind to travel the road. We’ll take a forest trail.”
“Traveling in snow and mud will take twice as long as making use of the road. What will you do when we draw close to the city? You won’t be able to avoid notice then.” When he made no comment, she gave an exasperated huff. “You look like a wild beast. You’re likely to end in a pen at the arena. The beard must go.”
“Nay.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Aye,” she said, mimicking his Celt accent. “It must. You’re far too wild to be my husband.”
He sat back on his heels and raised his brows. His gaze dropped to her breasts, and lower. “Is that an invitation, lass?”
“Clara,” she said irritably. “And don’t try to change the subject. The beard must go.”
“I’m a man, not a smooth-faced lad.”
“I’ve not noticed that facial hair contributes to or detracts from manliness. It’s only a matter of custom.”
“I told ye nay.”
“But why not? What’s so important about a chin covered with hair? Unless …” She smirked. “Perhaps you have some disfigurement? Maybe you wear your beard to cover some flaw.”
Owein shot her a withering glance. “If ye canna be silent, I’ve a mind to find a gag.”
“Will you bind my hands and feet as well? And carry me slung over your shoulders like a trussed deer? I’ve heard tell of wild Celts who find wives in that manner.”
His blue eyes sparked. “Have a care, lass. Ye have no idea how appealing that notion sounds.”
He struck the flint again, and this time the fire caught. He bent close to the tinder, his breath nurturing the flames. Clara imagined him doing the same to her—blowing gently across her body, kindling a fire within.
A dart of flame shot along the edge of a twig. Her belly tingled. She squelched the sensation and returned to the subject at hand. “You know I’m right about this.”
“I know ye are like a dog with a bone.” He fed the fire with twigs and peat, then bits of larger wood. “We’ll travel the forest trails by night. When we reach your father’s villa, I’ll enter alone, in case Valgus is there. Then I’ll bring the grail to your father’s city dwelling.”
“But that would be imposs—” She swallowed the words.
Owein believed her to be a merchant’s daughter, with a home in the outer city. Not the daughter of the fortress commander, whose residence was within the fortress walls.
She swallowed. Did her father still live? If he did, she couldn’t waste precious time struggling through the forest by night, not when a dry, paved road would allow her to reach him so much more swiftly. “I’ll not travel in the forest,” she said. “We must pose as husband and wife. So you must shave your beard.”
He was silent a moment; then his expression shifted. A mischievous gleam sprang into his eye. Clara’s gaze narrowed. She didn’t trust that look at all.
“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “I can be won over to your plan, if ye do a bit more to persuade me.”
“And what would that be?” she asked warily.
“Ye wish to act the part of my wife. If ye took on the role in all aspects, that would be a powerful inducement indeed.”
Clara’s belly flooded with heat. When he gave her a leering grin, she pursed her lips and looked away.
“You are a churlish lout,” she informed him, trying to keep her voice steady. She cast about for the words most likely to set him back. “Now that I think on it, you needn’t agree to be my husband. There’s another possibility. You could be my slave.”
Owein’s smile abruptly vanished. “Nay.”
“Then you have to remove your beard.”
“There’s a third option,” Owein said, busying himself with the fire. “Ye could travel as a lad.”
Clara gaped at him. “No one would believe that.”
He appraised her frankly. “They will, with no trouble. Ye are small in the hips and bosom.”
He thought she had a boy’s body? Clara’s cheeks burned. “But … my clothes are a woman’s.”
“I can steal ye a shirt and braccas from the first farm we pass. All that’s left is for ye to take a blade to your hair.”
“Cut my hair? Are you mad? I can’t return to Isca with a shorn head! If my father yet lives, the sight would surely finish him off!”
“Ah, so ye wish me to cut my hair, but ye are nay willing to do the same?”
“It’s not the same thing at all! Men wear their hair short. Women do not.”
Owein fed the last of the deadwood into the fire. It flared hotly. Clara extended her hands toward it with a sigh. She couldn’t think of anything more blissful, except perhaps a hot bath. And a meal of soft wheat bread, fruit, and fresh meat.
“Attend your cloak, lass,” Owein said sharply. “It’s about to go up in flames.”
“Oh!” Hastily, Clara beat out the sparks that had settled on the wool, then surveyed both the cloak and her tunic with a sad shake of her head. Never in her life had she worn garments so ragged. And her scalp … she longed to feel the teeth of her comb. She pulled the leather thong free and started unraveling what was left of her braid.
“ ’Twould be a shame to lose those shining strands,” Owein’s voice sounded strained.
Clara looked up. Coming around the fire, he crouched before her. With a solemn reverence at odds with his usual taunting manner, he speared his fingers through her hair, spreading the locks like a cloak over her shoulders.
He captured her gaze. Time seemed to cease; the air between them shimmered. It was only the heat from the fire, Clara told herself.
“ ’Twould be a rare joy, I am thinking, to see ye clothed in naught but the mantle of your hair.”
Clara felt as if the point of an exquisite, burning blade had sunk into her belly. “Even with my boy’s body?” she managed.
The teasing light returned to his blue eyes. “Aye, even so.” His voice came low and rasping. Her body softened in response.
He let out an unsteady breath. “I’ll shave my beard, lass. And cut my hair to my shoulders.”
“You … you will?”
“Aye. And take the part of your husband.”
“For appearance’s sake only. I’ll not couple with you.”
“I wouldna force myself on ye. Ye know that. But I will claim one concession from ye.”
She licked her dry lips. “What is that?”
“Lie with me this night. Accept my hands upon your body.”
“But you just said—”
“My hands, lass. Only my hands.”
The dark place between her thighs tingled. “No. I can’t allow it.”
He made a show of settling himself against the back wall of the cave, his hands behind his head and his legs stretched toward the fire. “Then the beard stays. And we keep to the forest path.”
“You may do what you wish. I intend to take the road. I’m going to rest in a proper bed tomorrow night.”
“A lone Roman woman, afoot, with no servants or baggage? The innkeeper will take ye for a whore.”
Clara hadn’t considered that. Likely, it was true.
“Would it be such a hardship to lie by my side?”
The wistful vulnerability in his tone weakened her resolve. “All right,” she heard herself say. “I’ll lie with you. Only … not for the whole of the night.”
A
smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Ah,” he said. “Now we’re down to the haggling. Not the whole night, then. How long?”
“Until … until moonrise.”
He laughed. “The moon is full this night. She’ll rise as the sun sets, and the light of day is already waning. ’Tis nay nearly long enough.”
His quiet certainty sent a shiver of anticipation down Clara’s spine. “From twilight until full dark, then.”
“From sunset until the moon shines overhead.”
“But—”
“ ’Tis my final offer, lass.”
She sighed. “All right. Half the night.”
He gazed at her. “And ye’ll accept my hands on your body.”
She bit her lip and closed her eyes. “You may touch me if you keep your hands atop my clothing. I’ll not undress for you.” Surely that restriction would keep her honor intact.
The corner of his mouth crooked. “Any more rules?”
“You’ll shave first. I’ll not lie with a bearded Celt.”
She couldn’t tease out the mix of emotions in the swift glance he sent her. Humor, yes, and desire, but she had seen both before. Now another emotion simmered beneath those, half-hidden. Not anger, precisely. Wariness? But why should that be? He had nothing to fear from her. Just the opposite.
“Sit beside me, lass,” Owein said softly. After a slight hesitation, Clara obeyed. Her heart kicked up a beat when he placed a hand on her calf. Even through the layers of linen and wool, his touch felt warm.
She sat, motionless, barely daring to breathe as she watched his strong fingers dip beneath the hem of her tunic. His rough fingertips skated over her bare skin. Her lips parted on a small intake of air. She heard his soft chuckle. Fire flooded her cheeks, but somehow she couldn’t move, or even look away.
“We agreed you would keep your hands atop my tunic,” she said breathlessly.
“Aye, so we did.” His fingers slid higher, encountering the leather sheath he’d given her. With a deft movement, he slipped the dagger free and withdrew his hand.
Hastily, Clara tugged her hem down to her ankles. Owein tested the blade with his thumb, then, to her surprise, offered it to her. When she didn’t take it, he grasped her left hand and closed her fingers around the hilt.