The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  Owein felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. “How do ye know that? Did ye use magic—”

  “No magic,” Clara said bitterly. “I heard you and Cormac plotting.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I understand that you hate my father, but to condemn him to death so easily? How could you? You know how much I love him.”

  “The grail belongs to my people.” Owein felt like the worst of beasts as he said it.

  “You may have it. Just let me have it for Father first.”

  Owein’s jaw set. “And where is his sickbed, lass? In the fortress?”

  She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Yes.”

  “I canna follow you there.”

  “I’ll bring the cup to you, once Father is well.”

  “Ye have no reason to keep your word,” Owein said, his voice tight. “Once you disappear inside the fortress walls, ye’ll be beyond my reach.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “Please, Owein. I give you my word. Trust me in this.”

  His gaze locked with hers. When her tears began to fall, he knew he couldn’t deny her request.

  He nodded. “I’ll speak to Cormac. We’ll set a place and a time when ye’ll bring the grail to us.”

  Her dark eyes lit with gratitude. Owein wondered that she didn’t curse him again. He didn’t deserve her thanks. But when Cormac returned from his scouting mission to Isca, he brought news that made Clara and Owein’s bargain moot.

  “Sempronius Gracchus is dead,” the dwarf announced. “The city is abuzz with the news.”

  “No.” Clara gasped her denial, her body flinching as if from a blow. Without thinking, Owein put out a hand to steady her.

  “When?” he asked Cortnac.

  The dwarf spat into a pile of dirty snow. “This morning.”

  “No,” Clara repeated, her voice a whisper.

  Her grief tore at Owein’s conscience, even though he knew his decision to steal the grail had come too late to make a difference in Gracchus’s decline. But he’d made the choice thinking Gracchus was still alive. The raw grief in Clara’s voice only increased his guilt. No matter what kind of man Gracchus had been, no matter that his order had resulted in the death of Owein’s adopted clan, one thing was clear—the Roman must have harbored a great love for his daughter, if she grieved his passing so keenly.

  “Are … are you sure?” Clara asked in a small voice. “Perhaps there’s been some mistake.”

  “No mistake, lass,” Cormac said, not unkindly.

  “I must go to him,” she said, clutching her satchel to her stomach like a shield. “It was my task to close his eyes and place Charon’s coin in his mouth. Who did those things in my stead?”

  Her shoulders shook with silent tears. Against his better judgment, Owein pulled her close. He couldn’t stop himself from smoothing his hand down her back.

  She stiffened in his arms. “Don’t pretend to regret my father’s death. You wished for it often enough.”

  She disentangled herself from his embrace and paced a few steps away, still clutching her small satchel. A surge of protectiveness washed over Owein. Clara was alone now save for the man Gracchus had named as her husband and guardian. Valgus.

  Owein could not allow that Roman dog to have her.

  There had to be some way Owein could ensure Clara’s happiness. He could never claim her, of course. His destiny lay with his own people, with the Druidess of his dreams.

  The thought brought no joy. When he thought of love, he thought only of Clara. Clara, moving beneath him, gasping as she reached her peak. Clara speaking words of love. And yet, she was not his future, and he was not hers. How, then, was he to keep her safe?

  The germ of an idea formed. He might leave Clara with Rhiannon. Thirteen years ago, Lucius Aquila had been a formidable army commander. Surely he was still man enough to protect Clara from Valgus. And Lucius’s son, Marcus, had already offered her marriage. Owein knew little of Roman law, but surely, if Clara were to marry the blacksmith she would be beyond Valgus’s reach.

  He turned to Cormac. “Where is Tribune Valgus now? In the fortress?”

  Cormac rocked back on his heels. “Nay, it seems he is not. He left some days ago. If any knows his whereabouts, I couldna discern it. Besides Gracchus’s death, the only other news about town is talk of tomorrow’s slave auction. The arena is bustling and traders are thick in the streets.” He scratched his beard. “A fine diversion for our mission. With all the countryside crowded into the city, we’ll be able to snatch the grail and flee.”

  “ ’Tis a good plan.” Owein’s gaze strayed to Clara. With her father dead, she had no need of the grail. “I’ll leave it to ye to carry the Lost Grail to Avalon,” he told Cormac in a low voice.

  Cormac’s grizzled brows lifted. “And what of ye, lad?”

  “I’ll follow when I can. There’s something I must do first.”

  Clara’s father had envisioned an expansive estate. A high wall enclosed a sprawling two-story main house whose twin wings enclosed what was destined to be a formal garden. Several outbuildings had been planned—pig and sheep barns, a toolshed, a workhouse for curing leather and other such tasks. The foundations of these buildings were laid, but the walls remained unfinished.

  The stable, however—an expansive structure built into the perimeter wall near the front gate—was complete. Clara’s father, who had come up through the equestrian ranks, thought to breed horses on his retirement. Clara’s eyes burned at the realization that he would never have that chance.

  She couldn’t imagine a world without her father in it. He might have been a hard man, but he’d never treated her with anything but love. If that love had blinded him to her strengths, she couldn’t fault him. She clutched her satchel, wishing she could reach inside for her rose oil. But the vial was empty.

  Owein would take the grail. Clara wasn’t sure she cared. She’d always feared the cup’s power, and in any case, she knew now that the grail belonged to his people. After he was gone, she would return to the fortress to meet her fate. She would refuse to wed Valgus, even petition the governor if necessary. Of course, Valgus had the power to make her life miserable, but she would deal with that. Perhaps, if she agreed never to marry at all, leaving him in control of her property, they could reach an understanding.

  Cormac’s arrival interrupted her dark musings. The dwarf had gone to scout the villa gates. “Valgus is in residence,” he said. “The guard at the gates told me.” He grinned. “He met with an unfortunate accident afterwards.”

  Clara swallowed a cry.

  “He sent ye this gift,” Cormac continued, handing the dead man’s war belt to Owein. It held both sword and battle dagger.

  “My thanks to him,” Owein said, reaching for the weapons.

  “Valgus has more men inside,” Cormac continued. “But nay so many. Three, according to the poor bastard of a sentinel. And a cook as well. A guest is expected this night. A slave trader from town. Apparently, Valgus is heavily in debt to the man.”

  “Then we’ve come just in time,” Owein said. “We’d best be in and out quickly.” He turned to Clara. “Ye’ll stay here, outside the gates.” He shifted, peering intently at the villa, which was just visible over the top of the perimeter wall. “Describe the layout to me. Where is the room I seek?”

  Clara obliged. Owein received the information with a nod. “Cormac and I will complete the task swiftly. Afterwards, ye’ll go to the Aquila farm.”

  She couldn’t hide her astonishment. “The Aquila farm? Then you’ve changed your mind about seeing your sister?”

  The muscles in Owein’s neck bunched. “Nay. I’ll not be accompanying ye. Cormac will guide ye to the Aquilas, so ye may marry Lucius Aquila’s son. If Rhiannon has had a hand in his upbringing, he is sure to be a fine man.”

  “Marry Marcus?” Clara shook her head. The notion seemed bizarre. “But … even if I wanted to—even if Marcus wanted to—Valgus would have to approve the match. He would never do it! By the terms of my father
’s will, my property goes to my husband when I marry. That’s why Valgus is so eager to have me for himself.”

  “He’ll nay get the chance, lass.”

  She eyed him. “What do you mean?”

  “Ye will not have to go to him. Valgus will be dead before the night is out. I will make sure of that.”

  She stared at him, aghast. “You would commit murder for my sake?”

  A muscle ticked in Owein’s jaw. “By Cormac’s report, ’tis no more than Valgus deserves. Once ye are free of him, ye may marry as ye will.”

  “No. I won’t ever marry. Not after …” She looked away.

  He lifted her chin with his knuckle, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were blue and clear. “Ye will marry, lass. Ye will have a fine life.”

  “But—”

  He touched her cheek. “Wait here for Cormac. When he arrives, make haste to my sister’s home. Tell her …” He exhaled. “Tell her I am well, and that I hold her memory in my heart always.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  The dead guard’s sword was light in Owein’s hand. He made his way through the deserted yard, skirting haphazard piles of bricks and tiles. Cormac followed on stealthy footsteps.

  Full night had fallen. Lights streamed from the torches near the main entrance. The unfinished wings lay in darkness. Owein made for the farthest end of the north wing, where the windows hadn’t yet received their grillwork.

  “Stay here and keep watch,” he told Cormac. “Give an owl’s cry if anyone approaches.”

  The dwarf nodded once. Owein put his hand on the window’s frame and lifted himself over the sill. It was a tight fit, and his sword belt clattered against the frame. Cormac uttered a soft oath as Owein dropped to the tiled floor in a crouch, listening.

  All was silent. Carefully, he made his way down the passage, passing from chamber to chamber until he reached the main part of the house. Here, large rooms gave onto the long, columned hall. The floor was mosaic, the columns polished, and the walls painted with graceful figures that seemed real enough to step from the plaster. The windows fronting the courtyard glowed in the light of the flickering torches.

  According to Clara’s instruction, the receiving chamber bearing the war mural was off onto this passage. Voices drifted from the end of the hall, where a shaft of light spilled from an open door onto the hall’s mosaic floor. Owein paused before a nearer door, which latched from the outside. He lifted the bar and swiftly stepped inside.

  The room was empty.

  Owein stared. Though the light was dim, there was no question in his mind that this was the chamber he sought. The war mural wrapped three sides of the room in grisly glory, just as his vision had shown. Even the artist’s paints and brushes lay strewn about exactly as they’d been in his vision. The only thing missing was the sack of stolen treasure.

  Had his vision been false? Or had Valgus moved the stolen loot in anticipation of the trader’s arrival? Inhaling deeply, Owein closed his eyes and sent his mind searching.

  The familiar ache sprung up behind his eyes.

  He let his spirit roam free of his body, floating in a still world between sleep and waking. Muted pain beat at the edges of his mind, but he ignored it the best he could. With luck, the Horned God’s price would be paid after Valgus was dead.

  Dipping deeper into his trance, he moved back into the passageway, aware of his surroundings in a way that a waking man was not. Every noise was amplified, every movement clear.

  He sensed each of the villa’s inhabitants. Four men occupied a single chamber near the entry foyer. A woman shuffled about, muttering, a bit farther off, where Owein guessed the kitchen might be. And the Lost Grail …

  He blinked through the pain in his head. An image of the grail rose clearly in his mind. The cup sat on a table in a dining chamber. On the couch behind it reclined a young, arrogantly handsome man with dark eyes and a clean-shaven chin. His lips moved, addressing his companion to the right, another Roman, but Owein couldn’t make out his words. Two burly soldiers stood by the door.

  The grail’s power drew him. Stealthily, Owein moved toward the chamber occupied by Valgus and his guest, though he had no clear idea how he would liberate the grail from the dining table.

  He paused before the door just as an owl’s cry drifted from the courtyard.

  An instant later, Clara entered his mind.

  Owein and Cormac had barely disappeared through the gate when Clara heard hoofbeats, and the creak of a cart on the road.

  She shrank into the shadows as the vehicle passed her hiding place, drawing her cloak about her shoulders and shivering from the cold. The cart had high sides and a top constructed of crossed saplings securely bound at the joints.

  It was a slaver’s cart, designed to transport human cargo. Two men rode the seatboard, one leaning back, the other handling the reins. Each wore a sword and dagger.

  Dread burned Clara’s gut. Owein would never have time to remove the grail from the villa before the slavers gained the gate. There were soldiers in the compound with Valgus—she was sure of it. Owein planned to kill Valgus, but it was likely he’d have to kill his guard first. And now, with the arrival of two more armed men, his task had just gotten more difficult.

  She had to warn him.

  Warily, she inched forward as the cart creaked to a halt. The driver gave a shout. When no answer came, he leaped to the ground. When he put a hand on the bars, the gate swung slowly inward.

  “Bugger it all, Calidius,” the man called to his companion. “No one’s about.” He strode through the gate. After a short interval he reappeared, swearing softly. “Valgus hasn’t even left a stable hand to tend our horses.”

  Calidius’s displeasure was evident. “I only hope he has the gold he owes me,” he said as he swung down from the cart. His accent was far more refined than the first man’s. “I’ve lost patience with his evasions.”

  “At least with Gracchus dead, his future losses shouldn’t cause a problem,” the other man remarked. He ambled to the horses and led them into the yard. “I hope he’s brought Gracchus’s cook. And a decent wine. We could be dining in the city rather than at this out-of-the-way hole.”

  “The tribune doesn’t dare risk being seen in our company,” Calidius informed him with an unpleasant laugh. “Ah, well, I’ll be sure to extract an extra aureus or two for our inconvenience.”

  The pair disappeared through the gate. The driver stayed back with the horses, muttering under his breath as he bungled around in the stables. Calidius adjusted his sword belt and strode toward the villa’s front door.

  Clara stared after him, her heart pounding. She crept forward, keeping well within the dark shadow cast by the wall. As she slipped inside the gate, she reached out with her mind for Owein.

  An owl gave a call.

  In the next moment she found Owein. She was surprised to realize he was in a trance. With his concentration consumed by magic, it was an easy task to slip inside his mind.

  His reaction was that of a sprinter catching his foot in a rut—a mental stumble, followed by a curse. His hot anger flooded her mind.

  Get out.

  He punctuated the command with a blast of magic. Their union was abruptly severed, leaving her gasping for air. She tried to enter again, but succeeded only in brushing the outer surface of his defenses. Try as she might, she couldn’t go within.

  But she had to warn him. She crept through the gate, her heart pounding. Where was he? She searched the gloom, but saw nothing.

  A hint of movement at the edge of the unfinished north wing caught her eye. Cormac. Keeping to the shadow cast by the perimeter wall, she made her way toward the dwarf. He would need to know about the man Calidius had left in the stables.

  As she scurried across the yard, the villa’s front door opened. Valgus appeared, silhouetted by lamplight. Clara froze.

  “Ho, Calidius, welcome.” It seemed to Clara that Valgus’s amity was forced.

  “Valgus,” Calid
ius said dryly. “If I were you, I would not leave my gate ajar to any stranger who takes a notion to visit.”

  Valgus frowned. “What do you mean, the gate was ajar? Where’s my man?”

  “Polishing his rod in the bushes, no doubt.”

  Valgus half turned in the doorway and shouted into the house. “Pullus! Get out here!”

  A soldier appeared in the doorway. Valgus barked an order. The man gave a nod and left the building, heading toward the gate. Clara shrank farther into the shadow of the wall, hastening toward the place where she thought she’d seen Cormac.

  There was no one there.

  “By the Horned God’s cock, where are ye, lad?”

  Cormac’s muttering came as if from far away, piercing the fog-world of Owein’s vision. Owein ignored it, intent on his task.

  Existing within both the dream world and the waking one was difficult, like viewing two scenes at once. He was aware of his body crouching in a darkened alcove off the main passageway. His spirit-mind was across the foyer, viewing the scene in the dining chamber. With Valgus and one of his guards gone to answer the front door, only the second guard remained.

  The Lost Grail shone in the center of the table.

  Go to the door, Owein urged the soldier. He spoke a Word of encouragement.

  The man straightened and looked around, startled. When he saw nothing out of the ordinary, he shrugged and resumed his post. But a moment later, he frowned. Turning, he strode out the door.

  Owein watched him join the others in the vestibule. Silently, his body moved to the dining chamber, rejoining his spirit mind.

  The grail was more dazzling, more beautiful than he had imagined. For a full three heartbeats, he stared at it, almost afraid to extend his hand. Then a noise in the foyer roused him. Grasping the cup’s base, he poured the wine it held into another vessel.

  His arm tingled as he tucked the grail under his elbow. The magic tugged at his strength, causing him to stumble. Quickly, he righted himself and eased back into the hall.

  He found Cormac at the near end of the unfinished north wing. The dwarf’s avid gaze was fixed on the grail. “Ye’ve got it,” he breathed.