The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  The fog in Owein’s head thinned. A dull ache sprang up behind his right eye. The grail was heavy in his arm, far beyond its true weight. “I told ye to remain in the yard.”

  “Ye took so long I feared ye’d been seen.”

  “Nay. Only delayed.”

  “Well, Valgus’s guests have arrived,” Cormac grunted, his eyes still riveted on the grail. He extended a hand. “Here. I’ll carry it.”

  Owein hesitated, then nodded. The cup’s magic drained his strength and worsened the ache in his head. And he had yet to confront Valgus.

  “Take it,” he said, “and dinna wait for me.”

  Cormac’s hands closed on the grail. A shudder passed through him. “I’ll carry it to her,” he whispered. “Have no fear of that.” He shoved the cup into his pack.

  A guard appeared at the far end of the passageway, near the front entrance, where Valgus stood with the slaver and the second soldier.

  “What is it, man?” the tribune demanded.

  “Silus is dead, sir. His throat has been slit.”

  “By Pollux!” Valgus strode toward the door. The others followed.

  Cormac tugged on his arm. “This way, lad. We’ll go out the back. With any luck, there’ll be a rear gate.”

  The dwarf led the way to a door at the back of the house. It gave onto a wide terrace. Owein stepped into the night air, his spirit-mind aware of angry voices in the front yard. Cormac paused. Owein extended his senses, searching for a rear gate.

  He found Clara instead. Her worry batted like bird’s wings at the edge of his mind. She feared for him. She wanted him to give up his plan to kill Valgus and flee.

  It was an odd sensation, having someone frightened on his behalf.

  Thank the Great Mother Owein didn’t have to fear for her. Clara was safe outside the villa walls.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was only by the purest of luck the soldiers didn’t see her. When the pair rushed from the house, Clara was standing in the open, unprotected, with not so much as a stack of bricks to hide behind. Instinctively, she dropped into a crouch, hoping the night would be concealment enough. The nearest soldier scanned the yard, his gaze skimming past her.

  Clara let out a sigh. She watched as the soldier turned his back on her and followed his companion to the gate. Seizing the opportunity, she darted for the unfinished north wing.

  She pressed against the wall, her heart pounding. At the far end of the building, just around the corner, a brick stair led to a rear terrace. A door was there. Should she seek Owein inside the house? Or had he already found the grail and exited?

  She approached the end of the wing and eased around the corner. A blur rushed at her, knocking her to the ground. Panic clogged her lungs. She balled her fist and struck out, blindly.

  Her fist connected with flesh. A low voice uttered a curse. She punched again. Her knuckles collided with a nose.

  Another curse. An iron grip closed on her wrist. “Will ye cease, lass?”

  “Owein?”

  His arm came around her, pulling her to her feet. “Aye, ’tis me.” His tone was angry. “Can ye nay obey a simple order? I told ye to wait outside the gate.”

  “The slavers came.” She looked up at him. “I tried to warn you through our connection, but you blocked me out.”

  Cormac’s harsh whisper intruded. “Silence.”

  There was a shout from the front of the house. A dull clang, then muffled conversation.

  “They’ve closed the front gate,” Cormac muttered.

  “Is there a back way out?” Owein asked Clara. His breath was labored, and his voice had a faraway quality. “A wooden gate, about half again the height of a man?”

  Clara blinked. “Yes. Yes, there is. But most likely it will be locked.”

  “Show us. Lead the way. Quickly, now.”

  “All right.” Stepping away from the house, Clara crossed the terrace and led the way down the steps. “It’s in the far corner of the new orchard.” She shifted direction, cutting in a diagonal across the downward slope of the hill. Newly planted saplings were interspersed with a few old, grizzled trees.

  Bare branches showed black against a charcoal sky. Clara slipped on a rut filled with ice, wrenching her ankle. Pain darted up her leg. She shoved herself back to her feet and pressed on.

  The gate indeed was locked, but Owein didn’t try to break through. “I’ll not risk Valgus and the others hearing,” he muttered. “Ye’ll go over.”

  He bent, his hands closing about Clara’s thighs, lifting her. The next instant her feet found purchase on his shoulder and she realized the top of the gate was within reach. She scrabbled to catch hold of it, but when she tried to heave herself upward, her arms wouldn’t lift her weight.

  “I can’t—”

  “Ye must,” Owein muttered, grasping her ankles and lifting her higher. The top of the gate hit her midsection; she grabbed the stone wall to steady herself.

  “Jump over, lass.”

  She peered at the ground on the other side of the gate. “Oh gods,” she gasped. “It’s too far.”

  Cormac, aided by Owein, scrabbled up beside her. “By the Horned God, woman, will ye cease whining and move? Ye’ll be the death of us.”

  “It’s nay so far,” Owein said. “Swing over and drop your feet first.”

  The sound of the search drew closer. Owein’s head swiveled toward it. “Go, lass. Now.”

  She positioned her body as Owein had instructed. Cormac gave her shoulders a shove.

  “Oof—” She landed feet first, her legs crumpling beneath her. Her knees hit the snow hard, and for a moment Clara just sat, stunned. There was a thud and a spray of snow as Cormac landed beside her, his pack and sword flung to one side. The dwarf sprang up easily, righting his possessions and swatting the snow from his braccas.

  Clara struggled to her feet. A heartbeat passed, then two, then the impact of what Owein had done hit her. “There’s no way for him to get over. Not unless he breaks the lock.”

  “That he willna do,” Cormac said. “ ’Twould only draw the search to an open gate. He means to give us time to get away.”

  Clara stared at him. “But he’ll be killed!”

  Cormac looked down at his boots. “He’s a Druid, lass, and a warrior besides. Dinna be so quick to dismiss him.”

  “He means to fight five men,” Clara said furiously. “You should have stayed behind to help.”

  “Are ye daft? ’Twould be suicide.”

  She glowered at him. “Some fine kinsman you are.”

  “Ungrateful woman,” Cormac muttered. Grasping her arm just above the elbow, he towed her away from the gate. “Owein’s fighting for your freedom. Do ye mean for his efforts to be wasted? They will be if Valgus finds ye here on the road. Get going.”

  Clara tried to throw the dwarf off, but his grip was like iron. He hauled her, struggling, across the fields, bent on putting as much distance behind them as possible.

  Not knowing what else to do, Clara closed her eyes and let her mind fly back to Owein. The trance still gripped him. It was a simple thing to slip past his defenses and into his mind.

  Raw anger and rage boiled there. She heard the clang of iron on iron, felt pain erupt as a blow fell. Her stomach lurched, bile scouring her throat. The hatred that flowed through Owein’s veins seeped into her mind, nearly suffocating her. He’d killed one guard and was bent on destroying another.

  The man fell. Clara heard his scream. She felt Owein shift to face a third opponent.

  The man lunged. Pain sliced through her. Her stomach dropped in a free fall. The ground rose up to meet her. No, that wasn’t true, she was still on her feet, aware of Cormac dragging her across the snowy field. It was Owein’s pain she felt; Owein’s defeat. His trance was fading, yielding to the weakness that invariably followed a vision. He rolled to one side as his opponent closed in.

  He would be killed. She couldn’t allow it! She loved him too much to bear the thought he should be kil
led defending her.

  Summoning all her strength, Clara offered it to him.

  Owein blocked the flow of her power. Nay. Get out.

  No. Let me help you!

  He tried to cast her out. She resisted. She felt him fall, felt a heavy boot connect with his ribs. She could barely breathe, his pain was so great.

  She expected a killing blow. It didn’t come. Instead, she felt rough ropes bind Owein’s upper arms behind his back. Next his ankles were bound and secured to the ropes on his arms. He lay with his face pressed into the cold mud, trussed like a pig, shame burning his mind.

  “He’s a brawny barbarian. A common brigand,” she heard Valgus say, through Owein’s senses. “Fine for the arena. What will you give me for him?”

  “You want me to pay?” the man called Calidius replied, his tone incredulous. “It was my man who brought him down!”

  A boot connected with Owein’s temple. The next instant, Clara was cast out of his mind so violently that stars exploded behind her eyes.

  She came back to her surroundings slowly, as if emerging from a tomb. Somehow, she was still on her feet.

  Cormac’s rough voice was in her ear. “This is where I leave ye. The Aquila farm is straight ahead.”

  Clara gripped his arm. “Owein isn’t dead. I think … he’s been taken by the slaver. We must go back—”

  “Nay. I’ve done as much as Owein asked. Now, I … I’ve no choice but to go to her.” A grimace of pain crossed his face, and his breath came hard. “I have what she wants, ye see. I canna … resist … her call.”

  “Who?” asked Clara wildly. “What …” Her gaze snapped to his pack. A tingling awareness came over her. “The Lost Grail,” she said quietly. “Then you did find it.”

  “Aye.” He faded into the trees.

  “No!” Clara cried. “Come back. I—”

  But he was gone.

  He’d been taken.

  Again.

  Owein breathed shallowly, lest his nostrils fill with mud. He lay with his face to the ground, his spine forced into an unnatural arch by his bonds. The slaver’s man had tied him with savage pleasure, no doubt eager to exact revenge for the nick Owein’s blade had dealt to his hip. Owein regretted he hadn’t run the man through.

  Clara’s presence in his mind had distracted him. He’d stumbled, missing his mark. Then the fog of his trance had dissipated, bleeding the strength from his limbs. He’d had no chance after that.

  Valgus went unharmed. Once again, Owein had failed, not even managing to end his own miserable life before falling to the enemy. He could not bear it. Not again.

  He jerked against his bonds, but his efforts only drew a contemptuous laugh from the slaver’s man. The trance had left him weak as a babe. A bellow of pure fury emerged from his lungs, but the cry did nothing but set Valgus chuckling.

  Quick negotiations ensued. Dimly, Owein was aware that Valgus and the slaver—Calidius was his name—had reached an agreement. They would split the price Owein brought at the auction the next day.

  A cart creaked past, one wheel coming within a handbreadth of Owein’s head. Valgus laughed as a horse deposited a load of manure near Owein’s chin.

  A boot nudged his ribs, then kicked hard. Owein stifled a cry, rolling to one side. His shoulder sank into the pile of fetid muck the horse had left. Owein kept his breathing shallow, willing the contents of his stomach to stay out of his throat.

  Calidius crouched beside him. Owein regarded his captor through slitted eyes. The man wore no beard and his clothing was fine. He gave a grunt of distaste as he grabbed a hank of Owein’s hair. Unsheathing his dagger, he slid the point between Owein’s lips, forcing his mouth open. Owein, helpless, could only glare.

  “He’s got all his teeth,” Calidius said appraisingly. “He should bring a fair price. Perhaps as much as thirty aurei.”

  “Good,” Valgus grunted. “I’ll have a man at the auction, watching. You’ll be taking him now, I presume?”

  “In a moment.” Calidus bent over Owein, dagger in hand. Grasping the end of Owein’s temple braid, he jerked it taut. With a flick of his wrist, he severed it cleanly.

  “Now he’s ready,” Calidius murmured, tossing the plait into the mud.

  Marcus could not take his eyes from Clara Sempronia. He could hardly believe she was alive, let alone sitting on a bench in his home. Even bedraggled, with her hair shorn obscenely short, she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.

  He wanted to go to her. Comfort her. But he didn’t. Even as he looked his fill, a single question turned round and round in his head.

  Had she coupled with Rhiannon’s Druid brother?

  It certainly seemed that she might have. It had taken Rhiannon a full hour to calm Clara after she’d rung the gate bell. She’d fallen into the older woman’s arms, sobbing out a story of Owein having been taken by slavers. She’d turned to Marcus, begging his help in freeing Rhiannon’s brother.

  Finally, she quieted. Breena stood at the cauldron, her young brow lined with worry as she prepared a calming draught of valerian and lavender. The strong scent of the herbs rose into the air, making Marcus’s head swim.

  Tears glistened on Clara’s lashes. “Please, Marcus, you must rescue Owein. Tonight.” Her voice was raw.

  “Aye, Marcus, ye must.” Rhiannon added her plea. “But ye canna think to fight Calidius. Take all the coin in the strongbox. Offer to buy Owein before tomorrow’s auction.”

  “Aye,” Aiden put in. “That would be the safest way to save the lad.”

  Marcus drew a deep breath and paced to the far end of the room. The tiles seemed unsteady under his feet. Thirteen years ago, in the north, he’d narrowly escaped a bloody fort attack only to be pitched into a far more horrible battle. Ignoring his father’s order to hide, Marcus had crept to an eerie stone circle and huddled in the shadow of a towering oak while Owein, crazed with hatred and dark magic, had fought Lucius. Marcus’s father had almost died that night.

  Now Marcus was expected to save the Druid warrior who’d tried so hard to destroy his father? A Druid who, most probably, had taken the innocence of the woman Marcus loved? He stood very still, his body tight, his emotions churning in a dark, seething froth.

  Rhiannon approached him with soft steps. He flinched when she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “Please, Marcus. Do this for me. For the love I hold for ye.”

  Marcus didn’t turn. “He nearly killed Father.”

  “True enough. But after, Owein came to realize how much I loved your father. He was the one who urged me to follow my heart and travel south with ye and Lucius.” She moved in front of him, searching his face. “Please, Marcus. I beg ye.”

  Marcus’s shoulders sagged. How could he refuse Rhiannon? She might not be his mother in truth, but her love and quiet strength had nurtured the man he was.

  He covered her hand with his. “I will go. For you. But I warn you, we’ve not enough coin in the strongbox.”

  “I can help,” Clara said. Shakily, she drew the strap of her satchel over her head.

  Marcus took the bag, avoiding her gaze. His eyes widened when he saw its contents—not coin, but a tangle of gold and jewels, more than he’d ever seen in one place.

  “Is it enough?” Clara asked anxiously.

  “I should think so,” Marcus said shortly. It was a small fortune.

  He saddled his horse and set out for the Gracchus villa. A scant hour later, he returned home alone. Clara rushed to the door as he entered.

  “I was too late,” he told her. “The slavers have already taken him to the city.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Marcus was no stranger to the slave market. On the contrary, he was a regular customer. As a rule, his acquisitions were surly or terrified when purchased. Their emotions quickly shifted to disbelief, wariness, or gratitude when Marcus spoke the public words of manumission.

  He wondered how Owein would react to freedom.

  He approached the entran
ce to the pens, trying not to fidget with his toga. He hated the thing. A cold breeze whipped up his bare legs, making him wish for his braccas. But in the arena, he needed to stand with the other patricians. Looking the part aided his cause.

  He’d never purchased a strong male in his prime; his family’s precarious finances didn’t permit such an extravagance. Even if they had, Marcus preferred to liberate the most desperate of the human chattel offered for sale. The women. The old. The babes.

  With a regal nod, he slipped a copper dupondius to the slave guarding the carts. It was expected a serious buyer would want to inspect the day’s offerings and take note of the lot in which certain slaves would be offered. Marcus would as soon have passed over this part of the proceedings. His stomach churned as he started down the first row of carts, searching for Owein.

  The place stank. Some carts housed up to five or six unwashed bodies, huddled together in cold and despair on ill-smelling straw. Each cart contained two buckets, one for water, the other for sanitary needs. Often, it was impossible to distinguish between the two.

  Misery permeated the air. Soft moans and loud sobs, the sniffling of the young ones and the prayers of the old. Almost all the captives were Celts. Some had been brought from the north, where the army skirmished along Hadrian’s half-built Great Wall. Others had been caught in crime and sentenced to slavery. A few had sold themselves to satisfy their debts.

  Striding ahead with grim purpose, Marcus located the aisle where the strong men were penned like beasts awaiting the games. He recognized his stepmother’s brother immediately. The wild red-haired Celt was not the youth Marcus remembered, but his resemblance to Rhiannon was clear enough to Marcus’s eye. He sprawled on the mucky floor of his cart, both arms raised, his wrists shackled to the sturdy oak bars over his head. His ankles were bound as well, to either side of the barred door. He wore only tattered, filthy braccas. Cuts and bruises covered his torso and face. One eyebrow was cut; blood dripped in a jagged line down the side of his face.

  His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. Marcus took advantage of the reprieve to note the lot number painted on a wooden sign leaning against the cart’s wheel. Below the number was a description of the merchandise: Male Celt. Outlaw. Free of disease. Strong back, good teeth. There was more, but Marcus didn’t have the stomach to read it.