The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  “Lass.” His voice was raw. “Ye dinna understand. ’Tis beyond my strength to protect ye from what is inside me.”

  The wind howled, shrieking through the barn. A sheep bleated in fear. “Then don’t,” she whispered. “Let me in.”

  Arms shaking, he shoved himself off his knees and out of her embrace. He tried to stand, but the effort was beyond him. Dropping back to a crouch, he let his head drop. “Leave me.”

  The hay rustled under Clara’s knees as she crept toward him, approaching as if he were a wild beast or a rabid dog. He didn’t fend her off. Perhaps he couldn’t.

  She laid a hand on his head. “Owein.”

  “Ye shouldna have come here.”

  “But I did. I’m not leaving you, Owein. Not like this. You need me.”

  He looked up. “I need no one.”

  It was a lie. She could see it in his eyes. He was drowning in need, suffocating with want. And yet, he wouldn’t act on his desires. He feared she couldn’t survive his darkness.

  But she could. She knew it. It would be terrifying, but she would do it. For him.

  She drew him into her arms and he didn’t resist. She knelt with his cheek pillowed between her breasts, her arms cradling him as she would a child.

  “Please Owein. Let me help you.”

  “Nay. Ye dinna understand the darkness that can rise from the Deep Magic. It’s strong within me. I fear …” He swallowed. “I fear it will break ye, Clara, and that I could not bear.”

  “I’m not so fragile. You should know that by now.”

  He opened his mouth. She didn’t want to hear the words that would drive her away. She sought his lips, kissing him deeply, with all her love.

  With a sigh, he relented. His arms wrapped around her torso, melding their bodies. Sinking back on the blanket, she urged him to cover her with his body.

  She throbbed with need; she yearned to feel him inside. His mind responded to her desire. He allowed her to sink below the surface, letting her feel the first layers of his darkness. Allowed her to feel his sorrows and shames, as if they’d been part of her own experience.

  She was far from the darkest corners of his soul, but even so, the raw emotion she touched caused her to recoil. For the first time, she sensed the true depth of Owein’s darkness. His hatred for her people was so deep and festering it sickened her.

  Bile seared a pathway up her throat. Her courage faltered. Her hands, which had been stroking the back of his neck, stilled.

  He tensed. “Now do ye understand, lass?”

  She drew a breath. “I … I think I do.”

  Closing her eyes, she drew him close and pressed her forehead to his. Putrid, suffocating darkness rushed toward her. Hatred—but that wasn’t all. She recognized despair as well—a hopelessness so empty, so bereft, that her body shook with the force of it. She gasped, digging her fingernails into his arms.

  She allowed the darkness to seep into her own mind.

  He jerked his head back. “Nay, ye musn’t—”

  Tears spilled from her eyes. “Oh, Owein, how do you bear it?”

  His breath came hard. “I bear it because I must.”

  He gazed at her, his expression gentling. He brought one forefinger up to trace the line of her lower lip. She caught it in her teeth, holding it gently while running the tip of her tongue over the pad of his finger.

  Surprise flared in his eyes. He stared at her, transfixed. She turned her head into his palm and kissed it. Wrapping her arms about him, she brought him down atop her.

  Hesitantly, as if he feared she would break, he ran a hand up her leg, lifting the hem of her borrowed tunic as he went. With a small smile she lent aid to his cause, shifting her hips and wriggling the fabric over her head. He watched, bemused, as she emerged naked from the cocoon of soft wool.

  He touched the shorn ends of her hair. “Are ye sure, lass?”

  “Yes.” She arched into him, her fingers already shoving his braccas over his hips. The garment soon found its way into the hay. He moved over her once again, dipping his head and drawing the tip of her breast into his mouth. She gasped her pleasure, tangling her fingers in his hair, holding him in place.

  He kissed a line to her other breast and lavished it with the same attention as the first. He trailed his tongue down her torso, circling the indentation of her navel. Her legs parted, her essence seeking his heat and love. His pain called to her, but she forced herself to stay on the surface of his mind. She sensed that if she went deeper, he would turn her away.

  He nuzzled the curls between her thighs, his tongue delving into the slick folds. She gasped. Never had she imagined this! She clutched the blanket, bunching the fabric in her fists. His callused palms skimmed the soft skin of her hips and bottom, lifting her, opening her to his ministrations.

  When he had her gasping, calling his name, he kissed his way back up her body. “Ye are so sweet,” he murmured. “Like honey. Like springtime. Ah, lass …”

  “Clara.” She smiled, letting her love shine in her eyes.

  His blue eyes darkened. “Clara.”

  She shifted beneath him, wrapping her fingers around his phallus, pleased with her own boldness. When she squeezed the blunt tip, he let out a guttural groan.

  She guided him into her body. The air left her lungs as he entered on one long, thick slide. Holding himself above her, he fixed his eyes on her face as he began thrusting. She rose to meet him, hips undulating in a rhythm that was gentle at first, then frantic. Closing her eyes, she reached for him with her mind, sending out Light. It lapped at the edges of his darkness.

  His control slipped. A thread of panic followed, even as his pleasure rose. She moved deeper into his mind, soothing his fright. She sought his Dark center, though the reality of his pain terrified her. She could heal him. She knew she could.

  But at the same moment she touched his darkness, he slipped a hand between them, touching that hidden nub that was the center of her pleasure. Sensation flashed, scattering her concentration. He stroked again, circling the tight bud, then plucking it gently.

  “Oh, Owein.” Helplessly, she shuddered her release, her legs convulsing around his hips. “My beloved.”

  “Clara.” He drove into her, urging her to a new ecstasy. She thrashed against him. His hands clamped on her hips, steadying her as he plunged again and again into the haven of her body.

  “It’s too much. I can’t …”

  Her body stiffened. He smothered her astonished cry with his mouth, drinking it in like a dying man. Her inner muscles clenched around him. His phallus went rigid, as hard as any rock. He emptied himself within her, pumping his hips as his seed entered her womb.

  It seemed a long time before his trembling arms relaxed and he collapsed beside her. He lay with his forehead buried in the crook of her neck. She lifted a hand to thread her fingers through his hair. She wished they could stay this way always, just the two of them, alone, with no past or future to haunt them. His arm tightened, as if he were as reluctant as she to let the moment pass. But already the bliss was fading.

  She shivered. He eased gently from her arms and retrieved her tunic. He returned and wrapped it about her. She snuggled into the soft wool.

  “Owein?” she whispered, not opening her eyes.

  “Aye, lass?”

  “I love you.”

  He exhaled. “Ye shouldn’t.”

  Her voice came as if from the edge of a dream. “You’re right, of course, but I do anyway. And … I never want to stop.”

  Owein propped himself on one arm, watching the play of soft moonlight on Clara’s face. Her breathing lengthened and deepened. When he was sure she was asleep, he slid carefully away.

  Shame washed through him. He’d taken far more from her than he could ever give in return.

  When morning found him gone, she would hate him for it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The ocean churned like the Great Mother’s cauldron.

  A dark line of clouds advan
ced from the west, blotting the blue from the sky. A dingy collection of mud and wattle huts huddled on the shore, doors and shutters drawn tight against the coming maelstrom. Ferryboats and rafts bobbed like corks against the pier.

  No sane man would attempt a crossing in such surf. And yet, Rhys had no choice. The more he thought on it, the more he was certain it was true. Clara Sempronia had called the power of the Lost Grail. She had to be a Daughter of the Lady. With Gwen trapped, she alone could repel Blodwen’s evil.

  The Lost Grail had been fashioned by the twin Daughters of the Lady. One of these Daughters was the foremother of Rhys, Gwen, and Blodwen, the other had been thought dead, Rhys now believed that after escaping with the grail, the second Daughter had found a home with the Romans. Clara, with her ability to call the grail’s magic, must be the second Daughter’s descendant.

  Clara had the power to take the grail from Blodwen. And yet … she was Roman, with no training in Druidry. That fact troubled Rhys deeply. Without knowledge of the Words and spells of the Old Ones, Clara might crumple before Blodwen’s magic.

  Rhys banished the thought to a corner of his mind. His first task was to find Clara. Once he secured her promise of aid, he would formulate a plan.

  He pounded on the door of a ramshackle dwelling, the wind whipping his hair about his face. The dark sky had begun to spit sleet, but the full brunt of the storm was some hours off. Hefin rose with a squawk, settling atop the frozen eaves. Rhys pounded again with the side of his fist. “Angus! Are ye there, man?”

  “Who be asking?”

  “Rhys, the bard.”

  A latch inside the hut lifted and the door was pulled wide. Rhys stumbled over the threshold, into the arms of a grizzled fisherman. “Rhys!” Angus exclaimed. “What’re ye doing about on such a foul morning?”

  “I need passage across the channel to Isca. Now.”

  Angus plucked his graying beard. “Ye’ve lost yer wits, lad, to be sure. No boatman would chance a crossing in this storm.”

  “Ye’ve rowed in foul weather before.”

  “When I was younger, perhaps, with no one but meself to mind.” He gave a nervous glance toward the corner of the hut’s single room, where a dour-faced woman sat suckling a babe.

  Rhys stifled a curse. He’d forgotten Angus’s young wife had so recently given him a son. He gave the new mother a swift bow.

  The woman remained unsmiling. “ ’Tis an ill wind that blows. ’Tis magic, nay?”

  At Rhys’s nod, Angus shivered. “I canna be taking ye to Isca. Nay this day. Perhaps on the morrow …”

  “The morrow will be too late,” Rhys said, turning toward the door. “My thanks. I’ll seek out Vaughn. He’ll accommodate me.”

  Angus exchanged a glance with his wife. “Vaughn willna be rowing ye anywhere. He died a sennight past.” He cleared his throat. “Stay here, lad. I’ll row out when the storm lifts.”

  “I thank ye, Angus, but nay. I’ll seek another boatman.”

  But a short time later, Rhys’s stomach was seething as violently as the ocean. No man was willing to take to the sea in such weather. In all honesty, he couldn’t blame them.

  Rhys eyed the vessels pitching against the wharf. Did he dare borrow a boat? Nay, his skills as a seaman were negligible. It would be suicide to row on his own. Despite the time it would add to the journey, he would have to take the land route.

  He turned his face to the coast road. At least the wind was at his back, he thought grimly.

  Hefin glided above him, shadowing Rhys’s steady jog. As the village receded, the merlin darted ahead. Rhys pushed to quicken his stride. With luck, he would arrive in Isca the following evening. He prayed Clara was still at the Aquila farm. But what of Owein? Even now he might be traveling to Avalon. If the Druid fell into Blodwen’s snare, what destruction would follow?

  His legs pounded on the path, skirting treacherous patches of ice. Rhys slowed, his eyes scanning the ground. An injury now would be disastrous.

  Intent on picking out hazards, Rhys didn’t see Hefin dive until the merlin was full upon him. The raptor descended in a flurry of wings, sinking its talons into the fleshy muscle between Rhys’s shoulder and neck. Rhys stumbled, his feet flying out from under him as his boot hit an icy patch. He went down with a cry. It was a moment before he gathered his wits.

  Hefin fluttered gracefully to the ground in front of him—far enough, Rhys noted sourly, to avoid his master’s grasp. Rhys rubbed his smarting shoulder and glared at the bird. “What in the name of the Great Mother was that for?”

  The animal cocked its head to one side and let out a squawk. Waddling like a chicken, it ventured a few steps closer.

  Rhys stared at it intently. “What is it, friend?”

  With a flap of its wings, the merlin lifted into the air, then settled back down again. In the back of Rhys’s mind, an idea formed, born of Hefin’s instincts.

  Fly.

  The bird tilted its head. Its small, dark eye blinked.

  Another picture formed. Gwen, as a wolf. The figure morphed into a merlin. The bird rose into the sky, joining another of its kind.

  The bottom dropped out of Rhys’s stomach. “Ye want me to change? Impossible. Friend, I haven’t the power my sister commands. I never had.”

  Another image flashed into Rhys’s mind. The sun’s rays, rising over the horizon.

  Rhys blinked, confusion racing through him. Could it be? Was it possible the power of the Old Ones rose inside him, as it had in Gwen?

  A single idea sprang into Rhys’s mind.

  Try.

  He stood on shaking legs. “It’s forbidden to call the Deep Magic. I canna go against Cyric’s—”

  Hefin cut him off with a screech.

  Rhys stared at the bird. Call the Deep Magic? As Gwen had? Did he dare?

  The long road to Isca rose in his mind. Two days’ hard travel, even without the storm breaking over him. Two days while Gwen remained trapped and wounded. Two days while Blodwen lured Owein into the Lost Lands.

  How could he not call the Deep Magic?

  “All right,” he heard himself say softly. “I will try.” Doing his utmost to ignore the tremor radiating through his limbs, he spread his arms wide.

  What would it mean to release his humanity—to change into a dumb beast and lift into the sky, where no man had the right to soar? Terror gripped him as another thought occurred. What if he succeeded in changing, but not in returning to human form? Would he lose the thoughts and emotions that made him a man, becoming a beast in truth? Or would his man’s soul be trapped within an animal’s body?

  Had Gwen felt the same fears, the first time she’d turned? Rhys wished his sister were by his side now, to offer advice as she so often had when they were young. She’d always been the first to assault any challenge. Never had he thought he’d be called upon to save her.

  With an effort, he calmed his fears. His lips parted, the syllables of an ancient chant emerging from his throat. It was a prayer of the Old Ones, a song that expressed the wonder of all the creation of the Great Mother and her consort, the Horned God. For did not the Deep Magic flow in every corner of their world? Did the Mother not join with the God in birthing every facet of existence? All came from the God and Goddess, therefore all was one. He only prayed the Great Mother would shield him from the shadows of her creation.

  The chant ended, leaving his mind clear and silent. In the absence of thought, his senses opened fully. He heard the hiss of the wind, felt the sting of sleet. The smell of winter’s decay and the salt tang from the nearby sea greeted his nostrils.

  Hefin’s feathers ruffled. The merlin sent an image into Rhys’s mind: the countryside and sea spread out like a blanket, as a bird in flight might see it. Had any man ever beheld such a view? Avalon appeared as two bumps surrounded by glassy swamps. The treetops were a blanket of greenery. The ocean’s waves were tiny tufts of white on an expanse of gray-blue.

  Was it truly possible Rhys might see these things with his
own eyes? He gazed at Hefin. The merlin had come to him unbidden. Had it chosen him because it sensed a kindred spirit?

  Taking a deep breath, he shut his eyes. In his mind’s eye he held the picture of a merlin. Slowly, he approached, sinking his consciousness within the image.

  At first, all he felt was a slight tingling. It began in his feet, as if some power had emerged from the earth. It radiated up his legs, into his torso, along his arms. It ended in his fingertips and the crown of his head. The sensation was odd, as if he stood on the membrane of an enormous, vibrating drum.

  “Great Mother,” he prayed. “Grant me this gift for the good of the Light.”

  At once the tingling intensified. The very marrow of his being throbbed.

  Pain seared his body. His bones twisted from within. There was a crackling, popping sound, as sinew and flesh contracted. Panic clogged Rhys’s lungs, but he could force no cry from his lips. The world spun dizzily.

  His skin was afire, stretched tight over bone and muscle. He fell, writhing, to the frozen ground.

  When at last the agony faded, he dared not move. His body felt different. His heart fluttered in his chest, its beat fast and light. When he opened his eyes, the sea and shore sprang at him in sharp relief. Colors were muted, but the details! He saw every ripple of sand, every swell of the waves, every feather on a tern’s wing.

  The slap of the sea on the shore echoed painfully in his ears. He could hear every whisper of the sea grasses, and even the scurrying feet of a mouse as it burrowed in the sand.

  Movement arrested his attention. With a flurry of brown feathers, Hefin dropped into view. Rhys scrambled backward, his heart racing. The merlin had grown huge! Rhys stared as the creature tilted its head and regarded him solemnly.

  Slowly, understanding crept over him. Hefin hadn’t grown to the size of a man; it was Rhys who had shrunk. Experimentally, he extended his arms. They were no longer human limbs, but wings.

  He stood on clawed feet, his talons flexing on the snow-covered rock. He swayed, trying to get the feel of this new body. His clothes were lying in a crumpled heap. If a traveler came upon them, what would he think?