by Joy Nash
His human mind seemed intact, thanks be to the Great Mother. Yet he had a merlin’s mind as well. Cool and ruthless, born of the Deep Magic. Rhys felt the pull of that force. It was a power that existed outside of time. It had come into being long before man had conceived his weak notions of good and evil. He drew almost close enough to touch it, then, gasping, wrenched away. With an effort, he turned his attention to his new body, ruffling and settling his feathers. It was a strange sensation.
Hefin spread his wings and brought them down with a great rush of air. Effortlessly, the merlin rose into the air to perch on the low branch of an elm.
Rhys imitated the movement. It took three tries, and an ignoble tumble, but at last he gained the low branch. From there Hefin rose to the treetops. Rhys followed, only just snagging a thin, swaying limb. The storm’s vanguard winds whipped around him. The world below spun crazily.
Haste.
The idea had come from Hefin. Rhys opened his beak to reply, but managed only a screech. When Hefin flapped into the air, Rhys opened his wings and followed. He rose, hovering above the sea.
Something like laughter spread through him. He was flying! He did a loop, reveling in his incredible skill. Flying! It was a miracle.
Hefin screeched a warning. Rhys, in the middle of a gleeful spin, didn’t respond. A crosswind struck him like a blow. The sensation was akin to being toppled by a violent wave. Rhys scrabbled to gain control, working the air currents as he would a turbulent surf, to no avail. He couldn’t get the rhythm of his new wings. The sea rushed at him.
It was only by the merest chance that he righted himself before smashing into the churning water. Chastened, he steadied himself with a slow beat of his wings before rising to meet Hefin.
Isca, he told the bird.
The merlin gave a squawk and turned to the northeast.
Even the heat of the forge couldn’t loosen the angry knot in Marcus’s stomach. Clara hadn’t so much as glanced behind her as she entered the sheep barn last night. Had she no pride, to seek out a man who spurned her? He hefted his hammer and brought it down with all his might on the anvil. The force of the blow traveled up his arm.
He stared sourly at the new dagger blade he’d nearly split in two. Ruined. Disgusted, he dropped the piece into a trough of sand. Abandoning the furnace, he strode to his worktable and gathered three of his best throwing daggers. Not even pausing to remove his blacksmith’s apron, he headed for the door.
Dawn had broken reluctantly. A stiff wind blew and dark clouds piled on the horizon. The sweat of the forge turned to ice on his skin. Marcus frowned. Another storm. Was it driven by Druidry? By Owein, as Rhys had suspected? Or was another force at work? He closed his eyes and tried to feel the magic.
Nothing.
“Pollux,” Marcus muttered. Despite the storm, despite the magic, all he could think of was Clara’s rejection. And for what? So she could couple in the hay with a Druid who would soon be gone? For Marcus was sure Owein meant to leave for Avalon. He would want to practice his sorcerer’s arts with his own kind.
The thought of Druids gathering in the swamplands created a burning sensation in the pit of Marcus’s stomach. It didn’t matter that Rhys insisted Avalon served only the Light. Marcus did not believe it. Power was seductive. There would always be those who would convince themselves the good they sought could only be achieved through evil.
He unlocked the yard gate, leaving it open a crack behind him. Leaving the farmhouse compound, he strode across a stubbled wheat field, angling toward the forest and the clearing beyond, where his practice targets—stumps and slabs of wood set at various heights and distances—awaited.
His first throw hit his target dead center. He gripped the hilt of the second knife, closing one eye to judge his aim. A sudden thought rose: what if Clara carried Owein’s child? If the Druid did not claim the babe, was Marcus willing to do so?
The second blade missed its mark, glancing off the edge of the target. He scowled, muttering darkly.
“Marcus?”
He looked up to find Breena beside him. He hadn’t heard her approach, but that was no surprise. The wind was far from silent and his sister could move like a wraith.
“Is there a problem at the house?” he asked, frowning.
“Nay.” She seemed nervous, her fingers twisting together—a gesture she rarely made.
She looked so distressed that Marcus’s heart skipped a beat. “Is it … did you have one of your nightmares?” Had she touched on some darkness she couldn’t face?
“Nay,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I thought … I thought to ask your advice.”
His brows raised. “On what subject?”
“It’s Rhys. I feel so strange when I’m near him. Hot and cold at once. I think … I think I love him. But I don’t know if he feels the same.”
Marcus let out a breath. No magic, just a girl’s infatuation. “Of course Rhys doesn’t love you. At least, not in that way. He’s nearly twice your age.”
“It’s not uncommon for older men to marry younger women.”
“Maybe not, but you’re only a girl.” Marcus shook his head. “Rhys is a man, Bree, and you know nothing of men. You have no idea what they—”
She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I know you and Rhys visit the tavern wenches.”
Marcus started. “You do?”
“Aye. And once, last summer, when you were short on coin, you shared a woman between you.” She scowled. “You should be careful what you discuss in the fields when you think no one is listening.”
“By Jupiter, Bree! Have you no decency?”
“Not where spying on my brother is concerned,” she said, but her attempt at levity didn’t reach her eyes. She looked skyward, troubled. Then she gave a gasp.
“Look, Marcus! Two merlins. Above the western field.”
“Two merlins?” Marcus followed her outstretched finger. Sure enough, two birds circled. But it wasn’t possible one could be Rhys’s falcon. The creature always flew alone.
“They fly before the storm,” Breena said.
The pair dropped low, circling the forest beyond the edge of the clearing. Marcus watched them, his brow furrowing. Something was wrong with one of the birds. Its flight was erratic, dipping and jerking awkwardly. Its companion circled, almost as if offering encouragement or instruction.
Marcus dismissed the fanciful notion. His artist’s imagination, as always, churned with fantasy. No feathered conversation was going on overhead. One merlin was sick, or injured, that was all. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get a firmer grip on himself.
Breena’s breath caught. “Marcus—look!”
The wounded falcon had dipped low, leaving its companion to rise on an updraft. The bird hovered just above the trees at the far edge of the clearing, wings spread, head angled downward as if assessing the hardness of the ground. An instant later, it dropped like a rock and disappeared.
Breena gasped and ran toward it.
“Bree, come back!” Marcus might as well have tried to command the wind. Swearing, he jogged after her, his boots crunching the frozen stubble. His forge apron, heavy with tools, bounced at his waist.
Breena disappeared into the trees. Marcus found her kneeling beside the fallen raptor, her hand outstretched and trembling. The bird thrashed, its left wing limp. When Breena shifted closer, it let out a shrill squawk.
The merlin overhead screeched a warning.
“Don’t touch it,” Marcus warned, grabbing Bree’s arm and jerking her back. “Its mate may attack, and you can’t help in any case.” He groped for his remaining dagger. “I’ll kill it and be done with it.”
“No!” Breena twisted violently. “You don’t understand. I have to help him.”
An icy gust of wind blasted through the trees. Overhead, a limb gave an ominous crack. Marcus glanced up, then dragged Breena clear of the brittle branch.
“It’s not safe here in the woods. And it’s freezing besides. Let’s go back.�
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“No. Let me go.”
“When you’re safe in the house.”
The merlin flopped on its side. Breena clawed at Marcus’s arm, to no avail. She tried a kick to his knee, but he blocked it with his thigh.
“Marcus,” she said, her voice pleading. “Please.”
He turned, prepared to drag his sister away bodily if that was what it took to get her out of harm’s way.
“Marcus,” she whispered again, her voice strangled. “Look.”
He turned back to scold her, but the words died in his throat.
The merlin was changing.
Panic surged within him, sharp and urgent. Little good it did—Marcus’s legs were rooted to the ground, his hand frozen on Breena’s arm. His mind, trapped inside his unresponsive body, screamed at him, urging him to flee, but he could not. He could only stare in horror as impossible sorcery unfolded before him.
The merlin twisted on the ground. Elongated. Its bones snapped, a truly awful sound. Under the creature’s covering of feathers, its body grew. Then the feathers smoothed into skin. The bird’s head rounded, its curved beak smoothing into nose and lips. Clawed feet grew human toes. Wings stretched into arms.
The raptor’s cries faded, leaving only the low moan of a man.
“No,” Marcus whispered. He staggered back a step, dragging Breena with him. “No.”
Breena’s voice trembled. “I tried to tell you.”
“It cannot be.” Horror burgeoned inside him, until he feared his chest would burst. “It can not be.”
It cannot be. The phrase was a hammer on the anvil of his skull. His stomach roiled. He wanted desperately to look away, but he could not. He could only stare as, with a flash of light, Rhys shook off the last vestiges of his animal form.
Never, in all his dark nightmares, had Marcus dared to dream something so ghastly.
Rhys sat before him, legs splayed, arms upon his knees, head bowed, his breath coming in sharp spurts. A shudder wracked his body. With an abrupt motion, he rolled onto his hands and knees and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground.
It was only then Marcus realized the Druid was naked.
He thrust Breena behind him. With a groan, Rhys knelt back on his haunches, cradling his left elbow.
“Rhys,” Breena breathed.
Rhys’s head jerked up, his gaze locking with Marcus’s.
“Cover yourself,” Marcus said sharply.
Rhys’s eyes flicked to Breena and widened. His cheeks flooded with color. Keeping one hand firmly on Breena, Marcus untied his forge apron with the other hand and tossed it to Rhys.
“Here.”
Rhys caught the apron, tools and all, with his injured arm. The weight caused his elbow to twist. He paled, sweat appearing on his forehead, but he said nothing as he tied the garment awkwardly about his waist. Slowly, he rose to his feet. With a screech, Hefin dove through the branches to land on his shoulder.
Breena tried to go to him. Did the girl have no sense at all? Marcus stopped her forward motion. “Stay back. You don’t know what this …” He swallowed. “This man might do.”
“It’s Rhys, Marcus! He would never hurt us!”
“That’s true,” Rhys said quietly, his gaze never wavering from Marcus’s face. “I bring ye no harm.”
“No harm? You changed from bird to man before my eyes! What are you? A spirit? A demon?”
“I’m a man,” Rhys said quietly. “No more or less than you.”
“Something more, I’m thinking.” Marcus stared at Hefin, perched on Rhys’s shoulder. The creature’s black eye regarded him unblinkingly. Was the bird a Druid as well? “At best, you’re a sorcerer. At worst …” Marcus didn’t want to consider the worst. “You’re not welcome here.”
The first darts of sleet stung Marcus’s cheek. Hefin ruffled his wing feathers and settled, talons flexing on Rhys’s bare shoulders. Marcus wondered how the silver-haired Celt managed to look so regal standing nearly naked in the winter dawn. The frigid wind was fierce, but Rhys paid it no notice.
“I mean no harm,” Rhys repeated. “Indeed, I’ve come seeking help. I’ll be gone once she agrees to come with me.”
Marcus felt Breena’s quick intake of breath. “You’re not taking my sister anywhere,” he said, his tone deadly.
“I’ve not come for Breena.”
“Then who?”
“The Roman woman. The one who sought the Lost Grail.”
“Clara?” Marcus sucked in a breath. “For what purpose?”
“She must accompany me to the sacred isle.”
Marcus regarded Rhys with distrust. “You would bring a Roman to Avalon? I cannot believe that.”
“I’ll explain to Clara.”
“If you think I’ll allow you near her—”
“Marcus,” Breena interrupted. “You cannot presume to speak for Clara!”
Marcus set his jaw. “Very well.” He renewed his grip on Breena’s arm. “I’ll take you to her.” Pivoting, he set out for home.
He’d not gone two paces before Rhys called him back. “Marcus?”
He stopped and turned. “What?”
The Druid spread his arms wide. “Might I first trouble ye for some clothes?”
Clara sat at Rhiannon’s table, crumbling a crust of bread. Owein’s sister had ordered her to eat, so she’d dutifully chewed a mouthful of leftover stew. A cup filled with steaming liquid sat at her elbow, but Clara suspected it would take much more than a potion of herbs to warm her.
Owein was gone.
She cradled the cup with numb fingers, searching her heart for a flicker of emotion. Curiously, she felt little. The pain and guilt of her father’s death, which had been so all-consuming the night before, was only a dim ache. Since the sickening moment she’d awakened alone in the cold barn loft, her body had been encased by ice. It was as if she stood outside herself, gazing at some unknown woman sitting in her chair. The woman’s face was drawn and pale, her eyes blank, her movements tiny and weak.
The intimate places of Clara’s body ached from Owein’s lovemaking. What if she carried his babe? Valgus would never allow her to keep the child. She splayed a hand on her flat stomach. She would abandon her inheritance rather than give up Owein’s babe.
She stared into her cup. Last night, she’d been sure that Owein loved her. She’d seen it in his mind, felt it in the reverent way he’d worshipped her body. He thought he protected her by keeping her away from his memories. She shivered, feeling again his nausea, his rush of despair and humiliation. His hatred of those who had hurt him.
She’d backed away from the worst of his darkness. If she had tried harder to heal Owein’s pain, would he be at her side now?
Rhiannon looked up from her cauldron, twin lines of worry etched in the center of her forehead. “Dinna blame yourself for Owein’s departure, Clara.”
Owein’s sister had spoken in Latin, so Clara responded in kind. But the words felt thick and heavy on her tongue, so unlike the lilting language she’d whispered to Owein last night. “You’ve been very kind.”
“You brought my brother to me. I can never repay you for that.”
“But now he’s gone again. Nothing has changed.”
“I know he’s alive. That means everything.”
Clara gripped her cup. The brew’s fragrance was pleasing, but she couldn’t bring herself to take a sip. “Owein was alone in the mountains for so long. He needs a family. If I hadn’t been here, he might have stayed with you.”
Rhiannon left her cauldron to sit in the chair opposite Clara. “Why do you say that?”
“It was my love that drove him away.”
“Or his love for you.”
A sliver of pain slid through a crack in Clara’s frozen heart. “Do you think he loves me? I hoped so, but now …”
Rhiannon reached across the table and squeezed Clara’s forearm. “He does. I’m sure of it.” The furrows in her brow deepened. “But there’s darkness inside him …”
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“He won’t let me touch it. I—” She broke off as the door opened.
Marcus entered the hearth room, steering Breena in front of him. The girl’s expression was furious; she flounced away as soon as she passed the threshold. Marcus stepped to one side, allowing a second man to enter.
Clara’s eyes widened. The newcomer was a Celt, tall and lanky. He was dressed oddly, in a shirt far too baggy and braccas far too short for his frame. His hair was unlike any Clara had ever seen—it fell in silver-blond waves to his shoulders. His gray eyes were weary—indeed, his entire body seemed to strum with the same fatigue Owein endured after one of his visions. One arm hung limply at his side.
Nevertheless, his eyes were alert. He scanned the room quickly, his gaze passing over Rhiannon to settle on Clara. She read a wary hope in his expression. She shifted in her seat, unnerved.
“Rhys,” Rhiannon said, standing. “What are ye doing here? Are ye injured?”
He glanced down at his arm, as if he’d forgotten it pained him. “ ’Tis but a strain, I think.”
Rhiannon’s gaze darted to Breena. “Have ye come—”
Breena cut in. “It’s not me he—”
“Hold your tongue for once,” muttered Marcus. “Where is Owein?” he asked, ignoring Breena’s huff of annoyance.
“Gone,” Clara said, standing. “To Avalon.” Her voice sounded hoarse.
Rhys swore under his breath. “To Blodwen,” he said grimly. “My cousin. It was she who spoke the curse that sickened our grandfather.”
Rhiannon started. “Ye were nay aware of evil in your midst?”
Rhys reddened. “One of our number suspected. My twin, Gwendolyn. Blodwen has imprisoned her.” He swallowed. “My cousin has gained the Lost Grail.”
“From Cormac?” Clara asked.
“Aye. The dwarf is caught in Blodwen’s web. But she seeks yet another victim. A King born of the ancient line of Celtic queens, who will join with her in darkness. The man she wants as her consort possesses a strong link to the Deep Magic.”