The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  “Owein,” Rhiannon whispered.

  “Aye. Blodwen has set a trap for him. If he succumbs to it, I dinna know what darkness will follow.”

  “I know,” Breena murmured. She winced, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Her voice grew thin, her eyes unfocused. “I See … the seas rising. The earth shaking. The fortress reduced to rubble. A Dark Queen rises, a Dark King at her side. They hold the Lost Grail. It’s filled with blood …”

  She gasped, bending double. Rhiannon was at her daughter’s side in a heartbeat, arms encircling her torso. Rhys watched with troubled eyes as the healer eased the shuddering girl onto a bench by the hearth. Clara sensed he wanted to go to Breena, but something held him back. Was it Marcus, who stood so grimly with his muscular arms crossed against his chest?

  Rhys turned to Clara. To her surprise, he moved close and took her hand, prying her fingers from the edge of the table.

  “I need your help, cousin.”

  His touch was warm and comforting. She studied their joined hands, then looked up as the meaning of his words penetrated her brain. “Cousin? What do you mean? I’m no Celt.”

  “Nay,” Rhys conceded. “But I believe we share a common ancestor. Long ago, before the Romans marched on the west country, a ship from the East was wrecked on the shores of Avalon. All died save one woman, heavy with child. No one ever learned her name—they called her simply, ‘The Lady.’ ”

  “Who was she?”

  “The disciple of an Eastern prophet executed by the Romans. A band of his followers feared for their lives. They fled by sea, meaning to land in Gaul, but a storm blew them north to Avalon. The Druids living there took the woman in. She told them of her master, a man who led people to the Light.

  “The Lady carried a plain wooden cup that had once held the prophet’s blood. The Deep Magic was strong in the vessel. Any who drank from it were cured of illness. Soon after, the Lady was delivered of twin daughters. When the girls were but infants, their mother disappeared into the swamps. Her body was never found.”

  “How terrible,” Clara murmured.

  “The Daughters remained in Avalon. When they grew, it was found that they possessed a link to the Deep Magic. The clan decided the Daughters should be trained in the ways of the Old Ones. They were schooled in magic and learned the art of smithcraft. As young women, they encased their mother’s wooden cup with silver and crystal, adding the magic of the Old Ones to the power of the Lady’s prophet.” Rhys met Clara’s gaze. “Their cup is the one ye once held. The Lost Grail of Avalon.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Clara said. “If the grail was made in Avalon, how did it come into my grandmother’s hands?”

  “When the Legions marched on the west, I believe one Daughter escaped with the grail and found a home among the Romans. That Daughter is your ancestor, Clara.”

  “And her sister?”

  “My own foremother.” Rhys inclined his head. “We are kin.”

  Clara’s head grew light. She was kin to Druids? “It’s impossible,” she whispered.

  “Nay. Gwen, my sister, entrusted me with the grail’s secret. Only a Daughter of the Lady may call its power. One such Daughter is Blodwen. Gwen is another. And then, there is you.” Rhys’s fingers tightened on hers. “Ye feel the Deep Magic, do ye not?”

  “Yes. I wanted to learn more, but Owein refused to teach me.”

  “I’ll try to teach ye what ye need to know, if ye will agree to oppose Blodwen. Will ye come with me to Avalon, Clara?”

  To wrest the grail from the hands of a sorceress? The thought made her ill. But if Owein were walking into a trap …

  “I’ll come,” she said quietly.

  “Think hard before ye consent. ’Twill nay be an easy task to claim the Lost Grail.” He exhaled sharply. “Blodwen’s power is strong. She’s taken it from a dark source that does not demand her strength in payment.” With brief words Rhys painted a nauseating picture of Blodwen’s foul use of Cormac, the dwarf. “I cannot lie to ye,” he finished. “This endeavor may cost your life.”

  “And … if I don’t try?”

  “Blodwen seeks revenge for a grievous wrong done to her in her youth. And I find I canna condemn her for her hatred of the soldiers who used her so cruelly. But in her mind the blame has spread to include all Romans, and indeed, all Celts who have made peace with Rome.” He gave a troubled glance toward Breena, who still sat huddled on the bench with Rhiannon. “I believe Breena has Seen a shadow of Blodwen’s intent.”

  The wind wailed, rattling the shutters.

  “I will go,” Clara repeated.

  Rhys’s shoulders sagged. “Thank the Great Mother. We’ll leave within the hour.”

  “Are you well enough?” Rhiannon asked, her face lined with worry. “Your arm—”

  “It’s fine,” Rhys said abruptly. His eyes darted to where Marcus leaned against the doorjamb, his expression hard, his fingers stroking the hilt of his dagger. “Marcus, may I trouble ye for provisions? And a pair of swift horses?”

  Marcus’s gaze passed to Clara, then to Breena, then back to Rhys. He muttered a soft curse under his breath. “On one condition,” he said. “And there will be no argument.”

  “What is that?” Rhys asked cautiously.

  “I’m going with you.”

  Clara had never ridden a horse. Her father hadn’t allowed it.

  She clung to the reins, terrified, her head bowed to keep the worst of the sleet from driving into her eyes. The gray mare pitched like a boat, chafing her thighs. She was thankful for the ancient pair of Marcus’s braccas Rhiannon had insisted she wear under her tunic. She fully expected the creature to bolt, but as the day faded into night it became apparent her mare was interested in nothing but following Rhys’s mount. Marcus brought up the rear, his anger so hot Clara could almost feel it singeing her cloak.

  Marcus hadn’t wanted her to risk herself, but what choice did she have? If Owein was heading into a trap set by a crazed Druidess, Clara could hardly refuse her aid. And then there had been Breena’s vision. She shuddered. She couldn’t sit in Isca, waiting for a Dark storm to consume the city.

  Instead, she rode to meet it.

  The journey was rough, even on horseback. Clara thought of Owein, on foot. Would they reach Avalon before him? She closed her eyes and searched for him. The attempt proved useless.

  Rhys spent a good portion of the ride by Clara’s side, asking about her link to the Deep Magic and answering her questions about Druidry. She learned that to touch her magic, she needed a clear mind. At Rhys’s bidding, she practiced emptying her mind of thoughts as she rode. It was not an easy task.

  Both the God and the Goddess were of the Deep Magic, Rhys explained. A Druid could choose to follow his deity either in Light or in darkness, or with a combination of both. “My grandfather,” he said, “will not allow darkness on Avalon. He follows only the Light. This was the teaching brought by the Lady from the East—harm none, even for good purposes. Forgive every hurt, even those inflicted by your enemy.”

  “That seems a hard road to follow,” Clara said.

  “It is.” Rhys hesitated, then sighed. “After Blodwen was abused, her father, Padrig, wanted to take vengeance. Cyric refused. He does not allow the use of Deep Magic, even for justice, because it makes one vulnerable to darkness. Instead of retribution, Cyric advised forgiveness. Padrig bowed to his brother’s will, and it seemed Blodwen did, too. But I know now she never found the Light’s peace. How could she, with her magic and beauty gone, and pity in every glance that came her way?” He shook his head. “The path of the Light is a hard one, Clara. I canna say for certain that I agree with all Cyric’s decisions.”

  Clara frowned. “It seems so complex. I’m not sure what you expect me to do. How am I to face Blodwen and gain the grail when I know so little?”

  Rhys shifted in his saddle. “Ye have only to follow my lead. I’ll not let ye fall. Blodwen means to join with Owein in the Lost Land. We must go there and prevent it.”<
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  “The Lost Land? What is that?”

  “The Lost Land is the place that separates Annwyn, the realm of the gods, from the realm of men. Only those with a strong link to the Deep Magic may enter.”

  Clara swallowed. “Once we are there, what then?”

  “I dinna know, precisely. We will seek the wisdom of the Great Mother. She will guide us.”

  His words did little to comfort Clara. How was she to face a sorceress, when she had so little knowledge of her own magic? If only Owein had been willing to teach her more.

  With nightfall, the sleet changed to snow. Clara teetered in her saddle, jerking awake just in time to keep herself from falling.

  Marcus rode up alongside her and grabbed her reins.

  “This is lunacy,” he shouted ahead to Rhys. “It’s too dark to go on. Clara needs rest.”

  Rhys half-turned in his saddle. “There’s no time.”

  “It’ll do you no good if she falls ill,” Marcus retorted. “To say nothing of the horses.”

  Above them, a raptor shrieked. Clara looked skyward and recognized the merlin she’d seen on Rhys’s arm just before they’d left the Aquila farm. It had flown off to the west, and she’d not seen it again until now.

  The bird called a second time, swooping low. Rhys’s mare reared. Rhys settled the beast and dismounted. Striding a short distance away, he raised his arm. The merlin landed.

  Clara watched the tall Celt as he murmured soothing words to the bird. It cocked its head and lifted its wings in response.

  “It almost looks as if they’re speaking,” she said out loud.

  A muscle in Marcus’s jaw twitched. “They are. It’s part of Rhys’s sorcery.”

  Clara’s eyes widened. “What a wonder,” she murmured.

  “A foul twist of nature, to my mind,” Marcus replied.

  Rhys raised his arm and Hefin took wing. When he turned toward them, his eyes were troubled. “We have no time to rest,” he said. “Owein approaches Avalon.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Owein moved silently through the swamplands. Avalon lay before him, a black mound against the night sky, curtained by snowfall. He frowned. He felt no call from the high slope of the sacred isle, where it was said its magic was most powerful. Instead, the far side of Avalon’s smaller hill beckoned.

  The ache between his eyes intensified, but it didn’t occur to Owein that he might turn back. A vision guided him. The gray-eyed Druidess of his dream, the woman destined to become the mother of his babes. Her silver tresses streamed about her body like waves of light. A simple white tunic accented her lush breasts and hips.

  Slender arms lifted. She held the Lost Grail.

  “Beloved,” she whispered. “Come to me.”

  Beloved.

  Clara had uttered the same endearment—had it been only the night before? For a shuddering instant, Owein could do nothing but remember the softness of her skin as she pressed her body to his. When he breathed, her rose scent lingered. Her murmurs and sighs echoed in his ears. And when she’d reached her peak …

  He muttered a curse, shaking his head to clear it. Clara was not for him; she would marry Marcus Aquila, a man who was part of her own world. Owein’s destiny lay in Avalon.

  He raised his eyes, searching for signs of life. Was that a shimmer of light? The flicker dazzled his eyes. The ache in his head intensified.

  I can soothe the pain, a voice whispered in his mind. Ye need never feel it again. Come home and I will show ye.

  Come home.

  Was there such a place?

  He pushed Clara’s image into the darkest corner of his mind and turned his face to the hillside.

  Mist shrouded Avalon.

  The tempest that had blown most of the day had calmed in the night, and the fallen snow seemed to insulate rather than chill. Marcus didn’t take much comfort in the storm’s changing character. The silence of the swamps was too deep. Though he couldn’t feel any magic, he knew it was abroad.

  His gaze sought his companions. Clara’s face was pale and drawn, while Rhys’s jaw seemed chiseled from stone. Marcus calmed his own nerves by muttering every curse he knew—in Latin, in Celtic, and even a few in Greek—under his breath.

  The moon filtered through the thinning clouds, casting an otherworldly glow over the swamps. The tip of Avalon rode above the mist; its base was swathed in fog. Rhys halted at the water’s edge. Marcus dismounted silently and searched for a place where the horses could cross. The water’s surface was strewn with ice and floating debris, but at least it was calm.

  Finding a rocky outcropping that promised firmer footing, Marcus swung back into his saddle. The horses advanced slowly, placing each hoof with care. As the mist closed in, Rhys’s mare shied to the left, nearly pitching him into the water.

  “Ye might train your beasts better,” Rhys muttered to Marcus.

  “Ye might learn to handle a Roman saddle,” Marcus retorted.

  Rhys grumbled a reply.

  Paradoxically, the trading of insults eased the knot in Marcus’s stomach. He and Rhys had often sparred in this manner during the long years of their friendship, and Rhys’s lack of horsemanship had been a frequent topic of discussion. The Druid’s skill was sufficient to keep his seat while the animals forded the swamp, however.

  They emerged onto a small beach littered with rafts and small log boats. Rhys quickly dismounted, tethering the lead horse to a tree branch.

  “Come,” Rhys said to Clara, indicating what might have been a path, had it been visible through the fog.

  Marcus exchanged a glance with Clara and started forward. Rhys held up a hand, halting Marcus’s progress. His gaze didn’t quite reach Marcus’s as he said, “Only Clara may advance. I’ve already overstepped Cyric’s rules by bringing a Roman this far. Ye may not come farther.”

  Marcus scowled. “Clara is Roman.”

  “Clara is a Daughter of the Lady. You are not.”

  Marcus crossed his arms over his chest. “It makes no difference. I go where she goes.”

  “ ’Tis nay possible. There are wards and protective spells. One with no magic cannot climb the sacred hill.”

  Ignoring him, Marcus pushed past Rhys and started up the path. He’d not gone far when his limbs grew heavy and the air in his lungs thickened. He struggled, trying to take the next step up the mountain.

  He could not do it.

  “Ye canna go farther. ’Tis useless to try. The spell was wrought by Cyric.”

  Marcus managed one more step before dropping to one knee, chest heaving. “I am enchanted, then?”

  “Nay. Simply … discouraged.”

  With an effort, Marcus gained his feet. He looked at Clara. She seemed to have no difficulty walking the path. “You don’t have to go,” Marcus told her. “I’ll take you back to Isca whenever you say the word.”

  She touched his arm. “Please understand, Marcus.”

  Marcus searched her gaze. “Do you love him that much?”

  “Yes.”

  He exhaled, and nodded once. “I’ll be here, with the horses, until … until I know you have no more need of me.”

  He watched her disappear into the mist. The next moment, the ground beneath his feet trembled slightly. He thought at first he’d imagined it, until the horses whinnied in distress.

  He went to comfort them.

  A subtle tremor shook the island, vibrating the soles of Clara’s feet. Deep Magic pulsed beneath her, in the earth. Above, the snow swirled angrily, the wind whipping her cloak about her and reaching with icy fingers to dance upon her spine. The grail was near—she could feel the tug of its magic on her heart.

  The path Rhys followed led through a deserted village. “All gone,” he muttered. “They’ll be near the summit, at the stone that marks the entrance to the Lost Land.”

  Rhys climbed, weaving a series of switchbacks around the hill. Clara paused a moment, then followed.

  The Druids of Avalon were gathered around a blazing bonfir
e that occupied the space between a round hut and a smooth white boulder. They numbered twenty in all, including a few children. She quickly scanned their faces. “Owein is not here,” she murmured to Rhys.

  “Nay,” he said. “I didna expect him to be.”

  “But then why did we come—”

  Her question died as a tall, dark-haired Druid stepped forward. A hunched old woman advanced at his side, her ancient face shadowed and drawn. The man’s eyes flicked over Clara. Anger burned there.

  “Ye’ve brought an enemy to the sacred isle?” he demanded of Rhys. “As Cyric lies dying? Have ye lost all reason?”

  Hefin chose that moment to dive, barely missing the Druid’s head. The man flinched, his arms flying up in protection. Rhys called the merlin’s name. The bird settled itself on its master’s forearm, blinking solemnly.

  “Clara is no enemy, Padrig. She is a Daughter of the Lady.”

  Padrig’s eyes narrowed on Clara. A skitter of dread raced down her spine. “Impossible. She is Roman.”

  “She’s passed Cyric’s wards unharmed. She’s held the Lost Grail and called its magic. Now she will pass into the Lost Land and reclaim the grail from the traitor.”

  “Gwendolyn,” Padrig said bitterly.

  “Nay, not Gwen.” Rhys met the older man’s gaze squarely. “Blodwen.”

  Padrig snorted. “My daughter? She canna enter the Lost Land, and well ye know it. She has no magic.”

  “Blodwen has rediscovered her power,” Rhys said quietly. “She’s pledged it to the service of darkness, to avenge those who abused her. The soldiers Cyric did not pursue. In striking them down, she cares not if innocents suffer.”

  Padrig’s face drained of color. “Blodwen wouldna do such a thing. She is a gentle soul!”

  “Even a gentle soul may turn to darkness when the pain is great enough,” Rhys said. His expression was bleak; his tone laced with sorrow. “Blodwen is a Daughter of the Lady. Her power is great. She called the ill winds and pronounced the Words that sickened Cyric. When Gwen suspected her wrongdoing, Blodwen imprisoned her by magic.”

  There were murmurs all around.