by Joy Nash
“ ’Tis a lie!” Padrig spat.
“Nay, Uncle. Blodwen has gained the Lost Grail. Now she uses her power to call the Druid Owein, of the line of Queen Cartimandua. She means to join with him in the Lost Land, sealing her mastery of the world.”
The old woman at Padrig’s side spoke for the first time. “Your charge is most serious. What proof do ye offer?”
“The proof of my own eyes, Mared.” Briefly, Rhys told how Blodwen had used Cormac to regain her power. Padrig’s countenance turned ill. Mared’s eyes saddened.
“Clara is a Daughter of the Lady,” Rhys repeated. “The Great Mother will allow her passage to the Lost Land.”
Mared nodded. “It will be as the Goddess wishes. The Roman woman may attempt to enter. But ye must stay at her side.”
“I mean to.” Rhys guided Clara to the stone. Standing beside her, he raised his hand and spoke a single syllable. The guttural incantation vibrated in Clara’s skull.
Clara stared at the rock in bewilderment. The light from the fire danced over its face, illuminating its ridges and valleys. “I … don’t understand.”
“I’ve spoken the Word of entrance. Do as I do,” he added, placing his hand on the stone.
As if in a trance, Clara mimicked his action. Despite the cold night, the rock felt warm. “It’s a door, then? You will move it aside?”
“Nay.”
“Then how—?”
“Look inside yourself, Clara. Ye’ll find the answer there.”
She splayed both hands over the stone. Her eyelids drifted closed. Her mind opened, searching for guidance.
She found Owein.
He was nearby.
I’m coming to you, she thought. Wait for me.
There was no reply. Had he even heard?
Drawing a breath, she reached for him. As she did, her hands sank into the stone. The company of Druids gave up a collective gasp.
Her eyes flew open. Her arms had sunk into the rock. It was a strange sight. Her flesh was enveloped in heat, but the sensation was not painful. Before her, she felt Owein’s presence. At her side, Rhys stood, his fingers still splayed on the white rock.
He met her gaze, frowning.
“What … what does this mean?” Clara whispered.
“It means,” he said quietly. “That the Great Mother requires ye to enter the Lost Land alone.”
A touch, like a cool hand on his heated brow, alighted on Owein’s mind. He halted, confused. There could be only one source of that sensation.
Clara.
But how could that be? He’d left her safe at the Aquila farm with a storm closing in. Surely she couldn’t have followed him to Avalon.
He hesitated, wondering if he should go back to investigate. But the urge to advance was strong. A light glimmered in the cleft of the hillside. Thoughts of Clara faded as a surge of magic carried him forward. The silver-haired Druidess awaited.
He followed a narrow and winding trail. The light grew brighter, until its source became clear. The glow emanated from a smooth white rock wedged between two darker boulders, amid the ruin of a rough hut. Drawn to the stone, Owein halted before it.
Come to me, beloved.
Frowning, he placed his palm on the smooth, cool surface.
There was a pulling sensation, as if his body were being sucked forward. A rush of noise in his ears, a flash of pain, and then all was silent. He opened his eyes, blinking.
He stood in a village yard, in the center of a cluster of roundhouses surrounded by a high palisade wall. He faced the door of a solid-looking dwelling with mud walls and a high cone-shaped thatched roof. The home from his dreams? Hesitating only a second, he strode forward and pulled open the door.
The silver-haired woman stood at the hearth, stirring her cauldron. His gaze roamed, taking in chairs, a loom, a table, and a wide bed pallet. Shelves were filled with crockery, bundles of herbs dangled from the rafters, a wreath hung over the door.
His attention returned to the Druidess. If Owein had thought her beautiful in his dreams, he’d had but a glimpse of the loveliness that confronted him now. She was tall and regal, with lush breasts, narrow waist, and full hips, all clad in white. Silver-blond hair streamed over her shoulders.
Her magic surrounded him but didn’t intrude on his mind. It was wholly unlike Clara’s intimate touch, yet the effect was similar. The pain behind his eyes faded and his strength grew.
And yet … something didn’t feel quite right.
He hesitated, brows drawing together as he tried to understand. The woman moved gracefully to the far side of the room. Her back to him, she lifted a cloth draped over a shelf and removed what was beneath it. Turning with arms extended, she offered it to him.
The Lost Grail. He could feel the vessel’s power, calling him. The woman’s lush red lips curved in a smile.
“Welcome, Owein.”
He inclined his head. “Ye know my name. Will ye tell me yours?”
“Blodwen,” she said. “I am a Daughter of the Lady. As ye are a son of queens.” She lifted the grail. “I thank ye. The Lost Grail came to me from your hands through your kinsman, Cormac.”
“The dwarf is nearby?”
“Nay. He has gone.”
He swept his arm to one side, encompassing the dwelling. “And this place?” he asked. “What is it? ’Tis nay the world of men, that much I know. I stood before the stone in the hillside, then found myself here. ’Tis a shadow of the future, I am thinking.”
“Aye. The Lost Land shows us a vision of things to come.” Her lashes fluttered, her eyes cast downward, a smile playing about her lips. “This is our home, Owein. The one we will have in our future.” She sent a glance to the pallet behind her, where two tousled heads, one fair, one russet, peeked from the coverlet. “These are our children.”
Owein’s chest constricted. A family. His family.
“Ye will be my husband, and I your wife.” She lifted the Lost Grail. The motion caused her tunic to slip, revealing a milky-white shoulder.
“Come. Ye must be weary after your long journey. Drink from my cup, and lie with me on our pallet.”
She tilted the cup, revealing its contents.
Blood.
Marcus kept a wary eye on the path Rhys and Clara had taken. With night falling, he didn’t relish the thought of being left alone in this place of sorcery. What if one of the Druids came down to the shore? What manner of curse would they put on him?
He paced uneasily. He’d built a small fire, but the wood was damp, and he was afraid the scent would bring trouble. Still, he couldn’t bear to sit alone in the dark, jumping every time the wind rustled the reeds.
The horses picked up his mood, shifting and whinnying nervously. A sudden splash had him pivoting quickly. He’d thought any danger would come from the island, but perhaps he’d been mistaken. The swamp could very well be enchanted, too. He strained to see the black water. Did some beast lurk in its depths?
Another splash. The light of his fire was reflected back as two silver points of light. Marcus froze.
A form coalesced on the shore. Silver like the mist, it seemed to drift before becoming completely real. Marcus tensed, his breath all but gone, as an enormous gray she-wolf advanced on silent feet, head and tail held low.
The horses shied, twisting their tethers. Marcus stood his ground, eyes trained on the animal before him. His fingers found the hilt of his dagger, flexing almost imperceptibly. If the beast sprang, he would throw. But not before. He could not kill such a beautiful creature unless he was compelled to it.
The wolf halted a short distance away. A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of Marcus’s face. His hands were clammy; his grip on his dagger was slipping. But he dared not shift to adjust the weapon.
A soft footstep sounded behind him. By Pollux! Marcus kept his gaze fixed on the wolf and eased back in his stance, preparing to meet whatever new peril had sprung up behind him.
“Marcus …”
Rhys.
“She’s gone after Owein.”
“Alone?”
“Aye.”
He muttered a curse.
“I wasn’t permitted to follow,” Rhys said quietly. “I tried, but …” His gaze fixed on the wolf.
The creature inclined its head, as if in greeting.
Rhys tensed. “Trouble?”
Marcus was uncertain whether Rhys addressed him or the wolf.
The beast answered with a low growl. Its ears slanted forward; its tail lowered. Marcus raised his dagger.
“Nay, Marcus. Leave her be.”
“And be mauled? Not likely.”
“This she-wolf willna harm ye. She brings me … news.”
Somehow, that pronouncement didn’t make Marcus feel any calmer.
Several silent moments passed. Some understanding seemed to flash between the wolf and Rhys. Then the creature turned and slipped back into the water.
Marcus let out a long breath. “Thank Jupiter. It’s going.”
“We must follow.” Rhys’s voice was tight.
“Follow a wolf into the night? That’s beyond idiocy.”
Rhys was already moving toward the horses. Marcus sheathed his dagger and hurried to stop him. “The mounts are already spooked. They’ll never follow a wolf.”
“Then we’ll take a boat,” Rhys said, changing course. “I only pray we arrive quickly enough.”
“Arrive where? Quickly enough for what?”
Rhys didn’t answer. After a brief hesitation, Marcus sheathed his dagger and took a burning branch from his fire. Rhys shoved a log boat into the water and looked back at him. Marcus swallowed his misgivings and climbed in.
The wolf swam into the falling snow. Rhys dipped a paddle in the water, propelling the boat after it.
“Do you have any idea where the beast is leading us?” Marcus asked after a time.
“To Gwendolyn.”
“Your twin?”
“Aye.”
“And … you say the beast told you to hurry?”
“Aye.”
Marcus steeled himself. “Is the wolf a Druid as well? A human in wolf form?”
“Nay. ’Tis but a wolf. But only a fool would ignore the wisdom of our animal brothers.”
“Are you calling me a fool?” Marcus asked sharply.
Rhys exhaled. “Marcus Aquila, I would call ye nothing but friend, if ye would allow it.”
Marcus remained silent as Rhys paddled across the swamp. The Mendips neared, rising above them like sleeping giants. When they ran aground, Marcus handed the torch to Rhys, then sprang to the shore to haul the boat from the water.
Rhys was already scrabbling up a long slope within the cleft of two hillocks, following the wolf. Marcus strode after him, ignoring the instinct that urged him to dive back into the swamp. Had he lost his mind completely? Whatever magic Rhys was rushing toward, Marcus wanted no part of it.
The Celt halted at a crevice in the rocky wall of the hillside, holding the light high. The wolf bared its teeth in a snarl, pacing before the narrow opening.
Dread prickled up Marcus’s spine. “Is your sister here?”
Rhys nodded. “Trapped by Blodwen’s spell. I tried to free her, but my cousin’s magic was too strong. Now, perhaps, with her attention drawn to other matters …” He raised his hand toward the cave, palm flat, fingers spread. “I may be able to weaken the spell.”
Marcus groped for his dagger, though he knew the gesture was futile. “Enough to free her?”
Rhys glanced at him. “With your help.”
Marcus peered into the depths of the crevice, but saw nothing. Heard nothing save the steady drip of water. “Are you sure she’s still there?”
The wolf gave a low growl.
“Aye,” Rhys said simply.
“You really understand that animal,” Marcus said uneasily. “Can you speak with any beast?”
Rhys hesitated before answering. “My talent is the magic of the forest. I receive impressions from many animals, but I converse most easily with Hefin, and now with this wolf.” He paused. “Hefin is my companion, as ye know. And this wolf … this wolf is Gwen’s.”
Marcus had an uneasy feeling Rhys was trying to tell him more than he wanted to say out loud. The realization made Marcus fervently wish for his bedchamber in Isca.
“Are you telling me that your sister can … change?” He choked on the word.
“To wolf form,” Rhys said quietly. “As I shift into a merlin.”
Instinctively, Marcus eased back, down the slope.
“Dinna leave. Please. I need your help.”
Panic squeezed Marcus’s lungs. “My help is nothing. I have no magic. I want no part of this.”
Rhys offered the torch to Marcus. “My power isn’t strong enough to bring down Blodwen’s enchantment entirely. But I believe I can bend it enough so ye may pass. Please. Gwen is injured. Help me save her.”
Marcus looked into Rhys’s eyes. Where he might have seen a Druid, he saw only a friend. He drew a breath and willed the panic inside him to ease.
“What must I do?”
“I’ll weaken the spell as much as I can. Ye must enter the cave and bring Gwen out.”
“You want me to walk though a sorceress’s spell?” Marcus would rather have pierced his palm with an iron poker.
“For the sake of the friendship we once shared.”
“We share it still,” Marcus muttered. “I’ll go. But …” He could barely speak the words. “What … form … is Gwen in?”
“She was a wolf when last I saw her.”
Marcus swallowed and adjusted his damp grip on the torch. “All right.”
Lifting both hands, Rhys closed his eyes and began a chant. Marcus blinked. A shimmering light surrounded Rhys’s head, as if the air vibrated with magic. His syllables were low and guttural; the words—if words they were—blended in one long, unbroken phrase. The sound made Marcus slightly nauseous.
Sick with dread, Marcus stepped into the cave. The narrow crevice compelled him to turn sideways to enter, thrusting the torch before him. Shadows lurched on the walls. A bead of sweat rolled into his eye. Cursing, he swiped at it.
Drawing a breath, he advanced, Rhys’s chant fading like a dream as he moved farther and farther into the mountain. The sloping floor was slick with ice, forcing him to place his steps with care. The descent should have been easy, but the deeper he went into the cave the more his limbs dragged, until Marcus felt as though he were swimming through honey.
His brain felt muddled. Why was he in this place? Why did he not turn back? He clawed through the muck in his brain, trying frantically to remember.
A soft whine sounded. A wolf.
The animal was his goal, though at the moment, Marcus couldn’t quite remember why. But he knew with a certainty that it was imperative he reach the creature. He moved toward the sound, each step becoming more difficult than the one before. Now it felt as though he were moving through molten rock. The cave’s air, thick and dark, congealed in his lungs.
The ceiling slanted low, forcing him into a crouch. The sputtering flame of his torch licked the rocks. Had he reached the inner limit of the passage? Just when he thought he could go no further, he stepped into a small cavern.
Here, the enchantment seemed less. He raised the torch. The meager flame cast a lurching shadow on the walls. The dark form approached.
A wolf.
The beast’s silver fur was wet and ragged. Its head lowered. A growl emerged from the beast’s throat, setting Marcus’s heart pounding. Could this feral creature truly be a woman in animal form? The notion seemed too fantastic—too horrific—to contemplate.
He took a hesitant step, prompting another snarl from his quarry. Was the fire responsible for the beast’s reaction? Moving slowly so as not to prompt an attack, Marcus wedged the sputtering torch into a split in the cavern wall.
He stepped away from the light. The she-wolf turned with him, reve
aling a streak of blood on her flank. Marcus broke out in a cold sweat. Only an idiot would approach a wounded predator.
The wolf snarled. Marcus lowered himself into a crouch, attempting to appear less threatening. The feeble ruse seemed to work; the rumble in the wolf’s throat ceased.
The animal went still. It was close enough that Marcus could gaze into its eyes. The irises were gray, like Rhys’s. Was it his imagination, or did they hold a spark of intelligence?
“I’ve come to help,” he said hoarsely.
The wolf regarded him, unblinking.
He held out one hand. “Rhys sent me.”
The animal’s head came up. Was that a glimmer of hope in its eyes? “Follow me and I’ll take you to him.”
The wolf hesitated, then stalked toward Marcus, head low, hackles raised. Marcus dared not do so much as breathe. His hand seemed miles away from the hilt of his dagger. But what did that matter? He couldn’t throw his blade at this beast.
The wolf’s paws scrabbled on a patch of ice. Before Marcus could react, it collapsed. With a shudder, it closed its eyes and lay still.
“No!” Marcus sprang forward. Kneeling, he pressed a hand to the beast’s flank. The wolf stirred, emitting a groan that seemed almost human. Without stopping to consider the wisdom of his actions, Marcus scooped the animal into his arms.
He’d taken no more than a step when the wolf began to change.
At first, Marcus thought it a trick of the dying torchlight. The wolf’s silver fur shimmered. He tightened his hold on the animal as its fur smoothed, then disappeared, leaving bare skin. The long muzzle softened and shifted, the details resolving into a woman’s face. Ears shrank, cheekbones arched, lips formed. The wolf’s body elongated, and for a moment what Marcus held in his arms was neither woman nor beast. A brilliant burst of light forced his eyes closed. Flashes of silver danced on the insides of his eyelids.
The sensation of the burden changed. Where once his arms had cradled wet fur, now he felt the touch of damp human skin. A whisper of hair tickled the inside of his elbow. A soft breast rose and fell against his chest.
He opened his eyes.
A woman lay naked in his arms. Her face shone deathly pale in the erratic light of the sputtering torch. Her features were a more delicate version of Rhys’s regal countenance—strong and fine, with high arching brows and cheekbones. Long, silver-blond hair cascaded over Marcus’s forearm in tangles. Her breasts were full, her belly softly rounded, her legs long and firm.