The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  The putrid stink of her malice clogged Owein’s lungs. The Druidess’s soul was like a rotting carcass, crawling with maggots. The dark perverted pleasures that had unleashed her power were revealed. Her wounded soul struck with the claws of a dark beast, leaving a path of flames.

  Clara lay motionless by the hearth. Owein felt his strength drain, sapped by Blodwen’s fury. He struggled to stay upright in the face of her fury. Would the Druidess’s rage destroy them all?

  Look into the grail.

  At Clara’s urging, Owein’s gaze dropped. Tilting the grail, he looked into the bowl. The mark inside gleamed, streaked with blood.

  The triple spiral in the center of the pattern began to turn. The circle about it glowed white, its four quarters resolving into the shape of a cross. The vines encircled all, binding the Deep Magic. A shaft of Light arced from the cup, blinding him.

  A single Word, spoken by Clara, reverberated in his mind.

  Peace.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Slowly, Clara became aware of her body pressed to a bed of cold stone. As she lay, not moving, a tremor passed through the rock. A shower of pebbles splattered all around.

  A hand clutched her arm. “Clara.”

  Arms lifted her to a sitting position. Looking up, she met Owein’s troubled gaze. Behind his head, a rocky dome glittered with crystals. A thousand streams of light cast an eerie glow all around.

  She rubbed her eyes. “Where … where are we?”

  He gave a swift shake of his head. “I dinna know. A cave, of a sort. But nay one of the human world. I think we are still in the Lost Land.”

  Clara shoved herself upright, battling a rush of vertigo. “Blodwen …”

  “There.”

  She swallowed a gasp. The Druidess lay on her back, face pale, arms outstretched. Her face was a mass of scars, her hair thin and gray. Despite the evil Blodwen had plotted, Clara felt her chest clutch in pity.

  Owein crouched, testing the pulse at her throat. “She lives.”

  The earth trembled again, loosing a rain of debris from the cave ceiling. Owein hunched over the Druidess, protecting her scarred face. A chunk of rock fell, striking him on the shoulder.

  “We must flee,” Owein said.

  Clara looked around. As far as she could tell, the cavern had no exit. “How?”

  Owein slid his arms under Blodwen. Clara could tell by the strain around his eyes that the effort pushed him to the limit of his strength. She understood why. The magic they shared had drained her of strength as well. Her limbs felt like rubber. Her stomach boiled with nausea. When she swung her head around, the walls of the cave spun.

  Another rumble. She covered her head as a shower of stones fell. When it passed, she met Owein’s gaze. “Which way?”

  He scanned the cavern. “There,” he said suddenly. “The white stone.”

  “Yes. It’s like the stone on Avalon’s high slope.” Scrambling to her feet, she started toward it.

  “Wait. The grail. Do ye see it?”

  Clara looked about. “No.”

  “Find it. Quickly.”

  She made a circuit of the cavern, scanning the debris. Closing her eyes, she let her senses expand, seeking a hint of the grail’s magic. But she felt nothing.

  The ground trembled and shook.

  “Watch out!” Owein cried.

  She pitched to one side, barely avoiding a falling chunk of the cavern’s ceiling. Owein shifted Blodwen over one shoulder and grabbed Clara’s wrist.

  “Forget the grail,” he muttered. “The gods want us gone.”

  He yanked her toward the white stone. They fell through together, sound and sensation streaking past in a blur. It took Clara a moment or two before she realized she lay sprawled in the deep snow collected within the cleft of a hill. She lifted her head. Owein crouched nearby, with Blodwen motionless beside him.

  She frowned up at Owein. “What is this place?”

  “The far side of Avalon, in the underbelly of the low hill.”

  She pushed herself up, her eyes lighting on a white stone partially buried by a rockslide. “But I entered the Lost Land on the high slope. Could this be a second entrance?”

  “Aye, so it would seem.”

  “And the grail remains within. The cup is lost again.”

  “Perhaps nay completely,” Owein said, nodding.

  Clara followed his gaze. A spring bubbled from beneath the white stone. It flowed in gentle rivulets, snaking through the snow. She frowned, leaning closer. The stream was tinted red.

  Owein’s expression was one of wonder. “ ’Tis like a vision I had,” he said softly. “The vision that led me to you.”

  “Is it … blood?” Clara whispered.

  Owein dipped one hand in the stream. “Nay. Water. I can feel its magic. A gift of the grail, I am thinking.”

  Clara let out a breath. “Perhaps so.”

  Blodwen stirred, groaning. A tremor ran through her body. Owein went to the Druidess. Her eyes fluttered open, staring blankly. Clara wondered how much the Druidess remembered of her fury. Indeed, she wondered if Blodwen remembered her own name.

  “We must take her to the village,” Clara said. “To Rhys.”

  Owein looked up sharply. “The wandering Druid Cormac spoke of? Was it he who brought ye here?”

  “Yes. He and Marcus—”

  He went stiff. “Marcus Aquila?”

  “Yes.”

  “That Roman accompanied ye to Avalon? And the Druids didna strike him down?”

  “No.”

  “The lad has stones,” Owein muttered. “Ye could do far worse than marry him.”

  The words sliced like a knife inserted between her ribs. Clara had seen the deepest part of Owein’s soul. She’d seen his longings, knew his heart.

  As he knew hers. Why, then, did he push her away?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Rhys clasped Gwendolyn’s cold hand, hardly daring to take his eyes from her face. He hardly recognized his sister, she was so haggard and still. His heart clenched. His twin might have died if Marcus Aquila hadn’t helped save her.

  “Are ye sure she will recover?” he asked Mared.

  The old healer fixed him with a disgruntled look. “Do ye doubt my word, Rhys?”

  “Nay, of course not,” he said hastily. “I only wondered … shouldn’t she have awakened by now?”

  “Her wounds are deep.”

  “The gash on her side looks much better.”

  “Gwendolyn’s worst hurt is not that of the flesh. Her spirit was injured far more deeply.” Mared placed her hand on his arm. “She will recover. But she has been touched by dark magic, Rhys. The effects will linger long after she wakes.”

  Rhys sighed. He’d never known Mared to be mistaken. What aftereffects of Blodwen’s magic might Gwen experience? Would she share her suffering with him? A hollow feeling in Rhys’s chest told him Gwen might once again draw away.

  He turned to Cyric. The Druid Master lay on a pallet beside his granddaughter, his breath rasping peacefully. The sound was sweet music to Rhys’s ears. When Clara and Owein had overcome Blodwen’s darkness, the enchantment weighing Rhys’s grandfather had begun to dissipate. Rhys sent a prayer of thanks to the Great Mother. He’d not been ready to lose Cyric.

  “And Blodwen?” he asked Mared quietly. He couldn’t help feeling guilt for the hurt his cousin had inflicted. He and Blodwen had been raised together. Rhys had been devastated when she’d been maimed, yet he’d never suspected the darkness she harbored. Perhaps if he had, he might have been able to turn her from the path she’d chosen.

  Mared rose. “Attend me outside, Rhys.”

  Rhys replaced Gwen’s hand on her pallet and covered it with her blanket. Rising, he followed the healer out of the hut.

  “We must speak of Blodwen,” Mared said once they’d reached the village common.

  “How does she fare?” His cousin had been unconscious when Owein had carried her into the village. Padrig had been dist
raught, and was even now on the high slope, pouring out his pain to the Great Mother. Mared had attended Blodwen, tight-lipped, in a hut on the edge of the village.

  “She’s awakened. Her body, at least, is strong. But her magic is gone. Darkness has left her spirit in ashes.” She turned grave eyes on Rhys. “Ye know as well as I do judgment must be passed. With both Cyric and Gwen ill, that task falls to ye.”

  Rhys had expected this. “And if I dinna wish to pass it?”

  Mared’s expression remained firm. “ ’Tis hard, I know. But the law must be fulfilled.”

  Rhys stared out over the swamps. “I canna condemn her. Nor would Cyric want me to. He ever preaches forgiveness.”

  “She canna stay in Avalon, Rhys. The clan willna have it.”

  “Are ye certain her power is gone? It’s nay merely hidden, like before?”

  “I am certain. She’s an empty husk.”

  Rhys sighed. Looking up, he spied Hefin perched at the peak of a cone-shaped roof. He stared at the merlin for several moments, then turned back to Mared. “Blodwen will leave the sacred isle. Today. Give her what provisions she can carry and tell her to journey across the swamps.” He swallowed. “ ’Twill be her task to make a life for herself in the Roman towns.”

  “ ’Tis almost a death sentence. Blodwen knows no Latin. Her scarred face will bring nothing but stares and curses. Perhaps,” Mared said quietly, “she would prefer death.”

  “Perhaps so,” Rhys answered quietly. “But I willna pass that judgment.”

  Clara brought a meal of barley bread and mutton to Marcus. Sitting on a log near the docks, he spoke little as he consumed the food. When he was done, he sat with his elbows propped on his spread knees and avoided her gaze.

  His mare grazed nearby, its saddle cinched and ready for a rider. Marcus meant to leave, and soon.

  “Mared says Cyric has improved greatly,” Clara told him. “Gwendolyn is out of danger as well.”

  Marcus’s eyes flashed with a dark emotion she didn’t understand. “That is good.”

  “Cyric has chosen Gwen as his successor,” Clara went on. “Can you believe it? A woman as leader of Avalon?”

  Marcus scowled darkly. “They will not let me near her.”

  “No.” Mared had been adamant. Marcus was not allowed in the village, no matter that he had saved Gwen’s life. Rhys had bowed to the healer’s authority, drawing Marcus’s ire. It seemed Cyric’s rules were not to be bent, even for a friend.

  “Give Aiden my love when you reach Isca,” Clara said, for want of anything else.

  Marcus rose. “I will.” He paused, examining her. “Are you sure you don’t want to return with me?”

  Clara shook her head. “With my father dead, there is nothing for me in the city, save more trouble with Valgus. Your father may take my petition to Londinium. If he’s successful, you’ll have all the more funds to spend at the slave auctions.”

  Marcus’s dark eyes were troubled. “You’ll have a hard life here.”

  “It’s my choice.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. Rising to his feet, he enclosed her in an embrace. His touch was that of a brother, or a close friend. “I’ll leave the spare horses for your use.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  He touched her cheek. “I hope you’ll be happy here.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  He swung into the saddle and was off, fording the swamp without a backward glance.

  The soft moan drifted over the moor like the sigh of a lost spirit. Cormac drew up short and tilted his head, listening. The sound came again, a clear, haunting cry of despair. ’Twas a woman’s voice.

  Deliberately, Cormac set to whistling.

  He shifted the pack on his shoulders, wincing a bit when the strap rubbed against the open wound on his wrist. The lament came again, louder. He gritted his teeth. Why should Blodwen’s desolation scratch at him like a fevered cat? He should be greeting her suffering with shouts of joy.

  And yet he wasn’t.

  “I’m a swiving idiot,” he muttered to the deserted landscape. “I should be overjoyed that at last the Horned God favors me. ’Tis long past time, I say.”

  Circling, he found her tracks easily enough. They showed an erratic gait and an uncertain path. He should leave her to her fate. After all, he owed her nothing.

  And yet, he couldn’t.

  Curse him for a fool, but there it was. Muttering under his breath, he followed her trail to an outcrop of rocks overlooking the sea. He found her huddled in the lee of a large boulder, knees drawn up tight to her chest. Her hair hung in limp shanks, and her white robe was dirty and ragged.

  She looked utterly harmless. Still, he approached with caution. Despite Rhys’s assurances, he couldn’t quite believe her magic was gone. She’d bested him more times than he could count. He’d not be played the fool now.

  She didn’t raise her head as he approached. He halted, gazing down at her. ’Twas a novel feeling, looking down at a lass. Most often, Cormac stood eye-level with a woman’s teats.

  “Well met, Blodwen.”

  Her chin jerked up, her gray eyes widening with fear. The sight of her nearly made him stagger backward. He’d forgotten how ugly she was without the glamour.

  Her scars whitened as blood rushed into the surrounding skin. Her tongue darted out, licking her chapped lips.

  “Cormac.”

  Instinctively, he flinched, anticipating a blast of magic. It never came. He shifted, lowering his pack to the ground with a thud. “Your magic is truly gone, then?”

  She nodded.

  He grinned and took a step closer. She shrank back against the stone, as if trying to become one with it. Seeing Blodwen cower spun his head faster than a mug of strong ale. He felt his cock twitch.

  A slow smile spread over his face. “I believe,” he said, “that I prefer ye this way.”

  She cast her eyes downward.

  Cormac caught her chin in his hand and forced it up. “Look at me when I speak to ye, woman.”

  She trembled like moor grass in the wind. Her gray eyes blinked up at him, huge with fear. “Y-yes, Cormac.”

  His cock hardened, lengthening against his thigh.

  “I have nothing left.” She licked her lips. “The magic is gone.”

  “Even when I do this?” Cormac’s hand drifted downward, covering her breast. He palmed her roughly. She gasped and arched into his hand.

  He felt no surge of magic. Saw no crackle of red about her body. Felt no urge to drop to his knees and pleasure her.

  He could walk away if he wished. Leave her.

  The knowledge made him bold. He tweaked her nipple, earning a throaty moan. She stared up at him, her face flushed with arousal.

  He flashed her a grin and bent to open his pack.

  She bit her lip. “Do ye have food?”

  “Are ye hungry?”

  “Aye.”

  He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “ ’Tis a pity ’tis nay time for a meal.”

  He withdrew a coiled length of rope from his pack.

  Blodwen’s eyes grew as wide as two moons.

  They were beautiful eyes, Cormac thought, despite the fact they occupied a face covered with scars. But what did he care for scars, anyway? Scars didn’t affect a woman’s ability to take a man’s cock in her mouth, nor did they hinder the spreading of her thighs.

  He grabbed Blodwen’s wrist and tied the rope about it. The other end he looped about his hand. “Ye’ll come with me,” he told her. “Do what I say and ye’ll keep a full belly.”

  She nodded.

  He stood, whistling a jaunty melody, some bawdy tune he’d once heard. If he remembered correctly, the song concerned a farmer, his wife—and a very thick carrot.

  He chuckled as he led Blodwen down the trail.

  She came willingly. Cormac squared his shoulders. A man could get used to such an obedient wench.

  Indeed he could.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven


  “I thank ye,” the tall, silver-haired Druid said, inclining his head. “Ye have returned the Lost Grail to Avalon.”

  Owein shifted, uncomfortable with Rhys’s gratitude. “ ’Twas nay I who brought the cup to the sacred isle. Nor is the cup in the hands of the Druids of Avalon. The grail is lost once more.”

  Rhys shook his head. “Hidden, perhaps, but nay lost. The red spring flows from the earth where the grail is buried. Mared senses healing magic in the water.”

  “As do I,” Clara said. “I’m glad my mother’s cup has returned to the place where it was made.”

  “There’s a place for ye here as well. Both of ye. Will ye remain?”

  Owein shifted. A home, away from the Romans, among his own kind. It was what he’d dreamed of for so long. But for Clara? He looked around the village complex, seeing it through her eyes: a haphazard arrangement of mud and wattle huts, huddled together on a windy slope. Sheep and pigs roamed freely in the common area enclosed by the palisade wall. The women here were sturdy and tall, with faces weathered beyond their years. They were no strangers to hard labor. Indeed, with only twenty or so in the village, every pair of hands was needed for weaving, tending crops, cooking, making clothes, hunting, fishing, herb-gathering … the list went on and on.

  Try as he might, he could not picture Clara living such a hard life. She was so delicate and fine. It was far more likely the fat sow nuzzling the ground would sprout wings and fly to the rooftops. What was worse, Owein had a feeling that during the frequent visits Clara had paid to the docks in the last few days, Marcus Aquila had told her the same thing.

  Rhys was watching him, waiting for an answer. Owein searched the Druid’s gray eyes. He sensed a friend, a man whose loyalty never wavered. How long had it been since Owein had counted such a man as kin? He inclined his head. “I would be honored to remain in Avalon.”

  Rhys clapped a hand on Owein’s shoulder, his smile broad and welcoming. “I am glad of it.” He turned to Clara. “And will the Daughter stay as well?”