The Grail King (33 page)

“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.”

“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 …”

“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.”

“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.”