The Grail King (36 page)

“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, revealing 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.

Marcus swallowed. Hard.

Pale eyelashes fluttered, revealing gray eyes like the wolf’s. But these eyes belonged to a woman, not a beast.

They widened slightly at the sight of him. “Who—?”

A moan cut off her words. She twisted, her arm moving to reveal a gash in her side. The wound was red and ugly, with puckered edges that oozed white corruption. Clearly, the injury had gone days without tending.

Marcus muttered a curse. She needed a healer, quickly.

At that moment, the torch spat sparks and died, leaving him in utter blackness. Heart pounding, Marcus pivoted toward the exit, his arms tightening on his burden. Moving carefully, he reached the cavern wall and groped in the direction he thought—hoped—would lead to the passageway.

He found it. He ducked through the low portal, cursing as his head thumped against stone. He moved toward the mouth of the cave, climbing the twisted path. After what seemed an interminable amount of time, he heard Rhys chanting hoarsely, an edge of desperation in his voice.

He gained the entrance, stumbling. Snow swirled around him. The wind had strengthened fiercely—it hit him with an icy blast. Marcus went down on his knees, cradling Gwen’s head as he fell. Primitive emotion passed through him. This woman would not—would
never
—come to injury at his hands.

Rhys was beside him in a heartbeat, already stripping off his cloak. He wrapped it around Gwen’s still form. Then he fished a silver pendant from around his neck and slipped its chain over Gwen’s head. “Is she—”

“Alive,” Marcus gasped. He could feel the Druidess’s blood moving and pulsing as if it were his own. “But she’s wounded—”

Rhys made a sound deep in his throat. “We must take her to Mared.”

“Is she your healer?”

“Aye.”

Marcus had already gained his feet. Rhys moved to take his sister, but Marcus found he could not bear to let her go. “I’ll carry her,” he muttered, looking up to challenge Rhys’s protest.

But Rhys only stepped back and nodded.

Clara could feel Owein’s presence within the Lost Land. He wasn’t far away, but he was cloaked in darkness. Not the same darkness that enveloped Clara—pure and cool—but a heated blackness that spewed the stomach-heaving stench of sulfur.

She moved toward it. Into it. Each breath seared her throat, set fire to her lungs. Calming her mind as Rhys had taught her, she reached inside to touch her Light. She summoned a barrier of brilliance, wrapping it around her in a mantle of protection. Her next breath came easier.

She reached for Owein, calling his name in her mind. She received no answer. She moved forward—to what, she had no idea. She could see nothing beyond the sphere of her own Light. She moved again, seeking him.

She passed through the arched opening to find herself in the center of a Celt village. A cluster of roundhouses nestled within stout palisade walls. The scene was peaceful enough, and yet, Clara felt a wrongness about it. A darkness.

Owein? Where are you?

There was no answer.

But she sensed his essence, white and black swirling together. Dark magic surrounded him, surging, enveloping, seeking to absorb the bright part of him.

Clara threw her mind forward, desperate to reach him in time. Once darkness blotted out Owein’s Light, he would be lost.

Ruby liquid rippled in the bowl of the Lost Grail.

“Blood,” Owein said thickly.

Blodwen laughed. With a delicate motion, she lifted the cup and extended it to him. “Nay. ’Tis but wine.”

“A Roman drink.”

“A symbol of our triumph over the enemy. Drink, Owein, and the Deep Magic will come to our aid. Together, we will drive the Romans from the west.”

He shook his head. “I’ve seen more violence than I can bear. I want no more. I wish only a peaceful home.” His gaze dropped to the babes, sleeping curled like pups. “Children.”

Blodwen’s beautiful countenance darkened. “The Lost Land shows the future—but ’tis a future unfulfilled if we dinna fight for it. Do ye think the Romans will suffer us to live in peace? Do ye think they will leave our son alive, our daughter untouched?”

“I will protect them.”

Her voice seethed with anger. “I tell ye, ye willna be able to, as long as the Legions remain. They are defilers. They willna rest until every Celt man is dead, and every Celt woman planted with their foul seed.”

She lifted the grail. “We can drive the Romans back to Gaul. We can live in peace, raise our children without fear. The power of the Lost Grail will aid us.”

Owein gazed at the grail. Red liquid sloshed in its bowl.
Too thick to be wine,
he thought.

It was blood.

But perhaps blood was fitting.

He took the cup in his hands.

A cry reverberated in Owein’s skull.

No!

Clara. His head lifted in stunned surprise. She was here, within the Lost Land. Swiftly, he blocked her entry into his mind. He could ill afford the distraction such a union would bring.

A sharp knife of pain stabbed Owein’s right eye. The Lost Grail vibrated in his hands, sending shocks through his palms and up his arms. The ruby surface of its liquid fractured into a thousand glistening fragments.

He could not look away from the cup. The reflections on the surface of the blood called to him. He sank his mind into the vague images and emerged into a scene of horror.

Isca lay in ruins, the great stone wall of its fortress tossed about like so many pebbles. A dark sky above the city crackled with lightning. The wind churned the sea into a froth.

Flames crackled against the turbulent sky. The city burned, sending smoke and ash pouring into the heavens. Celts and Roman alike streamed from the broken walls like ants, piling fruitlessly on the upper slopes of the city. The raging sea had flooded the flatlands surrounding the city. There was no route of escape.

He tore his eyes away. Blodwen stood calmly before him, her gray gaze watchful.

“Ye cannot bring this about,” he said, shaken. “No Druid’s power is so great.”

“I assure ye, mine is.” She dipped her finger into the cup, stirring. “Drink, Owein. Drink, so that we may save our people.”

“Nay. This cup is meant for healing. It’s essence is Light. Not destruction.”

“It matters not. The Lost Grail is a path to the Deep Magic of the gods. We will wield it together as King and Queen.”

“No human should be so bold as to claim a place among the gods.”

“We will. It is my destiny. And my revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“Aye. Revenge on those who took my innocence. My magic. Romans,” she spat. “They savaged me until I begged for death. Then they cut me while they laughed. Afterwards, even my own father couldn’t bear to look at me. And my uncle? He wouldna allow my kin to pursue the monsters who harmed me.”

Owein frowned. “I dinna understand.”

Tears glittered in her eyes. For an instant, her expression crumpled into vulnerability. Then her eyes hardened and her jaw set. “I will show ye,” she said, her voice flat. “And then ye will know.”

Light shimmered about her face, then faded, taking her beauty with it. Owein realized Blodwen’s sweet countenance had been an illusion. With her magic withdrawn, her true face was a hideous mass of scars, created by the cut and slice of a blade. The largest gash extended in a diagonal from one cheekbone to her jaw, catching the corner of her mouth. There were numerous other, smaller cuts.

Owein’s stomach turned. No one—man, woman, or beast—should ever be used thus.

“Who did this?” he asked, his voice deadly soft.

“Soldiers from the fortress at Isca. They left me for dead, but Cyric forbade my father’s vengeance. ‘Revenge is nay the way of the Light,’ he said.” Her laugh was hollow. “If that is so, what use is Light? There is far more justice in darkness.”

“So ye would destroy the fortress and city now, to avenge this wrong?”

“ ’Tis my right.”

“And the innocents? What of them?”

Her face contorted. “There are no innocents in Isca. Only Romans.”

“Many Celts dwell there as well.”

“Traitors.”

“Nay. Kinsmen.” Owein’s own kin. “Perhaps they dinna live the life of our ancestors, but neither do they live the life of Rome. Many Romans have changed as well, learning Celt ways.” His voice lowered. “I willna have ye harm them, Blodwen.”

Anger flared in her eyes. Her scars vanished, once again cloaked with illusion. Power crackled about her like red lightning.

“Ye refuse your aid?”

Owein regarded her steadily. “Aye.”

“ ’Tis nay your own will speaking. ’Tis the Roman witch. She’s placed a foul enchantment upon ye.”

“Ye are mistaken. I speak for myself.”

“I’m nay such a fool to believe that! She stalks ye like a wolf! She is close, seeking to turn ye from me. That, I canna allow.”

She raised one hand. A stream of red light flashed past Owein’s shoulder. He spun about in time to see Clara pitching through the doorway. She landed on her hands and knees near the hearth.

“Clara!”

Owein’s voice. Clara looked up, dazed. One moment, she’d been standing before the door of a hut. The next instant, a violent force had pulled her through the portal and cast her on the hard ground.