The Grail King (37 page)

“Owein?” He was here, before her, standing on the other side of a blazing fire. He held her mother’s cup. The ancient silver shone dully in his hands.

A shadow fell over her. “On your feet, bitch.”

Clara looked up, dazed. The silver-haired beauty standing over her could only be Blodwen. Magic poured from her in waves of heat. Not a steady hearth flame like Owein’s power, but an angry, raging wildfire that carried a stench of burned flesh. Sick, putrid hate singed the edges of Clara’s mind. She shrank back with a cry.

“Ye willna hurt her.” Owein had moved to stand between Clara and the Druidess. Clara sensed his fear for her, well hidden behind his hard expression.

“I shall do as I wish,” Blodwen replied. She lifted one hand and uttered a Word.

Burning pain exploded in Clara’s chest. She wrapped her arms around her torso, bending double. Owein cried out, springing toward her, only to be brought up short by Blodwen’s magic as Clara gasped for breath.

“Stop this,” Owein said tersely.

“Drink. If ye do not …” She nodded at Clara.

Clara’s throat constricted, as if a searing hand had closed on her neck. She clawed at it, desperate for air. But there was nothing to grab onto, no fingers to pry away. Darkness blotted the edges of her vision.

“Nay.” Owein raised his hand, fingers spread. He spoke a Word. The sound reverberated against the walls of the hut, and for an instant, the tightness in Clara’s throat eased. She managed a single gulp of air before her windpipe squeezed again.

And she understood that however strong Owein’s magic, it was no match for Blodwen’s.

Owein grabbed for Clara. His hand grasped only air. It was as if she’d faded back, out of touch. Try as he might, he couldn’t reach her. Red liquid sloshed in the grail, spilling over the sides, streaking his fingers.

Clara’s choked whisper pleaded in his mind.
Owein …

Blodwen smiled. “Ye canna reach her, Owein. Not unless I allow it.”

He cursed. “Stop this. She’s done no wrong.”

“She was born a Roman. That is enough.”

“Release her.”

Blodwen nodded to the Lost Grail. “Perhaps. After ye drink.”

Clara slumped to the floor and lay still. Owein kept his eyes fixed on the uneven rise and fall of her chest.

“Would ye condemn her, Owein?” Blodwen said, her voice softly taunting. “I could snuff out her life with one finger.” She laughed, her silver hair rippling about her shoulders. Had he ever thought her beautiful? In his dream, her darkness had been masked.

“Ye would pay a steep price for that,” Owein said softly. “The gods would demand it.”

“Do ye nay understand? For me, there is no payment. My magic comes from within. Not from the gods.”

He stared at her. “ ’Tis pure folly to think that.”

“Nay. ’Tis the truth. I have become a goddess. I would make ye my god consort. Drink of the wine, and ye will understand.”

His eyes warred with hers, then his gaze dropped to the red liquid that trembled in the grail. The sweet, iron tang of it assaulted his nostrils. “This is not wine.”

She held up one slender arm, wrist turned outward. A thin, red line slashed across the white skin. She laughed. “Aye, ye speak the truth. ’Tis blood. My own.”

Revulsion rolled through him. “Ye are insane.”

“ ’Tis the world that has gone insane. I have discovered the secrets of the Old Ones. They knew the path to the Lost Land, and from there the road to Annwyn, where the gods dwell. I will follow them. With ye.” She extended her forefinger to Clara. “Drink, Owein, or I will kill her.”

Clara gasped, struggling for air. He couldn’t let her die here, at his feet. Reluctantly, Owein brought the Lost Grail to his lips. Its silver rim was warm. Alive.

A whisper of Clara’s consciousness brushed his mind.
No, Owein! You cannot obey her.

I must. For you.

No. I think … I think there is another way.

Owein went still. Blodwen’s eyes narrowed, watching him.

How?

He felt Clara’s hesitation.
Open your mind. Fully. I … I will channel the power of the Lost Grail through you.

My darkness—

It will not stop me. Please, Owein.

“My patience grows thin,” Blodwen said harshly. “Drink.”

Clara pressed deeper into Owein’s mind. With a deliberate breath, he steeled himself for her intrusion. Could she survive it? He didn’t know. Yet he had no choice but to let her try.

He lowered his defenses. Showed her the path to darkness.

Felt her fear as she approached.

He lowered the grail and met Blodwen’s gaze squarely. “I will not drink.”

“Ye dare defy me?”

“Aye, I dare.”

A rough Word emerged from the back of Blodwen’s throat. The sound struck Owein like the blow of a battle sword. Pain exploded behind his eyes. A thick, gray smoke enveloped him, agony running like shards of glass through his veins. Blodwen was forcing this torture upon him, and Clara—she was there, sharing it with him. Panic spilled into his gut. His fingers tightened convulsively on the grail. Against his will, his hand moved. Slowly, the rim of the cup rose to press once more to his lips.

Victory flared in Blodwen’s eyes. “Drink.”

He could all but taste her blood on his tongue. He spoke the most powerful Word he knew, but it had no effect. His magic could not overcome her strength.

She might defeat him, but he would not go willingly. His anger surged, his darkness rising to meet hers. He would give his life to destroy whatever part of her power he could.

But he would not risk Clara.

Leave me,
he told her.

No.
Her Light blazed in his consciousness. He sensed her fear, of him and the grail, and of Blodwen’s dark might. Yet she didn’t falter.
Let me in. Let me go deeper.

He hung, suspended on the knife’s edge of his pride. She didn’t know what she asked. How could he expose the torture of his past to her Light? She would feel it as he had, know every moment of his pain and despair. She would experience his rage, be consumed by his darkness. Her Light would fade.

He would die a thousand deaths to prevent that. And yet, she would die unless he took the chance that she could prevail. How could he deny her that possibility? It was all they had.

If she were destroyed, the guilt would be his, forever. He should have seen through Blodwen’s trap. He should have known the vision the Druidess had sent him was false. When had he ever had a vision of peace and hope? Of love?

All Owein could See was blood.

In the end, there was no choice to make. With a sigh, he yielded, opening his mind completely.

In a heartbeat, Clara surged to the center of his being, seeking the blackest part of his soul. Illumination fell on his darkest memory.

Powerless, he hung suspended as Clara’s Light shone on Eirwen’s bloodied body. Owein was on his knees at her side, his cheek pressed against her swollen belly. Just days before, the promise of new life had stirred under his palms. Now there was only death. Owein’s child would never be born.

He felt Clara’s touch, absorbing his despair. She gasped as it seared her, but somehow, she welcomed the pain. Accepted it.

Accepted
him.

The darkness Owein had so jealously guarded began to melt. Its power dissolved into nothingness. Like a wave of brightness crashing on a brilliant shore, Light took its place.

With all his being, Owein aligned himself with Clara. He felt his power flowing with hers. It flashed through his body, traveled down his arms, blazed through his fingertips, into the Lost Grail.

The cup was still pressed to his lips. Owein lowered the vessel easily, holding it at arm’s length.

A frown creased Blodwen’s delicate brow. “How—”

With a deliberate motion, he upended the cup and poured its contents onto the hearth.

Blood splashed into the fire, hissing.

“No!” Blodwen’s fury came swiftly. Pain hammered into Owein’s skull. He felt Clara’s cry as the full impact of it surged through their mental connection.

He felt Clara’s recoil. He reached for her with his mind.
Dinna fight. Resistance will only make the pain worse.

He felt Clara’s fear, then her acquiescence. Her psyche bowed, letting Blodwen’s fury wash through her. Waves of pain hammered them both. Hatred. Shame. Degradation. How well Owein understood all Blodwen had endured. But where Owein had sought to contain his darkness, Blodwen had flung hers far and wide.

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.

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?