The Grail King (6 page)

Marcus’s scalp crawled. “But that would mean …”

“Aye. We are Druids.”

If Rhys had swung a forge hammer against the side of
Marcus’s skull, Marcus couldn’t have been any less stunned. But Rhiannon’s expression was merely resigned.

Marcus turned on her. “You knew this?”

“Aye, Marcus, but—”

“And what of Father? Does he know his home has been defiled by a Druid? One who means to steal his daughter?”

Rhiannon’s silence was answer enough. Marcus rounded on Rhys, his fingers curling into fists. With his smith’s strength, he could easily throw the Celt out into the snow. Unless …

He forced a swallow down a throat dry as dust. Rhys was a Druid. The outlawed cult spilled the blood of men on their hidden altars, called ghosts and demons from the underworld, imprisoned enemy souls. Marcus’s uncle had met just such a gruesome fate. Marcus’s father, Lucius, had fought to free his brother’s spirit, barely escaping with his own life. If Marcus dared attack a Druid, who knew what foul magic he might be struck with?

Marcus fingered the throwing knife at his belt, praying Rhys wouldn’t see through his bluff. “Leave this house.”

“Nay, Marcus.” Breena’s hand gripped his arm.

He threw her off. “No Druid is welcome here.”

“Marcus, cease.” Rhiannon’s tone was pleading. “Rhys doesn’t deserve your anger.”

“You jest, Mother. He deserves far worse. This man has given me nothing but lies. And you—” He swallowed hard. “How could you keep such a thing from Father? From me?”

“Rhys is one of my own people. I didn’t abandon my blood when I chose to marry a Roman, and I’ll nay do so now.”

“You know Father would never have allowed Rhys into his home had he known what he is.”

Rarely had Marcus seen Rhiannon so distressed. “Aye. ’Tis why I did not tell him.”

“And what now?” Marcus asked Rhiannon. Rhys made no move, nor did he speak. Could he cast a spell silently?

Marcus fervently hoped not. “Will this man spin a curse and bind us to his will? As your clan’s Druid master once tried to bind Father?”

“The Druids of Avalon do not embrace the Dark,” Rhiannon said.

Marcus eyed Rhys. “You cannot be sure of that.”

“I am,” Rhiannon replied quietly. “Marcus, any man may use power for ill purpose—a Druid as well as a Roman. But how can ye count Rhys among that number? There’s no darkness in him. He’s your friend.”

“Friend?” Marcus spat out the word. “A friend doesn’t present himself with deceit.”

Rhys spoke at last. “Ye have the right of it, Marcus. I am sorry for that. I should have been truthful with ye from the start, no matter the cost. I ask your pardon.”

A measure of Marcus’s anger seeped away. Still, he gave no reply as he nodded to the pendant still nestled in Breena’s palm. “What is this thing? This … circle. Is it enchanted?”

“Aye,” Rhys said. “ ’Tis a talisman of the Light. It’s for Breena’s protection.”

“She’s in danger?”

“Until she learns to control her gift, aye. An untrained power as great as hers may be used by one of stronger will.” He paused, his gray eyes pained. “Cyric senses a Druid calling the Deep Magic, an act he has forbidden. Yesterday’s storm—’twas but a hint of the power abroad.”

“Who is this Druid?”

“Some in Avalon believe it is one of our own number.”

“And you?”

Rhys’s eyes were haunted. “I canna say.”

Owein stared at the scrap of papyrus. On it, drawn in ink, was a symbol sacred to the Celts. A triple spiral, signifying the three faces of the Great Mother. But the mark didn’t stand alone. A circle, divided in four equal parts and entwined with a pair of vines, encircled the spiral. The magic of the Old Ones, merged with another power. What did it mean?

He touched the Great Mother’s spiral with the tip of his index finger. At once, a sacred Word sprang into his mind. A sound in the language of the Old Ones, the ancients who had raised great circles of stones and planted groves of sacred oaks. The silent acknowledgement of their power vibrated through Owein’s body.

He spread his hand flat on the papyrus, covering the mark completely. His palm burned. The heat expanded, surging up his arm. The strange symbol seared his flesh. But when he opened his palm, his skin was unmarked.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“This mark is engraved on the cup I seek. Aiden bade me draw it on the papyrus to show you.”

“
This
mark is on a Roman cup?”

“Once inside the bowl, and three times on the outside. But … I do not think the cup is Roman. Aiden said it was not.”

Owein’s brow furrowed. “Describe the vessel further, lass.”

“It’s … old,” she said, hesitantly, as if the word were inadequate. “It’s smithed in silver, inlaid with crystals. Tarnish darkens its surface, yet somehow the metal is no less radiant for the passing of time. The crystals are polished like glass, revealing a core of wood.”

“And where did ye come by it?”

“I told you. It belonged to my mother.”

“Aye, so ye’ve said. Did your merchant father trade for it?”

Clara’s eyes swept down, and her cheeks flushed. “He … no. My mother received the cup from my grandmother. It’s a family heirloom.”

“Impossible. Some marauding ancestor of yours must have stolen it. No Roman could own such a treasure by right.”

Clara bristled. “The mark holds magic, does it not? Celt magic? Aiden insisted it did.”

“Aye, the old man spoke truly for once. Only a Druid Master could have smithed a grail such as ye describe.”

“Grail?”

“A sacred vessel,” Owein clarified. “Imbued with Deep Magic.”

“Deep Magic,” she repeated. “Aiden spoke of Deep Magic as well. But I don’t understand.”

“The Deep Magic is the power of the gods. A power that existed long before man, long before the Dark and the Light. It’s a power a mortal cannot hope to control. And yet,” he added softly, “many have tried.”

Clara stared at him. “I think … I’ve felt it. Even as a young girl. My mother promised to tell me more of the cup when I became a woman, but she died suddenly, and Father locked it away. I know so little. I only know that when I touch the cup, I feel”—she paused, a crease lining her forehead—“more.”

Owein watched her closely. “More what, lass?”

“I don’t know. Just … more. There’s no other way to describe it.”

Owein shook his head. It was impossible that a Roman woman could claim a connection with the Deep Magic of a Druid grail. And yet, he could sense no deception in Clara. Still, there was no possibility the grail belonged to her family. No Roman had the right to hold a sacred Druid relic.

Suddenly, Aiden’s intentions became clear. The old man had sent Clara to tell Owein of the grail’s existence. Surely Aiden meant for Owein to claim the grail as his own.

Aware of Clara’s eyes upon him, Owein lifted the papyrus and scrutinized the mark. Again a sacred Word reverberated in his mind, and this time, more gently, in his throat.

The papyrus vibrated in his palm. Power ran up his arm like a shock, to land sharply in his temple. He spread his palm on the table, trapping the mark beneath it. It burned, but he couldn’t summon the strength to throw the scroll aside.

A vision formed. Owein braced rigid arms on the table, waiting for the pain he knew would come. It did not forsake him. It rushed like flame though his veins, struck like a sharpened spear behind his eyes. He gasped with the violence of it. Dimly, he was aware of Clara, her delicate hand at her throat, her dark eyes frightened. He had but a moment to feel shame that she would witness his weakness.

The vision overtook him. His legs crumpled beneath him, knees connecting with the hard ground. The edges of his dwelling blurred. His body felt heavy, then light, as if his flesh had suddenly evaporated from his bones. His spirit rose, traveling into a gray mist.

He stood in an otherworldly place, surrounded by fog, the grail resting in his hands. He gazed at the relic. The metalwork was exquisite, far finer than any he’d ever seen. The sign of the Old Ones gleamed. The quartered circle, entwined with vines, surrounded the triple spiral.

Owein knew magic, but never had he touched an object so potent as this. Even though he held the grail in spirit only, his fingers tingled with its power. The Druid who had smithed this cup had fashioned no less than a portal to the Deep Magic.

Some of that magic seeped into Owein’s skin. The tingling in his fingertips intensified, igniting something akin to fire. The sensation raced like lightning through his veins. Every fiber of his being thrummed with it.

His blood stirred. This simple cup held power enough to defeat thousands. Power enough to drive the Second Legion from the western mountains.

But what human was strong enough to pay the price such power demanded? Owein’s own Druid Master, Madog, had not been able to control the Deep Magic. The forces Madog had unleashed against the Romans had turned against him, killing him as surely as the Roman sword that had pierced his flesh. If Owein dared call the Deep Magic, would he fare any better?

But what of the Druid who had summoned the storm? It took vast power to control the elements of nature. The Deep Magic would respond to such power. Perhaps the Hidden One had strength enough to wield it.

He cupped the grail in his hands. The vessel was not large—indeed, the bowl almost disappeared between his palms. Its inner surface was smooth, save for the pattern in the center of the bowl. As Owein gazed at it, the triple spiral began to spin. Liquid bubbled into the cup, viscous and dark, deep red and shining.

Blood.

Its power drew him in, claimed a piece of his soul. Pain drove through him like a shard of white fire. An animal’s cry tore from his throat, but some dark part of his mind welcomed the suffering. For gazing into the grail, Owein knew a fleeting glimpse of invulnerability. Of
immortality.
In the face of such power, what worth did one man’s frail body hold?

A shaft of pain impaled his right eye. A bead of sweat dripped from his brow to mingle with the blood in the grail. An image appeared on the liquid’s surface, indistinct and wavering. He reached for it with his mind, not willing to let it escape.

It was like grasping the fire-reddened tip of an iron rod. The pain of the embrace was too great. He flinched and his vision blurred. Mist surrounded him, blocking his Sight, as if the god of the grail had looked into Owein’s dark soul and found him wanting.

His arms spasmed, causing his grip to falter. The grail slipped. He felt something drop from his fingers—no, not the cup, but the slip of papyrus bearing its mark. It tumbled into the fire and was lost. All at once, he felt someone’s hands grasping his. The touch was cool, like healing water.

Clara filtered slowly into his vision. She crouched before him, her dark gaze probing. He had no idea what she sought, but her intimate scrutiny disturbed him. He tried to pull away.

“No!” Her grip was remarkably strong for such a delicate creature. The vision had weakened him. He couldn’t shake free.

“Let me be.”

“No. You’re in pain. I …”

And then he felt it. The whisper of a presence in his mind, like a flicker of light at the edge of his vision. Another consciousness, seeking to merge with his own.

By the might of the Horned God!

He’d felt such a sensation once before. Then it had been Madog in his mind. But the woman kneeling before him was no Druid master. She was Roman! It was not possible she could touch him so.

And yet she had.

Her expression was dazed, her eyes wide. And yet awareness flickered there. She knew what she’d done. She’d slipped in through the pain. Through his weakness.

This small Roman lass was far more dangerous than he’d thought.

He could feel her inside his mind, trying to align his will more fully with hers. He sensed she was drawn to his memories. She wanted to dive from the surface of his soul into his darkness.

He could not allow it. He tried to wrest himself from her grasp. In his weakened state, he couldn’t summon the will to break her hold.

Perhaps he could repel her another way. He filled his mind—and hers—with an image sure to repulse. In his mental picture, Clara was naked, standing with her breasts pressed against a wide tree trunk. Owein was behind her, his rigid cock stroking the cleft of her buttocks. One knee urged her legs to part, while his hands adjusted the angle of her hips. His hand snaked around the dream Clara’s body to delve between her thighs.

The true Clara’s eyes widened. She gasped, color flooding her face. A flash of her shock filled his mind—along with an unexpected flare of arousal.

Her reaction to his crude thoughts stunned him. He’d anticipated disgust. Revulsion. Not … curiosity.

His body responded instantly. The image in his mind shifted. Now the dream Clara lay beneath him, moaning and arching into his hand. A pleading whisper fell from her parted lips. Owein sensed the true Clara’s surge of panic. Felt her control on her magic slip.

Her touch vanished from his mind.

Thank the Horned God! Owein crouched, one hand gripping the edge of the table, his chest heaving with relief. He didn’t attempt speech for several moments, until he was sure his voice would be steady.

He looked up, and with an insolence he didn’t feel, forced a challenge into his eyes. “Did ye enjoy what ye saw, lass?”

Her countenance flushed crimson.

He tried to rise, but his legs were unsteady. He lowered himself into the chair instead.

She regarded him warily. “What … happened between us?”

“Ye dinna know?”

She shook her head. “I think … was that magic? Aiden thought I had a talent for it. He said he saw a light around me.”

“Let me tell ye about Aiden, lass. He once saw a light around a carp. He hung the dead fish in his house, until the stink brought the entire village to his door.” He exhaled unsteadily. “But to answer your question—aye, ye have
magic.
”
A master’s talent.
But he didn’t tell her that.

“Could you … teach me to use it?”

At the risk of baring his soul and his past to her scrutiny? He would offer himself at the fortress gates in Isca before he would allow that to happen. The ache behind his right eye intensified, blurring her in his vision.