Deep Magic (34 page)

“I found him dead,” Padrig put in. “His throat had been slit. Not many days later, Tamar went to Cyric and told him she wished to marry her Roman lover—not only marry, but leave Britain, because he’d received orders to a new posting. Cyric refused. Tamar declared she would go without his blessing. Cyric realized he could not stop her, but he would not allow her to take Avalon’s future with her. Rhys and Gwen would stay in Britain.”

“Tamar loved her children fiercely,” Mared said. “She did not want to take them from their clan and their homeland. Truth be told, she did not want to leave Britain herself. We thought the centurion would leave, and she would forget him. We never realized that he had magic—Deep Magic—and that Tamar had been teaching him to call it. In the end, the magic she helped him discover was turned against her.”

“He killed her with Deep Magic?” Owein said.

“Aye. One night, she went down to the river. Cyric followed. When he returned, he was carrying Tamar’s body. We never saw the centurion again.”

“But he is here now,” Padrig said. “Unless I am very much mistaken.”

Owein’s gaze cut to Rhys’s uncle. “What do ye mean?”

“We never knew the name of Tamar’s Roman lover. Cyric would not allow her to speak it in his presence. But this Roman sorcerer … Strabo … I sense it is the same man. Tamar’s lover. Indeed, I am almost certain of it.”

* * *

Marcus thought, at first, that the silver-gray wolf was Gwen.

The animal appeared on the trail before him, emerging from the shadows like a dream. His horse reared with a frantic snort, hooves pawing wildly. It took all Marcus’s strength to regain control of the animal.

When he glanced back at the wolf, he saw it had not moved.

It was not Gwen. This she-wolf’s teats were pink and swollen; it had recently birthed a litter of cubs. Most likely Marcus had stumbled upon its lair and roused its protective instinct.

“My apologies.” He must be insane, conversing with the beast. He was not Rhys; the animal could not possibly understand him. He started to back his mount away.

The wolf advanced, matching his progress step for step. Marcus halted. The creature did not seem hostile. It seemed … expectant.

Could this be
Gwen’s
wolf? He could not be entirely certain. He’d seen the animal only once, a year before, when it had led Marcus and Rhys to Gwen. If it meant to do the same now …

“Where is she?” he asked. “Where is Gwen?”

The wolf’s tail rose. Turning, it loped a short way down the trail, then looked back expectantly. His heart clenching in his chest, Marcus steadied his anxious mount and followed.

The wolf led him along a high ridge overlooking a deep gorge. It paused at a rocky promontory. Dismounting, Marcus tethered his horse and approached. He peered around the outcropping. Less than a quarter mile away, directly across the gorge, stood a Roman military camp. The mining camp Gwen had spoken of?

A steep trail led from the camp gate to the cave below it. Excavated dirt dribbled down the face of the cliff.

Mentally, he considered the size of the camp. It likely housed thirty soldiers or more. Two armed men loitered on either side of the gate set in a sturdy encircling palisade. A contingent of ten men trudged up the trail from the mines, apparently just finishing their shift.

“Gwen is inside the camp?”

The wolf just looked back at him.

Marcus swore. Never in his life had he felt more useless. Even if he could cross the gorge unseen, he could hardly march up to the camp gate and demand entrance. Still less likely was the prospect of scaling the sharpened spikes of the palisade unnoticed, even if he waited for nightfall. And even supposing he could accomplish one of those feats, it would remain to locate Gwen and carry her past thirty armed Legionaries to safety without getting both her and himself killed.

And he hadn’t even begun to consider Strabo’s magic.

Exchalybur hung heavily on his back. If he had any magic at all, he wouldn’t hesitate to use the weapon, Deep Magic or no. But in his hands, the sword was just a sword. And he was not the most able of swordsmen.

He needed help. Desperately. He looked down the gorge, out over the swamps. Somewhere, hidden in the mist, was an island that was forbidden to him.

He turned to the wolf. “Avalon,” he said. “Take me there.”

Shouts and curses erupted from Cyric’s hut. Sounds of struggle followed. Owein tried to shove the disturbance from his mind. Clara was gripping his hand so tightly, he thought his bones might crack. He would not leave her now, not even if Strabo and the entire Roman army landed on Avalon’s shore.

She let out a moan. Her pain echoed through their linked minds. She’d been visited by her own nightmares, full of grief for her dead father and fear for her babe. Owein absorbed what he could into his own soul, through the mental link they shared. But it was not enough. Clara was pale with agony, gasping for each breath.

He did not know much about such things, but this could not be right. She’d labored more than a day. The babe was not coming. Gods, how he wished Rhiannon were here. His sister would know what to do.

Cyric’s cries seeped around the edges of the closed door. Owein ground his teeth. Dimly, he was aware of the women around him—Eleri, and Howell’s wife, Dera. Mared was with Cyric.

“Can ye nay
do
something?” he barked as Clara choked off another cry. Her eyes were glazed with pain.

“Fetch Mared,” Dera told Eleri. “If ye can.”

The lass nodded and rushed from the hut. Clara’s spasm passed; her body went limp. Owein smoothed a wet strand of hair from his wife’s forehead. He was utterly gutted by helplessness.

“Owein?”

“I’m here, love.”

“I don’t think … I don’t think I can birth our son.”

His insides twisted. “Ye
can,
Clara. Ye must.”

“No, I—ah!”

Another pain hit, harder than all the ones before. Her small body went so taut, he thought it might snap. And all he could do was heap curses on top of his prayers.

The door opened and Mared entered. Another of Cyric’s screams entered with her.

Clara’s eyes fluttered open. “Cyric … he’s gone mad.”

“Put it from your mind,” Owein said sharply. “Think only of our babe.”

“Our babe.” Clara closed her eyes. “I … I’m sorry, Owein. I’m not strong enough. I’m … so tired.”

“All birthing women grow weary,” Mared told Clara briskly. “ ’Tis only natural.”

The old healer laid her palms on Clara’s stomach. Her eyes closed; her brow creased. Long moments passed, in which Owein’s panic mounted.

“What is it?” he asked when he could wait no longer. “Is the babe d—” His throat closed on the word.

Clara’s face contorted as another spasm hit. The pain tore a keening scream from her throat; Mared slipped an arm around her waist and murmured soothing words. The contraction went on so long that Owein almost found himself moaning along with Clara. When at last she collapsed, he felt as though he’d been pounded into the dirt.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. When his fingers came away wet, he realized he was crying.

“She is dying.” He was dying, too. He could not breathe. He’d fought many battles, but none had been as bad as this.

Mared frowned at him. “Nay. ’Tis a long labor, to be sure, but it goes well.”

“Well?
Well?
You lie! I’ve watched men perish in battle with less pain. She is dying, and ye willna tell me!”

“Hush!” Mared’s tone was sharp, her grip on his arm sharper. “She isna dying. And her pain is no more or less than any birthing woman endures. By the morrow, ’twill be forgotten.”

Forgotten?
Owein could not conceive of such a thing. He was sure
he
would not forget.

“Tell me true, old woman. She is dying, aye?”

Mared glowered. “Get a grip on yourself, man! Truly, ’tis best ye leave. Ye are only upsetting her.”

“Nay, I willna—”

“Go out. Now. Dera will fetch ye when your son arrives.”

“But—”

A bloodcurdling scream drowned out his protest. Not Clara’s.
Cyric’s.
Clara’s eyes went wide. Dera gasped a prayer to the Great Mother. Owein’s gaze locked with Mared’s as Cyric’s enraged howl rent the air.

“Get out! Get out, ye Roman swine!
Or I will kill ye where ye stand!”

Strabo’s kiss was that of a lover. Gentle. Coaxing. The sheer horror of it suffocated Gwen.
This man killed Mama.

His dark aura was a noxious oil on her skin and in her nostrils. His tongue stroked her lips. In desperation, she reached for her magic. It did not answer.

He drew back, regarding her with a hooded gaze. “You are so like Tamar. It is as if she’s come back to me.”

He lifted her hand to his lips. Gwen endured the kiss he brushed on her knuckles. He had not mentioned Marcus or Exchalybur. Once again, she prayed the spells she’d put on the Lady’s sword had deflected Strabo’s attention. If so, then surely Marcus was searching for her. If she could find him, and get her hands on Exchalybur, then perhaps she could shake off the effects of Strabo’s magic-deadening spell.

But even as she plotted, she feared her plan was futile. Each time she reached for her magic, she could not grasp it. And even if Marcus succeeded in tracing her to the Roman camp, what could he do to rescue her? There were so many soldiers. Strabo would not even have to use magic to kill him.

But perhaps help could come from another quarter.

She sought her brother with her mind.
“Rhys?”

He did not answer; she cast her senses, but could not feel him at all. It was as if their connection had been completely severed. Another effect of Strabo’s spell?

The voices of the guards rose in laughter at some crude jest. Strabo looked toward the tent flap and frowned. Releasing Gwen, he strode to the entrance and issued a sharp reprimand. The soldiers murmured apologies.

When Strabo returned to Gwen, she offered him what she hoped looked like a shy smile. He leaned forward to kiss her; she stopped him with a demure hand on his chest.

“There are so many men about,” she whispered with an embarrassed glance at the tent flap. “I … I confess I cannot feel easy about … being with ye. If they should hear us …”

Strabo’s thick brows met in a single line. “I will send them away.”

“Nay. ’Twould be so much better if …” She touched his lower lip with her finger.

His dark gaze flared. “Tell me.”

She forced herself to go up on tiptoe, her hand sliding around his neck as she whispered near his ear. “If we could find a place in the forest. A private place, surrounded by a screen of branches. Near the river, perhaps …”

His arm tightened around her. “Tamar and I had such a place, once.”

“Then let us find our own. Away from the camp, where none of your men will disturb us.”

He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I can easily grant that request, my love.”

“Get out, Roman swine! Get out, or I will kill ye where ye stand!”

Marcus drew up short at the edge of the village common. A tattered old Celt was brandishing an oaken staff in Marcus’s direction. He was clad in a stained robe, his long white hair and beard bristling wildly, framing a mottled red face.

It could only be Cyric. Was he mad? Had Strabo’s Deep Magic unhinged his mind? Perhaps that was why, once Marcus had launched the raft Gwen’s wolf had shown him, the mist had parted so easily.

Once on Avalon’s dock, Marcus had made the trek to the village with ease. There had been no sign of the spells he’d encountered the previous year, which had prevented him from reaching Gwen while she recovered from her ordeal. Clearly, all was not right in Avalon.

Avalon’s Druids clustered behind their crazed leader. Marcus scanned the group quickly—a man, a youth, two women, several children. Rhys was not among them, nor was Trevor, nor even Owein and Clara. He did not recognize a single face.

“By the Great Mother,” the man muttered, catching sight of Marcus. “A Roman! Is the mist gone?”

“He brings soldiers,” a small, plump woman replied fearfully. “They’ll cut us down where we stand.”

Cyric’s staff sliced the air. “Nay. I will kill him.”

He leveled the staff’s tip at Marcus. Several of the younger Druids shrank back, as if fearing the thing would explode. Marcus had no doubt that it could. Slowly, he reached up and behind, his fingers closing on the hilt of Gwen’s sword. Though what protection the weapon could afford a man with no magic, Marcus did not know.

“Wait! Cyric, nay!” A second old man surged from one of the huts, barking a warning. “Dinna—”

Cyric’s head whipped around. “Stay back, Padrig. He will pay the price of his insult to Tamar.”

Tamar.
That had been Gwen’s mother’s name. Marcus stood motionless, his fingers flexing on the sword’s hilt. He fought the urge to wrench it from its sheath. Was Cyric caught in a dream, reliving his daughter’s death? If so, and if he thought Marcus was the soldier who had killed her, there was no doubt that Marcus would be dead before his blade cleared its sheath.

“I have not come for Tamar,” he said in Celtic, pronouncing each word with deliberate emphasis. “I have come begging your help.”

“Treacherous Roman! Do ye think me a fool? How can ye spew such lies with Deep Magic flowing all around ye? Ye wish to make my daughter your whore. Ye will not. I will kill ye.”

At the edge of his vision, Marcus saw Owein’s broad form emerge from one of the huts.
Thank the gods!
Finally, someone who might be termed—however loosely—a friend.

He kept his voice low, his gaze fixed on Cyric, but Marcus’s next words were for Rhiannon’s brother. “I need your help. Gwen has been taken by—” He checked himself, wary of uttering Strabo’s name. “She’s been taken by a soldier.”

“Ye are a soldier,” Cyric muttered.

“No. I am not. I am a smith.”

Cyric blinked, seemingly taken aback. “A smith? Nay. That is not right. Ye are a soldier.”

Owein had begun a stealthy movement toward the old Druid. His gaze was fixed on Cyric’s staff. Marcus blinked. Was that a spark of blue light, running the length of the wood?