Deep Magic (6 page)

Gwen willed the sword’s magic to life.

Light and Darkness collided.

* * *

She woke with a gasp, loud buzzing in her ears. The stench of burning flesh lingered in her nostrils. The wolf was howling, its call gripping her like panic. This time, no spell would deny it. She crept to the door, pausing only once when Mared wheezed in her sleep. An instant later, Gwen stepped into the night, shivering as cool air met damp skin.

The wolf would not wait long—already she felt it tearing at her bones and muscles. There was no time to cross the swamps. Once clear of the village, Gwen bolted to a hollow hidden by a screen of willows.

Ardra greeted her with a weak thump of her tail. One of the she-wolf’s pups, a bold male, climbed atop its littermates in an effort to reach a swollen teat. But Gwen had no time to greet her companion. Deep Magic was upon her.

She all but ripped off her tunic in her haste to be free. Her precious pendant fell roughly atop crumpled wool. She crouched, naked, arms wrapped around her legs, her forehead pressed to her knees.
Cyric. Rhys. Please forgive me.

Her heartbeat measured the passing moments as she fought back tears of shame. Then, in the hazy half-light of her magic, her guilt fell away.

Freedom—exhilarating, liberating freedom—burst upon her in dizzying glory. Shame had no place in a wolf’s mind. There was no room for duty, no path for regret. Deep Magic was the power of the gods; it did not recognize such human trivialities.

A sensual thrill, both anguish and bliss, flooded her body. Triumph and pain ripped her bones and muscles. Her skull squeezed. Shards of agony scraped across her face. Chin and lips elongated; skin furred. A tail sprouted. Legs narrowed, fingers and toes curved into claws. She dropped to all fours, acutely conscious of the banquet of smells beckoning from across the swamp. Plunging into the water, she paddled toward freedom.

It was only later, when the wolf was gone and Gwen lay huddled and shaking on her pallet, that she remembered the Lady, and the Dark beast, and the shining sword that had held Avalon’s enemy at bay.

A jangling bell pierced the turbulent heat.

Marcus bolted upright, gasping for breath. His heart was pounding, his shirt drenched with sweat. His phallus hard as an iron bar. Where was she?

He came more fully awake. Gradually, he understood he was alone in his bed, but the image of the woman did not clear from his mind. If he closed his eyes, he could see her stretched out like a goddess, white-blond hair cascading over smooth, naked shoulders. But she was not here.

The last remnants of his dream scattered like hard grains of wheat spilled on a clay-tiled floor. Marcus shook his head, trying to settle some sense back into his skull. Just a dream. The inferior mattress on his bed in the smithy was not conducive to deep slumber. He should have a new one made.

But he doubted it would make a difference. He’d slept little in the past week—almost every moment had been spent in his smithy, pursuing what had begun to look like a fool’s task. He’d built the new furnace chamber, shoveled in great heaps of unadulterated charcoal, added the purest iron ore. He’d set two boys on the new, larger, bellows, instructing them to keep the air flowing over the coals.

The heat had been tremendous. But each attempt to smelt the bright iron called
chalybs
had failed. He’d fallen asleep wondering what technique was left to try. Surely he’d missed something.

The gate bell rang again, insistent. Marcus blinked. So that had not been part of his dream. Frowning, he disentangled himself from his blanket and rose to peer out the smithy door. It was not yet dawn; no light shone in the windows of the main house. The bark of a dog sounded from the servants’ cottages beyond the orchard and kitchen gardens, but he could see no movement near the stables near the front gate. Was Linus deaf? More likely the stable master was visiting the latrine.

Nighttime visitors to the farm were rare. Was some neighbor in urgent need of Rhiannon’s healing skills? Marcus stripped off his wet shirt and grabbed a clean one. Lifting the gate key from its hook by the door, he started across the yard, peering ahead.

The night air was cool, but the clear sky carried the promise of a warm spring day. His boots crunched on the crushed-stone path as he strode past Rhiannon’s budding roses. A vague, hooded shadow was visible beyond the main gate’s iron bars. Was it his imagination, or did the figure stiffen as he drew near?

“Who’s there?” The question was sharper than he’d intended.

“Many apologies for ringing so early, but I have traveled far to reach ye.”

Marcus hesitated. He’d called out in Latin, but the visitor’s reply had come in Celtic—in a lilting, feminine tone. The sound was a soft melody, like petals on fragrant dew.

“Who’s there?” he asked again, more softly, in Celtic this time. He spoke the language as well as any native.

The hood fell back. The woman’s features were fine, her gray eyes clear. Moonlight gleamed on her white-blond hair.

Marcus could do nothing but stare.

It was not possible. It could not be
her.

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Ran a hand over his hair, then clenched his fist and let it drop to his side. His heart seemed to have taken up residence in his throat. He could not force a single word around it.

“I am—”

“I know who you are,” he managed.

Their eyes met. Hers were the color of the mist in the valley, the shadowed veil that hid so many of Britain’s secrets. Marcus, with his pure Roman blood, could never hope to uncover all the mysteries of his adopted home. No matter. There were many Celt secrets he did not wish to know.

“Gwendolyn.” Her name felt strange on his tongue. “Is something wrong? Is it Rhys? Has he been hurt—”

“Nay,” she replied quickly. “My brother is well.”

“Did he travel with you?” The question was inane—there was no one with her. But why would she travel from Avalon alone?

“Rhys is in Avalon. He … he advised me to seek ye.”

“He did?” Marcus couldn’t keep the note of disbelief from his voice.

Gwen flushed and looked away. “Aye. He …” Her voice trailed off, her attention darting past him toward the stuccoed villa. When she looked back at him, a half smile was playing about her lips.

“Marcus Aquila,” she said softly.

He started at the sound of his name. “Yes?”

She gestured toward the iron bars that separated them. “Do ye intend to open the gates?”

Marcus stared blankly at the key in his hand. Then he looked up and grimaced. “Of course. Just a minute.”

He fitted the key in the lock, the temperature of his skin notching upward as the action brought to mind a more sensual deed. Avoiding Gwen’s gaze, he swung the gate open and stood aside. She brushed by him, almost touching. His lower body clenched.

He relocked the gate and led the way to the main house, his skin tingling at her nearness. He was intensely aware of her every step, her every breath. Her wild, earthy scent.
Gods.

He cleared his throat, intending to speak, but could think of absolutely nothing to say. Why in Hades didn’t she fill the silence? In his experience, most women were happy to do just that. But Gwendolyn, it seemed, was not most women.

He dared a sideways glance. Now that the sky was beginning to lighten, he could see the lines of stress around her mouth and the dark smudges under her eyes. Her cloak was but a thin scrap of wool against the night’s chill.

She carried no satchel or bundle, a detail Marcus thought odd. On foot, Avalon was a hard two days’ journey from Isca. No woman traveled so far with nothing but the clothes on her back.

But a wolf? A wolf might travel with nothing.

He drew a sharp breath. Gwen glanced in his direction. Their eyes met before he could look away; he had the sensation that the world around him was collapsing. A jolt of pure lust shot through him.

“I … is something wrong?” she asked.

“No,” Marcus muttered, reaching for a lifeline in the form of the farmhouse door. He yanked it open and held it for her. “You’re welcome here, of course. I only wonder why you have come. I can’t believe this is a casual visit.”

When she did not reply, he did not press her. She hesitated, then entered the house. He escorted her along the entry gallery, past the altar to the household gods and the formal Roman-style receiving and dining chambers his family rarely used. They stepped into the hearth room, where Rhiannon, a habitually early riser, was already stirring the coals under her cauldron, one arm curved protectively under her burgeoning belly. She looked up as he entered. Her amber eyes alighted on Gwen, widened, then moved to Marcus in silent question. He shrugged a reply.

Gwen’s brows rose as she took in the circular room’s curved walls, the center hearth, and the high, peaked ceiling. Herbs hung from iron hooks; open shelves held a jumble of pottery, cups, and glassware. A long table flanked with chairs occupied one side of the room. A large loom bearing a colorful, half-woven blanket stood on the other.

“Why, ’tis like a Celt roundhouse,” Gwen said.

Rhiannon came forward. “Aye, so it is. My husband was gracious enough to build this room at my request.” She smiled. “After I told him I wouldna eat lying on a bed, as many Romans do. This hearth room is much like the home of my childhood.”

“Except that the walls are brick and plaster, not mud and straw,” Marcus commented, striving to keep his tone light. He and his father often teased Rhiannon about how accustomed she’d become to the comfortable aspects of Roman life. “The floor is tiled, with heated air flowing beneath it. Smoke doesn’t collect under the roof, but is funneled outside. Not to mention that clean water, and a hot bath, are only a few steps away.”

Rhiannon laughed easily. “Aye, I’ve found Roman cleverness has its purposes. My husband and stepson do not let me forget it.” She reached out and took both Gwen’s hands in her own. “Ye can only be Rhys’s sister. Ye favor him most strongly.”

“Aye. I am Gwendolyn.” She inclined her head. “I’m honored to meet ye, Lady. I’ve … I’ve never met a queen.”

Marcus shifted, uncomfortable with this reminder of his stepmother’s heritage. If Rome hadn’t conquered Britain, Rhiannon would be a powerful ruler, not the wife of a retired Legionary soldier-turned-farmer.

“A queen is but a woman,” Rhiannon said lightly, taking Gwen’s arm and drawing her toward the table. “And as any woman might, I welcome ye to my home. Sit, for ye look weary. I’ll make ye a warm draught. Marcus, remember your manners and take Gwen’s cloak.”

Gwen shrugged the thin woolen garment from her shoulders. Marcus, glad to have a task to distract him, took it. He still could not believe she was here. Did Gwen’s sudden appearance have something to do with Breena? Maybe Rhys
had
sent her. Maybe he believed Gwen would succeed in bringing Breena to Avalon, when he had not.

If so, Rhys was destined to be disappointed. Marcus moved to the hearth and dumped a shovelful of coals under Rhiannon’s cauldron. No woman, no matter how beautiful, how desirable, how powerful, would make Marcus believe his sister should live a primitive life with a band of outlawed Druids.

As if summoned by Marcus’s dark thoughts, Breena appeared in the doorway, followed closely by Lucius. Aiden, the old Celt who was the father of Owein’s first wife, hobbled in close behind.

Breena’s eyes went as round as two platters when she saw Gwen. “I thought I heard the gate bell ring.”

“I did as well,” declared Aiden, “but I ne’er dreamed our visitor would be so comely.” He gave Gwen a broad wink. The old man’s walking stick clicked on the tile as he made his way to the table. He managed a bow before lowering himself into a chair at Gwen’s side.

“Ye must be Aiden,” she said with a smile. “Owein has spoken of ye. As has Rhys.”

Aiden looked Gwen over with unabashed curiosity. “Well, lass, your brother speaks precious little of ye.”

Gwen’s smile faltered.

“Gwendolyn is Rhys’s twin,” Rhiannon told Lucius in Latin. Marcus’s father was less comfortable speaking Celtic than his children were.

Lucius nodded. “Welcome,” he said in heavily accented Celtic. “What brings you to Isca? I was given to believe that Rhys was the only Druid who traveled outside Avalon.”

Gwen cleared her throat. “Aye, that is usually true,” she told Lucius. In very passable Latin.

Marcus regarded her with some surprise. Rhys’s Latin was flawless, of course, but Marcus hadn’t expected Gwen to speak it.

“I come regarding a matter of great urgency.”

“If this urgent matter concerns Breena,” Marcus muttered, “you’ve wasted your time.”

Gwen frowned. “Breena?”

“Have you come here thinking you’ll be more successful than Rhys in convincing us to send her to Avalon?”

“Ah. ’Tis true enough that Rhys and Cyric believe Breena must be trained in Avalon.”

“And ye, Gwen? What do ye believe?” Rhiannon handed Gwen a cup of a fragrant herbal potion. Marcus knew Rhiannon did not want Breena to leave home any more than he did. But Breena’s visions troubled Rhiannon deeply.

Gwen’s gaze traveled from Rhiannon to Lucius, and from there to Breena. Marcus’s blood boiled. What right did this Druidess have to appear uninvited in his home and …

“I believe Cyric and Rhys see only one path, when in truth there are many. They do not believe one can reach the Light unaided.”

“And you believe the same,” Marcus said.

She shifted her gaze to him, her gray eyes shadowed. “Nay. I cannot say that I do. I believe there are many paths to the Light, though perhaps more paths that lead into Darkness. Certainly there’s an advantage in learning from others. But some who are touched by magic must travel alone.”

The unexpected declaration took Marcus aback. So Gwen hadn’t come to plead Rhys’s case. Twin vertical lines had appeared between her brows. He was struck by an urge to smooth them away with his thumb.

Their gazes collided once more. “Whatever Breena’s path,” she said slowly, “I would not advise her to travel to Avalon now. Legionaries have set up camp in the hills across the swamp. They are searching for silver, in Avalon’s mine.”