Deep Magic (7 page)

Rhiannon gave a cry of dismay, while Lucius swore softly. “Rhys told us nothing of this.”

“My brother only learned of it after he left ye.”

Marcus advanced from his position by the door. “Thank Jupiter we didn’t send Breena with him.”

Rhiannon looked ill. “But what of Owein and Clara, and all the others?”

“Surely Cyric’s mists will protect the isle,” Lucius said.

“So far they have, but my grandfather’s health is failing.”

“If that’s so,” Marcus interjected, “why aren’t you at his bedside? Aren’t you his successor?”

Gwen’s hand trembled as she placed her cup on the table. “I would not have come here if the need were not great. There’s a sorcerer in the Roman camp. The man is not looking for silver, but for Avalon.”

“The army is harboring a sorcerer?” Lucius asked sharply.

“Aye. He is their leader. His name is Strabo.”

“Titus Strabo? The Second Legion’s new legate? Why, that’s impossible!” Marcus couldn’t contain his astonishment. He’d seen Strabo many times, even met him once. The man struck him as solid and unimaginative. He was certainly not Marcus’s idea of a sorcerer.

“I assure ye, ’tis true,” Gwen said. “Strabo followed Rhys from Isca. He suspects my brother is not the simple minstrel he pretends to be. He knows our settlement is near. I’ve felt his magic, probing the mist.” She met Marcus’s gaze. “If he should find us, the Druids will have only two choices. Fight, or flee.”

“Flee, then,” Marcus said. “Better yet, disperse.”

“To scatter would weaken our power!”

Marcus placed both hands on the table and leaned toward her. “Exactly.”

For a long moment, silence hung in the air between them.

“Marcus—” Rhiannon began.

He straightened. “It would be for the best, Mother. Avalon cannot hide forever. With so much power concentrated in one place, it will grow beyond any man’s control. The Druids of Avalon profess to follow only the Light, but for how much longer? How long before they delve into Deep Magic?”

Gwen made no reply.

“I don’t understand why you’ve come here, of all places,” Marcus went on. “What can any of us do if the Second Legion forces the Druids to abandon Avalon?”

Gwen rose and faced him. She was tall, Marcus realized with a start—not as tall as Rhys, but very nearly of a height with Marcus. Her chin lifted and her shoulders went back, as if her spine were made of
chalybs.

“The Druids of Avalon will not flee. We will not grovel before the Roman army or before any Dark sorcerer. I will see my own death before I allow the sacred isle to be defiled.”

“And yet you left it,” Marcus challenged. “Why?”

She turned her palms upward. “I came to ye, Marcus Aquila. I need your help to stand against Avalon’s enemies.”

Marcus regarded her with patent disbelief. “You think I will help you battle the Second Legion?
And
a sorcerer? You must be insane!”

A feral light sprang into her eyes.
The wolf.
For an instant, he saw the beast clearly there, within her. In the same instant, sudden, irrational lust surged hotly in his loins.

Gods.

“I’ve not lost my wits,” she declared hotly. “I’ve come to ye, Marcus Aquila, because ye have the skills I seek. I need a sword.”

“A sword?” Marcus said the word as if it were a syllable in Greek—a language he hated with a rare passion. He shook his head. “I don’t understand. You wish to … what? Offer me a commission?”

Gwen’s eyes did not stray from his face. “Aye. A commission.”

“Then I trust you’ve brought coin.” He knew she had not. She’d carried nothing.

“Marcus,” Rhiannon chided. “Must you be so blunt? Gwen is Rhys’s sister. Almost family.”

“Even so, my skills do not come cheaply.”

Gwen did not blink. “I did not bring coin, no. But I can promise you a portion of Druid silver.”

“Can you?” His tone was blunt. Beside him, Breena sucked in a breath. It was unlike Marcus to be intentionally rude, but standing so close to the woman who had been his private erotic fantasy for more than a year was driving him stark raving mad.

“Avalon will pay whatever price you name,” Gwen said.

“You cannot want a common sword,” he said tightly. “Do you mean for me to forge a weapon of magic?”

“Aye, Marcus. I do.”

Marcus was well aware that every eye in the room was fixed on him. It was no secret he hated magic. His immediate instinct was to spit out a refusal, and yet, he hesitated.

His gaze flicked to Breena, then back to Gwen. “I’ll need to know more before I agree to anything. We’ll speak of it in the smithy. Later.”
Alone,
he added silently.

Gwen hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

From the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Lucius and Rhiannon exchange a glance. A moment of awkward silence ensued, until Rhiannon broke it. “Ye must be hungry after your journey, Gwen.”

“A little.”

Breena sprang into motion. “I’ll see to the food.”

“Nay,” Gwen said, half rising. “Do not trouble yourself—” But Breena had already left for the kitchen.

“ ’Tis no trouble,” Rhiannon told her. “Alma—that’s our cook—will not have today’s bread ready yet, but there will be one of yesterday’s loaves and some meat left from last night’s supper. Sit, Gwen, and finish your draught.”

Gwen sat, though she looked ill at ease. Marcus guessed she was unused to being waited upon. Life on Avalon was primitive. Not for the first time, he wondered how Clara was dealing with it. Did she regret the loss of the luxuries she’d known in Isca? He thought not. Clara and Owein shared a rare love. Lovers were blind to inconvenience.

Lucius took a seat at the table with Gwen and Aiden, awaiting Breena’s return from the kitchen. Rhiannon poured mugs of
cervesia
for all but Lucius, who had never developed a taste for the Celt barley beer. He received a cup of wine instead.

Aiden wasted no time in plying Gwen with questions. “Now then, lass. Rhys told us Clara’s babe is very close to coming. I trust your healer is competent.”

“Oh, aye,” Gwen replied. “Ye must not worry about that. Mared’s healing skills are vast.”

“And Owein?” Rhiannon asked, taking an empty chair. “How does he fare? I canna believe my brother will soon be a father.”

“He will be a fine one,” Gwen replied. “He hovers over Clara so closely, she barely has space to draw breath.” Rhiannon laughed and asked more avid questions. Marcus knew she regretted not being able to travel to Avalon for the birth.

Breena returned from the kitchen with a tray of bread and cheese, followed by Alma, who carried a platter of cold mutton. Marcus was not hungry. He retreated from the table to stand with his back to the wall, sipping his beer. Breena took an empty seat across from Gwen. His sister’s gaze clung to their visitor as if she were a goddess come to life.

Marcus scowled. It was bad enough Breena looked at Rhys that way. She didn’t need another Druid to idolize.

Rhiannon turned and frowned at him. He recognized his stepmother’s expression for what it was—a summons to the table. With a sigh, he took the last empty seat, next to Lucius, and accepted a plate of food he did not want.

“What do you make of the army sending an expedition to the Mendips?” he asked his father in an undertone. “Those mines were abandoned years ago.”

“And yet the existence of Avalon’s mine proves that silver can still be found, if one is willing to dig deep enough. An unscrupulous legate could skim a fine profit off the top before the army records the weight of the metal extracted.”

Marcus frowned down at his mug. “If the army finds silver, they’ll build a permanent fort. Avalon will be even more vulnerable. The Druids will have no choice but to flee.”

“Perhaps,” Lucius allowed. His gaze drifted to Gwen. “What do you make of her coming here?”

Marcus’s eyes cut to Gwen. She was relating a humorous story about Clara’s adjustment to life in Avalon.

“Certainly, she wishes to protect her home,” Marcus said in answer to his father’s question. “But she is not being entirely truthful.” He paused. “She told me Rhys sent her here.”

“You do not believe that.”

“I think it highly unlikely, especially as she has not come for Breena. If I were given to gambling, I’d wager half the farm that Rhys has no idea where Gwen is. And the other half that Rhys would be furious if he knew.” And what of Gwen’s betrothed? Marcus mused silently. Did the man know his intended’s whereabouts?

“Why would she go behind Rhys’s back, do you think, seeking a magic sword?” Lucius said.

“I don’t know,” Marcus replied grimly. “But I mean to find out.”

An hour later, Gwen’s lithe form moved through the smithy door and into Marcus’s private sanctuary. The place was ruined for him now. It was a testament to the potency of his unabated lust that he did not care. How many times had he dreamed of her here? More than he could count. She approached the sturdy oaken worktable. He’d once fantasized about taking her on that table. Now she paused just in front of the place where he’d imagined her sitting, naked, with legs spread wide in welcome, and touched the blade of a just-completed dagger.

He let out a slow, painful breath.

“It’s beautiful,” she said in Celtic, trailing a finger along the edge of the dagger’s blade.

He reached out and caught her wrist. “Have a care. I just honed that last night. It’s very sharp.”

She started, staring down at their joined hands. Despite her height, her hand was much smaller than his. Her fingers and palms were callused from years of hard work. He drew his thumb across the base of her fingers.

Her head came up; her eyes were wide. She took her hand from his grip with an embarrassed laugh. “I will endeavor to be more careful.” He watched as she put some distance between them, first inspecting the furnace, then studying a rack that held daggers and swords in varying stages of completion. When she peered around the wooden screen that hid his rumpled bed, color rose in her cheeks. But she did not, Marcus noted with interest, immediately turn away.

Was she a virgin? She was betrothed. Her intended must not be much of a man, to let her travel alone to Isca. Had she already lain with her Caledonian? It was entirely possible; she was no girl, after all. She was near the same age as Marcus—twenty-five. She should have wed years ago.

He cleared his throat. Gwen, who was still staring at his bed, spun about. The flush on her cheeks was a becoming pink.

“I sleep here sometimes, when I’m working on a difficult piece,” Marcus offered.

“Ah. Ye must love your work, then.”

“I do. I was ten years old when my father retired from the army and purchased this farm. I spent all my spare time here in the smithy, watching the old smith. There was something about working iron that fascinated me. Father, of course, was appalled when I declared I wanted to learn the craft.”

“But why?”

“Patrician Romans do not, as a rule, become craftsmen.”

“I do not understand. Why not?”

“It’s beneath us,” he said wryly. “We patricians own land, and serve as military officers and civil magistrates. We don’t engage in mercantile trade. But I hated politics and war, and loved the forge, so I was determined to become a smith. If we lived in Rome, it would have been impossible. Even here on the frontier, I’m ridiculed. The patricians in Isca think I am mad.” He smiled. “But somehow, that does not stop them from offering me commissions.”

“Because your swords are so beautiful.”

“Any fool can make a beautiful sword. No, they seek me out because my blades are strong. They won’t bend or shatter.”

“Why is that?”

“A smith is like a cook. His ingredients must be pure and his methods precise. The iron cannot be inferior, and it must be forged at the right temperature. If it’s not worked long enough, the blade will be too soft. It won’t hold an edge, and can bend in battle. But if it’s worked too long, after a time its strength fades. An overworked blade is brittle, in danger of breaking. It’s a smith’s task to strike the right balance.”

“And ye have found this balance.” She crossed to the forge and peered into the furnace. “Your furnace is very large. I use only a small fire when working silver.”

“I work in silver and bronze on occasion,” he said, indicating his own clay crucible on a stone ledge nearby. “Soft metals such as silver melt at lower temperatures. With iron, a large chamber is needed to accommodate enough fuel to sustain a high heat.”

“It must be a very hot fire indeed, judging from the mountain of charcoal ye have piled outside your smithy.”

She eyed the separate chamber he’d lined with new brick. It was not yet as black with soot as the rest of the furnace. The floor in front of it was littered with rejected half-hammered blooms of newly smelted iron. “This section is new?”

“Yes. It’s the reason there’s so much charcoal outside. I’m trying to smelt a newer, stronger type of iron.”

“Bright iron, ye mean.”

He blinked. “You’ve heard of it?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Rhys told me of it, only a few days ago. Have ye met with success?”

“Some.”

“But not as much as ye want.”

“No,” he admitted, then frowned. “But I didn’t bring you here to discuss innovations in smithing. I need some answers. The truth, this time. Rhys doesn’t know you are here, does he?”

Gwen’s brows rose. The half smile was back, playing on her lips. “Whatever sort of man ye are, Marcus Aquila, ye are not an unintelligent one.”

He did not acknowledge her compliment, if indeed it was one. He was too arrested by the clear gray of her eyes, made even more compelling by the tilt of her chin and the regal set of her shoulders. Her clothes were at odds with her bearing. Her tunic was old, almost threadbare. The slight swell of her small breasts barely filled the thin wool. She was tall and thin—most men would say too thin. Marcus had never understood the Roman obsession with small, curvaceous women. He much preferred Gwen’s sleek, willowy form.

Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from her body and returned it to her face, flushing when he read the frank knowledge of his appraisal in her eyes. But she didn’t mention his rudeness. Instead, she answered his question.