The Grail King (13 page)

Owein paced a wide arc, exposing about twenty stones in all. Then he retreated a good distance from the stones and fashioned a crude shelter with snow walls. He transferred the pack inside it. Unfastening his cloak, he spread it on the ground and indicated Clara should sit. “You’ll await me here, lass.”

“My cloak is warm enough,” she said. “You’ll need yours.”

He gave a tight smile. “Nay.”

She plucked the well-worn garment from the ground and offered it to him. He took and spread it again inside the makeshift walls.

“Be biddable just this once. Sit.”

“But—”

“Now.”

With an aggrieved sigh, she obeyed. In truth, it was a relief to be off her feet. And the snow walls did break most of the wind.

He paced a circle around her, his lips moving silently, his head bowed. Clara felt a subtle force rise in his wake—with a start, she realized he was enclosing her in a ring of magic. When he returned to his starting place, he lifted his gaze. “No matter what happens, what ye see or hear, ye must stay in this circle.”

“You mean to cage me?”

“I mean to protect ye.”

“The two are one and the same.”

“I willna argue. In this ye will obey me.” His tone was harsh.

Clara hesitated, then nodded.

“I’ll have your word.”

“I will stay.”

He gave her one last look, as if gauging the honor of her pledge, then turned and strode toward the circle. He made a circuit of the stones, touching each one and standing before it for a time in silence. When he reached the headstone, he stepped past it into the center of the circle.

Owein lifted his arms. A Word emerged from his lips. The power of the syllable struck Clara’s mind like a mallet. Around her, the night fell silent. Even the wind ceased its howling.

Owein stood motionless half the night, waiting. But when the vision finally came, it took him by surprise.

First, there was darkness. No vision at all, but blackness so thick and dry that it took all his effort to breathe. Gradually, his eyes picked out flat, hard shadows.

He was inside walls. A Roman chamber, to be sure, for the enclosure was small, square, and airless. A line of light spilled from beneath a closed door. Owein willed it to grow, expanding the illumination until he could see his surroundings.

The chamber appeared to be half-completed. It was empty of furnishings, with a single door and no windows. An unfinished mural wrapped three sides of the space. Pots of pigment and brushes lay scattered on the floor, atop an oiled cloth, as if the artist had stepped out for a breath of air. No doubt he needed one—his painting was not for the faint of heart. It depicted a city under siege. Flames consumed the town’s timber walls; bloody bodies, some with limbs and heads hacked off, lay in heaps. In the foreground, soldiers streamed from the belly of what looked like a giant wooden horse.

Owein’s gaze scanned the room, alighting on a sack he’d not seen earlier. It lay half open, its contents spilling across the mosaic floor. Plates and goblets of gold and silver tumbled atop each other like bright children’s toys.

One goblet caught his eye. It was wrought in silver and crystal. The intricate ornamentation upon it matched Clara’s drawing. A triple spiral encircled by a circle woven with vines.

He reached for it, though he knew that his spirit-hand would not be able to touch it. All the same, his disappointment was keen when the familiar mist swirled into his vision. When the fog cleared, he found himself within the stones.

He bowed his head and braced himself for the pain.

Clara gasped as Owein’s body jerked, his back arching as if someone had lain a lash across it. His powerful legs crumpled. Pain battered the edges of Clara’s mind—just a shadow of what Owein’s agony must be, but still she flinched from the savagery of it.

Was this what Owein endured each time his god sent a vision? How in Jupiter’s name did he bear it?

The urge to go to him was fierce. She wavered within the protection of the circle he’d made for her, watching as he struggled to his feet. She felt the pain wash over him; with a start, she realized their minds were joined. She was a specter hovering on the edge of his consciousness. Did he even realize she bore witness to his suffering? If so, he gave no indication.

Her breath hung motionless in her lungs. Owein swayed on his feet; attempted a single step. Even such a small task was beyond him. Once again, his large body collapsed in the snow.

“No!” Clara leaped over the wall of her makeshift shelter. A pulse of energy resisted her progress. She pushed through it. The sensation was like passing through fire, but she hardly registered the discomfort. In a heartbeat she was free and running.

She dropped to her knees at his side, her heart pounding, panic twisting like snakes in her belly. “Owein?”

He stirred within her mind. A moment later, he heaved himself up on one knee, his arms trembling with the effort. His face had gone pale beneath the red of his beard.

She cradled the side of his face, his temple plait brushing the back of her hand. Raw, blistering pain bubbled into her mind. Emotions far too violent for her to grasp. Sorrow, anguish, hatred—the searing darkness of Owein’s memories struck her like a physical blow, sending her sprawling backward into the snow.

How could he bear such agony alone? Tentatively, she made her way to him and placed her palm on his forehead. This time she expected the pain. She sucked in a breath as the memory of a day long past flashed from Owein’s mind to hers.

Flames licked like red tongues along the slope of the thatched roofs. A Legionary’s helmet flashed in the sunlight. Soldiers advanced, swords drawn. There were so many. More than Owein could count.

The attackers had hacked through the front line of Celts. As the youngest of the warriors, Owein had been left in charge of the village. But he hadn’t stayed at his post; he’d run ahead to the fighting.

He’d not expected the Romans to slip in behind and attack the children and elders.

Owein had managed to stay alive during the battle, though not without cost. He’d lost his sword when a Roman blade sliced his upper arm. The limb dragged, bleeding freely as he ran toward the screams. He felt no pain. At least, not yet.

A child’s shrill cry assaulted his ears. Moira—Enid’s little lass. He lurched toward the sound, not willing to believe he couldn’t save her.

A rough hand halted his progress, spinning him about. “By the gods, lad, ye canna mean to go back.”

With difficulty, he focused on the speaker. His kinsman, Cormac. “I have to,” he gasped out. “It’s my duty.”

“Ye must count it lost, then,” Cormac said, all but dragging Owein from the slaughter. “There’s naught ye can do.”

Darkness rushed the edges of Owein vision. He swayed on his feet. “Nay. Nay—”

“Nay,” he moaned. “Nay.”

“Owein?” He trembled under her touch. Shifted, and cried out again. She felt the exact moment he became aware of her crouching by his side. His body tensed.

Anger flared along the thread of their mental connection.

“Nay.” He tried to shake her off. “Let me be.”

“I want to help you. I … I see a village burning …”

“Nay.” With a burst of scorching power, he snapped the connection between them. The pain and horror of his home’s destruction vanished from her mind. His big, powerful body slipped from her arms and slumped on the ground. His eyes fluttered closed.

“Owein?” She shook him, hands on his shoulders, but her strongest effort barely stirred him. She framed his face in her hands, fingers threading through his mane of red curls. Climbing half atop him, she shook him again.

“Owein! Answer me!”

Nothing. She pressed her thumbs to the side of his neck, seeking the pulse of his life’s blood. It was weak and uneven. “No,” she whispered. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck. Was he dying? Because of her? Tears squeezed from her eyes. She aligned her body with his, shifting to lie atop his torso. Slowly, his arms crept around her.

“Lass,” he rasped. “Could ye kindly climb from my chest before ye squeeze the last bit of breath from my lungs?”

But his arms didn’t relax. If anything, they closed more tightly around her. One large hand covered her bottom.

Clara went still. Her hands framed his face. Her breasts were squashed against his chest. Their hearts pounded together in one uneven rhythm. She lowered her forehead into the crook of his neck and breathed his scent deeply. Pine and heather, and rough-cured leather. Her leg—oh gods!—her leg had somehow become wedged between his. His hard phallus pressed against her thigh.

“Lass …”

She struggled to produce an answer from a throat gone as dry as an old well. Her fingers curled on his shoulders. His hands found their way to her waist.

Instinctively, she rocked her hips against his hardness.

He gave a weak chuckle. “Have ye changed your mind, then, about coupling with me?”

Clara lifted her head and stared. “You cannot even stand! How can you think of … of
that?
”

His phallus hardened even more, and his eyes, when she looked into them, glittered like polished gems. “There’s hardly any time when a man canna think of coupling,” he said.

One large hand covered her breast, squeezing softly. Her breath came in a gasp. The last connection she had with her magic fled. Fear and anticipation rose, entwined as one.

Two women warred in her brain. One, shameless and wild, wanted to open for him. The other, dutiful and civilized, clung desperately to her father’s instruction. His face rose in her mind. Father hadn’t considered a Roman blacksmith worthy of her. What thoughts would he have concerning a wild Celt?

Shame washed through her. “No,” she whispered. “Owein, please. No.”

His hand stilled on her breast. “I can give ye pleasure.”

“I’m … sure that’s true. But please, I want to stop.”

Did the slight tensing of his muscles mean she’d hurt him by her rejection? But, no, that couldn’t be. He was toying with her. He’d been so long without a woman—any female bold enough to straddle him would serve.

She stifled a hysterical laugh and shoved herself off him. He let her go. He pushed himself up, wincing at the effort.

“You’re still weak,” she said, alarmed.

He leaned on one arm, his breathing heavy. “ ’Twill pass soon enough.”

She eyed the circle of stones, wanting very much to be outside them. “Can you walk?”

“Not yet.”

“But you wanted to couple?”

“I told ye, a man always wants to couple.”

“Not all men,” Clara said seriously. “My father and mother … they kept separate rooms. Mother nearly died birthing me and I think Father couldn’t bear the thought of risking her life for another child. After she was gone, I thought he might take another wife, but he didn’t. He said he hadn’t the heart.”

“He loved her too deeply, perhaps, to seek another.”

“Yes, I think that’s true.” She hesitated. “But you … you didn’t …” She looked down.

“Love my wife so deeply, ye mean?”

She nodded.

Silence stretched between them. Finally, Owein sighed. “Eirwen was a fine woman. Tall, strong, and brave, and pleasing to the eye as well. She …” His voice drifted off.

“Tell me.”

He sighed. “When my clan in the north was conquered by the Romans, it was many years before I … before I found a new home. Aiden—he helped me when I …” He swallowed. “I owed him my life. His granddaughter nursed me, and when she wanted me for a husband, he was pleased. So I joined hands with her. She was a dutiful wife. She never gave cause for complaint.” His tone told her he would say no more.

He pushed unsteadily to his feet. When it became apparent he wouldn’t be able to walk unaided, Clara fit herself into the crook of his arm. Together they passed out of the stone circle.

“Ye gave me your word ye’d stay within the protection I conjured for ye.”

“I couldn’t. Not when I knew you needed me.”

He stared at her for a long moment before lowering himself to the ground inside the snow shelter. Clara reached for his pack. “Do you wish for food? Water?”

He shook his head, then winced and pressed two fingers to the center of his forehead.

She eyed him with concern. “Does it hurt?”

“Aye. ’Tis the Horned God’s payment.”

“Then … your request was answered? Your god sent you a vision?”

He nodded.

“Was it … did you See the grail?”

“Aye.”

Hope leapt in her breast. “Where is it?”

“That I dinna know.” He paused, looking inward. “The room had no window. I saw only a sack of gold and silver plates and goblets. The grail you described was among them. ’Twas a small chamber, with a mural on the wall.” He shook his head. “I dinna pretend to understand Roman sensibilities, lass. The scene was a battle, running with blood. Even half-done, it was a horror. Who would want to look upon such a thing?”

Clara’s head came up.
It couldn’t be.
“An unfinished battle scene? What did it look like?”

“ ’Twas a city under siege, its attackers pouring from the belly of a giant horse.”

“The siege of Troy by the Spartans,” she whispered. “My father was especially fond of that battle.”

Owein gave her an odd look. “It seems a strange favorite for a merchant.”

Clara swallowed. “Yes. But Father commissioned an artist to paint it nonetheless.”

Owein eyed her. “Ye know the room I saw in my vision?”

Clara stifled a hysterical laugh. She’d trekked halfway across the mountains only to discover her mother’s cup had been within arm’s reach. “The chamber you describe is in my father’s new country villa. But how did the grail get there?”

“Perhaps your father brought it there.”

“He couldn’t have. He never left the fortress the day that the cup was stolen.” He eyes widened. “But Tribune Valgus did. I heard the steward mention it. He’d been in the house the night before, asking after Father’s health. Valgus had been assisting Father with the villa. He could have taken the cup and the other treasures there.”