“Ye believe it does not?”
“The Lost Grail holds great power, ’tis true, but ’tis hidden to most. When Clara touches the cup, its Light flows like a wellspring. I knew ye would want to know of it.”
“ ’Twas a difficult road ye set her on. She nearly died before she reached me.” Owein regarded the older man moodily. “Why would ye do such a thing?”
“The gods sent a sign. The morning after the thief emptied the dining chamber of its treasures, a raven and a dove drank together from the courtyard fountain. I knew to send Clara to ye.”
“Ye make no sense.”
“Do ye nay understand? Ye and Clara must hold the grail together.”
“Ye are daft. The grail must return to its makers. My kinsman carries it to Avalon.”
“Avalon,” Aiden said softly. “There is discord on the sacred isle. The silver-haired lad—Rhys—’tis nay within his power to bring harmony. Light wars against Dark. If the Lost Grail falls to the wrong side, what then?”
Owein frowned.
“If the Deep Magic of the grail is called by one owned by darkness, there will be destruction. The guilty will die, perhaps, but the good as well. Would ye doom all of Isca? What of your sister’s family? What of the other Celts who have mixed their blood and their lives with the Romans? I once thought we could live apart from the Romans, Owein. But now I’m nay so sure. We are becoming one people. When misfortune befalls one, the other suffers.”
Owein hesitated. “What would ye have me do?”
“Sempronius Gracchus is dead. There is nothing to hold Clara in Isca. She has the Deep Magic within her. She must go with ye to Avalon. To the grail.”
“Bring a patrician Roman woman into a circle of Druids? Have ye lost your wits?” He exhaled. “They wouldna receive her, if indeed they let her live at all. Even if I did subscribe to such a foolish plan, I am sure Clara would nay go with me.”
“What makes ye think that?”
Owein dragged a hand across his face. “Marcus Aquila wants her. She told me once she wasn’t adverse to his suit, but her father turned him away because of his trade. As you say, Aquila’s a fine man, and a Roman. He’ll protect Clara far better than I could.”
Aiden only shook his head. “I wouldna be so certain of that, lad.”
“Tell me, Clara, do ye love my brother?”
Clara started at the sound of Rhiannon’s soft voice. She hadn’t heard the healer enter—it was well past midnight and the house was silent. She turned from the fire to see Rhiannon standing in the doorway.
“Is it so obvious?”
Rhiannon moved into the room. Her expression was sad, and the smile that touched her lips was fleeting. “As obvious as Marcus’s love for ye.”
Clara let out a breath. “There was a time when I would have welcomed Marcus’s attentions, if my father had allowed it. But that was before …”
Rhiannon sank onto the bench at Clara’s side. “Love doesn’t always choose the safest path. I, of all people, know that.”
Clara eyed the older woman curiously. She knew little of Rhiannon’s union with her Roman husband. “Was it … difficult for you and Lucius Aquila?”
Rhiannon gave a soft laugh. “Difficult is far too mild a word. Lucius and I met when I put an arrow in his arse on the battlefield.”
“You fought in battle?” Clara could hardly believe it. Rhiannon wasn’t large and robust like many Celt women. She stood barely taller than Clara.
“I fought to protect Owein. He was but a lad, and my whole world. I only wish …”
“What?” asked Clara when Rhiannon’s voice trailed off.
She shook her head. “It doesn’t signify now. It was so long ago, and he has changed so much.” She sighed. “There is much of the Dark in him.”
“Yes.” A sudden chill skittered through Clara’s body.
She remembered all too well the violence churning in Owein’s soul.
“Will ye draw back, then? Give up on your love?”
Rhiannon’s gentle words caused Clara’s eyes to burn. “I should. He doesn’t want me.”
“I dinna believe that. I see how his attention follows ye, even if his eyes do not.”
Clara dashed a tear from her cheek. “I’ve tried so many ways to reach him. He blocks every one.”
“There is always a path,” Rhiannon said. “Ye have only to find it.”
Rhys crept toward the sound of human rutting, sloughing through a sea of reluctance and disgust. His loathing sprang only partly from the fear of discovering his sister inside the makeshift shelter. Another measure of his aversion sprang from the dark magic encircling the place. A spell had been woven into the fabric of the forest, akin to the spell Cyric had wrought on Avalon. The magic was so strong, it had sunk into the very soil beneath his feet.
The she-wolf crouched on its haunches a good distance behind him. Hefin circled above, also keeping his distance. Rhys felt the pulse of dark magic with every step. His blood pounded in his veins and his stomach sickened. He maneuvered near a gap in the walls and peered through. The hut was small, occupied by little more than a dirt hearth, a table, and a pallet. A makeshift lamp—no more than smoldering tallow-soaked rags in a wooden bowl—cast an uneven glow.
The hearth was cold. Rhys was glad it was so when he saw what lay in it. Long white bones that could only have come from a human body lay stacked with oak branches and squares of peat. More human bones decorated the wall. A skull graced the center of the table. Beside it was a gleaming cup of crystal and silver, polished but clearly old. Etched on its bowl was the triple spiral and quartered circle that was the mark of the Druids of Avalon.
Rhys drew a sharp breath. The Lost Grail had found its way home.
A man and a woman writhed naked on the pallet. Gwen faced away from Rhys, her long silver hair streaming down her back. The man she rode was the dwarf, Cormac.
Rhys thought he would lose the contents of his stomach.
The woman shifted, her head dropping back. Her long fingernails scraped long red lines on Cormac’s chest. Cormac responded with a groan, jabbing his hips upward. In that instant, Rhys realized two things: first, that the dwarf’s stunted arms and legs were spread, tied to stout posts set in the ground.
Second, that the woman atop Cormac was not Gwendolyn.
Rhys’s rush of relief was soon supplanted by shock. He blinked, not trusting his senses. The whore riding the dwarf was his gentle cousin, Blodwen.
But not Blodwen as Rhys knew her. Nay, this was Blodwen as she’d once been, beautiful and unscarred. The gray of her hair had reverted to the silver-blond it had been before the Roman soldiers had used her. Her shoulders were unbent, her figure supple and lithe.
It was an illusion, Rhys realized. Glamour set in place and held by magic.
Rhys set his hand on a stone to steady himself. He and all the Druids of Avalon—Cyric included!—had believed Blodwen’s magic destroyed by the torture she’d suffered as a girl.
They had been wrong.
Blodwen screamed her release, her body convulsing. A dark red glow sprang up about her, as if she were consumed by flames. It was all Rhys could do to hold himself steady as his cousin rose to her feet. She stood with legs spread wide, straddling her captive lover.
Cormac groaned. “By the Horned God’s mercy, woman! Dinna leave me wanting.” He arched his hips in supplication, struggling against his bonds.
Rhys stared with horrified fascination at the dwarf’s cock. Huge, red, and engorged, the quivering red staff was grotesquely long and thick. By the gods! How could any woman take such a member into her body?
Blodwen looked down at him, a smile playing on her lips. Fiery energy crackled along her limbs. “I’ll leave ye as hard as I like.”
Cormac’s face went purple. “Bitch! Untie me now!”
Blodwen pouted. “Nay. I’ll have need of ye again soon, and the more painful your lust, the more power I draw from it. Ye’ll remain as ye are.”
Cormac swore, straining fruitlessly against the ropes binding his limbs. “Ye’ll live to regret this, whore.”
Blodwen bent at the waist and took Cormac’s balls in her hands. Rhys winced as she twisted the sacs, wrenching a scream from the dwarf’s throat. Immediately, she crouched, taking the large head of his cock into her mouth. Within seconds, Cormac was moaning and pleading for release.
She didn’t grant it. Padding on silent feet, she approached the table and leaned over the grail, peering into its bowl. A line appeared between her brows.
She was scrying, Rhys realized with a start. Did Blodwen possess the Sight as well as glamour and the power to alter the fabric of the forest? Had she also manipulated the elements in calling the storm, and cursed Cyric’s health? Such a combination of powers was far beyond what Rhys had believed possible, save in the tales of the Old Ones.
His brows drew together. If Blodwen possessed such great magic, and used it so freely, the price for her own strength should have been high. But she betrayed no glimmer of weakness. Nay, on the contrary, it seemed to Rhys his cousin’s vigor was greater than he’d ever seen it. Was the Lost Grail responsible for the difference? Or did her dark coupling with the dwarf replenish her strength?
Blodwen looked up from the cup and smiled down at Cormac, who lay groaning. “The King is in Isca, at the home of his sister. I’ve shown him his reward and he is eager to claim it. His Roman bitch believes she can hold him, but she’ll find soon enough that she cannot. Owein will be my consort. He’ll lie at my feet in your place.”
Cormac rasped a harsh breath. “The lad will nay satisfy ye as I do. His cock is but a twig compared with my thick branch. Your pleasure will be nothing. Your magic will die. Ye need
me,
woman. Not him.”
Blodwen gave him a pitying look. “Surely ye canna believe that. Aye, yours was the cock that woke my power, but in the end, your wand is attached to a man with no magic.”
She dipped a finger in the grail. “Owein is a Druid, and claimed by the Horned God. His grandmother was the last of the great Celtic Queens. When I join with him in the Lost Land, my power will know no bounds. Storms will rise. The Roman fortress will fall.”
Her lips twisted. “Those who used me so cruelly will die. And in Avalon—no more will my own people pity me.” She gave a soft laugh. “Indeed, with Isca in ruins, Cyric and Gwendolyn dead, and the grail of my foremothers in my hands, no one shall deny me my place as High Druidess of Avalon.”
How Rhys managed to stumble from Blodwen’s lair without revealing himself to her, he didn’t know. Tears blinded his eyes; he poled his raft from Avalon’s shore with shaking hands. His gentle cousin had embraced the Dark. She meant to kill Gwendolyn! He couldn’t believe it was true. And yet he’d heard it with his own ears.
The Mendips loomed above Rhys before he realized he’d approached them with a purpose. Once again, he’d followed the paddling she-wolf. The beast emerged from the swamp, barely pausing before it scurried up a steep, bare slope riddled with crevices and depressions. Rhys scrambled in its wake. The wolf halted before a tall, narrow crevice and gave a low growl.
“What do ye mean? Is Gwen in this cave?”
For Rhys was sure the wolf was Gwen’s companion, as Hefin was his own.
The wolf gave a yip. Rhys fumbled in his shoulder pack, drawing forth flint, tinder, and a thin reed dipped in tallow. It took three tries, but at last his trembling fingers sparked a flame. Armed with the meager light, Rhys entered the cave.
The stench of darkness and evil assaulted him. A dark spell guarded this place. Rhys’s stomach rolled. Dropping to a crouch, he forced himself to advance. The flame flickered weakly. Somewhere beyond its illumination he heard the drip of water.
After a short time, he could go no farther, though the path was clear. An unnatural force held his limbs in check. He strained his eyes into the darkness. Was that a hint of movement?
“Gwen?”
Silence reigned, broken only by the steady pulse of dripping water. Then a whisper bled into his mind.
Rhys? Brother?
Rhys’s heart slammed against his ribs. “Gwen?”
A weak chuckle echoed through his brain.
Have ye found another who can speak to your spirit?
Hesitantly, he formed his next words silently, as he’d done so often when he and Gwen were children.
We’ve not conversed this way since …
The first flow of my moonblood.
Aye.
Ye were angry that I became a woman while ye were still a lad.
I didna begrudge ye,
Rhys protested.
Ye were the one who drew away. After that day, ye no longer spoke in my mind.
Gwen’s thoughts whispered in his brain.
The silence was nay my choice. My power had turned to the Deep Magic.
Then it’s true. Ye’ve defied Cyric’s teachings. Touched the Deep Magic. Touched the Dark.
He could feel Gwen’s bitterness.
Ye believe that of me?
I dinna know what to believe! Ye shirk your duty to the clan, vanishing into the swamps, giving no explanation, covering your trail with magic …
I’ve no choice. When the Deep Magic calls, I canna resist it. But I haven’t turned to the Dark, as Blodwen has …
Rhys’s hand shook, making the candlelight quiver on the walls of the cave.
Ye know of Blodwen?
Aye, I sought to stop her, but she was cunning. She waited until I was trapped by my own magic, then sprang her snare.
Rhys frowned.
What do ye mean, trapped by your own magic?
His only answer was the dripping silence of the cave. Again, he tried to go forward, only to be repulsed.
“Gwen. Where are ye?”
A faint sound, soft footsteps, echoed from the darkness.
If I show myself, ye must promise secrecy.
“I’ll not aid a Dark purpose.”
I would not ask that of ye.
Rhys swallowed. “Then I’ll give a brother’s promise.”
The footsteps grew closer. He frowned. They were too light and silent to be the steps of a woman.
A she-wolf stepped into the light. The animal was haggard and wasted, its coat wet and matted with blood on one flank. Its legs trembled, then folded into a crouch. Its silver gaze sought Rhys.