Marcus gave her a sheepish grin. “Right. I’m just … surprised.” He shook his head. “No, more like astounded. Rhys never told me he was born in Isca.”
She moved down the row of herbs. “My brother can be very secretive, I am learning.”
“How old were you when you left Isca?”
“We had seven years, I think, no more, when Cyric took us to reclaim our heritage.”
“The three of you returned to Avalon alone?”
“Nay, we traveled with Mared—she is Cyric’s cousin-by-marriage. Padrig, my mother’s brother, and his wife, also came with us.” She paused. “Their daughter, Blodwen, had nine years.”
Marcus’s tone sharpened. “Blodwen is the cousin who imprisoned you with Deep Magic.”
Gwen swallowed hard. It was difficult to think of those hopeless days, not least because her memories of that time were not human ones. They belonged to the wolf. She felt Marcus’s hand on her arm, and realized she had turned away from him.
“It still distresses you.”
She looked up into dark eyes tinged with pity. Unreasonably, his sympathy prompted a hot rush of dark emotion. The wolf, sensing her agitation, stirred. Its hackles rose. Her mind’s human focus slipped.
Marcus’s gaze narrowed. “Gwen? What is it? Are you all right?” His fingers tightened on her arm.
The wolf viewed his touch as a threat. The beast tensed. Gwen squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a steadying breath. One heartbeat passed, then two, three, as she summoned Words of Light. The beast relaxed, put its head on its paws, and returned to its sleep.
Thank the Great Mother.
When she opened her eyes, she found Marcus staring at her with a strange expression. Did he suspect how weak she was? How much the wolf controlled her? The thought made her ill.
“I … I do not like to think about that time.”
“Of course.” His voice was soothing.
His touch on her arm turned into a caress. She felt ashamed, deceiving him this way. But she didn’t know what else to do. She could hardly tell him how close the wolf was to the surface of her emotions.
After a moment, he asked, “Was Cyric also born in Isca?”
Gwen shook her head. “My grandparents were born on Avalon. My grandmother’s mother, as ye know, was one of the twin Daughters of the Lady. My grandparents were babes when their parents fled the sacred isle.”
Marcus nodded. “It would have been soon after Queen Boudicca’s revolt. Governor Paulinus was convinced Druids had stirred rebellion all over Britannia. Druidry was outlawed; Druid learning centers were ordered destroyed.”
“Many Druids were killed when the Roman army marched on Avalon. But not all. Some, like my grandparents, escaped.”
Marcus was silent for a moment. “So it was Cyric’s idea, years later, to return to the sacred isle?”
“Aye. By then my grandmother had been dead many years. When my mother—” She stopped suddenly, swallowing her words. She hadn’t meant to take the story so far.
But Marcus, of course, would not let it be. “What of your mother? And your father? Rhys rarely speaks of them.”
“They died before we left Isca. First my father, then my mother. Mama was a Daughter of the Lady and Cyric’s only child. He took her loss hard.”
“How did they die? Illness?”
“Nay. They were murdered.” Once again, she sensed he was waiting for her to say more. Strangely, she found herself wanting to confide in him. “A soldier killed them.”
“What happened?”
“I hardly know. Rhys and I—we were so young. Our memories of that time are clouded. Cyric never speaks of it, nor do Mared and Padrig. They say only that the Lady’s carpenter prophet teaches us to forgive our enemies.”
“I would not forgive such an offense,” Marcus said grimly.
“Sometimes I think Cyric has not truly forgiven, either. Certainly he still grieves. I think … I think that is the reason he has kept me close to him on Avalon. Mared tells me I’m the very image of my mother.” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “Sometimes …”
“Sometimes, what?” Marcus prompted gently.
She did not answer until she was sure she could do so without tears. “Sometimes, I wonder if my grandfather has ever truly seen me. Or if I have always been the ghost of the daughter he lost.”
It was dusk before Cyric’s rantings quieted completely, after Mared managed to force a calming draught down his throat. Rhys left the healer sitting by his grandfather’s pallet. He was exhausted by his search for Gwen’s trail, and the spell she’d erected to block his mental calls was still in place. He wanted only a quiet place where he could give himself over to oblivion for a few hours.
Unfortunately, it was not to be. When he emerged from Cyric’s hut, the whole of Avalon’s population was gathered in the village common. As they caught sight of him, their hushed conversation died. The youngest children hid behind the skirts of the women.
“Cyric rests peacefully,” he told them. “Mared says he will sleep till dawn.”
Padrig stood alone in the doorway of his roundhouse, leaning on his staff. “And the enchantment?”
Rhys looked at his uncle’s sour, lined face. Never cheerful or hearty, even in youth, Padrig had grown ill-tempered and haggard since the disgrace of his daughter. Blodwen’s power had permanently shattered when the Deep Magic spell she’d called against Avalon had turned against her. Afterward, she’d been banished from Avalon. In his shame, Padrig had also spoken of leaving. Cyric had begged him to stay.
Rhys wondered whether it might have been better if Padrig had been allowed to go. The old Druid had turned bitter. Rhys could discern little of the Light in his uncle’s countenance.
“The enchantment, if indeed Cyric’s affliction was an enchantment, is gone,” Rhys told him.
“An enchantment it was. A Dark one.” Padrig shook his staff. “If your sister were here, as she should be, the sorcerer’s spell would not have taken root.”
“If Gwen is gone, ’tis for a good reason.”
“What reason could there be to leave Avalon, especially when Cyric forbade it?”
Rhys strangled his anger and summoned a tone of respect. “When Gwen returns, she will explain.”
“If
she returns. And if she does not, will ye do your duty and take the role of Guardian? It should be yours by right.”
Rhys squared his shoulders. “There will be no need for me to hold the mist,” he lied. “Gwen will return soon.”
The old man made a derisive sound. Jabbing his staff into the dirt, he turned and stalked into his hut.
Rhys crossed the yard to Owein and Trevor, who had been watching the exchange. Clara sat nearby, warming herself before a small fire. Her belly was enormous—Rhys could hardly believe the babe hadn’t yet emerged. He had limited experience with such things, but even his untrained eye could tell Clara’s time would not be long in coming.
“Dinna mind Padrig,” Owein said, clapping a hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “The old man looks for Light, but sees only Darkness.”
“I fear this time he is right. The visions Cyric endured were not of the Light.”
Clara cradled her belly. “Strabo has pierced the mist with his Dark spells? How can that be? Cyric’s Light is strong.”
“My grandfather’s health fails.”
“Many Druids are most powerful when they are closest to death,” Owein said.
There was truth to Owein’s words, and it disturbed Rhys greatly. Cyric’s mists should not be thinning—if anything, his dying in the Light would strengthen Avalon’s protection. But it did not seem to be so. If not for Rhys’s magic, Avalon would have already been exposed.
“The Roman is strong with Outland magic,” Trevor said.
“Our Druid Light is also strong,” Owein argued. “It should not—” He halted as Clara went stiff, stifling a gasp.
Owein’s face paled, making his red hair and beard seem even more vivid. He crouched at his wife’s side and laid a steadying hand on her shoulder. “What is it, love? Is the babe coming?”
Clara’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. Her hand remained on her stomach. “No, I don’t think so. Not yet. There is no pain, only a tightening. Mared says my womb is preparing, but it will be some days yet before the birthing begins.”
“Ye must rest. Do ye wish for me to lie with ye and rub your back? Ye look worn.”
Clara looked at Rhys. “If you can spare my husband for a short while …”
“Go,” Rhys told her. “Take care of the babe.”
Owein helped his wife to her feet. Together, they disappeared into their small round hut, a dwelling that was a far cry from the Roman luxury Clara had known in Isca. But she had never, to Rhys’s knowledge, voiced a complaint. A Daughter of the Lady, Clara was strong in fortitude as well as magic.
Trevor’s rough northern burr claimed Rhys’s attention. “Ye must take on the role of Guardian before Cyric weakens further.”
“That time has already passed.” Rhys met Trevor’s gaze. “I’ve been holding the mist alone since the day after Gwen disappeared.”
Trevor’s expression did not change, except for a slight widening of his eyes. “Cyric’s magic is spent?”
“Not spent. More like … frozen.” Rhys was silent a moment. “Overwhelmed by Darkness and Deep Magic.”
Gwen could tell Marcus wanted to know more about her childhood. She didn’t want to speak of it—the memories were too painful. It was with some relief that she turned to greet Breena, who was walking toward them.
“Mother has ordered a bath for us,” she told Gwen. “The water is already heating. She said it would do us both good.”
Beside her, Gwen felt Marcus tense. “A bath? Now?” His voice was suddenly hoarse.
Breena frowned at him. “Yes. The water has been warming for hours. Gwen’s had a long journey from Avalon, and after last night, I …” she trailed off. “Is that a problem, Marcus?”
Gwen was amazed to note Marcus’s cheeks had gone pink. He darted her a glance, then, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, his gaze swept her from head to toe. Abruptly, she understood. He was imagining her unclothed.
Her own cheeks heated.
“No problem,” he muttered. “I’ll be in the smithy. Meet me there, Gwen, when you’re … when you’re ready to discuss your sword’s design.” Turning, he stomped off through the garden, his boots barely missing a clump of pennyroyal.
Breena stared at his retreating back. “What rudeness! That’s not like Marcus at all. I wonder what got into him?”
Gwen didn’t enlighten her.
The bathhouse was a separate structure just beyond the kitchen—to lessen the risk of fire to the main house, Breena explained. She showed Gwen the furnace, already hot, into which two youths were shoveling additional charcoal.
“This bathhouse is new. The old one had a much smaller furnace, and the hypocaust—that’s the hollow space beneath the floor where the hot air circulates—was too shallow. The water never stayed hot enough. The new bathing pools are deeper now, too. You can sink in up to your neck.”
Hot water up to her neck? Gwen could not fathom it. “Where does the water come from?”
“Rainwater’s collected and funneled into a cistern, then piped underground to the kitchen, baths, and latrine.” Breena launched into an explanation of the mechanics of water movement, but Gwen only shook her head.
“It seems like magic.”
Breena laughed. “No, I can assure you it’s not. Marcus supervised the construction. There’s no magic here at all.”
She led Gwen into the antechamber, where there were four changing alcoves, shelves piled with linen towels, and hooks on which to store clothing. Breena handed her a pair of thick-soled sandals as she directed Gwen to one of the changing alcoves. “Wear these,” she instructed. “The floor of the
calidarium
can get very hot.”
She entered a second alcove, still chattering pleasantly. “There are three rooms, each with a pool. We’ll clean off in the
calidarium,
which has a very hot bath, then soak for as long as we want in the
tepidarium,
where the water’s more comfortable. The last step is a quick plunge in the cold bath.” She made a face. “I hate that part, but it’s supposed to be good for your health.”
Gwen felt a little dazed. “It’s hard to imagine so much hot water. And that no one had to carry it.”
“How do you bathe on Avalon?”
“With a bucket of water heated on the hearth,” Gwen said. “Or I swim in a stream.”
Breena shuddered. “I hate swimming in streams. Too cold.”
Gwen disrobed and unbraided her hair. Shaking out one of the linen towels, she wrapped it around her body and followed her young guide into the
calidarium.
A small, deep pool nearly filled the tiled chamber. Steam curled on the water’s surface. Breena tossed her towel on a stone bench, supremely unselfconscious in her nakedness. Gwen released her towel more reluctantly—she was unused to being bare in company. Though it took surprisingly little imagination to picture herself reclining naked with Marcus. His torso would be bare and glistening, his hair wet, his dark, beautiful eyes inviting her to …
“Here.” Breena’s voice brought Gwen back to herself with a start. The girl picked up a small glass pitcher and poured some of its contents into Gwen’s cupped palm. “Olive oil,” Breena explained. “Rub it all over before you get in the water.”
Gwen did as she was told, sitting on one of the stone benches and oiling her body everywhere she could reach. Breena offered to do her back, and she did Breena’s in return, trying all the while not to think of Marcus performing the same act.
Breena handed her a curved bronze blade. “Scrape off the dirt with this strigil, then we’ll plunge into the hot bath.”
The hot water dissolved the tension from Gwen’s muscles and the dirt from her skin. She dunked her head under the surface and scrubbed her scalp. A short time later, when Breena indicated it was time to move to the next room, Gwen felt better than she had in a very long time.
The
tepidarium
was a larger room, with more ornate decoration. The pool was also larger, easily big enough for six people. The floors and walls surrounding the bath were covered with small, colorful tiles that formed intricate pictures. The figures were so lifelike, Gwen could scarcely believe it.
One scene showed fantastic fish diving among the waves. Another depicted an underwater god with a flowing beard and a three-pronged staff. Overhead, a coffered ceiling was painted in shades of blue. The entire room was illuminated by a series of high windows. Blue-green tiles lined the bathing pool. A shelf around the edge held glass bottles, sponges, bronze strigils, combs, and a polished tin mirror. A flat-bladed bronze implement left Gwen perplexed. She picked it up. “What is this?”