“You would never do that.”
“Nay, ye do not understand. ’Tis not just that I cannot control when the wolf comes. There is something else—” She closed her eyes, fighting back hot, searing tears.
“What?” Marcus said. His hands were on her shoulders, his breath hot on her forehead. “Gwen, trust me. Tell me everything. Whatever it is, I’ll prove to you that it doesn’t matter.”
“That is not possible, Marcus. As ye know, before I was trapped by my cousin’s Dark spell, I shifted only when I wished to. I called the wolf; it did not call me. Now my control is gone. When the wolf calls, I cannot always deny it. But there is more. Each time I run as a beast, ’tis harder and harder to return to myself. I’m afraid that someday …”
Marcus’s grip on her shoulders tightened. “Afraid of what, Gwen?” True horror crept into his voice. “Gods, Gwen. Are you telling me that one day you won’t be able to come back? That you’ll become a wolf … forever?”
She swallowed hard and nodded. “That is why I can never be your wife, Marcus. Do not speak of it again, because I will not listen. As soon as the sword is forged, I’ll be gone. Ye will do well to forget me.”
Gripping Rhys’s hand tightly, Gwen kept to the side of the road leading out of the village. Just a short way downhill, near the river, stood a dense thicket of elms. The arms of the largest tree—the one Gwen had named grandmother—sagged all the way to the ground, creating a space with moss for a floor and sunlight-dappled leaves for walls. She and Rhys snuck off to play there whenever they could.
But once, they’d arrived at the secret place and found Mama there, crying. That time, they hadn’t stayed. Later, when Mama came home, she was smiling. Gwen figured the grandmother tree had cheered her. So if Mama was troubled now, perhaps she’d gone to the grandmother tree again.
They’d almost reached the thicket when low voices drifted through the curtain of leaves. The woman sounded like Mama, but the man was definitely not Da.
“Mama’s in trouble!” Gwen cried. She started to run, but Rhys drew her up short, nearly pulling her arm from its socket.
“Nay. She’s not.”
The man let out a guttural cry. Mama responded with a moan.
“He’s hurting her, Rhys, like Da does! We have to stop him!” She tried to wrench her arm from her brother’s hand.
Rhys clung to her, his fingers digging into her skin. “Nay, Gwen. I’m … I do not think he’s hurting her.”
Mama moaned again. “He is!” Gwen declared.
“Perhaps that is not even Mama.” Rhys sounded desperate. His face was pale under the moon, his eyes wide and frightened.
“Ye are a coward, Rhys,” Gwen whispered violently. “Even if ’tis not Mama, ’tis someone who needs our help.” She tried again to break his grasp on her arm. “Let me go!”
“Nay.”
She scowled. “Fine. Come with me, then.” She set out for the tree, dragging him along with her.
Together they crept to the edge of the veil of branches and peeked inside. And Gwen discovered Rhys was right. The man was not hurting the woman. He was on top of her, rocking back and forth the way Da and Mama, or Aunt Carys and Uncle Padrig, sometimes did under their blankets at night. And though it did not look like much fun, neither Mama or Aunt Carys had ever complained in the morning.
Gwen gave a silent shudder of disgust.
“Ye were right,”
she told Rhys in her mind.
“ ’Tis not Mama.”
Rhys made a strangled sound.
“Look again, Gwen.”
Something in Rhys’s tone made Gwen’s stomach twist into a knot. Slowly, she turned and peered through the branches again. And became aware of the woman’s long white-blond hair—hair the same color as hers and Rhys’s—spread out over the moss like spilled silver.
’Twas Mama.
“The man—he’s the soldier I saw talking to Mama in the market,”
Rhys said.
“The day that Da beat her.”
“Nay!”
Gwen spun and ran, bolting up the hill.
“Gwen!”
Rhys’s call chased her.
“Gwen, wait!”
She did not stop.
A blow to the head shocked Marcus from a deep sleep. He grabbed Gwen’s wrist before she could hit him again. She snarled, twisting desperately to free herself. He rolled, trapping her with his weight.
“Shh, Gwen. It’s just a dream.”
At least he hoped it was.
He continued gentling her with his hands and voice. Her eyes remained closed, but at some level she must have understood him. Gradually she quieted, her body going soft beneath him. But he didn’t immediately lift himself off her.
He smoothed a damp lock of hair from her face. Gwen had been so peaceful after they’d made love, nestling into his arms and saying she wanted to rest just for a moment before returning to the room she shared with Breena. Breena had been sleeping peacefully of late, untroubled by visions, so when a moment’s rest had turned into a deep slumber, Marcus had succumbed to the comfort of holding Gwen and slipped into sleep himself—only to be awakened by her flailing arm.
“Gwen.” She seemed to be awakening. “Open your eyes, love. You’re safe. It was just a dream.”
Her eyelids fluttered open. She stared at him a moment before recognition sparked. “Marcus?”
Her voice was small and frightened, like a child’s. Marcus’s heart clenched. He placed a kiss on her forehead.
“Yes, it’s me. Nothing to fear.”
It must have been the wrong thing to say, because tears flooded her eyes. She moved slightly beneath him and he was abruptly aware he was half hard and prodding her thigh. Thank the gods, she didn’t seem aware of his inappropriate lust.
He started to ease his body from hers.
“Nay.” She clutched at his upper arms. He looked down at her, uncertain. She was heartbreakingly beautiful with moonlight on her tousled hair. She was like some magical creature—a naiad or a forest sprite. Or a goddess. Like Vulcan, Marcus had somehow lured Venus to his bed. He was not worthy of her, and yet she clung to him as if he were her only anchor.
“A dream?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes. “Oh, Marcus.” He felt the tension go out of her body, though she still clutched his arms tightly. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyelids.
“Shh …” He shifted, only to have her clutch at him again. He froze as his arousal responded. Surely she felt it. But if she did, she said nothing.
“Do you … will you tell me about it?”
“Nay. I want to forget it.”
“Was it like Breena’s dreams? A vision?”
Her gray eyes met his, completely lucid now. And fearful. “Nay. Not a vision.” She sounded as though she were trying to convince herself. “It was … a dream. Of when I was a child.”
“It stirred the wolf.”
She swallowed, hard. “Aye. But then ye … ye calmed it, I think. Ye chased the beast away. Again. Thank ye.” Her eyes were wet. “I am the weakest of fools,” she muttered, dashing at her tears.
He caught her hand. “Don’t be afraid to cry. Not with me.”
She stared at him. He smoothed her tears with his thumbs and kissed her. With a small sigh, she let him draw her close.
“Make love to me again, Marcus.”
Her plea fogged his brain. It would be a wiser choice to put some distance between them; if he were not careful, she’d take his heart with her when she left. But he was too weak to turn away from what she offered. She slid a leg over his hips. He lifted her atop him and slid into her with one smooth motion.
She tilted her hips, urging him deeper.
“Nay! Ye will not keep me from her!”
Cyric lurched from his pallet, grappling with his blanket as if the threadbare wool meant to do him mortal harm. His thin frame lunged across the hut. The hem of his tunic dragged at the hearth, scattering sparks and ashes.
Rhys grabbed for a fistful of his grandfather’s robe. The old man eluded Rhys’s grasp with a spry leap. Rhys lunged after him and tripped. Cyric dashed through the door before Rhys could heave himself to his feet.
Swearing, Rhys bolted out of the hut, catching up to Cyric in the village common area. Cyric spun around. Rhys’s blood ran cold. Not a single spark of recognition lit Cyric’s eyes.
“Grandfather.” Rhys caught his grandfather’s elbow. “Come back to bed.”
“Unhand me!” Cyric’s palm connected with Rhys’s cheek.
Rhys staggered backward, stunned. Cyric had never raised a hand to him in all his life. The eyes he thought he knew so well—eyes that held unfathomable depths of calm and wisdom—now burned hot with mad rage. “Ye should have stopped her!”
“Gwen?” Rhys asked, bewildered.
“My daughter. Can ye nay utter her name?”
“Tamar,” Rhys breathed.
“How long have ye known she had a Roman lover? Ye and Carys and Mared? And yet, ye did not tell me!”
Cyric was caught in a dream. A scene from the past in which Rhys was cast in the role played by his uncle, Padrig. Rhys opened his mouth, then shut it. He had no idea what to say.
A door opened, then another. Dera emerged, with Howell at her side. Rhys caught a glimpse of young Penn and Siane, sheltering the children. Mared clutched the edge of her hut’s door, white-faced and grim. Padrig stood rigid inside his own doorway. Owein and Trevor were present as well, their expressions grave.
Cyric’s eyes glowed with madness. “Stand aside! I will take Tamar back, if I have to break down the fortress to do it!”
Owein advanced toward Cyric. Trevor closed in from the other side. Rhys raised a hand. A physical intervention might cause Cyric to hurt himself.
“Grandfather—”
“Nay! Ye canna stop me.” Cyric flung up a hand and shouted a Word Rhys had never heard fall from his grandfather’s lips.
Deep Magic.
The spell’s power gathered like a coiling snake. Rhys threw up his arms, a counterspell on his lips. Owein flung himself at Cyric. Light flashed. Trevor’s broad body hit Rhys with the force of a rolling boulder, sending Rhys airborne. He fell hard, his head impacting on solid ground.
Everything went black.
Someone was using the back of Rhys’s skull as a gong. He shoved himself upright, then fell back on his elbows when the ringing got louder and the world listed sharply to one side.
“Easy, man.”
Gingerly, he swung his head toward the sound of Trevor’s voice. The walls of his friend’s hut swayed only a little, and he took that to be a good thing. He was lying on Trevor’s pallet, he realized. Trevor sat on a stool nearby, his forearms on his thighs, his hands dangling between his legs. His expression was grave.
“What happened?”
“Ye dinna remember?”
“Not … entirely. Cyric was lost in a dream of the past. He thought I was … Padrig, I think. He was very angry. He blamed me—I mean, Padrig—for … something.” He shook his head, then winced at the movement. “… Something to do with my mother.”
“Aye, he was angry. So angry he almost killed ye.” A muscle in Trevor’s jaw ticked. “With Deep Magic.”
Rhys stared. “Nay. That cannot be. Cyric would never use Deep Magic. Why, he is the one who has forbidden it!”
“He did, nonetheless. A death strike. I’ve known only one other Druid strong enough to call such power. If it had hit ye, ye would not be talking to me now.”
The memory surfaced. “Ye shoved me out of the way.”
“Not entirely. The blow glanced off your head.”
“This ache is not completely because my skull struck the ground?”
“I think not. Is your magic affected? What of the mist?”
Rhys cast his senses. Vibrations of the earth’s magic echoed back at him. He sought his connection to the mists. It was still strong. “Other than the headache, I feel nothing wrong.” He paused. “Trevor, ye should not have risked yourself. Ye might have been killed.”
Trevor looked down at his clasped hands. “Better I should die than ye.”
“I would not have your life in barter for mine.”
“Nay? Well, I willna argue with ye, then. ’Twould be a useless discussion in any case, since both of us are still breathing.”
“Where is Cyric now?”
“Resting. He doesna know what he did.”
“Thank the Great Mother for that. It would destroy him. He has devoted his life to peace, and forgiveness.”
“Mared is preparing the strongest sleeping draught she dares administer. Let us hope it silences Cyric’s nightmares.” Trevor regarded Rhys gravely. “Can ye stand, do ye think?”
Rhys shoved himself to his feet. The hut swayed a bit, then steadied. The throbbing in his head lessened somewhat, and the ringing faded. He touched the back of his skull and found a lump there. Pressing it, he winced.
“I’m well enough,” he told Trevor.
“Well, ye look like a corpse,” the Caledonian replied bluntly. “Are ye sure your magic is unaffected? With Deep Magic, there is always some effect.”
“Nothing seems wrong,” Rhys said.
He hoped it was true.
Something was happening in the Roman camp.
The evening before, Trevor, who had been keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the soldiers, reported two riders approaching from the east. The soldiers had halted at the gate, then, at the sentry’s nod, disappeared into the camp.
Now, just past dawn, the camp was abuzz with activity. Had the soldiers carried a message from the fortress? If so, what did that mean for Avalon?
From his position across the gorge, Rhys squinted against the sun, watching the camp. Soldiers bustled to and fro, both inside and outside the palisade. What they were doing, Rhys couldn’t tell. He was too far away.
Hefin swooped down and perched beside him.
“Ah, good. I could use your help,” Rhys told the bird.
The merlin’s head swiveled. Unblinking, Hefin fixed his eyes on Rhys.
“Fly, then, and see what ye may.”
He sent the suggestion to Hefin not in words, since the falcon did not comprehend human language, but as a subtle pulse of intent. The small falcon spread its wings and rose.
Rhys watched the bird soar into the gorge, dive, then ride high on an updraft. Once above the Roman camp, it tilted its wings and turned lazy circles above the tents. The arcs tightened as Hefin dropped altitude and came to rest on the palisade.