Rhys hunkered down on the shadow side of a large boulder. As far as he could tell, none of the soldiers milling about the camp took note of the merlin. Rhys hoped Strabo would not suspect the bird was more than it seemed. Hefin had no magic of his own; it was Rhys’s power that allowed them to communicate. Still, Rhys had no idea what the limits of Strabo’s talent might be. Because of Cyric’s restrictions, his practical knowledge of Deep Magic was sorely lacking.
Gwen, he thought testily, knew far more.
Eventually, Hefin returned, his wings flapping with slow precision as he flew across the gorge. Rhys stretched out his arm for the merlin’s landing. Hefin gave a small screech as he folded his wings over his back.
Rhys cast his senses toward his companion. Images came, sharp but oddly distorted; a bird’s sight was not like a human’s. Rhys saw the tops of the Roman tents, and the helmets of soldiers. Strabo and Tribune Valgus emerged from the commander’s tent, dressed for travel.
“Why, they are leaving,” he murmured.
He could not quite believe this good fortune. Reflecting further, however, he supposed he might have anticipated it. Strabo commanded the Roman army’s Second Legion. Such a man could hardly huddle in the wilderness indefinitely. No doubt his presence was needed at the fortress.
Avalon had gained a much-needed reprieve. Rhys closed his eyes and whispered a fervent prayer of thanks.
* * *
Strabo left at dawn, accompanied by an escort of four soldiers, all mounted. As they rode away from the camp, Hefin spread his wings, following the entourage. Rhys frowned. He hadn’t instructed the bird to trail the sorcerer. But then, Hefin often obeyed his own instincts.
The Dark spell probing the mist receded with Strabo’s departure. Rhys returned to the village and took up his usual post by Cyric’s bed. Toward midday, Cyric sat up and rubbed his eyes as if banishing the remnants of a bad dream.
“Grandfather?”
“Rhys.” Cyric’s brow furrowed. “When did ye return home?”
Rhys let out a breath. “A fortnight past, Grandfather.”
“That is not possible. I have no memory of your arrival.”
“Ye’ve been ill,” Rhys said carefully. He dipped a cup into a bucket of clear water and offered it to Cyric.
“I prefer
cervesia,
Rhys. Ye know that.”
Rhys put the cup aside as he rose. “I’ll fetch ye some.”
“Send Gwen with it. I would speak with her.”
Rhys halted and turned. “Gwen is not here.”
“Gone again?” Cyric’s sigh was weary. “Ah, well, she cannot be far. When she returns, tell her to come to me.” He shifted on his pallet. “She has taken the burden of Guardian. I may have been ill, but I am well now. She may release the mist to me.”
“Gwen is not holding the mist,” Rhys said slowly. “I am.”
Cyric’s gaze narrowed. Rhys felt a subtle probe at the edges of his mind.
“Why, ’tis true.”
Rhys felt a surge of annoyance. “Of course ’tis true. Have I ever spoken false to ye?”
“Ah, Rhys. I did not mean to question ye.” Cyric shook his head. “But I must admonish ye. ’Tis not your duty to act as Guardian. In fact, it
must
not be. I have Seen …”
“What? What have ye Seen?”
Cyric fell silent for a moment. “That is not for ye to know,” he said eventually. Rhys ground his teeth, but did not question further. He knew it would do no good.
“ ’Tis Gwen who must hold the mist, Rhys. She and no other.”
Rhys’s laugh was bitter. “She cannot hold the mist if she is not here. She is gone, Grandfather.”
“For how long?”
“She disappeared a fortnight past—the day before ye fell ill. Several days after a Roman sorcerer began casting Deep Magic spells into Avalon’s mist. Do ye not remember at all?”
Cyric frowned. “I sense no Deep Magic near Avalon.”
“The sorcerer has withdrawn. For now. But while he was here, ye were … not yourself.” Rhys was not eager to describe to Cyric the extent of his infirmity.
“And so with Gwen gone, ye took the protection of Avalon upon yourself.”
“Aye,” Rhys said. “It was necessary.”
Cyric rubbed a hand over his beard and sighed. “And ye always do what is necessary.”
For some reason, the praise sounded more like an accusation. Rhys swallowed a surge of anger. Cyric was not at fault here. Gwen was.
“Help me rise, Rhys.”
Rhys lent him an arm. The old man gained his feet, leaning heavily on his staff. In the farthest recesses of his mind, Rhys felt the burden of the mist lift.
“Nay, Grandfather—ye are not well. Let me hold the mist until—” But the vibration of the spell was already gone.
“The protection of Avalon is not your task, Rhys. ’Tis mine, and Gwen’s.”
“Gwen is not here!”
“Then ’tis your task to find her, and bring her back.”
“Bring her back,” Rhys muttered. “And how, I ask ye, am I to do that? I have no idea where she is!”
Owein shook his head. “ ’Tis a difficult task, to be sure. I am sorry, Rhys, that the vision I sought of your sister showed me nothing.” And the attempt had wearied the burly warrior, Rhys thought, at a time when Avalon’s defenders could not afford to be weak.
Rhys’s gaze swung to Clara, who was resting by the hearth, her hands folded over her enormous belly. “Ye are a friend to her. Do ye have any idea where she might have gone?”
Clara frowned into the flames. “It’s true I am Gwen’s friend, but that means little, I’m afraid. She is a difficult person to understand.”
“ ’Tis true,” Rhys said, reflecting privately that there had once been a time when he understood his twin as well as he knew himself. But no more.
“Perhaps the Great Mother will send ye a sign,” Owein suggested, “once ye start the search.”
“I’m not eager to embark on an aimless journey. I’m needed here. Cyric’s strength and faculties may have returned, but I cannot forget how vulnerable he was to Strabo’s spells. I cannot take the chance the sorcerer will return while I am away.”
A voice sounded behind Rhys. “Ye might follow the Roman, then. And perhaps ensure he does not return.”
Rhys turned to find Trevor’s broad torso filling the doorway. “Aye,” he said slowly. “I might.”
The Caledonian advanced into the hut. “The more we learn of Strabo, the more effective our defense will be. If he discovers us following …” He shrugged. “Better we should fight him far from Avalon.”
“We?”
“Aye,” Trevor said. “When ye go, I mean to accompany ye.”
“But Gwen, you must come with us to the market! You’ve been here more than a fortnight and you haven’t even left the farm.”
Gwen looked into Breena’s eager blue eyes. “I cannot spare the time. Marcus and I—”
“Marcus must come to town as well. There’s a slave auction today. He cannot miss it.”
Gwen hesitated. For the past three days, Marcus had worked almost without stop on the Lady’s sword. He’d tempered the blade, heating the bright iron until it was red-hot, then plunging it into a water trough, over and over. He’d finished fitting the grip and fashioning the scabbard yesterday. All that was left was the final honing of the blade. If he completed that step today, she would be able to leave in the morning.
Would a delay of a few hours mean so much? Marcus had spoken to her of his ongoing mission of buying and freeing Celt slaves from the markets, especially those in the worst situations. Every servant on the farm was free. She couldn’t insist he miss this opportunity to liberate more of her own people.
“And besides,” Breena continued. “You lived in Isca when you were small. Don’t you want to see if you remember anything of the city?”
Gwen had no desire to revisit the town. Nevertheless, a short time later she found herself and Breena seated amid a pile of empty baskets, in a cart driven by the stable hand called Linus. A wiry, barefooted boy, Matius, sat at his side. The white mare hitched in front was not happy to have Gwen as a passenger; it sensed the wolf, no doubt. It was a testament to Linus’s skill that the animal kept to the road at all. Marcus and Lucius, on their own mounts, rode ahead.
Rhiannon, at Lucius’s insistence, had remained behind, but not before giving Breena extensive instructions, which Breena had taken down on a wax tablet. Stylus still in hand, she studied the list.
“Mother wants dates and olives,” she told Gwen. “And oysters and mussels, but only if they look fresh. And some dyed linen …”
They left the horses and cart at a field just outside town, crowded alongside other carts and wagons belonging to market-goers traveling into town from the countryside surrounding Isca. Linus remained behind to watch over the horses while Matius jumped off the cart, eager to carry Breena’s purchases. As Gwen rose from her seat on the cart, Marcus appeared at her elbow. She shook off his offer of assistance.
“I’m perfectly capable of climbing down on my own.” In truth, her refusal had more to do with the sudden change in his appearance than any sense of virtuous independence.
Marcus and his father had donned Roman-style clothing for the trip into town. It gave them the advantage at the slave auctions, Marcus had explained before they left, to appear as the patricians they were. Gwen supposed she could understood his reasoning, but she didn’t have to like it. Seeing Marcus dressed in a tunic and toga unsettled her. The pristine white linen contrasted deeply with his dark hair and olive complexion. The draping of the fabric hid the muscular form she knew so well. Dressed this way he looked so …
Roman.
Not at all like the man she loved.
And she
did
love him, with all her heart.
He noticed her reticence, and guessed at its source. “The toga puts you off,” he said, falling into step beside her as they followed the stream of people into town.
“Ye don’t look like yourself.”
“And that bothers you.”
She sighed. “Aye, it does.”
He rolled his shoulders. “I dislike dressing this way, myself. I’m accustomed to wearing
braccas.
Bare legs make me feel like a woman.”
Gwen couldn’t repress a snort of laughter. “I doubt Isca has ever seen such a large and hairy female.”
Marcus grinned back at her. Her breath caught in her throat. Goddess, he was beautiful. Turned to stone, he might have easily graced the pedestal outside the Roman temple they’d just passed. But as he was … living, breathing, vital … he was more appealing than any marble god. It was hard to believe that after tomorrow, his face and his touch would be just a memory.
She averted her eyes, not wanting him to see how rapidly she was blinking. They’d passed into the main part of town. Buildings crowded the road on either side. The fortress loomed over the village, its stone walls gray and forbidding.
“The entire Second Legion is stationed here in Isca,” Marcus said. “Almost five thousand Legionary soldiers, plus auxiliary troops and cavalry.”
“I … I can hardly imagine.” Just thinking about so many soldiers made her queasy. What if hundreds were sent to the hills near Avalon? The Druids would never evade them.
They joined the press of the crowd in the market square, which was dominated by the high curved walls of the amphitheater. “Games are held there,” Marcus told her, “and other entertainments.” His jaw hardened. “And slave auctions.”
“Is that where ye and Lucius will go?”
“Yes. But there is some time yet. I thought I’d take a look through the market for a bit.” He paused. “Does it seem familiar at all? It’s been a long time since you’ve been here.”
Gwen moved farther into the medley of colors, scents, and sounds of the merchant stalls as if in a daze. She was hardly aware of Marcus on her right, Breena and Lucius on her left. The market did indeed tug at her memory. But she could not quite reconcile it with her childish recollections.
“The stalls seem much smaller than they were.”
“They would have looked bigger to a seven-year-old,” Marcus pointed out.
“Aye,” Gwen said, automatically counting off the aisles before she realized what she was doing. She stopped, a strange familiarity coming over her. She used to count like this when she came looking for Mama’s and Da’s stall. Five was the number. But was it five rows from the fortress wall? Or five from the opposite side, starting at the amphitheater? She wasn’t sure.
A chattering trio of women passed by, jostling her. A scant second later, a slave boy, running with his master’s purchases, clipped her legs. Close behind him was a uniformed centurion.
Her heart pounded. She shrank back with a cry, earning a frown and a narrowed glance from the man. Marcus’s arm came around her as he sent a pleasant nod toward the soldier. The centurion took in Marcus’s attire and moved aside with a deferential bow.
Gwen nearly sagged in relief. “Steady,” Marcus murmured in her ear. “Is something wrong? You don’t know that man, do you?”
“Nay, of course not.” How could she? “It’s just … there are so many people here.”
“I suppose it’s overwhelming if you’re not used to it.”
“Exactly.” She eased his arm from her waist. “I’m fine now.”
Breena, walking on Gwen’s other side, sent her a sympathetic look. “Mother says she felt much the same when she first came to Isca. And that was fifteen years ago! I’m sure the market is even bigger now.”
“Gwen lived here eighteen years ago,” Marcus said.
“I’ve hardly thought of it since then,” Gwen admitted. “I remember my father had a stall where he and Mama sold the blankets my mother and aunt wove. I remember coming here, to the market, with Rhys. I felt sorry for the goats in their pens and the hares in their baskets. Once, I convinced Rhys to create a diversion while I let a family of hares hop out.” She smiled. “The merchant never even saw me. But oh, was he furious!”
She focused on a blanket mounded high with piles of peas, wild nettles, and a red root vegetable Marcus identified as radishes. A memory flashed—Gwen had stood before a similar display holding Mama’s skirt as Mama haggled with a toothless old woman. Gwen closed her eyes. The image expanded to include a young, dark-skinned centurion. He stood at the next booth, watching with hooded eyes as Mama enacted a barter—a small blanket for a basket of vegetables and one of plover’s eggs.