“It matters not. I’ll soon be gone.”
Her voice rose a note. “You don’t have to go anywhere. Rhiannon wants you to stay. You could make a home with your sister’s family. And with me.”
“Ye would bind your life to a freed slave?”
“I would bind my life to
you.
No matter that Valgus would never give his permission. I would gladly abandon my father’s fortune to be with you.”
What would it be like to have Clara as his wife? Wake with her beside him each morning? Watch her belly grow round with his child? It was a vision of a false future. He closed his eyes, willing it to pass.
“Ye canna give up your life and property for one such as me. Go with Marcus Aquila to Londinium. Have my sister’s husband plead your case before the governor. If ye must have a guardian, Lucius Aquila would be a benign one.”
She regarded him seriously. “I will do that if you stand by me. You are a citizen now. If my petition is successful, we could marry. Rhiannon would welcome us—”
“I canna live where Romans are thicker than trees in a forest.” Silently, he begged her to understand. “I need to dwell among my own kind.”
Her eyes flashed with hurt, making him feel like the lowest swine. “You mean to go to Avalon?”
“Aye.”
She drew a breath. “I … I would go with you.”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “To an outlawed Druid enclave? Do ye think they allow Roman women in their midst?”
“Roman or not, I have magic. I want to learn to use it. If you won’t teach me, perhaps there are others in Avalon who will.”
“And perhaps there are some in Avalon who would as soon kill ye as risk bringing the Roman army down on their heads! Put it out of your mind.”
A chill wind gusted, whistling through the cracks in the barn walls. A sudden dart of pain pierced Owein’s right eye. He drew a sharp breath.
Nay.
Not a vision. Not now.
Clara shivered, her eyes going dark with fear. “Did you feel that?” She peered at him more closely. “Owein. What is it? You look …”
He tried to focus on her face, but her features were distorted. Wisps of fog blurred into gray.
Her voice came as a whisper. “A vision?”
“Aye.” He licked lips gone suddenly dry. “Leave me. Now.”
“No. Not when—”
“Leave me.”
His temple throbbed. He rubbed his eyes with his fist, trying to clear his fogged sight.
He felt her hand on his arm, her fear beating at the edges of his mind. “Let me help you. Let me share this with you.”
“Nay. Ye dinna understand what ye ask.”
The wind blew again, an icy blast of frigid air that seemed to come from nowhere. More fog swirled in his vision. Clara’s frightened voice faded as something coalesced out of the mist.
Blood.
Pouring in trickles and rivulets, gathering in streams, coursing thickly through channels gouged like wounds in the frozen ground. Human bodies, dead and bloated, snagged on the matted reeds. Putrid fish and the remains of a black-crested lapwing floated in the willows. Corruption oozed through the air, waves of stench more palpable than a rolling fog.
A limp form floated past. A dark-haired corpse, its face hidden. Owein waded toward it, muck dragging at his limbs. He heaved the body onto its back.
Clara’s sightless eyes stared up at him.
A roar of anguish rose in Owein’s throat. Pain exploded in his head.
And then the vision vanished, scattered by Light.
“Owein!”
Clara grasped Owein’s shoulders and shook with all her might. He’d gone still and pale as death. Instinctively, she cast her mind into his, flooding him with Light.
He started, his eyes jerking open to lock with hers for one long, suspended moment. Then, with an oath, he pushed her away and rolled onto his hands and knees. He knelt, head hanging and arms rigid, for what seemed a long time.
“Owein?”
She stroked back the curls that had fallen into his face. His hot forehead seared her fingers. She gentled her voice, her lips brushing his ear. “Have you come back?” She pressed a kiss to his temple. “Don’t worry. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”
A shudder wracked his body. She leaned into him, her arm about him, trying to encircle all of his broad torso. Her strength and love flowed freely along their mental connection.
“Lass.” His voice was raw. “Ye dinna understand. ’Tis beyond my strength to protect ye from what is inside me.”
The wind howled, shrieking through the barn. A sheep bleated in fear. “Then don’t,” she whispered. “Let me in.”
Arms shaking, he shoved himself off his knees and out of her embrace. He tried to stand, but the effort was beyond him. Dropping back to a crouch, he let his head drop. “Leave me.”
The hay rustled under Clara’s knees as she crept toward him, approaching as if he were a wild beast or a rabid dog. He didn’t fend her off. Perhaps he couldn’t.
She laid a hand on his head. “Owein.”
“Ye shouldna have come here.”
“But I did. I’m not leaving you, Owein. Not like this. You need me.”
He looked up. “I need no one.”
It was a lie. She could see it in his eyes. He was drowning in need, suffocating with want. And yet, he wouldn’t act on his desires. He feared she couldn’t survive his darkness.
But she could. She knew it. It would be terrifying, but she would do it. For him.
She drew him into her arms and he didn’t resist. She knelt with his cheek pillowed between her breasts, her arms cradling him as she would a child.
“Please Owein. Let me help you.”
“Nay. Ye dinna understand the darkness that can rise from the Deep Magic. It’s strong within me. I fear …” He swallowed. “I fear it will break ye, Clara, and that I could not bear.”
“I’m not so fragile. You should know that by now.”
He opened his mouth. She didn’t want to hear the words that would drive her away. She sought his lips, kissing him deeply, with all her love.
With a sigh, he relented. His arms wrapped around her torso, melding their bodies. Sinking back on the blanket, she urged him to cover her with his body.
She throbbed with need; she yearned to feel him inside. His mind responded to her desire. He allowed her to sink below the surface, letting her feel the first layers of his darkness. Allowed her to feel his sorrows and shames, as if they’d been part of her own experience.
She was far from the darkest corners of his soul, but even so, the raw emotion she touched caused her to recoil. For the first time, she sensed the true depth of Owein’s darkness. His hatred for her people was so deep and festering it sickened her.
Bile seared a pathway up her throat. Her courage faltered. Her hands, which had been stroking the back of his neck, stilled.
He tensed. “Now do ye understand, lass?”
She drew a breath. “I … I think I do.”
Closing her eyes, she drew him close and pressed her forehead to his. Putrid, suffocating darkness rushed toward her. Hatred—but that wasn’t all. She recognized despair as well—a hopelessness so empty, so bereft, that her body shook with the force of it. She gasped, digging her fingernails into his arms.
She allowed the darkness to seep into her own mind.
He jerked his head back. “Nay, ye musn’t—”
Tears spilled from her eyes. “Oh, Owein, how do you bear it?”
His breath came hard. “I bear it because I must.”
He gazed at her, his expression gentling. He brought one forefinger up to trace the line of her lower lip. She caught it in her teeth, holding it gently while running the tip of her tongue over the pad of his finger.
Surprise flared in his eyes. He stared at her, transfixed. She turned her head into his palm and kissed it. Wrapping her arms about him, she brought him down atop her.
Hesitantly, as if he feared she would break, he ran a hand up her leg, lifting the hem of her borrowed tunic as he went. With a small smile she lent aid to his cause, shifting her hips and wriggling the fabric over her head. He watched, bemused, as she emerged naked from the cocoon of soft wool.
He touched the shorn ends of her hair. “Are ye sure, lass?”
“Yes.” She arched into him, her fingers already shoving his
braccas
over his hips. The garment soon found its way into the hay. He moved over her once again, dipping his head and drawing the tip of her breast into his mouth. She gasped her pleasure, tangling her fingers in his hair, holding him in place.
He kissed a line to her other breast and lavished it with the same attention as the first. He trailed his tongue down her torso, circling the indentation of her navel. Her legs parted, her essence seeking his heat and love. His pain called to her, but she forced herself to stay on the surface of his mind. She sensed that if she went deeper, he would turn her away.
He nuzzled the curls between her thighs, his tongue delving into the slick folds. She gasped. Never had she imagined this! She clutched the blanket, bunching the fabric in her fists. His callused palms skimmed the soft skin of her hips and bottom, lifting her, opening her to his ministrations.
When he had her gasping, calling his name, he kissed his way back up her body. “Ye are so sweet,” he murmured. “Like honey. Like springtime. Ah, lass …”
“Clara.” She smiled, letting her love shine in her eyes.
His blue eyes darkened. “Clara.”
She shifted beneath him, wrapping her fingers around his phallus, pleased with her own boldness. When she squeezed the blunt tip, he let out a guttural groan.
She guided him into her body. The air left her lungs as he entered on one long, thick slide. Holding himself above her, he fixed his eyes on her face as he began thrusting. She rose to meet him, hips undulating in a rhythm that was gentle at first, then frantic. Closing her eyes, she reached for him with her mind, sending out Light. It lapped at the edges of his darkness.
His control slipped. A thread of panic followed, even as his pleasure rose. She moved deeper into his mind, soothing his fright. She sought his Dark center, though the reality of his pain terrified her. She could heal him. She knew she could.
But at the same moment she touched his darkness, he slipped a hand between them, touching that hidden nub that was the center of her pleasure. Sensation flashed, scattering her concentration. He stroked again, circling the tight bud, then plucking it gently.
“Oh, Owein.” Helplessly, she shuddered her release, her legs convulsing around his hips. “My beloved.”
“
Clara.
” He drove into her, urging her to a new ecstasy. She thrashed against him. His hands clamped on her hips, steadying her as he plunged again and again into the haven of her body.
“It’s too much. I can’t …”
Her body stiffened. He smothered her astonished cry with his mouth, drinking it in like a dying man. Her inner muscles clenched around him. His phallus went rigid, as hard as any rock. He emptied himself within her, pumping his hips as his seed entered her womb.
It seemed a long time before his trembling arms relaxed and he collapsed beside her. He lay with his forehead buried in the crook of her neck. She lifted a hand to thread her fingers through his hair. She wished they could stay this way always, just the two of them, alone, with no past or future to haunt them. His arm tightened, as if he were as reluctant as she to let the moment pass. But already the bliss was fading.
She shivered. He eased gently from her arms and retrieved her tunic. He returned and wrapped it about her. She snuggled into the soft wool.
“Owein?” she whispered, not opening her eyes.
“Aye, lass?”
“I love you.”
He exhaled. “Ye shouldn’t.”
Her voice came as if from the edge of a dream. “You’re right, of course, but I do anyway. And … I never want to stop.”
Owein propped himself on one arm, watching the play of soft moonlight on Clara’s face. Her breathing lengthened and deepened. When he was sure she was asleep, he slid carefully away.
Shame washed through him. He’d taken far more from her than he could ever give in return.
When morning found him gone, she would hate him for it.
The ocean churned like the Great Mother’s cauldron.
A dark line of clouds advanced from the west, blotting the blue from the sky. A dingy collection of mud and wattle huts huddled on the shore, doors and shutters drawn tight against the coming maelstrom. Ferryboats and rafts bobbed like corks against the pier.
No sane man would attempt a crossing in such surf. And yet, Rhys had no choice. The more he thought on it, the more he was certain it was true. Clara Sempronia had called the power of the Lost Grail. She had to be a Daughter of the Lady. With Gwen trapped, she alone could repel Blodwen’s evil.
The Lost Grail had been fashioned by the twin Daughters of the Lady. One of these Daughters was the foremother of Rhys, Gwen, and Blodwen, the other had been thought dead, Rhys now believed that after escaping with the grail, the second Daughter had found a home with the Romans. Clara, with her ability to call the grail’s magic, must be the second Daughter’s descendant.
Clara had the power to take the grail from Blodwen. And yet … she was Roman, with no training in Druidry. That fact troubled Rhys deeply. Without knowledge of the Words and spells of the Old Ones, Clara might crumple before Blodwen’s magic.
Rhys banished the thought to a corner of his mind. His first task was to find Clara. Once he secured her promise of aid, he would formulate a plan.
He pounded on the door of a ramshackle dwelling, the wind whipping his hair about his face. The dark sky had begun to spit sleet, but the full brunt of the storm was some hours off. Hefin rose with a squawk, settling atop the frozen eaves. Rhys pounded again with the side of his fist. “Angus! Are ye there, man?”
“Who be asking?”
“Rhys, the bard.”
A latch inside the hut lifted and the door was pulled wide. Rhys stumbled over the threshold, into the arms of a grizzled fisherman. “Rhys!” Angus exclaimed. “What’re ye doing about on such a foul morning?”
“I need passage across the channel to Isca. Now.”
Angus plucked his graying beard. “Ye’ve lost yer wits, lad, to be sure. No boatman would chance a crossing in this storm.”