“Ye’ve rowed in foul weather before.”
“When I was younger, perhaps, with no one but meself to mind.” He gave a nervous glance toward the corner of the hut’s single room, where a dour-faced woman sat suckling a babe.
Rhys stifled a curse. He’d forgotten Angus’s young wife had so recently given him a son. He gave the new mother a swift bow.
The woman remained unsmiling. “ ’Tis an ill wind that blows. ’Tis magic, nay?”
At Rhys’s nod, Angus shivered. “I canna be taking ye to Isca. Nay this day. Perhaps on the morrow …”
“The morrow will be too late,” Rhys said, turning toward the door. “My thanks. I’ll seek out Vaughn. He’ll accommodate me.”
Angus exchanged a glance with his wife. “Vaughn willna be rowing ye anywhere. He died a sennight past.” He cleared his throat. “Stay here, lad. I’ll row out when the storm lifts.”
“I thank ye, Angus, but nay. I’ll seek another boatman.”
But a short time later, Rhys’s stomach was seething as violently as the ocean. No man was willing to take to the sea in such weather. In all honesty, he couldn’t blame them.
Rhys eyed the vessels pitching against the wharf. Did he dare borrow a boat? Nay, his skills as a seaman were negligible. It would be suicide to row on his own. Despite the time it would add to the journey, he would have to take the land route.
He turned his face to the coast road. At least the wind was at his back, he thought grimly.
Hefin glided above him, shadowing Rhys’s steady jog. As the village receded, the merlin darted ahead. Rhys pushed to quicken his stride. With luck, he would arrive in Isca the following evening. He prayed Clara was still at the Aquila farm. But what of Owein? Even now he might be traveling to Avalon. If the Druid fell into Blodwen’s snare, what destruction would follow?
His legs pounded on the path, skirting treacherous patches of ice. Rhys slowed, his eyes scanning the ground. An injury now would be disastrous.
Intent on picking out hazards, Rhys didn’t see Hefin dive until the merlin was full upon him. The raptor descended in a flurry of wings, sinking its talons into the fleshy muscle between Rhys’s shoulder and neck. Rhys stumbled, his feet flying out from under him as his boot hit an icy patch. He went down with a cry. It was a moment before he gathered his wits.
Hefin fluttered gracefully to the ground in front of him—far enough, Rhys noted sourly, to avoid his master’s grasp. Rhys rubbed his smarting shoulder and glared at the bird. “What in the name of the Great Mother was that for?”
The animal cocked its head to one side and let out a squawk. Waddling like a chicken, it ventured a few steps closer.
Rhys stared at it intently. “What is it, friend?”
With a flap of its wings, the merlin lifted into the air, then settled back down again. In the back of Rhys’s mind, an idea formed, born of Hefin’s instincts.
Fly.
The bird tilted its head. Its small, dark eye blinked.
Another picture formed. Gwen, as a wolf. The figure morphed into a merlin. The bird rose into the sky, joining another of its kind.
The bottom dropped out of Rhys’s stomach. “Ye want me to change? Impossible. Friend, I haven’t the power my sister commands. I never had.”
Another image flashed into Rhys’s mind. The sun’s rays, rising over the horizon.
Rhys blinked, confusion racing through him. Could it be? Was it possible the power of the Old Ones rose inside him, as it had in Gwen?
A single idea sprang into Rhys’s mind.
Try.
He stood on shaking legs. “It’s forbidden to call the Deep Magic. I canna go against Cyric’s—”
Hefin cut him off with a screech.
Rhys stared at the bird. Call the Deep Magic? As Gwen had? Did he dare?
The long road to Isca rose in his mind. Two days’ hard travel, even without the storm breaking over him. Two days while Gwen remained trapped and wounded. Two days while Blodwen lured Owein into the Lost Lands.
How could he
not
call the Deep Magic?
“All right,” he heard himself say softly. “I will try.” Doing his utmost to ignore the tremor radiating through his limbs, he spread his arms wide.
What would it mean to release his humanity—to change into a dumb beast and lift into the sky, where no man had the right to soar? Terror gripped him as another thought occurred. What if he succeeded in changing, but not in returning to human form? Would he lose the thoughts and emotions that made him a man, becoming a beast in truth? Or would his man’s soul be trapped within an animal’s body?
Had Gwen felt the same fears, the first time she’d turned? Rhys wished his sister were by his side now, to offer advice as she so often had when they were young. She’d always been the first to assault any challenge. Never had he thought he’d be called upon to save her.
With an effort, he calmed his fears. His lips parted, the syllables of an ancient chant emerging from his throat. It was a prayer of the Old Ones, a song that expressed the wonder of all the creation of the Great Mother and her consort, the Horned God. For did not the Deep Magic flow in every corner of their world? Did the Mother not join with the God in birthing every facet of existence? All came from the God and Goddess, therefore all was one. He only prayed the Great Mother would shield him from the shadows of her creation.
The chant ended, leaving his mind clear and silent. In the absence of thought, his senses opened fully. He heard the hiss of the wind, felt the sting of sleet. The smell of winter’s decay and the salt tang from the nearby sea greeted his nostrils.
Hefin’s feathers ruffled. The merlin sent an image into Rhys’s mind: the countryside and sea spread out like a blanket, as a bird in flight might see it. Had any man ever beheld such a view? Avalon appeared as two bumps surrounded by glassy swamps. The treetops were a blanket of greenery. The ocean’s waves were tiny tufts of white on an expanse of gray-blue.
Was it truly possible Rhys might see these things with his own eyes? He gazed at Hefin. The merlin had come to him unbidden. Had it chosen him because it sensed a kindred spirit?
Taking a deep breath, he shut his eyes. In his mind’s eye he held the picture of a merlin. Slowly, he approached, sinking his consciousness within the image.
At first, all he felt was a slight tingling. It began in his feet, as if some power had emerged from the earth. It radiated up his legs, into his torso, along his arms. It ended in his fingertips and the crown of his head. The sensation was odd, as if he stood on the membrane of an enormous, vibrating drum.
“Great Mother,” he prayed. “Grant me this gift for the good of the Light.”
At once the tingling intensified. The very marrow of his being throbbed.
Pain seared his body. His bones twisted from within. There was a crackling, popping sound, as sinew and flesh contracted. Panic clogged Rhys’s lungs, but he could force no cry from his lips. The world spun dizzily.
His skin was afire, stretched tight over bone and muscle. He fell, writhing, to the frozen ground.
When at last the agony faded, he dared not move. His body felt different. His heart fluttered in his chest, its beat fast and light. When he opened his eyes, the sea and shore sprang at him in sharp relief. Colors were muted, but the details! He saw every ripple of sand, every swell of the waves, every feather on a tern’s wing.
The slap of the sea on the shore echoed painfully in his ears. He could hear every whisper of the sea grasses, and even the scurrying feet of a mouse as it burrowed in the sand.
Movement arrested his attention. With a flurry of brown feathers, Hefin dropped into view. Rhys scrambled backward, his heart racing. The merlin had grown huge! Rhys stared as the creature tilted its head and regarded him solemnly.
Slowly, understanding crept over him. Hefin hadn’t grown to the size of a man; it was Rhys who had shrunk. Experimentally, he extended his arms. They were no longer human limbs, but wings.
He stood on clawed feet, his talons flexing on the snow-covered rock. He swayed, trying to get the feel of this new body. His clothes were lying in a crumpled heap. If a traveler came upon them, what would he think?
His human mind seemed intact, thanks be to the Great Mother. Yet he had a merlin’s mind as well. Cool and ruthless, born of the Deep Magic. Rhys felt the pull of that force. It was a power that existed outside of time. It had come into being long before man had conceived his weak notions of good and evil. He drew almost close enough to touch it, then, gasping, wrenched away. With an effort, he turned his attention to his new body, ruffling and settling his feathers. It was a strange sensation.
Hefin spread his wings and brought them down with a great rush of air. Effortlessly, the merlin rose into the air to perch on the low branch of an elm.
Rhys imitated the movement. It took three tries, and an ignoble tumble, but at last he gained the low branch. From there Hefin rose to the treetops. Rhys followed, only just snagging a thin, swaying limb. The storm’s vanguard winds whipped around him. The world below spun crazily.
Haste.
The idea had come from Hefin. Rhys opened his beak to reply, but managed only a screech. When Hefin flapped into the air, Rhys opened his wings and followed. He rose, hovering above the sea.
Something like laughter spread through him. He was flying! He did a loop, reveling in his incredible skill. Flying! It was a miracle.
Hefin screeched a warning. Rhys, in the middle of a gleeful spin, didn’t respond. A crosswind struck him like a blow. The sensation was akin to being toppled by a violent wave. Rhys scrabbled to gain control, working the air currents as he would a turbulent surf, to no avail. He couldn’t get the rhythm of his new wings. The sea rushed at him.
It was only by the merest chance that he righted himself before smashing into the churning water. Chastened, he steadied himself with a slow beat of his wings before rising to meet Hefin.
Isca,
he told the bird.
The merlin gave a squawk and turned to the northeast.
Even the heat of the forge couldn’t loosen the angry knot in Marcus’s stomach. Clara hadn’t so much as glanced behind her as she entered the sheep barn last night. Had she no pride, to seek out a man who spurned her? He hefted his hammer and brought it down with all his might on the anvil. The force of the blow traveled up his arm.
He stared sourly at the new dagger blade he’d nearly split in two. Ruined. Disgusted, he dropped the piece into a trough of sand. Abandoning the furnace, he strode to his worktable and gathered three of his best throwing daggers. Not even pausing to remove his blacksmith’s apron, he headed for the door.
Dawn had broken reluctantly. A stiff wind blew and dark clouds piled on the horizon. The sweat of the forge turned to ice on his skin. Marcus frowned. Another storm. Was it driven by Druidry? By Owein, as Rhys had suspected? Or was another force at work? He closed his eyes and tried to feel the magic.
Nothing.
“Pollux,” Marcus muttered. Despite the storm, despite the magic, all he could think of was Clara’s rejection. And for what? So she could couple in the hay with a Druid who would soon be gone? For Marcus was sure Owein meant to leave for Avalon. He would want to practice his sorcerer’s arts with his own kind.
The thought of Druids gathering in the swamplands created a burning sensation in the pit of Marcus’s stomach. It didn’t matter that Rhys insisted Avalon served only the Light. Marcus did not believe it. Power was seductive. There would always be those who would convince themselves the good they sought could only be achieved through evil.
He unlocked the yard gate, leaving it open a crack behind him. Leaving the farmhouse compound, he strode across a stubbled wheat field, angling toward the forest and the clearing beyond, where his practice targets—stumps and slabs of wood set at various heights and distances—awaited.
His first throw hit his target dead center. He gripped the hilt of the second knife, closing one eye to judge his aim. A sudden thought rose: what if Clara carried Owein’s child? If the Druid did not claim the babe, was Marcus willing to do so?
The second blade missed its mark, glancing off the edge of the target. He scowled, muttering darkly.
“Marcus?”
He looked up to find Breena beside him. He hadn’t heard her approach, but that was no surprise. The wind was far from silent and his sister could move like a wraith.
“Is there a problem at the house?” he asked, frowning.
“Nay.” She seemed nervous, her fingers twisting together—a gesture she rarely made.
She looked so distressed that Marcus’s heart skipped a beat. “Is it … did you have one of your nightmares?” Had she touched on some darkness she couldn’t face?
“Nay,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I thought … I thought to ask your advice.”
His brows raised. “On what subject?”
“It’s Rhys. I feel so strange when I’m near him. Hot and cold at once. I think … I think I love him. But I don’t know if he feels the same.”
Marcus let out a breath. No magic, just a girl’s infatuation. “Of course Rhys doesn’t love you. At least, not in that way. He’s nearly twice your age.”
“It’s not uncommon for older men to marry younger women.”
“Maybe not, but you’re only a girl.” Marcus shook his head. “Rhys is a man, Bree, and you know nothing of men. You have no idea what they—”
She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I know you and Rhys visit the tavern wenches.”
Marcus started. “You do?”
“Aye. And once, last summer, when you were short on coin, you shared a woman between you.” She scowled. “You should be careful what you discuss in the fields when you think no one is listening.”
“By Jupiter, Bree! Have you no decency?”
“Not where spying on my brother is concerned,” she said, but her attempt at levity didn’t reach her eyes. She looked skyward, troubled. Then she gave a gasp.
“Look, Marcus! Two merlins. Above the western field.”
“
Two
merlins?” Marcus followed her outstretched finger. Sure enough, two birds circled. But it wasn’t possible one could be Rhys’s falcon. The creature always flew alone.