Deep Magic (29 page)

“Ye
swine.
Could ye not keep your cock in your pants? She was a maid! Unused to men like ye.”

Marcus landed a blow to Rhys’s left jaw. “Yes, unused to men who treat her with respect!” Dodging Rhys’s return jab, he managed a glancing blow to Rhys’s ear. “Unused to men who care about her happiness!” His hands reached for Rhys’s neck. “Unused to—”

Marcus gagged as a large arm was wrapped around him from behind, closing his windpipe. He ducked his chin and clawed at the beefy arm. He succeeded in moving it only enough to rasp a thin breath of air.

“Enough.” Trevor’s quiet voice held not a trace of anger.

The man’s unnerving calm was more effective than any impassioned command might have been. Marcus wrenched himself out of the giant’s grip and jumped to his feet.

Breena had gone deathly pale, her attention suspended between Marcus and Rhys, as if uncertain which man deserved her loyalty. Marcus felt his sister’s indecision like a blow.

Gwen, however, did not look at Rhys at all. Nor at Trevor. She came to Marcus. Her fingers slid over his bruised jaw. He winced. She swung about and glowered at Rhys. The Druid’s eye was nearly swollen shut, Marcus noted smugly.

“Ye are a beast,” Gwen told her twin.

“Me?” Rhys’s jaw dropped. “He threw me down!”

“I would not have,” Marcus growled, “if you hadn’t hurled the basest of insults at the woman who is to be my wife.”

“Wife?” Rhys spit out a curse. “Are ye insane? Gwen is promised to Trevor. Though why he should want her now, after watching her come from another man’s bed—”

Marcus made a sound deep in his throat and made to launch himself at Rhys again. Trevor’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, holding him back.

Gwen spoke, her voice calm. “I have not promised myself to Trevor.”

“But ye did promise to guard Avalon,” her brother replied. “And to shun Deep Magic.”

“Ye of all people have no right to lecture me about Deep Magic!”

“Gwen.” Rhys’s voice vibrated. “Does Marcus speak truly? Do ye intend to stay here and become his wife?”

The air in Marcus’s lungs stalled as he waited for Gwen’s reply. She was standing so close, he could have reached out and touched her. He did not.

A tear slipped down Gwen’s cheek. Something inside Marcus broke. He sought her gaze, but she would not look at him.

“You could be carrying my child,” he said baldly.

Rhys started. “Gods. I pray she is not.”

Marcus ignored him. “Gwen. Look at me. Please.”

When she did, her tears fell faster.

“Gwen, I love you. I’ll give you my life, my home, my children. Everything I have and everything I am.” When she didn’t answer, he added simply, “You’d be happy here. I would make sure of it.”

“It would be false happiness, Marcus.”

“No, it—”

“Gwen speaks truly,” Rhys cut in. “Her duty lies on Avalon.” He turned to his sister. “Let this be the last of your resistance to Cyric’s will. This disappearance … running here to some fantasy ye know ye cannot keep … it was not worthy of ye, Gwen.”

“You are an ass,” Marcus interjected. “What right do you have to judge her? You don’t even know why she came here.”

“To indulge her whim of seeing ye again. To—”

“She came here out of love and loyalty to Avalon. To create a weapon that can stand against Strabo’s Deep Magic. Though I begin to wonder if Avalon deserves such a gift.”

Rhys looked as though he would reply, until Trevor silenced him with a frown. The big man looked at Gwen. “There is an unusual power here, lass. In this room. What is it?”

Rhys’s eyes turned to Gwen. “Aye, I feel it now as well. Gwen, what have ye done?”

“I—” Gwen opened her mouth, then closed it. Her shoulders tensed; Marcus could feel the agitation thrumming through her body. She eased from his side, her chin rising as she strode to his worktable like a soldier marching to battle.

She lifted the sword, one hand on the hilt, the other supporting the scabbard.

“I came to Isca for one purpose: to beg Marcus to forge a sword for Avalon. A weapon of magic that will stand against our darkest enemies.” With a slow, deliberate stroke, she slid the shining blade from its sheath.

“This is the blade he created. Crafted from bright iron. Marcus calls it Exchalybur.”

Rhys stared at the weapon. Briefly, he closed his eyes. When they snapped open an instant later, Marcus was taken aback by the expression of stunned rage in them.

“Gwen.” Rhys’s voice vibrated with fury. “This time ye have truly gone too far.”

“Is Avalon’s very survival too far, Rhys? For that is what’s at stake.”

Rhys uttered the foulest oath Marcus had ever heard fall from his friend’s lips.

“You’re angry about this?” Marcus demanded. He could not believe it. “That Gwen bound Light to a sword for the defense of Avalon?”

“Is that what she told ye this is? A weapon of defense? Of Light magic?” Rhys sent Gwen a withering look. “ ’Tis not true. This sword is bound to Deep Magic.”

Marcus’s gaze shot to Gwen. “Is that true?”

She bit her lip. “Aye.”

He stared at the weapon. “Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you intended?”

“If I had, would ye have forged it?”

“I—” He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. “No. Of course not.”

“Then ye have your answer.”

Her expression became carefully blank. At the same time, her shoulders squared as she drew herself up to her full height. Despite the lines of fatigue about her eyes and mouth, despite her tangled hair and frayed tunic, she had the air of a queen.

She slid the sword back into its sheath, but did not release her grip on it as she turned to Rhys and Trevor. “I felt the danger to Avalon even before Strabo’s Dark spells seeped into the mist. I knew from the start that Light alone would not turn him away.”

“And so ye thought to forge a sword of Deep Magic?” The question, surprisingly, came from Trevor.

“I saw the sword in a dream.”

“A dream that might have been sent by Strabo,” Rhys said.

“Nay. The dream came from the Lady.”

“How can ye be sure?”

“Because I saw her. I felt her power. Can ye nay trust me, Rhys? Strabo is sure to return to Avalon. When he does, we must be ready to counter his Deep Magic with our own. Exchalybur is our only hope.”

“Hope? What hope is that?” Rhys’s fingers flexed. “Deep Magic will destroy us. Ye know that as well as I.”

“I do not know it. I only know Cyric says it will.”

“Do ye think he lies? Have ye forgotten the terror of Blodwen’s Deep Magic so quickly? Or do ye, perhaps, nurture a remnant of our cousin’s folly in your own soul?”

A tightening of her mouth was Gwen’s only reaction to Rhys’s barb. “The Deep Magic I’ve bound to this sword is entwined with Light. It will not turn against us.”

“Ye cannot be sure of that. This sword—it could be a far greater danger to Avalon than any magic Strabo sends against us. It must be destroyed. Now.”

“Nay. I
will
take it to Avalon, Rhys.”

“And what do ye think Cyric and the Elders will say? Or any of the Druids? Gwen, the Druids of Avalon are keepers of the Light! Not men and women who grasp at the forbidden power of the gods. That sword must be melted down and buried in as deep a hole as can be dug.”

“I’ll not allow that. Cyric chose me as Avalon’s next Guardian, Rhys. Not ye. I’ve often wondered at the reason. Perhaps it was because he knew I was the one with the courage to disobey him when the need turned dire.”

Marcus stood to one side, watching the exchange between the siblings as if through a haze. Had he really thought Gwen would abandon Avalon out of love for him? She seemed to have forgotten he was even in the room.

“Ye have felt Strabo’s power,” Gwen went on. “Ye know Light alone cannot stand against him. What would ye have the Druids do? Flee?”

Rhys hesitated. Gwen did not relent. Angling the hilt of the sword toward her brother, she offered him the weapon. From the look on his face, she might have been presenting him a poisonous snake.

“Take it, Rhys. Once ye hold it, ye will understand.”

Rhys’s hand closed reluctantly around the sword’s hilt. Marcus imagined the blade glowed brighter at his touch, then dismissed the notion as a trick of the light. Rhys closed his eyes and remained silent for a long moment.

When he opened his eyes, his expression was no longer so confident. “The Light is strong within the blade. But Deep Magic lies within it. We cannot be certain it will not turn on us.”

Gwen’s voice was soft. “Have ye ever considered, Rhys, that uncertainty is part of the test the Great Mother has set for her children?”

Rhys only shook his head.

“When ye took the form of a merlin,” Gwen asked her twin softly. “How did ye feel?”

Color rose to Rhys’s cheeks. “Happy,” he admitted bitterly. “Free. When I took wing, I felt I had found the best part of me. It should not have felt so … right.”

“ ’Tis the same when I am the wolf. I felt that joy when Marcus and I forged the Lady’s sword. It holds the same force that’s inside us, Rhys. No matter what Cyric would have us do, we cannot deny what we are.”

“No mortal can command Deep Magic. Only a god can.”

“Then we must serve the Great Mother, and the Lady, and hope that is enough. Support me in this, Rhys. I beg of ye. Stand by me when I present the sword to Cyric and the Elders. Without this sword, without Deep Magic, we may as well scatter like dust before Strabo’s ill wind.”

Indecision played across Rhys’s face. At last, he sighed and handed the sword, still sheathed, back to Gwen. “All right. Bring the sword to Avalon. And I will stand at your side when ye present it to Cyric and the Elders, if ye abide by Cyric’s decision whether to use the sword or destroy it.”

“What? Rhys, ye cannot—”

A muscle worked in Rhys’s throat. “Ye must agree to this condition, Gwen. Or I will see that weapon destroyed before it gets anywhere near Avalon.”

She hesitated, then nodded once.

“That is not all. Ye must also give Trevor the promise of your hand. Now. Before we leave.”

Gwen’s gaze darted to Trevor. “But … he cannot still be willing to have me, not after …” Her words trailed off.

Trevor, brawny arms crossed over his massive chest, regarded Gwen seriously. “I am willing.”

Marcus itched to smash his fist into the giant’s stolid face. “Gwen, you cannot marry this man!”

She made no answer.

“Gwen,” he said more loudly, grabbing her and spinning her around to face him. She gripped the sword tightly, holding it upright between them.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “Gwen. This isn’t right. You cannot marry Trevor! Not when you love me. And if you’re willing to abide by Cyric’s judgment, you don’t need to return to Avalon at all. Rhys and Trevor can take the sword to Cyric, and if he agrees, one of them can wield it in your place. Rhys can take your place as Guardian. It’s what he wants, as fiercely as you want to be free. Why shouldn’t you both live as you wish?”

A small, sad smile touched Gwen’s lips. “That cannot be, Marcus. I am bound to Deep Magic. How can I live my life here in your Roman world? I cannot, as much as I may want to. I belong to Avalon.”

“In another man’s bed.”

She flinched. “Trevor is a fine man.”

He went cold inside. “So you’ve said.”

He felt Trevor’s eyes upon him. The giant’s expression was impassive, but he made no move to remove Marcus’s hands from his would-be betrothed. The Druid’s lack of emotion made Marcus’s stomach turn. The thought of Gwen giving herself to this emotionless giant sickened him. Again he was struck with the urge to smash his fist into the man’s rigid jaw.

He settled for a more subtle taunt. Jerking Gwen’s body toward him, he covered her mouth with his, thrusting his tongue deep. His hands moved on Gwen’s body, molding her breasts, her hips, her buttocks. The sword’s hilt pressed between.

He all but assaulted her with his frustration and hurt. She seemed to understand, because she made a small sound in the back of her throat and kissed him back. All the while, Marcus waited for the giant’s big hand to pull him up by the scruff of his neck and throw him against the wall.

Trevor was silent. The man had no more emotion than a rock.

Finally, Marcus tore himself away, panting. Gwen’s eyes were huge in her face. Tears streamed down her face, unheeded.

“Stay with me,” he begged.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “ ’Tis a dream that can never be.”

He stepped back. Without a glance at Rhys or Trevor, he turned on his heel and left the smithy.

“You have to eat
something,
Rhys.”

Breena set her tray down on the table. Rhys looked horrible. His complexion was waxen, his eyes ringed with fatigue. He spoke in monosyllables, a sharp contrast to his usual affability. She had never seen him like this—so tired and so unsure of himself.

She’d coaxed him back to the main house. His large, silent companion, Trevor, had gone to the kitchen to see about provisions for the journey back to Avalon. Gwen was still in the smithy, and Marcus—Breena did not know where Marcus was. He’d taken a horse from the stables and had not told Linus where he was going nor when he would return.

“Where is Rhiannon?” Rhys asked as she set a mug of
cervesia
before him.

“Gone to visit a friend who is also with child. Father took her early this morning.”

“Ah.” He lifted the mug and drank.

She could not tear her eyes from him. Even when tired and troubled, he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. His long legs stretched under the table. His arms and shoulders were not as bulky as Marcus’s, but lean, wiry strength suited him. His white-blond hair was mussed, and his beard was longer than she had ever seen it. He looked more like a wild Celt now than he ever had. Breena was startled to find that she found his roughness appealing.

She’d watched the scene in the smithy with wide, disbelieving eyes. Rhys had been embarrassed for her, she thought, when Gwen had emerged from Marcus’s bed, but later, he seemed to forget she was even there, until the shouting was over and Marcus had stormed out.