Deep Magic (33 page)

“That is my right.” Rhys’s voice had gone strange, all trace of his Celtic lilt vanished. His next words came in Latin. “You, Gwendolyn, are mine.”

Rhys’s face and body wavered. The forest around him dissolved, colors smearing and blending together, darkening to a deep, pulsing blue. The ground dropped away and Gwen fell, tumbling through space, arms outstretched, reaching … but finding nothing. She landed with a sickening jolt, with a sense of the world falling to pieces around her. But there was no impact, no pain. As if the whole thing had been a dream.

A dream. Of course. That was what it had been. With a prayer of thanks to the Great Mother, she opened her eyes.

And beheld Strabo standing before her, dressed in full Legionary armor. His dark eyes regarded her calmly from beneath the rim of his helmet.

She made a noise in her throat and scrambled to her feet. The forest around her was unfamiliar. She was not in the place where she’d fallen asleep.

“Ah,” he said. “Finally, you understand.”

“How … how did I get here?”

“You came to me, of course. You will always come when I call. Remember that.”

With swift strides, he closed the distance between them and clamped his fingers on her chin. He leaned close, his face blurring in her vision. Panic flooded her. With her Light still numb from the wolf, how could she fight him?

She struck out blindly, her balled fist connecting painfully with the side of his helmet. Strabo laughed. In a heartbeat, she found herself immobile, her body caged by his arms.

“Come now, my little Druidess, can you do no better than that? Or has the wolf taken all your strength?”

“How do you know of the wolf?”

“How could I not know?” His fingers delved into her hair. “I
felt
you. Like I once felt my Tamar.”

Gwen twisted in his arms. “Ye were her lover.”

“Yes.”

“And ye guessed Rhys was her son. That was why ye followed him.”

“You and your brother favor Tamar greatly. A blessing, since your father was a hulking brute of a man. I much enjoyed killing him.” He used his grip on her hair to tilt her head up. “You, my dear, have a fascinating power. You take the form of a beast. Do you know how rare that is? Your twin, does he have the same power?”

“What … what do ye want of us?”

His tone held an edge that made Gwen’s blood run cold. “From him—nothing. It’s you I want. You and your grandfather.” He stroked the side of her face.

She fought back nausea. “Why?”

He did not immediately answer. When he did, his eyes went oddly soft. “You are so like Tamar. Tall and proud, like a warrior queen. I met her in the market. I sensed her magic, and her sadness. Both drew me to her.” His arms tightened around her. “She wanted to denounce the brute her father had given her to. But Cyric would not hear of it. When he learned of our love, he turned his Dark arts on me. He sent me ailments … rashes, boils, a fever. None of it mattered. He could not keep me away from her.”

“That’s … not possible. Cyric practices only the Light. He would never inflict illness. That requires Deep Magic.”

“I assure you, Cyric did not hesitate to conjure Deep Magic against me.” His tone went flat. “Tamar died because of it.”

Suddenly, he shifted her body in his arms, lifting her easily. He started walking, his strides swift.

“Put me down!”

“That, I will not do.”

Goddess, help me.
If she could only conjure a spell, however slight, she might be able to break his hold. She dug deep into her consciousness, calling for her magic.
Nothing.

“Where are ye taking me?”

“I told you. You are mine. You will, I think, be a wife I will not easily tire of.”

“Wife?”

He paused on the trail, looking down at her. “Why, of course you will become my wife. Your mother would have wanted it.”

Gwen couldn’t have gone far.

Marcus kept telling himself that, even long after he’d ceased to believe it. She’d slipped off so quietly, so completely, he might have thought she’d run away again. Despite the intimacy they’d shared, and the vow he’d forced from her, he still was not sure of her. But she had not run, he was sure of that. She might have left Marcus behind, but she would never have left the sword.

He kept the weapon strapped on his back as he scouted for tracks. The ground was soft; he soon found what he sought. A single set of footprints, leading north.

Some distance down the trail, Gwen’s tracks were joined by another set. These were larger, deeper impressions on the soft loam. A man, he was sure.

He fingered the hilt of the dagger at his belt. A brigand? Not likely. The soles of the newcomer’s boots were studded with iron nubs. Legionary footwear. There had been a struggle; scuffs and gouges in the dirt. Then the soldier’s tracks had deepened, and Gwen’s had disappeared. The man had carried her off.

Fear clutched his throat. Had Strabo come after her, as she had expected? Because of her recent transformation, Gwen would have been unable to call her magic against him. The sword that might have saved her was dangling uselessly on Marcus’s back.

He followed the trail to the crest of the hill, where the sorcerer’s tracks, and all trace of Gwen, abruptly vanished.

Gwen woke within a cloud of thick Deep Magic. She’d passed out in Strabo’s arms—how long ago? She had no idea. Fear for Marcus consumed her. Had Strabo assaulted him? Killed him and taken Exchalybur? Or had the spells of illusion she’d woven into the metal shielded Marcus from the sorcerer’s sight? She prayed the latter was true.

A deadening force sapped her strength. She remembered Strabo calling the spell, remembered feeling as though her lungs couldn’t take in enough air. The spell was much like the one she’d endured a year before, when her cousin had trapped her in wolf form. Deep Magic, all but unbreakable.

Bile burned the back of her throat. When she reached inside for her magic, she could barely feel it.

It was there, but very far away. She could not rouse it. She sought her connection to Rhys and was alarmed to realize she could not feel him at all.

Even the wolf, when she called it, did not stir.

She pushed herself upright. She was in a room with soft fabric walls—a tent, more richly appointed than the Aquilas’ home. Furs and skins covered the plank flooring. She lay on an elaborately carved bed strewn with more furs, and more silk. The other furnishings were just as opulent—a writing table, cross-legged chairs, a washstand, a trunk. An armor stand, draped with Strabo’s armor. Unfortunately, his war belt—which held his sword and battle dagger—was nowhere in sight.

A table was set for a meal for two. Bread, cheese, oysters, dried figs … but no knife. A bowl filled with wildflowers. The romantic arrangement was far too intimate for comfort.

Voices drew her gaze to the narrow slice of light at the edge of the tent flap. Just outside, two men were conversing in rough Latin. Guards?

Shoving herself off the bed, she crept toward the opening on shaking legs. Peering through the gap, she found her fear confirmed. She was in a Roman camp—was it the mining camp near Avalon? Fear became a living thing inside her. Stripped of her power, surrounded by Legionaries, she was all but helpless against anything Strabo chose to do to her.

You will, I think, be a wife I will not easily tire of.

She fought off a surge of nausea. She’d survived Blodwen’s spell. She would survive this as well. She would wait, and watch, and seize whatever opportunity for escape presented itself.

She concentrated on the conversation outside the tent, translating the rough, rapid Latin. The guards spoke of their recent shift in the mine, resentment plain in their voices. They were fed up with working in the dark, dank passageways. A thin vein of silver had been found several days ago, but it had petered out the day Legate Strabo had left for Isca. Tribune Valgus had been furious, and had doubled their shifts in the hope they would discover the lode he insisted was there. The men hoped that Legate Strabo’s reappearance would put an end to the folly. They wanted to pack up camp and return to the fortress.

Their grumblings halted abruptly. Words of respectful salute followed. Gwen had just enough time to retreat to the opposite side of the tent before the tent flap lifted.

Strabo entered, garbed in a simple red tunic. His blue-black aura trailed gently behind him as he took in the empty bed, then scanned the recesses of the tent. When his gaze alighted on Gwen, he smiled.

“You are awake, my love. I am very glad.”

His tone chilled her. It was not the tone of a captor, but the soft, gentle voice of a lover. She stood frozen as he strode toward her—there was nowhere to go. He halted before her and looked down. He was a tall man. She might have kept her eyes downcast, on his boots, or level, looking at his mouth. Instead, she tipped her chin up, meeting his gaze. She did not realize until she had done it what a submissive pose she had taken. The wolf inside did not like baring her neck to him.

He placed one finger under her chin and tipped her head back even farther. Dark magic pulsed at the point of contact, making her stomach rebel even more.

“You are pale. Did you not rest well?”

She did not answer.

He gave her an indulgent smile and placed a kiss on her forehead. “What is your desire? Food? Wine? More pillows? Tell me.”

Gwen swallowed a curse. She sensed it would do no good to antagonize her captor.

“Nothing? That cannot be. All women have whims.” He gazed down at her with a tenderness that, incredibly, seemed genuine.

Her terror expanded. The man was insane. He had to be.

With an effort, she kept her loathing from her face. She sensed that scorn, more than anything, would spark his rage. How could Mama have loved this man? It was incomprehensible.

He cupped her cheek. One large thumb rubbed back and forth over her lower lip. His thumb pressed, parting her lower lip from the upper.

“Do not be afraid. I will treat you like a queen. You will enjoy your life with me. The life your mother should have had.”

His mouth covered her lips, as if to seal the vow.

Cyric thrashed wildly on his pallet. An agitated Siane was trying to calm him. When Owein ducked into the hut, she choked back a sob. The red mark of a hand showed on her cheek.

“He hit ye?” Owein moved quickly to Cyric’s side and caught the old Druid’s flailing arm.

“He did not mean to! A vision is upon him. I tried to comfort him—” She burst into tears.

“Go,” Owein said tersely. “Fetch Mared. She is with Clara.” He didn’t like to take Mared away from Clara—Clara’s birth travails had started at midday the day before, and he wanted the healer at his wife’s side. But he had little choice.

Siane jumped up and nodded.

“Nay!” Cyric shouted as the lass reached the door. He clawed at Owein, trying to launch himself off the pallet. “Ye will not go! Ye will not abandon your people! Your clan!”

Siane hesitated at the door, her expression stricken.

“He doesna know what he is saying,” Owein muttered. “Go now, quickly, as I told ye. Fetch Mared.”

The girl threw a fearful glance at Cyric and fled. As the door thumped shut, Cyric went limp. Tears streamed down his weathered cheeks. “She goes to him.”

Owein eased the old man back onto the bed. “She will return. All is well.”

“Nay. Ye do not understand. Nothing will ever be right again. My Tamar … she is gone. Dead.”

Blessedly, the old Druid soon lapsed into unconsciousness. Owein stood, frowning down at him. All of Avalon was suffering from a renewed assault of Deep Magic—Owein could only surmise that Strabo had returned. Even the youngest of the Druids could not sleep without fear. The mist was thinning once again, and this time, Dark dreams were affecting everyone on the sacred isle.

Owein’s own nightmares were brutal, mired in the pain of his past—war and slavery and torture. He did not want to remember those days, had fought long and hard to forgive his enemies and bury his anger against them. Now, like bones dug from a grave, his past had returned. But painful as those memories were, they did not rule him as they once had. Clara had helped him face that Darkness, and conquer it.

He could not say that Cyric had conquered his past.

The old man’s anguish bled from a wound that had never healed. One that ran deep into his soul. A noise sounded behind Owein—he turned and nodded to Mared. He was not surprised to see Padrig follow close behind. Their expressions were grave.

“Ye have remained silent,” Owein told them. “But I suspect ye know more about Cyric’s affliction than ye say. Ye must tell me.”

“We promised Cyric long ago never to speak of it,” Mared said.

“If the story can help him now, I pray ye dinna keep his confidence.”

“I am not sure it can help him,” Padrig said wearily. “The horror of that night never faded for Cyric.”

“The night Tamar died?”

“Aye.” Mared moved to a stool and sat, her frail body bending with difficulty. “ ’Twas eighteen summers past. Rhys and Gwen had but seven years. Their mother, Tamar, was … unhappy in her marriage. Morvyn, her husband, was overly fond of unwatered Roman wine. When he drank, he became crude.”

“I dinna understand. Why would Cyric choose such a man for his daughter?”

“Cyric agreed to the match when Tamar and Morvyn were children,” Padrig said. “Morvyn’s father had been a Druid of Avalon, a friend to Cyric in his youth. Cyric could not go back on his word, especially after his friend’s death.”

Owein nodded. “Go on.”

“Tamar wanted to break her handfasting with Morvyn,” Mared said. “ ’Twas her right, after all. But Cyric would not agree to it, especially after Rhys and Gwen were born. He thought, perhaps, that fatherhood would improve Morvyn’s demeanor. It did not.” The healer’s gnarled hand tightened on her staff. “The twins had four summers when Tamar found a lover. A Roman centurion.”

Owein made a sound of disbelief.

“Tamar could not have chosen a worse man with which to cuckold her husband,” Mared said. “When Morvyn discovered her perfidy, he beat her. Tamar was defiant—she continued to meet her lover. Morvyn’s beatings worsened. Then one night, he did not return home.”