Deep Magic (35 page)

“Ye lie. As all Romans do. Your Deep Magic destroyed her.” The glowing tip of Cyric’s staff rose, pointing directly at Marcus’s chest. “For this, ye will die.”

Cyric’s staff exploded. A woman screamed. In the same instant, Owein launched himself at the old man. “Cyric, nay!”

The shot drove into the ground at Marcus’s feet. The old Druid railed against Owein. “Stay back, man. This battle is mine!”

“By all that is holy, Cyric,” Owein shouted, “stop this!”

“Nay!” With a power born of some force beyond his own frail body, the old man threw the bulky warrior off. “This time, I will not fail!”

Cyric’s staff swung around, seeking Marcus. The time for talk was done, Marcus decided. He yanked Exchalybur from its sheath and brandished the weapon before him. What good would the sword be against a magical attack? He did not know. Marcus was no Druid. In his hands, the Lady’s weapon was just a sword.

“Die, Roman swine!”

Dark flame exploded. Marcus gripped the sword with both hands and grimly met the attack.

It had not been Gwen’s voice he’d heard in his mind. It had been another of Strabo’s tricks, leading Rhys and Trevor farther astray. Once Rhys realized the sorcerer’s trickery, the voice faded, and the mist began to thin.

They’d found themselves far to the west of Avalon, and it had taken some time to circle back, and more time still to find one of the Druid’s hidden rafts. Now, as Trevor plied the craft’s pole through the cloudy water, Rhys closed his eyes and felt for Cyric’s failing spell. He caught it just before it evaporated completely.

Centering himself, he plucked each delicate thread of his grandfather’s broken spellcraft and bound it to the next. It was difficult work. The spell had deteriorated almost beyond repair. Rhys knew he should never have left Avalon. When Cyric had ordered him to go after Gwen, he should have refused.

“The mist returns.”

Trevor’s spoken relief ran as a silent tremor through Rhys’s body. He opened his eyes and watched wisps of white vapor curl at the edges of the raft.
Thank the Great Mother.
He’d done it. But had he been too late? Was Avalon discovered?

Rhys’s worst fear erupted scant moments later when the raft touched shore. A blast of fire shot into the sky on the far slope of the isle, above the village. Blue and white sparks spewed high into the air. Trevor cursed and dropped the raft’s rope.

Rhys was already pounding up the trail to the village, his heart in his throat. He burst into the village common, gasping. The scene before him was nothing he might have imagined. Marcus Aquila stood in the center of the village, brandishing Gwen’s shining, dangerous sword. But where was Gwen?

Trevor’s heavy tread thumped to a halt behind Rhys.
“Goddess.”

The sword’s magic was blinding. Rhys blinked against a flash of white light, laced with a clear, true blue. It was like looking into the center of a flame. Into the center of life.

The fire burning on the tip of Cyric’s staff was far more ominous, however. Dark and fathomless, it carried the color of pure Deep Magic. Black flame shot toward Marcus. Marcus, incredibly, stood firm, catching the assault on the flat of Gwen’s magic blade. Cyric’s flame ricocheted, scudding into the earth.

“This willna last,” Trevor muttered. “The Roman is mundane. Cyric will kill him.”

“Aye,” Rhys said as Exchalybur wrenched itself to one side. The weapon, glowing white and blue, seemed to have a life and a will of its own. “Marcus cannot hope to control Deep Magic.”

Cyric’s next blast went wide, whizzing toward Rhys and Trevor. They both ducked.

“Nor can Cyric,” Trevor said grimly.

Owein was behind Cyric, stealthily approaching. Rhys caught the warrior’s gaze, then sent a glance to Trevor. Immediately, Trevor circled to the right. Rhys went to the left. Soon Cyric stood in the center of a triangle, while the three Druids stood at the points. Marcus was outside the invisible boundary, midway between Rhys and Trevor.

Rhys spoke the first Word. The syllable of Light was echoed by Trevor, then by Owein. Light shot between them, enclosing Cyric within. The fire issuing from his staff faltered as it struck the magic boundary.

Outside the limits of the spell, Marcus lowered his sword, watching. At Rhys’s signal, the three Druids advanced. The nimbus of Light brightened as it shrank. Cyric’s Deep Magic crackled like lightning within it.

Cyric’s arm came up. For one terrifying moment, Rhys feared his grandfather would break the spell. But then the old man’s eyes changed. His spirit seemed to crumple, and with it, the forbidden magic he commanded. The blue-black fire died. Cyric’s oaken staff fell from his fingers; his legs crumpled. He dropped to his knees, frail shoulders heaving, hands covering his face.

“What have I done?”

Rhys signaled to Owein and Trevor to dissolve the protective spell. The Light vanished. Rhys ran to Cyric, crouching before him. Trevor and Owein hovered nearby. Rhys felt a third man approach. Padrig. He did not look up.

Cyric’s eyes clung to Rhys’s. “He has … he has returned.”

“Strabo, ye mean.”

“Is that his name? I never wished to know it. But I recognize his power in my dreams. He has come for me, as I knew he would.”

His words were a whisper. Cyric’s eyelids, thin as old parchment, closed. Tears slipped from beneath. “As I deserve.”

His heart heavy, Rhys lifted his grandfather in his arms and carried him to his hut. Padrig followed. Rhys left his uncle with the now unconscious Cyric and returned to the village common, where he found Marcus, his sword sheathed, in agitated conversation with Trevor and Owein.

“What is this about?” Rhys demanded. “Where is Gwen?”

“Strabo has her. We were traveling together. I left her sleeping for just a moment while I watered my horse; when I returned, she was gone. I followed her tracks. There were signs of struggle. A man carried her off.”

“It might have been any man,” Rhys said. “A brigand, a soldier …”

“No. The tracks—they just vanished.”

“Magic,” Trevor muttered. “One spell to draw her away, another to cover the trail. But why would she not fight? Her magic is strong.”

“It wasn’t,” Marcus said. “She’d just shifted. Her magic … it fades after she regains her human form.”

Rhys had suffered the same effect the one time he’d shifted into merlin form. He’d thought it had been because of the newness of the skill. Why had he never sought Gwen’s counsel?

He closed his eyes, reaching for her with his mind.

“Gwen. Can ye hear me?”

Dread burned in his gut. “I can feel nothing. Not even a spark of her life force. She … she could be dead.”

“No,” Marcus said sharply. “She isn’t. She is in the Roman camp, with Strabo.”

“How do ye know?” Trevor asked.

“Her companion—the she-wolf that just gave birth—”

“Ardra,” Rhys said.

“Yes. The animal found me in the forest and guided me to the Roman camp. I’m sure Ardra knew Gwen was there. Surrounded by thirty soldiers, there was no way I could get to her. So I asked Ardra to guide me here. Gwen needs your help. Your magic.”

“I will go at once,” Rhys said.

“As will I,” Trevor said. “Gwen is my responsibility.”

Marcus sucked in a breath, his color heightening. His fingers flexed into a fist, but to Rhys’s surprise, his friend kept his temper in check. “Good. Let’s go, then. We are wasting time.”

“I will come—” Owein stopped abruptly as a woman’s cry sounded from his hut.

“Clara is laboring?” Rhys asked.

“Aye. And not well, though Mared insists there is no danger.” There was uncharacteristic panic in the big warrior’s voice. “The old hag sent me out of my own hut. Can ye believe that?”

“I can, with no trouble,” Rhys told him.

Another scream rent the air. Owein started for the hut, then, with effort, he stopped and turned back to Rhys. “I will come with ye.”

Rhys shook his head. “Nay. With Clara laboring, ye could not summon the calm needed to fight Deep Magic.”

“I fear ye are right,” Owein replied, dragging a hand down his face. “But what of ye, Rhys? Ye hold Avalon’s mist. Can ye fight Strabo at the same time?”

Could he?
Rhys did not know.

“The man murdered my mother. I will do what I must.”

Gwen’s power was out of reach, beyond a veil of blue-black darkness. Perhaps that was why Strabo’s warhorse did not protest her approach.

The sorcerer’s grip settled on her waist. With little effort, he lifted her into the saddle and mounted behind her. One arm kept her in place while the other commanded the reins.

They left the camp amid the speculative gazes of Strabo’s men. Not a single soldier dared to question him, but Gwen did not miss the leers and knowing winks that followed her. Once they rode through the camp gates and rounded a bend in the trail, Gwen felt easier. Until Strabo placed a kiss on her bared shoulder.

Her stomach began to churn. Aye, she’d succeeded in getting out of the camp, but without her magic, how could she fight her captor? She could not even raise a spell strong enough to serve as a distraction while she made a mundane escape.

They descended the slope of the mountain, moving into the woods bordering the swamp. As the horse picked its way down the trail, Gwen closed her eyes and dug deep into her mind. A day had passed since she’d shifted. Her Light should be strengthening.

Suffocated by Strabo’s spell, it was not. Even her Deep Magic was quiescent, the wolf slumbering through her calls.

Raw fear dug claws into her heart.

Strabo led his mount to a grassy copse and dismounted, sliding from the saddle in one smooth motion. Gwen saw her chance, slight though it was. Throwing herself from the saddle on the horse’s opposite side, she ran.

Stumbling blindly, driven by a desperate instinct, she darted through the forest, ducking under a low branch, leaping over a fallen log. Her lungs worked madly to fuel her flight.

Until a Word stopped her.

It was a syllable unlike any she had ever heard. Strong and ancient, born of a foreign land, it was wholly unlike the sacred language from which she crafted her own spells. This Word was a silky, sibilant resonance. It melted her strength, stole her will. Her mind blurred.

The forest grew watery, as if she were viewing its reflection in a pond. Trees and sky dripped away, leaving nothing but a void. She spun around, panic closing her throat. It was as if the world had just … disappeared.

“What … have ye done?” she cried.

Strabo’s voice was soft in her ear. “Ah, my love, do you not understand? You cannot run. Not from me.”

He was there, beside her, enveloped in a nimbus of Darkness. He lifted his hand, and spoke another Word.

A low bed, strewn with silk and furs, appeared. A garden bower arched overhead; long leafy fronds hung all around. A gilded table held honeyed pastries and wine. Gwen’s ragged tunic was transformed into a Roman gown that left her left arm and shoulder bare. Her hair was unbound, her feet unshod. A delicate chain encircled her right ankle.

Strabo’s Legionary armor melted into a long silken robe, striped with every color of the rainbow. “This place was your mother’s favorite. I conjured it often when we were together.”

“An illusion.”

“A dream. Where else can one have everything?” He touched her bare shoulder and traced a delicate line down her arm. “And now, at last, I will have what I’ve dreamed of these last eighteen years. You will take the place of the woman I lost.”

Gwen jerked away. “The woman you murdered.”

A beat of silence ensued. When Strabo’s voice came again, his tone was deadly. “He told you that?”

“Can ye deny it? Ye killed my father as well.”

“The drunken bastard deserved it. My only regret is that I did not end his life sooner.”

“And afterward … Mama realized what ye were. A murderer. She refused to run away with ye, and ye killed her as well. With Deep Magic.”

“No. I loved Tamar. I would never have harmed even one hair on her head.”

“She died by your hand! Because she rejected ye.”

“Tamar did not reject me. She was to accompany me to Egypt—with you and your brother. If only I’d taken her away an hour earlier … but Cyric found out she meant to leave, after she had told him she would stay. He came after her …”

“And when he did, ye cast a blue ball of flame. I remember now. I saw it.
Rhys
saw it. Your Deep Magic killed her.”

Strabo’s eyes lit with fury. “Your memory lies. Yes, a spell of Deep Magic was cast, but it was not mine. I did not know how to call such power, not then. If I had, I would surely have turned it on Cyric when Tamar fell.”

Cold dread iced Gwen’s blood. Suddenly, her memory of Mama’s last moments did not seem so clear. “Ye cannot mean—”

“That Cyric’s Deep Magic killed Tamar? Yes. He killed her. With a blast that was meant for me. She tried to stop him—and died in my place. Not by my hand. Never that. Her own father destroyed her. I barely escaped with my life.”

“That … that cannot be,” Gwen whispered.

Strabo’s laugh was harsh. “Do you know how many times in the past eighteen years I have wished it had not happened? That I had been killed, as Cyric intended, and she had lived? More than I can count. All the time I lived in Egypt, I plotted my revenge. Every spell of Deep Magic I have learned, every dream illusion I have cast, all the pain I have endured—it was all for one purpose only. To return to Britain and kill the Druid who destroyed the woman I loved.”

His fingers bit into Gwen’s shoulders. “Cyric took what was mine. Now I will claim what is his. His life, and you. And he will die knowing his own magic has turned against him once again.”

Marcus, accompanied by Rhys and Trevor, had just reached the shore below the Roman camp when Gwen’s voice sounded in his skull as clearly as if she’d spoken in his ear.

“Rhys. Brother, where are ye? Ye
must
hear me!”

He nearly jumped out of his skin. Spinning about, he scanned the trees. Nothing.

“Rhys!”
Gwen’s voice. Again. But where?