Deep Magic (39 page)

“Stay?”

Clara stroked her baby’s cheek. The skin looked so fragile. The babe sighed and released her breast, milk trickling from the corner of its rosebud mouth. Clara shifted him to her other breast and rearranged her blankets.

She looked up at Marcus. “Yes, my thick-skulled friend,
stay.
You don’t have to leave Avalon. You could make your home here. With Gwen.”

Marcus stood and ran a hand over his head. “But—I am Roman.”

“So am I.”

“It’s not the same. You’re a Daughter of the Lady. I have no magic.” Other than his mental connection to Gwen, which she would not acknowledge.

“You found the sacred isle through the mist. You followed Gwen from Isca despite the spells she’d laid on her trail. You forged a magic sword and used it to fight Cyric’s and Strabo’s Deep Magic. You reached Gwen when she was all but lost in her wolf form—more than once. Are you sure you have no magic, Marcus? Because it seems to me that the talent of thwarting magic is as powerful as the talent of calling it.”

Magic that thwarted magic? Marcus tried to wrap his mind around the notion. “How could that be? I come from mundane parents.”

“That’s another thing I’m not so sure about. Gwen tells me Breena’s power is vast—even greater than Gwen’s own. How can that be, if magic only flows on one side of her parentage?”

“You think my
father
has magic? That is absurd.”

“Not Lucius himself, perhaps. But his family line? Yes, I think it’s very likely there is magic there.”

The thought was stunning. “Perhaps there is something to what you suggest, but, Clara, it hardly changes things. How can I stay here? I’m needed at home. My father and Rhiannon—”

“They would understand, Marcus. That much I know without a doubt.”

“But … live
here?
On an island in the swamps? In a dirt-floored hut? Choking on peat smoke? Cut off from civilization?”

“It’s not so bad. I’ve found that love more than makes up for a lack of luxuries. Though I confess, I have a selfish reason for wanting you to stay.”

Marcus gave her a blank look. “What is that?”

Clara laughed. “That
bathhouse,
Marcus. If you stay, you can build it.”

Live here, on Avalon?

Marcus surveyed a Druid roundhouse with a critical eye, mentally mapping the changes he would make before he even considered living in such a structure. A stone floor to replace the dirt, at the very least. A sleeping chamber separate from the living area. A flue, so he wouldn’t spend the winter choking on smoke. More comfortable furniture.

A bathhouse near the spring. That was a certainty. And a building that housed a proper kitchen. And perhaps a small forge …

Excitement kicked in. It could work. He would
make
it work. He would live here, with Gwen, loving her day and night, watching her grow round with his children. And when Breena finally came to Avalon—and he’d come to believe it was inevitable that she would—he would be here to watch over her. Perhaps he would even build her a library.

He spotted Owein. “Have you seen Gwen?”

The big warrior raised his brows at the smile on Marcus’s face. “By the Grail spring, I think. On the far side of the island.”

He hurried in the direction Owein had indicated. Clara had told him of the red-tinged spring that flowed from the spot where she and Owein had lost the Lady’s Grail the year before. It was a place of power now, where the Druids often gathered to pray, either in groups or singly.

He almost shouted out when he caught a glimpse of Gwen’s white-blond hair. The greeting died in his throat. She was not alone.

Trevor was with her.

The Caledonian’s large body was supported by a stout walking stick. His burned arm was bandaged with strips of wool. He and Gwen were deep in conversation; neither heard Marcus’s approach.

Marcus cleared his throat. Gwen’s head jerked up. Something like pain crossed her expression. Trevor, as always, was impassive. He greeted Marcus with supreme calm.

“Well met, Marcus. I am glad to have the chance to speak with ye before ye depart. I didna yet thank ye for your aid. All of Avalon is in your debt.”

A polite and deferential speech. Why did Marcus have the urge to smash his fist into the man’s face?

“I would speak with Gwen alone,” was all he said.

Trevor nodded and left without another word. Marcus scowled at the Caledonian’s retreating back. “That man is far too tranquil. It’s not natural.”

Gwen sighed. “Aye. But he is a good man.”

“So I’ve heard,” Marcus muttered. He eyed Gwen, but she kept her gaze averted, watching the place where Trevor had stood a moment before as if he were still there.

Marcus moved into her line of vision. “Is it so hard to look at me?”

She raised her gaze. Her gray eyes were carefully devoid of emotion. “I thought ye would be gone by now.”

“And so you were making wedding plans with Trevor?”

“Nay!” The flash of deep hurt he saw in her eyes abruptly deflated his jealousy. “Nay. We were but talking. I promised ye Marcus, that I would never lie with another man. And I will not. Even if I never see ye past this day.”

“What of the Daughter you are expected to bear for Avalon? And who will be Guardian after you, if not your child?”

“Clara and Rhys will have to see to those duties, for I will not.”

He moved behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You can. I’ll be happy to give you any number of children.”

She stiffened under his touch. “Oh, Marcus, do not jest with me. Not now. I cannot bear it.”

He smoothed her braid to one side and placed a kiss on her neck, just below her ear. Her breath caught and a shiver ran through her body. When she spoke, he heard the tears in her voice. “Marcus …”

“I love you, Gwen. I love you and I want to be with you.”

“You know that is impossible. I cannot be a wife to ye. My duty is here, on Avalon.”

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against his body, her back to his chest. “Then I’ll stay here with you.”

He felt her astonishment. Her disbelief. She tried to turn to face him; he did not let her.

“Ye cannot be serious.”

He smiled against her hair. “Why not?”

“Ye are Roman! Roman men do not run after their women. They expect their wives to—”

“To what? Abandon their people? Warm their beds? Use their hands and mouth to—” He dipped his head and whispered in her ear.

She nearly choked on a cross between a sob and a laugh. “Marcus, what are ye telling me?”

“That you are mine. But that shouldn’t be such a surprise. I told you that before, more than once. I seem to remember that you agreed.”

“Of course I did.”

She tried to turn; he still wouldn’t let her. His hands rose to cup her breasts as he caught her earlobe between his teeth.

“Say it, then.” He swirled his tongue into her ear.

She bit back a moan. “I am yours, Marcus.”

“Now tell me that you’ll be my wife.”

“Marcus,” she whispered. “I can hardly believe ye mean it.”

He let her turn in his arms. “I do.”

She linked her hands behind his neck as he smiled down at her. Her expression was slightly dazed. “It is really true? Ye mean to stay?”

“Yes.”

“But—how can that be? Ye cannot be blind to how primitive the village is.”

“You’re here, and that’s enough for me. Besides,” he added with a shrug, “Avalon is only primitive because no one has improved it. I can remedy that. Sturdier homes, better cooking facilities, a bathhouse …”

Gwen could only shake her head. “But … what of Rhiannon and Lucius? They need you in Isca—”

He silenced her with a long, deep kiss. “They will understand,” he said quietly when he at last allowed her to catch her breath. “And Isca is not so far away. I can visit often enough, and if Rhys agrees to hold the mist from time to time, you can as well. Or they can come here. Breena certainly will, for I’ve come to accept she needs you and Avalon to help her understand her power. And now I’ll be here to watch over her.”

“But the wolf—”

“I told you before, the wolf will never harm me. Nor will it take you away from me.”

“When ye say that, Marcus, I begin to believe it.” Tears gathered in Gwen’s eyes. “Ye would do this … change your entire life … for
me?”

“Gwen. I’d
die
for you. Changing my life—living here on Avalon—that is no hardship.” He kissed her again. “And so I’ll ask you again. And again. Until you run out of protests. Will you have me? Will you be my wife?”

She started crying in earnest then, but she was laughing through her tears. “Oh aye, Marcus Aquila, I will have you. Forever.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I intend to love you at least that long.”

Laughter and merriment drifted down the hill to Avalon’s dock, where Rhys sat alone in the dark. With Cyric gone these three moons, Gwen had asked her twin to bless her handfasting with Marcus. Rhys had agreed, of course. But it had been hard—harder than he had imagined—to give his sister to his best friend.

Gwen had been a beautiful bride. The smile she’d given Rhys when he’d bound her left hand to Marcus’s right had gone straight to his heart. It was still there, transformed into an ache that would not go away. He could no longer hear Gwen in his mind. Even though they hadn’t used the link very much as adults, Rhys hadn’t realized how much it still meant to him. Its loss cut him deeply.

Gwen was Marcus’s now. She would remain on Avalon and bear a Daughter, as Cyric had wanted. She was truly happy for the first time in her life. And Rhys was very glad for that. But he could not help feeling sorry for himself. A weakness in his character, he supposed.

His self-pity had not been helped by the sight of Owein’s arms around Clara, who held little Neill in her arms. Nor the presence of Lucius and Rhiannon and their healthy, squalling infant son, who had arrived some weeks early but did not seem the worse for it. Breena had stood at her mother’s side, dressed in a flowing green tunic with gold sleeve pins, flowers entwined in her brilliant red hair. She had not spoken to him—had barely glanced at him—since she’d arrived on Avalon. When she’d smiled up at young Penn, and laughed at something the lad whispered in her ear, Rhys felt as though someone had punched him in the gut. Penn was just a summer or two older than Breena. They made a fine pair, and had struck up an immediate, easy friendship. Which was all to the good, because when Rhiannon and Lucius returned to Isca, Breena would stay on Avalon. If she formed an attachment with Penn …

He did not want to think on it.

As the marriage feast progressed, Rhys’s awkwardness only increased. How was it that he did not know how to act with the very people he’d brought to Avalon from all over Britain? They were a clan now. The children he’d rescued from squalor and neglect were growing tall and happy. The men and women were strengthening in Light every day. They loved him, he knew. But he did not feel as though he were a part of them.

After the feast, he’d played his harp, sung his songs, and watched the others pair off for dancing. When he was finally able to escape, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Perhaps he was not meant to belong.

He stared out over the swamp. The Roman mining camp was gone. Gwen’s renewed protections on the Druid mine had convinced Tribune Valgus that the silver he’d hoped to find was a myth. Once Strabo’s body had been found, and news of his drowning had circulated among the soldiers, Valgus had ordered his men to dismantle the camp and return to Isca.

Black water disappeared into silver mist. Exchalybur lay somewhere beneath the ripples the night wind painted on the water’s surface. Like the Grail, its power was veiled, but not gone. He could feel the sword’s Deep Magic—tempered by its Light—bolstering Gwen’s mist. The sword indeed protected Avalon, as she had envisioned. And as long as it remained hidden, no Druids would succumb to the temptation to take its Deep Magic for their own glory.

And so Rhys would not have to worry about those he loved while he was gone. Summer was waning; he meant to leave at dawn. Another day watching Breena flit about like a butterfly newly emerged from its chrysalis would surely kill him.

Picking up his harp, he plucked one of the strings. The note floated over the water, its plaintive tone spreading until it was too thin to hear. Was he to be like that note? Spread thin across Britain until he lost his own voice, his own desires? His own soul?

He meant to travel north again, perhaps even beyond the Great Wall and into Caledonia. Or across the water to the green isle of Hibernia. The journey would occupy him until next spring. Perhaps his melancholy would disappear by then.

The singing and laughter in the village subsided. No doubt the newly wedded couple, their hands still bound, had sought their bed. Rhys would do well to seek his own rest. He stood slowly, reluctant to retrace his steps to the village.

A light on the water’s surface caught his attention.

A traveler, approaching Avalon through the mist? That just could not be. Frowning, Rhys paced to the water’s edge and peered out into the night. There seemed to be a boat of some sort on the water. A woman was seated in the craft, surrounded by a nimbus of Light. Rhys strained his eyes, but he could not make out her features.

A Druid? Or a vision of the Lady? Rhys held himself still as the craft glided to a halt. The woman stretched her hand over the water, then her head lifted and she looked directly at Rhys.

There was something familiar about her, but Rhys could not grasp what it was. He lifted a hand and prepared to shout a greeting. The words died on his lips.

The boat and the woman had vanished.

But perhaps … not completely. The touch of her Light lingered in his heart; the dark melancholy of moments before had evaporated. Aye, he would leave his home once again, but his journey would someday bring him back.

To love.

He was sure of it.

I hope you’ve enjoyed
Deep Magic,
my small contribution to the vast amount of literature concerning the magical sword Excalibur. As is true of most Arthurian tales, I’ve woven a tapestry of historical fact and legend, combined with my own imagination.