The Grail King (3 page)

“I mean the Wise One no harm,” she persisted. “Nor will I tell a soul of his hiding place.”

“Ye are Roman,” he said, as if that were an answer.

“Yes, of course,” she replied to his broad shoulders.

Words began tumbling from her lips, as they always did when her blood pounded in her ears. “But I have no reason to alert the authorities. Just the opposite. I was directed to the Seer by an old Celt sla—friend,” she amended hastily. “He told me the Wise One’s heart is kind and true. I’m in sore need of his magic.” She inhaled. “Please. Will you take me to him?”

The Celt was silent for several long heartbeats. Finally, he turned, eyeing her, clearly deciding whether she was worth the trouble of an honest answer. She resisted the urge to squirm under his scrutiny.

At last he spoke. “And who is this
friend
—” he said the word harshly, as if spitting out the uglier term she’d almost used—“ … who told ye tales of a Druid?”

“A Celt elder. An old man who lived in these hills, before …”

Her voice trailed off in the face of the Celt’s scowl. She wondered, not for the first time, if she’d lost her wits completely to embark on this wild quest, even with Aiden’s encouragement. A knot of fear tightened in her stomach. But then she thought of Father huddled in his sickbed.

She stiffened her spine. “He lived in these hills before he came to dwell in the city.”

“Before Sempronius Gracchus and the Second Legion enslaved the last of the free Celts, ye mean.”

Clara fought to control her expression as the Celt spat out her father’s name. “Yes,” she said.

“Where are your companions?” Venom laced his tone. “A wealthy woman such as ye would travel with an escort. Were there soldiers? Did ye lose them in the storm?”

“I came alone.”

The Celt’s piercing blue gaze bored into her. “If that be true, then ye are surely mad.”

Her fingers twisted the edge of the fur blanket. “No doubt you’re right. But I had no choice. Please. If you know the Wise One, take me to him.”

A veil dropped over his eyes, blanking their expression.

She went still. “You know where he is.”

He hesitated, and she thought perhaps he would deny it. But a moment later, he nodded once. “I ken the one ye speak of. But I wouldna name him wise. Nor kind.”

“It matters not what you would call him. Only that you take me to him.”

His gaze sought the fire, where it lingered moodily. Finally, he sighed. “Ye’ve found him already, lass.”

“I don’t understand.”

He gave her a pointed look, brows lifted.

Several seconds passed before she grasped his meaning. When it did, her breath left her.
No.
It wasn’t possible. She sought an old man. An elder.

Didn’t she?

“You?”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “Ye look a bit green about the gills, lass. Am I nay what ye expected?”

A shiver saved her the embarrassment of a reply. She rubbed her arms, drawing up her knees to her chest. The scowl returned to the Celt’s face as he poked the fire yet again. The flames leapt, giving off a shower of sparks.

Oh, gods. She’d imagined Aiden’s Wise One as a barbarian Aristotle, wizened and ethereal. Never once had she considered the possibility he’d be a virile young male. But Aiden had assured her the Druid who had guided his clan was a gentle, holy man.

Clara tried to picture this burly, red-bearded Celt passing an hour of quiet contemplation. She couldn’t summon the image. Surely he spent far more time chopping wood.

And yet … Her gaze drifted to the charred logs in the hearth. Didn’t a wise man need warmth as much as a fool?

She examined the Celt from under her eyelashes. His body held more power than she could contemplate—and having lived her entire life in military fortresses, she was well suited to judging the strength of men. But perhaps his wild clothing, fashioned entirely from animal skins, influenced her perception. His shirt bore fur, turned to his skin. Rough hide
braccas
encased his powerful legs. His footwear was hardly more than skins bound to his feet and calves with a crisscross of thongs.

She caught his eye and he lifted his brows. Quickly she averted her gaze. The curved daub-and-wattle wall enclosed his simple circular dwelling. His furnishings were crudely made and haphazardly arranged. A chest, a table, a chair. His hearth wanted sweeping. Overhead, an untidy bundle of herbs hung from a smoke-blackened timber.

It was the dwelling of a man who didn’t expect much from life. Had it always been thus for him?

“You are young,” she said finally.

“Nay so young as you, lass.” She thought she heard amusement in his voice, but when she searched his face, she saw no trace of it. “No Roman knows of my presence in these hills,” he said. “And no Celt would dare speak of it to one such as ye. Who was this old man who sent ye to me?”

“A … servant in my father’s household. He’s called Aiden.”

“Aiden?” Raw emotion lit his eyes, then was gone. He shook his head, his startled expression resolving into wry amusement. It made him seem almost human.

“Curse the old fool,” he said. Then, tentatively, “He is well?”

“Yes,” Clara said. Once again her fingers found the edges of the furs. “Though … his joints ache at times. He rubs his fingers with a salve I procured from a Celt healer—he would not abide by the leeches suggested by the Greek physician. But I don’t think he truly wants to banish the pain. He claims the rhythm of the ache helps him predict the fall of the dice.”

“ ’Tis Aiden, to be sure. A more superstitious man ye’ll nay encounter. The idiot sees signs in every turn of the wind, each squawk of the crow. Even the shape of his own spittle upon the ground.”

“And you don’t?”

The amused expression fell from his face. “True power ne’er comes so easily.”

“But isn’t magic a gift from the gods? To be used for the benefit of men?”

“Gods are capricious beings. They gift and curse with one stroke. They never grant power without demanding payment.” He spat into the fire. “ ’Tis a wise man who leaves the immortals to their own devices.”

“And yet, if the need is great—”

“Whatever it is ye came for, dinna ask me to provide it.”

Clara pursed her lips. He couldn’t refuse her request. Her father’s life depended on it. “I’ll pay you well.”

“I’ve no need of Roman coin.”

“Then help me for Aiden’s sake.” She watched him closely. “He gave me a message for you.”

The Seer grunted. “What message?”

“He said to tell you it wasn’t your fault.”

The Seer flinched as if he’d been struck. Rising abruptly, he strode to the wooden chest and jerked it open.

“If you would but listen …” Clara cried.

He extracted what looked like a garment from the chest. For a moment, he stood motionless, staring down at it. Then he tossed the fabric in her direction.

She caught it. “What—?”

“Put that on.” Giving her his back, he headed for the door.

“Wait! Where are you—”

Too late. She saw a sliver of daylight through the open door; then he was gone.

“Oh!” Clara pounded the ground with her fist. Pain shot up her arm, but she welcomed the sting; it helped ground her anger. Rude barbarian! How dare he walk out on her when she’d traveled so far to find him? She scowled at the door, wishing she had something substantial to throw at it.

Unfortunately, she didn’t. She had only his spare shirt. She shook it out. It wasn’t like the crude one on his back, but a real garment, woven of linen, well worn and soft. She eyed her own clothing, crumpled in a sodden heap on the floor, her sleeve pins scattered in the dirt nearby. A hot surge of irritation flushed her cheeks. That embroidered wool had come all the way from Rome. How like a man, not to think to spread it to dry. The least he could have done was collect the pins into a pile.

Keeping one eye on the door, she let the fur blanket slide from her shoulders. She slipped the Seer’s shirt over her head. The garment was far too large. The sleeves hung well past her fingertips and the hem trailed as far as her knees. Her breasts gaped through the open front. She rolled up the sleeves and tied the front laces as tightly as she could.

The shirt smelled of herbs, and of …
him.
Already she knew his scent—she suspected she would recognize it even blindfolded. It was a wild odor, not unpleasant, but not anything she’d encountered in Isca, or before that, Eburacum. Or before
that,
Londinium.

She clung to the memory of those places, because in them her father loomed large and strong, invincible in his Legionary armor. So different from how she’d last seen him—thin and wasted under his blankets, his face sunken and hollow. The Greek physician had proven useless and even Rhiannon, the Celt healer whose husband had once been an officer in the Legions, offered little hope.

Only Clara could save her father now—but only if the Druid lent her his aid.

Her gorge rose, but with her stomach empty, she tasted only bile. She clamped one hand over her mouth, praying she would not retch. The scent of the Seer’s shirt, of all things, helped her nausea recede. The fabric smelled of pine and heather, mist and mystery. Magic and hope. When its owner returned, she would plead again for his assistance.

And if he refused?

“He cannot deny me,” she said out loud, as if speech would make her pronouncement true. “He
will not.
” But she was not at all sure. Despite Aiden’s assurance that the Seer was a good man, she sensed a darkness about him.

She attempted to stand, but, as the Seer had warned, her injured feet protested her weight. She could do no more than hobble. She gritted her teeth against the shooting pains and managed the few steps needed to reach her belongings.

She retrieved her clothing and shook it out. Dragging a low bench near the fire, she spread the garments across it. By the time she’d finished the task, her breath was shallow and labored. She fought back tears of frustration. She hated being weak.

Grasping her satchel, she returned to the pallet and sat cross-legged, facing the fire. As always, the image of the prancing cat made her smile. The bag had been a present from her father on the occasion of her twelfth birthday. Holding it comforted her, until she realized the shoulder strap had been severed by a sharp blade.

Annoyance heated her cheeks. Couldn’t the brute have bothered to work the buckle loose?

Her reluctant host returned before long, carrying the skinned carcass of a winter hare in one hand and a pail of fresh snow in the other. She watched in silence as he spitted his kill, banking the fire beneath it. He dumped the snow into his cauldron. Taking a small box from a shelf, he threw a handful of something dark and crumbling into the vessel.

She considered the rigid line of his shoulders, the downward cant of his mouth. His surliness made no difference. She needed his magic. Needed him.

She took a breath. “Please hear me—”

He held up a long-handled wooden spoon. “Not now, lass.” His dismissive tone raised her ire. He dipped the utensil into the brew and brought it to his lips.

“You don’t understand,” she said through gritted teeth. “There is no time to waste.”

He shook his head as he ladled the mixture into a crude wooden cup. He offered it to her. “Drink.”

She hadn’t realized how great her thirst was until that moment. Her fingers brushed his as she accepted the cup. The small contact sent heat racing through her. She drew back quickly, cradling the cup in her palms.

“What is this?” she asked, peering doubtfully at the brown bits of debris floating on the surface of the brew.

“A potion of willow bark. Drink.”

When she hesitated, he shook his head in exasperation. “Can ye nay take simple instruction, lass?”

She bent her head and took a sip. The brew was warm, not hot, and though it was bitter, it slid down her throat easily. He returned to his spit, rotating the hare’s carcass slowly, searing it in the flame. Grease sizzled onto the fire, sending a savory aroma into the air. Clara blinked against a sudden lightheadedness. How long since she’d eaten? A full day? More?

Her stomach sent up a rumble. She pressed her palm against it, mortified. A flash of real amusement lit the Seer’s eyes. Just a spark, and only for a heartbeat, but it lifted Clara’s hopes. Perhaps there was a touch of softness within him, despite his gruff ways. She sipped her bitter draught, watching as he tended the meat. Drawing a knife from a sheath on his belt, he cut a portion of seared flesh from the bone. He placed it on a thin slab of wood and offered it to her.

This time, she was careful not to let her fingers brush his as she accepted his offering. Keeping the blanket well over her bare legs, she perched the plate on her knees. Hunger overtook her and she ate with far less care than she’d been taught. The Seer watched her, a bemused expression on his rugged face, then rose and moved across the room. He returned to lay a hunk of stale bannock on her plate.

Clara eyed the barley bread with distaste. Only slaves and cattle ate barley. But hunger was a potent spice. She accepted the offering without complaint, using the hard bread to sop up the last bit of meat juices.

Where did the Seer come by his grain? Did he pilfer from remote farm fields or cultivate his own small plot? She chewed thoughtfully, trying to imagine his solitary existence. She found she could not.

When she looked up, the Seer had seated himself in the dwelling’s single chair. He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, his big hands dangling between his legs. His fierce azure eyes unnerved her.

“Will you not eat?” she asked him. The Celt words were coming easier now. She was glad she’d practiced so often with Aiden.

“Nay. But ye may have as much as ye like. Though if ye’ve been without food for a while, ’tis best if ye dinna fill your stomach too quickly.”

She put the empty plate aside. “I thank you, Wise—”

“Owein,” he said sharply. “My name is Owein.”

She hadn’t known that. Aiden had called him only “The Seer,” and “The Wise One,” as if afraid to utter a given name.

“Owein,” she repeated slowly, letting the Celt lilt of the vowels roll off her tongue. She matched the sound of it to his face. “Well met, Owein. I am called Clara.”