Breena was not so sure. She was glad the vision had faded, and did not wish it back. The joy she’d felt upon awakening dried like morning dew. She truly did not want to reject the Great Mother’s message, but if the Goddess’s favor came with pain and terror, she was not sure she wanted to be blessed.
Rhys lay on his back, listening to the steady rasp of night breathing in the small hut. Gwen’s was closest, right beside him. She was not sleeping any more than Rhys was, but that was not unusual. His twin much preferred night to day. Sometimes Rhys wondered if she slept at all.
He resumed his inventory. Cyric … Mared … Carys … Padrig … Blodwen—the babe snuffled, as she always did … Da’s heavy snore … and …
He frowned. Mama. Where was Mama?
He sent a out a thought.
“Gwen. Ye are awake, aye?”
“Aye.”
“Where is Mama?”
Gwen wriggled across the pallet until she lay with her lips close to his ear.
“Gone. She crept out the door a little while ago, right after Da started snoring.”
Rhys digested this information. He didn’t like it. The night was dark. Dark was dangerous. Mama told them that again and again.
Gwen folded her lithe body into a crouch. “Let’s go find her.”
Rhys was appalled. “Ye mean leave the hut? At night?”
“Mama could be in trouble.”
“Then … we should wake Da. Or Grandfather.”
There was a short silence, then Gwen shook her head violently. She was right. That would only make more trouble.
“We have to make sure she gets back before Da wakes,”
Gwen said silently.
Rhys gathered his courage.
“Aye.”
He crawled out from beneath the blanket. Gwen found his hand and clasped it tightly, as though she were the timid one, rather than he. The sleeping pallets filled the entire floor of the hut with very little room to spare. Together, they crept through the maze toward the door.
Mama had left it a bit ajar. It was simple to slip out into the starless night without waking anyone.
“She could not have gone far, if she left just a little while ago,” he told Gwen once they were a safe distance from the hut.
“True.”
Rhys looked uphill, toward the town, then downhill, toward the forest. “Which way?”
Gwen peered through the night as though she were an owl.
“To the river, I think.”
Now that the end of her time with Marcus was so quickly approaching, Gwen could not seem to take her eyes from him. She was with Breena in the hearth room the next morning when he entered, his hair wet from his bath. His shirt clung damply to his torso, outlining every muscle. His jaw was freshly shaven; if she looked closely, she could see the scrape of the razor on his skin.
She felt his presence in every part of her body—her stomach tightened, her breath went shallow, and her palms began to sweat. A warm, tingling feeling settled low in her belly. She shut her eyes and relived the sensation of his mouth on hers, of his knee parting her legs, of his body moving inside her. When she met his gaze, she knew he was remembering, too.
Soon memories would be all she had.
She turned quickly and busied herself with raking coals into a pile beneath the cauldron, though the fire was already hot enough. She felt Marcus’s gaze on her back as he greeted his sister. When he spoke Gwen’s name, she turned and nodded.
Then he looked at Breena’s bandaged hand and frowned. “What happened?”
Breena froze in the act of pouring her brother’s
cervesia.
Her gaze darted to Gwen as she answered. “I cut it in the kitchen.”
“It’s not like you to be so careless. Has Mother looked at it?”
“There’s no need. Gwen cleansed it with honey.” The girl’s laugh was strained. “Really Marcus, since when do you concern yourself with my every little scrape?”
Marcus shrugged. Gwen thought he might have said more, but Lucius and Aiden entered and the opportunity faded. Rhiannon and Alma emerged from the kitchen. The cook set a tray of cold mutton and bread on the table and departed.
Gwen took a place at the table next to Breena. A thrill shot through her as Marcus slid into the empty seat beside her. He reached past her for a piece of bread, intentionally brushing her breast with his arm.
“Pardon,” he said, his breath on her cheek.
She said nothing.
“Is something wrong?” he asked in an undertone. “You don’t look well.” His gaze darted at Breena. “Did she—”
“Nay, Breena slept peacefully last night.” She bit her lip. “But I need to talk to ye. Later, when we are alone.”
“Of course,” he said, frowning.
Rhiannon, Gwen noted, watched their private exchange with interest. Gwen, uncomfortable since Marcus had told her that his father suspected the long hours they spent together were not entirely occupied with bladesmithing, kept her head down for the rest of the meal. She had little appetite. After a fortnight of being almost a member of the Aquila family, suddenly she felt very much like an outsider. She listened with only half an ear while Lucius and Marcus discussed the advantages of free-threshing triticum wheat over the more common hulled varieties.
Once the meal was done, Marcus clasped Gwen by the elbow, nodded to his family, and steered her out of the house and into the rose garden.
“Now,” he demanded. “Tell me what is wrong.”
“When will the sword be finished?”
“Ten days or so.”
“That’s far too long! I … Rhys has been calling me, Marcus.”
“You mean … in your mind?” He knew Rhys had communicated with his sister silently when she’d been trapped in wolf form.
“Aye. Strabo’s magic has caused Cyric’s hold on the mist to falter. Rhys is holding the spell, but with Deep Magic assaulting Avalon, it is difficult. I must return with the Lady’s sword as soon as I can. How quickly can ye finish it?”
“It will take three days at least to temper the bright iron. Another day to attach the hilt and complete the scabbard.”
“I pray that will be soon enough.”
They walked to the smithy. Marcus said nothing as he pushed open the door. As soon as she entered, she became aware of the magic of Exchalybur.
She approached the forge and gazed down at the blade on the stone cooling ledge. The weapon was long and straight, but the edges were still rough, and the grip was missing. A nimbus of white light radiated from the bright iron. Laced through it were streaks of shining sky blue.
The sword’s aura pulsed gently, as a human aura did. When Gwen reached out her hand, the metal was warm to the touch. As if it were alive.
This was Deep Magic indeed, deeper than anything she had guessed she could create. In the past two days, she had crafted spells designed to hide the sword from its enemies. She hoped to retain an element of surprise when she returned to face Strabo.
“There’s great magic in this sword, isn’t there?”
She looked at Marcus with surprise. And guilt. “Can ye feel it?” she asked carefully.
“No.” He was silent for a moment. “I can see it in your face, when you look at it. The Light must be very strong.”
She could not meet his gaze. “It is.” She bit her lip to stop herself from confessing the whole—that Light was not the only magic bound to the Lady’s sword. The heart of the metal was Deep Magic. If Marcus knew, would he refuse to finish the weapon? She could not take that chance.
And so she let her lie stand.
Marcus lifted the unfinished sword. Its aura flared at his touch, but he did not seem at all affected by it. He sighted down the length of the piece, then turned it in his hand, inspecting the flat and the blunt edges.
“What would Rhys say about it, do you think?” he asked.
Gwen gave a guilty start. “I … I am not sure. Cyric … he does not allow weapons on Avalon.”
“Even weapons of Light?”
“Nay. And Rhys … he is obedient to Cyric. He is ever chiding me that I am not.” She bit her lip. “I am a disappointment to my brother.”
“That’s not true.”
“I am sure that it is.”
Marcus replaced the sword on the stone ledge and gave a decisive shake of his head. “No. If anything, I think it’s more likely that Rhys is jealous of you.”
“Ye are daft, Marcus! Rhys is not jealous of me. Why, the man does not hesitate to point out my every flaw!”
“Perhaps he is envious of your flaws.”
She shot him a disbelieving look. “Oh, aye, to be sure.”
“I mean it. Rhys has never been happy with his life, it seems to me. He roams Britain because Cyric has ordered it, when all he wants to do is live on Avalon. I think he wishes he had the courage to disobey your grandfather, as you do.”
“If that is a compliment, Marcus, it is not a very flattering one.”
Marcus shrugged. “It’s what I think, that is all.” He slid her another look, his eyes suddenly glinting with mischief. “So, while we are speaking of your faults, may I ask which in particular Rhys most disapproves of? Your sharp tongue? Your rash nature?”
She laughed. “Ye would have me lay out my shortcomings before you?”
“I’ll confess my own flaws first, if that would make you more comfortable.” He extended a thumb. “First, I dislike Father’s library. I especially hate philosophy, history, and rhetoric. And my Greek is abysmal.”
A genuine smile tugged at Gwen’s lips. It was hard to be anxious when Marcus joked. “None of those things are shortcomings to my mind.”
His forefinger extended. “Two, I am a hopeless swordsman. Surely that counts against me.”
She laughed outright. “That cannot be true.”
“I assure you it is. Oh, I know the moves and can wave a blade about—that’s essential if I am to learn the proper balance of a weapon—but in a true fight I’m as good as dead. Father tried his best to teach me, but I endured the lessons with poor grace, and did not practice. As a child, I spent all my free time drawing.”
“Drawing is a worthy skill.” She glanced at the papyrus, parchment, and wax tablets cluttering Marcus’s worktable, all filled with intricate images.
Her gaze strayed to Marcus’s hands. His fingers were strong and blunt, rough with callouses, marred by puckered burns. And yet, those hands held pen or stylus with utmost delicacy. Those hands worshiped her breasts and stroked between her thighs like pure magic.
Without thinking, she touched his bare chin. Another part of him that fascinated her. Another thing she would miss when she left him. The only other man she ever saw without a beard was Rhys.
He caught her wrist and held it. The inner ring of his iris expanded, leaving her to plunge into the dark of his pupils. It was a seductive darkness, like the depths of the forest on a starless night. It was no place she should go.
She had vowed to walk in the Light.
And yet, she did not want to.
His gaze locked with hers, Marcus turned her palm to his lips and kissed it.
She closed her eyes as delicious, familiar fire streaked through her body, pooling in her breasts, her belly, her loins. He had the power to melt her, with only the touch of his lips. His tongue stroked a small, vivid circle in the center of her palm, then licked a line to the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb. He set his lips to the inside of her wrist and scraped her pulse point with his teeth.
“Marcus …”
He searched her gaze. “Were you happy, living on Avalon?”
“I … what do ye mean? Avalon is my home.”
“I know that. I asked if you were happy there. Do you miss it?”
Gwen shook her head. Did she miss Avalon? Certainly, her thoughts were consumed by the threat to her home, except during those hours when Marcus’s lovemaking chased all else from her mind. She missed Ardra, and wondered how the cubs were growing. She missed laughing with Clara. But Mared’s disapproving scowl? Nay, she did not miss that. Padrig’s pursed lips? If she never saw them again, she would not be sorry. And she was ashamed to admit she felt only relief at the loss of Trevor’s hopeful gaze and Cyric’s patient disappointment.
Here in Isca, her days were filled with Rhiannon’s welcoming smile, Lucius’s grave concern, Breena’s cheerful friendship. And Marcus. Especially Marcus.
Nay, she did not miss Avalon. Not at all.
The thought disturbed her greatly.
She met Marcus’s soft, dark eyes. “Avalon is all I know.”
“It
was
all you knew. Not anymore. Now you know me, and my home. I want you to stay.”
Her heart squeezed painfully. “Ye know that cannot be! Did ye hear nothing I told ye? I must return to Avalon as soon as possible.”
“You must return, yes, but do you have to remain?”
She stared at him. “Of course I do.”
“Why? Can’t another Druid wield Exchalybur? What about Owein? He’s very powerful, and a Seer, like your grandfather. Apart from that, he’s a trained warrior.”
“He could never be Guardian of Avalon. The mist is Cyric’s. Only those of his blood can hold it. ’Tis yet another reason I must return, and marry.”
“Let Rhys become Guardian. He’d welcome the role.”
“Cyric would never allow it.”
Marcus swore. “It all comes back to that old man’s whims.”
“They are not whims, Marcus. Cyric is a Seer. He follows the will of the Great Mother.”
“I don’t see how it can be the will of the Great Mother for you to live in a place where you do not wish to be, with people who do not value you, married to a man you do not love. If I were to consult with the Great Mother, I am sure she would tell me you should stay here and marry me.”
Gwen’s lips parted. “Ye wish to
marry
me?”
Marcus crossed his arms. “Yes. I do. And you, unless I am very much mistaken, want to marry me.”
“Nay, I do not—”
He uncrossed his arms and took two angry steps toward her. “Do not lie to me, Gwen.”
She sucked in a breath. “Even if I do want to marry ye, Marcus. I … cannot. The wolf—”
“I am not afraid of the wolf.”
“Ye should be! So far, the beast has yielded to ye, but it is a creature of Deep Magic. I’ve told ye before—I cannot control or predict what will happen when it comes to the wolf. I could shift in your bed … I could hurt ye—”