Deep Magic (5 page)

“Are ye saying Marcus Aquila would betray Avalon to the Second Legion? I cannot believe it!”

“Nay, not that. But Marcus does not believe the Druids of Avalon can practice Light without turning to Deep Magic.”

Gwen drew a breath. “Have ye ever considered, Rhys, that he may be right?”

There was a brief, deafening silence in which Rhys went very still. His gaze sharpened. “What do ye mean by that?”

Gwen swallowed, but didn’t answer.

Rhys stepped closer and pitched his voice low, though there was no one nearby to hear. “Ye’ve called the wolf. Again.”

The quiet statement vibrated with frustration. She searched his eyes, but for what, she wasn’t certain. She’d long suspected Rhys had the same talent that she did—she had even suggested as much to him, more than once. But even if Rhys
were
able to take animal form, he wouldn’t dare go against Cyric’s orders to shun Deep Magic. Her dutiful brother practiced only the Light.

The elation Gwen had felt at Rhys’s arrival evaporated. She sighed. It was always like this. Rhys returned home after one of his long absences and Gwen greeted him joyfully, his familiar presence reminding her they were two halves of one whole. Then, invariably, she remembered which of them was the better half.

“Tell me truly, Gwen. Did ye call the wolf while I was gone?”

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. “Promise ye’ll not tell Cyric.”

“Ah, Gwen …”

“ ’Tis nay my fault! I cannot always control when and where the wolf will appear.”

“I wonder if ye try to control it at all.”

The accusation was like a fist to her gut. “Ye only say that because ye have no idea what it is like.”

A shadow passed over Rhys’s expression. His gaze dropped. For a long moment he was silent, the corners of his mouth turned down. Deciding what he would tell Cyric, no doubt.

Gwen’s stomach churned. He could not tell their grandfather about the wolf! He could
not.
And yet, if Rhys decided that he must, there would be nothing she could do to stop him.

When he looked back at her at last, she nearly sagged with relief. There was no anger, no censure, in his eyes at all.

“I understand your struggle,” he said quietly. “Deep Magic seduces. But Gwen, ye must find a way to resist it! Ye know Cyric’s teaching. The more often ye call the Deep Magic, the stronger its hold on ye. Soon there will be no controlling it at all.”

“I’m well aware of that.”
More than ye know.

Rhys’s expression was pained. “The past year has been difficult for ye, ever since …” He trailed off, not wanting to speak of her time in the cave any more than she wanted to hear of it. “Gwen, have ye ever considered that perhaps it does not have to be so hard? That ye need not face what happened alone? A husband—”

“Rhys—”

“Nay,” he said, halting her protest with a raised hand. “Hear me out. Trevor is a good man. Loyal and strong in the Light. And he … has endured his own pain. Ye could confide in him about the wolf. About the time ye spent trapped by Blodwen’s spell …”

Gwen met Rhys’s eyes, then looked away. The pity there was more than she could bear.

He touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry I did not find ye sooner. If I had, ye might not be so unhappy now.”

“How could ye have known what was happening? Ye spend so little time on Avalon.”

“I … I wish it were otherwise.”

Gwen knew that was as much of an admission of dissatisfaction with Cyric’s commands as Rhys was ever likely to admit. A sigh escaped her lips. Did he have to be so … accepting? So
good?
She resisted an urge to fling her basket into the swamp.

“Why has Cyric required this of us, Rhys? Why did he choose me as the next Guardian when ’tis clear ye are the better choice?”

“I do not believe that. Cyric chose rightly. Your power has always been greater than mine. Once the effect of Blodwen’s Dark spell recedes fully, ye will see the truth of that.”

“And what if the Darkness never fades? What then?”

“Cyric says …”

“Cyric does not know about the wolf! What would our grandfather say if he knew there were times when I would rather rip the hair from my scalp—nay, the flesh from my bones!—rather than deny the beast inside? Would he name me Guardian of Avalon if he knew I cannot deny the call of Deep Magic?”

Rhys was silent for moment. “I do not know,” he said at last.

Gwen clutched her basket to her chest. “The clan would prefer ye to be Guardian after Cyric. And ye want that, too. Ye belong on Avalon, Rhys. Not wandering the Roman world like a beggar.”

The truth of her words was reflected in Rhys’s eyes. Her twin longed for Avalon as much as she longed to escape it. But she knew he would never voice that yearning.

“It does no good to rail against one’s duty. I follow the path Cyric has set. Ye must do the same.”

“And if I cannot?”

“Ye must. Ye are a Daughter of the Lady, Gwen. Her line must continue.”

“Clara is a Daughter as well. Her babe will be born soon.”

“Mared predicts a lad, not a lass.”

“Perhaps Mared is wrong. In any case, Clara and Owein are rarely apart. No doubt Clara’s belly will be round again before this babe is weaned.”

“It will be a year or more before that comes to pass. All the better if ye marry and bear a Daughter before then.”

“What good are any number of Daughters if the Romans discover Avalon? Did Trevor tell ye? Legionaries set up camp in the hills a moon past. They are looking for silver. If they find it …”

“They will not. Cyric’s illusions veil the Druid mine.”

“Aye, but what will happen when Cyric passes and the protection of Avalon falls to me?”

“Your spells will protect Avalon as securely as Cyric’s.”

“And if they do not? If a power stronger than mine assaults the sacred isle, we will be revealed.”

“Ye belittle your power. Ye will not fail.”

“I am not so certain.” She drew a breath. “Rhys, did ye know ye were followed here from Isca?”

“That cannot be. There was no one else on the road.”

Dread tightened Gwen’s gut. “Ye felt nothing? Nothing at all?”

“What is this about, Gwen?”

“There’s … a Roman soldier. An officer. He trailed ye from Isca, but lost ye in the mists.”

“Nay. I am sure I was alone.”

“I saw him, Rhys! He arrived at the Roman camp not two hours past. I heard him tell the sentry at the gate he’d lost the trail of a fair-haired minstrel.”

“Ye
heard
him? Ye were that close?”

“Aye.”

“But how …” He broke off as understanding dawned in his eyes. “Ye called the wolf. To spy on the camp.”

She lifted her chin. “We need to know everything we can learn about that Roman camp. As a wolf, I was able to get closer than any human might have. The soldier who arrived from Isca knows there’s a Celt settlement nearby. He
followed
ye here, Rhys. He may even know ye are a Druid. He is looking for Avalon.”

“Let him look. He will not find us. No soldier can see through the mist.”

“This man is no ordinary Legionary. He’s a sorcerer. His Deep Magic is bound to Darkness. He looked right through my protections.”

“He saw the wolf?”

Gwen nodded.

Rhys swore. The sound startled Gwen—her brother so seldom uttered profanity. “By the Great Mother, Gwen, what were ye thinking? Ye are lucky your hide isn’t draped across an army tent!” His gray eyes sparked with rare fury. “Ye are too important to risk yourself so. I cannot believe ye would put yourself—and Avalon—in such danger.”

“Do ye nay understand, Rhys? Avalon is already in danger. How did this sorcerer learn of us? How did he know ye would lead him here? If he is bent on finding Avalon, Cyric’s mist may not be enough to turn him away.”

She watched him consider her words, frowning. “I’ll assemble the Elders. Cyric, Mared, and Padrig will guide us.”

Mared and Padrig were fools, in Gwen’s estimation. And Cyric would never consider utilizing any magic other than the Light. “The Elders are too blind to see what is true! To fight Deep Magic, we must call Deep Magic.”

“Cyric will not allow it. Ye know that as well as I.”

“Cyric,” Gwen said slowly, “does not need to know.”

Rhys regarded her with something akin to horror. “Ye cannot mean to defy our grandfather, Gwen.”

“I do. I must. Rhys, have ye seen Cyric since your return?”

“Nay. He’s asleep yet. Padrig bade me wait until he woke.”

“He’s much weaker than when ye last saw him. I do not think he will survive to see another spring.” She paused and drew a deep breath. “If I’m to be Guardian after he is gone, than ye must trust me to do what I believe is best for Avalon.”

“Ye made a vow,” Rhys replied harshly, “to walk only in Light. Ye cannot abandon that promise.”

“And if the Light is not enough to save us?”

“Who is this Roman who has ye so frightened? Did ye hear his name while ye were spying?”

“I … think so.” She closed her eyes and sorted through the wolf’s memories. “It was something like … Stratus? Nay.” She dug deeper. “Strabo. That was it.”

“Strabo?” Rhys seemed stunned. “Are ye sure?”

“Aye. Do ye know him?”

“I know of him. Everyone does. Legate Titus Strabo is the new commander of the Second Legion’s garrison at Isca. He arrived at the fortress last autumn, direct from a posting in Egypt.”

“Egypt?” The exotic word felt strange on Gwen’s tongue.

“A desert land far to the south, ancient and timeless. Their Old Ones raised great temples of stone to their gods, as ours did.”

“A land of Deep Magic, then.”

Rhys met her gaze. “Aye.”

“Then we have much to fear, brother.”

* * *

Late that night, the wolf within Gwen woke, and began to howl.

The vibration whispered in Gwen’s mind, too faint for human ears. The sound was alluring. Seductive.

She thrashed, throwing off a blanket that had become unbearably heavy. Behind her eyelids, she saw a flash of greenery. Felt the dew, damp on her paws. The rich smell of blood told her prey was near. A deer. Wounded. Weak. The wolf leapt. For one exhilarating moment, it hung between the earth and sky. Then its claws snagged on flesh, its teeth sank deep …

Gwen came awake with a jolt so hard it took her breath. Her heart slammed against her ribs; the taste of copper fouled her mouth.
Blood.

She put her fingers to her face and realized the blood was her own. She’d bitten her lip while caught in the nightmare.

A sob welled up in her throat, but she did not allow it to escape. Her body was on the verge of shattering into a thousand fragments. If the tears came, she would be lost. Calling all her strength, she willed them gone.

Had Mared heard her cry? She peered across the dimly lit roundhouse. No, the old healer was snoring peacefully. Gwen thanked the Great Mother for that small favor.

A charcoal slice of night showed through the half-open door; Gwen doubted much time had passed since she’d fallen into her fitful slumber. Sweat stung her skin, making her thin wool tunic cling uncomfortably to her breasts and thighs. She wanted it off. Needed to be naked.

Now.

The wolf called again, its howl shrieking through her skull. She started to rise, to give it what it wanted. Then, with a groan, she checked herself. Sinking back down on her pallet, she buried her face in her hands.

She could not live like this.

Perhaps Rhys was right. Perhaps she did not resist the call of Deep Magic as strongly as she should. Her human will was stronger than the wolf’s instinct. It should prevail.

The wolf’s howl came again.

She squeezed her eyelids closed. With all her will, all her magic—all that she
was
—she summoned her link to the Light. The sacred Words sprang to mind. Her spell was potent. Even whispered, she felt the sharp edge of its power on her lips. The wolf howled in protest. Writhed and whimpered, like a beast in a cage. Her heart twisted at its plight, but, recalling Rhys’s words and the vow she’d made to Cyric, she held fast.

Deep Magic seeped away. The wolf retreated. Gwen breathed a prayer. Rhys and Cyric were right. The Light
was
enough.

The inner battle left her exhausted. Her eyelids seemed weighted by stones. They closed as a dark, heavy sleep descended.

She stood on Avalon’s shore, gazing across the swamp. A black pall hung over the flat water, like a storm descended from the sky. As Gwen watched, the Dark mass contracted, expanded, and contracted again, as if drawing breath. A searing wind swept toward her, bringing the hot stench of burning flesh.

The white mists of Avalon wavered.

Where was Cyric? He was Guardian of Avalon; it was his task to hold the mists. The power resided in Cyric’s family line; of all the Druids on Avalon, only Gwen and Rhys could hold the spell in Cyric’s absence. Gwen spoke the Words, seeking to bolster her grandfather’s spell. Her effort did nothing. The mists were thinning. Fading.

The Dark cloud drifted toward the island. At the same time, Gwen became aware of a white nimbus beside her. She turned to see a woman. Her features were brilliant; her robe dazzling, as if she were clothed with the sun. In her hand was a sword. Its blade shone like polished silver.

“My Lady,” Gwen breathed.

The woman inclined her head. “Daughter.” She held the sword aloft, its blade shimmering white and blue.

The power in the Lady’s blade sang. It was magic, but more—it seemed to possess a life and soul of its own. Gwen’s lips parted. Never had she beheld such unfathomable, dangerous power. Deep Magic, certainly. But not Deep Magic alone. Deep Magic bound to Light.

A tingling sensation ran up Gwen’s arm. In the next instant, the Lady was gone, and her sword was in Gwen’s hand. The dark cloud advanced, the blackness folding in upon itself until it took the shape of an otherworldly creature. Short, squat legs, ending in hideous curved claws, supported a thick torso covered with black scales. Great batlike wings unfurled from its back.

The beast’s mouth opened, emitting a blast of dark fire. Gwen leaped backward, pointing the Lady’s blade at her foe. Light shot out, striking the beast’s chest. The creature was far from cowed. Rearing up on its hind legs, it gathered its might for a second time.