Silver Silence (2 page)

The meal had helped a little. Ciara had even managed to find a few chunks of meat to float in his broth. She must be feeling generous. Or perhaps just very needy. Not many travelers found themselves stopping at this godsforsaken crossroads.

Rhys’s weariness had receded a little upon Fergus’s warm greeting. No doubt the man anticipated the profit Rhys’s harp brought to his tavern. But Rhys sensed honest regard, too. A minstrel’s song, even sung with half a heart, was a joy Fergus did not often experience.

And so Rhys had worked to keep the darkness at bay. His music flowed easily, as it always did. After fifteen years, his harp was almost a part of him; he could play in his sleep, if need be. Now it was done. He found himself looking forward to Ciara’s bed. At least with her, he did not have to pretend. She understood what he wanted.

It shamed him, this burning, angry need. And yet,
he could not summon the strength to resist it. If it was wrong, so be it. He was tired of fighting.

Fatigue dragged at his bones as he followed Ciara up the stair. He felt old. Far older, even, than his nine-and-twenty years. Fifteen years, he’d wandered. More than half his life. His youth had been worn to dust on the road. Aye, he did his duty to Avalon. Every day, he fulfilled the promise his grandfather had forced him to give, knowing he would never be done with it. Knowing he would never be free.

It angered him. It had from the beginning, though in those early days, panic had been his foremost emotion. He’d conquered his fears long ago—but his rage? That remained, simmering beneath the genial facade he presented to the world. He could not fight for his life, nor could he escape it.

He could only forget. For a few hours, at least.

Ciara climbed the stairs swiftly. She lit a candle in her small room under the eaves, then shut and bolted the door. Turning, she leaned against it.

Rhys set his pack in a corner, then straightened and looked at her. She was thin—if he wished, he might have counted her ribs. But her breasts were high and full, and she was more than willing to give him what he wanted.

“Strip,” he said softly.

Her fingers went immediately to the tasseled cord at her waist. She unknotted the braided leather, and let it drop. Her blouse dropped next. Then her skirt. By the time her undertunic joined the heap of clothes on the ground, she was trembling.

He ordered her onto her knees. She obeyed swiftly. Her eyes, sharp with excitement, fixed on his groin. He unlaced his breeches; his shaft sprang free. She made an appreciative sound in the back of her throat, and licked her lips.

He used her mouth first, holding her head in place and plunging into her almost desperately, seeking that rush of dark lust that blotted out every other thought. Her ripe red lips worked him, encouragement vibrating deep in her throat. Her hands clutched his buttocks, her nails digging deep. But oddly, the pain seemed very far away. As did the pleasure. It was as if his emotions were wrapped in a death shroud.

Unsatisfied, he left Ciara’s mouth, and ordered her onto the bed, which was little more than a strawstuffed pallet laid on a wooden frame. She lay with arms flung overhead, watching hungrily as he removed his clothing. Naked, he bent to retrieve something from the floor.

He crawled over her on all fours and entered her with one hard thrust. She gasped, hips arching. Catching her wrists, he wrapped them with the braided leather cord she’d worn at her waist. He looped the free end around the end rail of the bed frame and pulled the rope taut.

The sight of her lying bound and helpless brought a rush of dark, erotic satisfaction. In this one small area of his life, at least, he was master. Ciara enjoyed playing the slave. Her inner muscles milked his hardness; a shudder of pleasure ran through her. Her full breasts beckoned. He took one hardened nipple in his mouth and suckled.

“Aye!” she gasped. “Like that. Harder, Rhys! Harder—”

He drove his flesh into her with anger and lust and hopelessness. But try as he might, he could outrun none of it. His shame spread over him like a vermin-ridden blanket, until he all but choked with the ugliness of it. Ciara, oblivious to his inner turmoil, urged him on.

He was glad, he supposed, that one of them would take some fulfillment from their joining. With an odd detachment, as if he were spectator rather than partici
pant, Rhys watched the frantic union of their bodies. His lust had long gone cold; he could have easily withdrawn and walked away. But Ciara would not appreciate that insult.

So Rhys closed his eyes and summoned a fantasy—one as forbidden and shameful as it was exciting.

In his mind’s eye, the woman beneath him was not a whore. She was young, and innocent, and trusting. Freckles danced across a proud nose that was decidedly Roman. A gap showed between her front teeth. Her pointed chin hinted at her stubborn nature, and her hair…ah, her hair was a rare luxury. Long and bright as flame, it spilled and curled like a river of fire, circling her glorious round breasts…

His lust returned with a vengeance. His cock hardened past endurance. Every stroke into Breena’s lush, ripe body was the most agonizing bliss…

Ciara cried out, convulsing with pleasure beneath him. Rhys yanked himself from her body just in time to groan his own release. His seed spilled milky white on her stomach and thighs.

Shame rushed in, hot on the heels of his climax. Heartsick, he fumbled with the knot on Ciara’s bonds. When she was free, he jerked to his feet and strode the short length of the room to its single window. Throwing open the shutters, he braced one arm on the sill and looked out on blackness.

“Rhys? Is something wrong?”

The genuine concern in Ciara’s voice made him hate himself even more. He pressed his forehead to the window frame, cold sweat beading on his forehead. Gods. How could he have imagined Breena naked, servicing him like a whore? She was just a girl. An innocent. The sister of his best friend. For years, Rhys had thought of her as his own sister.

Until her breasts and hips had rounded, and the
youthful worship in her eyes had turned to something sweeter and darker. And she began to speak to him of love, and of marriage.

Even now, the thought caused a bitter laugh to rise in his throat. He and Breena, married? He had nothing to offer her—not even the meanest roof to shelter her. But gods help him, he could not stop imagining her in his bed.

Someone should kick him in the head. No doubt Marcus would be more than pleased to do so, if his friend ever suspected the thoughts Rhys entertained.

“Rhys? Love?” Ciara’s nude body pressed against his back. Her hands came around to stroke his chest. “Something is troubling ye, aye? Whatever it be, come back to bed. I’ll help ye forget.”

He only wished it were that easy. “I think not, Ciara. I am…just weary, perhaps. I’ve been traveling hard for days now, in the rain and mud…”

“Lie down and sleep, then.” She smiled. “And perhaps, in the morning…”

But morning found Rhys slipping from under Ciara’s blanket without waking her. He dressed silently. He hadn’t found the relief he’d sought in her bed. Just the opposite. Their bedplay had left him feeling more hopeless, and lonelier, than ever.

Perhaps his advancing age was catching up with him. By the gods, he was nearly thirty. He remembered a time when he could not have imagined being so ancient. He was too old, perhaps, to be seeking comfort from whores. By the time a man had seen thirty winters, he should have a wife tending his hearth. Children to teach. But Rhys would never enjoy those simple blessings.

He took up his pack. Was Breena wed? He’d been away almost a year; she might very well be someone’s
wife by now. Penn’s, perhaps. During Rhys’s last visit to Avalon, he’d noted an easy friendship between them. Penn was only a few years older than Breena. He was earnest and good, and strong in the Light. Aye, Penn would make Breena a fine husband.

His stomach turned. Last night’s meat, perhaps. He thought it had been a bit off.

He paused at the door to slip a silver denarius from his purse. He laid the coin on Ciara’s wash table. It was far more than she would expect from him. But she was more than welcome to it.

He would not, he thought, be coming back.

L
eave Avalon?” Rhys stared at his grandfather. “But…where would I go?”

“Many places,” Cyric replied. “Britain is vast.”

“I do not care how vast Britain is. I do not want to see it. I am content here, on the sacred isle. I want to live here forever.”

A shadow passed through Cyric’s eyes. “That is not possible, Rhys. It is not your destiny. Avalon is but your stopping place.”

“It is not! It is my home!”

“No longer,” Cyric said gravely. “The Great Mother has need of your magic elsewhere.”

Fingers of dread wound through Rhys’s chest. Leave Avalon? It was not possible. It had to be a jest! But he knew with sickening certainty it was not. Cyric never jested.

“Elsewhere?” Fear dripped through his veins like rancid oil. “To…to Isca Silurum, you mean?” It was the only place in the outside world he knew.

“Aye, there and to other cities and towns. Ye will travel with your harp, as a bard.”

Rhys closed his eyes so Cyric would not see his abject panic. “But, Grandfather, why must I go? I do not understand.”

“Ye will seek initiates for Avalon,” Cyric told him. “It is a mission of grave importance. We are a small
settlement, Rhys. Without new blood, new magic, we will soon be gone. But ye will change our fortunes. Ye have the rare talent of seeing a Druid’s magical soul. Ye will know those with great powers of Light, and ye will bring them to us.”

“I may return? Once I find someone with magic?”

“When ye come to me with an initiate for Avalon, ye’ll be permitted to step onto the isle. But only for a fortnight. No more. Then ye must leave us again.”

He was to be an outcast. His tears burned. How could Cyric do this to him? Rhys had always tried so hard to please him. It was Gwen who challenged their grandfather’s authority at every turn.

Rhys opened his eyes. A tear trickled down his cheek. “But, sir, Gwen can see auras as well as I can! And she
wants
to leave Avalon. It is all she talks about. She would welcome a chance to hunt for Druid magic. Send her on this mission! Not me.”

Cyric, eyes grave, shook his head. “That is not possible. Gwen’s destiny lies here, on Avalon. She will one day be Guardian.”

Nay! Rhys wanted to shout. That was to be his destiny, not Gwen’s! His twin did not love Avalon as Rhys did. No one did.

But Rhys did not say these things, because Cyric was already turning away.

“Grandfather…”

The old man stopped and looked back at him. “Prepare yourself, Rhys. Ye leave us at dawn.”

“It’s Rhys!
Rhys!
I saw him! He’s coming!”

A child’s squeal set Breena’s heart pumping so fast she thought her ribs might burst from the pressure. Her fingers cramped on old Mared’s wooden pestle. Tears sprang into her eyes. The dried bits of root and seed blurred.

She didn’t ever realize she’d dashed to the door until she found herself shoving it open. The others were already beginning to gather. Breena spied Gwen hurrying from her roundhouse, drying her hands on a rag.

“Rhys is coming!”

“Thank the Great Mother.” Gwen’s relief was palpable. Breena realized with a start that Rhys’s sister had been as worried about Rhys as Breena had been.

Behind Breena, Mared stirred from her seat by the hearth. “What is all the commotion about, child? My ears are not what they once were.” The old healer planted the tip of her oaken staff on the packed dirt floor and struggled to rise. Her thin arm trembled with the effort. Breena abandoned the scene outside the door and went to assist her.

“Rhys is coming across the swamp.” Just saying his name tightened her chest.

Mared’s wrinkled face broke into a smile. “Great Mother be blessed!” She motioned for Breena to help her to the door. “The lad has been gone far too long. I’d begun to fear I would not see him again in this life. Come, let us greet him.”

By the time Breena had guided Mared from the hut, the entire population of the Druid village had collected in the common area. Marcus and the twins had joined Gwen. Breena’s uncle, Owein, and his wife, Clara, were present with their own young son. Trevor, Penn, and the all the rest had abandoned their harvest in the orchard. Excitement shimmered in the air.

Owein approached, and Breena delivered Mared onto her uncle’s arm. But when Owein escorted the old healer into the center of the crowd, Breena hung back. The others might not have seen Rhys for a year, but Breena had seen him only a fortnight past. She was not completely certain how she was going to look Rhys in
the eye, with the memory of him kissing a tavern wench vivid in her mind. Every time Breena thought of it, she wanted to cry.

“I wonder if Rhys has brought Avalon a new initiate,” she heard Penn say to no one in particular. “Let us go to the dock to greet him.”

Some perverse force compelled Breena to follow the villagers down the steep path to the shore. She arrived in time to see Rhys’s merlin, Hefin, circle the cove once and alight on a high branch. Rhys jumped from one of the rafts the settlement kept moored on the far side of the swamp.

Trevor waded into the water and greeted Rhys with as much emotion as Breena had ever seen the man display. Rhys returned a wide smile to the tall, taciturn Caledonian.

Breena stood half-hidden behind a curtain of yellowing willow fronds, reluctant to join the welcoming party. Taking the raft’s pole and ropes from Rhys, Trevor bent to moor the craft. Rhys lifted his pack, slung it over one shoulder, and waded toward dry land.

A small girl splashed through the mud and threw her arms around Rhys’s waist. Laughing, he lifted the child off her feet and swung her in a circle before plopping her down on the grass.

A burning lump formed in Breena’s throat. Not so many years had passed since Rhys had greeted her that way. Every one of his visits to her family’s farm was indelibly etched in her memory. In the early years, he would swing her about, muss her hair, and deliver some small treasure from his pack into her grasping hands.

As she grew older, their greetings had become more dignified. But no less exciting, at least to her. Her fingers crept to her throat, to the last gift Rhys had ever given her, when she was just fourteen. The silver pendant bore the sign of the Druids of Avalon. The charm
was powerful protective magic: the triple spiral of the Great Mother Goddess merged with the cross of the Carpenter Prophet, whose teachings of Light had been brought to Avalon by the mysterious woman known as the Lady. Every female Druid on Avalon wore a similar pendant. The men bore the same mark, tattooed with woad, on their chests.

But soon after receiving that gift, Breena had made a serious mistake. Whenever she thought of that horrible afternoon at her father’s house, she flushed hot with mortification. Ever since that day, Rhys had treated her with nothing more than polite indifference. He was almost a stranger to her now.

He was laughing, his thick white blond hair falling into his eyes. He pushed it back. He was so handsome. Bending, he opened his pack and extracted some small object. It promptly disappeared into the little girl’s hands.

“Ooh!” she exclaimed, holding it up for all to see. “A pretty blue rock!”

The other Druid children clamored for treasures of their own, jumping and chattering all at once. Laughing, Rhys let himself be pulled down onto one knee. He opened his pack and produced a handful of stones and other trinkets, which he soon handed all around. He knew each boy and girl by name, of course. Indeed, he’d brought most of them to Avalon himself, from all over the Celtic isles, having discerned each child’s powerful Druid talent by the color and strength of his or her magical aura.

“Get on with ye, ye ruffians.” Gwen laughed as she pushed her way through the children. “I would embrace my brother before ye pick his bones dry.”

Rhys straightened, his teeth flashing white as he held out his arms to his twin. “Gwen. ’Tis good to see you.”

Gwen fell into his embrace. Her voice was unchar
acteristically gruff as she gently chided him. “It has been far too long since Avalon has seen ye, Rhys. What do ye mean, staying away from home for almost a year?”

He stiffened slightly, and it seemed to Breena that while his smile remained on his lips, it faded from his eyes. “There was no reason for me to come,” he said. “In all that time, I encountered no one with power strong enough to need Avalon’s guidance.”

Gwen slipped her arm around his waist. “Grandfather’s old rule no longer keeps ye away. Ye may come and go as often as ye like.”

“I know,” Rhys said, planting a kiss on top of his sister’s head. “Am I not here now?”

He greeted Marcus next, then clasped hands with Trevor and Owein, and produced a grin for Owein’s wife, Clara, and their son. He laid a brotherly hand on Penn’s shoulder, and drew him into animated conversation.

Breena drank in Rhys with her eyes, both craving and dreading the moment when he would look in her direction. It came soon enough, first with a stiffening of Rhys’s shoulders, then with a slight frown as their gazes touched. In the next instant, his expression went blank, as if a dirty rag had wiped the joy of his homecoming right off his face.

There was no gift or exuberant hug for Breena; there was not even a handclasp or a smile. A slight dip of his chin was all the acknowledgment she received.

Breena swallowed hard and somehow kept her eyes dry, even though her heart was cracking to pieces. Why did Rhys treat her this way, when he knew how much she loved him? He gave his love and friendship to the other Druids. He’d given his passion to a nameless tavern wench. What did he give Breena?

Nothing.

Their gazes had held too long; the others were starting to notice. Marcus, especially, was narrowing his gaze. Rhys flicked a glance in the direction of his brother-by-marriage. Then he looked back to Breena, his careful smile as empty as a cracked jug.

“Breena,” he said. “Well met.”

“Blessed be your coming,” she replied hollowly.

Rhys turned back to his twin. Arm in arm, they led the procession back to the village common, where Mared and Padrig waited. Rhys bowed to each Druid elder in turn. Mared raised her hand and murmured the blessings of the Great Mother and the Carpenter Prophet. Padrig followed with a prayer of thanks to all the gods and goddesses of Annwyn for Rhys’s safe homecoming.

Rhys was soon relieved of his pack, and drawn into conversation with the men of the village. The women gathered to begin preparations for an impromptu feast. Breena did not join them. Instead, she returned to Mared’s roundhouse and pounded roots until her hand ached.

But she could hardly miss the evening meal. Despite the chill, a large fire was built in the center of the common, and benches and plank tables set up all around, so the entire community could celebrate together.

Gwen claimed a seat at Rhys’s right. Breena sat at another table entirely. Penn took the seat beside her, as he often did.

“Rhys does not look so well,” he remarked in a low voice.

“He is very tired, I think.”

“Aye. More weary than I have ever seen him. His is a hard life, and it can do him no good traveling in the wet and cold. I hope he stays through the winter in Avalon.”

As the meal progressed, Rhys regaled the gathering
with tales of his year of wandering—some humorous, others filled with suspense. The children listened with round eyes.

When the meal was done, the calls for a song began. Rhys agreed with a smile, and his harp was soon brought to him. He cradled the instrument in his arms with all the care of a lover. His head bent, and his long fingers caressed the strings.

It was as if he were plucking Breena’s body, causing it to ripple with sensation. She prayed desperately for numbness, but it was no use. Where Rhys was concerned, she couldn’t
not
feel. Neither could she hold onto the anger she’d harbored since the night she’d seen more than she’d wanted.

Each note he played, each syllable he sang, stripped away a bit of her resentment, until there was none. Until there was only love, and longing, and that sweet, aching pull in her belly. And an even fiercer yearning between her thighs.

She hardly knew what Rhys sang. A ballad, perhaps. Or a song of Annwyn. She only knew that when his beautiful tenor touched her, she softened. Opened. For him.

His hair glinted silver in the dancing fire. Its light cast into stark relief the angles of his face. He sang one song after another. But as the night deepened, so did the shadow in his eyes, and Breena wondered if he wouldn’t rather seek his bed.

And she wondered what woman he would dream of.

The shore was cold and damp. The seat of Rhys’s breeches was wet where his arse touched the ground. The discomfort was welcome. Or, if not exactly welcome, tolerated. It allowed Rhys to focus on the wretchedness of his body, rather than the wretchedness of his soul. For that small distraction, he was grateful.

Silence spread like a woolen blanket over Avalon. Far off, a raptor screeched. Perhaps it was Hefin, hunting. The village, however, slept. Rhys had tried to do the same, on the spare pallet in Trevor’s roundhouse. He was as tired as he could ever remember—exhausted in soul as well as body. But sleep would not come.

Sleep never came to him easily, here on Avalon.

Aye, he could drop off at a moment’s notice camped by the road, under trees and sky. He slept effortlessly in vermin-ridden haylofts, or wrapped in a thin blanket in front of some stranger’s hearth. And he’d slumbered soundly in any number of beds belonging to widows and whores.

But here in Avalon, surrounded by the people he loved, and who loved him in return, he could not sleep. His loneliness was too profound, his hurt too deep.

He wanted what he could not have. Desperately.

Gwen had scolded him soundly for staying away so long. He was sorry to have frightened his twin. Once they had been so close, they had shared nearly every thought, but now Gwen’s husband was first in her heart, and her connection with her twin had faded. Still, his sister loved him deeply, even if she understood him less well. He wondered if she suspected that Breena was the reason Rhys had stayed away so long.