Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  “Gwen … Da is beating Mama. Again.”

  His twin’s frightened silence joined his own. Tears squeezed past Rhys’s closed eyelids. He wished with all his might that his twin were there beside him.

  Cyric’s low moan dragged Rhys from his nightmare. He rolled from his pallet into a crouch in one smooth motion. The peat fire in the hearth smoldered, sending herb-laden smoke into his lungs. Cyric thrashed on his pallet, his thin limbs flailing.

  “Tamar … nay …”

  Should he wake his grandfather from his private torment? He wasn’t sure. He hunkered by the old man’s bed, tensed and ready to intervene should the nightmare turn violent. But Cyric’s sobs remained muted until he shuddered and slipped back into sleep.

  Rhys exhaled a long sigh. The dread of his own nightmare still clung to him like sodden swamp grass. The horror of that long-ago day remained vivid in his mind, no less so because it had marked the beginning of a long, dark slide into misery.

  It hadn’t been long after that fateful argument and beating that his father had been found lying facedown in a ditch.

  Dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  The face was familiar to Gwen, yet not.

  “ ’Tis not Mama,” she told Rhys. “ ’Tis not!”

  Mama’s skin was soft and warm, not white and waxy and cold. She always had a hug ready for Gwen. Often, she would whisper stories about the Lost Grail of Avalon, and what it meant to be a Daughter of the Lady. Or at least she had until the start of the summer. Since then, it had seemed, Mama had always been crying. After Da’s death, she had cried even more.

  Gwen did not understand that. Gwen had not cried at all when Da died.

  But Gwen had tried to be good, so that Mama would be happy again. It was hard. It was so tempting to slip outside the hut and run toward town, or in the opposite direction into the fields. So she had not made Mama happy, and Mama was still and white, and Grandfather was sobbing.

  Gwen thought she should remember how it had happened, but whenever she tried to find the memory in her head, she came up against a wall of darkness. It was the same for Rhys. There was a blank hole where the memory should have been.

  Mared knelt beside Grandfather, her arm around his shoulders, murmuring soft words in his ear. Aunt Carys was pacing, trying to quiet little Blodwen, who seemed to enjoy wailing more than any other activity. Uncle Padrig stood by the doorway, stiff with anger.

  “Ye should not have faced the bastard alone,” he said to Grandfather.

  Mared hushed him. “Your advice does no good now.”

  “He should have told me,” Padrig muttered. He opened the door a crack and peered out into the night.

  Grandfather did not reply, except with another sob. Gwen did not like it. Grandfather had never cried before! The sound made her chest hurt so badly she could hardly breathe.

  She held onto Rhys and looked at Mama’s face. Rhys squeezed her hand; she thought her fingers might break.

  “She’s dead, Gwen.”

  “Dead.” Dead.

  Gwen’s brain poked at the hideous word as her dirty fingernails might have picked at a scab on her knee. Her stomach lurched. She thought she might throw up.

  “Rhys, do people ever stop being dead?”

  “Nay. When someone is dead, they stay that way. Always.”

  Her brother’s eyes were rimmed in red. A large tear escaped and rolled down his cheek. Rhys cried more easily than Gwen, and sometimes she envied him for it. Her own hurts lodged painfully in her chest and throat.

  She tried to swallow around the swelling. It burned.

  “Always?”

  Rhys nodded. His sob emerged as a gasp, and he started shaking. Gwen put her arms around his waist, and his own thin arms wrapped her in return. She clung to her twin, the other half of herself. She had Rhys. As long as he was here with her, she could bear anything.

  Dead, dead, dead.

  Gwen clung to her brother for a long time, the words beating a gruesome rhythm in her skull.

  Dead, dead, dead.

  Gwen woke with a shudder, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might leap from her chest.

  Dead, dead, dead.

  Her throat was raw; unshed tears burned her eyes. The pain her seven-year-old self had endured—pain she had thought long buried—was suddenly fresh and raw. Her heart was bleeding.

  The wolf raised its head.

  Quickly, Gwen pushed the emotions of her childhood back into the black depths from which they had risen. Closing her eyes, she whispered a spell to calm the wolf.

  The beast growled.

  She threw off her blanket, suddenly hot. The room was too small; the walls too rigid. Her sleeping tunic was unbearably heavy on her skin. Rising shakily, she was careful to make no noise that might disturb Breena. The lass was sleeping peacefully. If a vision had come, she had banished it without waking Gwen.

  A vibration strummed deep inside her. The wolf. The nightmare had roused it; she did not know if she could hold it back. She had to get out, away from the farm and into the woods.

  Her bare feet hurried down the passageway. She let herself out one of the doors leading from the entrance gallery to the rear terrace. Once free of the house, she ran, past the kitchen gardens and into the orchard. The north gate was not far. Surely she could reach it before the change came upon her! But when she drew up short before the iron bars, she realized the gate had been locked for the night, and she did not have the key.

  She sank to the ground. The wolf inside clamored for release, but she could not shift here, inside the farm compound, so near to the sheep and pig barns. Within sight of the servants’ huts.

  Great Mother, help me.

  Fighting the urge to rip off her clothes, she pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them. She pressed her forehead to her knees, chanting her most powerful spell of Light, interspersing the Words with desperate prayers to the Goddess.

  A shudder wracked her body. She braced herself for the pain. It never came.

  The wolf receded.

  Gwen stayed motionless for a long time afterward, sobbing.

  Later, after she’d crept back to her bed, her head aching and her throat raw, she felt the familiar stirring in her mind.

  “Gwen. Sister, are ye there?”

  She squeezed her eyes closed and focused all her power into blocking Rhys’s call. It was no use. His thoughts vibrated in her mind. But she did not answer. She couldn’t, not with her emotions in such turmoil.

  “I am trying to hold the mist, but I haven’t your power. Avalon needs ye, Gwen. Cyric … he cannot resist Strabo’s Deep Magic. Owein believes the Roman is a dreamcaster, Gwen. His spells reach into each soul, into its darkest corners, and rip open wounds of the past. Cyric is the most affected, but all of Avalon feels Strabo’s spell.

  “The worst dream was tonight, Gwen. I saw the day Da beat Mama in the market.”

  Oh, Rhys.

  She wanted so much to comfort him, but she didn’t dare. The wolf was so close to the surface. She would not be able to banish it a second time.

  Rhys’s call faded. She rolled over in her bed, replaying his words in her mind. Rhys had dreamed of Mama’s death, and so had Gwen. It could not be a coincidence.

  Had Strabo’s dreamcaster magic found Gwen here, in Isca? It did not seem possible. More likely, Rhys had unwittingly channeled Strabo’s magic to Gwen through their mental link. And the Deep Magic had stirred the wolf.

  Unsettled, she rose from the bed. Breena still slept peacefully, a slight smile on her young face. Cautiously, Gwen opened the shutters, letting in the predawn breeze.

  Rhys needed her. Strabo’s Deep Magic was thinning the mist, putting Avalon in grave danger. It was Gwen’s duty to defend her people, but now, more than ever, she believed her Light would not be enough. She needed the Lady’s sword.

  Exchalybur was Gwen’s best hope. It was almost complete; she would press Marcus to work more quickly. She pushed away
the pain the thought of leaving him brought. She’d given him her body, and her heart. She would stay with him forever if the choice were her own. It was not.

  She prayed Rhys could hold the mists without her just a little while longer.

  Breena woke to a clear dawn. Her head did not hurt and her lungs were clear. There was a dim memory of a vision, silver silence into which she had spoken Words of Deep Magic. Once the spell had been cast, the vision had faded away.

  She stretched her arms overhead and grinned. It had been almost two months since she’d felt so well in the morning. There was none of the fatigue Gwen had warned her of—on the contrary, exuberant energy infused her limbs. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, eager to begin the day.

  Gwen had already risen. She didn’t seem to have rested as well as Breena had. She stood by the window, staring out at the garden, her shoulders hunched, her hair hanging in tangles. When Breena greeted her, she did not immediately respond.

  Breena rose and went to her. “You did not sleep well?”

  “Well enough, for a few hours.” She turned and straightened, and Breena could see the effort she made to hide whatever troubled her. Her expression smoothed into a smile that did not reach her eyes. “You look fine this morn.”

  “I feel wonderful.”

  “Did the vision not come last night?”

  Breena couldn’t suppress a grin. “Yes, it came—that’s what’s so wonderful! I used the Deep Magic spell. Once I said the words, the vision disappeared.”

  Gwen frowned. “The vision and pain disappeared, yet ye feel no effect of the Deep Magic now?”

  “None at all.” Breena’s smile faded. “Is that not good?”

  “ ’Tis … unexpected. I’d hoped the Great Mother’s message to ye would become clearer, not vanish completely. But perhaps it is not a bad turn of events. Your body and spirit have been strained. Some nights of rest can only do ye good. When the Great Mother’s favor returns, ye will be more receptive to it.”

  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 t
o 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.”