The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  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.”

  Once again his gaze found her, but he said nothing. The corners of his mouth turned downward, and the lines of his face settled into a grim expression that even his beard couldn’t hide. A quiver of fear rippled through her. Despite his youth, despite his reluctant kindnesses, she sensed he was a hard man, about as easily moved as a boulder. She worried the frayed edge of the blanket, an uncharacteristic reluctance to speak overtaking her.

  “I’ve disturbed you,” she said at last.

  “Aye, lass, ye have.”

  “I wouldn’t intrude on your solitude, except for the gravest of needs.”

  He said nothing.

  “My father,” Clara said. The last bite of the bannock turned to dust in her throat. “He’s ill. Near death.”

  “I’m no healer.”

  “It’s not healing I wish from you. There is … something that was stolen from me. A cup with healing power. If I can find it, I may have a chance to save my father’s life.” Perhaps at the cost of her own, she added silently. “Aiden was certain you could help me locate the thief. Please. I’ll pay any price.”

  “ ’Tis the gods who name the price of power. I guarantee the cost willna be to your liking. Far better to leave the immortal ones undisturbed and accept your sorrow. No man lives forever, nor should he wish it.”

  Clara twisted her fingers, glad for the pain the movement brought, for it helped distract her from the sickening roll of her stomach. “My father is my only relation, and he is not an old man. It’s not yet his time to—”

  “ ’Tis nay my concern, lass.”

  “Are you saying you won’t help me?”

  “Aye, lass. ’Tis exactly what I’m saying.”

  Chapter Three

  The merlin came into view before its owner did.

  Marcus Ulpius Aquila’s boots crunched the layer of snow dumped by the unexpected storm. Perhaps “owner” wasn’t precisely the correct word, he mused. Rhys, a traveling musician and Marcus’s good friend, didn’t treat the small falcon like a pet; the Celt talked to the bird as if it were human. At times, Marcus swore Rhys listened to the animal as well.

  An uneasy emotion snagged Marcus’s gut. It was said the mysterious priests of the Celts—the Druids—spoke with animals, and could even compel the beasts to their bidding. A fantastic charge, one easily dismissed as superstition by an educated Roman. But Marcus considered such talents entirely plausible, for he’d seen far darker Druid magic with his own eyes.

  He shivered. An icy chill hung in the air, sharp as a ringing bell. He drew to a halt on a rise of land devoid of trees. The road behind him was hidden by a dip in the hill, but to the south, the clear air afforded a rare view. The fortress city of Isca rose above a winding estuary of the river Usk, free of the fog that so often clung to her skirts. Flat, fertile farms spread out around her, like subjects bowing before a queen. In the distance, at the edge of a choppy sea, military ships jostled at the docks with ferries and merchant vessels. Beyond, across the Sabrina channel
, the Mendip hills cast a jagged blue silhouette on the horizon.

  The merlin circled above, wings spread, coasting skyward on an updraft left by yesterday’s storm. Marcus had no doubt the bird belonged to Rhys—others of its kind had long since migrated to warmer climes. Sure enough, Rhys soon appeared at the bend in the road, his leather pack slung haphazardly over one shoulder.

  Rhys might be of an age with Marcus, but to Marcus’s mind the Celt had always seemed older. Perhaps it was because Rhys roamed Britannia, while Marcus never strayed far from his father’s farm. Or perhaps it was because of Rhys himself. Taller and looser of limb than Marcus, the Celt was possessed of a thick shock of unusual silver-blond hair. His gray eyes echoed the valley mist. He kept his beard very short in the Roman fashion, but that in itself was another oddity. Most Celts had no use for a razor.

  Rhys’s long legs made quick work of the road as he advanced, waving a greeting. The movement caused the pack on his lanky shoulders to shift. He paused a moment to adjust it. He’d never allow the burden to fall, Marcus knew, for it held his livelihood—a Celtic harp.

  Marcus strode to meet him. “Good day to ye, Rhys,” he said, slipping easily into the Celt tongue he’d learned from his stepmother.

  “Well met, Marcus Aquila.” Rhys’s voice was as clear as the air, a testament to his musical talent. He nodded to Marcus’s soot-blackened hands. “Have ye just come from the forge, or are ye going to it?”

  Marcus examined his palms with a rueful shake of his head. The last traces of black never disappeared from a smith’s hands, no matter how vigorously he scrubbed.

  “Neither,” he said. “I’ve just made a delivery of hooks to a neighboring farm, and I’m headed for home. And you? I’ll wager you’re bound for my stepmother’s hearth.”

  “If Rhiannon will have me.”

  “You know she will,” Marcus said with a smile. “But beware. Breena will have her fingers in your pack within the space of two heartbeats.”

  Rhys’s gray eyes glinted. “The vixen will try to charm a trinket from me.”

  Marcus grinned. “True enough.” At twelve years of age, his half sister possessed feminine wiles in abundance.

  “The lass needn’t fear I’ve forgotten her,” Rhys said. But a strange note in his voice had Marcus examining him more closely.

  “Is something amiss?”

  It seemed Rhys made an effort to keep his answer light. “The world often looks gray when one’s stomach is empty.”

  Marcus rubbed his chin, considering, but decided not to press the issue. “Rhiannon’s table is a fine remedy for that particular sorrow.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “We’ll be especially glad of the company, as Father is away.”

  “Lucius Aquila is not at home?” Rhys seemed relieved by the news, which was odd, since Marcus’s father had never failed to welcome the minstrel in his home.

  “He’s gone to Londinium to purchase seed for the spring. Egyptian wheat,” Marcus said, puzzled. “But why—”

  Rhys’s merlin chose that moment to dive. With a shriek and a flutter of wings, it darted after an errant sparrow. Both men watched in silence as the falcon emerged from the brush.

  Its talons were empty.

  “Not every hunt is successful,” Marcus observed.

  “Nay,” Rhys agreed.

  “But I suppose each failure sharpens one’s skills.”

  Rhys’s gaze shifted to the distance. “Aye. One’s skills—and one’s need.”

  Clara’s anger burned away the last vestiges of cold. A hot flush rose in her breast, crept up her neck, and fanned out across her cheeks. How dare the Seer—Owein—refuse her request? Suddenly, she couldn’t bear to huddle on his pallet while he looked down on her from the chair. Gripping the edge of the bench, she hauled herself onto her tender feet, wrapping one of the woolen blankets about her body like a toga.

  He said nothing, but his blue eyes were sharp and his expression set in stone. Why couldn’t he be old and withered, as she’d expected? She hated his strength. It reminded her too keenly of her own vulnerability.

  Show no fear. She’d often heard Father give that advice to one soldier or another, though he’d never uttered the words directly to Clara. Sextus Sempronius Gracchus was all too tolerant of his only child’s weaknesses. No matter. She would follow Father’s prescription anyway.

  “A month past,” she began, trying to sound as if Owein had already agreed to help her, “my father fell ill. He’d supped in a tavern. I think the meat must have been spoiled, though the tavern keeper claimed it was a fresh kill. Father said it was so heavily spiced that—” She drew up shortly, suddenly aware she’d veered off track. “The illness hit him hard. He took to his bed, unable to eat or even drink. His strength diminished rapidly. The Greek physician I summoned couldn’t help him.”

  Owein regarded her in silence, his expression impassive. Still, he didn’t get up and move away, or interrupt her story. She resolved to take that as an encouraging sign.

  “I was afraid for his life. I had no choice but to bring out my mother’s cup.” Fear shot through her, so palpable she could almost touch it. Forcing a swallow, she went on. “Father had put it away after Mother’s death. He said … it had caused her illness. She’d sickened after using the vessel to heal a dying child.”

  Owein’s brows lifted.

  Clara forged on. “The cup is wrought in silver and crystal, with strange markings. Father had forbidden me to touch it, but he was so ill. I had to try it. I gave him a little wine. The next morning, he rose and left the house.”

  Owein sat back, eyeing her. “ ’Tis quite a tale.”

  “A true one. The cup holds great magic, but …”

  “Its power claims a price.” For a moment, he met her gaze. Clara felt a shimmer of understanding pass between them.

  “What happened, lass?”

  “I took to my bed. I felt as though I’d taken Father’s illness into my own body. I was afraid I would die, like Mother, but the sickness didn’t last. I was well by the next afternoon. That’s when I discovered that while I was abed and Father gone from the house, the cup had been stolen.”

  Owein’s attention sharpened. “By whom?”

  She spread her hands. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here. A petty thief, I suspect. I’d left my mother’s cup in full view, and it wasn’t the only item of value taken—several gold plates and goblets were also gone. The steward claimed he heard nothing, but then, the man is deaf as a stone. Two days later, Father’s illness returned. He took to his bed. By evening, he could barely speak.”

  She fiddled with her sleeve. “This time, I had no cure to offer. At Aiden’s insistence, I sent for the Celt healer, but she offered little hope. Father worsened. I was at my wits’ end. Then Aiden told me of you. He said you could locate the cup with your Seer’s magic.” She drew a breath. “That’s all I ask.”

  “And what then? Will ye walk into the thieves’ lair and snatch it back?”

  “Yes.”

  He snorted. “A wee lass like yourself?”

  Clara squared her shoulders. “I’m not a ‘wee lass.’ And I am not without resources. I can hire someone to retrieve the cup.”

  Owein stroked his beard. The long red strands looked silky, and not at all unkempt. But the braid at his temple was a potent reminder of his barbarian blood.

  “Your father must be a rich man,” he said.

  She blinked. “Have you changed your mind about accepting payment for your aid?”

  “Hardly. I only wonder how many soldiers are marching in search of ye.”

  “You needn’t worry about that. I promised Aiden I would come alone to seek you. No one saw me leave the city.”

  “Unlikely as that is, I’ll lay it to one side for a moment. What I am wondering is this—why did ye nay take the matter up with the Roman authorities? It’s said Sempronius Gracchus commands Isca with an iron hand. Surely he could rout the thieves.”

  “No,” Clara said, nearly
choking. “I … you don’t understand. The … commander can’t help me in this.”

  “Why? Is your father Gracchus’s enemy?”

  Clara caught her bottom lip with her teeth. She could hardly reveal the truth—that her father was Sempronius Gracchus. The Seer would likely toss her into the snow.

  “My father is no enemy of Commander Gracchus. He’s … he’s a merchant.” The lie felt heavy on her tongue. “And in any case, the commander is … not at Isca this winter.”

  “Surely the Second Legion has nay been left unsupervised.”

  “Tribune Publius Aurelius Valgus commands in Gracchus’s stead.” That, at least, was the truth.

  “Take your troubles to him, then.”

  “I can’t. Valgus is …” She inhaled, seeking to calm the churning in her stomach that thoughts of Aurelius Valgus brought. “I don’t trust Valgus, for all that my father seems to. But Father cares more for Valgus’s bloodlines than anything else. The tribune will be Senator someday, perhaps even Consul. Father’s promised me as his wife.” She gave a bitter laugh. “In manu.”

  Owein’s brow creased. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s an old form of marriage, and the only one Valgus will accept. When a man takes a wife in manu, he gains absolute control of both her property and her person.”

  “Not a poor idea, I’m thinking. Ye want a keeper.”

  Clara sent him a disgusted look. “You speak as though you’re of one mind with my father and Cicero. ‘… all women, because of their innate weakness, should be under the control of guardians.’ Ha! I would rather put out an eye than marry a man like Valgus. But Father doesn’t believe me capable of inheriting his property. In his eyes, I’m in need of protection.”

  “Ye think ye are not? I found ye half dead, dinna forget.”

  Clara crossed her arms. “I would have been fine if the storm hadn’t arisen so abruptly.”

  “Ye might have died. Or worse, been discovered by brigands. They would not have nursed ye by the fire as I did, I can tell ye that. I’ve a mind to pummel old Aiden. I canna believe he would set any lass on such a dangerous path, let alone one such as ye.”