The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  Marcus swallowed. Hard.

  Pale eyelashes fluttered, revealing gray eyes like the wolf’s. But these eyes belonged to a woman, not a beast.

  They widened slightly at the sight of him. “Who—?”

  A moan cut off her words. She twisted, her arm moving to reveal a gash in her side. The wound was red and ugly, with puckered edges that oozed white corruption. Clearly, the injury had gone days without tending.

  Marcus muttered a curse. She needed a healer, quickly.

  At that moment, the torch spat sparks and died, leaving him in utter blackness. Heart pounding, Marcus pivoted toward the exit, his arms tightening on his burden. Moving carefully, he reached the cavern wall and groped in the direction he thought—hoped—would lead to the passageway.

  He found it. He ducked through the low portal, cursing as his head thumped against stone. He moved toward the mouth of the cave, climbing the twisted path. After what seemed an interminable amount of time, he heard Rhys chanting hoarsely, an edge of desperation in his voice.

  He gained the entrance, stumbling. Snow swirled around him. The wind had strengthened fiercely—it hit him with an icy blast. Marcus went down on his knees, cradling Gwen’s head as he fell. Primitive emotion passed through him. This woman would not—would never—come to injury at his hands.

  Rhys was beside him in a heartbeat, already stripping off his cloak. He wrapped it around Gwen’s still form. Then he fished a silver pendant from around his neck and slipped its chain over Gwen’s head. “Is she—”

  “Alive,” Marcus gasped. He could feel the Druidess’s blood moving and pulsing as if it were his own. “But she’s wounded—”

  Rhys made a sound deep in his throat. “We must take her to Mared.”

  “Is she your healer?”

  “Aye.”

  Marcus had already gained his feet. Rhys moved to take his sister, but Marcus found he could not bear to let her go. “I’ll carry her,” he muttered, looking up to challenge Rhys’s protest.

  But Rhys only stepped back and nodded.

  Clara could feel Owein’s presence within the Lost Land. He wasn’t far away, but he was cloaked in darkness. Not the same darkness that enveloped Clara—pure and cool—but a heated blackness that spewed the stomach-heaving stench of sulfur.

  She moved toward it. Into it. Each breath seared her throat, set fire to her lungs. Calming her mind as Rhys had taught her, she reached inside to touch her Light. She summoned a barrier of brilliance, wrapping it around her in a mantle of protection. Her next breath came easier.

  She reached for Owein, calling his name in her mind. She received no answer. She moved forward—to what, she had no idea. She could see nothing beyond the sphere of her own Light. She moved again, seeking him.

  She passed through the arched opening to find herself in the center of a Celt village. A cluster of roundhouses nestled within stout palisade walls. The scene was peaceful enough, and yet, Clara felt a wrongness about it. A darkness.

  Owein? Where are you?

  There was no answer.

  But she sensed his essence, white and black swirling together. Dark magic surrounded him, surging, enveloping, seeking to absorb the bright part of him.

  Clara threw her mind forward, desperate to reach him in time. Once darkness blotted out Owein’s Light, he would be lost.

  Ruby liquid rippled in the bowl of the Lost Grail.

  “Blood,” Owein said thickly.

  Blodwen laughed. With a delicate motion, she lifted the cup and extended it to him. “Nay. ’Tis but wine.”

  “A Roman drink.”

  “A symbol of our triumph over the enemy. Drink, Owein, and the Deep Magic will come to our aid. Together, we will drive the Romans from the west.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve seen more violence than I can bear. I want no more. I wish only a peaceful home.” His gaze dropped to the babes, sleeping curled like pups. “Children.”

  Blodwen’s beautiful countenance darkened. “The Lost Land shows the future—but ’tis a future unfulfilled if we dinna fight for it. Do ye think the Romans will suffer us to live in peace? Do ye think they will leave our son alive, our daughter untouched?”

  “I will protect them.”

  Her voice seethed with anger. “I tell ye, ye willna be able to, as long as the Legions remain. They are defilers. They willna rest until every Celt man is dead, and every Celt woman planted with their foul seed.”

  She lifted the grail. “We can drive the Romans back to Gaul. We can live in peace, raise our children without fear. The power of the Lost Grail will aid us.”

  Owein gazed at the grail. Red liquid sloshed in its bowl. Too thick to be wine, he thought.

  It was blood.

  But perhaps blood was fitting.

  He took the cup in his hands.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A cry reverberated in Owein’s skull.

  No!

  Clara. His head lifted in stunned surprise. She was here, within the Lost Land. Swiftly, he blocked her entry into his mind. He could ill afford the distraction such a union would bring.

  A sharp knife of pain stabbed Owein’s right eye. The Lost Grail vibrated in his hands, sending shocks through his palms and up his arms. The ruby surface of its liquid fractured into a thousand glistening fragments.

  He could not look away from the cup. The reflections on the surface of the blood called to him. He sank his mind into the vague images and emerged into a scene of horror.

  Isca lay in ruins, the great stone wall of its fortress tossed about like so many pebbles. A dark sky above the city crackled with lightning. The wind churned the sea into a froth.

  Flames crackled against the turbulent sky. The city burned, sending smoke and ash pouring into the heavens. Celts and Roman alike streamed from the broken walls like ants, piling fruitlessly on the upper slopes of the city. The raging sea had flooded the flatlands surrounding the city. There was no route of escape.

  He tore his eyes away. Blodwen stood calmly before him, her gray gaze watchful.

  “Ye cannot bring this about,” he said, shaken. “No Druid’s power is so great.”

  “I assure ye, mine is.” She dipped her finger into the cup, stirring. “Drink, Owein. Drink, so that we may save our people.”

  “Nay. This cup is meant for healing. It’s essence is Light. Not destruction.”

  “It matters not. The Lost Grail is a path to the Deep Magic of the gods. We will wield it together as King and Queen.”

  “No human should be so bold as to claim a place among the gods.”

  “We will. It is my destiny. And my revenge.”

  “Revenge?”

  “Aye. Revenge on those who took my innocence. My magic. Romans,” she spat. “They savaged me until I begged for death. Then they cut me while they laughed. Afterwards, even my own father couldn’t bear to look at me. And my uncle? He wouldna allow my kin to pursue the monsters who harmed me.”

  Owein frowned. “I dinna understand.”

  Tears glittered in her eyes. For an instant, her expression crumpled into vulnerability. Then her eyes hardened and her jaw set. “I will show ye,” she said, her voice flat. “And then ye will know.”

  Light shimmered about her face, then faded, taking her beauty with it. Owein realized Blodwen’s sweet countenance had been an illusion. With her magic withdrawn, her true face was a hideous mass of scars, created by the cut and slice of a blade. The largest gash extended in a diagonal from one cheekbone to her jaw, catching the corner of her mouth. There were numerous other, smaller cuts.

  Owein’s stomach turned. No one—man, woman, or beast—should ever be used thus.

  “Who did this?” he asked, his voice deadly soft.

  “Soldiers from the fortress at Isca. They left me for dead, but Cyric forbade my father’s vengeance. ‘Revenge is nay the way of the Light,’ he said.” Her laugh was hollow. “If that is so, what use is Light? There is far more justice in darkness.”

  “So ye would
destroy the fortress and city now, to avenge this wrong?”

  “ ’Tis my right.”

  “And the innocents? What of them?”

  Her face contorted. “There are no innocents in Isca. Only Romans.”

  “Many Celts dwell there as well.”

  “Traitors.”

  “Nay. Kinsmen.” Owein’s own kin. “Perhaps they dinna live the life of our ancestors, but neither do they live the life of Rome. Many Romans have changed as well, learning Celt ways.” His voice lowered. “I willna have ye harm them, Blodwen.”

  Anger flared in her eyes. Her scars vanished, once again cloaked with illusion. Power crackled about her like red lightning.

  “Ye refuse your aid?”

  Owein regarded her steadily. “Aye.”

  “ ’Tis nay your own will speaking. ’Tis the Roman witch. She’s placed a foul enchantment upon ye.”

  “Ye are mistaken. I speak for myself.”

  “I’m nay such a fool to believe that! She stalks ye like a wolf! She is close, seeking to turn ye from me. That, I canna allow.”

  She raised one hand. A stream of red light flashed past Owein’s shoulder. He spun about in time to see Clara pitching through the doorway. She landed on her hands and knees near the hearth.

  “Clara!”

  Owein’s voice. Clara looked up, dazed. One moment, she’d been standing before the door of a hut. The next instant, a violent force had pulled her through the portal and cast her on the hard ground.

  “Owein?” He was here, before her, standing on the other side of a blazing fire. He held her mother’s cup. The ancient silver shone dully in his hands.

  A shadow fell over her. “On your feet, bitch.”

  Clara looked up, dazed. The silver-haired beauty standing over her could only be Blodwen. Magic poured from her in waves of heat. Not a steady hearth flame like Owein’s power, but an angry, raging wildfire that carried a stench of burned flesh. Sick, putrid hate singed the edges of Clara’s mind. She shrank back with a cry.

  “Ye willna hurt her.” Owein had moved to stand between Clara and the Druidess. Clara sensed his fear for her, well hidden behind his hard expression.

  “I shall do as I wish,” Blodwen replied. She lifted one hand and uttered a Word.

  Burning pain exploded in Clara’s chest. She wrapped her arms around her torso, bending double. Owein cried out, springing toward her, only to be brought up short by Blodwen’s magic as Clara gasped for breath.

  “Stop this,” Owein said tersely.

  “Drink. If ye do not …” She nodded at Clara.

  Clara’s throat constricted, as if a searing hand had closed on her neck. She clawed at it, desperate for air. But there was nothing to grab onto, no fingers to pry away. Darkness blotted the edges of her vision.

  “Nay.” Owein raised his hand, fingers spread. He spoke a Word. The sound reverberated against the walls of the hut, and for an instant, the tightness in Clara’s throat eased. She managed a single gulp of air before her windpipe squeezed again.

  And she understood that however strong Owein’s magic, it was no match for Blodwen’s.

  Owein grabbed for Clara. His hand grasped only air. It was as if she’d faded back, out of touch. Try as he might, he couldn’t reach her. Red liquid sloshed in the grail, spilling over the sides, streaking his fingers.

  Clara’s choked whisper pleaded in his mind. Owein …

  Blodwen smiled. “Ye canna reach her, Owein. Not unless I allow it.”

  He cursed. “Stop this. She’s done no wrong.”

  “She was born a Roman. That is enough.”

  “Release her.”

  Blodwen nodded to the Lost Grail. “Perhaps. After ye drink.”

  Clara slumped to the floor and lay still. Owein kept his eyes fixed on the uneven rise and fall of her chest.

  “Would ye condemn her, Owein?” Blodwen said, her voice softly taunting. “I could snuff out her life with one finger.” She laughed, her silver hair rippling about her shoulders. Had he ever thought her beautiful? In his dream, her darkness had been masked.

  “Ye would pay a steep price for that,” Owein said softly. “The gods would demand it.”

  “Do ye nay understand? For me, there is no payment. My magic comes from within. Not from the gods.”

  He stared at her. “ ’Tis pure folly to think that.”

  “Nay. ’Tis the truth. I have become a goddess. I would make ye my god consort. Drink of the wine, and ye will understand.”

  His eyes warred with hers, then his gaze dropped to the red liquid that trembled in the grail. The sweet, iron tang of it assaulted his nostrils. “This is not wine.”

  She held up one slender arm, wrist turned outward. A thin, red line slashed across the white skin. She laughed. “Aye, ye speak the truth. ’Tis blood. My own.”

  Revulsion rolled through him. “Ye are insane.”

  “ ’Tis the world that has gone insane. I have discovered the secrets of the Old Ones. They knew the path to the Lost Land, and from there the road to Annwyn, where the gods dwell. I will follow them. With ye.” She extended her forefinger to Clara. “Drink, Owein, or I will kill her.”

  Clara gasped, struggling for air. He couldn’t let her die here, at his feet. Reluctantly, Owein brought the Lost Grail to his lips. Its silver rim was warm. Alive.

  A whisper of Clara’s consciousness brushed his mind. No, Owein! You cannot obey her.

  I must. For you.

  No. I think … I think there is another way.

  Owein went still. Blodwen’s eyes narrowed, watching him.

  How?

  He felt Clara’s hesitation. Open your mind. Fully. I … I will channel the power of the Lost Grail through you.

  My darkness—

  It will not stop me. Please, Owein.

  “My patience grows thin,” Blodwen said harshly. “Drink.”

  Clara pressed deeper into Owein’s mind. With a deliberate breath, he steeled himself for her intrusion. Could she survive it? He didn’t know. Yet he had no choice but to let her try.

  He lowered his defenses. Showed her the path to darkness.

  Felt her fear as she approached.

  He lowered the grail and met Blodwen’s gaze squarely. “I will not drink.”

  “Ye dare defy me?”

  “Aye, I dare.”

  A rough Word emerged from the back of Blodwen’s throat. The sound struck Owein like the blow of a battle sword. Pain exploded behind his eyes. A thick, gray smoke enveloped him, agony running like shards of glass through his veins. Blodwen was forcing this torture upon him, and Clara—she was there, sharing it with him. Panic spilled into his gut. His fingers tightened convulsively on the grail. Against his will, his hand moved. Slowly, the rim of the cup rose to press once more to his lips.

  Victory flared in Blodwen’s eyes. “Drink.”

  He could all but taste her blood on his tongue. He spoke the most powerful Word he knew, but it had no effect. His magic could not overcome her strength.

  She might defeat him, but he would not go willingly. His anger surged, his darkness rising to meet hers. He would give his life to destroy whatever part of her power he could.

  But he would not risk Clara.

  Leave me, he told her.

  No. Her Light blazed in his consciousness. He sensed her fear, of him and the grail, and of Blodwen’s dark might. Yet she didn’t falter. Let me in. Let me go deeper.

  He hung, suspended on the knife’s edge of his pride. She didn’t know what she asked. How could he expose the torture of his past to her Light? She would feel it as he had, know every moment of his pain and despair. She would experience his rage, be consumed by his darkness. Her Light would fade.

  He would die a thousand deaths to prevent that. And yet, she would die unless he took the chance that she could prevail. How could he deny her that possibility? It was all they had.

  If she were destroyed, the guilt would be his, forever. He should have seen through Blodwen’s trap. He sh
ould have known the vision the Druidess had sent him was false. When had he ever had a vision of peace and hope? Of love?

  All Owein could See was blood.

  In the end, there was no choice to make. With a sigh, he yielded, opening his mind completely.

  In a heartbeat, Clara surged to the center of his being, seeking the blackest part of his soul. Illumination fell on his darkest memory.

  Powerless, he hung suspended as Clara’s Light shone on Eirwen’s bloodied body. Owein was on his knees at her side, his cheek pressed against her swollen belly. Just days before, the promise of new life had stirred under his palms. Now there was only death. Owein’s child would never be born.

  He felt Clara’s touch, absorbing his despair. She gasped as it seared her, but somehow, she welcomed the pain. Accepted it.

  Accepted him.

  The darkness Owein had so jealously guarded began to melt. Its power dissolved into nothingness. Like a wave of brightness crashing on a brilliant shore, Light took its place.

  With all his being, Owein aligned himself with Clara. He felt his power flowing with hers. It flashed through his body, traveled down his arms, blazed through his fingertips, into the Lost Grail.

  The cup was still pressed to his lips. Owein lowered the vessel easily, holding it at arm’s length.

  A frown creased Blodwen’s delicate brow. “How—”

  With a deliberate motion, he upended the cup and poured its contents onto the hearth.

  Blood splashed into the fire, hissing.

  “No!” Blodwen’s fury came swiftly. Pain hammered into Owein’s skull. He felt Clara’s cry as the full impact of it surged through their mental connection.

  He felt Clara’s recoil. He reached for her with his mind. Dinna fight. Resistance will only make the pain worse.

  He felt Clara’s fear, then her acquiescence. Her psyche bowed, letting Blodwen’s fury wash through her. Waves of pain hammered them both. Hatred. Shame. Degradation. How well Owein understood all Blodwen had endured. But where Owein had sought to contain his darkness, Blodwen had flung hers far and wide.