Cyric’s death? For that was his birthright, the one promise that made all his years of wandering bearable. And yet … sometimes he could not help wondering if Gwendolyn would be better suited to the task.
Gwendolyn, with her quick laughter and daring ways. Her loving heart and her unflagging energy. She was the younger, but she’d ever possessed the stronger will. Even so, their differences had struck a perfect balance. Together, they’d been invincible.
They had even shared one mind, their thoughts passing between them as easily as spoken conversation. But now? Now Rhys could barely remember what it was like to have Gwen speak to his soul.
He passed through the gates enclosing the villa grounds, Hefin circling above him. He felt his estrangement from his twin in the deepest part of his being. The rift had begun nine years ago, when Cyric had presented them with differing tasks. Rhys was to wander Britannia, searching for those with latent Druid power. Gwen was to remain in Avalon, tending the needs of the clan and teaching the initiates Rhys brought to her.
Their duties had been the opposite of their desires. Gwen envied Rhys’s wandering; Rhys envied Gwen’s home on the sacred isle. Why had Cyric set them on such conflicting paths?
Rhys clenched his jaw. The estrangement was more Gwen’s doing than his. He’d come to peace with Cyric’s command. For nine years, since he’d been little more than a lad, Rhys had traveled in Roman towns, never passing more than a fortnight in one bed. He sought those linked to the Deep Magic.
By contrast, Gwen had railed against her duty. Whenever Rhys made a brief visit to Avalon, he heard the accusations. Gwen was forever disappearing into the swamps and forests, telling no one of her purpose. When she returned, she gave no explanation. For some reason, Cyric refused to curb her insolence. The clan had been tolerant at first, then impatient, and finally, angry. But no one, least of all Rhys, could discover how Gwen passed her time away from Avalon. Like Rhys, Gwen was strong in the magic of the forest. She was adept at covering her trail.
Then, a fortnight ago, the first ill winds had risen, and Cyric had fallen sick. Gwen had not been present.
Rhys’s breathing ran shallow. Mared, Avalon’s healer, had declared Cyric’s malady magical in nature. Avalon had buzzed with suspicion. Rhys couldn’t believe what they’d whispered—that Gwen’s absence proved she was responsible for her grandfather’s malady. Surely, surely, Rhys’s twin could not have embraced the Dark. Surely Gwen was back in Avalon now, assisting Mared in nursing Cyric back to health.
Snow crunched under Rhys’s boots as he traversed the stubbled field and ducked into the forest beyond. Once surrounded by trees, he halted and looked up. Hefin perched on a high branch, running his long wing feathers, one by one, through his beak.
“Just get on with it. Tell me what’s happened.”
Hefin settled his wings. A moment later, a thought formed in Rhys’s brain. Or not a thought, precisely, for the language of animals was different from that of humans. Image. Instinct. A series of sensations, a deep knowing. Rhys closed his eyes and let his human mind merge with that of his companion. For an instant, he became the merlin.
In that instant, he learned more than he wished to know.
He broke the connection with a gasp. The magic had weakened him; he staggered forward, grasping a limb to stop his fall.
He bowed his head, fighting tears. His grandfather’s illness had worsened. Avalon’s healer had given up hope of his recovery.
With his last breath, Cyric was calling Rhys home.
Chapter Eight
Clara woke slowly, sleep seeping from her mind as did wine from a cracked cask. Her dreams had been warm and pleasant, like sunshine. The sensation of a summer garden lingered. High walls surrounded a profusion of blooms in every color; an azure sky arched over head. A sky, she thought, that reminded her of someone’s eyes.
She snuggled into her covers, desperate to steal a few last moments of sleep before Father’s voice boomed through the courtyard. Father’s habit was to rise before dawn, and Clara always rose early to greet him.
But perhaps she would remain abed today …
A warm stream of air tickled the back of her neck. She wriggled and shifted, but for some reason couldn’t manage to roll onto her back. Something solid and uncomfortable prodded her bottom. What was a big stone pestle doing in her bed?
The last echoes of her father’s voice