The Grail King Read Online Free Page A

garment was far too large. The sleeves hung well past her fingertips and the hem trailed as far as her knees. Her breasts gaped through the open front. She rolled up the sleeves and tied the front laces as tightly as she could.
    The shirt smelled of herbs, and of …
him.
Already she knew his scent—she suspected she would recognize it even blindfolded. It was a wild odor, not unpleasant, but not anything she’d encountered in Isca, or before that, Eburacum. Or before
that,
Londinium.
    She clung to the memory of those places, because in them her father loomed large and strong, invincible in his Legionary armor. So different from how she’d last seen him—thin and wasted under his blankets, his face sunken and hollow. The Greek physician had proven useless and even Rhiannon, the Celt healer whose husband had once been an officer in the Legions, offered little hope.
    Only Clara could save her father now—but only if the Druid lent her his aid.
    Her gorge rose, but with her stomach empty, she tasted only bile. She clamped one hand over her mouth, praying she would not retch. The scent of the Seer’s shirt, of all things, helped her nausea recede. The fabric smelled of pine and heather, mist and mystery. Magic and hope. When its owner returned, she would plead again for his assistance.
    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,