So she ventured, “There must be a real, physical place in England that is associated with Avalon.”
Catullus stopped his pacing to glower out a window. His fists pressed into the stone wall surrounding the window as he leaned closer to the glass, searching for answers in the opaque night. It was a wonder the glass didn’t shatter from the force of his churning mind. He held his wide shoulders stiffly, as if they bore a heavy weight under which he would not bow.
Avoiding Astrid and Lesperance’s curious glances, Gemma edged around the table and came to stand beside Catullus. Gently, she lay her hand upon his forearm, felt the tense, firm muscles there beneath the exquisite fabric of his coat. Her touch served as reminder that he was not alone in this search.
He glanced over at her hand upon him, his expression gentling. Beneath this, she saw in his eyes a glimmer of something, something hungry and yearning.
No one ever touches him, she realized. He’s sealed off—by design or circumstance, or both. To everyone, he was a perpetual stranger.
It broke her heart a little to think of it. Then realized she saw in him a mirror, reflecting her own solitude.
But now was about more than their shared isolation. So she said, “We will all think of the answer.”
His gaze dropped away, as if embarrassed to have revealed so much, but he rallied in an instant, becoming again the incisive commander. “Several sites in England are associated with Avalon. Some say it lies in the mists off Cornwall’s coast. Or near Wales.”
“Astrid said she felt the Primal Source’s energy gathering south of here. Surely there’s some place south of … wherever we are … that’s linked to Avalon.”
She felt the inspiration hit him, as strongly as a silver wave coursing to shore. A physical sensation, but also deeper, more profound, a strange and strengthening bond connecting them.
“Glastonbury.” He turned from the window, and Gemma’s hand fell away as he surged back into motion. He stared at her, then at Astrid. “Glastonbury,” he repeated.
Where or what that was, Gemma had no idea, but Astrid clearly did, because she changed from grim to energized in a moment. “God! I should have thought of that!” Astrid turned to Lesperance, watching with a puzzled expression that, no doubt, paralleled Gemma’s.
“Glastonbury is an island?” asked Lesperance.
Astrid rushed headlong into her explanation. “No, it’s a hilly town in Somerset. But it was once surrounded by marshes, which would give it the look of an island.”
“One of the holiest places in England,” continued Catullus. He began smiling now, everything within him brightening as the sun of understanding emerged from gloom. “Its abbey used to be the wealthiest, after Westminster. And in the twelfth century, monks claimed to have unearthed the grave of Arthur and Guinevere near the abbey. The bones disappeared, but the legend remained that Glastonbury was, is, Avalon.”
Astrid pressed a hand to her chest, closing her eyes, focusing inward. “I can feel it now. The Primal Source is drawn to where myths are strongest, and there are so many swirling around Glastonbury, it would attract the Primal Source’s energy. I sense it … gathering beneath the ground, taking shape, becoming real.” Her eyes opened. “We have to stop it.”
“How can we prevent something as powerful as the Primal Source from calling forth Arthur?” Gemma asked.
“I don’t know,” Catullus answered, and this dimmed his excitement but not his determination. “Yet we must try. If King Arthur is truly summoned, if he is imbued with the power of legend, then there will be almost nothing the Blades can do to keep him from achieving what the Heirs desire.”
Rush headlong to stop a mythical king from being summoned by the world’s most potent magic? It couldn’t be done. It seemed to Gemma just then that the Blades had set for themselves an impossible goal, that they fought not to win, but because someone had to, regardless of the consequences.
The Primal Source was magic. They were human. Which meant their bodies demanded rest. Racing down to Glastonbury without a night’s sleep went beyond the prospect of daunting to nigh impossible. And Catullus, the general in command of their army of four, ordered everyone to their beds so that, early the next morning, they could speed south without delay, refreshed and rested.
They had finished their supper, everyone barely restraining their sense of urgency and tension, and bidden each other a good night before retiring to their rooms.
By the light of a single taper, Gemma changed into her nightgown. Like all of her clothing, the height of its glory had passed many washings ago. She fought a sigh as she considered the worn cotton. If only a band of French lace adorned it, or a bit of dainty embroidery. Threadbare calico lacked the sophistication and sensuousness of ribbon-trimmed silk—which Catullus was no doubt more accustomed to.
As though it mattered what Catullus thought of her nightclothes! He’d never see her in them.
Gemma glanced over at Astrid, who sat on the edge of the bed they were to share that night. The Englishwoman hadn’t yet changed for bed, but perched warily, fully clothed and ill at ease.
“Have you no nightgown?” Gemma asked. She, herself, had only the one, so nothing could be loaned.
“I don’t wear anything when I sleep,” came the strained reply.
Oh. “I promise I won’t try anything fresh.”
Astrid managed a taut smile, her gaze straying to the door. Across the hall was Lesperance, and through the inn’s thin walls, the deeper voices of him and Catullus resonated in bass murmurs.
“You miss him,” Gemma said quietly.
Astrid choked out a laugh, shaking her head at herself. “Absurd, I know. He’s just across the hall. One night should not matter. I lived alone for years and didn’t need anyone. Then he roars into my life and …” Her look grew tender, faraway. She was in a distant land Gemma had never truly seen—love. “We have not slept apart once since then.”
What must that be like, to need someone so fully? Strange, too, witnessing the steely Englishwoman’s vulnerability. Yet it didn’t diminish her, but somehow made her even stronger, that she could hold such love and need for someone, and still fearlessly fight. It helped that Lesperance was a man of uncommon strength, as much a warrior as the woman who loved him.
Gemma ducked her head. “I’m sorry you have to be separated on my account.”
At this, Astrid chuckled. “Catullus, for all his unconventional ways, can be something of a traditionalist. He wants to protect your reputation.”
Now Gemma laughed softly. “That assumes I have a reputation.”
“He’s an optimist.”
“I know you don’t trust me,” Gemma said, and Astrid did not dispute this, “but I want you to understand something. I will never manipulate or seduce Catullus to my advantage.”
“I know you won’t,” Astrid said, “because, if you do, if you hurt him for your own gain, I will cut each and every freckle off of you with my skinning knife.”
Gemma had no doubt Astrid would do just that. She refused to let the Englishwoman cow her, however. Blandly, she asked, “Which side of the bed do you want?”
Astrid smiled, not entirely without warmth. A kind of détente had been reached, an establishment of mutual respect that might not see bonds of eternal friendship forged, but at least created a foundation of wary esteem.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Astrid said, standing. “I’m not sure how much sleep I’m going to get. I’ve grown so damned used