Free The Grail King by Joy Nash

he look up to see who had disturbed his sanctuary.
    “Rhys.”
    The greeting had the weight of resignation about it. At Rhiannon’s insistence, Marcus had allowed the Celt to remain a guest in their home. But the thought of sleeping under the same roof as a Druid sorcerer had left a knot in Marcus’s stomach. He’d spent the night in the forge.
    At least he was getting some work done.
    Rhys shut the door, plunging the room into pleasant darkness once more. Unfortunately, Rhys remained inside.
    “Good day to ye, Marcus.”
    “I didn’t think you’d be about before noon,” Marcus muttered. He’d heard Rhys ring the gate bell just before dawn, after providing song at the home of a wealthy Celt merchant.
    “I’ve nay slept at all. The storm may have blown itself out, but I cannot help thinking the reprieve will be brief.”
    “I’ve no wish to hear of storms,” Marcus said, inhaling the tang of hot metal and ash. He brought his hammer down on the raw iron, absorbing a satisfying jolt with his arm. “Nor do I wish to speak of my sister—” He turned the piece and hammered again, flattening the lumpy metal. “Nor your Druid clan, nor”—he slammed the iron with a solid blow—“
magic.
”
    Rhys drew up a stool and sat. “We’ll speak of your work, then,” he said. His eyes roamed the workshop and came to rest on a plank table shoved up against the wall. An odd collection of throwing knives and silver animal figurines—Marcus’s two hobbies—littered the surface, interspersed with drawings done on wax tablets and scraps of papyrus.
    In the center of the clutter lay a long wrapped parcel. “Ye have a sword ready for delivery?” Rhys asked.
    “Yes.” Marcus transferred the beaten iron back to the furnace, then moved to the bellows. He sent a long, steady stream of air across the coals, watching the flare of heat carefully. Too much, and the iron would soften more than he intended. Too little, and it would be brittle when it cooled.
    A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of his face. His hair clung his scalp; his shirt to his torso. “The sword goes to Aurelius Valgus.”
    “The tribune? I didna ken ye had trade with the man.”
    “I don’t,” Marcus said sharply. He pulled the heated iron from the fire and folded the glowing metal on the surface of the anvil. “At least, I didn’t before today. Sempronius Gracchus commissioned the sword. But now the commander is ill, and Valgus is in command. He’s even moved into Gracchus’s residence. The tribune demanded I deliver the sword to him.”
    “Ah,” Rhys said. “Last night’s feast was abuzz with the news that Valgus is to marry your fair Clara.”
    Marcus slammed his hammer on the anvil. “I cannot believe Gracchus would give her to that bastard rather than to me.”
    “Valgus is destined for the Roman Senate,” Rhys said easily. “I’ve heard Gracchus wants nothing more than to be father-in-law to a Senator. You, my friend, are a backwater blacksmith.”
    “My blood is as patrician as Valgus’s,” Marcus muttered. “My own grandfather sat in the Senate.”
    “Aye, but your father renounced the seat to marry a barbarian,” Rhys pointed out. “Now he tends wheat fields without the benefit of slaves. His sanity is suspect.” He tipped his stool onto its rear legs and leaned against the wall. “Perhaps Clara asked for the match with Valgus. Does she appear willing?”
    “I wouldn’t know. She hasn’t been at the market in days. That’s one reason I agreed to deliver Gracchus’s sword to Valgus. I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of her.”
    “To what purpose? It will only darken your mood. Choose another woman to woo. There are fair lasses aplenty in Isca.”
    “Perhaps,” Marcus said, setting his hammer and tongs aside. He bent and adjusted the furnace vents. Rhys’s advice, as always, had the ring of wisdom. His obsession was fruitless, and no one knew it so well as he. Why couldn’t he put Clara out of his