A Glimmering Girl (18 page)

The light filtering in through Igraine’s bedroom window changed, darkened to the orange-pink gold of late afternoon. She stretched and threw back the covers. Velyn had gone, but not before teasing her when she asked again for the fisher king’s name.

I’m not telling. It serves you right for lusting after a man you’ve never spoken to.

Igraine had given up trying to understand how Velyn knew and did the things he knew and did. According to Zoelyn, he wasn’t of the wyrd. Once she’d asked Kaelyn if Velyn was fae, and she’d laughed and laughed. He might be neither wyrd nor fae, but he was surely a creature of the mystic.

And he was no ordinary male. He wasn’t possessive or jealous or demanding. It was nothing to him to put on the guise of another man if it gave her pleasure. Whenever she had wanted him, he had been there for her, and therefore one thing had never occurred to her before: Velyn probably visited any number of cottages on Avalos.

And she didn’t mind—thank Sun and Moon. More evidence that she didn’t love him.

But the mere thought of another woman kissing her fisher king made her mind go feeble. How fast would she put a nasty,
nasty
wyrd on the witch! Give her chronic bad breath. Igraine wanted to be the one who kissed the sadness from the fisher king’s eyes and ran her fingers through his chestnut hair.

He called to me! He wanted me!

Or… maybe he just wanted to catch a fish that could turn into a woman. Maybe he thought she was a djinn and would grant him three wishes, like in a story.

It was so confusing. As Velyn had pointed out, she’d never even spoken to the man. Her theoretical jealous rage also couldn’t be about love.

She stepped into a pair of sandals and retrieved her tunic from the chair, brushed her hair and redeployed her apple blossoms. The scoping glass was sitting on her dressing table, and before leaving she slipped it into her mantle’s interior pocket. Kaelyn would be delighted by what her goblin friend had done to the device.

With a light heart, Igraine set out for the main abbey.

Zoelyn was with Kaelyn on the open-air veranda. On the table between the two hanging lounges burned a forest green beeswax summoning candle. Kaelyn was staring at the flame.

“Who is it from?” Igraine said without greeting the women.

“Lord Tintagos is ill, perhaps poisoned.” The abbess looked up from the glimmer glass in her hands. “Kaelyn isn’t well enough. You’ll have to go.”

“Me? But I’m not…” Poison. That was beyond her powers.

“You must go, dear,” Kaelyn said. “It’s meant to be.”

“This is too important,” Igraine protested. “The baron deserves better.”

“You’ll give him what no one else can,” Kaelyn said. “If I were in my prime, I would still send you. Velyn has the
Redux
at the lagoon, and a horse will be saddled and waiting for you at Igdrasil.”

“If Stephen becomes king,” Zoelyn said, “he’ll look the other way as the church destroys the wyrd forever.”

“Bishop Quinn would take pleasure in it.” Igraine shuddered remembering the man.

“Tintagos must back Mathilde.” Zoelyn handed the glimmer glass to Kaelyn and flicked her wrists. A hooded cloak covered Igraine’s tunic and mantle, and her potions bag appeared, slung over her shoulder. “If it comes to it, you’ll have to convince the new baron of that.”

“It’s horrible to see a friend’s death.” Kaelyn ignored the glass. “And worse when the sight comes to pass.” She was looking at Igraine. “Sometimes the greatest gift is to comfort the one left behind.”

“That’s it.” Igraine put down the potion bag and shook off the cloak and all her clothes. Her tunic and mantle fit in the satchel; better than nothing.

“What are you doing?” Zoelyn said.

“Put the strap in my mouth after I’ve changed.” Igraine handed the abbess the bag. “I said I would stop, but this will be faster.”

The world twisted and Igraine rolled into a new shape, one she’d never tried, but one with a big beak. She stretched her white wings to the fullest and flew out of the veranda, up over the island and toward Tintagos Castle, the bag of potions dangling from her mouth.

Ross sat with his father by the crackling fire. Propped up in his favorite rosewood captain’s chair, the baron alternated between coughing, staring at the flames, and periodically stealing glances at his chamber door.

“Kaelyn’s never failed me, son, but this time I may fail her.” His face was sickly pale and his voice weak, like that of someone ancient. “My fire dims, son. Help me to my bed before I fall to the floor.”

A candle burned on the baron’s bedside table like the one he’d lit all those years ago at the hunter’s cabin when the knife had sliced through Ross’s cheek. A summoning candle. But the old wyrding woman couldn’t possibly arrive in time to help his father now.

“This is Quinn’s doing.” Ross pulled a blanket up over his father’s chest. “When I see the bastard again, I’ll run a blade through his black heart.”

“Good.” The baron sat up abruptly and lurched forward, retching. He coughed up blood and foam, soaking his handkerchief. “Rid the world of that snake. But he’s not the end of it. Quinn wouldn’t murder a baron on his own whim.”

On the hearth lay the shattered remains of the goblet that had held the baron’s wine. Too late, Ross had noticed the black rose, symbol of the house of Sarumen, etched into the blown glass. Too late, he’d made the connection to Quinn. Too late, he’d snatched the goblet from his father and thrown it against the stone fireplace.

Too late, too late.

Either Quinn had been brazenly taunting them, putting poisoned wine in such a cup, or the man was a fool. Either way, the outcome was the same: Ross’s father was going to die, and no wyrding woman could stop it from happening.

Ross went to the door to listen for sounds of Kaelyn’s coming, but there was no one in the corridor. Indeed, as if already in mourning, the entire castle was eerily silent. Grief twisted Ross’s heart.

“I don’t want to believe it,” he said.

“But you do,” the baron said.

“I do. Quinn must have been acting on his uncle’s orders.”

“Kill Quinn; it won’t matter. But don’t break with Sarumen, Ross. I swore fealty to Mathilde, but you did not. If it comes to it, you must support Stephen for the good of Dumnos. He has too much strength behind him, not only Lord Sarumen, but the church.” The baron fell into another spasm of coughing.

“I would have agreed with you yesterday,” Ross said under his breath. As he’d sent all the servants away, he looked for a clean handkerchief. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“Sun and moon.” The baron’s eyes widened. He continued coughing and motioned toward the window.

A pelican—carrying something in its beak—flew in through the unshuttered opening. It now dropped the thing, a satchel, and landed on the floor.

“What…?” Ross stepped toward the bird.

It squawked at him, a loud, ugly screetch which he could swear formed a word.

“No!”

“Don’t touch it,” his father said.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Ross stepped back.

The bird squawked again and flapped its wings, fast and faster. A blur of white shimmering light surrounded the pelican, obscuring it from sight. Flecks of silver and gold sparkled in the light, and then the light was gone.

All that remained was
her
. The glimmering girl with the apple blossoms in her hair.

“You.” Ross merely thought the word. He couldn’t speak. His heart was pounding, and he was caught up in some kind of rapture. She was as lovely as when he first saw her. And just as naked.

“You’re not Kaelyn,” the baron said, weak but his voice charged with humor.

“Lord Tintagos.” She spoke haltingly at first, still more squawk than human voice. Then again, “Lord Tintagos,” the graceful voice of a lady.

Jealousy and woe danced through Ross, taunting him. That his glimmering girl would speak, but to someone else!

She smiled then, at the baron, but her delightful blue eyes were sad. She went to Ross’s father and touched his forehead. As if by the magic of her touch—
who is she?
—the creases in the baron’s brow smoothed.

“Kaelyn sent me, my lord,” she said.

The bag the pelican had carried lay open on the floor, and she was dressed in pink and green silk embroidered with silver and and gold thread, as light and gossamer as herself. Her hair fell about her shoulders in gentle caresses, and scattered throughout those white-blond tresses were the delicate jewels he remembered in the shape of apple blossoms, tinged with silver and gold.

“My lord?” She meant him.

“Me, lord?” Ross said stupidly. Sun and Moon, more!
Talk to me. See me. Fix me in your gaze and never let me go.

“Could you bring my…?”

“Of course.” He fetched her bag as if he were her servant. Her slave. She accepted it, and when their fingers touched, such happiness coursed through his body—followed on hard by exquisite longing.

The feeling was so tender, so sweet, so clean and real and pure that he had to suppress the tears that welled up inside. She was beautiful, but it was far more than that. He felt that she was good and kindhearted. An oasis of calm in a world spinning toward chaos. Everything that he was cried out with wanting,
wanting,
to be with her, bound to her, utterly and forever.

“Who are you? What is your name? Tell me… please.”

Horrible, wondrous, terrifying question. Dangerous—or salvific.

“I’m Igraine of Kaelyn’s cave.”

“And a choir…”

“Eh?” Ross had forgotten his father. The man’s pallor told all. He was fading and trying to speak. Ross went to the bedside and bent down close.

“A choir of angels exalts from on high.” The old man struggled for breath to speak. “Igraine… I like that. Another Igraine at Tintagos Castle.”

« Chapter 18 »
Ride With Me

It was him.

He was the baron’s son.

Rozenwyn’s absent lover.

Wennie’s unaware father.

The man Igraine wanted to hate, at least to dislike. At the very least to disapprove of. He was her fisher king. And she felt sure he recognized her too. He appeared to be full of questions.

“Thank you for coming.” His voice was as compelling as she remembered. Deep, strong, and with a hint of weariness that tugged at her nurturing instincts.

In a few strides, he was at her side. She braced for another electrical jolt of desire, but this time his muscular grasp surrounded her hand with gentle pressure. There was no overwhelming spark, only yearning for the simple comfort of human contact.

It was difficult to hate a man whose heart was breaking before her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I fear I’m too late to save your father.” She should be thinking of the baron, but her mind was filled with the awareness of Sir Ross.

How decent he seemed, though he was a man who’d left home and family for the chimera of glory in a foreign campaign.

How safe and alive he made her feel, his hand covering hers, welcoming her as if she’d truly come home for the first time in her life.

“He was poisoned. Nothing could have saved him.”

“Then I can help to ease his passing.” With regret, Igraine withdrew her hand. She fetched her infusions bowl and a rosemary decoction from her bag and indicated the kettle hanging over the fire. “If there’s boiled water, I’d like some here beside Lord Tintagos’s bed.”

“I’ll get it.” Pain shadowed Sir Ross’s face. “He had a moment of terror, and I sent the servants away. I couldn’t bear to let them see him like that.”

Igraine nodded her understanding as she rubbed a wyrded potion over the baron’s chest. “This ointment will ease his breathing, and the vapors from the infused water will soothe his mind, though he’s unconscious.”

Sir Ross brought the kettle to the table beside the baron’s bed and poured steaming water into the ceramic bowl Igraine had taken from her bag. She liked to use her own things in her work, even to bowls and spoons. One never knew how clean a patient’s plate would be, even when he was a baron.