Catherine Coulter (29 page)

His urgency was great now, prodding him, making his heart drum loud in his chest. He had to get inside that godforsaken tower. He knew Merry was in there, and she needed him. He didn’t want to turn his back to the tower, but he had to. He didn’t want to risk breaking his leg by jumping off the wall. He climbed down several feet, then jumped, lightly landed on his feet. He drew his sword, pulled his knife from his sleeve, and ran to the tower, his boots loud on the wooden planks. In front of him was a tall, narrow black door. There was a symbol painted in white at eye level. Up close it looked like a half moon, no, not quite a half moon, more a sickle, and there were three crooked lines slashed through its middle. He’d never before seen a symbol like that one. What could it possibly mean?

He pushed down the iron handle. He had no hope of it opening, but it did, easily and smoothly, not making a sound.

He took a step inside. The narrow door closed quietly behind him. He whirled about, but there was nothing there.
The wind
, he thought,
a gust of wind blew it closed
, but deep inside him, he knew that wasn’t true. He cursed into the silent air.

Before him lay a long narrow corridor, its stone floor bare as the walls, so deeply buried in shadows he couldn’t see the other end. On either side of him was a door. He pressed his ear to the right door, listened. He heard nothing. The door opened easily. He stepped into dim light, not as dark as the corridor since there was a single high eastward facing window above his head. It was a workroom of some sort, and he saw it was sickle-shaped, which made sense since he was in a tower. There were baskets of all sizes stacked along a far wall. Something deep inside him didn’t want to know what was inside those baskets. Shelves climbed the curving walls, and upon those shelves sat dark bottles and oddly shaped bowls and piles of dried plants. Were the bottles empty? He would swear he saw a flash of movement in one of the larger bottles. No, he didn’t want to look. Several benches sat in front of two long bare tables. He stood quietly for a moment, listening, but he didn’t hear anything. He was surrounded by stillness and cold, and stale air. Surely no one had been in this room for a very long time.

He walked across the narrow corridor to press his ear to the opposite door. Again, he heard nothing. When he opened the door and stepped inside, he saw this room was deeply shadowed since there were no windows, and it too appeared to be empty. No, wait. The room wasn’t empty. He heard a rustling sound. Slowly, he raised his face and looked up.

H
e stared up at a dozen black ceiling beams that stretched the length of the room, some six feet above his head. Atop each beam birds huddled, pressing into each other, seemingly asleep. Crows, he saw, dozens of black crows sitting in a long line. Then he stopped cold. The farthest beam didn’t have crows sitting on it, but dozens of bats. The bats weren’t asleep. He saw wings stretch out, heard them rustling, then one of them flew directly at him. Garron swung with his arm and hit the bat, knocking it to the stone floor. Another came at him, then a dozen more. Garron jerked open the door and slammed it closed behind him. He heard a bat strike the door, then another. He heard the crows stirring now, heard their harsh caws.

He stood in the dim corridor a moment, trying to calm himself, waiting. Waiting for what? For more of the bats to hurl themselves at the door, to claw through it, and attack him? No, no, the door was stout, he was safe. But how had the birds even gotten into that room? He could make no sense of it.

When silence fell again, he walked toward the back of the tower. The corridor became darker with each step. He saw curving narrow stairs against the back tower wall, winding to the right. He climbed a half-dozen deep, narrow stairs. He paused. It was now pitch black and he simply couldn’t see. He placed one hand against the stone wall beside him and kept climbing. He walked upward, ever upward, and the stairs seemed to grow narrower, almost too small for his feet, but it didn’t matter. He kept walking, one step after another. At last he reached the second level. And he saw the stairs simply ended. But how could that be, since he’d seen a vertical line of three windows on the outside stone wall? He was sure of it; so that meant there had to be three separate levels in this damnable tower. But how to get to the top level? He shook his head. It didn’t matter. It was nothing but tricks, he thought, a witch’s tricks meant to confuse him, make him doubt himself.

Garron realized this second level was identical to the floor below him, a room on each side, the long dim corridor separating them.

He walked to the door on the right, listened a moment, then eased the door open and looked inside. Since there was no window, it was all deep shadows. He made out a large bed that sat squarely in the middle of the room, blue velvet hangings enclosing it. A fire burned brightly in a fireplace, but somehow the light given off didn’t pierce the black shadows. But it was warm in the room. Unless the witch was presenting him with an illusion, then someone was here and that someone had laid the fire, and kept it built up. But how was that possible? There was no hole for escaping smoke, yet no smoke gushed into the small room.

He saw the thick velvet bed hangings shift, showing a part of the bed. Was there movement in that bed? Was that a woman lying on that bed?

Merry?

He walked as quietly as he could toward the bed. He heard a moan, quiet, then a thin cry. He walked faster now, and it seemed the shadows thickened, somehow formed a barrier, and he was shoving and heaving to get through to the bed. He jerked back the velvet hangings not knowing what he expected to find, and afraid: he couldn’t help it. He froze. The bed was empty. His breath whooshed out. His heart wanted to leap out of his chest. How could the bed be empty? He’d seen something move, he’d swear to it, and he’d heard—something. The bed covers were tangled. He touched a blanket. It was warm to the touch. Someone had been here, maybe just minutes before he’d come in. He heard that moan again, this time it was only a sliver of sound and it came from behind him. He whirled around but saw nothing.

No, wait, the moan had come from above his head, that was it. There was another room above this one. There had to be stairs to the third level, they were simply hidden. Slowly, he walked to the door. He turned back to look once again at the bed. He saw nothing at all. It was so still he wanted to drive his fist against the door and pound until something happened, anything to end this deadening silence, to stop the madness. He was more angry now than he was afraid, everything in him was ready to fight, wanted to fight, to do something, anything, to end this absurd game.
It is a game, the witch is playing with me.

There was nothing to see but deep shadows and darkness. He heard the soft moaning again, and something more—was that a voice? A woman’s voice? The moans hadn’t come from over his head, they’d come from the room opposite this one. He closed the door behind him and quickly crossed the corridor.

He listened a moment, then opened the door. There was watery light seeping from the window into the chamber, a huge relief. He stepped into a living space. He saw the room was well used, the rug thick beneath his boots. The rug was brilliant blue and covered with strange black symbols that made his flesh ripple. It was large, covering most of the stone floor. Bound parchments were piled beside a large high-backed chair, a branch of unlit candles sat on a table beside the chair. There was a fireplace on the far wall, a small fire burning on the grate, nearly burned out now. But there was no air hole—no, now wasn’t the time to drive himself mad thinking about that.
This is nothing but a witch’s game.

But his hand tightened around his sword handle. Damnation, where had the moans come from? Not this room, no, this room was as empty as the other. Surely he could believe what his eyes saw. Couldn’t he? He knew there was something, something just out of sight, something that was hiding, waiting—

He shook off the creeping fear, the questions with no answers. He realized it was cold even though the fire seemed to be burning brighter since he’d stepped into the room. Again, it was a witch’s trick, nothing more, and that meant she was close. But where?
Think. Make sense of this
.

He knew there was no one in this room save him, but there was, he knew it to his gut—the witch was here, hiding herself from him. Garron called out, sarcasm thick in his voice, “I know you’re here, witch. You’ve had a fine time playing your games with me, but it’s over. Come out from where you are hiding.”

“I am not hiding.” The soft whispered words seemed to come from all around him.

He nearly leapt into the air, but managed to hold his place. He ignored the rancid fear. “Where are you then?”

“Right behind you, Lord Garron.”

Garron turned slowly to stare at one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen in his life standing directly behind him. She was tall, nearly to the bridge of his nose, slender as a girl, her gown pure white, just as white as her soft flesh, and he thought,
She is golden and white, just as the old woman said
. How had she gotten behind him? He accepted her presence, he had no choice, and now he had to deal with her. Now his questions would be answered. No matter what she did, no matter what she said, he was ready. He felt deadly.

“I have been looking for you. Are you the witch I seek?” No fear leaked into his voice, and rage thrummed in his blood. He slowly raised his knife to her face.

She merely smiled at him. “Marianna said you would come, over and over, she said you would find her. I do not know how you managed it, but come you did. How did you find my sanctuary?”

He held the knife not an inch from her smooth cheek as he studied her face. “You cannot be Merry’s mother.”

“Do you not see the resemblance between us?”

He slowly shook his head. “Merry’s eyes are a dark blue, yours are as gray as old ice. You are nothing alike. You are not her mother. Who are you?”

She continued to smile. “Marianna said you were fine looking, Garron of Kersey, and I see she was right. She also said you were honorable, that there was strength in your center. Did she say you were valiant? I trust not, since ‘valiant’ is a silly word given to the heroes men invent to make them feel safe. Are you a hero, Garron of Kersey?”

“Aye,” he said, his voice strong, calm, “I am a hero. So is Merry.”

“What a strange thing for a man to say. How is she a hero?”

“Were I to explain, I still doubt you would understand. Now, where is my betrothed?”

“Do you see her? Come now, you have searched my entire tower.”

“Not the third floor. There were no stairs leading up to it.”

She laughed.

“Tell me where she is or I will kill you now.”

She slowly shook her head, but her smile never faltered. “Mayhap you are a strong warrior and those weaker can trust you to protect them, mayhap you are steady in your beliefs, ignorant and narrow though they be, but in my world, you are only a simple man whose fear of those things he cannot understand turns his heart to ashes. Tell me, Garron of Kersey, how did you find my tower?”

He touched the knife tip to her neck. “I snapped my fingers and found myself facing your ridiculous tower. A black tower, madam? How little imagination you have. And the sickle with the crooked lines slashing through it—what does that mean? Something you hope will frighten people who chance upon this place?” The knife pressed deeper. A drop of deep red blood pooled around the knife tip. “Now you will tell me where Merry is or I will cut your throat.”

She lightly raised a soft white hand to touch his cheek. “Aye, you are comely, Garron of Kersey, but there isn’t time for me to enjoy you. You are too late.”

Her fingers were soft, caressing his cheek now, pressing inward. He jerked his head back. He thought he smelled something sickly sweet but ignored it. He put his face close to hers. “Do not touch me again. What do you mean I am too late? Tell me where you have hidden Merry, or I will kill you right now.” And he pressed the knife tip in deeper. Another drop of blood welled up and slid down her white throat to paint a slash of red on her white bodice.

Still she didn’t move, still she smiled up at him. She touched his cheek again, then when the knife pressed deeper, she drew her hand back. “Things do not proceed as I had planned, but no matter. What will happen should amuse me. You must leave me now, Garron of Kersey.”

“No, I will not leave until I know where you have hidden Merry. You have but an instant, madam, or I will slit your throat.”

“Merry? What a silly name,” and yet again her fingers touched his cheek, her eyes met his, deep, fathomless. He wanted to slam his knife to the hilt so it would come out the back of her neck, but he felt as if he were moving away from her. Yet this beautiful woman was beside him, both her hands on his face now, drawing him away from himself. He felt his knife fall from his fingers, but they couldn’t be his fingers, for he was not really here now, he was above, or mayhap he was beyond this cursed tower. Was that his knife he heard thud softly onto the blue carpet with its strange symbols? He felt his sword slip from his hand, but it wasn’t his hand, it was another’s. He heard his sword land hard on the stone floor. But he’d been standing on the thick carpet. Was it his sword he heard, or another’s? He heard the witch laugh, but he didn’t see her now. He was alone, and he was nowhere at all. He felt empty, a shadow. He called out, “Where are you, witch?”

She didn’t answer him. He heard nothing now, felt nothing. He was moving away, faster now, into darkness where soft air swirled warm on his face. He thought he saw a flash of fire, but then it was gone, a blur of red and gold, but there was no heat from it, only cold, blistering cold. From a great distance, he heard a soft laugh, the witch’s laugh, then he heard nothing at all.

A
hand slapped his face, once, then yet again, harder this time, then Gilpin’s scared voice. “My lord! Please, you must wake up!”