Heart of the Flame (34 page)

He had not told Rand about
Calasaar
, for despite the friendship they shared, Kenrick felt this new Rand--this wounded man who was only a small part of the reckless adventurer he once knew--might let his want for vengeance shade his judgment.

Kenrick knew well how easy it was to let emotion rule one's better sense. His time with Haven had been proof enough of that. His weakness with her had put his quest, and perhaps his beloved kin and keep, in great peril.

Even now, Haven might be working to realign herself with de Mortaine. She knew about the seal that was missing from Greycliff, and after their painful confrontation at Clairmont, she now knew about
Calasaar
as well. Kenrick was not about to risk a further mistake, nor would he watch as Rand submitted his sense to the anger that festered within him.

And so he kept the
Calasaar
cup secreted away on his saddle, held close until the time he might need it.

"What say you, Saint? You'd be the last man to let a little water keep you from proving a point. You know that damned cup is up there, just waiting for you to take it."

Kenrick absorbed Rand's words with as much resignation as he did pride. It was true; nothing could dissuade him once he'd seized upon a problem and meant to solve it. His gut told him that one of the Chalice stones was, in fact, waiting somewhere on the tor, so close he could almost feel the vibration of its power passing through
Calasaar
and into him.

He was so close--he was certain of it.

Rand gave a knowing chuckle and cuffed him on the shoulder. "I'll meet you at the top, my friend."

With a nudge of his heels, Greycliff sent his mount into a canter across the flat meadowland that lay shrouded with the mist of the oncoming rains.

Kenrick let him go but a furlong's distance before he, too, was spurring his horse onward, toward the final hour's ride that stood between him and the crest of that mysterious jut of earth.

* * *

The inn was crowded with seamen and traders and other unsavory types. He paused to scan the many haggard faces, looking for a glint of recognition, of expectance, in any pair of the scores of eyes that turned on him as he entered the coastal gathering place. None seemed inclined to stare overlong at the warrior who strode in alone, an air of contempt in his every move.

He was dressed as fine as any wealthy lord, his dark cloak swirled in his wake, brushing the tops of his gleaming leather boots and dancing around the length of polished steel that rode in a gem-encrusted sheath on his hip. The knight crossed the small public room in stormy silence. His gaze was hard, flinty as he approached the innkeeper for word, as he had been instructed.

"Le Nantres," he announced himself in a growl, impatience edging his clipped tone as he put down a handful of coin in payment.

The man behind the bar gave a discreet nod. "Right, sir. This way, if you will."

Draec followed his portly guide away from the teeming public room and up a short flight of stairs toward the back of the establishment. He shared none of the innkeeper's serviceable haste, taking his time as he stalked along the narrow hallway an indolent distance behind the man. He did not appreciate being made to bend to another's demands, even when those demands had come from a chit as appealing as the one who'd summoned him that night.

"This be the one," said the innkeeper, halting as he gestured to the door of a private room.

As Draec approached, the man meekly edged away, leaving him alone at the threshold. Once the innkeeper was gone from sight, Draec turned his attention back to the door. It was slightly ajar. The wench was bold; clearly, she had expected him not to refuse her requested meeting. She'd even made him pay for the lodgings. He had to admire her for her cheek, if nothing else.

Light spilled out from the open space near the latch, the welcoming crackle and glow of a hearthfire emanating from within. Draec splayed his hand against the cool panel, and pushed it wide.

The shifter beauty stood not a half dozen paces away from him, her fiery mane and slender figure cloaked in a long mantle of shimmering gold velvet. The fabric caught the light of the twisting flames on the hearth, making Haven sparkle like living fire herself.

A table had been set with a warm meal and an uncorked flagon of wine. Two glasses bore samples of the decanted claret, their bowls glowing ruby red. At the other side of the chamber stood a large bed, its four posters draped with gauzy curtains that had been parted and tied back on the side facing the door. Although half in shadow, he could see that the coverlet was turned down as if to invite a decadent tryst.

Draec felt his blood quicken at the thought.

He hadn't imagined the unattainable lady, this deadly shifter spy, could be such a willing temptress. But he had noted something peculiar about her when he'd seen her that day near Clairmont, and although he had not been able to put his finger on just what that peculiarity was, it had not been far from his mind in the time since.

It had been something in her eyes, he had decided, thinking how her bewitching green gaze had seemed softer than before. Softer than any shifter's detached and emotionless stare.

But that softness was gone now, Draec determined, studying her face.

"Something has happened to you," he mused aloud. "Clairmont found you out, did he?"

"I didn't come here to talk about him," she replied, her voice as cool and steady as a blade. "You and I have better things to discuss, wouldn't you agree?"

She untied the ribbon at her throat, and let the mantle fall. The lush fabric slid down her curves like a lover's hand, slow and appreciative, until it pooled on the floor at her feet. All she wore was a simple silk gown of feathery weight, which floated about her shape like a veil. The garment was an effective tease, an artist's shroud--or sorcerer's conjuring--that hinted tantalizingly at the feminine perfection it concealed.

She was the very picture of seduction, and well she knew it.

Draec felt no shame as he drank in the unearthly beauty before him. He was never one to deny himself a gift freely given, particularly when it came wrapped in a package as delectable--and as personally advantageous--as this. He smiled the devil's own smile, anticipating the pleasure--and the imminent fruition of his quest--that was to come.

"Dare I hope, lovely vixen, that this meeting means you've given my proposal some thought?"

Her jewel-bright gaze did not waver so much as a fraction.

"Yes," she said, unflinching as he approached. "I have decided to accept your offer."

Chapter 28

A small, towerless chapel stood at the crest of Glastonbury Tor. Dedicated to Saint Michael for having slain a dragon on this very spot, the modest church was comprised of a square nave and narrow chancel. For the small group of monks who resided in the grand abbey at the base of the high hill, visiting pilgrims were no unusual occurrence. In fact, over the years, a few profit-minded brethren had encouraged the curious with reports of unearthed tombs belonging to King Arthur and a well that was said to flow with water originating from the Holy Grail itself.

Although strange lights and unexplained events were rumored to occur atop the tor, it was the abbey grounds below that elicited the most interest from travelers seeking miraculous cures and treasure hunters seeking other, material boons. With the spring rain wetting the countryside, few observers had been present to take notice of the two men who had made a cautious ride up the long sloping back of the oblong-shaped hill.

Nor was anyone hovering around to question them on their purpose during the couple of hours they spent carefully examining every nook and hidden alcove for signs that would lead them to one of the Chalice stones.

The church was a small structure, its central chamber, the nave, no more than two score paces in any direction. Beyond it, through an arched threshold, was the priest's chancel. It was in this narrower space that Kenrick first saw a familiar symbol. The light was fading fast outside, with the rain shower and the approach of twilight throwing the chapel into dusky gloom. While Rand went to find torches to light, Kenrick stooped to retrieve a flint from one of his satchels.

As he crouched on the glazed tile floor, his eye caught a subtle design beneath the dust underfoot. He smoothed it away with his palm and swore a quiet oath. He cleared more of the fine grit, revealing the tile directly below the arch that separated the nave from the chancel.

"The torches, Rand!" he called out. "Bring them quick!"

Rand's heavy bootfalls echoed from the other section of the church. He held two small pitch lights and an iron candelabrum from the altar. "What did you find?"

"Here," Kenrick said, pointing to the glazed tiles. "You won't see them from that angle. You'll have to crouch down."

Rand came down to where Kenrick was, and followed his tracery of the design. On the floor between the two rooms was a series of scrollwork symbols: circles interconnecting, crosses stretched between the intersections. Scarcely discernible, the symbols had been etched under the glaze, gray enamel on gray stone tile, all but invisible unless one knelt before the archway.

"What does it mean? How will it lead us to the stone?"

"I'm not sure...but the answer is here." He took one of the torches and struck his flint to light it. "Take this," he told Rand. "Search the floor of the nave for more of these designs. I'll keep looking in here."

He lit the second torch as Rand pivoted to check the other chamber. It was not a few moments before an exhaled oath echoed from the adjacent nave.

"Saint. You'll want to have a look at this."

Kenrick pushed to his feet and hurried to where his friend's voice had issued.

Rand stood in the center of the nave, his torch held out before him. He was not looking at the floor, but at the walls, now cast into relief by the flickering flame of the pitch torch. What had seemed smooth stone was something other altogether. Kenrick drew up beside his friend and looked to the wall that housed the arch to the chancel antechamber. He could not help but gape in wonder at what he saw.

"Holy Mother of God."

Rand held one of Kenrick's diagrams out to him. The symbols were nearly identical. "I'd say we found something, my friend."

"Aye, we have," he agreed, not certain he even breathed now that he was staring at the tactile evidence of his imminent success.

Or his most spectacular failure.

He knew the symbol of the cross and spheres was a key that would lead him to a piece of the Dragon Chalice, and now here it was, the pattern repeated in dizzying array on the thick stone wall not an arm's length away.

The problem was, he had expected the symbols to mark the location of the treasure. All he could see here was the empty space of the nave and the darkened chancel on the other side of the archway.

They had reached a dead end.

* * *

Perched on the edge of the bed, Haven held her full glass of wine and watched as Draec le Nantres sampled the tray of food she had served him. Reclining near the hearth like a negligent prince, he was on his second helping of claret and having the devil of a time keeping his smoky, sensual gaze from fixing on her body as he listened to her plans for their covert alliance.

All lies, of course.

Her brazenness was purely illusion. Not much different than the diaphanous gown and velvet cloak, both crafted of Anavrin magic, and meant to conceal the drab attire she wore since her flight from Clairmont. She had given Draec le Nantres a picture of invitation, of willing alliance, and so far, he was taking the bait. But there was still a chance her plan could fail.

She needed to stall him for time, give the herbs a chance to be absorbed and work their own magic on his muscular limbs and dangerous mind.

To her good fortune, le Nantres was a man of great appetite. To her chagrin, that appetite did not restrict itself to just food and wine. He wanted her, and had been making that point quite clear as the hours wore on in the private chamber of the inn.

"You are making me feel like a glutton, lady. Won't you come down by the fire and join me in this meal? It is quite delicious."

Haven gave him a coy, if calculated, smile. "I'm content to watch you enjoy it. Besides, as I've told you already, I took my supper before you arrived."

The noise he made in the back of his throat was something of a growl, sulky, yet full of masculine confidence that made her wonder if any woman had ever denied the rogue what he wanted. "A taste, at least. Then we can discuss the more pleasant aspects of our alliance."

She lifted a brow, but did not move from her seat across the chamber.

"Nay?" he asked with idle amusement. "Very well, stubborn minx. I will bring the decadence to you."

With strong, elegant fingers, he plucked a glazed berry from its sauce of rich, baked honey, then got up from his position on the floor to approach her. His gaze was dark with a powerful sensuality that seemed accustomed to the chase--and to conquest. But there was the slightest falter in his otherwise flawless stride.