Sorceress (12 page)

“Isa,” she said again, more quietly. The name came to him on the smallest of breezes, calling up a faint, near-forgotten memory. He’d heard the name somewhere in the distant past, he was certain of it. But how? And when?

Calmer now, the woman plopped onto a large stump by the fire, then smoothed the scrap of hide onto a flat stone. Reaching into the cow’s horn strapped at her waist, she sprinkled some kind of powder upon the burning wood. The flames reacted, turning blue and snapping, sparks streaming upward as the woman chanted softly.

God in heaven, did this woman, this
beautiful
woman, think she was a witch? ’Twas nonsense. ’Tattle. Aye, he believed some women knew how to heal and care for the wounded, better than any physician in many cases. But the calling up of spirits and casting of spells and laying on of curses was surely no more than horse dung.

But she flung dust into the fire and turned it blue.

So what else was she carrying in the horns and pouches tied to her belt? Aside from powders and mayhap potions and scraps of leather, did she carry anything of value with her? Money? If so, why was she here, in the forest, alone? Was she foolish enough to think her spells would keep her safe from the criminals who banded together and haunted these woods? Was the woman, Isa, truly with her? Or had she abandoned this would-be sorceress? Perhaps because she was truly mad? Or was it possible Isa did not exist?

Again he wondered what valuables she had tucked inside the folds of her mantle.

He felt only the tiniest bit of guilt, for though he would not harm her, the thought of stealing from her still wasn’t far from his mind. He could use whatever bit of silver or gold she was carrying or wearing. There were no rings upon her hands and her collar was too high for him to catch a glimpse of any sparkling strands of gold or jewels around her neck, but just because nothing was visible didn’t mean she wasn’t wearing a necklace or brooch that he could pocket and sell.

If he could really steal from her.

Suddenly, in that instant, she became silent. Her head snapped up. Her eyes—blue with the greenish luster of dappled leaves in the forest—stared directly at him, at his hiding place. As if she’d heard his thoughts and knew he was concealed in the darkness. He didn’t move a muscle, didn’t so much as blink, but his heart knocked wildly within his chest and he wondered if she could hear it, could see him somehow.

By the Christ, she was beautiful. Now that she was looking at him, the firelight warm against her skin, he saw the even features of her face. She was indeed the woman of his dreams. With high, sculpted cheekbones, finely arched dark eyebrows, and full lips around a small mouth now pursed in vexation, she glared at him.

“Damn you,” she said clearly. “Come to me!”

Who? Damn who?
His heart nearly stilled. Was she speaking to Isa again? Or directly to him? Could she see him in the darkness? Did his eyes reflect the firelight?

“Show yourself, cur!”

He heard a noise beside him, a rustle of leaves.

Was that a bit of movement in the darkness . . . or just the play of firelight? He shifted into a crouch, ready to spring, every sense heightened as he searched the darkness.

Gripping his knife more tightly, he studied the shadows, now unmoving and still.

Two gold, unblinking eyes appeared.

The hungry beast was staring at the horse as if it were her next meal.

“You there!” the woman called. Her furious turquoise eyes cut through the night to bore into his soul. “Yes, you, son of Satan,” she clarified, and he knew she’d somehow seen him. “Show yourself.”

In the second he’d taken his eyes off her, she’d retrieved her knife and was standing in front of her horse, wielding the blade as if she intended to defend herself. “I know you’re there, coward. If you do not come out of the darkness, I swear I will curse you with a spell that will cause your mind to rot so that you will have fewer brains than the village idiot.” Her eyes narrowed in seething fury. “And that’s not all. Once you are brainless, I will cast a hex upon you that will cause your cock to shrivel and dry like a dying worm in the sun, then crumble into tiny pieces before falling off completely, making you no longer a man.”

She let her words sink in and one side of her mouth lifted into a satisfied smile.

If he believed in such nonsense, he might have felt a shred of fear. Instead, he let her rant and found himself amused at her conviction.

“Do you hear me? From this night and forever the maids in every town you visit will titter and laugh and point as they whisper between themselves, calling you eunuch. If you don’t step into the light at this very instant, I will ruin your life with a snap of my fingers.”

What rot!

Bryanna glared into the night.

Someone or something was out there. She felt whatever it was watching her. With her free hand she touched her protection necklace, a red string upon which a strip of black snakeroot was tied.

Whoever concealed himself in the shadows was not an assassin, for no arrow had been shot at her heart, no mace swung at her head, no sword lunged through her body. If the presence she felt had wanted to kill her, she already would have left this mortal life.

Alabaster suddenly lifted her head to the wind, her gaze focused on the edge of the wood, her ears forward in attention.

“What is it, girl?” Bryanna asked, still searching the dark undergrowth, her gaze following that of the mare. She clenched her knife more tightly and suddenly wished it was much, much larger. In an instant she saw a flicker of light, the reflection of the fire. Her heart stopped.

From deep in the shadows, gold eyes narrowed upon her.

Man?

Beast?

Or something else? Something somewhere in between?

Fear turned her blood to ice. Her mind swam with thoughts of boars and wildcats, of robbers who would easily slit a throat, or worse yet, of demons from an underworld where evil reigned in wicked souls who could easily turn from human form to ghost.

Be with me. Give me strength,
she silently prayed as a damp breeze crawled across her skin. Her heart knocked against her ribs and her blood pounded in her ears.

Alabaster moved and snorted, gaze fixed on that one terrifying spot in the darkness.

“Shah,” Bryanna said and whispered a prayer for protection.

The eyes followed her every move just as the castle dogs had when she was eating from her trencher and picking at a succulent roast boar or goose. ’Twas as if their gaze was fastened to her. So these eyes, out in the forest, a stray cur?

Nay, more likely a wolf.

Her heart nearly stilled. She swallowed hard.
Morrigu, help me.
All of the spells she’d learned for protection—the red string she’d tied, the lavender, and eye of newt and ivy she’d pulverized and spread around her, the black snakeroot in which she’d rinsed her clothes—none of these seemed strong enough to go against a beast as clever and deadly as a wolf.

Alabaster let out a frightened whinny as the wind gusted and plucked at her hair. Suddenly Isa’s voice came to her as clearly as the tolling of a church bell in the night:
“There is more evil here than you know,”
the dead woman’s voice confided.
“The wolf is not the beast of the night you should fear. She is your protection. . . . Do you not remember her? When you were a child, she was with you.”

“This is no time for riddles,” she hissed, but she sensed Isa’s words were not a lie. ’Twas almost as if she smelled the beast. She felt her presence over the threat of sleet in the air. There was another force beyond that of the wolf—a dark, soulless predator haunting the forest.

By the Great Goddess, how had she gotten herself into such a predicament?

Her gaze scoured the shadows.

Mayhap the wolf was not an animal at all but a being capable of taking another shape, a demon who could appear in human or animal form, a beast like no other.

She stared the brute straight in her evil eyes. She held her free hand toward the beast, all five fingers spread, their magick untested. “What devil are you, cur?” she demanded, and the wind picked up, pushing her hair from her face, whispering through the dry leaves, keening through the canyon. “Did you not hear me that I will destroy your life?”

She braced herself, ready for the monster to lunge.

“Why not just kill me?”

Bryanna nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of a deep male voice.

“If you’re so powerful, why bother with addling brains and shrinking cocks?”

“What?” Surely the wolf was not speaking to her! By all that was holy, she was going out of her mind. That was it. Finally she was certain that she was mad.

“I said, why not just kill me now and be done with it? ’Twould save us both a lot of trouble.”

By the gods, was he serious? “Who are you?” she demanded, her heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Where was the voice coming from . . . surely not the wolf. Nay, it came from a spot near the downed tree, a fair distance from the crouching canine. “Why do you not show yourself? Are you afraid? A coward? Or hideous to the eyes?”

He laughed then, a deep, disgusted sound that rippled through the canyon. “Aye,” he answered, this hidden man or beast. “You
are
a sorceress, as you’ve divined not only that I am so afraid as to be unable to move, but that I’m ugly as well. So horribly disfigured that you would cringe at the sight of me.”

“Oh, for the love of Rhiannon.” How dared the man or whatever he was bait her? Irritated and keeping one eye on the doglike brute still crouching formidably just beyond the fire’s glow, she said, “Have you any idea that you are standing only a few yards from a wolf?”

“She’s with me.”

“
With
you?”

“Aye.” He actually chuckled, as if he were amused at her vexation. Well, then, let him be eaten alive! “She will not harm you.”

“How do you know this? Is she . . . what? Your bloody pet?” What the devil was going on here? To whom did this voice with its deep timbre and easy amusement belong?

He laughed again, further riling her. “Pet? Nay. A stray who follows me.”

“And wants to rip out your heart.”

“I think not. If she wanted to kill me, she already would have tried. She’s been with me for the better part of a week.”

“She may still be waiting. And who the devil are you?”

“She’s an animal,” he said, ignoring her question about himself. “She takes what she wants when she wants it.”

“And stalks her prey until it is either tired, weak, or lets down its guard.”
Just as you are
, she told herself.
Be wary. Remember Isa’s warning.
“Enough of this! Whoever you are, quit hiding,” she ordered. Before the words had passed over her lips, a man emerged from the shadows.

At the sight of him, she nearly took a step backward, but somehow she held her ground.

He was tall, his shoulders broad. His body had long, muscular lines, though he seemed gaunt and emaciated. Wearing leather breeches and a worn brown mantle that hung on his skin and bones, he stopped on the far side of the campfire. By the gods, he was horribly marred. His face was discolored, his nose obviously broken, purple and green smudges beneath deep-set eyes. One eyelid still drooped a bit and flesh was healing where his skin had been scraped raw from his cheek.

She was surprised he was still standing.
This
was the warrior, the dark force she was supposed to fear? There had to be some mistake, for though he probably had been a strong, vital, muscular man at one time, he now appeared to have been beaten to the brink of his life.

“What happened to you? Was it the wolf?” Nervously she glanced to the spot where the creature still lurked, though the man’s wounds did not look to be the result of a mauling by an animal. No bite wounds were visible.

White teeth flashed within the man’s dark beard. “Nay.”

“You said that she’s . . . with you?”

“She followed me.”

“And you’re not worried that she’ll attack?”

“She has not yet.”

The man was daft—that was it. The wolf would strike only when the man was so weak that he was unable to fend off the attack, which from the looks of him would be soon. “So what happened to you?”

“I fell.”

“You fell? From where? The top of a castle battlement? The side of a mountain?”

“From grace,” he said, and beneath his dark beard his lips twisted wryly. “Let’s leave it at that.”

No doubt the tumble had rattled his brain.

As he stepped closer she saw that blood lingered in the whites of his eyes and his hands and cheeks were coated with scabs. Was he dangerous? She couldn’t tell, but she decided not to drop her knife.

“Where is Isa?” he asked.

“What?” He knew that she talked to her dead nursemaid?

“I heard you calling to her.”

“Oh.” So he didn’t realize she was traveling alone. Good. She saw no reason to let him think otherwise. “She, uh, went ahead for supplies, but should return. I expect her and . . . mayhap her husband at any moment.”

“She’s married?” He seemed skeptical.

“Aye, for many years.” Her mind raced with the lie. “Her husband, um, Parnell, he is a strong man. A warrior.”

“Who left you alone.”

She forced a smile. “The two are inseparable,” she said, lying glibly now, caught up in her fantasy. He would never know otherwise, so what did it matter?