Sorceress (19 page)

The wild cur never accompanied them into the villages but always reappeared when they were in the forest again. She had followed them to this spot, a protected area of a ravine, where thick trees offered some concealment. Now, having devoured some of the remains of a hare and duck that Gavyn had killed and roasted, the beast lay a few feet from the circle of light cast by the campfire. As ever, the wolf studied her with interested gold eyes and she wondered, not for the first time, what it was that had frightened her. What had sent the wolf lunging into the darkness?

Something she’d been unable to see. An unseen evil?

’Twas odd.

And frightening.

The incident had altered Bryanna’s opinion of the wolf and she felt more comfortable around her, though, as she reminded herself, the wolf was still a wild animal, for the love of St. Peter!

Bryanna dusted her hands and was about to lie upon her horse rug near the fire when Isa’s voice again rang through her brain.
“Leave, Bryanna. Leave now. Ride to Tarth and get
thee inside the castle walls. You’ll be there by morn, before Gavyn has awoken. You must go alone!”

“Now?” she repeated. In the middle of the night?

“Why is it you always tell me to do what I don’t want to do?” she grumbled, again glancing at Gavyn.

Bryanna rolled her eyes to the clear heavens and sighed. She considered disobeying, but could not. Even if she were truly losing her mind, she felt obliged to follow this journey through. What choice did she have, with a child’s life at stake?

She took another quick look at Gavyn, rolled inside his mantle and horse blanket, sleeping soundly. She remembered his quick smiles, intense gaze, and the moment when they’d kissed. A murderer, liar, and thief, he’d insisted she have warm food, safety, even the chemise she now wore. Could she really leave him? Steal off into the night? Her heart cracked a little and she blinked against an unexpected rush of tears.

Oh, how stupid was she?

She swiped the tears from her eyes and gave herself a quick mental kick. The worst thing she could do was fall in love with him further.

“Go, child! Go now! Do not tarry,”
Isa instructed.
“’Tis your fate to reach Tarth by dawn!”

Wonderful
, Bryanna thought sarcastically. Here she was exhausted and giving up not only a night’s sleep but Gavyn’s company and protection. ’Twas idiocy to leave, and yet Isa’s guidance had gotten her this far.

“By the saints, Isa, you try me,” Bryanna said crossly, though she gathered her rug and laid it gently across Alabaster’s back. “And please, do not mention my fate again. My twisted fate is a pain in the arse.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
top a high cliff Castle Tarth rose through the late-morning mist like a great stone serpent appearing from the depths of the sea. Spirelike towers knifed into the gray sky of dawn and wide wall walks were protected by massive crenels built of the same tan stone as the rest of the keep. The main gate yawned open, the portcullis raised. But as Bryanna rode nearer to the giant keep, she saw that the towers were crumbling, pieces of the curtain wall missing, the entire castle looking as if it were on the brink of decay.

Bryanna had memorized the few marks on the map and remembered Gavyn’s description of the area. In the first morning’s light she’d reached the three rocks and the cliffs on either side of the old road. After passing through the narrow pathway that rarely saw the sun, she had ridden across the icy river that rushed beneath Alabaster’s belly. Bryanna had lifted her feet, but her boots and the hem of her mantle had gotten wet before she made it to the main road, a wide dirt cart path that bore the footprints, hoof marks, and wheel ruts of hundreds of visitors.

She’d joined the slow traffic, riding past an oxcart filled with woven sacks of flour. A spotted team struggled to pull the heavy cart toward the town as mud collected on the creaking wheels and the driver cursed his luck. Two huntsmen were returning, a dressed stag flung across the back of one horse, and a string of quail, geese, and ducks across the other.

Tired and aching, Bryanna rode into the town and tried to imagine what she was to do here. The shops were already open. An innkeeper’s wife sweeping the stone steps to her establishment caught Bryanna’s eye.

What would it hurt to pay for a hot meal and a few hours’ rest in a bed? Bryanna didn’t think twice.

Since Isa had not seen fit to tell her what to expect in this town, she ignored the heavy wife’s raised eyebrows at a woman traveling alone. She paid for a hot meal, warm bath, and private room for herself and a grooming and fodder for her horse. Before she actually took over the room, she walked through the town and found a seamstress shop, where an elderly woman was patching the sleeves of a pale green mantle. There were a few clothes for sale—tunics, breeches, mantles, shawls, and hats that, for one reason or another, had been left in the shop. Bryanna found a periwinkle shift that was a little large for her and a belt to cinch the waist tight. She also purchased another chemise, and a bag in which to keep her extra clothes. A few other pieces of apparel caught her eye, though they were far too costly. Still, she couldn’t help but imagine how smooth and warm the purple fabric of a long velvet dress would feel against her skin, how the woolen mantle trimmed in black fur would warm her.

“I could make you a bargain on the dress,” the old woman said from her stool. “’Tis like no other in all of Tarth. I was commissioned to sew it for a noblewoman who was staying at the keep, but she was ill and took a turn for the worse. When she died, her husband refused to buy it.” She frowned, the wrinkles in her face deepening. “I tell you, this is the most beautiful dress you’ll find. Oh, you can visit the tailor at his shop on the next street, but, Wallyn, he drinks more than his share and you can see it in his work. His stitches are often long and uneven.” She climbed off her stool and pointed a gnarled finger at the lovely embroidered velvet. “I did this myself. See that silver thread?” She ran a broken nail along the perfect stitches. “Is it not exquisite?”

“Beautiful,” Bryanna agreed, and she wasn’t lying. In her mind’s eye she saw herself in the dress, walking down the long staircase at Calon, or dancing in the great hall.

The old seamstress slid a glance at Bryanna. “You know, this gown, it looks as if I made it just for you. It would be much lovelier on you than the fine lady whot commissioned it, with her hair the color of a rat’s fur and teeth too big for her mouth. Not that I mean to speak ill of the dead, mind you. But you, now, you would look like a true lady in so fine a gown.”

Bryanna fingered the fabric and thought of all the beautiful clothes she’d left behind, hung upon pegs in her room at Calon. She would
love
this dress, but ’twas impractical. She could not be burdened by anything but absolute necessities on her journey. Sadly, she shook her head. “Not today. Sorry. Just these things here.” She held up the practical tunic, belt, and chemise.

The old woman clucked her tongue. “Sorry? Aye, ’tis sorry you’ll be when some fine lady buys it out from under you.”

Bryanna remained firm and, after paying for her purchases, walked onto the street, where a drizzle had begun again. She hurried past children chasing each other, and carts and horsemen on the street. Dodging puddles, scurrying rats, and piles of dung, she made her way to the inn, where she was shown to her room.

’Twas heaven!

Two men brought up the tub, and a boy, the innkeeper’s eldest son, lugged up buckets of warm water, then lit the fire. A girl lined the wooden tub with towels and offered soap. Once she’d left, Bryanna stripped off her clothes and sank gratefully into the warm water. She removed the plait from her hair then slid below the surface. Her muscles relaxed, the strain of riding for days and sleeping on the cold ground melting as she lifted her hair, washed it, then scrubbed her body. Using a pitcher of warm water left by the girl, she rinsed herself as best she could.

Once she’d finished washing, she leaned back in the tub and closed her eyes. Of course, her thoughts returned to Gavyn. She’d not ridden a hundred feet away from the camp before she’d begun to miss him. “Stupid girl,” she whispered aloud, just as she had all night long. But his image had lingered in her mind and she’d thought more than once that she’d made a horrible mistake in leaving him.

All because of a dead woman’s words. She wondered where he was at this moment. Surely he’d awoken by now. Oh, she knew he’d be furious with her, and that thought brought a smile to her lips.

Sighing, she tried not to remember his quicksilver eyes or how they’d sparked with amusement or sometimes a smoky desire when she argued with him. Nor did she want to think too much about the way she’d felt when he’d kissed her. Nor would she even consider the jokes they’d shared or the way his dark hair fell over his forehead or any bloody thing about him.

Would she see him again?

“Aye,” she said aloud. Of course. She just didn’t know when. There was a chance that he would follow her here; then again, he might be angry enough to head in the opposite direction. If that were the case, then someday, after this wretched quest was finished, she would track him down.

The warmth of the water oozed through her muscles to her bones. By the gods, she was tired. . . .

Bryanna was riding, faster and faster, leaning over the white mare’s withers, hearing her labored breathing. “Run, Tempest, run,” she yelled, urging the flagging horse upward along the rocky spine of the snow-covered ridge. Wind whistled eerily as the horse pounded up the incline, breathing hard.

Bryanna glanced over her shoulder and through the thin, brittle saplings she saw men in dark robes, their faces hidden. From atop their strong and fleet steeds, they chased after her, determined to run her to the ground.

Dear God, what was this?

Where was she? What mountains were these where the trees were sparse, the air thin, and the threat of evil lurking behind every outcropping of stone?

Her heart was racing a million beats a minute. Fear spurted through her bloodstream and it was difficult to draw a breath. ’Twas as if her windpipe were closing.

She leaned down, her nose nearly in the mare’s coarse mane, her hands wrapped in the reins. “Hurry!” she cried, her throat so tight it ached. “Hurry. Faster!”

She heard shouts behind her.

Who were these determined men on their dark horses?

Why . . . oh, God, why were they racing behind her relentlessly? The clamor of the horses’ hooves thundered in her ears. Bryanna felt the snap of their excitement. She sensed the bloodlust in their souls.

“Gavyn,” she cried.

Where was he? Had he not been with her but a second earlier? Sleeping beside her by the campfire, reaching out to kiss her and . . .

Her horse stumbled, nearly pitching Bryanna to the ground, and her gaze dipped downward to the bottomless chasm with its sheer stone walls.
Oh, sweet Mother Mary!

“No!” she cried, pulling on the reins so hard that the frozen leather snapped in her hands. The horse suddenly broke free, galloping faster and faster, ever upward into the whiteness of a blizzard that screamed around her.

From behind, she heard the sharp shouts of her hunters, and from the depths of the dark canyon below the howl of a wolf rose on the shrieking wind.

Bryanna scrabbled for the torn reins as she saw the pinnacle of the ridge and beyond it nothing but blowing snow and open air. “Tempest!” she cried to her horse. “No . . .”

But it was too late. The horse raced at a breakneck pace, upward. Faster and faster until the ledge was beneath them. Every muscle in the mare’s body bunched. Bryanna gasped as the horse sprang over the edge of the sheer cliffs, flying through the air and into empty space.

Bryanna clung to the mare’s mane and hardly dared breathe. Cold . . . so cold . . . and the breeze seemed to whisper her name. “Bryanna . . .”

She looked up.

Through the swirling flakes she spied a rosary falling ever downward, the sharp beads glistening, green, red, gold, and white. She tried to grasp it but the slippery holy loop eluded her fingers and fell over her head just as her horse began to fall into the dark nothingness.

Where was Isa when she needed her?

Where was Gavyn?

The rosary circled her throat and began to close around her like a garrote being pulled ever tighter by an unseen hand. She coughed. Gasped. Tried to scream, but her throat was closed, the sharp-beaded drawstring strangling her, cutting off her air as she fell. The world was turning black! She clawed at her throat, clenched her hand around the garrote and pulled with all her strength.

The rosary broke.

Jewellike beads rained around her. . . .

Downward through the blizzard she fell, the horse disappearing from beneath her as she plummeted into the deep crevice where there was no light. . . .

“Bryanna!”
Isa’s voice came to her at last.
“Bryanna, awaken. There is no time to tarry. You must find the first stone. Look for the woman, Gleda. Trust her. Do as she says.”

Her eyes flew open.

Bryanna found herself still in the tepid water, a crick in her neck from resting against the rim of the tub. Goose bumps rose on her flesh and her teeth chattered, but most of the chill was the result of the lingering nightmare.

It had seemed so real. And now she felt as if she’d seen that ridge before, ridden upon the horse she called Tempest. ’Twas insanity. She knew of no such mare, and she’d never climbed high into the mountains of such a barren, snow-covered land. She had no rosary made of the stones of the old riddle. She touched her throat where the rosary had choked her; she still found it difficult to breathe.