Sorceress (20 page)

The water in the tub was cooling by the second. She rubbed her arms, stood, and tried to dispel the horrid images as she dried herself by the fire.

“Isa?” she said, shivering as she threw on her new clothes. “Isa, are you here? Who is Gleda? Why should I trust her?” As she picked up her new belt, there was a soft rap upon the door. Half expecting the old nursemaid to appear, she called, “Come in,” as she finished cinching the belt around her waist.

The innkeeper’s daughter arrived with a platter of hard bread, cheese, and a bowl of lentil and onion soup. Seeing that she’d interrupted Bryanna’s dressing, the girl blushed and appeared frightened as a doe suddenly facing an archer. “Excuse me, but you said to bring it up in an hour.”

“Yes, thank you.” Bryanna’s stomach rumbled in expectation at the scent of the food. “Just put it here on the hearth, where it will stay warm.”

The girl settled the platter near the warm coals. As she straightened she asked, “Would you like me to have Henry come up and retrieve the tub?”

“Not just yet,” Bryanna said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll let someone know when I’m done with it.”

When the girl left, Bryanna tossed her dirty clothes into the tub of cooling water and set to work rubbing soap into the fabric. In truth, she had little experience with such a chore, but she’d seen the washerwomen at their task at both Penbrooke and Calon, so she did the best she could, scrubbing her chemise and tunic. Once she’d rung them of most of the moisture, she draped the clothes over a bench near the fire, then sat on a corner of the bed to eat. Dunking pieces of hard bread and cheese into the warm stew, she ate every last drop.

She was still tired and her vivid dream hadn’t quite disappeared, but at least she had an immediate task: to find this Gleda woman. She couldn’t imagine what she’d say to her when she met her.

No, that wouldn’t work.

Not much better.

“Fie and fiddlesticks,” she grumbled. Using her comb, she eased the tangles from her hair. She longed to let her hair dry as she sat by the fire, but, of course, it would take too long. Hadn’t Isa told her to move? She had to find this Gleda before Gavyn showed up.

Assuming that Gavyn actually made the journey to Tarth, she knew that once he arrived he would be mad as all the dogs in Hades.

Quickly she plaited her damp hair. Donning her mantle and boots, she hurried down the stairs and through the hallway to the doorway, then stopped and turned when she spied the innkeeper’s wife hovering near the door to the kitchen. Perhaps she would know of Gleda.

Bryanna retraced her steps and approached the hefty woman. Obviously she had been close to the fire, probably cooking. Her round face was red as a winter apple and sweat was rolling down fleshy cheeks, where bits of flour indicated she’d been baking. “Do you know a woman named Gleda?” Bryanna asked.

“Gleda?” The wife frowned as if she’d heard incorrectly, all the while dabbing at her chin with the hem of her apron. A striped cat, slinking in from the kitchen, wound itself through the woman’s thick ankles. “The beekeeper, ye mean? Ye’re asking about her?”

Bryanna had no idea, but nodded. “Yes, the beekeeper.”

“Gleda, she’s an odd one, she is.” The woman’s eyebrows became one line and her nostrils flared as if she were smelling rotten fish. “Why would you want to see her?”

Why, indeed? “ ’Tis personal, a message I need to deliver,” Bryanna said with a smile. “Where could I find her?”

Rebuffed that she wasn’t going to learn a little gossip, the woman lifted a disgruntled shoulder. “She lives on the east side of the village, not far from the river.” The wife waved a pudgy hand in disgust. “Her husband, he raises goats and pigs on the other side of the creek. Ye can’t miss the place. It reeks to high heaven.” She turned back to the kitchen, where the fire was burning brightly. Pyes were baking and a cauldron hung from a metal chain, its contents boiling rapidly and the scents of savory meats seeping into the hallway.

Bryanna wasted no time and hurried out the back door to the stables. Alabaster had been fed and groomed, and though tired, greeted Bryanna with a gentle head butt. “That’s a girl,” Bryanna whispered into the mare’s ear as she scratched her neck.

“ ’ Tis a fine horse ye ’ave ’ere, m’lady,” the lanky man said as he saddled the mare. “Docile, yet she has a bit of fire in her, yes?”

“A bit,” Bryanna admitted, and allowed the man to help her into the saddle.

“That’s good. Too much and ye’ve always got yer ’ands full, ye do, but not enough and ’tis as if they’re ’alf dead—no amount of whippin’ will do ye anna good.”

“Do you know Gleda?” she asked.

“Liam’s wife? Aye.” He nodded, scratching his head. “What would ye want with her?”

“They live near?”

“On the farm, east of town, just across Butler Creek.” He worried his lip a bit. “But, m’lady, you donna look as if ye be in need of honey or a midwife, so I don’t know why ye’d want to be anywhere near Gleda.”

“Is there something wrong with her?” Bryanna asked.

“Nay, oh, nay,” he said quickly, but she noticed as she took the reins that he turned away to make a quick sign of the cross over his chest.

“Thank you.” Whoever Gleda was, the townspeople avoided her.

Yet Bryanna had no time to be discerning. With a quest to fulfill, she would have to take her chances.

She pulled on the reins and guided Alabaster through the narrow streets littered with the carts of peddlers, merchants, and farmers. Peasant women and children picked through the pottery, baked goods, cheese, and sacks of grain.

She found her way to the main road that ran along the river and turned Alabaster east.

To whatever lay ahead.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
he witch’s daughter was near.

Hallyd closed his eyes and shut out the noises of the keep as he stood at his window. His eyeballs ached, but the clouds were dark enough that the pain was bearable, and he’d been drawn to the window of his daylight prison by her impending approach. His nostrils flared and he caught her scent, closer than before. His hands clenched into fists upon the sill and he felt a rush of blood through his veins, his manhood swelling as he imagined her lying beneath him.

In his mind, he saw her lying upon his bed, her eyes turning from blue to black as anticipation and fear dilated her pupils. She knew he would take her and that their rutting would be violent and harsh. She would welcome him with a semblance of terror, all of her senses heightened as the wanting and the fear collided, making her tremble with female lust. He would kiss her, taste her, and run his tongue over her hard little nipples until she quivered with need, writhing and bucking beneath him, and then, oh, then he would thrust into her with all the fury of sixteen years of denial.

And she would give him the dagger, soon replete with magick stones, possessing the power to lift the curse, the power to elevate him to an indomitable ruler.

The woman and the dagger.

The time was near. So near.

He rubbed his fingers together expectantly and his mouth was dry with the wanting. He forced himself away from the window, snagging his black mantle on a hook near the door to his chamber. Damn, the darkness that confined him! He tugged it free, then hurried into a hallway dimly lit by sconces, smoke curling to the ceiling. He hastened down the stairway, his boots clanging loudly, spurring him onward to the chamber far below. Today he carried no cup of goat’s blood, no bit of gruel to appease her, but simply flew down the steps and half ran down the hallways until he reached her door, unlocked it, and strode into the dark cavern.

A few candles were lit, burning low, their tallow pooling and dripping down the sides of the altar. Steam rose from the small bowl upon the altar cloth. He glanced around the large bare chamber. Her cot was empty, the sheeting thrown back, and for a second he thought Vannora was gone.

Then he spied her.

Small and gaunt, aye, but upright. Vannora’s cloudy eyes seemed brighter than usual, a swatch of color in her bony face. She emerged from the darkness to stand behind the altar, her bare feet within the circle drawn upon the floor, her long black tunic pooled at her ankles. Gold and silver embroidery decorated the bodice and sleeves of this gown, one he’d never seen before, but then it didn’t surprise him. Nothing about Vannora did. Though she’d never admitted it, he knew she did not stay in this dark chamber night and day.

She prowled.

He’d felt her move, slipping through the keep like a cold, invisible wind. He’d felt her presence outside, though of course he’d never seen her leave this dungeon.

He’d thought about it over the years and decided she had the power to not only change her shape but to manifest herself as others wanted to see her.

And that frightened him.

Was she actually an old crone about to die? A bygone sorceress herself, ready to pass into another realm?

Or was she stronger than he imagined and, using him for her purposes, feigning the limits of her power?

“You know she is near,” Vannora said in her raspy voice. Her hair was no longer white but streaked with gray, and she managed the thinnest of smiles upon lips that were starkly red, as if she’d feasted on something raw. “ ’Tis time. The witch’s daughter is at Tarth. But you know this already, don’t you?” she said, her hair darkening in the feeble light. “You already caught her scent.”

He nodded.

Her smile stretched a little wider, a bit crueler. She glanced into the bowl of water with its steamy surface, though no fire heated the liquid. Her eyebrows flicked together for a brief second, as if she’d seen something that surprised her, an image that shouldn’t have appeared. “You must ride at dusk,” she said as water ran down the walls in slow drips, puddling upon the floor outside the white circle.

When he didn’t reply, her eyes narrowed. “What is it? There is something bothering you.”

“The witch’s daughter is not alone.”

One eyebrow arched. “And this troubles you?”

“She rides with a man.”

“Ahhh . . . and you are threatened?” She nodded, those milky orbs gleaming with interest.

Hallyd’s jaw tightened. “Concerned. I’m concerned, not threatened. I’ve heard that he may be the bastard son of Deverill, Lord of Agendor.”

To his irritation her lips curved in satisfaction. “A bastard? Of a nobleman?”

“If the rumors be true.”

“Much like you,” she mused.

He felt hate rise in him. “My mother and father were married.”

“After you were born, though, wasn’t it? After that sweet little mother of yours killed your father’s wife? What was it now? A potion of hemlock? Or nightshade?” Her smile faded. “If the
other
bastard threatens you and ah, ah, ah—” She raised a single finger in front of his face to stop his protests. “If he threatens you, treat him as you would any enemy. Dispatch him.”

Hallyd’s hands closed into fists. He felt his blood grow hot and a twitch develop above one eye. When he spoke, his voice was strained to the point of snapping. “In sixteen long years, Vannora, there was never mention of a man.
Never.
”

“Worry not.”

“This is no oversight,” he said. “You knew of this and yet you decided not to tell me.”

“Trust in yourself. You can deal with the man. In fact, ’twill be good for you.” Her expression was pure cunning as she stepped closer to him, her toes not quite touching the edge of the ring drawn so carefully around the altar.

Was it a trick of light, or was she becoming more vital with each breath? She seemed younger than when he’d first walked into the room, her flesh smoother and plumper.

“And you must also remain patient, for though the time has come for the mating, you must not be overeager. I know your fantasies, Hallyd, that you will take the woman as your own for as long as you want, make her yours, brand her with your demon seed. For it is not just the lust you must quench but the burning revenge against the one who bore her. Still . . . you must not harm her yet.” Her face was pure determination and in it he saw the pulse of his own life. “Only she can find the stones. Only she can renew the power of the dagger. Only she can set you free of the curse.”

He felt the muscles between his shoulders bunch. “I’ve waited so long. To consider more time as a prisoner to a witch’s spell is unimaginable.”

“Nine months is but a small price to pay for your sight, for your freedom, for your power.” He was about to argue with her again, but she stopped him cold. “I have helped you, Hallyd, and I will continue to do so, but only if you promise to obey what I tell you. Only then will the curse be lifted.”

“I am truly damned.”

“Aye,” she agreed, but again a smile touched her lips, “but not forever. Now, we can begin. If you agree.”

He nodded, though he gritted his back teeth until they ached.

“Good. The prophecy will be fulfilled.”

“The prophecy?” His strong fingers clenched into fists. “What is this you speak of?”

“The ancient legend of the Chosen One. Do you know it?” she asked lightly, as if she were toying with a babe.

Since he had abandoned his father’s dark arts and the cloaks of Christianity, Hallyd put no stock in prophecies. “Yes, of course I know it.” Drivel. Why should it matter to him?

Vannora was already chanting quietly, like a child savoring a favorite rhyme. “Sired by Darkness, born of Light, protected by the Sacred Dagger, a ruler of all men, all beasts, all beings. It is he who shall be born on the Eve of Samhain. . . .”

“Another ridiculous forecast. We know where the Sacred Dagger is. There is no Chosen One.”