Sorceress (24 page)

“My quest?” Bryanna repeated, tired to the back teeth of riddles and circles and half-truths and especially quests or journeys or missions of any kind. “I thought my ‘quest’ had to do with a child. And the bloody jewels and dagger.”

Gleda smiled and handed the wrapped knife to Bryanna. “Keep this with you, always. Do not let anyone see it.”

Bryanna nodded and didn’t mention that already Gavyn had seen the map, that it was he who had pointed her in the direction of Tarth. Nay, from the serious expression in the birdlike woman’s face, Bryanna had best keep that information to herself.

“We’d best be off,” Gleda said, watching as Bryanna tucked the dagger and doeskin into a pouch on her belt.

As the woman rose from the bench, Bryanna experienced a chill. Was it possible Gleda could read her thoughts? She claimed she had some powers, that she had foretold events before they’d happened, but . . . nay, certainly not. The old woman crossed the packed floor and snagged a worn brown cloak from a hook near the door. “Your journey does involve a child, Bryanna.” There was a glimmer of sadness in her eyes as she tossed the mantle around her thin shoulders. “Now let’s find out what that is.”

“And how are ‘we’ going to do that?” she asked.

“By entering Tarth Castle.”

Bryanna remembered the castle upon the hill. “Why?”

“You need the protection of the castle gates, the guards and the castle walls.”

“From whom? Hallyd?” she asked, and without thinking about what she was doing, she touched the bruises at her throat. “The man who killed the woman you presume was my mother?”

“Aye.” She adjusted her cowl, drawing the string tight around her face. “You need protection from Hallyd. But there are others as well.”

“Others? Oh, no. Isn’t he enough?” Oh, this was crazy!
Trust Gleda
, Isa had told her.
Do as she says.

“Many know of the dagger and its power. There have been legends and tales and lies spun for years, exaggerations.”

“So its power is limited?”

“Aye,” Gleda said, reaching for the handle of the door. “It depends upon the person who holds it in her hand. The Sacred Dagger derives much of its strength from she who holds it. Nonetheless, many would kill for it.”

“How comforting.” Bryanna didn’t bother hiding her sarcasm as Gleda opened the door and a rush of fresh air caused the fire to brighten.

“Oh, child,” Gleda said with a knowing smile as she stepped outside, “nobody said setting upon a quest would be easy now, did they?”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

S
leet pounded upon the roof of the inn as the mercenary sipped his ale in a dark corner of the establishment. Carrick of Wybren had finally heard something that might lead him to the woman he sought—Bryanna, with her dark red hair, quick smile, and dancing eyes. She was as beautiful as her sister, Morwenna, the ebony-haired beauty he’d plundered so many years ago.

He felt a twinge of conscience at the thought of Morwenna. What odd twist of fate had led her into the arms of his own brother, to become his brother’s wife? He’d been a fool not to take her as his own, but then, how could he be expected to keep it in his breeches with so many fair wenches to chase? ’Twas best to ignore his conscience, just as he had for so many years. Ignore the regrets and enjoy the weight of the coins in his pocket, savor the game of tracking, the thrill of hunting.

Carrick took another swig and leaned over his mazer, the wound in his upper arm aching slightly. It had begun to heal over the past weeks, though it still felt raw at night. Ironic that the wound had been inflicted by the red-haired woman he was now pursuing. Not that he blamed Bryanna. At the time tension had been high in the keep at Calon, a killer on the loose. Still, it seemed odd that he was trying to save the same woman who’d damned him to this pain.

“Another cup would ye like?” the comely serving girl asked as she breezed past. With a tiny nose, pouty lips, and pillowy breasts, she was pretty and she knew it, using her flirtatious nature to her advantage. “Or more pye can I get fer ye?”

“No, thanks.” He’d already pushed the remains of his food aside. Though the crust had been flaky and sweet, the mixture of fish, onions, and lentils had been dry and tasteless. No amount of chives nor parsley could disguise the fact that the fish had been on its way to becoming inedible before it was cooked.

He drained his mazer, paid for the meal, and armed with his newfound knowledge, slipped into the night, where the sleet still slanted from the nearly dark sky and the mud on the streets was thick enough to stop several carts. Oxen struggled, trying to slog onward, and drivers cursed, their whips useless in the bog, their clothes drenched and covered in mud as they tried to inch their cart wheels forward.

Turning his collar over his neck, Carrick glanced up at the sky and silently cursed the weather as he climbed astride his steed. He had considered staying in the town. He could afford to pay for a room and a woman for one night, but he’d ignored the temptation. It was best to keep moving, continue tracking.

Though he’d not yet located Bryanna, the gossiping girl at the tavern had sworn she’d served a woman who looked like the one he described. “Aye, red hair and fair complected she was,” the serving girl had said. “Dressed like a noblewoman, but her gown was dirty and . . . Oh, by the Fates, I remember now. How could I forget? She wasn’t alone.”

His head had snapped up at this information.

“Nay. She was with a man, and a good-looking one he was. Dark hair and eyes, but from the looks of him he’d been in a spot of trouble. He’d had a horrible beating, still bearing the bruises he was. Even so, you could tell he was handsome enough and a hunter, I think. I heard he traded his furs for goods—including the chemise of the mason’s wife!” Eyes gleaming, she’d leaned over the table, giving him a closer view of the tops of her breasts as she added, “The hunter, he insisted upon having the chemise. I tell ye, the poor woman barely had time to get into her house so she could undress with a little privacy. He practically ripped it off her body.”

Was this so? Or simply the imaginings of this chattering ninny?

“What did he want with the chemise?”

“’Twas for the noblewoman he was riding with, of course,” she’d said with a wink. “No doubt he ripped the other off as he bedded her. He looked the kind, I’m tellin’ ye.”

“So you know that kind, do you?”

She’d licked her full lips so that they glistened. “That I do.”

He’d ignored the obvious invitation, an offer of a warm bed and sex long into the night. But now, riding into the coming night with sleet running in icy rivulets down the back of his neck, he knew he was a fool.

Tarth Castle appeared more eerie and decrepit at twilight than it had in the daylight hours. Though torches and sconces burned brightly, the bits of illumination did little to make the crumbling stone walls and dangerous spires look more welcoming. As she rode toward the town, Bryanna shuddered at the sinister appearance of the keep, rising up on the hill, the sky darkening ominously over the surrounding mountains.

Not for the first time she wished that Gavyn and his powerful black horse were with her, for though he was still recovering from wounds, surely he was more reliable than this sparrow of a woman astride the ancient, nearly lame horse Liam had not wanted out of his sight. Bryanna wondered where Gavyn was this moment. He would have awoken hours ago, and there was a chance he was riding to Tarth, approaching the village gates this very minute. Her heart beat a little faster and she told herself she was a romantic ninny, but she couldn’t help but look for him or the black steed with its white markings.

Silently she cursed Isa for insisting that Bryanna leave him.

Riding up to the fortress, Bryanna was glad to have Gleda at her side, if only for company. The old woman had insisted that Bryanna collect her meager belongings at the inn, though Bryanna had a fair share of misgivings about staying in this decrepit castle, even if hospitality were to be offered.

As they approached the main gate of the castle, a guard wielding a long quarterstaff stepped out from the shadows and blocked their path.

“Halt, there,” he ordered in a bellowing voice. “State your name and business.”

“ ’Tis I, Quigg. Gleda. So hush. There is no reason to yell at me,” she said, as if her feathers had been ruffled.

“The gates are to be closed.”

“Oh, fie, Quigg. Enough of this. Send for Father Patrick and be quick about it.”

“ ’Tis my job.”

“I’ve known you from a boy. Now send for the priest or let us pass.”

Grumbling, Quigg conferred with another man whom Bryanna thought might be the captain of the guard. Gleda inched her horse closer to Alabaster and leaned near enough to Bryanna to whisper, “Quigg knew my son. Fought with him in the battle where he died. He’s a good man, just . . . narrow-minded. Now the priest is in charge of the keep, but that is only temporary because Baron Romney followed his wife to the grave, the result of a sickness that killed so many here just after the Christmas Revels. His son, Lord Mabon, is now the baron, but he’s still returning from a battle far to the east. He and my son fought side by side,” she added sadly. “’Twas Mabon who brought me the news of Frey’s death. He’s a good man and no one at Tarth will want to anger him. Not even Father Patrick, the priest who is serving as baron until Mabon’s return.” She smiled, though Bryanna noticed her teeth were clenched and her lips barely moved as she spoke.

“Excuse me,” the soldier, Quigg, said. “Would you please state your business?”

“Of course,” Gleda said as a few drops of rain began to fall and splatter on the ground near the castle walls. Gleda motioned to Bryanna with a gloved hand. “This is Lady Bryanna. Her sister is Morwenna of Calon and her brother is Lord Kelan, the Baron of Penbrooke. ’Twould be a shame if Sir Mabon returned to Tarth and found out that during his absence the daughter of an ally wasn’t offered hospitality but was turned away, would it not?”

The guard shot a dubious glance at his superior, a huge man with eyes set deep in his skull and a complexion that had been ravaged in his youth.

“I’ll see that Father Patrick knows you are here,” the captain said. He barked an order at a page standing by, shivering in the rain, and the boy took off at a dead run. The captain introduced himself as Sir Giles. As he chatted with Gleda, Bryanna waited under the cover of the yawning gatehouse with the portcullis raised above them, smoke from night fires drifting to her nostrils. The cold of the coming night seeped through her mantle, and she wondered, not for the first time, if coming to Tarth had been a mistake. From astride Alabaster she was able to view the bailey, where a few leafless fruit trees grew and a single well was visible, its bucket creaking as it moved with the shifting of the wind. Alabaster’s head was up, nostrils flared, and she sidestepped nervously, as if she, too, sensed something evil within.

’Twas idiocy to be here, she told herself. Bryanna wanted to argue again that she’d paid for a perfectly good room at the inn and could stay there, but that protest had already fallen upon Gleda’s deaf ears. “You need the security of a fortress,” the older woman had told her. “Gates and guards and castle walls.”

What had Isa told her?
Get thee inside the castle walls!

When Bryanna had asked why the older woman had stared at her long and hard, Gleda had looked over her shoulder suspiciously before answering.

“Have you not felt it? The evil that stalks you? Surely you’ve sensed it ever nearer.”

Bryanna had not been able to protest, for the older woman’s words were true. She’d never been able to shake the blood-chilling certainty that she was being watched and followed.

By whom or what, she knew not.

Nonetheless, she doubted Tarth would keep her safe within its crumbling walls, its rumors of spirits haunting the barbicans and towers. Staring up at the interior of the dark fortress, Bryanna felt as if dozens of unseen eyes were watching her from the dark windows, crenels, and arrow loops.

She was ready to insist that they leave when she saw something in the older woman’s eyes, a shadow of worry.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she said, suspicion curling inside her. “Something you hide from me. What is it?”

“Nothing that can be changed,” Gleda said, her eyes haunted by great sadness.

Before Bryanna could insist she explain herself, the page splashed through the puddles in the bailey, running as if the devil himself were chasing him. Breathless, the boy with strawlike hair nodded at Bryanna. “Father Patrick invites the guests inside, to warm themselves and stay the night. He says he’ll see you both now.”

“Good of him,” Gleda whispered sarcastically.

They rode to the stables, left their horses with a groom, and accompanied Sir Giles inside the castle. The big man said a word to a guard standing at the entrance of the great hall as the door was opened, and Gleda whispered to Bryanna, “Do not let this pretender to the lordship bother you.”

The women followed the page into a cavernous area where faded tapestries hung over walls that needed another coat of whitewash. The trestle tables had been turned against the walls and a priest stood near the fire, his vestments as clean and stiffly pressed as the rest of the keep was dirty and shabby. Bryanna couldn’t help but notice the rings glittering on his fingers. He was dwarfed by a hearth so massive that the priest, of short stature, could easily have walked into the fiery pit. Massive logs burned upon iron dogs holding them in place, the fire’s flames casting an eerie light on the priest’s beatific smile and his pink face, as clean shaven as a babe’s.

“You must be Alwynn of Penbrooke’s daughter,” he said, his gaze upon Bryanna. He squeezed her fingers, his hands soft, plump, and clammy.