Sorceress (42 page)

Bryanna was safe.

Morwenna’s husband loved her.

Of course he did, and she was going to bear them a child.

All was good with the world.

And yet, as she held her husband close, she crossed her fingers for good luck.

Deep in the forests of South Wales, Gavyn sat at the fire and smelled the scent of the sea. Overhead stars shone bright and a breeze stirred the highest branches of the surrounding trees. Three months they’d traveled to hear these unfamiliar sounds of rippling water and frogs croaking. He knew they were alone, and yet, he sensed someone, or something, nearby.

Still his eyes searched the darkness. He wished the wolf were out there, but the damned beast had been missing the past few days. Mayhap she’d given up a trek that had taken her far from her home.

A twig snapped and he shot to his feet, only to see that Alabaster was the culprit.

Calm down,
he told himself as he returned to his position, propped against his saddle.

Tonight he and Bryanna had made camp in a clearing that wasn’t that different from the one where he’d first seen her railing at Isa.

Had it been four months past?

She was washing in the stream, just out of the circle of flickering light cast by the fire. They’d traveled a long way since Holywell, the tightness in his muscles a testament to days, weeks, and months in the saddle.

Gazing toward the creek where she was washing, he remembered being stunned that she’d known where to find the emerald. That was when he’d realized that mayhap Isa, the dead woman, truly did visit her.

He’d been shocked beyond belief when his shovel had struck the tin box. Moments later, when they’d discovered the stone and map tucked inside . . .

He’d been wrong. So wrong.

Bryanna had looked up at him, triumphant and smiling, her face and hair bedraggled and dripping with rain. Later, when they’d taken shelter in an abandoned, dilapidated shed, where they’d managed to build a fire, she’d taken out the knife and placed the emerald into the open space in the eastern side of the hilt. The stone had fused with the metal surrounding it, the dagger warming in her hand. He’d snorted when she’d said as much, but when she’d handed him the damned blade, it had been hot. For a few seconds, the bloody knife had seemed almostalive, pulsing with a vibrant heat for the slightest of seconds.

After the stone was affixed, she’d laid out the map, and they’d scrutinized the worn doeskin together. As he’d guessed, it was fairly clear that their search for the next stone would take them far to the south, to the sea.

An arduous journey.

It had taken three months.

They’d traveled over mountains and through valleys, followed rivers and cut through deep forested chasms. The terrain had been rugged and their progress slow. With each ragged ravine and twisting river, they’d done their best not to leave a trail. Fires were well extinguished, hoofprints best left on the riverbank, where the swelling waters would cover them. They couldn’t chance leaving hints for Deverill’s men—or any other mercenaries, like Lord Hallyd’s soldiers, who might be hunting him down for ransom.

On the run and crossing a no-man’s-land . . . he had to marvel at Bryanna’s determination. She had taken the time to send a missive to her sister, though Gavyn wondered if it would ever reach Morwenna at Calon.

At night when they camped in the forest, she practiced her spells and chants, the rituals Isa had taught her when she’d first embarked on this trek. Ofttimes she tried to reach Isa, casting herbs to the wind, speaking to the stars, scratching runes in the ground—all to no avail. He’d watched her each night, intrigued that he could be so beguiled by a woman whose actions he’d once thought daft.

His dreams of Bryanna upon Alabaster, riding through the sky as it rained jewels, came frequently now. The darkness that followed her, the umbra, was still behind her, ever chasing her. Sometimes it was close on Alabaster’s tail, other times it remained at a distance, lurking, waiting. Somehow he knew it was dark and shifting, always dripping evil.

Those nights, when the dream had torn through his brain, he’d found it difficult to sleep. He would awaken terrified under the stars, and he would hold her more tightly against him, silently vowing to keep her safe.

As the days had passed, winter had finally abated and spring was now blooming into summer. Often now the sky was clear and blue, migrating birds returning, insects beginning to hum.

To their good fortune, game had been plentiful and they were fed. And until the past few days, the wolf kept pace, disappearing whenever they came upon a village, only to reappear when they were in the woods. When meat was roasting on a spit, he could always count on Bane to arrive in time for dinner.

Bryanna, who had come to rely on the wolf’s distant company, now wondered if she wasn’t a guardian angel.

“I doubt many angels come to the earth as wild snarling beasts,” Gavyn had said. Admittedly, he’d enjoyed watching as she bristled astride Alabaster, the sunlight catching in her fiery hair.

“If not an angel, then at least a protector, a spirit that is with us in the guise of a wolf.”

“Or mayhap she’s just a wild beast who is too lazy to kill her own food.”

She’d laughed and sent him a wink then, telling him she knew just how he felt about the bloody animal, then urged her horse to a faster clip, leaving Gavyn and Rhi slowed by the pack animal behind them.

“Bloody wench,” he’d said upon catching up with her.

She’d tossed back her head and laughed softly again, her eyes a bright verdant color that bordered on blue, her face flushed.

“And you love it.”

He hadn’t been able to deny what he felt for her. Aye, the truth of the matter was, he thought now as he gazed up at the stars, he did love her. More than he’d ever thought possible; more than a man should love any one thing, including a woman. ’Twas dangerous. To love something so much made a man vulnerable, perhaps even overly protective and afraid.

Which made his fears that much worse.

He suspected they were being followed.

’Twas nothing he was certain of, and he certainly hadn’t spotted any soldiers wearing the colors of Agendor. . . . Still, he had the uncanny feeling that he and Bryanna were but one step ahead of a pursuer.

Could it be Deverill, the son of a cur who had sired him? Or Hallyd of Chwarel, the hideous priest-baron who had killed Kambria, if the stories Bryanna was spinning were true. Considering his vicious history, Hallyd might add up to be a worse enemy than Deverill. ’Twas worrisome.

Clearly, the pursuers had descriptions of them and their horses. Gavyn had suggested selling Alabaster and Rhi, but Bryanna had refused. She loved that little white jennet, a gift from her sister, and Gavyn himself had a fondness for Rhi. The black destrier was not only a good fast steed but a symbol of Gavyn’s disregard for his father. Old lame Harry was also distinctive. No doubt Gavyn and Bryanna would be safer on three old farm horses, all brown without any identifying markings, even if they were slower.

He’d gone along with Bryanna’s wishes, however, a fool-hearted decision because he, too, liked the horses.

He picked up a stick and tossed it into the fire, watching the greedy flames burn away the bits of moss, crackling and snapping, sending bright sparks heavenward.

He wasn’t a believer in all things mystical, but then again, he couldn’t deny that there was more than a bit of witchcraft in the air. Witchcraft, or even magick.

He saw movement in the darkness beyond the ring of flickering light cast by the fire, and Bryanna appeared, the hair around the edge of her face wet where the water still clung to it. She dabbed at her face with the corner of her mantle and he couldn’t help but grin. Aye, she was beautiful, to be sure, but there was something more than outward beauty to her. An inner spark often lit her eyes or tugged at the corners of her lips or pulled up an eyebrow, as if a bit of the devil was in her spirit.

“So . . . have you figured out where we are going?” she asked, plopping down upon a rock near the fire. The map was stretched out on a flat stone, its hieroglyphs visible in the firelight, but still an enigma. She’d stitched the last piece onto the others months ago, but still the specific location of the next stone was a mystery. They’d followed rivers and streams, roads and trails, always heading south, not knowing their ultimate destination.

Gavyn pushed himself upright and walked to the spot where she was seated.

“We must be getting close,” she said. “We’ve traveled so far.”

“Aye, that we have.” He squatted beside her and traced their progress on the map, his finger following the path they’d taken. Just as he had every night since they’d first discovered this scrap of doe hide and Bryanna had attached it to the other pieces. The symbols never changed. In fact, he had committed the weird scratchings and hieroglyphics to memory. The flat hills, the rushing river, the steep cliffs and small villages. And at the lowest, most southern tip of the map, the markings that could only mean the sea.

“Look, here,” he said, and indicated another cross scratched upon the map, a drawing nearly identical to the one that had led them to the monolith in the east. “We should be passing this landmark soon.”

“Aye,” she agreed, nodding her head.

“Would it not be the place she would hide the stone?” He hated to ask the question, because it wasn’t the first time he’d posed it.

Bryanna’s face was drawn into a knot. She chewed on her lower lip in deep concentration, but shook her head, her deep red curls catching the firelight. “I think not. I know you think it would make sense and, I have to agree, aye, this cross is similar, but I think it may be just a landmark. I don’t have the same feeling I had about the first one.”

“You have a different feeling,” he said. They’d been over this before. Instincts and feelings, or a witch’s intuition?

“Aye. It seems too obvious for Kambria to mark precisely where she buried the stones. And why would she choose the same kind of statue?”

“So that we could find them,” he said.

“Not just us, but anyone else who stumbled upon the emerald and this piece of the map. It makes no sense. No sane person would do it.”

“This is a supposed witch you’re talking about. Her actions have little to do with sanity.” She sent him a glare that he thought might just turn him into a stone sculpture, yet he reminded her, “The opal was not buried at a monolith.”

“Nor will this one be,” she said in frustration and drew her finger along one edge of the map. “This line, it’s a river, is it not?”

“It seems.”

“And if this edge is to be believed, it flows to the sea at this point.” She indicated a square upon the map.

“Yes.” The square, usually drawn to indicate a keep, was one of several scattered upon the leather. The map was full of squares and rectangles interspersed with etchings of circles and crosses and mounds and runes, none of which, it seemed, meant a wink to Bryanna.

“What is the name of this river?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but we can ask someone in the next village,” he said, rotating his neck so that it cracked. “You think the river is important?”

She shook her head. “I know not.” But she stared at those crooked markings as if they were significant.

“Isa . . . she hasn’t come to you again?”

“Nay,” she admitted, scowling. “I’ve not heard her voice in a long while.” With a disgusted sigh, she rolled up the map and tucked it into her pouch. “What good is this stupid ‘gift’ if I don’t know how to use it?”

“I know not.” Standing and stretching, Gavyn took her by the hand and glanced into the black depths of the forest where the light didn’t quite touch.

Was there something out there? Something watching?

He saw nothing, but he
felt
hidden eyes upon them, and he sensed it wasn’t Bane the wolf. He’d sleep very little tonight, he thought. And he would be certain to have Bryanna snuggled close and his dagger in his hand. “Come. We’ll sleep on it.”

He was not far behind.

Riding through the night, the mercenary Carrick knew he could catch them. But he knew not where they were going. Only one thing was clear: they were forever riding south.

He knew not why they traveled so far, but he’d caught their trail at Holywell and had spoken with an innkeeper’s wife who was as loose with her tongue as had been the tavern wench in Tarth.

He was not alone in his pursuit of Bryanna and the man she traveled with. He’d heard the gossip, seen the small bands of soldiers, and overheard their mission. The soldiers, it seemed, were more interested in Gavyn, the bastard son of the Lord of Agendor. Word was that he had not only murdered a man—a sheriff, no less—but he’d also had the balls to steal his father’s prized steed. According to the soldiers, Baron Deverill was more infuriated by the thievery than the loss of his sheriff’s life.

But there were other forces involved, another group of soldiers who sometimes joined the first. Having listened from a darkened corner of a tavern, he’d discovered they were from Chwarel, and they cared little about the murderer. Their orders were to follow Bryanna, whom they referred to as a witch and a sorceress.

One night Carrick made it known to the soldiers from Chwarel that he was tracking Bryanna of Penbrooke and her traveling companion.

“What’s your business with them?” one of the soldiers had asked, his yellowed teeth glinting dark in the dim light of the tavern. Afal, the others called him.

“Strictly for the ransom,” the mercenary had said. “I’m in it for the prize offered by Lord Deverill for the safe return of his bastard son.”