Sorceress (45 page)

Just then a scraping noise cut through the abandoned chamber.

She froze.

Her throat was dry as dust.

A rat scurried across the tip of her boot.

“Aaagh!” she cried, but bit back a scream as her knees nearly gave way.

“Sweet Morrigu,” she gasped, placing the hand clutching her pouch over her heart.

Now was the time to follow Isa’s instructions.

Swallowing back any lingering fear of rodents, she unlaced the leather bag and extracted the dagger with its two winking stones. How was she supposed to use it?

“Isa, please, help me,” she whispered. She slung the pouch with its leather strap over her shoulder. Then, with one hand tight upon the dagger’s hilt, the other gripping the torch so hard her knuckles were white, she walked slowly from cell to cell. Her stomach churned as she recognized the remains of bones and scraps of cloth on the floors covered with rotting straw, smelling of stale urine. Hoping to God that the bones were the remnants of food left for whatever prisoner was ill-fated to have been locked down here, and not actual pieces of human carcasses, she kept searching.

Water dripped from the ceiling and rodents’ claws scraped over stones. She eyed every inch of this horrible dank hole, her skin crawling as she spied a nest of furry spiders clinging to the ceiling.

“Where?” she whispered, holding her flickering, fading light aloft. “For the love of God, Isa,
where
?”

But the dripping, grimy walls offered no clues, and the small dagger seemed useless.

Swallowing back a mounting sense of dread, Bryanna tried to recall Isa’s exact words. She closed her eyes and imagined Isa’s voice:

“My ancestor who is great.” Was Llewellyn-ap-lorwerth really in these dungeons? Mayhap not as a prisoner . . . that was it. She’d thought the word “deep” had meant deep underground. But mayhap Isa had only meant deep in the interior. Hastily, she walked away from the cell and found the stairs again. She started climbing, upward, faster and faster, past the door to the bailey and higher still. That was it. It had to be. Llewellyn hadn’t been a prisoner in those cells. He was a warrior. He’d reclaimed the keep.

Breathing hard from the climb, she reached the door that led to the sentry post at the watch turret. Thankfully, the turret was also empty.

“Now where?” she asked out loud, glancing through the crenels. From high above the bailey she could see far into the distance: the river, the bay, the ships, their sails furled and masts slicing into the air like skeletal fingers. The view extended to the ends of the earth, clear to the horizon and the sea.

Closer in, as she turned her attention to the bailey, she looked to the spot where she’d last seen Gavyn, but she couldn’t locate him in the crowd. Nor did she see Harry. Heart in her throat, she moved to another area of the tower to stare through a different crenel that allowed a wider view of the inside of the main gate. Surely Gavyn hadn’t taken the horse far from where he’d met the merchant. . . .

The dagger in her hand seemed to hum.

She nearly jumped out of her skin and glanced down at the odd weapon with its two jewels and two dark holes in the hilt.

What the devil? Had it been her imagination?

She took a step to one side.

Nothing happened.

No hum.

She stepped back to the spot where she’d been standing. Again she felt the tiniest of vibrations.

Her throat went dry and she doubted herself. But sure enough, with one more try, the bejeweled knife actually trembled in her hand.

“Sweet Jesus,” she whispered. This area made the dagger sizzle—the gem had to be nearby.

Keeping her feet in place, she studied the inside of the tower. Her gaze swept the masonry, but there was nothing unusual about it. Pointing her dagger, she walked around the rim but saw nothing. “Please,” she whispered, and then remembered the prayer to Morrigu. Wasn’t that what Isa had said? Returning to the spot where she’d felt the knife vibrate, she closed her eyes and started whispering a low chant to the Great Mother.

“Morrigu, help me in my quest. . . .”

As she spoke, she felt the dagger heat and hum in her hands, the vibrations moving from her fingers to her soul. In her mind’s eye she saw again the great crevice and snowy ridge as her horse galloped wildly. She caught a flash of the rosary and felt a ring of stones cutting into her own throat.

When she opened her eyes, the day had become night, with stars abounding and a moon riding high. The noises of the keep had disappeared. As she stared at the interior of the tower, one stone near the floor seemed a different color from the rest. Pointing the sacred knife at the square-shaped stone, she fell to her knees. A square stone! New energy sizzled through her as she used the dagger, cutting through the mortar as easily as if it had been soft cheese. How easily it crumbled away.

“ ’Tis here!” Forcing her fingers into the spot where the mortar had given way, she tried to move the stone. The rock wouldn’t budge, not the barest of spaces. “Oh, rats and riddles, come on,” she whispered, but still it didn’t move.

Isa’s voice was with her again.

In the darkness the knife slid easily through the remaining mortar. With little effort, she pried the stone free. It tumbled onto the floor, exposing a tiny niche that held a flap of leather rolled and tied. “Sweet Rhiannon,” Bryanna whispered as she extracted the deerskin from its hiding spot and untied the leather lace surrounding it.

In an instant, a blaze of light flared bright, its yellow warmth radiating from Bryanna’s palms.

Snuggled in the deer hide was a brilliant yellow stone, a gem as bright as the sun.

“Waylynn? The apothecary?” the merchant repeated, as if he hadn’t heard Gavyn’s question. “Aye, I knew him. He was from somewhere up on the Isle of Anglesey. No, wait. . . . I think he was from Holyhead, which is really on a smaller island, if I hear right, from the sailors, you know. He’s the man you’re asking about?” The heavy man glanced back at Gavyn as he tucked the furs he’d purchased into a box on his cart.

“He seems to be the one.”

“Of course I remember him. An odd man, always talking of magick and spells and the like. Bah!” The merchant waved the thought away as if it were a bothersome insect. “He was a fine man, but just a little different from the rest. I’ll swear to it on the lives of my sons, Waylynn of Holyhead, he was the best there was with medicine.” He closed the lid of the box with a clunk.

Harry, who had been dozing, started.

“A shame about Waylynn, it was.” Glancing out at the River Towy, the merchant shook his head. “Got caught in the tides at the mouth of the river, he did.” He pulled at his beard as a woman carrying a basket of herbs hurried past. “Some people say that he was fleeing for his life. Got into some trouble with a lord . . . or was it a priest? Funny, I can’t remember, but someone powerful from the north.”

Hallyd,
Gavyn thought, and his heart turned to stone. The same murderer who had killed Kambria. A priest-turned-lord who dealt in evil. The noise of the castle turned into an echoing rush in his ears. Bryanna wasn’t safe. Nor was his child. His lips compressed with the knowledge that he had so much to protect now.

“I think a mercenary tracked him down, and the poor man drowned trying to swim across the river.” The merchant scratched his beard thoughtfully. “As I said, ’twas a long time ago and hard to remember. But whatever those soldiers were searching for was never found. Whatever secret Waylynn knew, he took it with him to the bottom of the river.” The heavy man glanced again to the water and sighed. “No one knows what really happened. Old Waylynn, he might have been caught in his own magick, but I do know this: those soldiers, from the ruler in the north, they never go away, not completely. They’ve been here off and on ever since.” Again, he nodded to himself as he adjusted the straps of his mule’s harness. “In fact, I saw a small band of them just the other day, on the road to Kidwelly.”

Gavyn felt his blood turn to ice. “And how did you recognize them?”

“By their colors, of course. Black and silver, the colors of Chwarel! That’s it. The baron, he was once a priest, that’s it. An oddity that. I think his name is Hayden or Harwood or . . .”

“Hallyd?”

“Aye!” The merchant snapped his fingers and grinned, showing off a mouthful of big teeth. “Hallyd, that’s the scourge’s name.”

“The soldiers, they were heading away from Llansteffan on their way to Kidwelly?”

“Nay, they were riding west along the road. I passed them only because one of their horses had pulled up lame and they were working on his hoof. ’Twas two, three days ago. About a day’s ride from here.”

Gavyn couldn’t help himself. He looked up and searched the bailey, his gaze scraping over men on horseback and foot soldiers.

“Thank you,” he said, his mind spinning ahead. What if Hallyd’s men were already here? What if they were nearing the gates? What if they’d found the two horses hidden in the forest?

Heart pounding with dread, he slapped Harry’s reins into the fleshy palm of the surprised merchant. “Would you mind? I will be not a minute. I just need to find my wife.”

“What . . . wait . . . no!”

But Gavyn was already running up the hill toward the upper bailey and the tower where he’d seen Bryanna disappear. They had to leave. Now. Hallyd’s soldiers could arrive at any moment. The dark lord would surely think that Bryanna would follow the same path as her grandfather.

Suddenly he didn’t care about the damned stone, the Sacred Dagger, or anything other than the safety of Bryanna and the babe. He flew into the tower, desperately wanting to yell for her, but holding his tongue. ’Twould be foolish to announce his presence, dangerous to reveal that she was searching the keep. He raced down the stairs, grabbed a rushlight, and found himself in a decrepit dungeon smelling of rot and filth. Surely she wasn’t here. Heart pounding, dread screaming through his veins, he scanned the dark corners and saw only the remains of corpses and the smell of despair.

Mayhap she’d left this dungeon and walked to another tower. Oh, God, please that she was safe! Quickly he retraced his steps. At the door to the bailey he thought he heard her voice, a low familiar chant raining on him from above.

By the Gods, was she practicing her sorcery?

Attracting attention to herself when even now Hallyd’s soldiers might be searching for her? What was she thinking? He took the circular stairs two at a time, his heart pumping in fear. Dread sank upon him as he heard soldiers enter the tower below while Bryanna’s soft voice chanted above.

No!

They were certain to be found out.

Upward, faster and faster, he raced, until he emerged at the top of the highest watchtower.

His heart tightened when he saw her there on her knees, holding a gem and leather map in her hands.

“Come!” he said in a sharp whisper.

“But I found it!” Her sea blue eyes shone with pride, her smile nearly angelic.

“Good, now, let us go.”

“But, ’tis the stone. Are you not—”

“We’ll speak of this later, Bryanna!” Panic swarmed through him. “Soldiers are returning to their posts, and I heard that Hallyd’s men are on their way.”

“Then they must already know I’m here,” she whispered, fear rounding her eyes as she quickly wrapped the stone in its leather map and tucked it into her pouch.

“Why?” He was pulling on her arm, leading her along the wall walk, intent on reaching the next tower.

“Because of the darkness.”

“What darkness?”

“When I began to chant, day turned to night.”

“What?” He spun so swiftly she nearly slammed into him. “What are you talking about? ’Tis almost twilight, yes, but there is no darkness, not yet.”

“Did you not see it?”

“No, I was in the dungeons,” he said, nearly dragging her to the next tower, trying to make sense of her words. “If this is true, why is there not panic in the keep?” he asked, motioning over the crenels to the bailey below, where everyone was going about their tasks as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Carpenters and masons were working on the buildings, the potter was turning his wheel, and laundresses were busy taking down sheets.

“I—I know not.” She followed his gaze to the inner court-yardas they hurried across the wide curtain wall. “The woman is at her loom and the horses are not spooked. Even the dogs are calm.” Her usually smooth brow was furrowed with vexation as she eyed the bailey, where the long shadows of evening were stretching, but there was still daylight. “I swear to you, Gavyn, that bright sun turned to blackness.”

“Swear later. Now we must flee.” They had no time to tarry or talk. They had to get out of the castle before Hallyd’s soldiers arrived.

He held fast to her hand as they reached the tower. Together, they hurried down the stone steps until they were once again outside on the matted grass of the upper bailey. “Come.” He led her down winding paths between the huts and stables. Within seconds, they had reached the packhorse. Gavyn thanked the man as he retrieved Harry’s reins.

“Glad to do it.” He looked at Bryanna. “Your husband, he sold me some fine pelts.”

“Good,” she uttered as they briskly strode off.

They were already heading to the main gate when the merchant’s voice stopped him cold. “Oh, those soldiers you were asking about,” the merchant called as Gavyn turned to face him again. “The ones wearing the colors of Chwarel?” He motioned with a finger toward the farrier’s hut. “They’re here. And they’re not alone.”