Sorceress (49 page)

“Just his?”

“Aye.”

“So? Mayhap he goes down there to pray,” Deverill said, but he felt a frisson of fear slide down his spine, despite the heat. He glanced ahead to the vast blue sky, where seagulls wheeled over the road leading toward the sea.

“Oh, he prays and he talks, but no one’s there. I stole his keys once and went into the chamber when he was sleeping and there was nothing inside. ’Twas empty and dark and smelled of rot. And one time when I followed him, he forgot to close the door fully behind him. I slipped the door open and peered in to find him raving like a madman. Talked to someone—he called her Vannora. He brought her a cup and he set it on a table, but there was no table.”

“So it fell to the floor, spilling the blood?”

“Nay.” Cael shook his head and swallowed hard. “It sat in the air it did, as if it were upon a table I couldn’t see. He talked to this Vannora and he was vexed with her, and I felt a coldness in my soul like none other. I slid out the door as quietly as I could, because though I think Lord Hallyd, he did not hear me, I swear as God is my witness that the spirit within did.”

“Vannora?”

“Yea. I felt her eyes burn through me, but, as I said, ’twas not from heat, but as if knives of ice had been stabbed through my very soul.” He looked up at Deverill on his taller steed and genuine fear shone in the man’s eyes. “I know not who she is, or what she is, but she is not of this world, m’lord, and I swear she never has been.”

“Or Hallyd is mad,” Deverill said, trying to make some sense of it all as he looked ahead to a spot in the road where a crow was tearing apart the innards of a dead rodent. Spying the horsemen, the crow cawed in irritation and flapped away, its shining black wings a dark spot in the clear sky.

“Aye, Hallyd is no longer sane, ’tis true.”

Deverill looked down at the spy again.

The little man made the sign of the cross over his chest. “But ’tis not just his madness, nor the curse of a witch that is a part of this. Nay, Lord Deverill, ’tis something from the very depths of hell, his demon inheritance. Pure and cold. Evil at its core.”

“ ’Tis time,” Vannora said from within the circle at her altar. Candles burned low, the scent of fragrant herbs filled the chamber, and mist rose from the cauldron upon her altar. No amount of smoke or incense could disguise the hungry aura that shimmered around Vannora. The dank air Hallyd breathed was rife with wickedness. “Step into the circle.”

She was young again, youth and vitality thrumming through her. Even her eyes seemed clearer, offering a view of gold orbs that had at one time, he suspected, been heart-stopping. In this guise she was a beautiful woman. “Tarry not. The baby is coming. The final stone is about to be found.”

“Where is she?” Hallyd asked.

“Far to the west.”

“How far?”

“Too far to ride,” she said, and he felt a niggle of dread. “Near the western sea. Step closer. . . . Hurry!”

He glared at her, his muscles tense. “Near the sea?” he repeated. “’Tis miles from here, a week’s journey, at least.” Sudden fury boiled through his blood. “I should have been with her when she found the stone. I should be there when the child is born.”

“What care you for the babe?” she demanded. “You don’t want a child. You only wanted to rut with Kambria’s daughter, to rape her, to show her your power, to get back at the woman who blinded and cursed you.” She jabbed a long finger at her own chest. “
I
was the one who told you to see that she was pregnant.
I
was the one who arranged your mating. You want the curse lifted. You want the dagger. You want its power. You want to bed the woman until she is gasping for her last breath. But the child, he is mine.”

He felt tricked.

Betrayed.

The back of his scalp prickled with dread.

“Nay, Vannora. You lied to me. Used me.”

He witnessed a flare of defiance in her golden irises. A fury as wild as a raging storm.

“Who used whom?” she snarled, her voice rising in the cavelike chamber. “Listen, Hallyd, I have done my part. Your curse will be lifted. You will see again, and you will rule all of Wales with the dagger. But the babe is mine. Now”—she grabbed his hands with her own surprisingly strong fingers— “step into the circle and we will claim what is rightfully ours.”

Swallowing back his denials, he forced himself to take one step forward, his boots touching the circle drawn upon the stones. “What is it, Vannora? What is it you need to claim?”

“You don’t know?” she asked, her lips pulling back to show beautiful white teeth. “After all these years?”

“Why do you need the Chosen One?” Nervously, he took another step forward. “Tell me.”

“I want to go back.”

“Back where?” he asked, though a part of him didn’t want to know.

She tugged on his hands and stared deep into his eyes. “Come!”

“But you . . .” Hallyd stepped into the circle completely. “Where are you going?”

“I am going home to the Otherworld.” She reached for a handful of crushed herbs. “The child will ensure my passage.”

“But on Samhain spirits move freely from one world to the other.”

“Not spirits who have erred,” she said, hissing with annoyance. “ ’ Tis my fault the dagger slipped into this world. To return there without the babe would be a fate worse than the roiling pits in Hades. But I can set it all aright by bringing the babe back to the Otherworld. He will be raised among demon spirits, taught the ways of the dark arts.”

“How do you know he is the one?” he asked as her fingers swirled the mist over the cauldron.

“The prophecy. Sired by Darkness, born of Light . . . he will be the child of an amoral mortal and a moral sorceress. Good and evil, blended together.”

He felt beads of sweat on his brow. Her ministrations set his nerves on edge. “Wasn’t Kambria born of mortal man and sorceress?”

“So many questions now, when it is time to go through the passage!” Vannora whirled on him, furious. “Think of the prophecy. Kambria’s father was not depraved like you, not willing to go to the murderous lengths that thrill your soul. Waylynn would not have killed innocents like Gleda or Liam or Kambria, as you have. But then, you must know that, as he died at your hands.”

Hallyd felt a new surge of confidence, feeling his plans and desires on the verge of fruition. His eyes were healed. He had sired the Chosen One. The sorceress would soon be his to defile and punish for pleasure. And the dagger . . . he could almost feel its power swelling his stature.

“Come, now,” Vannora said firmly, “’tis time. Samhaim, the day of the child’s birth, is upon us.”

Bryanna stared at the interior of what had once been her grandfather’s hut. Situated near an old Roman fort, there was little left of the building. The roof had sagged and rotted through, the walls were falling down, and the circle of stones where he’d once built fires had scattered so that they no longer formed a ring. Sunlight streamed through the cracks and gaps in the walls.

So this was where he had lived and worked. Her grandfather, a man who had lost his life in the cold waters of the River Towy.

Now they were all dead, the brother and two sisters. Gleda and Isa had died within months of each other.

“Let’s see if this dagger works,” Gavyn suggested, unwrapping the knife and handing it to her.

Her fingers circled the hilt with its three winking stones. Refusing to think of the pain in her back, she squatted down and drew a rune in the dust of the floor, scattered her herbs and closed her eyes. Her chant to the Mother Goddess was soft as she turned slowly in the small space, the knife cold and lifeless in her hand.

Increasing her prayers, she felt the tiniest of movements, a vibration, when she pointed toward the sea. She moved in that direction and the dagger seemed to hum.

“Is it working?” Gavyn asked curiously.

But his words faded to the back of her mind as she took a step toward the briny scent of the sea. The words of the old riddle of the stones filled her head.

Isa’s voice or her own? She knew not. But as she moved toward the western wall the air in the hut darkened into sudden night and the dagger suddenly slipped from her fingers and fell. She gasped as it tumbled to the floor, where it drove into the ground, the blade disappearing in the hard-packed dirt floor.

Gavyn watched in wonder as she knelt at the spot and wiggled the dagger to and fro, loosening the earth in the darkness, removing dirt until the blade hit something. Digging with her fingertips, she exposed a round, narrow disk—the top of a vial.

Gavyn used the dagger to pry the vial out of its grave and lift the pottery carefully out of the ground. “The stone is stuck inside,” he said, shaking the vial.

With gritted teeth, Bryanna swung the dagger and smashed the vial.

The little bottle shattered, shards raining to the ground. A twisted piece of doeskin bound with a leather lace fell to the dirt floor. Heart in her throat, Bryanna untied the string and unfurled the final piece of the map to reveal a bloodred ruby glittering against the deer hide.

With trembling fingers, she grasped the stone and dropped it into the last hole on the knife’s handle.

The ruby glowed warm, sending heat through the hilt of the dagger. It penetrated Bryanna’s hand and thrummed down her arm.

Immediately she sensed the uncanny stillness, the quiet of eternal rest. In her mind’s eye she saw a tomb, a private place of worship, and there, inside, was safety.

She lowered the knife.

“I know where we must go,” she said to Gavyn and realized that the night had not existed for him. The vision was hers alone.

“Where?” he asked.

But before she could answer, the first pain of labor brought her to her knees.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

G
avyn carried Bryanna back to the inn and barked an order to the boy stacking firewood near the grate. “Send Ivey to our room,” he said to the skinny boy as Bryanna felt another wave of pain sweep through her. Clenching her teeth, she clung to Gavyn and fought the urge to scream.

Help me, Isa,
she thought as the pain subsided and she could breathe again.

He carried her up the stairs and settled her into the bed. Nothing she’d ever been through before had prepared Bryanna for labor and childbirth, the pain that came in huge, intense waves. Ivey came and sat with her, tending to her with warm, wet cloths and watching the baby’s progress.

“He’s turned,” she said at one point, hours into the labor, while Bryanna gasped, covered in sweat, her hair damp ringlets. “’Twill be faster now.”

Spent, Bryanna hadn’t responded, but just waited for the next sharp pain. When it came she breathed as the older woman had instructed. Although Bryanna knew this torment would be over eventually and she would have a baby, she had trouble seeing beyond the pain. Gavyn had been pushed outside the door, though every once in a while popped his head into the room, only to be smartly reprimanded by Ivey. “Your part’s done,” she told him at one point. “Let your wife do hers.”

Wife,
Brianna thought miserably, her hands twisting in the bedsheet.
Not yet.

The sun went down and Bryanna, soaked in sweat, labored on. Only when it was near morning did she feel a shift, and the older woman instructed her how to push.
Gladly,
Bryanna thought, letting nature take over.

And then he was born.

After all that work, after several hard pushes, Truett arrived, lifting her heart with his lusty cry and a hungry appetite. Despite her pain and all the effort, Bryanna was instantly charmed by this perfect little baby, who seemed as exhausted as she was and happy to lie upon her breast.

“Welcome, little one,” she whispered, cradling him close. “I’m so glad you are finally here.” She kissed his tiny head and felt near tears. Tired to her bones, her emotions a jumble, she thought that of all the miracles she’d seen lately, none compared to this little boy.

Ivey had proven to be an adept midwife. She managed to clean Bryanna a bit and change the sheets while Bryanna held her new little infant.

“We’ve been waiting for this one for a long time, we have,” Ivey said, smiling down at the baby.

Bryanna, surprised, didn’t think she’d heard correctly. “
We’ve
been waiting?” she said, suspiciously. “Who is
we
?”

“Those to whom the child rightfully belongs,” she replied with a kind smile. “Those who believe.”

“Believe in what?” But she knew. Bryanna’s heart, which had been so light, now felt heavy, sodden with dread. She pulled her child closer to her breast.

“In the ways of the old ones. ’Tis Samhain this night, you know. Starting at dusk. And it was foretold that he would come on the very day before the Samhain, with the light of a full moon.”

Ivey whispered an ancient chant, then pressed her fingertips to her forehead to recite the prophecy. “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.”

Bryanna felt as if she were tumbling into a bottomless chasm. She would not lose her child. Would not!

“Why are you waiting for him?” she asked, her voice hoarse with fear.

The woman’s face wrinkled a bit. “Do you not know? You who are the sorceress?”

“He’s my child.” Bryanna inched backward on the bed, clutching the boy as if he might disappear.

“Aye, but you cannot alter his destiny, that he will be the leader of those who believe in the gods and goddesses—”

“What are you talking about? Leader? Gods and goddesses. Nay,” she said. “This is but a little boy child. A normal, innocent babe. Do not attach any destiny to him.” But in her heart, she knew the hated truth. Had she not realized that the baby’s birth was tied to her quest? Had not Isa told her she had to save the child? Had she not known the very child Isa mentioned was her own? Fear struck deep in her heart.