Sorceress (50 page)

Her throat went dry as desert sand. “This is
my
child,” she said, and her arms wound around her baby a little tighter. “Do you hear me? Mine and Cain’s. He is ours and ours alone.”

“Of course he is,” Ivey agreed amiably, but the glimmer in her gaze unnerved Bryanna.

Oh, dear God. Anxiously she licked her lips and told herself to calm down. Mayhap she was just overwrought with the birth, or perhaps all of Isa’s talk of saving the child had set her on edge. Or could it be that as a new mother she was already overprotective and bristly with anyone who showed any interest in her baby. But no matter how she tried to talk herself into being calm and resting, fear penetrated her heart.

“Where’s Ga—Cain?”

“Outside the door.”

“Let him in. Now.”

“Of course.” Ivey turned to the door, but paused, a serene smile on her face as she gazed at the downy baby. “He’s flawless,” she said, and her beatific smile was more frightening to Bryanna than had she scowled. “He will rule well,” she said, opening the door.

“He’s not ruling anything.”

Ivey cast one look over her shoulder, a look that said louder than words,
You’ll see.

Bryanna let out a horrified squeak.

“Finally!” Gavyn said striding in. “Does not a father have any rights to see—” He looked to the bed and all of the irritation left his voice. “By the gods.”

“ ’Tis a boy,” Ivey said as she passed, then walked out of the room. The older woman hadn’t congratulated Gavyn, hadn’t told him
he
had a son. Nay, just “ ’Tis a boy.”

“And a fine one he is,” Gavyn said, eyeing the baby’s tiny body. A tuft of red curls sprouted on an otherwise bald head and large blue eyes stared up at the man who looked down on him. Bryanna felt pride swelling in her heart.

But it disappeared as the weight of everything Ivey had said reverberated through her brain. “We have to leave here.”

Gavyn nodded, winking. “’Tis beautiful, you are, Brynn,” he said, joking. “We will, when you’re fit to walk and ride.”

She had no time for this! “Nay. Soon. Right now.”

“Now?” he repeated. “You and the boy here, you need care. Time to rest and recover and . . .”

“I don’t trust Ivey.”

“Why not?” Gavyn was thunderstruck. “She tended to you, helped you with the birthing.”

“’Tis how she acts, what she says,” Bryanna said, her voice rising frantically with her fear. “We . . . we have to leave.” She was already climbing out of bed. “With Truett. Now.”

“Truett?”

“ ’ Tis his name.”

“Have I no say in this?”

“Nay. Right now, you don’t. We’ll speak of it later.”

“You’re serious about leaving?” Gavyn shook his head in bafflement as her feet touched the floor. “Whoa, Bryanna . . . slow down. You . . . the babe? Are you suddenly daft? No, I’ll not risk it, not now. In a week, mayhap, when both you and the child are stronger.”

She pinned him with her frightened gaze. “No, Gavyn, trust me. We have to leave and leave now.”

Her child squalled and Bryanna took him to her breast again, leaning back on the bed. Oh, sweet little innocent thing. He suckled heartily and Gavyn stared, fascinated.

“I mean it,” she said, managing to keep her voice down. “We must leave. Trust me.”

“But—”

“Must I prove myself to you yet again?” she asked, moving her infant from one breast to the other. “Has not everything I said about the jewels and the map proved true?”

He nodded.

“And still you doubt me?”

Gavyn’s expression turned from bewilderment to understanding. “You’re right. If you say we should leave, then we shall, but it would be so much better if you could just wave that magick dagger of yours for the babe’s safety.”

“That’s not the way it works—you know that. Just bring me the map.” Her newborn nodded off, but she refused to let him go, even in his slumber. “And the dagger. Please.”

“Now you should rest, for just a little while.”

“Gavyn, do not argue,” she insisted, frantic. She felt it, the swelling darkness, the pulsing terror that someone might steal or harm her child. It was near, an umbra that was chasing her, long clawlike fingers extended, ready to rip her child away.

Gavyn looked at her as if she really had gone mad, but he did as asked, unrolling the map. With his help, Bryanna inserted the new piece. The ragged swatch of deerskin fit perfectly into the remaining gap. While the baby slept, she used Gleda’s needle to stitch that final piece in place. When she was finished, the map complete, she realized that the final shape was that of all Wales. The places they’d visited were clear now; the symbols, runes, and marks made some kind of sense now.

Across the middle of the map, where all the pieces connected,the hieroglyphic lettering she hadn’t been able to read now became one single word: “Coelio.”

“Coelio,” she whispered, touching the etched letters with the tip of one finger. “Believe.” She let the map drop onto her lap and picked up the Sacred Dagger.

Closing her eyes, she held the knife with both hands, her baby nestled between her arms. Slowly, over and over, she whispered the word, then chanted the riddle of the stones.

And again. As the words spilled over her tongue, she felt a warmth invade her. Renewed energy generated by the bejeweled blade flowed quickly through her body, coursing through her veins. Exhaustion seeped away, replaced by a new vigor, a power she’d not felt before.

For a second, she heard Isa’s voice as clearly as if the dead woman was standing next to the baby.
“Take the babe and run. Now. Trust no one. There is a demon after him, a dark spirit who will stop at nothing. The evil one needs the Chosen One in order to return to the Otherworld. You cannot let this happen, Bryanna. Go! Run!”

“You knew this and you didn’t tell me?” Bryanna charged. “All this time, you did not tell me?” Fury burst through her.

“Damn the prophecy!” she cried, suddenly filled with a fear as black as all the underworld. “This is my child we’re talking about. My baby!”

“Then save him,”
Isa ordered.
“Go now to the sacred place. Do not tarry. Save your child.”

“Isa . . . wait!” Bryanna cried, but the voice had died. Bryanna looked up at Gavyn and lowered the knife. Throughout her ruminations, her baby had slept. “We’re leaving,” she whispered. “Our son’s life depends upon it.” She climbed out of the bed, and with one hand began stripping off the bedsheets. “Tear the linens.”

“What?”

“Make a sling and blankets for our son. I’ll have to carry him.”

“Bryanna, this is mad. I don’t think—”

“Isa just warned me, Gavyn! She said we have to leave. Not to mention that Ivey told me she has some sort of designs on Truett, thinking him cursed to lead a kingdom of sorcerers. Our child’s life is in jeopardy.” She handed the boy to his father, then finished tearing the sheets herself. As Gavyn held the babe, she crafted a sling in which he could be toted. Other pieces of the sheets would be used for Truett’s swaddling.

Her body, though aching, was remarkably strong, filled with vigor. With purpose.

“What else did Isa tell you?” Gavyn asked as she wrapped her baby in a bundle.

“To save our baby, we must take him to the holy place.”

“What holy place? A church?”

“Not as you would call it.”

“So why are you so frightened? Who would want to harm our boy?”

“I know not,” she said as she slipped the sling over her shoulder and around her neck, “but I swear on all that is holy, if anyone tries to stop us or hurt my child, I will kill them myself.”

Hallyd felt as if all the breath had been sucked from his lungs. His heart was near bursting, the sensation of swirling so fast he felt sure his eyes would fall from his head. He opened his eyes and found himself on a mound of earth with the scent of the sea in the air and twilight approaching.

His eyes were healed. He looked straight into the sunset, where streaks of red and gold were striping the horizon over the calm ocean waters, and he felt no pain, no aches, no vestige of the damned curse remaining.

But his heart was beating like a drum, and he had trouble catching his breath. He fell to his knees, then sank onto the ground in a sitting position, all the life seemingly drained from him. What in the name of Hades had happened to him? How had Vannora, in the blink of a cat’s eye, thrown him body and soul from Chwarel to wherever he landed? Her powers always surprised him.

Hadn’t he been clinging to her as hard as he could, screaming into the wind and riding in a maelstrom with her, gasping for air while he’d heard her laughter? By the gods, ’twas lucky he had not pissed himself.

He knew of demons and witches and those who flirted with Satan. Had he not been a priest, learned of both the good and the bad in the world, of heaven and hell, of light and darkness? Had he himself not dabbled in sorcery?

Of course, he’d long suspected she wasn’t what she seemed and had believed that her motives weren’t pure . . . but then, whose were? Certainly not his own.

But this . . .

What he needed right now was a huge mazer of ale to calm his jittery nerves, for he was still shaking inside, his muscles quivering from his bones. Gulping air, telling himself to somehow find his composure, he furrowed his hands through his hair and managed to catch his breath. There was time enough later to try to understand the inexplicable.

For now, he had his own mission.

Bryanna was here.

On this solitary island where the sound of the ocean crushed the shore.

With a newborn baby,
his
child, the one Vannora wanted so desperately.

And with a man who claimed Bryanna for his own.

Along with the dagger.

Now complete, the jeweled magickal knife was restored.

He rubbed his fingers together in eager expectation and threw off his fears and doubts.

Vannora had been right. He looked around for her, for she had come with him, had she not? ’Twas her spirit that had cast him to the west, but it seemed he was alone atop this steep mountain. As he gazed to the vast waters, he knew where he was. Holy Island. Of course. Where it was rumored the practice of the old ways had existed for centuries, mayhap longer.

He dusted himself off and searched for her. “Vannora!” he called, more than a little irritated, for she’d brought him here,
somehow
, but he had little with him. At least his sword was strapped on, and he was lucky to have that.

So now, to find the place where the old rituals took place.

Vannora be damned.

As if she wasn’t already.

Deverill and his small company had landed at Holyhead with a new mission. Aye, he still wanted his damned horse back and that bastard son of his brought to some kind of justice, but also, he wanted to make Hallyd of Chwarel pay for his greed and trickery. If the spy were to be believed, Hallyd was also due to arrive here on this godforsaken scrap of land.

Which was fine with Deverill.

What better place for a liar and a blackheart to meet his maker than an island where the wind blew fierce and waves crashed three hundred feet beneath a sheer cliff? ’Twas a fierce place, this rocky patch of land cast into the sea. A place of old ruins and tombs and bloody rituals of the ancient ones.

Deverill of Agendor wasn’t afraid of much in this life, but ’twas the things he didn’t understand, the talk of dark arts and witchcraft, that bothered him. He professed to be a nonbeliever of the dark side of things, but a place like this, so raw and wild that old chants fairly sang on the roar of the surf, gave him pause.

Worse yet, ’twas dusk on Samhain Eve, the night when, according to the old ones, spirits of the underworld were allowed to walk the earth. On this night there was a ripple in time and the wall that kept the two worlds apart, the invisible veil, was opened, if only for a little while.

Long enough, Deverill thought, his bones suddenly cold. But he would not think of Samhain just yet, not allow himself to be distracted. He had vengeance to serve.

And then there was the matter of that precious dagger.

Whether it had magickal powers or not, it was valuable.

Deverill figured he deserved it for his trouble.

What was a wolf doing on a small island? the mercenary wondered as he climbed a steep slope toward the apex of the mountain. From atop this rocky crag, Carrick surveyed the island and could, he hoped, decide which way he should search. He’d visited Holyhead, learned of a pregnant woman, a traveler giving birth in the inn, but other than that he found out little more. The innkeeper had been silent on the matter, his wife, the town midwife, also tight-lipped. But in the alehouse he’d heard the rumor started by another guest that a woman had labored the previous night through and her muffled cries had kept him awake.

But she and the baby and the man who claimed to be her husband had left. ’Twas odd, he thought as he eyed the wolf, moving between the rocks, nose to the wind, fur ruffling. There had been talk of Samhain in the village, that it was to start this very night, the new year beginning in the span of a day.

’Twas twattle. Of course it was.

But as he saw the dark shape of the wolf prowling through the shadows, he doubted his own nonbeliefs. This could be the first monster to come from the Otherworld.

Had not Thomas, the farmer’s boy, insisted he’d seen a wolf swimming in the channel?