Sorceress (52 page)

She turned to Gavyn and noticed him swaying from the pain. “Come,” she said, her eyes searching his cuts, assessing the wounds she would need to treat with an herb poultice.

“Help me,” she heard, a soft little cry.

An old woman stood shivering in the wind. Her clothes were tattered, her teeth yellowed, her eyes white with blindness. “Help me,” she whispered again. “I’m scared. How did I get here?”

How indeed? Bryanna stared beyond the crone, along the rising hillock. Where did this woman come from?

“Don’t trust her.”

Another
voice? Bryanna looked over her shoulder to see an approaching warrior, bow drawn, arrow pointed at the little woman’s shrunken chest.

“Carrick?” she whispered when he was close enough for her to see his features. “What are you doing here?”

“Saving your hide, so it seems,” he answered, his eyes trained on the fragile woman. “Your sister Morwenna thought you could use some assistance. And mayhap she was right. This one, she is not what she seems.”

“Carrick of Wybren?” Gavyn asked, stepping toward the man.

Bryanna’s heart clenched at the sight of Gavyn, bloody and wobbly, his legs about to give out. Oh, dear God, how could she save him? There was so much blood.

The little birdlike woman turned opaque eyes toward Bryanna. “Who is this man?” She pointed a bony finger toward Carrick. “Why is he saying this about me? I’m a bit addled and I wander . . . and I was trying to get out of the storm.”

Bryanna’s baby cried and the woman’s face softened.

“A babe? You have a babe? Oooh, how perfect.” She inched closer and the chill that Bryanna had felt earlier swept by again. “Can I see him, your son? ’Tis a boy, is it not?”

How could this woman know that her child was a boy? This shivering little stranger, who appeared blind.

“Nay.” Bryanna glanced at Carrick and stepped back from the harmless-looking crone. “I need to tend to Gavyn’s wounds,” she said as Gavyn’s face turned white and he fell to one knee.

“You watch her!” Bryanna ordered Carrick, her heart ripping as the lifeblood began to seep from Gavyn. “And you, don’t you dare die on me. Not now, Gavyn. Not ever.” She refused to lose him. “You will live, Gavyn, do you hear me?” She pointed the dagger at him and began a spell for safety and healing and—

In that instant, the woman struck, reaching for the child. Carrick let loose his arrow and it pierced the crone, sinking deep into her chest. Her face didn’t so much as flinch, but her guise melted into the night.

No longer was she a sickly old hag. Her withered body was now a spiraling wraith, a wildfire whipped into the wind, hoveringover them. Fury exploded in her white eyes, which glowed like the luminescent sheen of the moon.

The child wailed, and Bryanna held her baby close as she staggered back, away from the looming monstrosity.

Save the child. . . . Take the babe and run. . . . There is a demon after him, a dark spirit who will stop at nothing. . . .
Isa’s words thundered through her head now, all the warnings that had seemed ludicrous but now made sense in the shadow of the heinous demon that had sprung to life from the shell of an old crone.

This was the demon Isa had warned her about.

This was the moment she’d been preparing for her entire life. All the visions and warnings, all the chanting and spells and the long journey to collect the gems throughout her quest . . . everything in her life as a sorceress had brought her to this struggle, staring up into the jagged jaws of an ethereal demon.

“Give me the child,” the demon raged. “The child for your life.”

“Never!” Bryanna jabbed the dagger into the air, the stones humming in her hand, and the wraith recoiled.

“Don’t even come close to him!” Gavyn dragged himself up and held his wavering sword aloft. Despite his noble effort, he could be no threat to the beast. ’Twas a wonder he stayed on his feet in his weakened state.

“Did I not say the old crone would prove troublesome?” Carrick said, aiming high at the hovering wraith.

Bryanna watched as the man sent to protect her shot another arrow through the beast, which only made her roar in rage, turning those vile eyes upon him. Like a snake striking, she grabbed at his body with her bony talons, claws that were strong though they seemed to have no more substance than a thin veil.

Fighting free of the monster’s grip, Carrick shot another arrow through her, and again she roared and writhed.

Bryanna began to chant with an intensity that burned her soul. She would not give up. . . . She could not! She was summoningthe Mother Goddess when the wretched beast swatted at Carrick again and snagged him in her talons. Bryanna gasped, her words caught in her throat as the terrible creature swung him high into the night sky. He dangled in the air, higher than the tallest tower at Wybren Castle.

“Release him!” Bryanna cried, pointing the dagger at the beast. “Set him free, now!”

A raspy roar sounded, like a rumble of thunder—the beast was laughing. But despite her evil mirth, the monster seemed to be lowering Carrick. Bryanna held her breath, hoping against hope.

The beast held him aloft, then tossed him into the air.

Horror washed over Bryanna as she watched his body arc against the purple sky, then descend over the cliff to the swirling dark water below.

Her eyes followed him until it was too late. Carrick was dead.

“Morrigu, be with him,” Bryanna whispered, stricken with remorse for the man who had ridden here to protect her. She had unleashed this raging she-demon on this sacred night of Samhain. She was to blame.

Overwhelming despair stole through her heart.

Then something stirred against her chest. Truett kicked again, moving in his sling. Her son, the child she had to save. There was no time to wallow in despair.

“I believe,” she said, her heart heavy. Deverill was dead. Hallyd, too, had died, and now Carrick’s body was crushed on the rocks below. She could not let this demon claim another being. “Leave us!” she cried to the heinous she-beast. “Get thee back to Arawn, the king of hell, and never return!”

She sensed the magick flowing from her body, through the dagger toward the malevolent creature that loomed before her, claws outstretched to take her child.

The wraith screamed in rage and pain, but still bent near her, reaching her abhorrent claws toward her child. “You cannot stop me,” she hissed.

“I believe,” she said, lifting the blade toward the heavens, which seemed to pain the beast.

Writhing in agony from Bryanna’s words, the wraith shot forward, intent on the child.

But Bryanna would not surrender. “Die, demon!” Summoning all her strength, she hurled the dagger into the gaping mouth of the horrendous monster.

The momentum of the dagger sent the monster reeling back. With a tormented howl, the creature wriggled into a coil, withdrawing upon itself like a snake slithering into a dark hole. Smaller and smaller the wraith shrank until, once again, she took the shape of the tiny haggard woman.

Bryanna stared down at her, keeping her distance, not trusting the evil within.

“Where’s the dagger?” Gavyn gasped, pushing himself up. “What happened to it?”

“I think it’s in the belly of the beast,” Bryanna said. Holding Truett with one hand, she dropped to the ground to search the midnight-blue hillside. But as soon as her palm touched the cool blades of grass, she knew. There was no shimmer of magick here, no vibration or warmth of glowing gems. “It’s lost,” she said, and in her mind she could see the small knife tumbling down, end over end into a world festering with evil.

The Sacred Dagger was gone from this world.

Mayhap ’twas for the better.

“Oh, please,” the old woman moaned. She lay in a huddle on the ground, her cloudy eyes fixed on Bryanna and Truett. “Please, I cannot go back there.” Her bony hands pointed to the chasm in the ground, the puckering, oozing wound in the earth that led to the Otherworld. “Without the child, I’ll be doomed to the darkest reaches, imprisoned in the gruesome pits of the Otherworld, a slave to Arawn. . . .”

Bryanna’s teeth clenched; she would not fall for this woman’s pathetic ploy, though she wondered at her own strength to stave the she-demon off without the dagger. Were her powers diminished?

“Return you must,” she said, carving a rune in the earth before her with one fingertip. “Coelio,” she chanted.
Believe.

“Please help me . . . ,” the crone cried, pushing herself up onto weak elbows, even as the winds sent her sliding along the hillock toward the crack in the earth. The Otherworld was drawing her back into its glowing mouth, pulling her with an invisible hand the crone could not fight.

“Coelio,” Bryanna repeated, and the sound of the word made the old woman cringe with pain. “Coelio . . .”

“His powers will dwindle under your guidance,” the old woman shouted hoarsely. “What can you teach the Chosen One, you, a girl yourself? You son needs a skilled advisor.”

He needs his mother,
Bryanna thought, though she said only, “Coelio.”

“No! I will not go!” the demon howled, her bony fingers tearing into the dirt, raking up grass as she was dragged through the darkness, sucked toward the oozing entrance to the Otherworld.

Gavyn knelt beside Bryanna, placing a hand on her shoulder. They watched in silence together, unwilling to turn away until the shrieking demon had been sucked into the crevice in the hillside, consumed by the Otherworld.

As the glowing chasm began to settle, the ragged edges of earth began to mend. The winds died and the stars seemed to shine brighter overhead. In the new silence that blanketed them, Bryanna was grateful for the quiet of Gavyn’s sword being sheathed and the sweet stir of Truett’s breath.

The sounds of peace.

EPILOGUE

Bryanna sat on the garden bench, feeling the warmth of the June sun. Beside her Truett was trying his best to stand upright while watching an ant carry a tiny crumb across the path. To keep his balance, he held on to the edge of the bench and looked up at her, wobbling, but proud of himself.

“Oh, what a strong, smart boy you are,” she said as the summer air ruffled her hair and brought scents of fresh-baked pyes and roasting pork from the kitchens. Off in the gardens, Morwenna was plucking herbs and flowers from the lush bushes, humoring her daughter, Lenore, with a ticklish blossom.

A shadow passed across Bryanna’s feet and she twisted, looking up sharply to spy Gavyn approaching. “Husband,” she said with a wry smile.

Gavyn grinned, for finally it was true. Upon returning to Calon, they had married and now were planning to return to Agendor, where Gavyn, the only son of Deverill, would become baron. The villagers had requested that he return to Agendor, where a surprising number of his subjects had been glad to be free of Deverill’s rule. Deverill’s wife, Marden, always frail, hadn’t survived an ailment over the winter after the loss of her husband.

Bryanna couldn’t wait to become lady of her own keep, to be at her husband’s side as he ruled. Who would have thought they would come to this?

“Come, I have something to show you,” he said.

“What?”

“Oh, ’tis a surprise.”

She was instantly wary. “A surprise?”

“Mmm. You’ll like it, I swear. Come.” He grabbed Truett and placed him upon his broad shoulders. Balancing his son carefully, he led Bryanna down a winding path past the candlemaker’s hut and the farrier’s forge to the stables. Truett giggled gleefully, patting his father on his head.

“What’s this?” she asked, but her heart skipped a beat. She knew.

Gavyn’s grin widened as he slid his son from his shoulders and curled him in his arms. He led the way beneath the overhang of the stable roof and inside, where the smells of horse and dung and hay greeted her.

“Shh,” Gavyn whispered as they eased their way to a stall where Alabaster stood. Beside her, lying on the straw, was a newborn foal, black as night with one white stocking. It looked up at them with wide eyes.

Bryanna couldn’t help but smile. “So he’s come,” she said. “Rhi’s colt.”

“Aye. You knew it to be male?”

“Of course.”

His eyes narrowed as if he didn’t quite trust her. “Listen, witch,” he said, “what is it you know? Can you foresee the future?”

“I thought you didn’t believe.”

His grin slashed white in the darkness. “You made a believer of me.”

“Is that so?” Bryanna rubbed Alabaster’s velvet nose.

Nickering, the mare turned away, took a step toward her newborn, and nudged at him with her face. Still wet from the birth, he struggled several times before his spindly legs finally perched under him. When he was finally on all fours, he pressed his nose against his mother’s white flank and found her udder.

Truett gazed at the animals in fascination. He pointed at the black foal and smiled widely.

“I think he’s claimed the foal as his own.”

“You can’t be serious. He’s not even walking.”

“But he’ll need his own steed.”

“First his own two feet. Then we’ll talk about putting him upon a horse,” she said skeptically, though she knew it would happen. She could see it laid out before her as they walked out of the stable and into the heat of the summer day. Horseflies buzzed, the sails of the windmill turned with the breeze, and the sound of hammers rang through the bailey. She knew a lot more than she admitted to her husband, for though her vision of the future was limited and sometimes unclear, she knew that their son would grow strong and healthy, thriving in the arms of his two loving parents.

As if he knew that she was thinking of him, Truett turned his gaze to her. He was a handsome boy with red hair, rosy cheeks, and blue eyes, though one held a spot of brown in it, a reminder of his heritage. Hallyd.