Sorceress (6 page)

“As headstrong as an ox,” their mother, Lenore, had often muttered under her breath. No amount of shaming or locking away or forced prayers had dampened Bryanna’s spirit or destroyed her independence.

And so she’d ridden away before Morwenna could get word to their brother Kelan of Penbrooke, before she’d been able to persuade Bryanna to take a guard and a companion . . . and . . . oh, for the love of Morrigu. ’Twas too late. Closing her eyes and dropping to her knees on the cold stone floor, she whispered a quick prayer for her sister’s safety. Then, fighting back the uncertainty that nagged at her, she rose, genuflected at the cross mounted high on the chapel wall, and hastened outside to the thickening mist.

He would be waiting.

Morwenna had never been one to doubt herself, but never had she felt forced to lie to those closest to her.

She rounded the corner of the chapel quickly and gasped at the sight of him leaning against the wall, one shoulder propped against the smooth stones. How ironic, she thought, that he chose to meet here in the shadow of the chapel, this devil of a man.

They did not speak.

There was no need for words.

They’d said enough already.

She handed him her pouch, the coins jingling within the worn leather. She was turning away, when, quick as an asp striking, he reached forward and encircled her wrist with his good hand. The other arm remained at his side, still stiff from a wound he’d received while trying to track the killer who had terrorized Castle Calon.

“Will this then be enough?” he hissed. “If I am to do your bidding, will that mean that at last my debt to you has been paid?”

She thought for a second of all the lies, all the betrayal, all the anger and lives lost because of this man. Looking toward the shadows of the chapel, she knew his list of sins was long. He had beaten his own brother and left him at death’s door, though he’d recovered since then, with Morwenna’s care. Carrick’s charms were so enthralling that he had even seduced Morwenna herself years ago, teasing her into a passion, then abandoning her before dawn.

Morwenna longed to end all ties with this blackheart. And yet, he was the only man with the strength and courage to assure her sister’s safety. “Just do as promised.” Keeping her voice low, she withdrew her hand and stepped backward, creating distance between them. “ ’Tis all I ask.”

“For now.”

“Forever.”

His smile flashed in the darkness. A crooked slash of white that accused her of the lie. “You cannot trust me, any more than I can trust you.”

“Go to hell,” she spat.

“Is that not where I am already?”

She was unmoved. “Mayhap.” Steeling herself, she stepped toward him and stared into his handsome, shadowed face. “But ’tis a hell of your own making, is it not?”

She turned again and hastened back to the keep. Silently praying and hoping beyond hope that her husband had not roused, she half ran through the garden and into the entrance near the kitchen. Already boys scurried about gathering firewood. Some of the cows were making noise, their udders full, their bellies empty as they waited for the milkmaids.

Morwenna hurried up the back staircase, knowing deep in her soul that she’d just made a deal with the devil.

Once again the woman appeared to him . . . and he wasn’t aware of how much time had passed between her visits. Had it been minutes, or was it hours, mayhap even days. Each time Gavyn would try to call out to her, but it was no use, his voice failed him, and he was quiet, falling deeper into a wave of darkness after the deadly umbra that had been following her dragged him down.

Be wary,
he thought, though he could not speak, and as the visions passed his sleep was light, thin as parchment. He was vaguely aware of whispered voices all around him, aware of the pain in his shoulder, as searing as a white-hot blade thrust into his flesh.

And then cool hands.

The woman of his dreams?

Gently she administered a salve that took away the fire and pressed something to his lips . . . a drink. He sipped the brew she offered, but it tasted so foul that he coughed and spat, then cringed as a pain like no other cut through his chest.

Was he alive or dead?

Or in a netherworld somewhere between?

At times he smelled the scent of sizzling meat, and hunger pangs would attack him. Other times he recognized the acrid odor of urine and thought it might be his own. Often he was aware of the scent of sweat, and as chills would come to him and be burned off by great black waves of heat, he thought that the scents might be his own. Once in a great while there was music, an off-key humming that buzzed through his brain.

Someone tending to him.

His thoughts were short and sharp, like shards of broken pottery, and as they passed behind his eyes he caught only glimpses of his life, tiny fragments that made no sense. He knew he was lying on a straw bed of sorts, and as the days passed and some of the darkness subsided, he tried to swim through the mire that was his brain, attempting to open his eyes. But then she would appear upon her white jennet and the pain would ease and he would succumb to the gentle embrace of darkness. . . .

“See, he lives,” a woman’s voice from somewhere far away whispered through the veiled darkness. “Did I not tell you?”

“Aye, ’tis healing powers ye have, Vala.” This time the voice was that of a man, a big man by the sound of it. “ ’Tis why I brought him to ye when I found him in the woods.”

“Ye say he fell from the ridge?”

“Aye, that he did. But he was lucky, he was. His fall was broken by saplings and brush.”

“Lucky?” She snorted as a scraping noise began and somewhere nearby a cow lowed. “If bein’ half dead and chased by Lord Deverill’s men is luck, then, aye, this one, he’s got all the luck in the world. Seems as if our lad here has killed himself Deverill’s sheriff.”

“Then I would think he should be knighted rather than hanged.”

“Mmm,” the woman said as the scraping continued. “Mayhap. But look at him. His face . . . by the saints, I doubt he will ever look himself. His nose is broke, one cheek shattered. His eye, there. If he can see out of it, ’twill be a miracle. He might’ve been handsome once, but will be no longer.”

Good,
Gavyn thought, for then he would never be recognized. Though the pain scraped down his muscles and bones, he risked raising an eyelid just a fraction, so that he was peering through the brush of his eyelashes. Although the light in the hut was dim, it still hurt his eyes, but he was determined to get a glimpse of his saviors or captors. Vala was right; his vision was blurred, but he could make out shadows and light. Concentrating hard, he took in a woman seated at a table of sorts, her back to him, long dark hair braided so that it snaked to her waist. Vala was a scrawny thing, her plain tunic sagging from her body.

A man sat across from her, his feet stretched out toward a glowing fire. Chickens scratched across the dirt floor, and from the sounds of heavy breathing, a cow was trapped on the far side of the room, behind him, though he dared not twist his head to see.

“There is talk that the sheriff’s killer is to be ransomed,” she said, and Gavyn saw from her actions that she was sharpening a blade.

The man pulled at the graying strands of his beard, scratching his chin. “I like not to do business with Lord Deverill. The less he knows of us, wife, the better.”

“Money is money, whether it comes from a rich man or a pauper.”

“Blood money,” the man muttered.

“Money we need, Dougal, bloody though it may be. Money we need.” Her narrow back stiffened, and though she was but half her husband’s size, ’twas evident she was the one who ruled this home. Gavyn sensed that, if there were money involved, this woman would see him returned to his father.

“And so that’s it, is it, Vala?” Dougal said. “’Tis money that keeps you at his bedside. All this while I thought it might be because he’s a handsome devil.” He was smiling, teasing her.

“ ’Tis no joke,” she said, lifting the big knife and pointing it across the table to wiggle at her husband’s nose. “Finding this murderer in the ravine was a sign from God, that it was. We are to do the right thing, Dougal, and return him to the baron’s justice.”

“Then why nurse him to health?” Dougal’s smile had faded.

“Because any fool knows that a wanted man is worth far more alive than dead. This way, the lord can mete out his own punishment, make a display of him, show the people of his keep that he’s just and fair but will accept no man’s treachery, not even his own son’s.”

Dougal’s gaze shot to Gavyn. “He’s the baron’s son?”

“Bastard,” she said, a little glee in her voice over gossip of the highest order. “Born by a peasant woman from Tarth . . . some say a witch.”

“Christ Jesus.”

“And that’s not all.” Though Gavyn had no view of her face, he heard the smile of satisfaction in her words. “Rumor has it the boy’s mother was murdered by Deverill’s own men.”

“What?”

“Aye. Seems the Lord of Agendor planted his bastard seed in the woman from Tarth, sending the Lady of Agendor into a jealous fury, barren that she is.”

Gavyn didn’t so much as breathe. How dared this wench spread such rot about his mother? His mother, a seamstress from the north, had been a good woman, far too loyal for her horrific fate.

“What do I care of a scandal in Tarth, far to the north?” Dougal sputtered. “And ’twould not surprise me if the woman was slain at Deverill’s hands. Best steer clear of anything involving the Lord of Agendor.”

“Too late for that, with his bastard son under our roof. Leave it to me. Deverill will pay dearly to have his troublesome son in hand.”

“I don’t know . . . ,” the husband said nervously.

“Leave it to me. This one is a wanted man. I haven’t been caring for him for naught. Before we let him go, he’ll fetch us a few pieces of silver.”

’Twas morning. From the darkness of his chamber at Chwarel, Hallyd heard the cock crow once, twice, thrice . . . and then silence. There was movement in the keep, the ordinary morning sounds of shuffling feet and murmurings, even the damned dogs barking. Soon the bells of morn would ring in the chapel—a hollow peal that he detested each dawn and dusk, for it reminded him of the days when he’d portrayed himself as a man of God, a believer in the holy faith. It had been a sham, of course, one of the many falsehoods of his life. In the past sixteen years, as he’d been kept an unchained prisoner in his own castle, Hallyd had moments of regret.

He threw on a tunic and laced up his breeches, refusing to wait for the servant who would soon appear at his door with an irritating cheeriness that was like a rash on his skin. Was the man a moron? Always talking of what a great day it was to be, how busy he was, how interesting was this castle.

’Twas rot, and nothing more, Hallyd thought as he tugged on his own boots and remembered all too clearly why he’d been so punished, nearly blinded.

He’d been young and his ardor had run hot and rash. Mistakenly he’d thought he could force a witch’s hand. Now, he knew, he first had to use trickery to gain what he wanted. Magick . . . the dark seduction his father had mastered. Fortunately, Vannora, the old one, had taught him well over the years, and he’d slowly shed his facade of godliness in favor of a darker visage.

Vannora’s arts were of the most sinister form, the power she bestowed upon him a gift for so willingly giving up his soul.

She had arrived at his keep soon after he’d lost his battle with Kambria, and it was Vannora who had advised him ever since. She had become his mentor, his guide, and though he followed her counsel, he did not completely trust her. No doubt, she held on to some secrets, the darkest spells and curses from the Otherworld.

But even Vannora with all her dark arts had not been able to lift Kambria’s curse. Only she who now held the dagger would be able to free him.

As he cinched his belt, key ring and scabbard around his waist, the scents of sizzling fish, deer, and fowl reached his nostrils. So the cook was already working, the kitchen boys rotating the spit where the carcasses were turning over the flames. A sweeter scent, that of yeast for the rising bread, drifted upward with the smell of smoke and pork fat. Soon the meal would be served, and his stomach rumbled as he imagined thick chunks of eel, pike, venison, and pigeon dipped in a thick stew.

This morning he would take his food here in his darkened chamber, by the fire. The shutters were in place, only bits of gray morning light sifting through the cracks, not enough to bother him, just enough to tantalize.

On cloudy days he was able to look through the slats and view the workers in the keep. From behind the shutters, Hallyd had seen them all, the greedy lot of them. He’d spied upon the armorer cleaning chain mail in barrels of sand. Hallyd had witnessed the man winnow out a little of the steel for himself when he’d thought no one was watching. Hallyd had also watched as one of the comeliest of the milkmaids filched a bucket of cream. He’d even observed the captain of the guard pissing against the side of the stables because he and the stable master had come to blows over the miller’s daughter, a dark-haired vixen who flirted with every man in the keep.

The simple truth was that he could trust no one.

His spies were no better than the rest of those who supposedly served him. Paid to be his eyes and ears, they were at the very least lazy oafs, at the worst liars and cheats. Even Cael, the one who was reporting back to him about the witch, was not trustworthy.

He considered riding out himself and finding her, this witch-woman who held the key to his future. But, so far, he’d reined in his ardor rather than risk making the same mistake he had made sixteen years earlier.