The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy) (14 page)

Their escape, for ’twas nothing less, went smoothly enough, mayhaps too smoothly. Caradoc seemed only too glad to be rid of them, all but shoving them out the gatehouse doors and dropping the portcullis behind them. Owain feared a trap, but none was sprung. Morgan’s fears were of a much less tangible nature. He’d brought a bound and gagged Ragnor to Balor, and that was as it should have been, and yet, because of Ragnor, he hadn’t brought Ceridwen ab Arawn—and mayhaps that was as it should have been also. Mayhaps the maid knew more of what wasn’t aright with Balor Keep than Morgan had allowed.

~ ~ ~

Caradoc sat sprawled in a chair by the hearth in Helebore’s chambers, watching the leech perform the ritual of extreme unction on the injured man they’d found that morn, Simon, one of Balor’s guardsmen. The other man had been named Cobb. Failures both, to have gotten themselves killed in the maze of caves underlying the keep and then spat out upon a cold shore.

Damn Morgan. He’d failed in his quest also. A simple enough matter, Caradoc had thought, to fetch one sniveling virgin and bring her back where she belonged. She had a brother, though, and Helebore thought that mayhaps the boy would suffice as neatly as the girl for his needs. Strata Florida was not so far. He would send someone in the morn.

Helebore’s thin, colorless lips moved as he spoke the last rites, his voice nearly drowned out by his patient’s mutterings, ravings, and occasional screams. Every now and then, much to his distaste, Caradoc caught one of the ritual Latin phrases. Each one darkened his mood. He had been keeping himself on a tight tether, letting his anger steep, and sizzle, and burn, and fill him with the power of rage. Now he was close to breaking. His skin couldn’t hold the pulsing, white-hot thing that his fury had become much longer.

He had wanted her, only her, and she was being denied him.

He clenched his hand into a fist and forced a deep breath into his lungs, holding himself in check. ’Twasn’t time yet to give in. The man who awaited him on the ramparts deserved his undiluted wrath, the one who had taken her from him—Ragnor.

“Two hundred swiving marks and oranges.” The words soughed through his lips, soft and hissing.

None other than his old friend would have dared to ask for so much, yet ’twas as nothing compared to what the girl was worth. He knew Lavrans, too well, and he knew no woman would escape the jongleur. Lavrans would put her in chains if needs be to collect his two hundred swiving marks.

The thought brought a ghost of a smile to Caradoc’s lips. ’Twould be good practice for the maid to live with Dain Lavrans as her keeper, for no one had less of a heart, excepting possibly himself. They’d both had those fickle organs cut out of them piece by bloody piece in Saladin’s prisons and by their desert masters. ’Twas only Morgan who had come through unscathed.

Dain must have been good, very good, Caradoc thought, his mood growing darker, for Jalal al-Kamam did not have a reputation for sparing his slaves. Yet Morgan had been spared much. Not so himself. Kalut ad-Din had spared him nothing.

“
Libera nos, quaesumus, Domine
,” Helebore murmured. Deliver us, we beseech Thee, O Lord.

“Old habits die hard, eh, priest?” Caradoc called out, his lips tilting into a sneer. He had no use for the Church’s drivel, and he liked it not when Helebore regressed into his former ways. The man had come to Balor from Ynys Enlli, the isle of saints off the far west coast of the Lleyn Peninsula in North Wales. The Culdee monks on that sea-girt rock had tossed him off a cliff one fine spring morning, expecting he would be drowned by the weight of his grievous sins.

They had been wrong.

Helebore rolled his black eyes in Caradoc’s direction, implying both disdain and chastening without missing a syllable of the rites. Caradoc paid no mind, his attention having strayed to the scuffling sound and the flash of movement behind the brown-robed leech. He bared his teeth and slowly leaned forward in his chair, growling, until the little weasel, Snit, yelped and scrambled to safety inside the dusty cupboard he called home.

Helebore ignored both of them, making the sign of the cross on the soles of the dying man’s feet.

“
Perducat te ad vitum aeternam
.” And bring thee unto life everlasting.

“Enough!” Caradoc roared, his limit for piety suddenly and violently reached. He thrust himself to his feet and brought his fist down hard on the table holding the dying Simon. The table rattled with the force of his blow, and the half-crushed guardsman let out a pitiful, whimpering moan. “If you
must
pray, pray my
bride
is come to Balor,” Caradoc hissed at the gaunt leech, and hit the table again. “If you
must
pray, pray Ragnor is strong enough to endure my attention that my pleasure may last.” Once more his fist came down, rattling the boards as he leaned in close. “If you
must
pray, dear Helebore, pray all you have told me of the
pryf
is true, for if ’tis not, Ragnor’s fate will seem as a
blessing
compared to yours.”

A moment of tremulous silence followed the tirade, then another moment into which Helebore injected a most pious “Amen.”

Finished with his service, the leech cocked a hairless eyebrow in his lord’s direction. Caradoc glared, and between them Simon—jiggled to the edge by all the pounding—slipped off the table, fully expired.

“Milord,” Helebore said, after a brief glance at the dead man. He gestured toward the spiral stone staircase that led to the ramparts. “Shall we attend to the next dying man?”

“Aye,” Caradoc muttered, reaching for his cloak and swinging it over his shoulders. “Attend and rend.”

~ ~ ~

Morgan and his men rode north and east, fording the River Dwyryd, leaving Merioneth and heading deeper into the wild mountains, into the heart of Gwynedd. Morgan would report to Llywelyn, who was rumored to be at Dolwyddelan Castle, before turning south again to warn Dain. Caradoc bore watching, by both his neighbors and his friends.

The wind picked up toward midnight, swirling down the precipitous mountain track and bringing the last stubborn flakes of winter snow. Spring was coming to the valleys and lower forests, but not to the mountains. The high, rocky crags would be dusted white afore morn. Morgan called a halt at the next small clearing. The men quickly set up camp and huddled down close to the fire.

Owain took the first watch, with Morgan to follow, but Morgan had hardly closed his eyes, when the captain was back at his side. Owain said nothing, only knelt down and gestured to the south. Morgan looked in that direction, wondering what he was to see, but then he heard it, a low keening sound, a death wail coming from a far-off distance.

He shuddered and crossed himself, and wondered if the half-crushed man had died, or if there was even more mischief afoot at Balor Keep.

April 1198

Wydehaw Castle,

South Wales

L
avender streams of clouds coursed across a darkening sky, bringing with them a sunset breeze laden with the fresh smell of spring. The scent drifted into the Hart Tower and mingled with the savory essence of dried herbs, before winding a path around the thousand flowers hanging from the racks and ceiling. Of all the rooms in the tower, Dain had made his bedchamber the most pleasant. The northern solar always smelled rich and soft and sweet, a combination to soothe even a troubled mind to dreams and sleep.

For all his regrets over what he had allowed—nay, encouraged—to happen at his bath a fortnight past, Dain had not lost any sleep. And he did have regrets, one anyway, possibly two. He wasn’t dwelling on them, but he was aware of their existence and their cause—Ceridwen ab Arawn, the innocent one who had seen too much.

She had spoken hardly a word to him since the bath and remained far too mortified to meet his gaze. She averted her eyes and a blush blossomed on her cheeks whenever he neared, a necessity he had avoided whenever possible, hoping not to upset her delicate sensibilities any more than he already had.

His consideration was paying off. She was healing, her bruises fading, her spirits lifting. She was able to limp around on her own and use the chamber pot unaided. He’d fed her only the best food and insured her rest with a bit of sleeping draught in the evenings, and was well pleased with her progress. The only complaint he might lodge would be against her incessant praying. All that soft muttering coming from his bed unnerved him.

He walked to the end of his worktable and searched through the vessels on the worn planks for one containing
aqua ardens
. For all the good that it had done, he was finished with coddling her. Edmee had seen to her needs for the last two weeks, but he did not care to have Edmee constantly underfoot. If the chit would eat this night, ’twould be from his hand.

He understood her wariness. He’d once felt so himself, under somewhat similar though less benign circumstances, and it was time she learned not to be cowed by the unexpected, even the shockingly unexpected. Though had he the chance to do it all over, he would not have shocked her as he had. She was already overly skittish about marriage. What he and Edmee had done could not have reassured her in any way. Quite the contrary, she was probably more determined than ever to escape, and that he would not allow.

So it was time to woo and conjure.

He found the jar he was looking for and returned to the middle of the table, to the stage he’d set for her entertainment. He had decided on a very special trick, tricks being so much more reliable than magic, a trick so sublime even he believed in it. Two bowls sat in front of him, both empty, and beside them a pair of linen strips. In between lay his rowan wand, and scattered here and there were a few jars and pots containing nothing more than water. A tallow candle flamed nearby.

He began with a wave of the wand, always a good place for a magician to begin. Then, with a flourish, he used the tip of the wand to lift a linen strip and float it down into the first empty bowl. A brief incantation followed, delivered with authority. His confidence was high, the more so for knowing he had succeeded in capturing her attention from where she lay in his great bed. A rustling of damask and a near soundless slide of furs announced her piqued interest.

He tried the trick the first time with only water, soaking the linen and passing it over the candle. A doused flame was what he got for his effort. He had expected no more, but he should have known she wouldn’t let his failure pass without a disparaging remark. “Fool man,” the chit muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

A grin tugged at his lips, but he managed to control it.

The remaining linen strip received only
aqua ardens
with the incantation, and when he passed that cloth over the newly lit candle, a gasp came from the bed, followed by a snort of laughter.

He had expected no less. The linen had disappeared in a whoosh of flames, burned to a cinder. He was not discouraged. He was playing to an audience of one, and a little calculated failure did much to soften the mark.

He had no more linen, so he looked around the room, seeking an alternative. Luckily, a miracle occurred. From out of thin air, a soft and dark blue ball appeared in the palm of his hand. He looked appropriately startled and amazed, but did nothing beyond lifting his hand in front of him. Slowly, the indigo orb blossomed in an untwisting spiral, folds of cloth slipping through his fingers, a length of it rippling down his forearm.

Silk, Ceridwen thought. Nothing else moved like silk, and nothing moved like silk in the hands of a master, though she would have done well to call him thief as well as fool. Her red book was missing. Worse yet, with the book gone, she’d lost Mychael’s letters.

She gingerly tested her jaw, but did not move her arm. The bite there ached clear through to her bone. Thief Dain might be, but on the whole, her lot had improved since her night with Ragnor, albeit temporarily. Unless she could free herself and reach Strata Florida, she still had Caradoc to face.

A series of Dain’s fluid moves had the gold-and-silver shot cloth floating in the air, swooping and soaring with barely the tip of his wand used for direction. She watched the graceful flight of silk and hoped he had the sense not to try his magic on such a costly piece of cloth.

He did not, for his next move sent the scarf sliding through the air into one of the bowls. She cringed, and almost dared not to watch. Nothing had happened with his first spell, and that was the best she hoped would happen again, for his second spell had obviously gone awry.

Dain chose a jar, but in the deepening gloom, Ceridwen couldn’t tell if it was one he’d already tried. She soon realized it didn’t matter, for he poured into the bowl the contents of that jar as well as most of the other jars and pots on the table. The incantations began in earnest then, his voice rising and falling with the rhythms of bewitchment. During a particularly potent-sounding phrase, he transferred the silk to the other bowl and poured one last bottle of liquid over it, preparing it for certain ruination, she was sure. When he lifted the sodden mass on his wand and passed it over the candle, her heart sank in expectation of the worst.

Fire sizzled and caught on the edge of the silk and, faster than she could follow with her eyes, encased the whole length of cloth with flame. She gave it up for lost... but the cloth did not burn.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. Fire encircled the silk like a sheath, flames and heat swirling around, spiraling up, sparks of light flashing off the gold and silver threads, but the silk itself remained untouched. When the flames died, Dain floated the scarf again, in the air and up and about, an indigo swallow soaring through the aftermath of his magic.

She watched him, her heart beating faster. He was as Ragnor had said after all, a sorcerer, a practitioner of the dark arts she’d read about in the parchments hidden in the convent’s manuscript room, the place where she’d found her red book.

Heresies for sure, and pagan magic too, the cleric who had shown the parchments to Ceridwen had said, translated and transcribed by an eleventh-century monk who had thought he had an eye for ancient history. The church had disagreed with bell, book, and candle. Ceridwen hadn’t known that day what to believe of the cleric’s disjointed and breathless ramblings, except when he’d loosed his braies, she’d known enough to run.