The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy) (15 page)

Curious, she’d gone back when the lustful cleric was well and truly away, and she’d found wonders within the heresies, story upon story woven into a fantastical whole, along with faded illuminations showing a time of not one God, but of many gods and goddesses and the mighty wars of enchantment they’d fought.

In the beginning, she’d found great comfort within those worn pages, for they recounted the stories of her childhood, stories about the Children of Don, the Mother Goddess; about Ceraunnos, the “Horned One”; about Ceridwen, her namesake and the mother of the great Druid Taliesin. Those tales had been told over and again by a beautiful mother to her children, her gentle fingers combing through their fair hair, her voice falling like an angel’s sigh upon their ears. Rhiannon had been her name, and Ceridwen missed her still, her loss having left an emptiness nothing had ever filled.

The years had passed slowly, and Ceridwen had spent many days eluding the prioress so she could explore the nooks and crannies of the scriptoria, but the deeper she’d delved into the century-old parchments, the less comfort she’d found. Obscure references to Carn Merioneth had been written in the margins of one of the manuscripts, leading her to another one written in the same hand and bound in red leather. The finding of that book had set her upon her present doomed course, for what that scribe had reported as myth, Ceridwen had known to be fact: Carn Merioneth had been a land of golden apple trees, its orchards praised far and wide for the sweetness of their fruit; a land of amber honey and forests rich in game, home to hart and hind, fallow deer, roe, and boar. All this and more had been protected by a palisade of beauty and grace built on the cliffs above the wild Irish Sea—and it had all been destroyed by a giant who rose up out of the dark night wielding a flaming sword.

With such truth from the past facing her, how could she not believe what the book had gone on to foretell of dragons and blood and evil men and her own grim future? And if perchance the history of Carn Merioneth had simply been told by one who had been there, and the prophesy was no more than an imaginative tale, how had that person known of
pryf
? For the dark mystery of the deepest caves below Carn Merioneth had been written upon the pages of the red book as surely as it was written in her memory and on the walls of that long-ago tunnel.

Damned book. No power on earth could make her call dragons, and the only blood she would deal in was the blood of Christ her Savior in Holy Communion. As for evil men, who could it be besides Gwrnach and Caradoc, and as she loathed the father for his murderous destruction of her home and family, she loathed the son.

Yet her fate had arrived, in the guise of a handsome rogue whose smile had brought a blush to even Abbess Edith’s sour face, and she had not eluded it. Since the night the good woman had put Ceridwen into Morgan ab Kynan’s hands, betrayal had become the watchword of her life. The betrayal of all she’d learned in childhood, the betrayal of the convent’s teachings, and the most painful betrayal of all, that of a mother who had filled her head with dreams that had become nightmares, and then left her to face them alone.

Her gaze followed Dain as he moved around the table. If she couldn’t escape the nightmare, she would have to fight, and within the depths of such a master’s knowledge could lie the seeds of her salvation, if she had the strength and the means to use them against Caradoc.

The Boar was reputed not to fear any living man or beast, but if the red book was true—and she dare not doubt it any longer—he would have need of magic, and she would rather give him magic than her blood.

Dain had such magic. He had just proven as much, despite his earlier denials. He may not be Light-elf or
tylwyth teg
but neither was he a mere leech. A man did not mark himself with strange symbols he did not believe in, and she’d felt the heat of Brochan’s Great Charm herself. Italian glass, indeed. The old man, Erlend, had not thought so. He’d nearly jumped clean out of his skin when she’d brandished it. As an ally, one like Dain could lend strength to her fight. As an enemy, though, he would do nothing to help her, least of all let her go.

She closed her eyes, dismayed that she had fallen so quickly into the depths of degradation, needing an ally such as him to save herself from eternal damnation. Not even the abbess had foreseen such an early demise of her moral fiber.

Wicked man. She’d recognized his seduction two weeks earlier for exactly what it was, an act of utter depravity, and she could not imagine what had induced the maid Edmee to rouse him in such a manner. For herself, she heartily wished she had never been a part of what she’d seen.

But she had been. She’d felt his slumberous gaze upon her, and she’d felt his deep groan of pleasure vibrate through her after their eyes had met. That lush, primal sound had changed her somehow, touched her in places she had never been touched, and every time she looked at him now, she felt those vibrations stir anew. Nothing in the nunnery had prepared her for him, not even the lustful cleric.

There were men connected with the abbey, to be sure, the chaplain mostly. At least three times a year the archdeacon came, more rarely the Bishop of St. David’s. Men from the village purveyed with the order or labored in the fields, but none of them had been like Dain, neither the holy men nor the villagers. The son of a Welsh prince had come once, requesting food and lodging for his men; and as his father had endowed the abbey in the name of his mother, the laws of claustration had been eased enough to allow them to camp close to the convent walls. Ceridwen remembered looking upon the tall and handsome young man, and she’d felt a longing, not for him particularly, but for what Gwrnach had stolen from her, the chance to love and the birthright to marry well. She had not known then how foolish her longing had been.

That long-ago prince and Dain shared a similar arrogance in their bearing, but the younger man had not had Dain’s seductive grace, nor the intensity of his gaze. Over the last fortnight, she’d often felt the touch of the mage’s dark eyes upon her. It was more than instinct that warned her when he was watching; there was a tactile quality in the attention he was able to level across a room. No other person she’d known—man, woman, or child—had possessed such a talent. Nor had anyone else been able to set a dancing flame to silk and leave the cloth untouched. Neither had she ever seen stitchery as fine as that which graced her face and shoulder. That alone was enough to convince her Dain worked in concert with powers she did not yet understand.

He was rare, this Dain, and he held a good portion of her fate in the palms of his hands and in the tips of his skillful fingers. She knew no better reason to enlist his aid through whatever means necessary, or almost any means. She would not do what Edmee had done. She would not barter sexual favors for his trinkets or his help. Not that she could imagine him wanting such from her. In traveling with Morgan and his men, she had not noticed anyone reacting to her with so much as a raised eyebrow. Morgan himself had certainly wasted no time in turning down her offer of marriage in return for his fighting arm at her side.

No, she would not entice a man with her body or her favors, least of all a sorcerer accustomed to sinful pleasures. As for her friendship, it had no value beyond the gift itself, and she had no gold with which to buy his services or his teachings. In truth, she had nothing to offer him except the chance to save her life, and he’d already done that once and done it very well.

She lifted a tentative hand to the side of her face. She would bear scars. Whatever beauty she might have had, Ragnor had stolen from her, but ’twould make no difference to Caradoc. He did not want her for the fairness of her face and form. He only wanted her.

He only wanted her at any cost.

The realization slowly registered, bringing with it the first hint of advantage she’d had in many long weeks. She had no need of gold to gain Dain’s support. Her leverage lay in herself. She had worth to Caradoc, therefore she had worth to Dain. No doubt he had made that clear to her cousin before he’d sent Morgan north. She wondered if he’d dared to ask outright for ransom.

More than likely, she decided. She was betrothed to a Welsh lord, and she was being held in a Marcher castle. The seeds of conflict were well sown in those simple facts. Should she escape, the wizard would get nothing for his trouble, except a war.

Her bargain would be clear: in return for his teachings of magic, she would not escape him as she had Morgan, for despite its poor outcome, she had escaped Morgan.

Ceridwen almost smiled. Should the chance to escape arise, she would take it without a backward glance or an ounce of guilt, no matter what she promised Dain, but it would have to be better than a fair chance. She could not afford any more failures, neither physically nor emotionally.

She looked up to where Dain was again working at the table. In the fading light he looked more than a match for the Boar. Mayhaps not in bodily strength, but no one could deny the sheer presence of the man.

It might be enough.

She knew from Mychael’s letters that Caradoc was said to resemble his father, and Gwrnach had been a golden giant, a sun god gone berserk. His enraged stance in the blood-soaked bailey of Carn Merioneth would forever be engraved in her memory. Her mother’s maid, Moriath, had held her close as they stood on the hill above the keep, drawing her to her side and warning her not to cry out at the horror of what they saw. Mychael had been spared the final sight of their home in flames, for he had not awakened in Moriath’s arms until they were well and away.

Mychael, dear sweet brother, was her only real hope of salvation. ’Twas folly to believe in another, especially a dark sinner like Dain, yet Mychael might have been lost to her. She’d received no letter bearing his mark for nearly six months, and two of her own had gone unanswered.

Dain would have to do. Her gaze swept over him in a measuring glance. Yes, the black-cowled sorcerer would have to do.

From his vantage point in the middle of the room, Dain pretended indifference to Ceridwen’s perusal, continuing with the intricate work of refolding the silk. He had more than accomplished his goal. She was near bursting with awareness of him, and unless he was mistaken, was actually considering speaking to him, something she had not done since she’d called him beast—an appellation he had wasted no time in proving.

Ah well, he thought, giving the silk ball an eighth of a turn and tucking in a fold, what was one more mortal sin in a life so rich in transgressions? ’Twas as naught, because it had to be. Otherwise he would have been buried by sin many long years past, if not in his first weeks with Jalal, then certainly by the end of the first month, when death had looked to be his only hope for redemption.

He pressed a completed fold with his thumb while turning the silk and tucking a new edge. Turn, tuck, press. With each movement, light from the tallow candle flashed against the inside of his right wrist where a thin white scar would always be visible proof of what a young man could no longer bear.

“Are you hungry,
chérie
?” he asked without looking up. Turn, tuck, press. “I have quail roasting.”

He waited a long moment to hear her say, “Aye.”

“Good.” He finished with the costly cloth ball and wrapped gauze around it to help the silk hold its shape. When the gauze was in place, he set the ball in a box and closed the lid. He deliberately did not look her way, because of her disconcerting habit of lowering her lashes whenever he so much as glanced in her direction.

He didn’t blame her, not really.

“Now then,” he said, carrying the box over to put on the shelf with his simples and receipts, mixing magic and medicine in his way of things, “would you like to eat in bed again? Or do you feel well enough to attempt the table?”

“The table, if you please.”

If he pleased? The night was going better than he had dared to hope.

“No, Ceridwen, ’tis only as you please.” He paused to give the spitted birds a turn over the fire. “I have been charged with your care.”

“By whom?” she asked, the hesitation in her voice betraying her wariness.

“Soren D’Arbois,” he answered, “the lord of this castle.”

“And of you?”

At that, he looked up, unable to resist the subtle challenge in her tone.

“Not quite,” he said, suppressing a smile. “I live within the walls of his keep, ’tis true, but at his request, not his orders. In truth, my presence is sanctioned through the grace of others who were here long before the baron.”

“Others?” she repeated. “With authority over a March lord? Do you speak of the English king, Lionheart?”

Damn the chit. She was forever tripping him up. “Only under duress,” he muttered, his voice dry as he lowered his gaze and gave the birds another turn.

“My lord?”

The smile won out, teasing a corner of his mouth, until he lifted his head, by which time his face showed nothing. “’Tis not King Richard I speak of, and I am no one’s lord, mistress. I hold no titles you would recognize. I have no lands other than the few feet of dirt holding up this tower. You may call me Dain, or Lavrans as you wish, and I will answer.”

“I have never heard of anyone owning a tower who did not also own the castle, Lavrans,” she said with the barest hint of sarcasm. He would not have dreamed it possible for such a sharp tongue to have survived convent life.

“Wydehaw has no less than ten towers, of which the Hart is the least strategically important, both in size and placement,” he explained, hiding his disappointment at what she’d chosen to call him. No one had blended the name Dain with such an innocent sigh of appreciation since... since too long ago to remember. “The peace and services D’Arbois gains by my tenancy is well worth the sacrifice of a bit of ground.”

“Peace with whom, if not Richard?” she asked. “For I cannot believe your Norman lord would allow a Welsh spy to reside in his keep to appease his neighbors.”

“The peace of his mind, and I am hardly Welsh,” he said, wondering if she was capable of making merely polite conversation.