The Witch's Daughter (5 page)

“Y
E
’
VE CHOSEN YER
steeds and the road?” Bellerian asked.

“Ayuh,” replied Belexus, seeming the very image of his venerable father. Gray flecks peppered his unkempt black locks, but his huge corded muscles still held the hardness of youthful strength. “Across the bridges to the west and Corning, then back to great Pallendara afore we ride for home.”

Bellerian remembered the roads well, though he had not traveled them, except for a brief trek to the great city, in nearly half a century. He had once been a nobleman of great repute in the court of Pallendara, but then an unlawful king had stolen the throne and sent all of Calva into tumult. Bellerian had escaped to the borders of Avalon, taking many of the children of his fellow nobles—children who would become the proud warriors known as the Rangers of Avalon—with him.

Bitter years, those decades of Ungden’s rule had been, though Brielle and Ardaz had offered a good life to Bellerian and his troupe. Always the Ranger Lord turned his eyes southward to the rolling plains, where the scourge of Ungden the Usurper exacted a heavy toll on the land and people alike. The reign of terror lasted for three full decades,
ending in the bloody Battle of Mountaingate, when the ancient ones came to Ynis Aielle. With Ungden’s forces defeated and the Usurper himself slain, Benador, the heir of the rightful king, sat on Pallendara’s throne, and after twenty years of the goodly man’s rule, the scars of Ungden were few and fading.

But Bellerian could not bring himself to return to Pallendara, the place of his early life. Avalon was his home now, but still, his son’s mention of traveling across Calva tugged at Bellerian’s heartstrings, and he found his eyes turning once again to the rolling fields south of the enchanted forest.

“Prepare a third horse,” Bellerian instructed his son.

Belexus looked at Andovar, his most trusted friend, standing beside him. Andovar wasn’t as formidable as the son of Bellerian, but he stood tall and straight, with the piercing eyes and firm chin that marked the proud rangers.

“Will ye be riding?” Andovar asked hopefully. “Suren we’d be blessed to have the likes o’ Bellerian beside us.”

“Me thanks for yer kind words,” Bellerian replied. “But ’tis not for meself that ye’ll be needing the third mount. Ye’ll have a guest for the trip, one ye’ll come to welcome beyond the company of an old man.”

“Who, then?” asked Belexus, intrigued by his father’s wry smile.

“A favor has been asked of us—of yerself—from one deserving our service,” Bellerian began slowly, searching for the right method of springing such amazing news on the two men. “The daughter of this deservin’ friend desires to see the world.”

Sour looks passed between Belexus and Andovar, the old Ranger Lord noted. These two were not an ungrateful lot, he understood, and they would certainly heed his wishes, but they had fancied a journey of excitement and exploration
through the coming months and were not thrilled at the prospects of carrying along an inexperienced child.

“Ye know we’ll take the lass,” Belexus remarked. “But—”

“But?” Bellerian cut in. “Ye’ll take her, indeed! And gladly!” They hid their disappointment well, but Bellerian could sense that they still did not understand the true meaning of his words.

“Would it bring ye a smile if I told ye that ’twas the Emerald Witch, Brielle herself, doing the asking?”

Belexus snapped his eyes up on his father; Andovar swooned and nearly stumbled to the ground.

“The Lady,” Andovar breathed. He had spent the bulk of his life walking her domain, hoping for a tiny glimpse of the fair witch or, in more recent years, her enchanting daughter. But Avalon was a wide forest, and Brielle and Rhiannon kept few friends.

“Ye’re asking that we take Rhiannon along with us?” Belexus gasped, both afraid and hoping that his father would confirm the fact.

“That I be,” chuckled Bellerian. “I’m asking, as Brielle herself asked o’ me. Are ye willing?”

“We are!” Andovar roared before Belexus could open his mouth.

Both Belexus and his father could not contain their laughter. Andovar looked away, embarrassed, but soon joined in their mirth.

“A great responsibility follows ye, then,” Bellerian said, his voice suddenly grave. “Rhiannon’s a woman now—aye, what a woman, indeed—but unknowin’ of the ways of the world.”

“The witch’s daughter will be safe beside us,” Belexus assured his father.

Bellerian did not doubt it for a moment. “Ye are the finest warriors in all the world, and yer honor is above question.
But ye might find other trials ridin’ the road beside the likes o’ Rhiannon. Her spirit is no more bridled than her mother’s, and she’s not versed in the ways of the men outside her wood.”

“Fear not for Rhiannon,” Andovar replied. “Fear for any fool that might try her honor!” Instinctively, Andovar’s hand fell to his sword hilt.

Bellerian smiled, but did not reply. Andovar spoke the truth, and it was that very truth that concerned the Ranger Lord. He knew the love that Andovar had for Avalon and its mysterious mentors, and suspected that the ranger would take on the entire garrison of Pallendara if any of them brought the slightest harm to Rhiannon. But Bellerian was satisfied. He looked at Belexus and winked, knowing that his levelheaded son would keep the reins tight on his overly exuberant companion.

“Let her run, but keep her safe,” Bellerian instructed both of them.

    “How many?” Thalasi demanded in that peculiar dual-toned voice that only added to the terror he exuded.

“Lots an’ lots!” Burgle replied with a strained smile, obviously hoping the answer would suffice. The creature couldn’t count past ten, after all, and the ranks of the talons gathering around Talas-dun numbered more than a thousand times Burgle’s mathematical limit. From every corner of Kored-dul they came, heeding the summons of their master.

“You have done well,” Thalasi said. “I will forget your unfortunate intrusion.” The Black Warlock led Burgle’s gaze over to the wall of the Throne Room, to the dried crimson stain.

Burgle slouched low and tried to appear very small, wanting only to be dismissed.

“Indeed,” Thalasi went on, “your service has more than
amended the foolishness of Grok. And I always reward such devoted service.”

Burgle stayed low and trembled. Thalasi had recently given a similar speech to the other guard who had been in attendance on that fateful day. And only a moment later, when a smile lit the talon guard’s face, the Black Warlock had pulled the talon’s heart right out of its chest.

“You shall be a commander of the legions,” Thalasi decreed. “Captain Burgle. And let any who disobey your commands answer to me!”

Burgle straightened, eyes wide, hardly believing its unexpected fortune.

“Go now,” Thalasi instructed. “Gather the leaders of the tribes. Tell them that we ride to war on the waning of the summer’s highest moon.”

For the rest of the day the Black Warlock studied his talon army from the window of the Throne Room. Thousands of the creatures milled about the mountainside beyond Talas-dun’s high black walls, separated by definitive borders into tribal clusters, each bearing the disgusting standards—a severed hand, a bloodied eyeball, and others of similar sort—of their respective chieftains. Thalasi knew that their devotion was wrought solely of fear; a leader of a talon tribe was its undisputed ruler, until another warrior of the tribe summoned the courage to challenge it and defeat it. Once Thalasi brought those revered leaders under his thumb, the rest of the rabble would fall into line.

Weapons clanged as skirmishes broke out among the rival tribes. “Such hateful things,” Thalasi remarked, seeing his troops at play. He would do nothing to temper the anger; a few dead soldiers were a small price to pay for the level of bloodlust the battles maintained in the talons.

Thalasi’s eyes wandered out beyond the encampments, beyond the dark mountains, viewing the rolling fields of
Calva. A different angle than the eyes that looked south from Avalon.

But the same destination.

    Belexus and Andovar led the horses to a small glade on the southern edge of the enchanted forest, the appointed spot for the meeting that both of them, especially Andovar, so eagerly awaited.

Bellerian was already there when they arrived, the wizard Ardaz, holding the bridle of a fine roan stallion, at his side.

“We have bringed the third horse, as ye requested,” Belexus said to his father, not understanding the presence of the roan.

“So ye have,” replied Bellerian. “But the fourth’ll be needed. Ye’re to have company on the first leg o’ yer journey.”

“Yerself?” Belexus asked, aiming the question at the Silver Mage.

“With your permission, of course. I would not intrude, heavens no,” Ardaz replied, bowing low. “I have some business—so very important, you know—far to the east. A farmer’s tale of some ruins, an unknown village or something or other. Could be important, you know, I do dare say!”

Always patient, the three rangers did their best to show interest in the wizard’s rambling story, however confusing.

“But my course goes south, only a bit,” Ardaz explained. He winked and dropped his voice to a secretive whisper. “Want to keep the old bones in the civilized world as long as I can, you know. No need for hard ground when the bed of a Calvan inn is nearby.”

A great squawk erupted from the trees, and two birds glided down to the group. The larger, a raven, landed plop
on Ardaz’s shoulder and immediately transformed into the more familiar form of his black cat, Desdemona.

But Belexus and Andovar hardly noticed the magical polymorph, entranced by the more dramatic transformation of the second bird, a white dove. The bird landed on the ground before them and puffed into a cloud of white smoke that swayed about, forming into a shapely column.

And Brielle stepped from the column.

Andovar had to consciously remember to breathe. He had seen the witch a few times, though only from afar, and was not the least bit disappointed at the closer view. Quite the opposite; the beauty of Brielle could withstand any inspection.

“Me Lady,” Belexus stammered, and he fell to one knee.

Brielle’s expression, somewhat embarrassed, showed that she was indeed touched by the great ranger’s respect. She looked over at Andovar and he dropped similarly, though he still could not find words to address the witch.

Brielle bade them both rise. She had seen them before, of course; the witch saw everything that moved through her forest. And she had known before her formal meeting with Bellerian that the two rangers would take fine care of her daughter. Still, her mothering instincts of that special little girl would not so easily let go.

“Ye’ll take care o’ me girl?” she asked, more to measure the desire of Belexus and Andovar in having Rhiannon along than to question their ability. The two would not disobey the requests of Bellerian, and would surely take Rhiannon if the Ranger Lord asked them to, but Brielle did not want to impose. “And bring her back to me at the summer’s wane?”

“We shall indeed,” Belexus assured her. “And honored we are that ye’d trust us with such a task.”

The Emerald Witch glanced to Bellerian. “They do ye proud, Ranger Lord,” she said. Then to Belexus and
Andovar, she added, “And know that never I doubted ye, either of ye. But do ye truly want me girl along?”

Now Andovar piped in, unable to control his excitement. “As we want the warming of spring,” he cried suddenly and eagerly. “I beg of ye fairest Lady, let the lass come. We’ll watch her and protect her, do no’ be doubtin’, and suren the joy o’ Rhiannon’ll brighten our days.”

“Enough said, I do believe,” Ardaz chuckled from the side. “Are you appeased, dear sister?”

“And how long will ye be riding with them?” Brielle asked him.

Ardaz fumbled his fingers over his beard; he hadn’t really considered his exact course. “To the northern villages … er, it would seem … perhaps as far as Torthenberry,” he replied. “A few days, one would expect, though I must get to those ruins. A farmer’s tale, you know. Could be important, indeed it—”

“Yes, me brother,” Brielle stopped him, “so ye’ve said many times.” Indeed, Ardaz had talked of little other than his coming exploration since the farmer’s tale had reached his ears last midwinter. He had delayed going to investigate only because he refused to miss the celebration of Rhiannon’s twentieth birthday.

Brielle looked again at the eager faces of the rangers and gave a resigned shrug. “Come on, then,” she called to the thick boughs beyond the glade.

The branches rustled and the raven-haired daughter of the fair witch, outfitted for the road, stepped shyly out into the open.

“Here are yer new companions,” Brielle said to her. “Ye know their names.” She turned back to Belexus and Andovar, standing in a stupor equal to their shock upon first seeing the elder witch of Avalon. For Rhiannon, stepping into the glade, was obviously possessed of that same
unearthly beauty, that same wild spirit, so far beyond the experiences of the two men, or of any mortal men.

“Me daughter,” Brielle told them, though she saw right away that Rhiannon needed no introduction.

“Me greetings, fair lass,” said Belexus. “Glad we are that ye might be joining us.”

“And glad I am to be going,” replied Rhiannon. She looked over at the three waiting horses. “Are we to ride, then? Never have I … I mean—”

“Pallendara’s a long walk,” said Andovar, drawing a smile from the young woman. “She’s yers.” He indicated a black and white mare, small and sleek.

Rhiannon walked up to pat the horse on the flank and whisper something soothing into the beast’s ear. The horse relaxed visibly, and then Rhiannon, to the amazement of the rangers, undid the mare’s girth and started to slide the saddle from her back.

“Won’t be needing it,” the young woman assured them, and as soon as the saddle fell free, she slid easily onto the horse’s back.

Belexus looked to Brielle for answers, not wanting to start an argument about the wisdom of riding bareback over such distances.

“She won’t be needing it,” Brielle echoed. “She’s the horse’s assurances that it won’t be letting her fall.”