The Magic

by Virginia Brown

  Sasha blocked him, for she must concentrate on the Norman soldier, who held her much too tight against him, although he moved the sword away from her throat as he kicked the weapons on the stone floor far away from Rhys.

  It came to her then, a flash of Vachel’s intention, images and words flitting through his mind in a blur, and she knew there was no chance for any of them if he succeeded. Rhys was right. He would kill them all.

  She brought her heel down hard on his instep, catching Vachel by surprise as he stepped back, and he swore as he forced her forward. She struggled as he held his sword at the ready should Rhys or Biagio move forward, his other arm cutting across her chest so tight she could scarcely breathe. Biagio send her a silent message:

  Go limp, bella. All your weight to put him off balance. Now!

  Lifting both her feet, she slammed her head back, catching Vachel on the chin so his head snapped back and he staggered; she saw her doom in his mind, the vision terrifyingly brutal. He regained his balance; rage, hate, derision swirled through his thoughts, dark and determined. He lifted the sword and stepped toward Rhys, taking satisfaction as he swung the weapon in a lethal blow. And through his eyes she caught a quicksilver gleam, like a dragonfly in the sun, and felt it slam into his neck. Deeper she sank into his mind, so that she felt his pain, shock, alarm mixed with fury.

  Can’t lift my sword. Her weight saps my strength yet I must hold on. Curse her, I warned Gareth she was dangerous . . . wine . . . the cursed wine brought him low. The wine . . .

  Drugged . . . I did not drink . . . yet I cannot stand . . . no! It is not too late . . . cold. ‘Tis so cold . . . shadows come. Everything is so dark. Bells ring . . . too late for vespers. Too late . . . too late . . .

  Darkness swept down and over, smothering and consuming, and Sasha felt herself sucked into the void with Vachel, falling, falling, nothing to hold, to keep her from the abyss . . .

  IT WAS DARK AS midnight, storm clouds split with lightning, echoes of people long-gone in the air, the stones, the wind that blew harshly as she moved blindly forward. Voices she knew or had once known, orphaned by the shadows, carried by the storm, swept over and around her in teasing currents. It was a cacophony of sound, one atop the other, confusing and frightening as it spun around her. One voice finally rose above the others, familiar and beloved.

  “Mōdor? Is it you?” she called as the most insistent voice penetrated the tangle of others that spoke to her.

  “I am here, my delight.”

  My delight. So she had been called by Elfreda, laughing, her beautiful blue eyes like the sky shining at her.

  “Mōdor! Oh, I hast forsorged ðu,” she cried, using English she had learned in her cradle. “Where art thou?”

  “I am here, sweet child.”

  A tiny light sparked in the gloom, grew brighter and brighter, and suddenly she was there, just as she remembered her, beautiful and graceful, holding out her arms. Sasha rushed into her mother’s embrace. Shadows altered to light, blossoming around them, spreading to include trees and grasses, small animals, childhood pets; then, walking toward them with a smile on his face, her father appeared on a low rise, and the trees and grasses became lovely palace walls and cool tile floors, brilliant colors flowing as if water, bathing them in splendor.

  Time must have passed, for suddenly the light began to dim, and Elfreda held her tightly to her, whispering she must be brave, must go back before it was too late. Sasha wept, held out her arms as her mother stepped away, saying, “I will never leave you, my delight.”

  Palace walls spun away, became sand, whirling through the air and stinging her eyes so she hid her face in her sleeve, and when at last she looked again, all was gone. Darkness swooped in like an owl, wings blotting out all light, and she drifted away into the ether.

  WORDS HUNG IN the air, a vaguely familiar voice, husky and masculine. “She still sleeps.” Rhys.

  “Aye, my lord.” Elspeth.

  Sasha tried to open her eyes, but it was too great an effort. She sank through drifts of billowy clouds, back into the shadows that claimed her.

  It was a restless sleep, not as before. Now she heard voices all speaking at once around her, in French and English and foreign tongues, none hearing the other, random observations and remarks, complaints and wistful memories, spiraling in an endless blur. Helpless, she tried to fend them off.

  “Shush, my coney. Drink this for me . . . aye, child. ‘Twill help you sleep soundly.”

  Elspeth held a cup to her lips. Sasha’s eyes opened, but her lids felt so heavy. Sunlight was gone, but so were the threatening shadows. Fire-glow wavered, and oil lamps held the dark at bay.

  This time, when she let the shadows claim her, it was peaceful.

  SUNLIGHT STREAMED through a tall window; it made erratic patterns on the stone floor; dust motes swam in the beams that gleamed on a small table, wooden chair, and a wide fireplace on the opposite wall. Sasha squinted against the brightness. Silence lay softly in the chamber. It was a welcome relief.

  Lifting to her elbows, her head swam slightly. She had no memory of injury. Why was she so dazed? Had she been struck? She slid a hand into her hair, feeling for wounds or bumps; then she slid her hands over her arms, her torso, down her thighs. She wore a loose night rail that held a hint of jasmine and recognized it as one of hers.

  Elspeth.

  Where was she? Where was Elspeth? And Biagio?

  Memories flooded back: Biagio, coming to her rescue, discovered by the Norman soldier who wounded him; Owain, trying to stop Vachel from dragging her from the cell but unarmed, so that she was pulled out despite her efforts to get free.

  Rhys. Throwing down his sword and watching her with emotion in his eyes like farewell.

  That memory burned; it had been final, as if he knew he would never see her again, and it had pierced her heart. And Biagio, wounded in trying to rescue her—

  Sasha sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed; red and gold bed-hangings hung from rails and posts. Tapestries on the walls kept out drafts; her chest lay near a small stool at the foot of the bed. Familiar things. She must have slept all night.

  When she stood, dizziness swamped her, and she grabbed at a bed post, fingers clutching fistfuls of thick material. She resisted. A dull ache behind her eyes dimmed her vision. Clinging to the post, panting slightly, trying to clear filmy cobwebs from her head, she remained still until it passed, fading.

  “Sasha! You are awake.”

  Elspeth rushed toward her, tossing garments to the bed as she reached her. “You are too weak to rise, child. Come. Get back in bed.”

  “Biagio.” Sasha grabbed Elspeth’s arm, searching her face. “He lives?”

  “Unfortunately. He has bedeviled me every day, haunting this chamber until I had a man-at-arms drag him out. It took two of them. No doubt, he will return soon unless they have put him in irons. Now get back in the bed. I will have wine and soup brought up—oh child, I am so glad you are with us again. I despaired.”

  “Despaired?” Sasha repeated as she allowed Elspeth to help her back onto the bed and tug the coverlet over her. She put a hand to her head. “How badly was I injured?”

  Elspeth’s hand paused in smoothing the heavy coverlet over her. “You were not injured. I thought at first you had fainted, but I think . . . I think perhaps it was your Gift that caused it.”

  Confused, Sasha studied her face, but there was only concern creasing Elspeth’s eyes and brow. “My Gift? I don’t—I don’t understand.”

  But then she remembered Vachel. She had tried to read his thoughts but had not left soon enough, for he had carried her with him into the dark void. It had only happened once before, and that time she had freed herself before being swept away.

  Sasha put her hand on Elspeth’s arm. “I saw Elfreda. And my father. I wanted to stay, but
they made me return.”

  Color drained from Elspeth’s face. “That is not possible,” she said after a moment. “It was a dream.”

  This was not the first conversation they’d had over Sasha’s Gift. Elspeth had cared for Elfreda as well and knew the troubles it could cause.

  “You know it was not,” Sasha said softly, and Elspeth sighed.

  “Yea, I know. I do not understand it, nor do I wish to understand why you have such a Gift that seems more a curse. But it is a dangerous gift, so do not betray it to anyone. It is enough that the devil’s child knows of it.”

  Sasha managed a smile. “Biagio guessed. He is quite clever.”

  “And the Rus guessed, the seer, Rina. She knew. But it is too dangerous to let these people know of it, Sasha. Do not tell them of your Gift or your heritage. Enemies may yet find you, for you are the daughter of the true prince, and they would use you against Al-Amir.”

  Lying back, Sasha closed her eyes. It was a warning she had heard many times before from Elspeth. And she knew it was dangerous to say too much. There had been a time in the Haemus Mountains when she had brashly told a fellow traveler that she was a princess, stung by his contempt of her attire. It would have ended very badly had Elspeth not spirited them away in the night, before the man could ransom her. But she was only eleven then and knew no better.

  And yet she had told Rhys ap Griffyn almost the entire truth. She had thought—hoped—he would be her champion. A foolish dream, no doubt, but one she had not yet forsaken.

  “Sasha—who did you tell?” Elspeth asked quietly, and her eyes snapped open.

  “If I did not know different, I would say ‘tis you who has the Gift more than I,” she said peevishly.

  Elspeth didn’t reply. She sat on the edge of the bed and gazed at her, sunlight revealing her age as it picked out fine lines and wrinkles in her dear, sweet face. Cringing inside, Sasha did not try to lie.

  “The knight. He is the champion Rina spoke of, I am certain of it.”

  “Oh, child.” Elspeth put her face in her palms for a moment, shaking her head. “What if he cannot be trusted?” She dropped her hands. “Have you thought of that?”

  “Yea, I have indeed. But I think him more noble than to betray us.”

  After a moment, Elspeth said heavily, “Perhaps you are right, as he has been gracious in giving you a private chamber to recover. We could be sleeping in the hall with the others.”

  “One night does not make a difference, I would think.”

  Elspeth lifted a brow. “One night? It has been three nights you have slept.”

  “Three!” That surprised her. Had she truly visited another world? The world where those who died now resided had always been a mystery, and she had wondered if it even existed or was a tale as told by jongleurs and priests. She still did not know if it had been a dream, but she cherished the reunion with her parents even if ‘twas only in dreams.

  Elspeth stood up and reached for clean garments she had cast aside. “The knight comes often to see if you yet live. Sir Robert said Lord Rhys blames himself for putting you in danger.”

  Swift images raced through Elspeth’s mind, of the knight with worried eyes, his mouth set in a tight line as he gazed down at her as she slept, then it disappeared as Elspeth looked back at her. “Rest till my return, child. You are not yet recovered from deprivation.”

  Sasha closed her eyes. She had seen regret in his eyes when he thought Vachel would kill her. Did he feel more than that? In truth, she knew not how she felt about him, save as her knight and champion to restore her heritage, but was it more? She had teased him in the meadow as she had teased others into doing her bidding, but the night at the inn had lent her thoughts she’d not had before, inspired feelings she did not recognize nor know how to express. He had awakened something in her that she had never experienced.

  And then, as if conjured up by her thoughts, she heard him at the door; her heart raced, and she felt an odd flutter in her chest. Vainly, she wondered if she looked as haggard as she felt, if her hair was awry and her face drawn and pale.

  “Does she still sleep?” he asked, his deep voice sounding troubled.

  “Nay, my lord. She woke for a time. I go now to fetch food and drink for her. She has slept too long without sustenance.”

  “I will sit with her while you do, goodwife. If the young tiger below learns she is awake he will be here to pester her.”

  “I will caution Biagio not to be tiresome. I cannot promise it will deter him.”

  Sasha heard Elspeth’s footsteps fade; the knight came to sit near her, dragging a chair to the bedside across the stone floor. It creaked when he sat down, and a metallic jangle meant he wore spurs. Or possibly a sword. Could the keep be under attack? She hadn’t even thought to ask.

  Silence stretched; she felt his presence but delayed opening her eyes. He would ask why she had unmanned him in the wood, and she had no answer that made sense. Panic, perhaps. To yield all to him would be an intimacy she was not yet ready to risk. He stirred more than her body with his touch; he reached emotions she had not known she possessed. There was yearning deep within her to be in his embrace, to risk heart and soul for this knight who both intrigued and frustrated her. Could she take that risk? Would she end like her mother, preferring death to living without the man who held her heart? And she had no assurance that Rhys ap Griffyn felt more than casual desire or a sense of responsibility for her. Did he feel more?

  To her shock, he reached out and took her hand in his, holding it, his thumb rubbing idly over her knuckles, murmuring words in Welsh she didn’t comprehend, but his grip gentle. Her breath came more quickly as he turned her hand over, mouth brushing over the cup of her palm, a tender caress that sent shivers through her.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes to find him watching her. A faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “You wake, chérie.”

  Heart pounding, she nodded. “Yea. You are well, beau sire?”

  “Now that I know you will live, I am in a better frame of mind,” he said lightly, but she saw the silver smoke in his eyes that betrayed emotion. He had shaved since last she saw him; he still had a dark shadow where his beard grew, and his hair was long enough to cover his ears. Sunlight tangled in the pale strands, gleaming brightly. But it was his eyes that drew her, the intensity in the smoky depths that fastened on her face.

  “Biagio is well, I understand,” she said to fill the silence. “And Owain? He is well?”

  “I am most relieved to say Owain is doing better than he should. He refuses to take my advice to recuperate fully before he sets all a’right, and he is not a man to trifle with in those matters.”

  “I got that sense from him.” She smiled. “And what of Gareth?”

  “Ah, he now resides in the cell that held you and Owain. I also released Oliver, my forerider who was captured, and several others who ran afoul of my cousin. Some of the villagers are returning to Cymllew. I am still growing familiar with the castle, so that I must ask directions of all from scullery wenches to the dog.”

  “Dog? The Alaunt?”

  “Aye. A fierce beast, but he has attached himself to the devil’s cub. They are of a like kind, in my view.”

  “Devil’s cub—oh. Biagio. I worried his wound might fester, but it seems he thrives.”

  “He prospers despite risking harm from those he annoys.”

  “Biagio may be maddening, but he saved me,” she said simply, and Rhys nodded.

  “Aye, he saved us both. To hear him tell it now, he slew ten men unaided and would have chased after the enemy if he had not had to stop and tend you.”

  She laughed softly. “Tall tales to impress the ladies.”

  “Risky should he woo the wrong lady. I have warned him.”

  “Much has happened while I slept,” she murmured, and
he lifted her hand, holding tight.

  “Aye. We feared you would not wake. Elspeth spoke of a malady that could leave you sleeping yet alive for weeks or months.”

  “It has been known to happen to some,” she said cautiously, “and if not properly coaxed to have drink or broth, they languish and die.” How did she explain her Gift, or tell him that her Gift came with a curse? Elspeth was right. She could not. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

  Unanswered questions lay between them, but she waited for the right time. Rhys still had not released her hand, but held it in his, fingers curled around hers as if he would keep her near. Did he realize it? Did he know that the contact made her heart race a little and her breath come a bit faster, and how she had thought of him during those days in the dark hole? Owain had talked of Rhys when he was a lad, and his father and brothers, and how grieved they had all been when he had been given as hostage for his father’s surety. Owain said his mother grieved herself into the grave from his loss. Griffyn ap Gryffyd had built a chapel over her grave, bitter at his losses. And Owain had told her of Welsh struggles, the fighting between chieftains and princes as well as the English.

  The tales had whiled away the hours and given her a clearer understanding of his early life, and it had saved her from answering questions.

  Rhys leaned closer to her, his eyes smoky under dark lashes, and she thought wildly that she needed a distraction before he asked the question she saw forming.

  “Bella!” came a voice from the doorway, and Biagio strode into the chamber, angrily swatting at a man following close behind. “Leave off,” he snapped over his shoulder, then halted at the side of the bed. “I feared you would not wake,” he said to her, ignoring Rhys. “You are well?”

  “I am very well, but you seem to have a following.”

  Two men and a dog appeared in the doorway, stopping when they saw Rhys stand. He’d released her hand and stepped back to allow Biagio room to come to her side, smiling slightly as the youth took immediate advantage.