by Lara Adrian
Kenrick lunged on without acknowledging the warning.
As he cleared the last step, he nearly crashed into Ariana, who had just come out of the great hall. Her eyes were wide, her hand held at her breast in recovering composure.
"Good lord," she gasped. "A little fox just ran through here in a wild panic! How ever do you suppose it got in here?"
Kenrick could not answer immediately. His emotions were clashing like a thunderstorm inside him, but he held them on a tight tether, meeting his sister's worried look with one of cool resolve.
"What happened with you and Haven?" she asked him, her gaze searching his. "I saw her face as she fled the hall tonight. What has happened, Kenrick?"
"She is gone," he answered tersely. "She's gone, and she will not be back."
"Kenrick--" Ariana frowned. "What did you do to her?"
He scoffed at the protective tone in his sister's voice. "She betrayed us, Ana. All of us. By her own admission to me, she was in league with Silas de Mortaine."
"No!" Ariana shook her head as if to physically deny the possibility. "No, that's impossible. How could that be true--"
"How?" Kenrick cut her off with a bark of humorless laughter. "I saw it with my own eyes not a few moments ago, when the woman before me changed into a cunning little beast."
"What are you saying?"
"The fox you saw just now as it fled the keep was no mere animal. Haven," he said, the name falling uneasily from his tongue. "She is a shifter, Ana."
"Sweet Mary," Ariana gasped. "Kenrick, I'm so sorry. I never saw it in her--never would I have guessed..."
"No one was more deceived by her treachery than I."
"It seems too cold, hard to believe she could do such a thing. I don't want to believe it, as I know you must feel as well..."
Ariana reached for him in comfort, but Kenrick shrugged her away. He did not want sympathy at that moment. God knew, he despised pity.
"Where is Rand?" he demanded sternly.
"He waits in the hall with Braedon. Everyone is wondering where you went. They will want to know..."
"No," Kenrick snapped. "This is my mistake to rectify. I will do it on my own terms."
With a curt summons to one of the keep's sentries posted nearby, Kenrick called for two horses to be readied for several days' journey.
"Will you go after her, then?"
"Go after her?" He cursed low under his breath. "Nay, Ana. To me, she no longer exists. I mean to go after the one thing that does matter--the Dragon Chalice. Rand and I will set out for Glastonbury within the hour."
* * *
Her breaking heart seemed wont to burst from her breast as she ran. The meadow grasses were damp and cool against her belly, slapping hard in her face as she cleaved through them, not daring to rest until the lights of Clairmont castle were mere pinpricks on the distant hill.
Only then did she pause.
Only then did she allow her glamour to fade and recede.
She came up from her crouched position and stood amid a blanket of moonlit heather, fully changed, a woman once more. Panting from exertion and a bone-deep regret that weighed on her heart like iron bonds, Haven appeared no different than she had the moment before her betrayal was discovered, garbed in her simple kirtle and leather slippers.
But in her heart she knew she could never be the same as she had been before.
Too much had occurred.
She had allowed a breach she could not reclaim.
Haven pivoted, looking one last time on all that she was leaving behind. Clairmont stood in silhouette, dark gray stone and golden glow spilling from its windows and from the torches lining the perimeter walls.
Kenrick was on the other side of those walls, full of hatred for her. Ariana and Braedon would be as well, once they were told of her deception. There was no hope in thinking she could make a home there, among the Outsiders. She was too different from them, too tainted by the stain of her past and the magic that yet flowed through her shifter veins.
Tears filled her gaze, blurring the lights. She looked away from the short happiness she had known in Kenrick's home--in Kenrick's bed--and focused on what lay ahead of her now.
Bleak as it was, her future rested on the decisions she made from this point on.
She was compromised, but she would not be so easily defeated.
Draec le Nantres had given her a shred of hope in his proposition that day outside Clairmont. He had given her what was, perhaps, her only choice.
With a heavy heart and a fiery resolve, Haven set off on the path that would take her to the market town, where le Nantres had said he would be waiting for word from her.
Chapter 27
The weather had been kind the nearly two days it had taken Kenrick and Rand to make the ride from Clairmont to the pastoral meadowlands of Somerset, home of Glastonbury Tor. Now that they had arrived, stopping to rest their mounts just within sight of the queer hill with its little church perched atop it like a crown, the afternoon skies threatened with rain.
"Storm's coming," Kenrick said as he eyed the bunching clouds with weary scorn. The trek up the steep tor would be arduous without the added trouble of slick mud and wet clothing. "Looks as though we'll be staying the night in town. No sense pushing the horses or ourselves now that we're here."
"I'd rather we pressed on, Saint."
Rand fixed him with a determined look. Around his neck he wore Elspeth's pendant, repaired and returned to him by Kenrick upon Rand's arrival at Clairmont. Absently, the warrior's callused fingers toyed with the delicate filigreed heart that rested at the base of his throat. Rand stroked it like a touchstone, and his gaze was dark with purpose.
"The sooner we finish here, the sooner we can begin searching for the next piece of the treasure...and the sooner I can have my vengeance on Silas de Mortaine."
Kenrick had known his friend was bitter with rage for the deaths of Elspeth and his son, but the days on the road with him had shown a darker side of Rand. His heart was cold, black with grief and deadly determination. He was a man consumed by hatred, all of it centered on de Mortaine and those who would aid him in his search for the Dragon Chalice.
Rand spoke of little else but his plans for revenge. He was single-minded in his purpose, even more so than Kenrick himself had been on his own years-long quest for the Chalice treasure. Rand had eagerly absorbed all that Kenrick told him of his findings and his theories on the locations of the remaining pieces. He had sworn to ride beside Kenrick every step of the way--wherever it led them--if it meant he would one day have the pleasure of slaying Silas de Mortaine.
"We've come this far," Rand pointed out, his hazel eyes flinty in the overcast light. "I'll get no sleep in town when I know the treasure could lie just at the top of that hill."
Kenrick glanced to the tall mound of earth in the distance. Even from here, he could see the maze of rings that circled the base of the tor, seven levels of an earthen labyrinth carved by men long centuries dead.
It was said that an ancient king and his army slumbered within the great mound, awaiting their revival. It was also said that Joseph of Arimathea had carried the Cup of Christ to this very spot in ages past, and buried it somewhere on the tor. If Kenrick's suspicions were correct, it was not the Holy Grail that waited on Glastonbury Tor, but another sacred cup--one that would be a match for the bejeweled, golden goblet he carried in one of his saddlebags.
He had not told Rand about Calasaar, for despite the friendship they shared, Kenrick felt this new Rand--this wounded man who was only a small part of the reckless adventurer he once knew--might let his want for vengeance shade his judgment.
Kenrick knew well how easy it was to let emotion rule one's better sense. His time with Haven had been proof enough of that. His weakness with her had put his quest, and perhaps his beloved kin and keep, in great peril.
Even now, Haven might be working to realign herself with de Mortaine. She knew about the seal that was missing from Greycliff, and after thei
r painful confrontation at Clairmont, she now knew about Calasaar as well. Kenrick was not about to risk a further mistake, nor would he watch as Rand submitted his sense to the anger that festered within him.
And so he kept the Calasaar cup secreted away on his saddle, held close until the time he might need it.
"What say you, Saint? You'd be the last man to let a little water keep you from proving a point. You know that damned cup is up there, just waiting for you to take it."
Kenrick absorbed Rand's words with as much resignation as he did pride. It was true; nothing could dissuade him once he'd seized upon a problem and meant to solve it. His gut told him that one of the Chalice stones was, in fact, waiting somewhere on the tor, so close he could almost feel the vibration of its power passing through Calasaar and into him.
He was so close--he was certain of it.
Rand gave a knowing chuckle and cuffed him on the shoulder. "I'll meet you at the top, my friend."
With a nudge of his heels, Greycliff sent his mount into a canter across the flat meadowland that lay shrouded with the mist of the oncoming rains.
Kenrick let him go but a furlong's distance before he, too, was spurring his horse onward, toward the final hour's ride that stood between him and the crest of that mysterious jut of earth.
* * *
The inn was crowded with seamen and traders and other unsavory types. He paused to scan the many haggard faces, looking for a glint of recognition, of expectance, in any pair of the scores of eyes that turned on him as he entered the coastal gathering place. None seemed inclined to stare overlong at the warrior who strode in alone, an air of contempt in his every move.
He was dressed as fine as any wealthy lord, his dark cloak swirled in his wake, brushing the tops of his gleaming leather boots and dancing around the length of polished steel that rode in a gem-encrusted sheath on his hip. The knight crossed the small public room in stormy silence. His gaze was hard, flinty as he approached the innkeeper for word, as he had been instructed.
"Le Nantres," he announced himself in a growl, impatience edging his clipped tone as he put down a handful of coin in payment.
The man behind the bar gave a discreet nod. "Right, sir. This way, if you will."
Draec followed his portly guide away from the teeming public room and up a short flight of stairs toward the back of the establishment. He shared none of the innkeeper's serviceable haste, taking his time as he stalked along the narrow hallway an indolent distance behind the man. He did not appreciate being made to bend to another's demands, even when those demands had come from a chit as appealing as the one who'd summoned him that night.
"This be the one," said the innkeeper, halting as he gestured to the door of a private room.
As Draec approached, the man meekly edged away, leaving him alone at the threshold. Once the innkeeper was gone from sight, Draec turned his attention back to the door. It was slightly ajar. The wench was bold; clearly, she had expected him not to refuse her requested meeting. She'd even made him pay for the lodgings. He had to admire her for her cheek, if nothing else.
Light spilled out from the open space near the latch, the welcoming crackle and glow of a hearthfire emanating from within. Draec splayed his hand against the cool panel, and pushed it wide.
The shifter beauty stood not a half dozen paces away from him, her fiery mane and slender figure cloaked in a long mantle of shimmering gold velvet. The fabric caught the light of the twisting flames on the hearth, making Haven sparkle like living fire herself.
A table had been set with a warm meal and an uncorked flagon of wine. Two glasses bore samples of the decanted claret, their bowls glowing ruby red. At the other side of the chamber stood a large bed, its four posters draped with gauzy curtains that had been parted and tied back on the side facing the door. Although half in shadow, he could see that the coverlet was turned down as if to invite a decadent tryst.
Draec felt his blood quicken at the thought.
He hadn't imagined the unattainable lady, this deadly shifter spy, could be such a willing temptress. But he had noted something peculiar about her when he'd seen her that day near Clairmont, and although he had not been able to put his finger on just what that peculiarity was, it had not been far from his mind in the time since.
It had been something in her eyes, he had decided, thinking how her bewitching green gaze had seemed softer than before. Softer than any shifter's detached and emotionless stare.
But that softness was gone now, Draec determined, studying her face.
"Something has happened to you," he mused aloud. "Clairmont found you out, did he?"
"I didn't come here to talk about him," she replied, her voice as cool and steady as a blade. "You and I have better things to discuss, wouldn't you agree?"
She untied the ribbon at her throat, and let the mantle fall. The lush fabric slid down her curves like a lover's hand, slow and appreciative, until it pooled on the floor at her feet. All she wore was a simple silk gown of feathery weight, which floated about her shape like a veil. The garment was an effective tease, an artist's shroud--or sorcerer's conjuring--that hinted tantalizingly at the feminine perfection it concealed.
She was the very picture of seduction, and well she knew it.
Draec felt no shame as he drank in the unearthly beauty before him. He was never one to deny himself a gift freely given, particularly when it came wrapped in a package as delectable--and as personally advantageous--as this. He smiled the devil's own smile, anticipating the pleasure--and the imminent fruition of his quest--that was to come.
"Dare I hope, lovely vixen, that this meeting means you've given my proposal some thought?"
Her jewel-bright gaze did not waver so much as a fraction.
"Yes," she said, unflinching as he approached. "I have decided to accept your offer."
Chapter 28
A small, towerless chapel stood at the crest of Glastonbury Tor. Dedicated to Saint Michael for having slain a dragon on this very spot, the modest church was comprised of a square nave and narrow chancel. For the small group of monks who resided in the grand abbey at the base of the high hill, visiting pilgrims were no unusual occurrence. In fact, over the years, a few profit-minded brethren had encouraged the curious with reports of unearthed tombs belonging to King Arthur and a well that was said to flow with water originating from the Holy Grail itself.
Although strange lights and unexplained events were rumored to occur atop the tor, it was the abbey grounds below that elicited the most interest from travelers seeking miraculous cures and treasure hunters seeking other, material boons. With the spring rain wetting the countryside, few observers had been present to take notice of the two men who had made a cautious ride up the long sloping back of the oblong-shaped hill.
Nor was anyone hovering around to question them on their purpose during the couple of hours they spent carefully examining every nook and hidden alcove for signs that would lead them to one of the Chalice stones.
The church was a small structure, its central chamber, the nave, no more than two score paces in any direction. Beyond it, through an arched threshold, was the priest's chancel. It was in this narrower space that Kenrick first saw a familiar symbol. The light was fading fast outside, with the rain shower and the approach of twilight throwing the chapel into dusky gloom. While Rand went to find torches to light, Kenrick stooped to retrieve a flint from one of his satchels.
As he crouched on the glazed tile floor, his eye caught a subtle design beneath the dust underfoot. He smoothed it away with his palm and swore a quiet oath. He cleared more of the fine grit, revealing the tile directly below the arch that separated the nave from the chancel.
"The torches, Rand!" he called out. "Bring them quick!"
Rand's heavy bootfalls echoed from the other section of the church. He held two small pitch lights and an iron candelabrum from the altar. "What did you find?"
"Here," Kenrick said, pointing to the glazed tiles. "You won't see them from th
at angle. You'll have to crouch down."
Rand came down to where Kenrick was, and followed his tracery of the design. On the floor between the two rooms was a series of scrollwork symbols: circles interconnecting, crosses stretched between the intersections. Scarcely discernible, the symbols had been etched under the glaze, gray enamel on gray stone tile, all but invisible unless one knelt before the archway.
"What does it mean? How will it lead us to the stone?"
"I'm not sure...but the answer is here." He took one of the torches and struck his flint to light it. "Take this," he told Rand. "Search the floor of the nave for more of these designs. I'll keep looking in here."
He lit the second torch as Rand pivoted to check the other chamber. It was not a few moments before an exhaled oath echoed from the adjacent nave.
"Saint. You'll want to have a look at this."
Kenrick pushed to his feet and hurried to where his friend's voice had issued.
Rand stood in the center of the nave, his torch held out before him. He was not looking at the floor, but at the walls, now cast into relief by the flickering flame of the pitch torch. What had seemed smooth stone was something other altogether. Kenrick drew up beside his friend and looked to the wall that housed the arch to the chancel antechamber. He could not help but gape in wonder at what he saw.
"Holy Mother of God."
Rand held one of Kenrick's diagrams out to him. The symbols were nearly identical. "I'd say we found something, my friend."
"Aye, we have," he agreed, not certain he even breathed now that he was staring at the tactile evidence of his imminent success.
Or his most spectacular failure.
He knew the symbol of the cross and spheres was a key that would lead him to a piece of the Dragon Chalice, and now here it was, the pattern repeated in dizzying array on the thick stone wall not an arm's length away.
The problem was, he had expected the symbols to mark the location of the treasure. All he could see here was the empty space of the nave and the darkened chancel on the other side of the archway.
