“Why are they coming?” Emrysa asked.
Father shot her a furious look but instead of flinching, Emrysa set her shoulders square. Raised her chin, defiant.
“It’s got nothing to do with you,” he growled.
Emrysa’s dark eyes flicked to her mother, who had begun pacing.
“It has everything to do with them,” Mother argued. Lord Cheval turned from his children to face his wife, and Mother’s expression crumbled. Tears laced her eyes. “They come of age in three moons. Is there any wonder they would turn up so close to the time? Did you think they would forget? Miss them out? Ignore what is to come?”
“No, I did not believe that,” Father raged. “I just... I hoped...” his voice softened. He sighed. “I thought we would have more time.”
“More time for what?” Emrysa blurted.
Father strode to the long dining table, raising a goblet to his lips that stained them red. “It doesn’t matter,” he finally said, his voice void of emotion. “It doesn't matter now, what matters is what we do next. You let me deal with the Council. I don’t want them to see you, hear you, or feel your presence. You hide, upstairs in that alchemy chamber of Dermot’s and that’s where you both stay until I call for you. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Father,” Dermot muttered.
Emrysa raised an eyebrow.
“I’m warning you,” Father threatened, glaring at her.
She rolled her eyes.
“Go on, go! Off with you. I’ll see that the maids bring you dinner from the kitchens, but you will not dine here with us tonight. You will not dine with the Council members. Do you understand?”
“We understand,” Dermot said through tight lips. Emrysa glared back at Father who was yet to blink. But this was a game Emrysa could play all day. He broke his stare first, shaking his head at her insolence.
“Promise to do as you’re told,” Mother began. “This is no time for your foolery, Emrysa. This is not a game. Promise.”
Emrysa clenched her jaw with her silent reply, raising the color in her mother’s cheeks and her temper, too. What are they hiding?
“Promise! Damn you, child!”
“I promise!” Emrysa finally spat, fingers crossed behind her back.
Father nodded, sending them on their way, and like scolded cats, they scampered from his presence.
Without a word, without a backward glance, the siblings rounded the corner until they were out of ear and eye shot from the guards and their parents.
“I don’t suppose you intend to hide away in my chamber.” Dermot didn’t need a reply, which was good, because he didn’t get one.
Instead, Emrysa came to a stop at a full-length window.
“What is it? What do you feel?” Dermot asked as she stared from the window, both hands pressed against the glass edged with ice and spite.
Emrysa braced herself, pushing her sight toward the black dots on the landscape, piercing space and time to get a better look. And something grappled at her, something pulled at her innards. She gasped.
Nature, Emrysa knew, holds its own power, its own magic, some of which cannot be altered or melded or wished into shape. Such as the magic of magnetism. A pulling and a repelling force. Emrysa felt an intoxicating degree of both as she focused on the Alchive Council riding toward their home under a cloud of subterfuge.
In equal parts she was repulsed by the very nature of the magical council—their cruel rules and disciplinarian demands; demands they would soon place upon her family for whatever reason. And whatever the reason, it wouldn’t be good. The Council did not make social calls—everybody feared them or rather, feared their power. She felt—again—an instinctive urge to run, yet another part of her, a deep, deep down in her marrow part, felt only interest and curiosity and something else pulling her forward. Emrysa tried to ward off the effects but laws of nature are strong and unyielding, and her inner battle persisted.
“Six of them,” Dermot counted, now that they were moving closer. “It’s hardly an army.”
“But it is enough,” Emrysa said, tipping her head back toward the hall. “Come, the very least we can do is find a place to eavesdrop on our intrusive visitors.”
Dermot smiled his roguish smile. “From you, my dear conniving sister, I would expect no less.”
3
Crimson Red
They hid in the eaves. A perfect place for eavesdropping; Dermot had laughed at his own joke, which wasn’t really a joke at all, not considering the circumstances. It appeared only two of the riders were Council members, the rest were guards—as if such powerful witches needed guards—and these guards waited in their cups in the ale room with the Cheval men of arms. The two Council members sat at the long wooden table with Lord and Lady Cheval, admiring with greedy eyes the Golden Oak at the center of the great room—the much talked about showpiece of the Cheval residence. The giant tree grew upwards and outwards, the castle built around to accommodate its thick, laden branches that never lost their leaves, even during the darkest days of winter solstice.
Both envied and revered (some believing this to be the source of the Cheval’s covetous magical powers), the Golden Oak glimmered and shimmered as if aware of its own importance. Its leaves lit the faces of the two Alchive members, while the open fire roaring in the winter hearth cast tall shadows of branches along the castle walls behind them.
“They are so young,” Emrysa whispered, watching the play of shadows and light upon their faces.
“And pretty,” said Dermot, eyeing the pale-haired witch sat next to Father.
Emrysa rolled her eyes. And yet, her eyes had strayed more than once to the dark-haired, dark-skinned man, boy, no... something in between, who sat next to the silent witch. Pretty would not be the word she would use to describe him, but pretty handsome would do, though she suspected her description was doing him an injustice. But handsome is as handsome does, she considered, so only time would tell. For now, whilst silent, the description would sit, but how many times had young earls appeared at the same table since Emrysa was soon to came of age? Each looked so appealing until they spoke, and they all voiced the same rehearsed lines, devoting themselves entirely to her hand and her future, tempting her father with good family alliances and wealth that they did not need.
Thankfully, Father did not believe in marriage to progress the family (not that he needed to), he, like Emrysa, believed in something more. And there was something more between the silent pale-haired witch and the silent man-boy with the serious hazel eyes. It glimmered, an aura, a magic of some sorts Emrysa could not place. It hovered over the two Council members like a second skin, binding them.
“Your last born will come of age within three moons.” The pale haired witch spoke, her voice light and dainty, like a fox trotting through snow. Emrysa heard her brother groan in pleasure at the sound.
“Careful,” she whispered, “it’s not very manly to swoon from the eaves to her feet. And she won’t appreciate all that drool upon your lips soaking her in a shower of your adoration, either. Besides, she’s clearly taken.”
“As are you, sister,” jibbed Dermot, noticing the intensity in which Emrysa watched the dark-haired boy.
Emrysa flicked a hand at her brother. It was not the boy she was looking at, but his aura, she told herself, repeating this in her mind and convincing herself a little more each time. All the while, a pulling attraction and a pushing repulsion teased at her from the pair glowing beneath the hearth light.
“Precautions need to be taken,” the pale witch continued. “Do you intend to procreate further? Do you intend to continue your bloodline with a newborn?”
“Of course!” Mother butted in, her face several shades paler than usual, eyes wider than before. “We have been trying for years, we have a...” she looked at Father, “... a fertility spell in place. We shall conceive again. You need not worry about our last born. We will have another.”
Emrysa and Dermot shot a surprised look at one another in the eaves.
“Very well.” The pale witch continued, cold as ice. “We have been instructed to stay until the third full moon—when you either conceive another child or your last born comes of age. If within that time you do not conceive, your last born’s fate will be sealed, as you well know.”
Emrysa and Dermot shot another look, this time, brows knotted. Dermot mouthed, what are they talking about? Emrysa shrugged, looking back as Mother whimpered and Father shifted uneasily in his chair. He cleared his throat before speaking. “We do not believe he possesses a dragon heart.” There was a slight tremble to his usual strong tenor.
Emrysa and Dermot mouthed dragon heart? to one another, their brows thickening knots of unanswered questions before Father continued.
“Dermot’s magic is third rate at best, we believe this bloodline, this… fate, will pass him.”
Emrysa sensed her brother wilting at the callous comment and instinctively reached out to squeeze his hand. For extra measure, she whispered a soothing spell to help eradicate his upset. The exact moment she cast, the man-boy’s hazel eyes darted up toward to eaves. They locked eyes. His face contorted and he held Emrysa in his hardened gaze. She shrank back, but it was too late. She was discovered. Found.
He feels my magic.
She tensed, remembering her father’s warnings, the promise she made to her mother.
The man-boy’s curious eyes flickered left to the pale-haired witch next to him. His lips twitched. Emrysa heard Dermot suck in air between his teeth. But in a flash, the man-boy’s eyes were back on her. His aura, Emrysa noticed, turned from purple to pink to the bright red crimson of blood pulsing from a bleeding heart.
The pale witch placed a discrete hand upon the boy’s thigh under the table, and looked not at him, but around him, noticing his changing aura.
“Merlin?” the pale haired witch asked. “You have sensed something?”
His eyes darted once more, ahead this time, looking into nothing and giving nothing away. Emrysa and Dermot slunk further into the shadows.
“I...” he trailed off, turning to face the door in which they had entered. “I have a need to...” he stumbled to find his words, his excuse... his lie. “The horses. I need to check the horses.”
He stood, steadying himself against the table. With his back to the pale witch, he glanced up once more, and Emrysa caught his hardening gaze and gulped.
The pale witch watched him go and placed a delicate finger to his lingering crimson aura, then brought the tip to her lips and licked. Dermot groaned in pleasure again while the pale witch frowned at her findings. She did not like the taste. Her face deadened, her pastel pink lips formed a tight line. When she spoke, she did so with distant thunder, defying her waif like form.
“You have three moons,” promised the pale witch and with a tip of her head, she rose, following Merlin, leaving plates of half-finished food behind at the table. She stole a steely glance toward the eaves but found nothing.
Deep within the shadows under a concealment spell, Emrysa and Dermot watched as the pale witch left, and their strong, disciplinarian father buried his face in his hands and wept.
4
Lust and Fury
The pale witch’s words still lingered in Emrysa’s mind as she crept from her hiding place. You have three moons. But three moons ‘til what? She considered asking her parents but already knew they would give her little knowledge about the Alchive Council’s strange meeting. Besides, they were clearly hiding something from both her and Dermot by the spells wrapped tightly around their minds, stopping her probing or rummaging around their thoughts.
“Dragon hearts, fertility spells? What are the old biddies hiding?” Dermot asked as they crept from their vantage point.
“I think the better question is why. Why are they hiding it?” It was a deeper question, a layered question, and one which would not get answered by asking. Some answers, Emrysa mused, demanded to be discovered not told.
“You do know we have to follow them to find out what they’re talking about,” Emrysa said under her breath as they tried to walk nonchalantly past the guards lining the corridors.
Dermot turned his head toward the dining hall then back at Emrysa with a nervous smile. They nodded, and began to run, treading as softly as possible. Like whispers, they made no sound as they ran the length of the long winding corridors, stopping only to don their thick winter cloaks lined with wolf fur. They stepped out into the darkened early evening.
The moon was full and low in the star-strewn sky, a misty halo surrounding the orb lit the frost-touched grass with its gentle blue hue. Emrysa could easily see the footsteps made by the Alchive members—the trampled blades of grass from their weight and the secrets they carried.
The barn was close to the castle, nestled within a large copse of trees blackened by night, their skeletal branches swaying to the spiteful coastal breeze. Unseen, the ocean crashed against the cliffs below. The waves always sounded louder in the dark—a hypnotic and mesmerizing sound that helped soothe Emrysa’s pounding heart and pulsating nerves as she noticed a gentle glow emanating from gaps within the wooden barn.
She cocked her head to the barn’s direction. Dermot nodded, and they crept forward. The crunch of their footsteps on frost-laden ground was disguised by the chomping of hay and rustling of straw beneath horses’ hooves within. Emrysa crouched, finding a hole within a knot of the wood to peer through, her brother following suit.
Emrysa first spied the majestic black horses glowing golden from the flaming light the dark-skinned boy held aloft. She concentrated on his aura. Not a spell as such. She was too worried to cast again after last time—he’d definitely felt her magic, she had no doubt. Though why he didn’t call her out was another matter. So instead, she used her second sight. His crimson aura had melded back into the purple pulse of the witch, it pulled at him, softening the hard edges of his eyes and lips as if her aura somehow calmed him.
“You felt something in there, Merlin, at the table?” the pale witch asked.
Merlin stroked his sleek black horse with his fire-free hand and uttered nothing.
The pale witch laughed, but it sounded all... wrong. “Your aura, it turned red.”
This, Emrysa knew, was not a statement. It was a loaded question. Red auras, after all, had only two meanings—both so entangled it was impossible to interpret.
Lust and fury.
But why would the pale witch waste her time reading his aura? What insight would she glean from him that he wouldn’t share as a fellow Council member? Emrysa leant forward, waiting for his answer, and Dermot gave her a little nudge in the ribs, shooting his brow up several times in quick succession and giving her a knowing wink. He mimicked an air-kiss, slobbering like a hound dog. She scowled and vowed silently to pay him back for that when they weren’t in earshot, and this time it wouldn’t only be his face she’d turn blue.
“I think it’s wrong,” Merlin said suddenly, breaking any thoughts of childish pranks.
The pale witch tutted. “It doesn’t matter what you think. What matters is the safety of those under our care.”
“But it’s barbaric.”
“And so too are dragons. We must exterminate them before they turn. This Dermot, or whatever his name is, will turn no matter what his parents believe. He’s a Cheval. He is the last born. He is death and destruction incubated. He is Dragon Heart.”
Emrysa and Dermot shot each other disbelieving stares. Dermot, death and destruction incubated? What did that even mean? Little brother Dermot, who rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust whenever Emrysa killed a pesky fly or spider in his presence. And dragon hearted? All Dermot was, was kind-hearted. None of this made sense.
“All I’m saying is that this practice has gone on for centuries,” Merlin began. “Do we even know if dragon hearts turn these days? We find innocents guilty before any evidence or trial. And what about dragons being—”
“Don’t,” the pale witch warned. “I know what you’re g
oing to say. Don’t.”
She stepped closer to Merlin and placed her pale hand on his cheek. “The parents have concealment spells locking their thoughts. If they are hiding things from us, they are hiding them from their kin also. It will be easy to gain this Dermot’s trust. And it’s not like we have to kill him. We just give the orders.”
Dermot stood and gasped, stepping away from the wooden barn as if her words pierced his skin—they certainly pierced Emrysa’s heart—but the crunch of a dead branch snapping under his foot echoed in the silent pastures. Both Merlin and the pale witch’s head also snapped toward the siblings’ hiding place. The pale witch smiled, while Merlin’s aura turned crimson along the edges once more.
Fury.
He’s mad that we’ve been spying on him, not once, but twice, thought Emrysa.
“Pssst,” Dermot hissed nodding his head toward their dwelling. “Come on, quick, let’s get out of here before they change their minds and kill us both on the spot.”
But Emrysa shook her head. And compelled and repulsed both, Emrysa brought her hands together and called aloud Patere—expose.
The wooden slats shimmered around them in an overwhelming heat, then slowly, the edges began to smolder and smoke. Orange embers, bright in the darkness, flickered to life at the center of the circular shape, spreading outwards, exposing Merlin and the pale witch inside, Emrysa and her statuesque brother outside.
Merlin’s aura pulsed ruby as he stared in disbelief at Emrysa—her hands still clasped together, smoke spiraling from her fingertips.
The pale witch twitched a half-smile. It looked more like a snarl. “You’ve been spying on us.”
Raven Heart Page 2
