by Lee Savino
Tristan shook his head.
“Commander,” Lars and Ivar entered. They were a funny pair, one dark, one light, but I felt they stayed together more than not. “The prisoner is secure.”
Ivar’s gaze flickered to my feet and back up to my face, but then he saluted his commander.
Lars stood staring at me. I felt a brief flash of pain in my head, but it was gone quickly. With a smirk, he looked away to ask his commander. “Still questioning this one?”
Tristan regarded me before answering. “She said she can help the prisoner.”
Both Ivar and Lars snapped their gaze to my face and spoke as one. “How?”
“I have some knowledge of the healing arts,” I said when Tristan indicated I should answer myself.
Lars scoffed, but Ivar looked thoughtful.
“The disease attacks the mind.” The warrior stroked his dark beard. “Is such healing possible?”
I wanted to say that it was not a disease, but the aftereffects of the mage’s evil magic, but I dare not speak of that. They’d wonder what a simple long maiden knew of mages or magic.
“Even if you could help the prisoner—”
I interrupted, turning to Tristan. “Is it customary to call your man a prisoner, and not use his name?”
“He is no longer himself,” Tristan said.
“He will not return to himself if you treat him as a stranger.”
“What do you know of the warrior madness? We have lived with it for many years.” Lars declared hotly. “It is better to cut the limb off. Stop the spread of decay.”
“He is not a decayed limb. He is our brother,” Ivar murmured.
No hope, I heard unspoken. Years fighting the madness and no hope.
The warriors all faced each other. Lars had his hand on his weapon.
I sat quietly with my lips pressed together. My heart ached for these men, closer than brothers. The magic that gave them power was like grit in their armor, worrying and worrying until it found a way to drive them mad.
“Very well, lady” Tristan came to a decision. “I will take you to the dungeon. But if you harm him.”
“I am an unarmed maiden.” I spread my hands. “I may not be able to help him. I only promise to try.”
Lars
As the commander marched the woman away, Ivar turned to me, frustration written on his face. “Why did you mention the moonstone?”
I shrugged in the face of his anger. “I wanted to save her.” In truth, I did not know why I spoke. “She will be presented to the king.”
“She will survive,” I retorted. Ivar cursed, but I didn’t back down. For some reason, I wanted the woman to remain close, and safe.
“He may take her to wed,” Ivar reminded me, and then I realized my mistake. Desire curled in my breast, next to pain. I wanted this woman near, bathing me in her scent. I did not want her given to the king.
“I’ve never felt like this before,” I said.
“Nor I. My mother told me of a woman meant to be my mate.”
“Your mother?” I raised a brow. Ivar’s mother had died at birth.
“In a dream,” Ivar explained. “She told me a women would come with hair like lightning, and she would heal our madness and become our mate.”
“Hair like lightning,” I mused, thinking of our captive’s white blond hair.
“She will be touched by the Goddess. My mother was such a woman. And yours too. They have powers.”
“Is this magic then? It feels real.”
“It is real. I believe this woman is the one who was foretold.”
“But when she meets the king…”
Ivar nodded slowly. “He covets the magic of these women. He will use his powers to ensnare her. And we are sworn to serve him.” He muttered the last under his breath.
“It’s no use, brother,” I told Ivar, the ache in me matching the look on his face. “She is not meant for us.”
Yseult
I kept my head high as Tristan led me through the castle. The stone hall was clean and empty of people, except for a few guards in each archway who saluted Tristan as we passed.
My bravery lasted until the commander paused in front of a great iron bound door. He took out a key and unlocked it, pushing it open with a grating creak. The stench hit me—the smell of death and dark magic.
When I hesitated on the dank step, he paused with me.
“You do not have to do this.”
“No,” I hardened myself. “I want to.”
I regretted my words as we descended. The air grew thick and cold, shadows flickering like monsters on the dripping walls.
Tristan kept a hand on my arm. He pressed close, and I felt he would scoop me up in his arms if he could.
The further down the harder it was to breathe.
Two shadows loomed and approached. I gasped and shrank against Tristan, who held me. “The guards,” he soothed as the shapes broke free from the deep gloom and became warriors.
“Commander,” one murmured. Tristan bent his head to speak to them, but I barely heard over the madness like bees buzzing in my ears.
“This way,” Tristan gestured, and I went as if pulled, coming to stand before the giant beast that was the prisoner. He was tall, taller than even the commander, tall as a bear. Though he was in the shape of a man—mostly—he smelled like an animal. His bare chest showed great muscles, tapering to a taut waist and the shape of well-muscled legs under his clothes. His arms bore fur and his hands were monstrous shapes, an animal paw lengthened to some semblance of fingers, tipped with wicked black claws.
Goddess help me. At least his face was a man’s. As I moved closer, his chest rose and fell as if he’d run a great distance.
“Lady,” Tristan cautioned me, and I stopped before the warrior, gazing on him. Malice ran over his face, then pain, then wary curiosity. The shackles they’d bound him with were too small to hold him. Perhaps they had been the right size when they first chained him up, but now they dug into his flesh. Energy pulsed through him—the violent aura washing over me, making me want to gasp. The beast within struggled to break free.
For a moment I turned my face away, trying to draw breath. When I looked back, the prisoner searched my face as I searched his, human intelligence dawning in his brown eyes.
Hope surged. I stepped closer. “What is your name?”
Tristan started to answer, and I raised a hand to silence him, never taking my eyes off the broken warrior.
The prisoner’s lips parted. “I have none,” he rasped. His arm twitched in the brutal shackle.
“Water,” I motioned to the guards.
“Lady,” they hesitated.
“Do as she bids,” Tristan ordered.
I waited until they returned, and took the small cup, steeling myself to stand closer to the mad prisoner. He jerked his chains as I came close. I held my breath against the stench. His beard dirty. His body marked with grime, but the smell came from the poison leaching from his spirit.
I held the cup to his lips, praying he would drink. His throat moved, his eyes burning into mine. His face was ravaged, haunted, but the eyes were black pits with the fire of his spirit. I would dream of those eyes, I was sure of it.
“Lady, why have you come?”
“You have a name Your mother gave it to you.”
“I-I do not remember her.”
“Try,” I stepped closer and for a moment the poisoned air and buzzing evil disappeared. The warrior lifted his head, his brow smoothing. I laid a hand on his cheek. Tristan moved beside me and stopped himself. A comforting weight at my back as I swayed closer to the tortured warrior,
“She loved you,” I whispered. “She mourns for you even now.” The warrior closed his eyes as I touched his brow, like a mother with a babe. “Remember her.”
His lips moved, but no sound came out. I shrank back, bracing myself for the evil miasma. But it never came. The spell, for the moment, had lifted.
“Sleep in peace,” I murm
ured, and strode to the stairs.
“Lady,” the guards bowed their head as I passed.
I held my body still until I reached the stairs, where I crumpled. Tristan caught me, arms like iron bands lifting me, I let him, melted into his great chest.
He carried me to the floor. Relaxed as the evil magic receded.
“Is this how the mage treats his loyal warriors?” I asked and shook my head sharply. “Never mind. I should not speak—”
Tristan held a cup to my lips. Not water but spirits, burned on the way down.
“He was my best fighter,” Tristan said. “I can keep these men in fighting shape, but cannot stop…” He broke off and I let my head lie on his chest. His agony poured through me. I closed my eyes and breathed through it.
A touch on my face stirred me.
Tristan stroked back my hair. “You helped him.”
“I do not know. That place...” I shuddered. “He needs more care. But I at least gave him relief.”
Tristan studied me until I wanted to ask what he saw.
“Thank you, lady,” he said and stepped back, formal again. “Now I will escort you to your rooms.”
Yseult
Tristan offered his arm and I took it, grateful for a strong arm to cling to. He led me from the dungeon, through the cavernous halls, under stone archways guarded by great warriors. Though they saluted Tristan, I felt their eyes follow me, especially when our route took us down a covered walkway overlooking an atrium. Clusters of soldiers below turned as one, fists finding their breasts as they acknowledged their commander. Defenseless, still shaky from my encounter with the cursed warrior, I shrank under their stares. Tristan moved his hand to my back, at once steadying and guiding me with firm pressure until we were past.
“It’s all right,” he murmured. “They won’t hurt you.”
I willed myself not to sound shaky as I asked, “How is it they turn to greet us even when we make no noise?”
“They scent you.” A touch of humor entered his voice. “They won’t hurt you,” he repeated as he drew me to another great door, wood crossed with iron. “I won’t let them.
Another key, and he threw open the door. In addition to the lock there was a great bar on the inside. One to keep me in, one to keep all other’s out.
The rooms were quiet and cool, faintly scented with mint and lavender. Women’s rooms. But I’d seen no women on our walk here, or any other, besides the warriors.
“Does the king keep attendants, other than the guards?”
Tristan pushed the door until it snicked shut.
“The king has no need for human attendants,” Tristan said quietly, stalking past me, cloak swirling behind him as he led me forward. The rooms flowed into each other, low ceilings and a few windows open to an inner courtyard. A sanctuary, deep in the heart of the castle.
“You’ll be safe here,” Tristan told me, and I remembered the bar on the inside of the door. The rooms had furnishings—gilt chairs and finely woven tapestries in blues and greens. Sounds of rushing water filled the air—a fountain, perhaps. The noise highlighted the deep, deep silence.
Everything was clean, there was no dust, but the air stood heavy as if the rooms hadn’t been used in a long, long time.
“How long since the mage took a wife?” I asked.
He paused in an archway to the courtyard. “It’s been some time.”
“And all women who venture near the castle are presented?”
“No, lady. Only those who light the stone.”
So now I was a ‘lady’.
“What was that stone?”
“The king uses it to discern the worthy. There are certain types of women he... prefers.”
“And what sort of woman does he prefer?”
“Women with certain... qualities. They are special.”
“Touched by the Goddess,” I added. I didn’t make it a question.
His eyes widened. “Yes.”
With a finger I traced the gilt arm of a chair. “We have a term for such women in my time.”
“Your time?”
“My land, I mean,” I corrected. “The place where I come from.” Damn my loose speech. It wasn’t like me to make such mistakes. I must be tired.
I leaned on the chair. “Spaewives, we call them. Women touched by the Goddess who possess natural... abilities.” Magic.
“Not witches,” Tristan said. Again, it was not a question.
“No. Women with natural magic.” Women like me—or who I once was, before the runes and rites burned my natural abilities away, replacing them with the power.
Power I no longer had. “The stone must discern spaewives.”
Tristan inclined his head yes. He didn’t seem surprised or suspicious that I knew what was happening. More... relieved.
If you answer, I can let you go.
The commander stood studying a tapestry of a trio of young women—nymphs—dancing in a field of white flowers. A happy scene, yet the sharp planes of his face were so grave.
Was it possible he knew the fate of any young woman who took up residence here? Back in my time, my witch sisters had told me. To become the Corpse King, the mage sacrificed his brides. Those he did not sacrifice, his magic destroyed.
These rooms were once filled with women. And they were empty, but for me. I sucked in a breath. Tristan knew my fate and wished to stop it.
When I approached him boldly, he looked surprised. “May I see it again? The stone?” I prayed my guess was right. Tristan seemed to want to save me, otherwise, I would not dare request.
He hesitated, then reached into his shirt, drew out a small chain. A pale light flashed between us as he raised the necklace—the milky stone hanging from the chain—and dropped it in my hand.
“It is the same stone,” he said.
I held it in my hands, waiting for it to flare to life. After a moment, it shimmered awake, not with the same intensity as the larger stone they’d used to test me, but still glowing with an inner light.
Tristan cleared his throat. “My mother called it a moonstone. This was hers, and she gave it to me.”
“It’s beautiful.” I turned it over in my hand, admiring it from all sides. My face warmed in its clement glow.
Tristan hovered over me, his breath stirring my hair. I drew back and handed him the necklace. “Thank you.”
He kept his eyes on my face as he pocketed it, and I couldn’t read his look.
I licked my lips, suddenly unsettled. I felt so strange—but perhaps I was just tired and feeling the loss of my magic.
“The stone... it only lights in the presence of a spaewife?”
A nod, without him looking away. Heat suffused my body; I almost touched my cheeks and breast to be sure they were not glowing like the stone.
I found my voice. “Do you know how your mother came to possess it?”
“She had it when I was born.” He tilted his head. “You told my warrior to remember his mother.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I-I don’t know.” The way Tristan looked at me, I wanted to put my hands to my face, and hide. I wasn’t used to feeling so powerless, or so moved. “It seemed right.”
Tristan looked away then. “Most of my warriors don’t remember their mothers. At least, not after a time.”
Because the mage dabbled in evil rites. The lingering dark magic corroded their memory, and their joy.
“Your mother—do you remember her?” I asked.
“I do,” he said after a pause. “Sometimes.” He pulled the moonstone from his pocket again and ran his thumb over it. “Possessing something of her... helps me.”
In his hand, the stone did not glow, but emitted a faint humming. I felt its energy then—strong and pulsing. Tristan must to be strong to keep it close. Of course, he must be strong, to rise in the ranks of the king’s guard, yet still be able to withstand the madness for so long.
“I am glad you have something of hers,” I said.
> “And I,” he said abruptly, as if coming awake, and pocketed the necklace once more. “The warrior you saw... do you really think his mind can return?”
“I don’t know.” I swallowed and said a silent prayer for the poor prisoner. “But I had to try.”
“Most would let him die.” Tristan gazed at me with such intensity, I wished I had the courage to ask what he saw.
“He doesn’t deserve it.”
“Doesn’t he? He’s a warrior. He chose his path.”
“No,” I said, and repeated softer, “No. This madness, he did not choose it. It chose him.” If the mage did the rite to turn them into Berserkers, then the blame lay on him. But I could hardly implicate Tristan’s lord.
“Some say we warriors were born to it. Our strength in battle is a curse.”
“It is possible to be strong, and be good,” I offered.
“I hope so, lady.” again his gaze swept over me, and I felt he heard more than I had said and saw more than I wished.
“Commander.” Ivar and Lars appeared in the archway. Tristan and I darted apart. I touched my face, wondering if the moonstone had affected me as much as I affected it. My heart was beating faster. Ignoring the warrior’s, I entered the courtyard and wet my hands in the fountain.
“Lady,” Tristan called to me. “I must leave you for a time.”
I nodded, and he saluted me with his hand to his breast. His red cloak swirled away, and I stared dumbly, numb but for the beating of my heart.
“Lady.” Lars bowed. He had a mocking grin, but it was not unkind. “How do you find your quarters?”
“Well,” I said. “They are more than I expected.”
“So are you.”
I arched a brow, feeling more myself with his jesting.
Ivar cleared his throat. “If you wish privacy, we will stand guard at the door.”
I thought again of the bar at the door. “Am I in need of a guard?”
“It is not good for you to be left alone.”
“Are there so many dangers lurking in this castle?”
“No. Just us.” Lars grinned at me, and I almost smiled back at his playfulness.
