The Cast Of A Stone

by Avril Borthiry

  “And?”

  Stephen gave her a bemused glance. “What is this, Emma? Are you wondering if Anne suffers from a broken heart? I can save you some time. Anne suffers from a poisonous tongue. Nothing more.”

  Emma shrugged. “I suspect he beat her.”

  “I don't blame him.”

  “Stephen, that's not funny.”

  “Maybe not. But she pushes me to my limit.”

  “And what of Bee?”

  “Aye, when she was five. I came home for a visit once, and she took my wooden sword and broke it, so I dropped her in the horse trough. I got a thrashing from my father for that.”

  “Pfft! Nay, that's not what I meant. I meant, why has she never married?”

  Stephen chuckled. “Christophe is scouring England for a suitable husband as we speak, much to my sister's disgust. It'll take a special kind of man to handle Bee. She's not exactly pious, hardly delicate, and she could teach an innkeeper a curse word or two.”

  Emma grinned at him. “Half a dozen, from what I've heard.”

  Stephen laughed. “Aye, no doubt.”

  Emma's eyes caught movement in the air and looked up at a crow circling over their heads. The bird screeched his harsh lament as he floated aloft, his black outline softened by the haze. As she watched, a strange sense of excitement fluttered beneath her ribs, a feeling of anticipation. She frowned, wondering at it. Stephen's voice startled her.

  “Do they mean anything to you?”

  “What?” She looked at him, puzzled.

  He gestured to the bird.

  “Crows. They appear to follow Alex around.”

  “Aye, that they do.” Her heart quickened at the thought of it. “He has some kind of connection to them. To all creatures, it seems. I'm not sure what it is.”

  “You never speak of his abilities.” Stephen's tone softened. “Nor the stone, yet you know he has it.”

  She looked at him, wondering, deciding. His eyes met hers, unwavering, glowing like dark honey. Her decision made, she pulled her horse to a halt.

  “There are some things I've always known, Stephen. I've known about Darius and the stone and Alex's abilities for as long as I can remember.” She took a long slow breath. “But there are other things I remember, too. Things I've never spoken of, not even to Alex, because they are so...strange. Memories, images in my head that I can't explain because I'm not sure how they came to be.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You must swear not to tell anyone else, nor think me insane.”

  “I would never do that.” He reached over and touched her cheek. “You have my word, little one.”

  “Very well. I have a memory of a woman weeping. I'm in her arms, looking up at her. She has green eyes, like mine.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Aye, my mother.” Emma took another deep breath. “And she is, or was, frightened. Even now, when I think of it, I can feel her fear.”

  “Frightened of what?”

  “I don't know. Alex, perhaps? Maybe he was about to kill her.”

  “I refuse to believe that.”

  “I don't want to believe it. But the strange thing is, my next image is of Alex. I'm lying in a crib, crying, surrounded by strangers. Then I see Alex's face looking down at me. I stop crying and reach for him, for I know for certain I'm meant to be with him and I believe he has come for me.” Emma closed her eyes as the reality of the image cut deep into her heart. “But he turns from me and walks away. He leaves me, Stephen. I can hear his footsteps fading away and I cry and scream, but he doesn't come back.”

  Stephen reached over and took her hand in his.

  “Well, obviously, he came back.”

  “Aye, although I've no memory of that. But you don't understand.”

  “What?”

  “When Alex leaned over the crib and looked at me...” Emma took a deep breath, fighting her emotion, “...I reached for him because I recognized him. I knew, beyond any doubt, that he was my father.”

  Stephen sighed and lifted her hand to his lips. “Ah, my love. The mind's a strange thing. It gives us those things we want but can never have.”

  She looked up at the crow, still circling overhead. “Aye, I know. But the images are so real.”

  “When you're ready, you must ask Alex what happened. You have to find out the truth.”

  “How will I know if it's the truth he speaks?”

  “You will...ah...someone's coming.” Stephen's hand drifted to his sword. “Stay behind me, sweetheart.”

  The mist muffled the sound of hooves, but Emma could tell at least three horsemen were heading toward them. She peered into the haze, aware of Stephen's tension, although she sensed no threat.

  At that moment, the sun found a gap in the clouds and leapt through it, dropping into the surrounding mist as a shaft of blinding light. Emma blinked, squinting into the brilliance and Stephen rose up in his stirrups, his sword half-drawn.

  Three men rode out of the light, their silhouettes darkened by the sun at their backs.

  One, tall and handsome, had long silver hair that fell well past his shoulders. He stared at Emma with eyes as black as night. For an instant, she though she saw a light in them, like the quick flare of a candle-flame. The man at his left had straight black hair of similar length, a noble, serious face and eyes equally as black. He glanced at Emma for a mere moment before turning his gaze to Stephen.

  The third man, strong featured, yet gentle of expression, had long dark hair that curled as it settled upon his shoulders. He nodded at Emma, studying her with eyes of an indefinable colour. A tingle ran across her skin, lifting the hair on her arms and neck. Her strange feeling of anticipation grew.

  They have much presence, these men. Knights. They can surely be nothing else.

  Stephen settled back in the saddle, pushed his sword into its scabbard and repeated her conclusion.

  “Knights,” he murmured. “And they can only be going to Thurston. Stay behind me, Emma. Let us see who they are and what they want.”

  As quickly as it had appeared the shaft of sunlight vanished, smothered by the persistent blanket of cloud. Stephen turned his horse diagonally across the path, keeping Emma behind him, forcing the three riders to halt.

  The air stilled except for the gentle rattle of bridles and the soft breath of horses. Emma's heart thudded so hard she wondered if everyone could hear it. She willed herself to slow her breathing, noticing a hint of mirth on the face of the silver-haired knight as he addressed Stephen with a gentle Irish lilt.

  “You're either very brave or very foolish to challenge us.” He gestured to his companions. “Do I need to point out we are three blades to your one?”

  Stephen shrugged. “Aye, I noticed. 'Tis indeed an unfair match. You should have brought a fourth.”

  The man struggled to suppress a smile. “I'm surprised your horse can carry the weight of your balls, young knight.” He nodded to Emma. “Begging your pardon, my lady.”

  The serious, black-haired knight leaned forward. “What gives you the right to delay our passage? We have presented no threat.”

  Stephen lifted his chin. “I am Sir Stephen de Montfort, brother of Lord Christophe de Montfort of Thurston. Since this road leads only to Thurston's gates, I'm curious as to your business there.”

  “Your vigilance is to be commended, but your methods are questionable.” The knight relaxed back into his saddle. “I am Keir, this is Finn and that is Caleb. We seek to establish ourselves with a demesne of good renown. We offer fealty and services in exchange for a fresh pallet and nourishment.”

  Stephen studied the three for a moment, his eyes coming to rest on the one who had yet to speak. “Sir, you do not have a tongue?”

  The knight met Stephen's gaze. “What would you have me say, my lord?”

  Emma's heart leapt at the sound of his voice and eased her horse forward. “You're a Scot.”

  He nodded. “Aye, my lady. Does that pose a problem?”

  Warmth s
pread across her skin, as if someone had wrapped her in soft fur.

  “Nay, not at all.” She tugged on Stephen's sleeve. “Stephen - I mean, my lord -did your brother not say, just this morning, that two of his knights had left for another holding in Northumberland?”

  “Aye, he did.”

  The one called Finn leaned back in the saddle. “Indeed? What a coincidence. 'Tis fortunate, then, we happened along. We can replace those two and throw in another for good measure.”

  Stephen paused a moment before pulling his horse to the side. “Very well, you may pass and approach Thurston, but permission to serve must be granted by my brother. When you get to the gate, ask for Marcus. Tell him you have spoken with me. He'll let Lord Christophe know of your arrival.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Finn nodded at Emma. “My lady.”

  He touched his spurs to his horse and trotted off into the mist, with Keir close behind.

  Caleb lingered, gesturing to Emma's bow. “You're going hunting, my lady?”

  She shivered inwardly. His voice reminded her so much of Alex.

  “Nay, Sir Caleb. Just practising.”

  He studied her for a moment then looked at Stephen. “Keir is right. Your vigilance is to be commended.”

  “Thank you.” Stephen's eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it's merely because you remind me of someone, but have we met before?”

  Caleb shrugged and gathered up the reins. “If so, 'twas not here. This is my first visit to Thurston. I trust I shall see you both later. Enjoy your practice, my lady.”

  As man and horse vanished into the mist Emma realized she had tears in her eyes.

  “He reminded me very much of Alex,” said Stephen, reaching over to tuck an errant strand of hair behind Emma's ear. “They give the impression of being decent men. I hope Christophe accepts them.”

  Emma sniffed. “You're doing it again.”

  “What?”

  “Reading my mind.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Where once he had feared darkness, Argante now relished its soft cloak. Night didn't hurt him, unlike the ferocious light of day, which flayed his burned skin without mercy. He lifted his deformed face to the stars, sniffed the rancid air, and eyed the stark grey tower. The stench of death wafted from the doorway and he curled his lips in distaste.

  Although the keep appeared as a shadowy blur to his burned eyes, his demented mind toyed with a sense of familiarity. He'd been here before, searching for something, someone. There had been others here too. His twisted mind shuffled his thoughts like a deck of cards.

  Before Emma. After Emma.

  Emma.

  He didn't know how much time had passed. A day. A week. A month. It didn't matter. She'd been there in the dungeon with him. An angel with emerald eyes, crying, fearful of the dark. Her cries had aroused him, so he'd coupled with her. He'd been her first. He hardened just thinking of it.

  Yet as she struggled against him, something had leapt into his soul, into his mind. It was an unfamiliar emotion, one that weakened him. Even now he fought against it, resenting its presence.

  I shall not yield.

  Afterwards, she'd left him alone in the dark with nothing but a dying flame.

  Nay, not her.

  It was it the other one. The one he hated. The one who held the secret of the stone.

  The stone.

  Bah! He didn't want the stone. He wanted her. She was his ecstasy now. In the depths of his fear, he had smelled her essence, her blood, the aroma of their joining. She had driven him to escape.

  Even as the fire blistered the flesh on his face and hands he thought of her, calling her name between his screams of agony. Consumed by his want of her and his fear of the dark, he had pushed his charred skin through the hole in the door, smelled his burning hair, felt the warm flow of blood from his torn fingers.

  He had to find her.

  She belongs to me.

  After his escape, he'd stumbled blindly through a forest already shrouded by night, guided by the sound of running water somewhere off in the distance. The river gave him some relief as long as he remained submerged in its cool waters, so he followed it until it rolled into the sea. There, the vicious tide grabbed him, its salty waves peeling away burnt remnants of flesh from his face and hands as he struggled to fight against the swirling currents.

  Crippled with agony, he'd managed to crawl ashore, finding shelter in sea-carved niches at the base of the sandstone cliffs. His will to survive was sustained by a glorious madness and a growing obsession with a green-eyed girl.

  Now he was back where it all began. His wounds, though still painful, were healing. But where Emma had burned his soul, the fire still raged.

  Ah, sweet Emma. Sweet, sweet Emma.

  Bitch.

  Can I have her now?

  Nay. You'll not put your cock near this one. You're dead, you little runt.

  Aye, Iain is very dead. What kept you?

  Some of the images puzzled him and he tried to frown, but the healing flesh pulled too tightly across his face. Any attempt at facial expression pained him.

  Where was she? Where was the stone?

  Christ. Forget the damn stone.

  Another memory surfaced from the slimy folds of his brain and his heart missed a beat.

  The cottage. Of course. That's where she would be waiting for him. If only he could remember the way.

  Where was it?

  Such was his power. All he had to do, it seemed, was wish for something and it appeared. For had he not just wished to find Emma's house? And now here it sat in the clearing below him, silent and dark, nestled deep in the forest. He glanced back along the trail, unaware of ever having walked it.

  “Quiet, Richard.” He raised a blackened finger to his crusted lips. “Or Mathanach will hear you.”

  Mathanach? Scottish bastard, pox-ridden son of a whore. Married to a whore.

  “I said be quiet, Richard.” His laugh emerged as a saliva-choked gurgle and he limped toward the house.

  Mathanach isn't here. He'd never let you get this close.

  I've seen things. He knows where it is. He knows where she is.

  Tell me de Montfort rots in the grave. Tell me the bastard died.

  Nothing stirred.

  Argante pulled a scab from his cheek, and flicked it into the air. “Let me know as soon as you return, Emma.” He snorted as he ambled back into the forest.

  “I'll be waiting.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I like Yorkshire.” Finn leaned back against the wall and stuck his feet up on the bench, his eyes glued to the shapely backside of the serving maid as she sauntered away. “Very friendly people. Lord Christophe accepted us quite readily.”

  Keir's goblet of ale paused midway to his mouth as he threw Finn a pained look. “'Tis your persuasive tongue. The poor man didn't stand a chance.”

  Finn pointed his chin toward the maid. “Wouldn't mind persuading her with my tongue.”

  Keir choked on his drink. “God's teeth, you don't waste any time, do you? The bench beneath your arse is barely warm. Please try to remember why we're here.”

  “I haven't forgotten, nor will I.” Finn took a gulp of ale. “But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the local scenery. Right, Alexander?”

  “And watch what you're saying.” Keir glanced around. “His name is Caleb, remember?”

  Alex smiled at Keir. “He's doing it on purpose, my lord. I believe he enjoys goading you.”

  Keir returned the smile with a scowl. “'Twould seem you also need reminding, Caleb. I told you, while we're here we're equal, so drop the formal address.”

  “Keir, give the man a little rein. His mind is occupied.” Finn looked at Alex, his expression all at once serious. “Emma is a beautiful young woman, my friend. How did she seem to you?”

  Alex swirled the ale in his goblet as he considered the question. “Her aura is still dark, but it brightened a little when she heard my voice.” He wrestled with a twinge of guilt
. “She's still very...conflicted. Her outer image belies the torment inside.”

  Keir grunted. “I sense you're also conflicted where she's concerned. Stop blaming yourself, or the shield will weaken.”

  “I'm about to say something I've never said before.” Finn leaned over and patted Alex's shoulder. “Keir is right.”

  Alex laughed and fingered the sword's hilt, which had been wound with a strip of leather to disguise it. “'Tis a strange sensation, like looking through a mist, yet I see everything clearly.”

  Keir nodded. “You're controlling it well. Let us know if you need to rest. Don't try to do more than you're able.”

  “So far, it's not been difficult,” said Alex. “I'm curious. What did you think of Stephen?”

  “First impression?” Keir shrugged. “Impetuous. Courageous to the point of foolish. A little too sure of himself.”

  “Young, you mean?”

  Keir chuckled. “Indeed. I don't doubt your judgement, but I need to spend time with him to form an opinion. I want to see what he's made of.”

  “Ah, I smell food.” Finn sat up and rubbed his stomach. “'Tis indeed a treat to have both feet back in the mortal world. Be warned, Guardians, for I intend to make a pig of myself.”

  Most people had finished eating by the time Stephen and Emma entered the hall. A touch of sadness squeezed Alex's heart when he saw Emma searching the crowd. He knew instinctively she was looking for him, even if he was - as far as she knew - a complete stranger. She caught his gaze and nodded at him, her face lit by a smile.

  “I wonder how she'd react if you revealed your true identity,” Finn mused, his greasy fingers wrapped around the remains of a chicken leg.

  “I don't know.” Alex watched as Emma turned to speak to Stephen. “Before today, I would have said she'd be angry, but after the way she reacted to me this morning, I'm no longer sure.”

  “This morning she reacted to a stranger who only reminds her of you,” Keir observed. “'Tis not the same thing as reacting to you directly.”

  “Aye, true enough. As I am now, I present no threat. Caleb does not stand accused of killing her parents.”

  “Then use that to help her,” Keir suggested. “The shield will be serving its purpose.”