by Janzen, Tara
“Then mayhaps the danger comes from her desperation,” Rhuddlan said.
There was truth in that. Desperation made a dangerous companion, but the maid didn’t strike him as the type to do herself harm.
“Or mayhaps from her betrothed?” he suggested, despite his still strong doubts on that score.
“She is to be wed?” Rhuddlan’s head came up, his quickened interest somehow more disturbing than his prophesy of doom.
“Aye, to the lord of Balor Keep.”
Disgust crossed Rhuddlan’s features. “Gwrnach is too old to breed her, though ’twould seal his fate to get a son on Rhiannon’s daughter.”
Dain felt his own disgust rise at Rhuddlan’s words, disgust edged with an unwanted anger.
“’Tis not Gwrnach,” he said, hiding his irritation by feeding a few stray twigs into the flames. “Gwrnach is dead. His son is lord now.” The breeding of Ceridwen ab Arawn was none of his concern.
“Balor has a new lord?”
“Aye, the old one was gutted and left to rot on the ramparts.”
“By the son?” Rhuddlan questioned, his eyes piercing in the flickering light of shadow and flame.
“Caradoc,” Dain confirmed.
An unholy smile spread across Rhuddlan’s face. “Then his fate was met as Nemeton foretold, that the destroyer would be devoured by his own spawn.”
Well versed though he was in unsavory deeds, Dain felt a chill at the satisfaction in Rhuddlan’s voice. ’Twasn’t like the Quicken-tree to rejoice in another’s demise.
As if sensing his uncertainty, Rhuddlan turned and met his friend’s gaze, the smile fading into a grim line. “No one will mourn Gwrnach.”
Dain knew the words to be true. “’Tis said the corpse hung from Martinmas through St. Winnals before someone buried what was left of him.”
“From mid-November to March?” Rhuddlan repeated, surprise evident in his tone. Dain understood. ’Twas an ungodly long time to let a family member hang.
“Aye.”
Rhuddlan’s gaze shifted past him to the river track. “From Ngetal to Nuin,” he said in a distracted voice, using the ancient time of trees. “Just over a month past.”
The sound of women’s laughter, and of one woman in particular, came from across the grove, drawing Dain’s attention away from the unpleasant conversation. Shay and Llynya were performing acrobatic feats for an appreciative audience, with none more appreciative than Ceridwen.
The forest at night suited her in a way that disturbed him, bringing mystery and depth to a face already too alluring by half. Llynya had woven a garland of oak leaves and set it upon her brow like a wondrous, disheveled crown. Freshly budded leaves in soft and bright shades of green dangled and curled around her gamine face; they circled her head in a living fillet and trailed down her back in a swallow’s tail of entwined petioles. She was transformed, sitting in a nimbus of silvered lantern light, looking very much the grove priestess he had told her she was not. Her skin glowed, her hair flowed down across her breasts to her waist in a river of white-gold braids, and her mouth... Her mouth beckoned.
Shay was out to impress, walking backward on his hands, then lofting himself into a back flip. Ceridwen let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeal as he landed within inches of her. The boy was handsome enough and obviously taken with the fair-haired maiden. The wide grin on his face proved as much. As for Ceridwen, all Dain saw was delight, which was more than she had allowed him when he’d performed for her. It had not occurred to him that she would prefer acrobatics to magic.
She’d called him a fool, while she laughed for Shay.
Dain could walk on his hands. Not that he would, of course. But he could. Ridiculous.
He thought of Rhuddlan’s words, and of Ceridwen’s red book, which was in his saddlebags. Damnable thing, it had spooked the maid into the rash act that had landed her in her current tangle of affairs. Madron would know how much of it to believe and guard against, and how much to discard. The witch would also know about things Rhuddlan had not clearly said, and she was not as given to riddles.
Moira finished rewrapping Ceridwen’s ankle and looked up at the maid, saying something. Ceridwen replied with a smile, turning her foot ever so slightly into the light and giving her toes a little wiggle. Dain had to stop himself from jumping up and protesting, though it was clear the movement had not brought her any pain.
Llynya caught his eye and winked, then leaned over and whispered in Ceridwen’s ear. They were a sight, the sprite’s dark mélange of braids and not-so-decorative leafy twigs, and the pale fire of Ceridwen’s hair topped with a lush green crown. She lifted her gaze as Llynya spoke, a slow rise of gold-tipped lashes. He waited, watching their upward sweep and the gradual revealing of ocean blue, until her eyes met his through the trees.
’Twas all the excuse he needed.
Startled to find Lavrans looking at her, Ceridwen quickly lowered her gaze, but not quickly enough. He had already risen. She should have believed the sprite and not given in to the urge to find out for herself if what Llynya had whispered was true: that he had not taken his eyes off her.
His boots came into her line of vision before he knelt down at her side, speaking to Moira.
“May I see the salve?”
“Aye, ’tis rasca,” the cherub-faced woman said, giving him the small clay cup. A leaf was pressed partway over its top. “From the rowans.”
He dipped his fingers in and rubbed the salve between the tips as he brought them to his nose. From beneath her lashes, Ceridwen saw the barest smile curve his lips.
“The rowans, Moira?” His smile broadened as he tilted his head, and his hair came undone, sliding in a slow fail down the front of his gambeson.
“Mayhaps a few other things are in the mix,” Moira admitted, and a giggle escaped her. “You may keep it for the maid.” She clapped her hands, rising, and in moments she and the others were gone, dispersed into lean-tos and huts or disappeared into the trees.
Even Llynya had deserted her, Ceridwen noticed, not seeing the sprite anywhere.
“Moira has a lot of secrets she won’t divulge,” the sorcerer said, relaxing to sit cross-legged on the rug, far too close to her. His knee actually touched her. Ceridwen would have moved, but before the thought could form into an action, she was paralyzed by his hand lifting her foot into his lap. “I see she used some of her own cloth in your bandage.”
“Aye,” she said, a mite breathless from the shock of having her heel pressed against his thigh and her calf laid along the length of his. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Aye.”
His legs cradled her ankle, which felt far better than when they’d left Wydehaw. He idly checked Moira’s work, his hands no less gentle than the woman’s, but ’twas strength she felt coming from his fingertips, not warmth.
The warmth came from inside herself. He’d done naught but press and probe and dose her for a fortnight, but like last evening when he’d caressed her mouth with his thumb, this touch was different, gratuitous, done purely for the deed itself. No one had touched her for the mere sake of touching in a long, long while, and no man ever.
“’Tis uncommonly strong cloth and especially suited to the binding of broken bones,” he said, his fingers smoothing a fold across her instep. “Did you notice?”
“Aye.” She’d noticed the give and take of it, the way it clung, the silky flow of it when the Quicken-tree moved.
She noticed, too, the slow gliding pressure of Dain’s thumb and fingers down the sole of her foot, and had to stifle a sigh. The sensation was wonderful and unsettling. Normally, she was sure she would have pulled her foot away, but she’d been sated with decadence all day and her body would have more. He worked his way up to her toes, the skilled intimacy of his touch putting Edmee’s efforts to shame. ’Twas as if he knew every muscle and fiber in her foot and how to make each of them melt into his hand, a magic all in its own.
“They make the cloth themselves,” he said, �
�like everything else they use. They are not traders, you see, except in religious matters.”
“Hmm,” was all she could manage, despite her aroused curiosity. If she opened her mouth, she’d release the sigh lodged in her throat.
He glanced up at the muffled noise she made, and a wide grin split his face. “Breathe, Ceri,” he said. Kaurry, her name sounded in his far north accent.
Damn, she swore on a soft expulsion. He’d caught her again, being addle-brained.
“I would bargain with you, Lavrans,” she said, retrieving her dignity and her foot with an alacrity fueled by embarrassment.
He let her go easily, though his smile was still broad. “Unlike Rhuddlan, I trade in all manner of things,” he assured her, reaching for another leaf to lay across the salve. “What do you want, and what do you have to offer?”
“What I have is a promise,” she began, and was surprised to see him wince and shake his head.
“A not so auspicious start, chérie.” He slipped the small clay pot into a pouch hanging from his belt.
“’Tis a good promise,” she exclaimed, put off by his quickness to doubt.
“Oh, aye,” he said, but his smile was calling her a liar before he’d even heard her out.
“Could make you rich.”
“Rich?” His interest changed, becoming less skeptical. “How rich?”
“How much ransom did you ask of Caradoc for my return?”
He hesitated a moment before answering. “’Tis not exactly a ransom, Ceri. Caradoc knows I won’t hurt you. I think of it more as recompense for care.”
“How much?” she repeated.
His reply was not so quick this time, as if he debated whether to tell her the truth.
“Two hundred marks,” he finally said, much to her astonishment.
She didn’t believe him, not for an instant. ’Twas an outrageous sum, absurd. He’d proven so clever thus far, she would have expected better of him.
“Caradoc is no fool,” she told him, though it would take less than a fool to pay that dearly for a bride, even one of her supposed uniqueness.
“Neither am I.” His answer was accompanied by an arrogant rise in his right eyebrow.
“If you are no fool, then what will you do with me when he doesn’t pay? For he won’t, you know.”
His smile came back. “Why, keep you for myself, chérie. What else?”
“Now there’s a fool’s bargain,” she said with a small snort, piqued that he found humor in her situation, and that he was so sure of himself. “Unlike Caradoc, you could have no possible use for me.”
Dain had to keep himself from laughing out loud. Ah, sweet innocence. Sweet sweet innocence. ’Twas only great effort that kept the satyr’s expression from his face, for he had use of her, a carnal, needy use. Riding with her through the forest had been both heaven and hell, the gentle back-and-forth rocking of her firm buttocks against his groin. He wouldn’t have missed a one of the Cypriot’s delicate steps, and if Llynya had not fallen from the sky, they would have gotten little farther than the glade where the sprite had found them.
He knew of a place in Wroneu where the grass was softer than goosedown, where water bubbled warm from the ground, and the trees made a bower dappled by sunlight during the day and graced by slivers of the moon at night. He had reached the point of deciding to take her there, and to take her there, easing himself upon her. A challenge to be sure, one requiring any innocence he had left, artlessness working so much better with virgins than any amount of cunning.
Seduction would have taken time. Surrender would have needed kisses, slow, sucking kisses on her mouth, the kind that made breathing labored and blood rush. He wondered if she had any idea how sensitive her lips were, how much of a touch they could feel, so much more than fingertips. He wanted to teach her about kissing and her mouth, if she didn’t already know.
Some nun or novice may have kissed her. Such things were wont to happen within cloistered environs, and even without. But he doubted if the unavoidable furtiveness, not to mention the guilt inevitably associated with such unions, could have allowed for the kind of kissing he had in mind.
Sweet thing, he had use of her, all right, to a pleasurable end and beyond and back again.
“And if I did have a use for you?” he asked, utterly guileless, his eyes clear and his smile straight on his face. “What would your bargain be then?”
“Not to escape you in return for your teachings of magic.”
“Magic?” As he recalled, he had disclaimed any knowledge of magic. But if the maid wanted to learn how to make water burn, he was willing enough.
“Aye. One trick in particular has come to my attention.”
A trick, good, he thought. He had a hundred tricks and could conjure a hundred more, whereas magic—what he knew of true magic, anyway—took more patience and skill than he could have conjured in a lifetime. And therein lay the key, according to Jalal. Immortality. True magicians didn’t merely control objects or natural acts. They controlled time. Otherwise, like him, they ended up dead long before they’d figured out the secrets of true magic.
Nemeton must have had the knowledge, but Caradoc was unlikely to have mastered time in the four years since they’d last met—a brief reunion in Cardiff organized by Morgan—which accounted for much of Dain’s discounting of the maid’s fear. She might have to struggle with superstition, and Caradoc might turn out to be cruel, but ’twas unlikely she was in danger from the dragons and magic written in her red book—the one being nonexistent and the other being rarer than snow in Egypt.
“What trick would that be?” he asked.
“To dance with lightning.”
“Ah,” he murmured for lack of anything more pertinent coming to mind.
“Well? What say you?”
He waited a moment, as if there were really some conditions to be weighed, some restrictions mulled over, some cautions revealed, when in actuality there were none.
He didn’t have a clue as to what she was talking about. “Well?”
He looked her over carefully, very carefully, letting his gaze wander and linger at his leisure, especially noting the curve of her breasts and how the folds of her gown creased at the juncture of her thighs. Those were magical places, and if Caradoc had turned cruel, Dain would think more than twice about granting him access there. Tender maids needed tender care.
“Aye,” he said, dragging his gaze up to meet hers. “After you’ve regained your strength, and your ankle is healed, I think you could do it without frying yourself to a crisp. ’Tis not an easy thing, you know.”
“I didn’t expect it would be,” she said in an affronted tone.
“So you understand the risks?”
“The risks matter not. My life is forfeit if I cannot protect myself.” Her voice was calm, her gaze steady. She was so utterly sure of herself and her fate.
God, but he was a black heart to be thinking of seduction while she dealt with death, whether her fears were imagined or not.
There was only one way to know for sure.
“Come,” he said, rising to his feet and reaching down a hand to help her. “Let us go to Madron.”
Unbidden by intent, he looked toward Rhuddlan as she took his hand. The Quicken-tree leader slowly nodded, giving permission when Dain had not realized it was needed. He had always come and gone in Deri depending on his own wishes. Then the truth struck him, sending an odd unease down his spine: Rhuddlan didn’t care whether he left or not, the permission was for taking Ceridwen back out with him.
A softly voiced command brought the Cypriot to his side. He lifted Ceridwen onto the mare and took the reins to lead them through the water track. At the edge of the falls, he glanced over his shoulder to where Rhuddlan sat by the giant oak. The Quicken-tree leader was still watching them, his eyes gleaming brightly within the broad stripe of paint.
Another nod was not forthcoming, and Dain felt the lack was more of a warning than an oversight, a strange caution f
rom a friend. The Cypriot nudged him, and he stepped into the mist, letting the silver-sheened cascade arc over their heads before Rhuddlan could change his mind and decide to keep the maid despite her shortcomings. By all accounts, the Quicken-tree had more claim to her than Dain did, to take her north or to wherever it was they kept their winter camp. But claim or no claim, he would not have left her.
Alchemy
Chapter 11
As soon as they were free of the river, Dain swung up on the Cypriot and kicked her into a canter, heading them across a grassy stretch of meadow to the safety of the trees. He needed permission from no man to do what he wished —except, it seemed, when it came to the maid.
Look at him now, taking her to Madron, after being waylaid by Rhuddlan, while he was holding her for Caradoc. No wonder she thought of nothing beyond escape. Every move she made was met with checkmate and capture. She was as well trapped as he had been in the desert.
A quick jerk of the reins stopped the mare dead in her tracks.
“Sweet Jesus,” he swore, his arm tightening around the maid like a vise, his anger at Rhuddlan flowing over into anger at her.
She squirmed within his grasp, but he would have none of it and pulled her even tighter.
“Who are you?” he growled in her ear.
Her answer was a jab of her elbow to his ribs.
“Tell me,” he demanded.
“Loose me, you fool!” She tried to jab him again, but he’d lifted her off the horse and into his arms before she could connect, his feet hitting the ground as her elbow skimmed his shoulder.
He swung her around to face him, keeping her arms pinned behind her back, the reins still gripped in his fist. “There will be no more talk of fools, Ceri,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now tell me who you are.”
She seethed in his embrace, knee-deep in sweet woodruff with her face tilted into the moonlight. “You know who I am. Ceridwen ab Arawn, cousin to Morgan, sister to Mychael, daughter of Rhiannon, betrothed of Caradoc, and a damned prisoner to you! And each time I try to be more, someone is there to stop me!” She tried to kick him in the shins, but he hooked her ankle with his foot, his instincts faster than his common sense.
