The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy)

by Janzen, Tara

  He moved his mouth up her body, kissing her and whispering to her of the fire running through his blood and of where virgin dreams ended and lover’s dreams began. Words created passion in the darkest corridors of the mind, and he wanted her to experience passion in all its shades. To that end, he closed his teeth upon her neck, gently, gently, until he could feel her pulse beating against his tongue and echoing in his throat.

  Here was life.

  Small sounds of distress and arousal escaped her, revealing the naked needs he had nurtured to fruition. With a move he had anticipated, she had him slipping inside her, guided by her hand. He knew a thousand ways to give and take pleasure without that invasion—but he had not the strength to deny her or himself. He wanted to sink into her, to feel her slick, velvety sheath close around him.

  He groaned, holding back from going too far, too soon, but she was whispering his name over and over, and his last good intention went for naught. He began his thrusts, shallow at first, then deeper... deliciously deeper.

  The pressure built and built inside him, centering his awareness between their legs where they met and came together, so hot and sweet. He felt her impending climax in the inexorable tightening of her body, he saw it in the tautness of her face, and when her low cry came, he was with her. Her intense contractions pulsed through him, along the full length of his shaft, along the full length of his body and down to the bottom of his soul. He bared his teeth, burying himself to the hilt inside her, coming as deeply as he could. He forgot to breathe. There was no thought or sight or sound, only exquisite sensations jerking through him, one after the other into oblivion. There was no dream, only the purest essence of the woman stealing him away.

  At the end, he collapsed next to her, wanting nothing more than to never move from her side. Long moments passed as he held her to him and labored to catch his breath.

  “So help me God, you are a witch.”

  “Whose God?” she asked, her own breath shallow with the same latent thrills he felt coursing through his body. “Your God? My God?”

  “It matters not” Without withdrawing, he pressed himself closer to her, deeper, wanting to feel her, all of her, and know she was a part of him. “By any God, you are the fairest witch of all.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Far, far above them, in the crowning branches of an oak, Llynya lay stretched out on a limb, peering over its side with her chin in her hands, watching her charges. Not that there was much to see. Dain and Ceridwen had been rolling around in the grass all night, like everyone else in Wroneu Wood, and they were still at it.

  With a quietly grumbled complaint, she turned over onto her back to better continue her skywatching. She’d done what she’d been told. She’d followed them to the Mid-Crevasse glade, so named because it was midway between the Great Western Crevasse and... and someplace else she couldn’t quite remember at the moment. She’d kept anyone else from stumbling into the glade, weaving a dab of bramble here and there, and she’d left Dain’s clothes and cloak in a pile on the path. Wouldn’t do for the O Great One’s butt to get cold on the long walk back to Deri. Oh, no.

  No one seemed concerned about her butt getting cold sitting up in a tree all night.

  “Hmmph.” She dug a honey-stick out of her pouch and stuck it in her mouth.

  The morning star had disappeared with the first flash of the sun, and the other stars had long since been chased into the west, but the moon remained. ’Twas a wondrous thing, the moon, rich in elfin lore and woman’s magic, a perfect, white orb hanging in a sky that was turning blue with day. Unlike the sun, which one could not look upon even if she squinted her eyes into teensy-weensy slits, the moon was made for gazing, for long hours of contemplation. Its presence never failed to soothe. Llynya liked nothing better than running through its light at night. Though of late, Rhuddlan had been clipping her wings.

  A green finch flittered in to share her leafy perch, a welcome bit of company. Llynya whistled at her, and the bird sang back, hopping closer.

  “Hallo, peach,” she crooned, putting out her finger. The finch hopped up, and Llynya smiled. “Malashm.”

  She rummaged through her pouch and came up with a seed, which the finch ate, and a bit of thistledown fluff the bird took into her beak.

  “Nesting, hmm?”

  Spring had been hard-won this year, making the laying with the Goddess of utmost importance. By Llynya’s count, Dain had lain with Ceri twice. Rhuddlan would be pleased.

  The finch flew off, toward daybreak. There had been a promise of rain in the night that had not come to pass except in a few stray drops. But the changing color of the sky hinted at more moisture yet to be shed, and not long coming by Llynya’s reckoning.

  Sure enough, within a short passing of time, rain began to fall, swept up from the south by the wind. Llynya closed her eyes and caught a few droplets on her tongue, and was startled to find a warning in the taste. She had smelled nothing, but rain had the quality of intensifying whatever message was in the trees and spreading it over a greater distance, and what she tasted was undeniable. Danger was coming.

  She quickly clambered higher into the oak. At the top, she pushed aside smaller limbs and peered through the leaves, looking across the rest of the forest to the downs beyond. Riders were moving on the southern horizon, but she was too far away to see them clearly. She watched the shadowy line wind its way north and west, and tested the rain again. ’Twas worse than danger coming. ’Twas evil. But whose?

  Curious, she swung down onto a lower branch, to a place where she could make her way to the next tree. Rhuddlan would have already sent out scouts. If she had been in Deri, she might have been chosen. Shay was among them, no doubt.

  “Sticks,” she swore, and leaped into the neighboring oak. She landed lightly on a sturdy limb, catching herself with one hand on a higher branch. Thus she left the Mid-Crevasse glade behind, one tree at a time, quite forgetting what she was about.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ceridwen stood in the gently falling rain, fiddling with her laces. Her fingers were awkward, her eyes downcast. Dain had seen the phenomenon before: The return of clothing brought a return of shyness. He stood close in front of her, tying the leather strings of the loincloth around his waist. When he was finished, he reached out and caressed her breast with the back of his fingers, one brief downward stroke. Her head came up, a blush full-blown on her cheeks.

  He teased her with a smile. “Even with your clothes on, I can still see every curve and remember every taste.”

  Her blush deepened.

  “Shall I tell you what you taste like?”

  Flustered, she lowered her gaze. “You are without shame.”

  “Aye,” he agreed softly, and bent his head to give her a kiss. “And you are beautiful. Come. The quicker we are away, the better. Madron has put a price upon your virginity I would rather not pay.” He reached around her and pulled Ayas out of the overhanging branch.

  “Oh?” Her gaze came back up, and her fingers stilled.

  “’Tis not marks or riches she wants, Ceri,” he reassured her, “but my soul.” She had no reason to doubt him. He would give for her all that he had, and pray she did not suffer too greatly for lack of what he’d lost long ago.

  “Then she and Caradoc deal in the same coin.”

  “And they both shall be denied.” He sheathed Ayas in the loincloth and looked around for her pack and the Damascene. What he spied was a neatly folded pile of clothes getting rained on in the middle of the trail. He touched Ceri’s arm and pointed to them. “Llynya.” A miniature garland of violets crowned the garments.

  “The little bugger,” she swore, her shyness forgotten. They both looked up into the trees.

  “She’s gone.”

  “But she was here.”

  “Aye, she was here. I wondered where she was hiding all night.”

  “Llynya was not here all night,” she said, her voice tight with irritation. “’Twas she who freed me from the tower, enchanting the dogs
with her song.”

  “So the hounds did not prove completely worthless,” he murmured, his gaze raking the treetops. The sprite was gone, but mayhaps there was another. He got some satisfaction out of knowing what had happened in the Hart. The hounds had never before disobeyed him, but he would not have expected them to ignore the calling of the Quicken-tree.

  “They were charmed senseless, as was I,” she admitted, clearly not happy with her gullibility. “I thought we were going to Strata Florida, but she led me into Wroneu to be captured by those men.”

  “Liosalfar,” he said. “Quicken-tree warriors.” He checked the trees once more, assuring himself they were not being watched. “Come. We should not tarry, for we have both too easily played into Rhuddlan’s hand.”

  “To what end?”

  “I don’t know. Madron counts him as an ally, but she would not have sanctioned what happened here. Whatever he needs of you, ’tis not that you go to Caradoc as Madron wants. That alone makes me less wary, but we should be to Wydehaw, the better to make our bargain when the time comes.”

  “Wydehaw?” she questioned. “I have nothing with which to bargain. Despite what... we... have done, I must be gone from here.”

  He brought his hand up to cup her chin. “Because of what we’ve done, kaereste, we shall leave together, but we need supplies and the Cypriot.” He brushed his lips across hers. “Caradoc is not due for a sennight, and by her own admission Madron is no tracker.” They would need gold for their journey, and food, and they had to get it before Madron could close him out of the tower.

  “And Rhuddlan?”

  “Rhuddlan’s price is my magic, and I will pay, but in my own time.” He let his fingers glide across her cheek. The first glistening light of dawn had given way to a watery morning that served to underscore her exhaustion. He had run her to ground and made love to her half the night, and now had her on the march. He could have gone on alone and come back for her, but he dared not leave her unprotected. “There is nothing left for you to fear, Ceri. Last night, before the ceremony, I met your dragons. ’Twas as written in the red book, but without blood. Just as wine is the blood of Christ in the holy sacrament, ’tis wine, not true blood, that calls them.”

  “Where did you find them?” Her eyes widened with surprise and mayhaps a bit of horror.

  “In a grotto north of Deri,” he told her. “Neither Rhuddlan nor Trig were frightened of them in any way and called them also by the other name in the book, pryf.”

  “Pryf is not dragon. Of this I’m sure.”

  “Mayhaps. Mayhaps not. Madron didn’t make a distinction between the two. I did not see them. ’Twas too dark, but I could feel them, and they seemed more curious than dangerous.”

  “My mother told stories of dragons,” she said, “and there were pictures of them drawn on the rocks at Carn Merioneth. They had huge teeth.”

  “If they still do, they did not use them on me.” He smiled. “I have seen many strange beasts, creatures called elephants that are bigger than any dragon I ever saw imagined, and the man who owned them used no more than a stick and his voice to order them about. Camels, tigers, wild horses with black and white stripes— They are all out there in the world, Ceri, frightening only to the people who have never seen them, and seeming as mundane as a cow to the people who live with them. I think ’tis the same with the dragons of the red book. A rare and shy creature, not seen by many, can become a dragon in people’s minds.”

  “Aye, they are rare. My mother said there are never more than two, but I don’t think they are shy. The abbess at Usk called them and all my mother’s stories heresies made up to confound the ignorant and children.” A troubled frown marred her brow. “It has been hard to figure out what to believe.”

  “You are not alone in that, Ceri. We will not be long at Wydehaw,” he promised, “and when we leave, I will find a safe place for us to rest.”

  “Is there such a place?” She sounded doubtful—with good reason. There was only one possible destination, and it was the last place he would have chosen for himself. Not so for Ceri.

  “Despite my aversion to piety, I hope to find such a place for you at Strata Florida.”

  Even in the rain, he saw her face brighten. If nothing else, she would have the comfort of her brother for a while, should he prove to be still alive. After that, they would journey north, far north, past Balor, and Wales, and the Isle itself, across cold water and into the lands of ice and snow, to the place he’d been heading before the Hart had caught him up in its promising mysteries.

  ~ ~ ~

  The horses half plodded, half trotted through the early morning rain, no happier than Caradoc’s men to have been on the march before dawn. Helebore’s mount was particularly phlegmatic, falling farther and farther behind. The leech did not mind. They would reach Wydehaw soon enough.

  The Cardiff mission had failed. They had found a fair-haired novice newly escaped from Strata Florida, debauched and in his cups, but it had not been the one they sought. Under Caradoc’s questioning, delicately administered so as to leave a few marks to be remembered by, the young man had confessed his impure love for Mychael ab Arawn and how he had begged Mychael not to take his vows. Alas, as with much young love, it had all come to naught, for Mychael had disappeared shortly thereafter without leaving a trace.

  Helebore had suffered much the same situation as a novice, but he had not taken the coward’s way out. When faced with mortal sin, he had contrived to poison the lecher, and thus came by the name Helebore. To this day he remained perfectly chaste, never having even touched himself, not truly, and certainly to no good end.

  The other horsemen gave him a wide berth as they passed him by, all except for one who fell in beside him.

  “Ifor.” He nodded to the man, a porcine archer, dark of brow and beady of eye.

  Ifor grunted in acknowledgment, staring straight ahead. Wet, greasy hair straggled down over his face and into his bushy beard. A peculiar stench rose about him, indicative of a vice Helebore preferred to ignore, for his own sanity’s sake.

  “I missed you last even,” he continued. “I thought for sure that you would be hungry by nightfall.”

  The beady eyes flickered in his direction. “Mayhaps I should find another to do my bidding?”

  “No,” Ifor was quick to reply.

  “Ah,” he sighed. “So you are hungry for another drop of life’s immortal elixir?”

  Ifor gave a short jerk of his head.

  “’Tis murder I want this time,” Helebore warned. “Do not mistake it for anything less. I want the sorcerer’s body cold and bloodless, or none of us will be safe. Do you understand?”

  Another nod.

  “Then give me a bolt that I may touch the tip with poison.”

  Ifor looked ahead to see that no one was watching, then handed over one of his crossbow bolts. The horses’ slow pace was no hindrance to the poisoning of the steel tip. Helebore kept all manner of simples and physicks in small gourds and ampoules tied to his belt, and by nature, he was a careful man.

  When he was finished, he handed the bolt back to Ifor. “A dagger would be more subtle, but Lavrans would have you dead before you’d drawn your blade. Thus, we will be crude and effective. If he fights to keep the woman, kill him then. To protect your lord, you’ll tell Caradoc. If there is no fight, stay behind and kill him when we’ve gone. Either way, after your work is done, I will give you a flagon of the elixir that you may join the ranks of the immortal.”

  A spark of something came to life in the archer’s eyes. Greed, perhaps. Or lust. ’Twas a mystery to Helebore what motivated someone of such limited mental capacity to long for immortality—not that Ifor was in any danger of getting it. Helebore would not be so cruel as to condemn the man to eon after eon of a coarse and brutish existence.

  A sadist’s smile twisted his mouth. Elixir of life, indeed. Poppy juice in wine could transport a man to a netherworld, or, in sufficient quantity with a hint of foxglove, to the underwo
rld, and he feared ’twas to the latter that Ifor would be going. Quick justice for the murderer to follow the mage into an early grave. Caradoc would be enraged. Since seeing his old friend, he’d become quite obsessed with the idea of having Lavrans at Balor.

  Helebore’s lips curled in distaste. Disgusting, disgusting creatures. Bad enough to yearn for a woman, let alone to yield to one’s desires and bring a viper into your nest. Caradoc’s foolishness would get him naught but a memory to warm his sick heart.

  “Wydehaw!” The cry came from the front of the line, and as a man, the riders kicked their horses into a gallop. The day’s deed was upon them.

  Chapter 21

  “How many days out from Wydehaw are we, do ye figure, Morgan?” Rhys asked, passing a leather jack of ale to Dafydd as they worked at breaking camp in the morning light. A gentle rain had blown up from the south, warmer and sweeter than the spring rains had been thus far.

  “Two, if the mountains don’t turn to mud.” Morgan looked to Owain on his left. The big man grinned. Next to him, Rhodri and Drew let out loud guffaws. The lad’s infatuation with Ceridwen ab Arawn had not abated with the passing of a month’s time and, in fact, had reached new heights since their coming from Balor a night past. Ceridwen had not yet been delivered to her betrothed, who himself had not been in residence. Gone to Cardiff, the seneschal had told them, while declining to offer them hospitality they would not have accepted.

  They had not ridden south to Wydehaw from Dolwyddelan in early April as Morgan had planned, but had been sent farther north by Llywelyn to fight English raiders on the eastern border. The Prince of Gwynedd had not thought the fate of one maid to be of much importance, other than to further indebt Caradoc to him. Holding the reins of power in Wales meant ruling among ever-shifting alliances, and Llywelyn assured Morgan that he did not overestimate Caradoc’s loyalty. As to the Boar’s unsuitability for marriage, Llywelyn had smiled and told Morgan most men were unsuited to marriage.