Bloodshed to be delivered by his hand.
With a scowl, Rand turned his head and broke the hold of her clear stare without a word. He was in no mood to offer reassurances that would likely not be believed anyway. Nor could he be sure these women were, or would remain, his allies. From what he had seen in recent weeks, there were very few souls, male or female, who could be trusted.
Now that the food and drink had revived him, Rand's mind returned to the unfinished business that still lay ahead of him.
Namely, Silas de Mortaine.
Vengeance parched his mouth when he thought of the ruthless villain who had cost him all he held dear. It was all Rand lived for now--to avenge his slain wife and child. To gut and bleed de Mortaine until every drop had drained from his black heart.
His plan had been simple enough. Armed with part of the Dragon Chalice, the treasure that Silas de Mortaine lived to possess, Rand would lure him out of his well-guarded lair and into the open. It was the only way to get close to his enemy, for he was a formidable man with unlimited connections. De Mortaine's great wealth bought many an ally, corrupted many an honest man. And then there was the matter of his bodyguards, those inhuman sentries born of the same mythical place from which the Dragon Chalice originated--Anavrin.
Rand had already faced several of the shapeshifting minions, most recently the one who attacked him on the storm-wracked ship two nights ago. He knew what they were capable of, had seen their treachery firsthand...as had his precious family, in those hellish hours of the raid on Greycliff.
As for the Dragon Chalice and the kingdom from whence it came, Rand knew little, save what his friend Kenrick of Clairmont had told him. For years, Kenrick had studied the legendary treasure through his work for the Templar church. His findings had uncovered the history of the Chalice lore, from its creation on a wizard's forge eons ago, to the properties of four precious gems that were said to ensure the very life of Anavrin itself. Calasaar, Vorimasaar, Serasaar, and Avosaar--the stones of Light, Faith, Peace, and Prosperity--had each glowed like fire in the bowl of the Dragon Chalice.
According to Kenrick's work, this enchanted treasure was stolen from Anavrin centuries past and brought beyond the veil that kept its kingdom secreted from the Outside. The Dragon Chalice was lost to Anavrin, having fallen into the hands--and into the corruptible hearts--of mortal men. But a protective magic enveloped the treasure, and when it left Anavrin, it was immediately rent into four pieces, each containing one of the precious stones. The four parts were said to have scattered into mist, to lay in hidden places across the realm of man.
Silas de Mortaine already held one of those priceless cups, Avosaar, under close watch. Kenrick of Clairmont, along with his sister, Ariana, and Braedon le Chasseur, the man she'd since wed, had also located one of the missing pieces, this one recovered from an island abbey off the coast of France. And just over a fortnight ago, Rand himself had beheld a third, when he and Kenrick had unearthed the piece from within the hilltop chapel at Glastonbury Tor.
Rand had witnessed true magic that day, when the two pieces of the Chalice treasure were united. Drawn together by an unexplainable force, the two parts formed a larger cup bearing Calasaar and Vorimasaar--one half of the Dragon Chalice. It was that priceless jeweled golden vessel that had been in Rand's satchel when he washed overboard in the storm.
Only one of the four Chalice pieces remained to be found. All of Kenrick's sources seemed to point toward a holy site in Scotland, which was where Rand had been heading when the storm blew him off course.
It was said that whoever restored the Dragon Chalice to its original state would have power beyond imagining. Whoever returned the treasure to its rightful place in Anavrin would taste the glory of a life eternal, of prosperity without end.
Rand had no interest in glory or power. He would restore the Chalice only if it meant taking that victory from Silas de Mortaine. The only power he needed was the knowledge that de Mortaine had lost, that he would beg for mercy and breathe his last at Rand's own hand.
If only he had made it to Scotland as he had planned. If only he'd had the chance to merge the last of the Chalice cups with the other he carried with him on the ship, de Mortaine would hardly stand a chance against him. If only he'd held tighter to the satchel, not allowed it to slip away....
Now the very tool of his vengeance--perhaps his one chance at getting close to his enemy--was all but lost, washed away on the stormy tide that delivered him to this remote shore.
How could he have been so careless?
He would have died before he let that satchel leave his grasp. God's truth, without the promise of vengeance driving him, all he had was misery. All he had was the bleakness of waking up each day, living with the pain of his loss. And the guilt.
Anger seethed within him suddenly, rejecting the notion that he could fail so soon. The need to crush and destroy tightened every muscle, pulsed with cold fury through his veins. He could not sleep. He could not sit in the confining space of the cottage for another moment. He had to keep moving, or he would lose his grip on the slender thread of his own sanity.
Across the sole room of the abode, Serena and her mother had settled into their pallet. Shadows enveloped them where they lay, the soft sounds of slumber rasping in the darkness of the cottage. Rand gathered the blanket about his shoulders and got to his feet. He found his braies and torn breeches, nearly dried where they had been spread before the fire. Taking both in his fisted hand, he quit the place and stepped out into the brisk night air.
Chapter 5
A dove cooed somewhere nearby, waking Serena from a fitful sleep. She had been dreaming unpleasant dreams, struggling against the thin coverlet she shared with her mother on the small pallet near the wall. Calandra yet slept beside her on the down-filled mattress, her back to Serena, her slender shoulder rising with each deep breath she took. Carefully, Serena lifted the blanket and slipped out from beneath it.
It was not quite dawn. Only the palest light sifted in through the window, heavy with gray morning mist. The dove gave another throaty coo from its unseen perch outside, but within the small room of the cottage, all was quiet. Serena pivoted her head slowly, allowing her gaze to scan her surroundings, looking for him.
Save for her mother and herself, the cottage was empty.
There was no trace of the stranger who had invaded their home and tormented her sleep. He was gone, as was his clothing, which had been left to dry near the hearth. Randwulf the intruder was nowhere to be seen. A tentative peace settled over her as she took in his absence from the small abode.
Gingerly, Serena rose from the pallet where her mother slept and padded to the cottage window. She raised her gloved hand to push open the wooden shutters, parting them just enough to afford a view of the grounds beyond the cottage. Serena peered out at the muted light of the new morning, searching for movement among the trees or on the forest path. Nothing. The breath she had been holding leaked out of her in a quiet sigh of relief.
Had she dreamed him there last night? It seemed too much to hope, but the simple fact that he was gone now was reason enough to rejoice.
Her cloak hung on a peg on the wall. Serena retrieved it, then wrapped the soft homespun around her shoulders and quickly fastened the knotted riband ties at her neck. She crossed the room and took the water bucket from next to the fireplace, relieved to go about her usual morning routine undisturbed by the presence of a domineering, unwanted guest.
With the empty pail slung over her arm by its leather handle, Serena stepped outside. Her bare foot had scarcely touched the cool earth of the wooded trail before she heard someone approaching from the area of the beach. Purposeful steps, wrathful and brooding. She hesitated, knowing at once who was there, but uncertain what to do. She pivoted to go back inside.
"Serena," he said, not quite a greeting or command. "You are awake early."
When she did not reply, when she stood there unmoving, her eyes shut tight as if to will him away, Rand
drew nearer. He stood behind her, so close he could easily place his hand on her shoulder and turn her about to face him did he wish it. Serena pivoted to avoid such an impulse in him, backing no less than two paces out of his reach.
"I thought you had gone," she said, voicing her thoughts aloud.
"Thought or hoped?"
Serena swallowed, staring up into hawkish eyes of unreadable, muted brown. "Both."
One dark brow lifted at her reply, but he said nothing more. In the misty light of dawn, his face seemed less harsh than it had in the shadows of last night's hearthfire. But his bearded jaw had lost none of its steely set, nor had the firm line of his mouth lost any of its grimness. His gaze settled on the bucket Serena clutched before her, then lifted to her in question.
"I was on my way to the well for water," she said, answering the demand that surely would have followed an instant later.
"And your mother?"
"She is yet abed, sleeping."
He glanced to the quiet cottage, as if measuring the truth in her statement. "Very well," he said after a moment. "Fetch your water. You can show me where it is."
Serena drew in a breath, nary a heartbeat away from refusing his order, but she bit back the urge to gainsay him. She wanted no conflict with this dangerous man, and it was clear from his unwavering look that he would not take no for an answer. He stretched out his arm, prompting her to walk ahead and onto the path. Serena complied. She trod the narrow track of earth several paces in front of him, unable to ignore the heavy fall of his feet. He was barefoot like her, but where she stepped carefully, avoiding tender flowers that had crept out from the edge of the forest vegetation to spill onto the path, Rand crushed them underfoot without a care for their destruction.
It rankled her somehow, his arrogant stride and dominating air. Stalking along behind her, he seemed to think she was his to command, that her woods were his domain now, merely because of his presence in them. In just a few hours, one short turning of a day, he had infiltrated her peaceful world like the very storm that had swept him ashore.
"Just how far is this well?" he asked when they had walked a fair distance from the cottage.
Serena answered without turning to face him. "We are nearly there."
She had deliberately taken him on the longer of two different routes. One cut an unmarked, cross-length line through the forest to a pool of clear fresh water--the path only she and her mother knew. This one meandered deep into the thicket, toward a secondary source that flowed from a lesser artery off the main well. The path had gotten less discernible this far into the woods. Behind her, Rand cursed, no doubt in contempt of the overgrown nettles and sharp stones hiding beneath the cover of summer greenery. Serena skirted them all with easy aplomb.
"This way," she said, veering off the trail and down a small incline.
She wasn't nearly as tall as he, and thus the low-hanging branches and prickly bramble was easier for her to avoid. She tried not to take overmuch satisfaction in the idea, navigating her way toward the small well yet obscured from untrained eyes.
She led him to the spot and paused as he glanced down at the thin slab of granite that rested in a bed of forest moss on the ground. The stone was old--ancient, according to her mother, likely first placed here by the original inhabitants of the glade. Hand-carved symbols had long ago faded into illegibility, the artistry eaten away by time and the elements. Serena had always wondered what message might have adorned the lid to the well; even spotted in lichen, the pattern bemused and intrigued her.
Contrarily, Rand gave the beauty of the carvings not even a scant appraisal.
"The water is under here?" he asked, crouching down, his big hands already gripping the edge of the round slab.
Serena nodded. Without preamble, he removed the lid and set it aside to peer into the deep pocket of crystal clear water. He bent forward to reach into it with one hand, then retrieved the wooden cup that bobbed on the surface of the well. Water spilled over the edges of the little vessel and down the length of his bare forearm.
"It smells good to drink. Is it safe?"
"Aye," Serena replied, her nose filling with the clean mineral scent of the spring-fed well. "My mother and I drink from this source every day."
He stared at her for a moment, then held the cup out to her. "Then drink."
He was testing her, she was certain of it. He did not credit her word, ready to confront and mistrust, even in this simple matter. But she spoke the truth when she declared the water to be safe. Serena took the dark wood cup from him and brought it to her lips. She was parched after her restless night, and the water was crisp and cool on her tongue. She drained the cup and placed it back in Rand's waiting hand. He smiled, a fleeting look of satisfaction, then dipped the cup back into the well and quenched his own thirst. Three times he filled and emptied it, drinking like he could never fill himself, heedless in his craving.
Serena stared at him mutely, watching rivulets of water spill down his chin and neck, and along the tanned planes of his chest. He wore the pendant around his neck, the heart-shaped knot of gold that had come unclasped when Serena found him on the shore. The precious yellow metal gleamed against his skin, its bright twinkle and delicately wrought pendant so incongruous on a man as hard and rough-hewn as him.
In her mother's fairy stories, Serena recalled, ladies often presented their champions with tokens of their affection--colorful scarves, ribbons, rings, and bows. She wondered if this golden heart had been a gift from a lady Rand had known. A lady who had held the angry, rage-filled man in high regard--perhaps even loved him? Serena knew little about him, admittedly, but it seemed beyond difficult to imagine this dangerous warrior needing any trifling remembrances as he set off on his adventures...or on the ominous mission that consumed him now.
Finally, panting, he'd taken his fill of fresh water. He wiped his forearm across his wet mouth and set down the cup. "Give me your bucket," he commanded her.
Serena did as her told her, setting the container down next to him and backing away to let him begin to fill it.
"I am glad to see that your token was not ruined after all."
He glanced down abruptly, to where the pendant swung against his bare chest. He dismissed her concern with a shrug. "The clasp is weak, but it will hold for now."
"It's lovely."
"It belongs to my wife."
"Oh." Serena weathered a peculiar twinge upon hearing he was wed, a curiosity that battled with abject surprise. He seemed such a remote man, it was difficult to imagine him in the company of others, let alone bound to a lady in wedlock. A lady far out of his reach, when his dread plans had carried him to the northern wilds of the realm. "Does she wait for you somewhere?"
He was quiet for a long moment, drawing water from the well and watching it pour into the bucket before him. "Yes, she awaits me. She and my young son both."
"A child?" Serena replied, warming to him in spite of herself. "How old is he? What is his name?"
"You ask a lot of questions."
"I'm just...curious. I don't mean to pry."
"Tod," he said after a moment, as he poured more water into the bucket. He glanced up at her, and Serena detected a note of tender regard in his hazel eyes. "My son's name is Tod. He was six this past winter."
"He must miss you terribly," she said, guessing at the separation that muted some of the warrior's harsh edges when he spoke of his family. "Have you been gone from them a long time?"
"Fifty-eight days." This answer came quickly, as though it sat at the fore of his thoughts. "I fear it will be a lifetime before I see them again."
"I'm sorry," Serena said, uncertain why she felt the need to offer her sympathy, yet unable to hold it back.
He gave her a look that indicated he had no use for gentle words. In truth, the rigid line of his mouth seemed almost contemptuous of kindness, rejecting it with a scowl as he turned back to his work at the well.
"You must have a good familiarity with this place,"
he said, more statement than question. "How large are these woods?"
"Half a day's walk in any direction, I should guess."
"You don't know for a fact?"
Serena shrugged. "I don't often test the boundaries. My family has lived in this forest for generations, in the very cottage my mother and I share today. There has seldom been cause to venture past the grove line."
"The grove line?"
"Aye," she said. "A perimeter of stones that was laid by my ancestors to mark the farthest edge of our land."
"And what of the village you mentioned--Egremont? To the north of the woods, you said?"
"That's right. It is the nearest town."
"How big is this Egremont? Who controls it?"
Serena shook her head. "I couldn't say. I do not know much about the place, for I have never been there."
"Never been there?" He exhaled a sharp breath, as though disbelieving. "Not even for supplies?"
"We want for nothing here. There has been no need to leave."
He continued ladling water up from the well to fill the bucket. "You and your mother are peculiar women, Serena." He slanted a measuring look at her. "I can't say I trust that about either one of you."
From what she knew of him thus far, Serena could find little to trust as well, but she stifled the urge to tell him so.
"If you would prefer Egremont to our meager quarters here, I'm certain it would be no trouble to pack up some water and food so you might make the trek posthaste."
He smiled now, a cynical baring of his teeth that said he knew precisely her meaning. "I understand you are eager to be rid of me. And like I told you last night, I will go, Serena, as soon as I am ready. But there also remains the matter of the property I lost on your beach."
At once she recalled his anger from the night before, when he had seized her and demanded to know what she did with an item missing from his satchel. "A cup of some sort?" she asked, trying to push past the blur of confusion his searing touch had caused. "You believe you had a cup in your bag when you washed ashore?"
Heart of the Dove Page 5
