Heart of the Dove

by Tina St. John

  Serena frowned, not entirely certain of her mother's implication yet sensing enough meaning there to cause a knot of worry in her stomach. "He is married, with a young son. He told me so. He adores them, and lives to be home with them again."

  Calandra paused in her work at the table, and turned a sober look on Serena. "He is a man, my child. His kind is accustomed to conquest and plunder--it is how they are raised. They take what they need, as we have already seen this man do since his arrival here."

  "He has been peaceable enough," Serena argued gently. "True, he has an arrogance about him, a ready combativeness, but I do not think he intends harm toward us."

  "There are many kinds of harm, child. You are beautiful, and I have seen his eye stray to you in notice more than it should. Marriage vows make flimsy bonds against a man's lusts."

  Serena barely restrained a disbelieving laugh. "Well, you needn't fear he likes what he sees. If he looks upon me, it is with disdain and impatience. Everything I do or say seems only to provoke him."

  "Desire needs but a single spark to alight. An innocent heart can fall to cinder in an instant."

  The hurt in her mother's eyes, the pain she carried in her heart, had been there as long as Serena could remember. It was, she knew, put there by her father when he had abandoned his wife and the children she bore him--Serena and an older brother and sister, who both died while Serena was just a babe. Her mother never spoke of the man who sired her children, or of the siblings Serena had lost. Of her brother and sister, Serena knew little more than how they perished and that both had been gifted with the Knowing, as Serena was.

  Serena was all that was left of Calandra's kin. Death seemed too much for her mother to bear. The past seemed too painful for Calandra to relive, and so she refused to speak of old hurts or the people who had once been a part of her life. It was only in times of distress that Calandra even hinted at what had come before.

  Serena crossed the small room and enveloped herself in her mother's waiting embrace. "I'm sorry," she whispered, feeling the squeezing clench of loss as she briefly stroked her gloved fingers across her mother's back. "I'm sorry for bringing this upon us. It is all my fault that he is here to cause you this strain."

  "No." Calandra released her and gently withdrew, sparing Serena before the Knowing could awaken fully and bring her any pain. "Do not blame yourself. This day was coming, I should have prepared better."

  "Prepared for what?"

  Serena stared into her mother's clear blue eyes, marveling at the wisdom there, at the ageless beauty of her face beneath the fall of long silver-white hair. "We cannot stay here, child. Not anymore. He is the first to find us, but there will be more. We have to leave--"

  "Leave?"

  "Aye. We have to run, find someplace to hide before others like him come to the glade."

  Serena exhaled sharply, disbelieving what she was hearing. "This is our home. Why would we flee it? How can you even think to abandon all we have here, Mother?"

  "You touched him--you looked into his heart. I saw what that did to you, Serena. You may not have not told me what acrid thoughts came with the Knowing, but I am your mother. I can guess at the terrible blackness that left you senseless and drained of all strength the night he came here. You cannot tell me that you do not understand the danger this man brings."

  No, she could not deny that understanding. The feeling was still with her, although fading, an echo now. Standing there, wanting to assuage her mother's rightful fears, Serena tried to shut out even that lingering trace of Rand's fury and bloodlust. But the Knowing would not obey her whims. It only beat stronger when she sought to deny it, rising up as though summoned instead of accepting the bar she attempted to place before it. Stirring now, the strange gift that was also her curse brought her a deeper awareness, plunging her senses further into the torment of Rand's vengeful heart.

  She bore the pain of it, forcing a placid look onto her face for her mother's sake alone.

  "I do not think he means to harm us. He is angry, yes, and dangerous. He is consumed with a deadly hatred...but his wrath is reserved for someone else."

  "For now," Calandra said, her expression grim. "But for how long?"

  "We cannot run in fear of the unknown. We cannot leave our home--"

  Serena's words were cut short, her plea broken by the sudden crash of the cottage door. The oak panel banged open on its hinges, smashing against the abode's inner wall like a thunderclap. Serena whirled around at the startling disruption. She felt the color drain from her face when her eyes lit on the feral look snapping in Rand's dark eyes.

  "Neither of you are going anywhere," he snarled, anger radiating from all around him in almost palpable waves, the dangerous force of it filling the space of the open door. In his fist was a muddied scrap of linen. He gripped it so fiercely, his knuckles had gone white. "Where is it?"

  Somehow, Serena managed to find her voice. "Where is...what?"

  He stalked inside the cottage, his mouth tight, his gaze lashing her with ferocity. "The cup, damn it! The golden cup that was wrapped in this cloth. I will give you precisely one chance to tell me true, woman."

  Serena swallowed hard, her gaze rooted to his as he closed the distance between them.

  "One chance," he warned in a voice that was too collected, too lethally schooled to be trusted. Without warning, he smashed his fist down onto the table beside her, instantly shattering any illusion of calm. "Now, damn it. Where the hell is it?"

  Chapter 7

  Serena's face was ashen as he bore down on her in anger, but she met his accusation with nary a tremor in her voice.

  "I've no idea--how many times must I say it? If my mother or I knew anything about this, we'd not keep it from you."

  Rand scoffed at her denial. He felt his nostrils flare, his fists tremble with the depth of his rage. Serena flinched as he threw aside the muddied scrap of linen and faced her down, crowding her against the table that neatly barred her from escape. She blinked up at him in wary silence, but she did not cower. Indeed, a certain resolve seemed to find its way into her spine, bringing her up a little straighter.

  Her defiance only served to anger him more.

  "Tell me, Serena. What have you done with the cup? It did not wash away in the storm as you would have me believe. Do not try to deny it when the evidence is here in my hand."

  "I swear to you, the satchel was empty when I found you on the beach. I've never seen the cup you speak of."

  As she spoke, her mother moved ever so subtly from where she stood, her arm reaching out toward the surface of the table. A paring knife rested near a pile of chopped vegetables. Rand kept his gaze on Serena, but he raised one hand and pointed a knowing finger at her mother.

  "Madam, I would not. I promise, it would end badly for you."

  "Please, hear me out!" Serena interjected, an obvious attempt to draw his ire away from her mother. "I know this cup was of great worth to you--"

  "You do not know the half of it," he said, vicious in his tone and careless of it when his blood was boiling, his pulse thundering in his temples. "I told you, lady--one chance. You've spent it."

  He pushed her out of his path, none too gently, ignoring her small cry as his hands came down on her shoulders in brief contact. At that scant touch, she drew in a pained breath, no doubt looking to appeal to his mercy with a show of overdone frailty. But Rand had no sympathy in that moment, not when it seemed clear she was deceiving him, even in her reaction to his fleeting touch. He stalked past her, upturning the table. The little knife and vegetables rained onto the floor. Serena said nothing, only watched him with clear eyes, while her mother gasped and fretted, shuffling out of Rand's path to be closer to her daughter.

  Rand stepped through the mess he had made, kicking over a stool that sat in his way.

  God's blood, but he would tear the place apart, rout out every corner, if it meant recovering the crucial portion of the Dragon Chalice.

  "Where is it?" he demanded, to anx
ious silence at his back. "Where have you put it?"

  Where, indeed? There could be many ways to conceal a small treasure like the one he sought: in any of the three clothing and linen coffers; beneath the lumpy pallet or bolster against the far wall; in the bottom of the large urn near the door, recently filled with fresh cut flowers.

  "Is it here?" he asked, heading for the wooden chest nearest him.

  When neither woman answered, he squatted down and threw open the casket lid. He dug through the neatly folded stack of homespun bliauts and aprons, tossing all of it to the floor. He found nothing but cloth secreted within the coffer. He stood up, cursed, then stalked to the meager bed where Serena and her mother had slept the nights since his arrival. The pallet mattress was rumpled and uneven. Rand reached out to take the edge of it in hand, then flipped it up to expose the earthen floor beneath.

  Dust and a spattering of fine down feathers rose in the disturbed rush of air. But beyond that, nothing.

  "We are hiding naught from you!" Serena insisted. "You can turn our home on end but it will make no difference."

  "So you say," he bit back acidly.

  With a scowl, he went to the door and seized the bunch of flowers from the earthenware urn. Water dripped from the long stems, but there was nothing more contained in the bottom of the vessel.

  Damnation.

  His patience, thin as it was, had nearly reached its end. He spun around, surprised to find Serena just a few paces away from him.

  "Please...Rand," she said, as always, the unexpected sound of his name on her tongue giving him slight pause. She dared to take another step toward him now. Her expression was one of openness, yet her arms were crossed protectively over her chest. "We do not have anything of yours. You must believe me--"

  She sounded so earnest, but the seeming sincerity of her plea was smashed to bits by the full force of his anger. Without the Dragon Chalice, he had nothing. His plans for vengeance were slipping through his fingers; his pledge to avenge his wife and child was fading with every moment the treasure remained out of his grasp.

  "I must take you at your word, then?"

  "What more do you need? I've given you only truth since you have been here."

  Rand turned away from her unsettling sea-green eyes and exhaled an oath. His gaze rooted on a shelf near the fireplace, lined with a row of deep bowls and assorted serving vessels. "I will believe you only after I have searched every last measure of this place to my satisfaction. Until then, lady, keep your lies."

  "My daughter does not lie!" As predictable as the tide, Serena's mother rushed to her defense. Wisely leaving the little knife where it lay on the floor, she railed at Rand with snapping eyes and shaking, fisted hands. "She is incapable of speaking untruths! If my daughter tells you she knows not where your trinket is, then that is fact, sirrah."

  Rand could scarcely curb the rage that was lashing within him. "Do you think me a fool? She was the one who found me on the beach. It was her face before me when I woke--an instant before she refused me help, then left me to die in the surf."

  "Because we knew you were wicked!" Calandra cried. "We knew you would bring your violence to our door!"

  Rand spared the old woman and her fervent protests not so much as a glance. He stood before the shelf of crockery, fury seething like a tempest in his blood. Already he had lost precious time--more than two weeks since he had set out from Glastonbury with his dubious prize, and another several days spent recuperating in this remote English forest. De Mortaine and his minions were no doubt getting closer to the last of the Chalice stones while he was crashing about like a blind man, searching for something he might never find.

  But he had not lost the cup at sea. He could not have let it go. The memory of clutching the satchel, of sacrificing the weight of his sword for that of the cup in his bag was still fresh in his mind. He did have the satchel when he washed ashore, and it was not empty as Serena would have him believe. The cast-off scrap of linen was proof enough of that.

  Nay. If the treasure was indeed lost, then he would have to accept that he'd also lost this fight before it had even begun.

  Rand refused to permit the thought.

  Elspeth and Tod will not have died for nothing. He had sworn his soul on that pledge. He would not forsake his promise to them without a fight...to his last breath, if that was what it took. His fragile wife and innocent child had depended on him, but he had failed them in life.

  By nails and blood, he would not fail them in death.

  The vow rang in his head, louder than thunder, louder than the sudden crash of earthenware pots and bowls falling onto the hard floor of the cottage as he swept the lot of them off the shelf with one pass of his arm. Vaguely, he heard female screams behind him.

  "Stop!" one of them cried. "Why must you destroy our home? We've done you no harm! What do you want from us?"

  He heard the fear and distress in the voice, but in his mind--in his heart--he was hearing someone else's pain.

  Elspeth.

  It was her terror that pierced his head. It drove deep inside of him, hot as a brand, a searing wound. He saw thick smoke choking the circular stairwell of his keep. He felt soot clinging to his throat and lungs, floating ash scorching his vision. His sword was cold steel in his hand. There hadn't been time to dress; the raiders had broken in under the dead of night, setting fire to the small castle and its few outbuildings. They had come on simple orders: retrieve the key, and leave no one at Greycliff living.

  Garbed in naught but braies, armed with one sword against half a dozen shapeshifting guards, Rand had gone down ready to meet the enemy.

  Elspeth had tried to stop him, begging him not to go, not to leave her behind. She had grabbed his arm, wrapped her arms around his neck, sobbing and hysterical with fear and the delirium of the herbs she had consumed earlier that day. He had shaken her off with a shouted curse, the last words they would exchange. She pounded his chest then, her small fists thudding against his heart, a furious tattoo that he could feel on his bare skin, even now.

  Rand heard the crunch of pottery shards underfoot and immediately snapped back from the ugly remembrance of the raid on his demesne. Elspeth's terrified face was fading, her hysterical screams--her condemning words to him--now dimming.

  But the pounding he felt on his chest was very real. Angry blows delivered by Serena. She was weeping quietly, sorrow trailing down her fine-boned cheeks. Her gloved hands slowed their assault on him as if she could lift them no more, as if the intensity of her emotion had drained her of all strength.

  "Serena," her mother called from across the room. "Stop, child! You mustn't touch him. You know what it will do to you..."

  But it was too late. Rand stared down into a face of such clarity and understanding, it nearly robbed him of his breath. Her crystalline eyes glittered with tears, an outpouring of anguish he instinctively knew--one he felt, inexplicably, that he shared.

  "They're dead," she murmured. "Sweet mercy, they slaughtered them both."

  "What are you talking about?" Rand demanded, his anger over the missing cup swallowed up by this queer revelation. "What are you saying?"

  "Your wife...your son, just past his sixth year...both of them gone."

  Something cold clenched Rand's insides. "How do you know this?"

  "Fire," she whispered. "So much smoke. I cannot see them...but--oh, mercy!" Her trembling hands came up to frame her face, her gloved fingers covering her ears. Her gaze was queerly unfocused. "They are both screaming. Screaming and crying and then...no."

  "Cease," he commanded her, stunned and bewildered. "What is this game you play?"

  But she would not--or did not--hear him. "It is too quiet now," she said, panic rising in her tight whispering voice. "I cannot hear them anymore...cannot see them..."

  "Enough." Rand took Serena's shoulders in a bruising grip, astonished beyond comprehension at what he was hearing--words that seemed torn from his own memory, from his own heart. "Damn it, woman! How can
you know this? Were you there?" He shook her, trying to find sense in her words, to shake loose the truth of her incredible account of the raid. "How the hell can you know what happened that night?"

  "Let her be, I beg you!" It was her mother's voice that answered him, her hands clasped in supplication as she rushed forward and beseeched him to release her daughter. "She cannot hear you--she is too deep in the Knowing. Release her, please. You only make it worse with your touch."

  "Nothing left," Serena murmured. Rand's grasp had loosened only slightly, but she shrank out of it, still adrift in that unfathomable fog. Her eyes were open, wide yet unseeing, Rand was certain. She looked straight at him--verily, straight through him, for he felt the penetration of her sightless gaze like a sorcerer's blade, cleaving his secrets wide open. "They are gone, couldn't save them. There is nothing left, only ash...only pain..."

  "God's bones," Rand cursed, disbelieving, yet unable to deny what he was hearing. "The both of you truly are bedeviled, aren't you? This is madness--"

  "Not madness, but a gift," her mother insisted. "You couldn't understand. No one would."

  "Witchery," he said, latching onto the only explanation that made sense.

  The woman's white hair tossed in a cloud of fervent denial. "No!"

  "What else can it be?" Rand replied.

  He easily recalled another sorcerer's gift he had witnessed--that of the shapeshifters, who pledged their service to Silas de Mortaine. The very beasts that slew his family amid the smoke and destruction that Serena had just described. The vision, if that's what it was, still gripped her. Tears streaked down her face from eyes that were squeezed shut as if to block the images from her mind. She was panting, speaking low under her breath...pleading for mercy as Rand himself had done all those nights ago.

  Now he swore, his throat raw with memory relived through Serena's uncanny understanding.