by Lisa Jackson
“Stop! Jezebel! Call not your demons!”
And yet her words would not stop, the prayers of the old ones springing from her lips.
“Nay!” the dark horseman cried, enraged at her calm, her inner peace. He wanted to see her fear, to feel her terror. He received no satisfaction from her serenity. “Tell me, witch!”
Through her fluid chant she felt his vexation swell, sensed the growing fear that he couldn’t hide.
“Curse you, Hallyd, and may your darkest fears be known.” Her eyes opened and she stared into the mask of rage upon his face. “Your black soul shall be condemned for all eternity and you shall live in darkness forever, the pain of day too much to bear. From this day forward you will become a creature of the night.” She saw it then—the fear, causing the pupils of his eyes to dilate to holes dark as the blackest dungeon, black swirls that would never shrink. His would be a blindness not only of the soul but of all daylight. And he would be marked, the very ring of color of one of his eyes turning to a pale gray.
Roiling with fury, he curled his fingers into fists until every knuckle turned white.
But she would not be deterred. “Go back to the bowels of hell from whence you were spawned,” she said, staring into his black eyes, dark mirrors that reflected her own image.
“Tell me where the dagger is,” he railed. “Tell me, whore!” Enraged, he struck, his fist slamming into her face.
Her nose splintered. Blood sprayed over the earth, yet she didn’t flinch.
When he saw she was unmoved, he said, “So be it. You are to die, now. Do you hear me, whore? You cannot be saved. Go thee to Satan!” He shook her and more blood spewed from her body, streaking his white collar red, speckling his chin.
Jaw clenched, his pulse pounding at his temple, he reached into the voluminous folds of his robe and withdrew a sharp-edged rock.
In that instant, still chanting, she closed her eyes again and gave herself over to the Great Mother. In a heartbeat, she felt her spirit rise into the tempest of clouds. As she looked down, far below, she spied her body standing defiantly upon the jagged cliff, her skirts billowing. She watched from above as he hurled the stone with a fury born of fear. The rock crashed hard against her face, splintering her jaw, slicing her pale skin. Blood sprayed upon the ground as she stumbled back. Another stone smashed against her forehead and she fell, the group of men upon her, demons dressed in black pounding at her flesh.
There was no pain.
Only peace.
Her child, Kambria knew, was safe.
And vengeance would be hers.
CHAPTER ONE
North Wales
February 1289
On hands and knees, Gavyn slid through the undergrowth, moving stealthily, praying dusk would come quickly. His pursuers were nearby, ever closer. He heard the snort of their horses, the rumble of the great steeds’ hooves, smelled their horsehide and sweat. Above all else, he sensed the eyes of his pursuers scouring the woods, searching. Always searching. For him.
But he heard no dogs. No furry sentinels ready to bay to the heavens upon smelling his scent. For that alone he was grateful.
His body ached from the beating, and he knew, if he were to look into a mirror, he would see bruises and welts crisscrossing his skin. They came to him compliments of Craddock, the sheriff of Agendor, a ruthless son of a cur if ever there was one.
And now a dead man.
Gavyn had no time to think of that now. He would not let his mind wander to the fight, the battering of flesh, the smell of sweat or the oaths of fury. He refused to revisit the crack of bone as it shattered and Craddock fell, his head twisted at a horrid angle upon his broken neck.
Fingers digging into the wet earth, he dragged himself beneath the bracken and scrub brush, hoping the shadows of the massive yew and oak trees would hide him as he crept toward the edge of the cliff, where a narrow path cut down the sheer face. No sane man nor intelligent beast would follow, and ’twas all he had, his only way of escape.
Jaw set, he edged toward the ridge where the switchback was perilous, but it was safer than risking close proximity to the Lord of Agendor.
“Hey! What’s this?” a man shouted.
Gavyn froze.
Held his breath and dared not move a muscle.
“What?”
“I thought I saw something in the . . . Ach, ’twas only a skunk.”
A horse neighed in distress and the stench of a skunk’s defenses seeped through the ivy and ferns. Gavyn’s eyes began to water.
“Aye, Seamus. What did ye do? Christ Jesus, that stinks! Oh, fer the love of God.”
“Holy Jesus!” one man cried while another coughed from somewhere close, though he was hidden in the gloom.
Maintaining silence, Gavyn watched the offending skunk waddle quickly into the shadows of a fallen log.
“Shh!” An order.
Gavyn’s heart stilled as the putrid smell settled over the area. He knew his father’s hiss as surely as if he’d grown up with the snake, though of course he’d never set foot in the Lord of Agendor’s keep and had, instead, been raised by one of the old man’s mistresses. He forced back the bile in his throat, for the hatred between them was strong.
“He’s near.” His father’s voice again.
That much was true. Through the dense foliage Gavyn noticed the shadowy outline of a horse’s legs, close enough that were he to reach forward, he could touch the beast and startle it. ’Twas his father’s mount, a stallion with one odd stocking. Gavyn’s heart knocked in his chest at the thought of being mere inches from the man who had sired him, the baron who detested him, the goddamned warrior who wanted him dead.
“Eww, but, m’lord, the smell.”
“ ’Twill not kill you, Badden,” Deverill said impatiently as several men farther away coughed but were smart enough not to argue. Badden, his father’s guard, was a big, burly man who wasn’t afraid to say what he thought, though he’d felt the back of Deverill’s hand or the insidious ridicule from his lord more often than not.
Gavyn took in a quick, hideously smelling breath.
The horse shifted, kicking up dry leaves and dirt as it turned, bridle jangling in the ever-darkening air. Were Gavyn to look up, he was certain he would find the angry countenance of his father, so like his own, glaring at the darkness, defying the night from falling so that he could finish his task.
“Damn but it’s dark,” Deverill admitted. “Find him! Find the murderer, now!”
“Leith should be back soon, with the dogs and fresh torches.” Again Badden had the nerve and lack of brains to speak up.
Gavyn’s heart turned to ice. Fear crawled up his spine. His father’s hunting mastiffs were trained to be vicious. Weighing his chances, he heard the first distant bays of the huge dogs with their long fangs.
He had no choice but to edge closer to the cliff and risk detection. With one eye on the white stocking of his father’s steed, he inched forward noiselessly. Jaw set, body screaming in pain, he dragged himself upward through the twilight and stench.
As he did, a dry leaf rustled and the horse flinched.
Gavyn didn’t dare breathe.
“Shh,” the lord hissed again.
And the air grew quiet, as still as a dead man’s heart.
And then the horses began to move, to circle. Gavyn knew that the Baron of Agendor had motioned to his men without a word, silently instructing them to entrap him.
He had to move. Even if it risked exposure.
Squinting into the darkness, he spied the large split trunk of an oak that stood at the head of the path.
Now.
On his feet in an instant, Gavyn threw himself toward the cliff and the treacherous path that zigzagged down to the canyon floor.
“There,” Badden shouted. “Over there!”
Phhhht. An arrow zipped by his ear.
He dove.
Ssst. Another deadly missile passed him in the gathering dark.
His feet found
the end of the path, dirt crumbling beneath his boots.
“Traitor,” his father roared.
A hissing sound . . . and suddenly he was propelled forward by a burning pain that struck his shoulder. He spun around just in time to see, in the shadows, the Lord of Agendor’s bow raised, evidence that it was he who had found his mark.
Was that a smile that curved across his lips?
It was too dark to tell. In a heartbeat, Gavyn fell into the yawning darkness of the ravine.
Isa’s death had been the beginning, Bryanna thought as she rode beneath the portcullis of Castle Calon’s gate, leaving the keep that had become her home in the past few months. When she’d first traveled through these gates, Bryanna had never anticipated the odd turn of events that would take the life of the woman who’d nearly raised her . . . or the haunting strains of Isa’s voice thrumming through her head.
Bryanna had been born and raised in Penbrooke with four siblings: brothers Tadd and Kelan, and sisters Morwenna and Daylynn. Upon the death of their father, Alwynn, Kelan had ascended to the barony at Penbrooke, but Castle Calon, still in his holdings, became a keep without a lord. At first many had looked to Tadd, who was off fighting for the king. But young, reckless Tadd was hardly ready to rule a keep.
Then Bryanna’s older sister, Morwenna, had dared to defy convention. She’d insisted she was capable of running Calon, and their brother had grudgingly given her the chance. Bryanna had journeyed there to be with her older sister, a headstrong woman with ebony hair, so different from Bryanna. Through a recent spate of murders at Calon, Morwenna had proven to be a brave, insightful lady of the keep. That came as no surprise to Bryanna. However, no one had anticipated that Morwenna would find true love at Calon and marry. Now she and her husband shared the rule.
And now Isa was dead, one of the victims of the terror that had besieged Calon. Her violent end was the point when the madness had really begun. When she’d visited the nurse-maid—poor Isa, dead and cold, her eyes staring sightlessly toward the dark rafters—Bryanna had heard her nursemaid’s voice. As clear as rainwater rushing through the gutters, the old woman’s voice had flowed, instructing Bryanna, and she had listened.
I will be with you always, Isa’s spirit had insisted. You alone, of all your siblings, have the sight. Trust me and I will teach you. You, Bryanna of Penbrooke, will be called Sorceress.
Now, nary a fortnight later, Bryanna, upon her fleet mare, thought there was a good chance she was making the biggest mistake of her life. And that was not an idle musing. In her sixteen years she’d erred often and had just as often been caught up in her foolishness. But this—riding away from the warmth and safety of Castle Calon—seemed suddenly rash and foolish, and she had to wonder if she were truly going mad.
If the vision had not been so real, the images so strong, the voice inside her head so loud, she might have pushed thoughts of this journey aside, but she could not. And then there were the dreams that had been with her since childhood, dreams of gems raining from a night sky, dreams laced with that hauntingly familiar chant:
An opal for the northern point,
An emerald for the east,
A topaz for the southern tip,
A ruby for the west.
She’d never understood the words until now. . . .
“God help me,” she whispered under her breath as a cold winter wind bit at her nose and earlobes. Alabaster’s hooves dug into the hard-packed road, carrying her off on this truly mad journey.
Her sister’s voice caught up with her, chillingly echoing her own desperate prayer. “Bryanna, God be with you,” Morwenna called, her voice floating high on the brisk winter wind.
From astride her horse Bryanna forced a smile upon her cold lips and glanced over her shoulder to wave at Morwenna with one gloved hand, all the while holding the reins in a death grip. She spied her tall, dark-haired sister and the man she’d married. Bryanna’s heart tore a little at the sight of him, taller than his wife, his shoulders strong and wide, his near-black hair falling over a strong forehead and eyes as blue as a summer sky. Dear God, do not let me want him. Please. Do not. But it was already too late for prayer. She was half in love with him already.
Foolish, foolish girl.
After a quick look ahead, she glanced back again to spy the thick stone walls of Castle Calon rising behind Morwenna and her new husband. Although the heavy gates were clogged with the traffic of peasants, servants, and peddlers leaving and entering, Bryanna’s gaze was held by the sight of this man at her sister’s side.
So strong.
So masculine.
So disturbing.
He stood at his wife’s side, one strong arm wrapped protectively around Morwenna’s waist.
How had she let herself grow so close to him when he was so obviously in love with Morwenna? Why did she ache just at the thought of him, long for the feel of his hand in her hair, his lips brushing her cheek? Sweet Mother Mary, how could she be so vile, so despicable as to actually lust after her sister’s husband? Bryanna’s stomach turned at the thought and she silently vowed that no one would ever know her secret. She would take it with her to her grave.
“Godspeed, sister!” As he stood at the castle gates, his voice rose over the hills and sliced straight through Bryanna’s black heart.
Sister. He thought of Bryanna as one of his wife’s siblings, nothing more.
Of course he does. He’s in love with his wife. His wife, Bryanna. You are a wicked woman to want it any other way. Maybe, just maybe, those voices in your head, the ones that insist you’re a witch, maybe they’re true. Maybe your heart is as black as obsidian.
Her throat was suddenly thick. Envy slid through her blood and Bryanna hated herself for her wayward thoughts.
Despite the warring emotions burning through her obviously damned soul, she pretended all was as it should be, that she was embarking upon a great adventure and would soon return safely. She gave a final wave and blinked back the tears of regret that burned her eyes.
Urging her jennet to a quicker pace, she felt the mare, Alabaster, a gift from her sister, respond by flattening out, ground-eating strides ever lengthening. Bryanna pushed all thoughts of Calon and Morwenna and him out of her head. With resolve, she turned in her saddle and faced forward, her eyes focused on the frozen road leading north, though she knew it would not be an easy path. The wind whistled in her ears and tugged at her hair as the sturdy stone walls of Calon faded behind her.
Away from her sister.
Away from Calon.
Away from him.
And into the unknown.
For, according to a voice as clear as a night bell, the voice of a woman already in her grave, north was where her destiny lay.
If she could believe such rot.
Sixteen years.
Cursed for sixteen long, unforgiving years since he’d stoned the witch to death and seen her spirit rise to mock him. Sixteen years spent enduring the bloody curse that had been a weight upon his back. ’Twas as if he’d been living in uffern, his own private hell.
And yet he’d survived.
Hallyd’s fingers curled into tight fists as he stood upon the battlements of Chwarel and stared into the thick night. He was alone, the guard for the east wall asleep at his post in the tower. A lazy one was Afal, with bad teeth and a penchant for ale. Yet, the man was loyal, and that trait, above all others, secured his job.
Frowning, Hallyd looked to the south, from whence she was riding. He felt his blood stir with a fever reminiscent of his youth. With the passing of years he was no longer young, no longer hotheaded or so easily enraged. With the passing of time came patience, strength, and stamina, honed by a conviction so deep it filled his soul.
And now, at last, the time had come.
His dreams of the dagger had not faded and his ambitions, as double-edged as the blade, would serve two purposes: to cast off the black spell and absorb the vast power of the Sacred Dagger.
She was approaching.
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Bryanna.
Daughter of the witch.
Squinting through the crenels of the thick curtain wall, he noticed the rising fog and heard the sound of distant hoofbeats, their steady rhythm echoing through his brain like a heartbeat.
She was drawing near, her horse galloping toward him.
Quicksilver warmth fired his blood and he licked his lips. His nostrils flared and he swore he smelled her scent on the slow-moving wind. Fresh and touched with lavender and musk, it rose to greet him, to cause a hardening of his cock, to burn erotic images deep into his brain.
The winter wind was harsh, an icy blast promising more snow as it chased away the fog. His lips were chapped as he licked them again and thought of her with her alabaster skin, eyes as clear and sharp as cut emeralds. She was the one.
He smiled to himself and dared to touch his thickening member. Oh, what he would do to her. He’d waited so long and now, soon . . . so very soon . . . he would have his way with her. He imagined first touching her firm, yielding flesh, then considered how it would feel to scrape his teeth and tongue down her back to her buttocks, where he would nip at her before turning her over and finding her breasts. She would buck up to him, wanting more, panting, snarling as he grazed her nipple with his teeth. Crying out, she would feel the first hint of his punishment when he drew a little blood before he spread her legs and forced himself into her.
Then there was the rutting. Hard. Fast. As animals. In his mind’s eye he envisioned her backside, moving beneath him, his thumbs nearly touching as his hands spanned her waist, his cock pummeling her hot wetness. And then, that one moment when the Fates crossed paths and he spilled his seed deep into her. He would toss back his head and scream in ecstasy with the effort, claiming her as his.
Rightfully his.
But that would not be the end of it. Oh no. He would take her again and again, until she was gasping and spent. And then, by God, he’d take her again. She would learn what it meant to be a slave to unholy desire. Just as he had.
