by Lisa Jackson
“Then I would think he should be knighted rather than hanged.”
“Mmm,” the woman said as the scraping continued. “Mayhap. But look at him. His face . . . by the saints, I doubt he will ever look himself. His nose is broke, one cheek shattered. His eye, there. If he can see out of it, ’twill be a miracle. He might’ve been handsome once, but will be no longer.”
Good, Gavyn thought, for then he would never be recognized. Though the pain scraped down his muscles and bones, he risked raising an eyelid just a fraction, so that he was peering through the brush of his eyelashes. Although the light in the hut was dim, it still hurt his eyes, but he was determined to get a glimpse of his saviors or captors. Vala was right; his vision was blurred, but he could make out shadows and light. Concentrating hard, he took in a woman seated at a table of sorts, her back to him, long dark hair braided so that it snaked to her waist. Vala was a scrawny thing, her plain tunic sagging from her body.
A man sat across from her, his feet stretched out toward a glowing fire. Chickens scratched across the dirt floor, and from the sounds of heavy breathing, a cow was trapped on the far side of the room, behind him, though he dared not twist his head to see.
“There is talk that the sheriff’s killer is to be ransomed,” she said, and Gavyn saw from her actions that she was sharpening a blade.
The man pulled at the graying strands of his beard, scratching his chin. “I like not to do business with Lord Deverill. The less he knows of us, wife, the better.”
“Money is money, whether it comes from a rich man or a pauper.”
“Blood money,” the man muttered.
“Money we need, Dougal, bloody though it may be. Money we need.” Her narrow back stiffened, and though she was but half her husband’s size, ’twas evident she was the one who ruled this home. Gavyn sensed that, if there were money involved, this woman would see him returned to his father.
“And so that’s it, is it, Vala?” Dougal said. “’Tis money that keeps you at his bedside. All this while I thought it might be because he’s a handsome devil.” He was smiling, teasing her.
“ ’Tis no joke,” she said, lifting the big knife and pointing it across the table to wiggle at her husband’s nose. “Finding this murderer in the ravine was a sign from God, that it was. We are to do the right thing, Dougal, and return him to the baron’s justice.”
“Then why nurse him to health?” Dougal’s smile had faded.
“Because any fool knows that a wanted man is worth far more alive than dead. This way, the lord can mete out his own punishment, make a display of him, show the people of his keep that he’s just and fair but will accept no man’s treachery, not even his own son’s.”
Dougal’s gaze shot to Gavyn. “He’s the baron’s son?”
“Bastard,” she said, a little glee in her voice over gossip of the highest order. “Born by a peasant woman from Tarth . . . some say a witch.”
“Christ Jesus.”
“And that’s not all.” Though Gavyn had no view of her face, he heard the smile of satisfaction in her words. “Rumor has it the boy’s mother was murdered by Deverill’s own men.”
“What?”
“Aye. Seems the Lord of Agendor planted his bastard seed in the woman from Tarth, sending the Lady of Agendor into a jealous fury, barren that she is.”
Gavyn didn’t so much as breathe. How dared this wench spread such rot about his mother? His mother, a seamstress from the north, had been a good woman, far too loyal for her horrific fate.
“What do I care of a scandal in Tarth, far to the north?” Dougal sputtered. “And ’twould not surprise me if the woman was slain at Deverill’s hands. Best steer clear of anything involving the Lord of Agendor.”
“Too late for that, with his bastard son under our roof. Leave it to me. Deverill will pay dearly to have his troublesome son in hand.”
“I don’t know . . . ,” the husband said nervously.
“Leave it to me. This one is a wanted man. I haven’t been caring for him for naught. Before we let him go, he’ll fetch us a few pieces of silver.”
’Twas morning. From the darkness of his chamber at Chwarel, Hallyd heard the cock crow once, twice, thrice . . . and then silence. There was movement in the keep, the ordinary morning sounds of shuffling feet and murmurings, even the damned dogs barking. Soon the bells of morn would ring in the chapel—a hollow peal that he detested each dawn and dusk, for it reminded him of the days when he’d portrayed himself as a man of God, a believer in the holy faith. It had been a sham, of course, one of the many falsehoods of his life. In the past sixteen years, as he’d been kept an unchained prisoner in his own castle, Hallyd had moments of regret.
He threw on a tunic and laced up his breeches, refusing to wait for the servant who would soon appear at his door with an irritating cheeriness that was like a rash on his skin. Was the man a moron? Always talking of what a great day it was to be, how busy he was, how interesting was this castle.
’Twas rot, and nothing more, Hallyd thought as he tugged on his own boots and remembered all too clearly why he’d been so punished, nearly blinded.
He’d been young and his ardor had run hot and rash. Mistakenly he’d thought he could force a witch’s hand. Now, he knew, he first had to use trickery to gain what he wanted. Magick . . . the dark seduction his father had mastered. Fortunately, Vannora, the old one, had taught him well over the years, and he’d slowly shed his facade of godliness in favor of a darker visage.
Vannora’s arts were of the most sinister form, the power she bestowed upon him a gift for so willingly giving up his soul.
She had arrived at his keep soon after he’d lost his battle with Kambria, and it was Vannora who had advised him ever since. She had become his mentor, his guide, and though he followed her counsel, he did not completely trust her. No doubt, she held on to some secrets, the darkest spells and curses from the Otherworld.
But even Vannora with all her dark arts had not been able to lift Kambria’s curse. Only she who now held the dagger would be able to free him.
As he cinched his belt, key ring and scabbard around his waist, the scents of sizzling fish, deer, and fowl reached his nostrils. So the cook was already working, the kitchen boys rotating the spit where the carcasses were turning over the flames. A sweeter scent, that of yeast for the rising bread, drifted upward with the smell of smoke and pork fat. Soon the meal would be served, and his stomach rumbled as he imagined thick chunks of eel, pike, venison, and pigeon dipped in a thick stew.
This morning he would take his food here in his darkened chamber, by the fire. The shutters were in place, only bits of gray morning light sifting through the cracks, not enough to bother him, just enough to tantalize.
On cloudy days he was able to look through the slats and view the workers in the keep. From behind the shutters, Hallyd had seen them all, the greedy lot of them. He’d spied upon the armorer cleaning chain mail in barrels of sand. Hallyd had witnessed the man winnow out a little of the steel for himself when he’d thought no one was watching. Hallyd had also watched as one of the comeliest of the milkmaids filched a bucket of cream. He’d even observed the captain of the guard pissing against the side of the stables because he and the stable master had come to blows over the miller’s daughter, a dark-haired vixen who flirted with every man in the keep.
The simple truth was that he could trust no one.
His spies were no better than the rest of those who supposedly served him. Paid to be his eyes and ears, they were at the very least lazy oafs, at the worst liars and cheats. Even Cael, the one who was reporting back to him about the witch, was not trustworthy.
He considered riding out himself and finding her, this witch-woman who held the key to his future. But, so far, he’d reined in his ardor rather than risk making the same mistake he had made sixteen years earlier.
So if you trust no one, what of the old hag? Do you have faith in her? Could she not be lying to you as well? She appears an emaciated
woman, but you know better, do you not?
“Bloody hell,” he growled and picked up the jug of blood that had been left in his chamber.
He pushed open the door to stride quickly down the long corridor, where the few candles still burning amid lingering smoke were not bright enough to hurt his eyes. His boot heels rang loudly as he made his way to the south staircase, where the steps spiraled downward five full flights from his chamber on the third floor. Down he hurried, not stopping at the solar on the second floor, nor the great hall on the first, where he heard servants setting up the trestle tables.
Instead he continued downward to the levels belowground, past the dungeons and vaults to the lowest tier, where darknessreigned and, he was certain, madness dwelled. No light from above ever reached these shadowy chambers. Water dripped from the ceilings to run down the inside walls and smoke from the candles curled upward to blacken the walls and ceiling. The sounds of the castle above were muted, as if from a distant land.
’Twas fitting, he thought as he walked along a narrow hallway that wound through a dungeon and several crypts. He descended the short flight of stairs that led downward to the chamber he sought, one that was forbidden to most.
Withdrawing a key, he unlocked the door to a private room where no one else was allowed. Hence the key and dead bolt. ’Twas not to keep the inhabitant locked within, for that was an impossible, laughable task, but rather to keep anyone else out, the contents of this chamber secret and sealed.
The room was lit by a few candles. At the northern end of the chamber was a table that served as an altar. A circle had been painted with lime around the table, and upon the plank top were candles, a chalice, a bell, and a wooden knife with a blackened hilt.
“You come for answers,” an old voice said, and he saw her then, lying upon her small cot on the far side of the room. She looked to be a hundred years old, mayhap even a hundred and twenty. Her tiny body appeared even more withered than the last time he’d seen her, but that, he supposed, was to be expected. Her skin was wrinkled and thin as parchment over the bones of her face. Yet she rejected living anywhere but this cavern she called home and refused any attention from the physician. When Hallyd had last suggested it, she’d laughed, exposing her few snags of teeth.
“Ha! Have that idiot Cedrik study my body as if he can see what disease I carry? Would you have him read my piss? Or stick his hungry leeches upon my skin? Or purge my body with figs so that my insides would cramp for days?”
She’d snorted in derision at the thought and wagged a bony finger at Hallyd’s face. “The most that fool will do is pull at his beard and frown and suggest that I’m dying, which, of course, I am. For the love of Cerridwyn, even the woodcutter’s half-wit of a son could see that my days are short! Humph. Nay, do not call the physician. Ever.”
“You’re wasting away,” he’d protested.
“ ’Tis this body’s time,” she’d said without regret, and he’d wondered at her simple acceptance of her fate. Were he the one about to step over the threshold to the next world, he doubted he would go so willingly.
But then she had powers he did not.
She understood the separation of spirit and carcass.
She breathed and lived without the need of bones and flesh. Perhaps her time was not as near as she predicted, for, though she seemed dedicated to him, how much could he really trust her? Wasn’t she, like so many of the others, using him for her own gain?
Mayhap even this vision of her desiccated body was a trick of the mind.
“Ah, there you go doubting me again,” she said with far more clarity than he thought possible. From beneath the folds of skin that were her eyelids, her pale gaze followed his movements as he skirted the altar and approached her cot. “You are here to see the future,” she said.
“Aye.”
“Always.” She lifted a frail hand. “You’ve never learned to accept your fate.”
He didn’t respond. ’Twas true.
“You know that she, the Light, is coming.”
He nodded, and though the old crone was near blind, living in this cave by her own desire, he knew she could see him. Until her dying breath, and mayhap even afterward, she would see more than a hundred men combined. Oh, that he had her vision. Her power. Aye, it had dwindled over time, but it was still stronger than most.
“I have felt it, yes. The disturbance.”
“Mmm. And yet, you’re impatient.” She levered up on one elbow, the bedding falling away to expose her emaciated body even more. Though she wore a chemise, the linen did little to conceal the shriveling of her flesh, the sunken breasts where his own grandmother had nursed.
“I’ve waited a long time, Vannora.”
She cackled, her laughter dry. “Not nearly as long as I have, Hallyd. Nay. And you will wait some more. She is on her way. There is no hurrying her. She has much to learn before you meet.”
“You talk in circles.”
“Hmm.” She didn’t argue, just pinned him with her odd, whitish eyes. They had always made him wary, and he’d often wondered, if Kambria’s curse wasn’t lifted soon, would his own lenses turn the color of thin milk? Or again, was her appearance but a trick of the mind? He’d never seen her drink the blood, but thought she might find vitality within the cup.
“You must be patient, Hallyd, for no curse can be lifted before ’tis time. Yours is soon.” She crumpled the edge of her coverlet in her fingers and glanced at the ceiling. “As is mine. Now, pour.” A smile flitted across her lips, as if she were thinking about her youth.
He did as he was bid, walking to the altar and, without crossing the white line with his feet, pouring the goat’s blood he’d brought her. The servants never asked why, when an animal was slaughtered, he insisted upon two cups of blood before the cook claimed it for pudding. And he always brought it here to this altar, where he poured it into the empty bowl. Aside from her daily bit of wastel bread and a gruel made from oats and honey, ’twas all she asked for. Pages were instructed to bring the gruel and water to her door each day, and to leave a clean bucket after removing the bucket of excrement.
Everyone in the keep thought she was a prisoner.
Only he knew the truth, that he was more of a captive than she.
“Aside from honing your patience, you must also be wary,” she advised, as if she were, indeed, witnessing events that had not yet occurred. “There are others who are waiting for her, wanting her, following her. They are as eager as you are, and mayhap more determined and deadly.”
He didn’t believe her. No one could want her more than he. No one could have been as patient as he. No one had been as cursed as he.
Except for her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bryanna sat at the edge of a stream. Twilight had nestled into the woods and the wind had died. For the past three nights, she’d slept on her own, with the forest and night surrounding her. And she’d waited.
For Isa.
For a vision.
For words of encouragement.
And she’d heard nothing but the soft sough of the wind rattling through brittle branches.
’Twas as if she’d made a horrendous mistake.
“Warts and wattle,” she muttered. She leaned into the darkness and used the small net she’d brought along to forage for unsuspecting fish, frogs, and eels that she could gut and roast on a spit over the fire. Her stomach rumbled and she tried not to think of the cook’s roast pheasant or custards or mincemeat on wastel bread thick with butter as she dragged her net through the dark, rippling waters.
She’d made no sense of the doeskin map for the past week, and yet she was certain if she were to figure it out, she would understand her mission.
But what of a child?
She managed to catch a couple of fat toads and a small trout. She killed them quickly, scraping out the innards and roasting them over the small fire. Alabaster stood nearby, a hind hoof cocked as she slept tethered to an old withered tree.
Tomorrow she
would ride again.
But to where?
Bryanna stretched the map upon a smooth stone, turning it this way and that, trying to read the symbols upon the ragged deerskin as grease from the fish and frog legs sizzled against the hot coals.
Where was Calon on this pathetic map? None of the jagged lines resembled the place she’d lived with her sister for the past few months. What of her home at Penbrooke?
Where was Wybren, the keep not far from Calon, where a horrid fire had swept through the castle at night, taking the lives of the lord’s family? Bryanna knew it well, for Morwenna had wed one lucky enough to have escaped the deadly flames that night, and yet she could not find it on this map.
Where was any other place she might recognize?
“ ’Tis a mystery,” she said to Alabaster, though the horse didn’t so much as twitch her gray tail in response. “Aye, not much do you care.”
Still considering the etchings upon the piece of deer hide, she ate her fill, then walked out to the night again, pausing to take in the utter stillness. No breath of wind whooshing through the canyon, no flap of a night owl’s wing.
The calm before the storm.
Bryanna shuddered as she thought of it.
“Do not trust the great tranquillity,” Isa had said as she’d undone the knots of Bryanna’s pathetic attempts at embroidery when she was but a child at Penbrooke. While her brothers were outside practicing their huntsmanship with targets set up against piles of straw, Bryanna was inside, forced to do embroidery or learn about healing herbs.
Her mother had been forever scolding Bryanna for her many transgressions. There was the time she’d been seen riding astride her brother’s favorite steed with “a ruffian” of a stable boy. On another occasion she’d been caught stealing the tarts cook had set on the windowsill to cool. Once her older sister had discovered her hiding in the apothecary’s hut, spying upon the man as he mixed his herbs. But mayhap her worst crime was when she’d donned the priest’s robes and pretended to baptize her younger sister, Daylynn, which sent her mother to her bed and Father Barton into finding a multitude of ways for Bryanna to perform penance.
