Sorceress

by Lisa Jackson

  Her head lifted sharply and she saw the truth in her husband’s gaze. So he knew how the burly soldier felt about her. Unrequited love. Always a mess. “You would let the captain of the guard leave his post?”

  “To find your sister?” He leaned his hips against the wall of the keep. “Of course.”

  “Your brother is the best,” she insisted. “Better than Alexander.”

  Her husband’s eyes narrowed, a white line of irritation appearing near his brow. “He’s also a mercenary. A criminal.”

  “I know, I know . . . but he will not hurt Bryanna.”

  Her husband snorted and shook his head. Pushing himself from the wall, he walked to the stairway. “How can you be so certain, wife? He has a history of hurting women, does he not? If anyone should know of this, it should be you.” With that he left her alone on the watchtower, her heart nearly crumbling.

  He doubted her love.

  Just when she realized she was with child.

  “I don’t like this, not one little bit.” Pitchfork in hand, Neddym frowned at Gavyn as they stood in the darkened stables.

  After little sleep the night before, Gavyn had woken and searched out Neddym. The stable master was glad to see his old charge, though spooked by the horrible fate of Gleda and her husband. Upon hearing the news, Gavyn had gone to the gatehouse to see for himself and nearly run into Bryanna. She’d been hurrying to the stables, a woman on a mission, her full lips set, her eyes scanning the bailey, her mantle billowing behind her in the cold air.

  He couldn’t risk having a confrontation with her or allowing anyone other than Neddym to know that he was here, so he’d avoided her. But not for long.

  “Ye come in here like a bloody thief in the night,” Neddym said, forking hay from a pile he’d pushed down from the mow, “on the very night two people are found dead, and ye yerself’re wanted fer murder. I should be turnin’ ye in, I should, instead of harborin’ ye.” He tossed hay into the manger, then ran a sleeve under his nose and sniffed. “If it weren’t that I promised yer mother I’d take care of ye, I’d be collectin’ me reward and buyin’ meself a pint or two.”

  “I didn’t kill the beekeeper and her husband.”

  “Then where were ye? Up to no good, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Is it a crime to wager a few coins on a roll of the dice?”

  “Humph. I’m better off not knowin’, I am.”

  That much was true, Gavyn thought as he recalled his night with Bryanna. God in heaven! If he let his thoughts wander back to the hours he’d spent in her bed, his damned cock would grow hard again.

  “Then don’t be asking questions that are none of your business. Trust me when I say I didn’t kill the two people lying on the table in the gatehouse.”

  “And what about Craddock, eh? The sheriff of Agendor?” When Gavyn didn’t answer, the bigger man shook his head and returned to scattering hay along the deep trough separating them from the horses. “Agin, I’m better off knowin’ naught of it. Fergit I asked. So . . . because of yer sweet mother, may she rest in peace—” He jabbed the pitchfork into the ground, spat, then made a quick devout sign of the cross over his chest. “I packed some food fer the horse and yerself.” He scowled as he pointed Gavyn toward a sack by the door. “Now git outta here, and do na let anyone see yer lyin’ hide, or I’ll lose me job and either end up banished, drawn and quartered, or forced to be the dung farmer, cleaning out the bloody latrines.”

  With the sack of grain slung over his shoulder, Gavyn left the stables and slipped into the traffic of peddlers, farmers, castle workers, and peasants milling about the bailey. Some still gossiped about the death of Liam and his wife, others went about their business, still others were leaving and arriving. Young children played tag and raced through the pathways, while older boys carried firewood or hauled buckets of water. Oxen dragged carts filled with stones and wheat, girls fed chickens, and the kennel master was busily trying to herd nine dogs on leashes toward the main gate. At times, the noises of the bailey blended into one great cacophony: banging hammers, creaking wheels, neighing horses, and boisterously shouting men. Thanks to all the huntsmen and soldiers riding beneath the portcullis, it was easy enough for Gavyn to blend in and ease through the main gate. Once he left the castle walls he walked quickly into the town, where he’d stabled Rhi for the night.

  The horse had already been fed and groomed when he arrived. While a stable boy saddled Rhi, Gavyn made a few inquiries about a certain red-haired woman traveling alone. He quickly learned that Bryanna had headed east, along the river.

  He followed the road, a little-traveled route that led away from the bustle of the village. A flash of movement in the woods on the other side of the river drew his attention, and he smiled. Though he only caught glimpses of a shadow darting between the bare trees, he saw enough of a silvery hide to know that the furry creature was traveling with him.

  The wolf had found him again.

  Blood thundered through his brain, pounding in his ears. Every muscle in his body taut, ready for battle, Hallyd burst through Vannora’s door. “You thwarted me!” he accused, his anger burning white-hot, his need for vengeance running so deep it charred his soul.

  His gaze scraped the cavernous room and he found her lying on the cot, spent, an old woman again, too frail to lift her head.

  He glanced at the altar, but it was dark, no steam rising from the cauldron, no candles dripping tallow. The white circle on the floor appeared to have turned gray.

  “I didn’t thwart you, Hallyd,” she said evenly, her voice a cold whisper. “I saved you.”

  “Saved me? From what?” He strode closer, ready to crush her bones in his bare hands. How deep was her betrayal? How insidious were her plans? “You lied,” he said, spit flying from his lips. “To me!” Outraged, he hooked a thumb at his chest.

  She sighed upon the bed, her bones apparent beneath her shriveled flesh. Her patience was obviously thin as cook’s pudding. “I saved you from destroying yourself.”

  “What heresy is this?”

  “If you would just take control of yourself, you might understand.” She managed to lever herself up on one bony elbow, though the effort seemed to cost her dearly.

  “First, you picked a poor time to carry out your bloodlust,” she hissed. “What were you thinking? Do you realize you could have ruined all of our plans by revealing yourself in the act of killing those powerless mongrels?”

  He flexed his fingers, the strong grip that wielded a sword with craft and art. “The woman had to die. She was from Kambria’s line.”

  “It matters not,” Vannora said sharply. She looked ready to collapse, her small, brittle bones ready to snap, but there was a steely strength in her voice. “We will do this as I say. Without me, you will fail. Why do you think the guard was distracted when you sought entrance to Tarth? How do you explain the gate being lifted? And what of your lover’s eagerness to accept a stranger in her bed?”

  “You were there?” he asked, off balance. He’d thought his spy within the castle had been the reason he’d gained entry so easily.

  “Trouble yourself not with questions you can’t answer,” she advised, and the hairs on the back of his neck lifted at the thought that she could see into his mind.

  She let out a low, disgusted laugh. “You are safe, Hallyd. We are of the same mind, the same lineage.”

  “Lineage? Related by blood?” he asked. He knew not what she was, but he wanted no part of it. Except, of course, for her power. That he could use.

  Her amusement was evident in the gleeful sparkle in her old, cloudy eyes, the gaping twist of her nearly lipless mouth.

  “You think we are related?” He shook his head, knowing that she was tricking him. “I have no relatives who are yet living.”

  “Ah, yes, you saw to that now, didn’t you?” Vannora’s eyebrows lifted, and beneath the mask of age, he caught a glimpse of a child, a dark-haired girl of seven. The girl was submerged beneath the surface of the creek, her
eyes staring sightlessly upward. Bubbles from her lips erupted on the clear rushing surface as she struggled against the current, against the tumbling water, against the strength of his hands around her neck. His hands.

  He recoiled.

  Nay, this could not be.

  His younger sister was long dead.

  Buried.

  “Ah, Hallyd, so you remember?” Vannora said.

  “You . . . you are not Leigh,” he said.

  The image passed as if he’d banished it. Yet he was shaken to his core. Who was this woman who had appeared to him not long after Kambria’s death and had sworn to help him find the dagger? What was she? He stumbled backward. Suddenly he felt dry, his mouth and throat void of spit.

  “Aye, I am not your sister, and yet I am a creature born of the same Otherworld that fathered you. Sired by Darkness, you and I.”

  His heart grew cold as death at the thought.

  “There was a reason you came to visit me,” she said, her voice cracking, as if even whispering was an effort.

  But that reason had melted in the heated uneasiness of dealing with Vannora in this spiteful state, a viper about to strike. She was far more powerful than even he imagined, and yet she lay on the dirty old cot like a woman about to leave this earth, her bones ready to turn to dust.

  “What was it?” she asked, a chilling gleam in those milky orbs.

  Suddenly, his grievance resurfaced in his mind. “There was another,” he bit out. His rage, though tempered slightly, still burned. “A man!”

  “What do you care? Did you not bed her? Have your way with her?” Her lips twisted into a wicked grin that suggested this was not news to her, that she’d known. “Was it not what you expected, a night you had waited so long for? Did you not mount her, feel her writhe beneath you?” She threw up a dismissive hand. “You got what you wanted.”

  “Not near enough. I should have ignored what you told me and brought her here.”

  “Ignore me?” she repeated, her voice instantly clear. “Do not even consider it. If you go against me, Hallyd, if you do not obey me, then all will be for naught. You and I, disgusting though it may be, we need each other. Never forget it. Never ignore me. ’Twould be a grievous mistake. One I would never forgive, one you would forever rue.”

  “ ’Twould be easier if she were here.”

  “Easier for you to bed her. Easier for you to punish her for being the daughter of Kambria.”

  “It is because of her that I am cursed!”

  “It is because of her mother, Hallyd,” she clarified, and for a blistering, heart-stopping second, he saw Kambria in the crone’s opaque orbs. Her face was red, the rosary around her neck squeezed tight.

  He froze.

  What trick of magick was this?

  “Now listen to me. You will do as I say,” Vannora hissed, Kambria’s image fading. “If you brought Bryanna here”—she motioned to the keep above her—“how would you ever find the jewels to complete the dagger and lift the curse?”

  “I would force her to tell me.”

  “By beating her? Degrading her? It would not work. Have you learned nothing in all these years? Even if she did know where the jewels were, she wouldn’t tell you.”

  “There are ways—”

  “Oh, for the love of Pwyll! Did those ways work on Kambria? Did you force her to tell you where she hid her daughter? No,” she said, and he saw her truth. “Besides, no one, not even Bryanna, knows where the stones are hidden. Kambria made certain of that.” There was a bit of fire behind her opaque eyes, a flash of fury.

  Again he wondered if she could change her shape at will.

  “Is your lust as blinding as the sun to you? Is your desire so feverish that you cannot think sanely? I thought one night with her might sate you, but it seems to have made your impatience worse.” She sank back on the cot. “This conversation tires me.” She waved a gaunt hand toward the door. “Leave me now.”

  “He was with her.”

  “The bastard of Agendor?” Her voice held a little more interest.

  “Yes.” So Vannora knew. His skin itched at the thought. He sensed an unspoken betrayal in the air.

  “And this bothers you, why?”

  “She is mine, Vannora. Mine.”

  She closed her eyes. “Aye, Hallyd, she is yours, but mayhap not yours alone.”

  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You don’t care?”

  “Why should I?”

  “The child. What if a babe is conceived and I am not the sire? What if he takes her to his bed and gets her with child?”

  “Worry not.” She rubbed a gnarled finger over her forehead. “Just make certain you know where she is. Have your men follow her and report back to you. Then you can ride in the night and catch up to her if need be.”

  He didn’t like the plan. Not at all. This time, he was certain that the old crone was wrong. And after all, he was the baron. He damned well intended to do things his way.

  She shifted on the cot and fingered the linen sheet, gazing thoughtfully into the distance. Lost in a vision only she could see. “Do not fight me, Hallyd, for you will lose.” Lifting a thin eyebrow, she stared up at him. “Whoever gets the dagger will be the true ruler of Wales.” This time when she smiled, her spiked little teeth gleamed in the dull flicker of light. “ ’ Tis as simple as that.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  So now she was a thief.

  The thought was more than a little disturbing.

  Bryanna could not imagine that her quest would lead her to such depths as to steal from a dead woman, but here she was in Gleda’s house, expecting someone from the castle to show up at any second and catch her in the act of stealing.

  With the eerie feeling that she was stepping upon the dead woman’s soul, she moved through the simple hut, where the fire had long since gone cold. The chickens clucked as if expecting food, a cat glared at her from behind the butter churn. Outside, goats bleated, expecting to be milked, and Gleda’s horse had returned. It broke Bryanna’s heart to see the bewildered creature half dozing, one foot cocked near the back door. Bryanna had taken the time to scatter some hay in a rick onto the ground for him. “Looks like you’ll be going on a quest too, Harry,” she told him consolingly as he nosed the hay.

  She’d ridden to this little house with a deep sadness, and when she’d crossed the creek, the scene she encountered overwhelmed her. The trampled prints of a horse’s hooves along the creek bank and the bloodstains upon a rock hinted at the chaos that had transpired here. But knowing that Gleda had lost her life in those rocky shallows made the violent images that much worse. She’d nearly thrown up.

  Somehow, she felt responsible.

  If not for her, Gleda would not have been out late at night, nor would Liam have been out searching for her.

  Guilt had torn through her soul as she’d crossed the rushing water of the gurgling stream, urging Alabaster onward.

  And now, searching through the empty house, she felt Gleda’s presence so vividly. She imagined Gleda happily spinning wool from the fleece of her goats, or churning butter or making cheese, or tending to her bee skeps and collecting honey. A lump grew hard in Bryanna’s throat when she considered old Liam, stoking the fire or whittling.

  “Peace be with them,” she whispered, not knowing if she was talking to Morrigu or the Christian God.

  She knelt near the cold ashes of the hearth and drew a quick rune upon the grate, a rune for peace. She whispered a prayer for Gleda and Liam’s souls, wherever they were now.

  “May you have eternal rest,” she said as she stood.

  She could tarry no longer. ’Twas only a matter of time, she knew, before the soldiers from the castle would arrive. If no relative came forward to claim the property, it would be taken over by the baron. The animals would be cared for, either by livestock thieves, concerned neighbors, or Mabon’s men. The pigs, goats, and chickens, and aye, even the cat, for its mousing abilities, were far too valuable to be abando
ned.

  While the cat watched and the rooster stretched his neck to crow, she fitted the two pieces of the map together once more and committed the etchings to memory. Afterward, she wrapped the pieces together over the dagger and turned to Gleda’s larder.

  What was she searching for? She wasn’t sure. Tools, certainly, if she was going to be digging up a grave as Gleda had instructed.

  Some things were obvious: the shovel and ax, Liam’s weapons, a few candles, feed for the animals, a sewing pouch, beeswax, and some of the salted meat and fish. The worn leather bags hanging near the front door. As rapidly as possible, she filled the bags, then loaded them up onto Gleda’s horse, Harry, whom she’d use as a pack animal.

  Then, without a look back at the scene of so much tragedy, she headed off, whispering, “Morrigu, help me.”

  Bryanna traveled along the river until it came to a rutted path leading away from the main road. Holding on to the reins with one hand and the lead with the other, she twisted to look back periodically and assure herself that Harry, with his uneven gait, was not strained.

  She also checked to see if she was being followed.

  There is no one there. No one is following you. Who would trail after a woman without an ounce of good sense? her conscience nagged at her.

  “Shush!” she said out loud. Behind her, Harry flung up his head in fright, his reins nearly pulling her arm from its socket. “Oh . . . sorry,” she apologized to the horse. “Come along, boy.”

  With a disgruntled snort, the gelding calmed and resumed his trot.

  Heading north, Bryanna passed few travelers along the way as the sun moved across the sky and morning bled into afternoon. She stopped once at a creek, allowing the horses to drink while she ate a piece of salted fish that she’d taken from Gleda’s home. No one would blink an eye at the supplies she’d taken from Gleda’s larder. The horse, however, as well as the weapons and tools, would no doubt be looked upon as stolen property.

  So now you’re no better than Gavyn, her mind taunted her. Though it was far from the truth. She hadn’t killed anyone.