Sorceress

by Lisa Jackson

A retort was on her lips when, quick as a cat pouncing upon a mouse, he grabbed her and pulled her close to him. Byranna dropped the knife from her hands as he lowered his mouth to hers, his lips hot and hungry. She gasped as his tongue thrust between her teeth, toying and touching, flicking upon the roof of her mouth.

  “Ooh,” she whispered, her arms wrapping around his neck. Her flesh was instantly fevered. “Gavyn . . .”

  Holding her firmly to him, he pulled back his head. “What, lady?”

  “I—I . . .”

  “I know. Me, too. But I think it’s best if we wait”—his smile was wicked as the night as he let go of her—“until you’re bloody well ready.”

  It had taken every bit of willpower to allow her to sleep alone, but he had done it. He’d stretched out on the ground, swaddled in his mantle, and watched as she, exhausted, had fallen asleep.

  Sweet Jesus, he ached for her. The night before had been pure bliss, and then today, her odd accusations had left him cold. Had she not responded to him? Had she not kissed and loved him with warm hands, wet lips, and willing body?

  He stared at the dying fire while she lay so close to him he could touch her if he but reached out his arms.

  Do not do it.

  ’Tis unlucky to bed a witch.

  His jaw clenched at the thought, and he leaned over the log he was braced upon and spat. He didn’t believe in witches or sorcery or spells or magick or any damned thing he didn’t understand. Sometimes, when he witnessed incredible cruelty, even God was difficult to trust, though he did try to believe.

  Dragging his gaze away from her, he stared up at the watery moon and finally dozed.

  When he awoke, the sun was already rising, clouds starting to gather. He stoked the fire and waited until she roused to tell her that he would leave to hunt for an hour or so. By the time he’d returned with a duck and squirrel, she was just finishing stitching the map together with the heavy leather needle and thread she’d found in Gleda’s sewing supplies.

  He skinned the squirrel, plucked the duck, and placed the carcasses on a spit that Bryanna had created with her knife and several sturdy sticks. Smoke billowed into the sky, where high clouds were collecting. As the scent of charred flesh wafted on the air, he noted that Bane was back, poised intently at the edge of the forest.

  “Can’t you catch your own damned meal?” Gavyn asked.

  Bryanna turned her head to spy the beast seemingly beseeching her.

  “You’re a wolf, for God’s sake. You should be bringing game to us,” he complained.

  Bryanna chuckled. “She’s not a hunting hound,” she chastised, rotating the spit.

  “Lazy, that’s what she is.” Sitting on a rock, Gavyn studied the pieces of leather now bound together. Some of the scratches on the doeskin made sense to him or sparked a memory of a place he’d visited, but many of the marks made no sense. “This appears to be a road,” he said, “and this”—he pointed to a barely discernible scratch—“could be a keep or village. ’Tis a building.”

  “An abbey?” she asked, and he noticed the faint outline of a cross. “Mayhap a cathedral?”

  “Or graveyard. See here there’s a dark spot, mayhap another grave site, only this one marked with a cross.”

  “Oh, do not tell me I have to dig up another grave.” Shivering at the thought, she rubbed her arms and glanced past the fire to the freshly turned earth.

  “Maybe Isa will tell you.”

  She sent him a scathing look. “We can only hope. Elsewise we know not where to go.”

  He frowned. “I think if we follow the map, we will come to some of these places that are marked. We’ll probably recognize certain landmarks as we go. But it looks like it is a far ride over tall mountains. A journey. It could take a long time.”

  Turning the meat again, she eyed him through the wafting smoke. “You do not have to accompany me. Why would you want to make a difficult journey that will take too much of your time? You can go your own way.”

  He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “You cannot get rid of me that easily.”

  “Was I trying?” she asked, arching an eyebrow and licking the grease from a finger.

  “You tell me,” he said, ignoring the sudden burst of longing that raced through his blood. “You tell me.”

  “So let me understand this,” Deverill said, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing the length of the large chamber in Agendor’s gatehouse. The men, usually clustered in groups laughing, talking, and bragging, were stonily silent, as if the baron’s rage were palpable and holding each of their tongues.

  Deverill stood in the midst of a small band of his soldiers—incompetents, all of them. The very men he’d sent to track down Gavyn had returned less than an hour earlier, while there had still been light in the sky. They were tired, dirty, and grumbling, swords in scabbards clinking while they gathered around an odd-looking little man who, if Deverill could believe him, was more efficient than any man in the army of Agendor.

  “You think you have seen my horse being ridden by Gavyn of Tarth,” Deverill went on. The skinny little man with the oversized features started to interrupt, but Deverill held up a gloved finger. Obviously brighter than he looked, Cael held his tongue. “He was riding with a woman you claim is a sorceress. A wolf of incredible proportions was with them and attacked you, is that right?”

  “Aye, m’lord,” the runt said, nodding his head up and down so quickly it seemed about to bob off his thin neck. “ ’Tis just as you said.”

  “You’re certain of this?”

  “Does not your steed have white stockings against his black coat and a crooked blaze running down his nose?” Cael asked, using a grubby finger to scrape down the middle of his own face to illustrate his point.

  “Many people know this, but it seems incredible to me that you, one small man, observed so much when my own men, trained soldiers, warriors, found nothing. Not a trace of Gavyn or the horse.”

  Cael lifted a bony shoulder and offered a humble smile that didn’t quite reach his bulbous, crafty eyes. “Mayhap they were looking in the wrong spots, m’lord. Or then again, it could be I just got lucky.”

  “Not so lucky if you were attacked by their wolf. Did they order it to lunge at you?”

  “Nay, I was just sneakin’ up on their camp, peerin’ through the brush, I was. So quiet they didn’t know I was there at all. Then, all of a sudden, this beast with jaws like none other and teeth the size of a man’s fingers leapt at me from out of the darkness! ’Twas horrible.” He glanced around the room to see that the other men were listening. “’Twas fortunate, it was, that I was able to get away with me life.”

  “Yes, yes, so you said.” Deverill didn’t know whether to believe this little man. “Where are you from?”

  Suddenly the little man’s voice matched his stature. “Chwarel.”

  A servant of Hallyd. Deverill had never met the Baron of Chwarel, an odd man, and that was being kind. Once a priest, Hallyd had hung up his cassock many years ago. Rumors had circulated about him for years, tales of a man afraid to leave his own keep unless under the cover of nightfall. A nocturnal creature.

  Deverill persisted, asking, “You came across my men at an inn, isn’t that right?”

  Seamus nodded. “Aye, m’lord. He came out right after us, claimed he’d seen Gavyn.”

  “How so?” Deverill asked.

  “I was on my way to tell you. I, uh, I heard there was a reward for his return.”

  “And where is he now?” Deverill asked.

  The runty little man had the audacity to hold his tongue, as if he had any power, as if he, this little insect of a man, could barter with a man as powerful as the Lord of Agendor. “You will be paid your reward if we catch him, but I do not give money to anyone on rumor,” Deverill warned.

  “Of course,” he replied, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “And your Lord Hallyd knows of this?”

  “Aye, but he thought you would want to
know.”

  “Thoughtful of him,” Deverill said, unable to hide his sarcasm. “Tell your baron that I thank him for his concern.” He pointed to the captain of the guard. “Send soldiers on fresh horses to Tarth. And you,” he said, returning his gaze to this eager little bug-eyed informant. “I’ll have the physician look at that leg of yours. The steward will see to it that you have food and drink from your long travels. You can rest this day and sleep in the guardhouse tonight. I’ll dictate a message to the scribe, so that it bears my seal and Lord Hallyd knows that you truly did arrive here. You can ride with my soldiers in the morning, show them where you saw the murderer who stole my horse. Perhaps your valuable tracking skills will get my men back on his trail.”

  Cael shifted, using a cane for balance. “But my duty lies with the Lord Hallyd.”

  “Fear not, Cael. My men will see that you return home safely, once they’ve proven your story true.” He leaned a bit closer to the man, who reminded him of a gargoyle. “But if you are lying to me, Cael, if you have come here with a tale of monstrous wolves, witches, and the thief and that tale proves to be false? An untruth? Only a means of extorting money from my coffers?” He watched as the smaller man swallowed hard, but those big eyes never wavered as the spy held Deverill’s gaze. “If you have lied to me, you will pay for the crime with your life. Do you understand?”

  “Aye, m’lord . . . and it’s thanking you, I am, fer yer hospitality. But I lie not. I saw the thief with your horse. He and a witch and that beast from hell were heading to Tarth. If they are not there, I know not where they’ve gone, but surely someone will know.”

  “Aye.” Turning back to his men, Deverill didn’t bother to hide his disapproval as his gaze settled on the captain of the guard. “Take this man with you in the morning. Find the thief and my damned horse. And this time, do not let him slip through your fingers!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Gavyn had been right, Bryanna thought as they came upon a small mountain village. The journey had been long and arduous, over mountains so sheer she’d thought the animals might slip down the rugged slopes. They had crossed rivers where there had been no bridges, and traveled down canyons that, when the clouds rolled in, had appeared bottomless.

  Mixing charred wood, mud, and water, Bryanna had tried her best to make a dye that, when applied to Rhi, disguised his white markings. The coloring washed off, of course, and had to be reapplied each morn, but she hoped it helped make the horse appear less noticeable, less likely to be recognized as Lord Deverill of Agendor’s steed. She called herself Brynn, a common enough name, and Gavyn introduced himself as Cain. Although there was little they could do to alter their appearance, Bryanna tucked her hair inside her hood and prayed that no one recognized them.

  Although she wasn’t a wanted criminal as Gavyn was, there was still the matter of Harry, the horse she’d stolen. Likewise, it would be highly suspicious that Gleda and her husband had been killed the day she’d arrived in their village for a visit.

  The fewer people they encountered, the better.

  They had traveled for more than thirty days, but progress had been slow, as they had to interpret the map while battling the elements. Twice they had taken the wrong turn and had been forced to backtrack, losing several days in the process. They had stayed only occasionally at an inn and had often found shelter in abandoned, decrepit huts that housed rats, spiders, and all kinds of insects. The weather was still cold and bitter, but, she guessed, it was because they were in the mountains. In the lower valleys there was evidence that spring was on its way. The first shoots of leaves were visible, a few flowers dared open their blossoms, and more often than had been the case at the beginning of her quest, the sun chased away the afternoon clouds.

  The wolf was never far away, though there were periods when the beast had gone missing for several days before showing up again. Just when Bryanna had been certain the animal was gone for good, she would catch the glimmer of her gold eyes watching from the shadows, or spy a big paw print in the mud, or notice that Harry’s eyes were wide and white-rimmed, for the packhorse hadn’t gotten used to being in the company of his natural predator.

  “Worry not about losing her,” Gavyn had teased Bryanna one night when she’d asked him where the beast had gone. “She knows where the food is. When she’s hungry enough, Bane will return.”

  She hadn’t shared Gavyn’s certainty. But the next morning, when she’d opened her eyes and stretched her cramped muscles, she’d spotted the great gray beast curled up in the dirt beneath the drooping branches of a rough-barked pine, her nose hidden beneath her tail. She’d lifted her head at Bryanna’s movement, staring at her with those eyes that rarely blinked.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Gavyn had needled her when he’d caught her staring at the creature. “There is no way to get rid of that lazy cur.”

  “As if you’d want to. You like having her around.”

  Gavyn’s smile had widened as if admitting she’d spoken the truth. “So it’s true. You are a witch, Bryanna,” he’d teased, his quicksilver eyes sparkling in the morning light. “You can read my mind.”

  She’d feigned indignance, then laughed aloud and wondered when he would kiss her again. Touch her. Make love to her. Though they’d had an unspoken understanding since the night at Kambria’s grave, she couldn’t help the wanting that surged deep inside each and every night.

  And with each passing day his wounds healed. His bruises finally disappeared, and the whites of his eyes became clear and pristine as new-fallen snow. He no longer winced from too many hours in the saddle or too much time spent in any one position.

  Along the journey Gavyn traded furs for food or money or arrow tips. In the early dawn hours, while he was away hunting the deer, squirrels, rabbits, and birds, Bryanna practiced her spells and chants or dug for roots and gathered needles, bark, and cones from the forest. Once she surprised him with two toads she’d killed, and another time she caught a fat trout in a shallow creek.

  But she’d never divulged her secret, one that he would soon know. For, she was certain, she was pregnant.

  Her time of the month should have arrived over a fortnight earlier, and in the last few days she’d been queasy. Although she’d tried to attribute her nausea to the rigors of the journey, a voice in the back of her head reminded her regularly of the night of lovemaking.

  She knew how babies were conceived.

  She’d lived on the castle grounds and had heard the gossip between the twittering laundresses or the bragging of the soldiers. And, of course, she’d seen the act for herself, be it the rams and ewes or stallions and mares, or even the dogs in the kennel. So she shouldn’t be surprised. Never in her life would she have imagined she would be with child and unmarried, however, roaming the forested hills on a mysterious quest of unknown destination. Absently she rubbed her flat abdomen.

  She thought of Gleda’s talk of a baby born of Darkness and Light, a child in danger. Surely the child of the prophecy was not this little one in her womb? Nay, she would not think of it, of the lunacy of it all.

  But the stone . . . Gleda’s instructions had led her to find the stone and the baby in the casket—Lenore’s child. Did that not give Gleda’s words a ring of truth?

  Bryanna refused to think on it. She would not consider that she could be the mother of the ruler mentioned in the prophecy.

  They rode into a village, and while Gavyn bartered his hides for bread, grain, and cheese, she found an older peasant woman who was more than eager to offer a bowl of thick pottage, some hard bread and cheese, as well as a roof for the night and a little gossip. All for a sleek stoat pelt that the old woman kept rubbing with hands that showed knotted knuckles and dark spots as they ate.

  The thick soup tasted of garlic and onions and pork fat with beans, and Bryanna swore it was the best she’d ever eaten. A widow, Rosie glowed under the compliment. The woman was as hungry for company as Bryanna had been for food. After the meal, while Gavyn tended to the hors
es and chopped firewood, Rosie sat by the fire with Bryanna, eager for woman talk.

  It was nearly dark outside, the fire and one candle offering warmth and light in the small hut. Through the thin walls, Bryanna heard Gavyn working, his ax thunking as it bit into chunks of dry firewood. Another crack and the piece cleaved, two pieces spinning and hitting the outside wall.

  “A strong one, he is,” the old lady observed. “Like my husband, long ago.” She sighed sadly. “So Brynn, where are ye and yer husband headin’?” She was staring at the flames while still stroking the pelt.

  Husband.

  The word echoed in Bryanna’s brain.

  Surprisingly not an uncomfortable thought.

  And not one Bryanna hadn’t considered.

  “You must be goin’ somewhere,” Rosie prodded, her friendly smile showing a broken front tooth.

  “East. We’re really not sure,” Bryanna finally replied. “Cain, he has family over the hills. A brother. I’ve never met him and . . . and it’s been a long time since he traveled this road. I’m, um, not really certain where we’re going. I leave that up to Cain.” Oh, for the love of God, she sounded like an utter goose, the kind of woman she detested.

  Rosie scowled, looking as if she’d just sucked on a tart crab apple. Using a walking stick, she poked at some charred bits of wood that had fallen near the edge of the fire. “Surely there is a name to this place.” With a well-placed push, she sent a bit of blackened wood back into the fire pit.

  “I’m really not sure—”

  “ ’Tis a village not far from the river,” Gavyn said as he walked through the door carrying an armload of wood and the woman’s ax. “This needs sharpening,” he said of the blade. “Duller than the village idiot, it is. I’ll sharpen it if you have a whetstone.”

  “Let’s see.” She struggled to her feet. “My husband, God rest his soul, he took care of keepin’ the tools sharp.” She found a whetstone upon a shelf, then handed it to Gavyn before stirring the pot hanging over the fire pit. Bryanna’s stomach growled as Gavyn began sharpening the ax. Rosie set a few more knives beside him, then settled onto her stool again. “What is the name of the village?”