by Lisa Jackson
“That’s not the way it works—you know that. Just bring me the map.” Her newborn nodded off, but she refused to let him go, even in his slumber. “And the dagger. Please.”
“Now you should rest, for just a little while.”
“Gavyn, do not argue,” she insisted, frantic. She felt it, the swelling darkness, the pulsing terror that someone might steal or harm her child. It was near, an umbra that was chasing her, long clawlike fingers extended, ready to rip her child away.
Gavyn looked at her as if she really had gone mad, but he did as asked, unrolling the map. With his help, Bryanna inserted the new piece. The ragged swatch of deerskin fit perfectly into the remaining gap. While the baby slept, she used Gleda’s needle to stitch that final piece in place. When she was finished, the map complete, she realized that the final shape was that of all Wales. The places they’d visited were clear now; the symbols, runes, and marks made some kind of sense now.
Across the middle of the map, where all the pieces connected,the hieroglyphic lettering she hadn’t been able to read now became one single word: “Coelio.”
“Coelio,” she whispered, touching the etched letters with the tip of one finger. “Believe.” She let the map drop onto her lap and picked up the Sacred Dagger.
Closing her eyes, she held the knife with both hands, her baby nestled between her arms. Slowly, over and over, she whispered the word, then chanted the riddle of the stones.
Coelio.
Believe.
An opal for the northern point,
An emerald for the east,
A topaz for the southern tip,
A ruby for the west.
And again. As the words spilled over her tongue, she felt a warmth invade her. Renewed energy generated by the bejeweled blade flowed quickly through her body, coursing through her veins. Exhaustion seeped away, replaced by a new vigor, a power she’d not felt before.
For a second, she heard Isa’s voice as clearly as if the dead woman was standing next to the baby. “Take the babe and run. Now. Trust no one. There is a demon after him, a dark spirit who will stop at nothing. The evil one needs the Chosen One in order to return to the Otherworld. You cannot let this happen, Bryanna. Go! Run!”
“You knew this and you didn’t tell me?” Bryanna charged. “All this time, you did not tell me?” Fury burst through her.
“The prophecy must be fulfilled.”
“Damn the prophecy!” she cried, suddenly filled with a fear as black as all the underworld. “This is my child we’re talking about. My baby!”
“Then save him,” Isa ordered. “Go now to the sacred place. Do not tarry. Save your child.”
“Isa . . . wait!” Bryanna cried, but the voice had died. Bryanna looked up at Gavyn and lowered the knife. Throughout her ruminations, her baby had slept. “We’re leaving,” she whispered. “Our son’s life depends upon it.” She climbed out of the bed, and with one hand began stripping off the bedsheets. “Tear the linens.”
“What?”
“Make a sling and blankets for our son. I’ll have to carry him.”
“Bryanna, this is mad. I don’t think—”
“Isa just warned me, Gavyn! She said we have to leave. Not to mention that Ivey told me she has some sort of designs on Truett, thinking him cursed to lead a kingdom of sorcerers. Our child’s life is in jeopardy.” She handed the boy to his father, then finished tearing the sheets herself. As Gavyn held the babe, she crafted a sling in which he could be toted. Other pieces of the sheets would be used for Truett’s swaddling.
Her body, though aching, was remarkably strong, filled with vigor. With purpose.
“What else did Isa tell you?” Gavyn asked as she wrapped her baby in a bundle.
“To save our baby, we must take him to the holy place.”
“What holy place? A church?”
“Not as you would call it.”
“So why are you so frightened? Who would want to harm our boy?”
“I know not,” she said as she slipped the sling over her shoulder and around her neck, “but I swear on all that is holy, if anyone tries to stop us or hurt my child, I will kill them myself.”
Hallyd felt as if all the breath had been sucked from his lungs. His heart was near bursting, the sensation of swirling so fast he felt sure his eyes would fall from his head. He opened his eyes and found himself on a mound of earth with the scent of the sea in the air and twilight approaching.
His eyes were healed. He looked straight into the sunset, where streaks of red and gold were striping the horizon over the calm ocean waters, and he felt no pain, no aches, no vestige of the damned curse remaining.
But his heart was beating like a drum, and he had trouble catching his breath. He fell to his knees, then sank onto the ground in a sitting position, all the life seemingly drained from him. What in the name of Hades had happened to him? How had Vannora, in the blink of a cat’s eye, thrown him body and soul from Chwarel to wherever he landed? Her powers always surprised him.
Hadn’t he been clinging to her as hard as he could, screaming into the wind and riding in a maelstrom with her, gasping for air while he’d heard her laughter? By the gods, ’twas lucky he had not pissed himself.
Nay, fool. ’Tis lucky you are still alive.
He knew of demons and witches and those who flirted with Satan. Had he not been a priest, learned of both the good and the bad in the world, of heaven and hell, of light and darkness? Had he himself not dabbled in sorcery?
Of course, he’d long suspected she wasn’t what she seemed and had believed that her motives weren’t pure . . . but then, whose were? Certainly not his own.
But this . . .
What he needed right now was a huge mazer of ale to calm his jittery nerves, for he was still shaking inside, his muscles quivering from his bones. Gulping air, telling himself to somehow find his composure, he furrowed his hands through his hair and managed to catch his breath. There was time enough later to try to understand the inexplicable.
For now, he had his own mission.
Bryanna was here.
On this solitary island where the sound of the ocean crushed the shore.
With a newborn baby, his child, the one Vannora wanted so desperately.
And with a man who claimed Bryanna for his own.
Along with the dagger.
Now complete, the jeweled magickal knife was restored.
He rubbed his fingers together in eager expectation and threw off his fears and doubts.
Vannora had been right. He looked around for her, for she had come with him, had she not? ’Twas her spirit that had cast him to the west, but it seemed he was alone atop this steep mountain. As he gazed to the vast waters, he knew where he was. Holy Island. Of course. Where it was rumored the practice of the old ways had existed for centuries, mayhap longer.
He dusted himself off and searched for her. “Vannora!” he called, more than a little irritated, for she’d brought him here, somehow, but he had little with him. At least his sword was strapped on, and he was lucky to have that.
So now, to find the place where the old rituals took place.
Vannora be damned.
As if she wasn’t already.
Deverill and his small company had landed at Holyhead with a new mission. Aye, he still wanted his damned horse back and that bastard son of his brought to some kind of justice, but also, he wanted to make Hallyd of Chwarel pay for his greed and trickery. If the spy were to be believed, Hallyd was also due to arrive here on this godforsaken scrap of land.
Which was fine with Deverill.
What better place for a liar and a blackheart to meet his maker than an island where the wind blew fierce and waves crashed three hundred feet beneath a sheer cliff? ’Twas a fierce place, this rocky patch of land cast into the sea. A place of old ruins and tombs and bloody rituals of the ancient ones.
Deverill of Agendor wasn’t afraid of much in this life, but ’twas the things he didn’t understand, the talk of d
ark arts and witchcraft, that bothered him. He professed to be a nonbeliever of the dark side of things, but a place like this, so raw and wild that old chants fairly sang on the roar of the surf, gave him pause.
Worse yet, ’twas dusk on Samhain Eve, the night when, according to the old ones, spirits of the underworld were allowed to walk the earth. On this night there was a ripple in time and the wall that kept the two worlds apart, the invisible veil, was opened, if only for a little while.
Long enough, Deverill thought, his bones suddenly cold. But he would not think of Samhain just yet, not allow himself to be distracted. He had vengeance to serve.
And then there was the matter of that precious dagger.
Whether it had magickal powers or not, it was valuable.
Deverill figured he deserved it for his trouble.
What was a wolf doing on a small island? the mercenary wondered as he climbed a steep slope toward the apex of the mountain. From atop this rocky crag, Carrick surveyed the island and could, he hoped, decide which way he should search. He’d visited Holyhead, learned of a pregnant woman, a traveler giving birth in the inn, but other than that he found out little more. The innkeeper had been silent on the matter, his wife, the town midwife, also tight-lipped. But in the alehouse he’d heard the rumor started by another guest that a woman had labored the previous night through and her muffled cries had kept him awake.
But she and the baby and the man who claimed to be her husband had left. ’Twas odd, he thought as he eyed the wolf, moving between the rocks, nose to the wind, fur ruffling. There had been talk of Samhain in the village, that it was to start this very night, the new year beginning in the span of a day.
’Twas twattle. Of course it was.
But as he saw the dark shape of the wolf prowling through the shadows, he doubted his own nonbeliefs. This could be the first monster to come from the Otherworld.
Or from the sea.
Had not Thomas, the farmer’s boy, insisted he’d seen a wolf swimming in the channel?
He glanced down the hillside to a spot lower than the crown of the mountain, a place where there was a mound on one side of the grassy lea and the sheer cliff face on the other. Far below was the angry roiling waters of the sea, and on the other side a trail leading from the village.
There he saw her. She was struggling up the steep path. Bryanna carried the baby in some kind of sling. Beside her was the man he’d seen her with, a man about the same size as he.
He watched for several minutes as they continued on their climb, obviously heading for the mound rising from the grass. Why in God’s name would they be out walking so soon after the birth?
Squinting, he saw something else. A shadow darting between the rocks, but following them closely. A flash of silver. Then a dark shape.
A wolf.
For the love of Christ, what was a wolf doing on this bit of land? His jaw hardened when he thought that the hungry beast was no doubt tracking down his next meal, smelling the blood from the birthing, intent on attacking.
Damned cur.
It slunk back into the shadows.
But it wasn’t gone. Not yet.
Silently, Carrick reached into his quiver and pulled out a long arrow. If he saw the beast again, he would be ready. And it would die.
Bryanna refused to give in to the fear as Gavyn, the baby, and she climbed the gentle slope of the path leading up the mountain. So her child was born the day of Samhain night. So it was now dusk, when the Otherworld creatures were to be set free. She would not be afraid. Would not.
If this was to be her destiny, if this was how she would save the life of her child, so be it. She would follow the map and Isa’s instructions to search for a holy place.
Isa’s amulet was still near her, hanging from a leather cord around Bryanna’s neck. As she carried her baby up the hill rising so high above the sea, she felt the old woman’s presence. “Be with us,” she said, and sent a prayer to the Great Mother for the safety of her child.
Though Bryanna had expected a fight from Ivey upon leaving the inn, the woman hadn’t even shown her face. After the birth, the inn had become silent, as if no one were about. Bryanna tried to convince herself it wasn’t because of Samhain, though she knew in her heart there was no other reason. She’d been brought here to this island on this very night for a reason. ’Twas no coincidence of her child’s birth upon the very day.
She clung to her newborn with one hand and clutched the dagger in the other. Would she be able to protect her son?
“You do know where we’re going?”
“Yes.” She was breathing hard, her legs tired from the effort, her eyes scanning the hillside as it rose over the sea. Every once in a while she looked over her shoulder, so certain she felt someone following them, intent on doing them harm. Perhaps Ivey had gone to get others, and now those who claimed to be believers were tracking them down.
“Coelio. Believe.”
Night was falling fast, stars emerging in the purpling sky. The surf echoed as it pounded the rocks far below, the cries of seagulls fading.
“Tell me about this holy place. What are we looking for?” Gavyn asked.
“A tomb.”
Gavyn glanced at her as if he’d heard incorrectly. “Again, we have to dig up a body?”
“Nay, we have all the gems. We don’t need to search any longer,” she said.
“Then what are we doing?”
“Saving the life of our son,” she said as they reached a fork in the path, and she chose the trail leading ever upward. “I’ll know it when I see it.” How could she describe the vision she’d had at her grandfather’s hut and again in the bed? “’Tisn’t like a huge church, for it’s hidden below the ground and—Ahh.” They rounded a corner and the path ended in a wide meadow where the grass was now patchy and huge stones, giant rocks as tall as a man, were interspersed across the lea. As the wind whipped past the cliff face, she noticed a rise beneath the dry grass, a spot most people would assume was just a little hillock set upon this steep mountain.
“What?” he asked.
“Look on the map,” she told him, and as the light faded he unrolled the deer hide and scanned the stitched leather. “Well?”
“Aye,” he said, nodding slowly as his gaze scraped the raw land with its sheer cliffs to the sea. “At the ocean’s edge, these stone giants. ’Tis some sort of outdoor temple.”
The holy place. At that moment, Bryanna felt a shift in the air. A current as cold as demon’s blood whipped by in a gust of wind that ripped at her hair. Shivering to her soul, she turned her back to the wind and held her baby close. “Come, mayhap we can find shelter.”
Gavyn started searching. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. Not yet.”
“What is there to understand, murderer?” a voice boomed from the shadows.
A frisson of fear skittered down her spine. She spun, holding her baby close with one hand, her dagger in the other.
In the gathering darkness, Gavyn’s face grew hard as steel. Hand on his sword, he turned to face the sound.
A man stepped out from behind a pillarlike stone. Even in the gloaming, Bryanna saw the resemblance between father and son.
“So ’tis true what they say about Samhain,” Gavyn said. “About all the monsters and beasts rising from the Otherworld. You, father, must be the first.”
Deverill of Agendor bristled. “Your tongue will be the first part of you I dismember, bastard.”
“Good.” Gavyn smiled as wickedly as a devil. Sword drawn, he stepped between his father and his child. “So you are not alone, are you?” Gavyn asked. “You are not brave enough to come without your thugs.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. They are scattered about this island, guarding the port, searching for you. Nay, bastard, this is just you and I.” Deverill lifted his sword high. “I have waited long for this,” he said over the roaring sound of wind and surf.
Gavyn charged.
“Nay, p
lease! Do not,” Bryanna said, and again she felt the coldness sweep by. “Isa, help me,” she whispered, holding the dagger high.
And then she saw him.
The dark one, appearing from behind the rise.
Hallyd of Chwarel had found them.
Her soul became ice.
His sword was raised, his eyes centered upon the dagger.
“Stop!” Bryanna ordered, but he edged toward her, sword drawn.
Distracted, Gavyn turned.
“Give it to me,” Hallyd ordered, one hand outstretched, fingers wiggling in invitation. “The dagger, ’tis mine.”
“Nay.” She thrust it in front of her to ward him off. At that moment, Hallyd lunged toward her. In an attempt to protect Bryanna and Truett, Gavyn threw himself in front of the dark one’s sword.
“Nooooo!” she screamed, and from her lips came a spell, as deadly and dark as all of Hades. She cast it at Hallyd and felt the ground shift beneath her feet, the earth rending as night fell and the moon glowed bright. The chasm of the spirit world was opening wide.
Samhain!
The dead were coming.
Gavyn fended off Hallyd’s strike.
Behind him, the Lord of Agendor seemed to forget his son for a moment and turned to see the newcomer who had risen from the shadows, the Lord of Chwarel.
“You shrivel-balled liar,” Deverill yelled. “You who ask me for an alliance, and then thwart my men? Use them for your own purposes? Lie to me?” He was advancing on his new enemy, his feud with his bastard son temporarily forgotten. He held his sword high, death beating a tattoo at his temple. “You shall die first, liar,” he said, lips curled in disgust. “Before all others, you are going to die.”
Hallyd took one look at Deverill and his jaw tightened in a snarl of pleased fury. “Petty baron,” he muttered, “taking the word of a greedy spy. Oh, yes, I know this,” he said, his odd eyes glowing with the night. “You are mistaken, cur. ’Tis your time to leave this earth.” He held his ground as Deverill charged, wielding his weapon high.
