by Nora Roberts
He was breathless, fighting to clear his mind. Drawing her back, he framed her face in his hands. Solid, warm. His.
“You’re free.” She pressed her hands against his. The tears that fell from her eyes shimmered into diamonds on the ground between them. “You’re alive! You’re here.”
“The Keepers said I have atoned. I was given love, and I put the one I loved before myself. Love.” He pressed his lips to her brow. “They told me it is the simplest, and most potent of magic. I took a very long time to learn it.”
“So have I. We saved each other, didn’t we?”
“We loved each other. Manim astheee hu,” he said again. “These are the words I give you.” He opened his hand and held out the pearls. “Will you take them, and this gift, as a symbol of betrothal? Will you take them, and me?”
“I will.”
He drew her to her feet. “Soon, then, for I’ve a great respect for time, and the wasting of it. Now, look what you’ve done.” He trailed his fingers gently over the scratch on her cheek. “There’s a mess you’ve made of yourself.”
“That’s not very romantic.”
“I’ll fill you with romance, but first I’ll tend those hurts.” He scooped her off her feet.
“My mother’s going to be crazy about you.”
“I’m counting on it.” Because he wanted to savor, he walked for a bit. “Will I like Boston, do you think?”
“Yes, I think you will.” She twirled a lock of his hair around her fingers. “I could use someone who knows something about antiques in my family business.”
“Is that so? Ha. A job. Imagine that. I might consider that, if there was thought of opening a branch here in Ireland, where a certain wildly-in-love married couple could split their time, so to speak.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She laughed as he spun her around, pressed her lips to his, and held on tight as they leaped into space and flew toward home.
And happily-ever-afters.
THE SORCERER’S DAUGHTER
Jill Gregory
This story is lovingly dedicated to Marianne, Nora, and Ruth—and all those who dream—and to my beloved father, who gave me so much, always believed in me, always was there for me—and whose joyous memory will always live in my heart
1
IT’S TOO DANGEROUS,Willow. I won’t allow it.
“You have no say in the matter, Father. I’m going, and that is that.”
Willow of Brinhaven mounted her white mare, Moonbeam, and sat very straight in the saddle. As the sun set over the mountains behind the deserted keep where her father, Artemus, was imprisoned in a collapsing stone dungeon, its last fleeting rays turned her spiraling red-gold curls to molten fire.
But the Perilous Forest—
“It’s no use arguing about it, Father. There’s only one way to get you released from this place—and that is to pacify Lisha. Now, are you going to help me or not?”
She knew exactly what his answer would be.
Of course I’ll help you. It was a grumble, not the least bit good-natured. Since I can’t stop you. I don’t think the man has yet been born, Willow, who can stop you from doing something when you get a notion into your head. Except, perhaps, young Adrian—
Willow fought the pang that sliced through her heart whenever she thought of Sir Adrian. “Father,” she murmured, “you know I’m the most agreeable creature alive. But in this case I must go against your wishes. If I don’t find the Necklace of Nyssa and turn it over to Lisha, she’ll stand by her word and keep you imprisoned here for a hundred years.”
But the Perilous Forest, Willow. Please, for once be reasonable. All manner of outlaws and evil creatures inhabit that place—why, they say an army of knights would be hard put to return from its depths alive!
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.” Despite her calm words, Willow knew the tales. Her stomach knotted a little as she reflected on the frightening stories she’d been told of the Perilous Forest ever since she was a child. But she had to free her father, and this was the only way. Lisha the Enchantress had cast a powerful spell that had lured him to the keep’s dungeon, and then she’d collapsed the walls upon him, leaving him trapped. He had enough air to breathe to stay alive, and each day food and drink magically appeared. He had the length of the dungeon to roam, but he could not get out, and Willow, who’d tried for two days, could not get in.
Lisha’s magic was too powerful, far more so than Artemus’s own, and his powers were already dwindling. Trapping a sorcerer so that he cannot walk beneath the light of moon and stars is the surest way to drain him of his powers, and Willow knew that if she didn’t hurry, even his Dream Powers, those for which he was best known, would fade to mere wisps, reaching no farther than the walls that hemmed him in.
“I’ll take care, Father.” Her violet eyes shone with purpose. Though she was fine-boned, her features dainty and lovely within her heart-shaped face, Willow of Brinhaven’s eyes were as brilliant and determined as those of any soldier setting forth to battle. Large and luminous, they drew attention to her small, lightly freckled nose, her sculpted cheeks, and the beautiful shape of her chin and jaw. They were remarkably intelligent eyes, as bewitching as stars and tilted slightly up at the corners. They also tended to mirror her every emotion.
“I have my dagger and my pouch—and my wits,” she said quietly. “So try not to worry. But should you get an inkling of precisely where within the Troll’s Lair the necklace might be hidden, you will send it to me in a dream, won’t you, Father?”
Of course. I was inside the lair myself once as a boy and actually glimpsed the necklace, but it was so long ago…
She heard his sigh as his gruff voice ran through her head, and she knew he was worried, frustrated, and bound and determined to be of help to her.
I’ll surely remember something useful if I concentrate on it, and I’ll send you anything that occurs to me. But, Willow, I wish you would reconsider. Or at least take along some male protector. I know of a most trustworthy knight—his name is Sir Dudley—
“Nearly every knight in three kingdoms is off trying to win the hand of Princess Maighdin by performing brave deeds,” she retorted with a shake of her head. “Besides, a man would just slow me down and get in my way. He’d be constantly fussing over me and worrying about me, and I’d be exhausted from merely assuring him that I’m not frightened or cold, or hungry or—”
Willow. Listen to me. In her head, her father’s voice sounded even more urgently pleading. If anything were to happen to you, I could never forgive myself. Stop and think, my girl. This is a rash, foolish decision and—
“Speaking of rash and foolish decisions, Father, yours tops them all,” she exclaimed. “I still don’t see why you had to turn Lisha’s lover into a toad.” Her slender fingers tightened on the reins as the restive Moonbeam pranced in the fading light. “I’ve told you a thousand times that those transformations of yours only lead to trouble.”
I didn’t know that he was Lisha’s lover when I did it—well, I mean, I wasn’t completely sure if he was or not at the time. Artemus’s thoughts rumbled through her head. He had no need to speak aloud to communicate with her, at least not at this range. But the spell Lisha had put on the keep would limit his powers, and once Willow ventured away from this place, only his Dream Powers would be strong enough to reach her.
But he was annoying me no end.
“And look where it led,” Willow pointed out just as the sun slipped at last beneath the tip of the mountain and gray dusk shadowed the land.
It wasn’t my fault that some stupid hawk swooped down and ate him before I could change him back, he protested irritably. Lisha always was hotheaded. You know, it’s possible that she’ll settle down and change her mind and lift the spell in only twenty or thirty years.
“But I will have the necklace for her in less than a fortnight.” Willow’s mouth was set with determination. “Farewell, Father. I’m headed north. Try not to w
orry—and don’t forget to dream.”
Be careful! His words thundered through her mind, and then she was off, Moonbeam’s hooves flying like silver streaks across the earth as a gleaming full moon sailed in the sky.
Willow rode fast and low in the saddle, the hood of her midnight-blue cloak blowing behind her, her long, vibrant curls fluttering free. There was utter resolution and confidence in her eyes and in the way she handled the mare as they galloped across the high, rocky terrain. But though Willow had faith in her own abilities, she wasn’t so foolish as to think they wouldn’t be tested to their limits. True, she’d been trained by a master swordsman in the court of King Felix of Prute and was agile and quick-witted and able to move silently through woods or glen when she put her mind to it. She had the special pouch her father had prepared for her inside her cloak pocket, and she could throw a dagger and hit her target perfectly nine times out of ten. But evil creatures and outlaws did roam the Perilous Forest, and perhaps the most dangerous of all was the spirit of the dead Troll King, whose haunted lair she would have to enter to retrieve the fabled necklace that Lisha desired.
Her skin prickled just thinking of that.
But she had to get Artemus out of that dungeon. Though he didn’t complain, she knew that any kind of confinement was torturous for him, and she wasn’t about to let him suffer beneath a pile of stone rubble for a hundred years—or even twenty-five.
Not when she could use her own abilities to obtain his freedom.
She rode deep into the lonely hours of the night and at last made a solitary camp on the outskirts of a small town near the River Grith. Wearily she shook out her blankets in readiness for sleep. It was late autumn, and the night air was chill, but she didn’t want to risk drawing attention by making a fire. She wished only to fall into a deep sleep so she could receive the dream.
She hoped Artemus’s dreams could still reach her. If he could somehow conjure up an image of the Troll’s Lair, and of precisely where the Necklace of Nyssa was hidden within it, her task would be far easier and quicker.
In no time at all, she was stretched out beneath the stars, huddled in her cloak and a blanket of fine green wool, letting the forest sounds lull her into sleep.
And waiting for the dream.
Artemus had been pacing and pacing the entire time Willow rode north toward the Perilous Forest. He knew he couldn’t stop her, but he could help her. In the moments when the lustrous full moon had risen, the shimmering image of the necklace had suddenly come to him. And not only the necklace but the chamber in which it was housed as well. He saw it clearly—all of it. The staircase dominating the shadowy Great Hall, the raised dais in the marble-floored chamber with draperies of scarlet and gold, the heavy chest inlaid with gold and silver where the necklace was locked away. The chest’s lid adorned by rubies in the shape of a troll. And more, Artemus saw the Troll’s Lair itself, a spike-towered fortress built of blood-red stone, looming deep within the swampy depths of the forest.
All of these images he would send to Willow in a dream, and they would guide her to the necklace so that she could retrieve it speedily—and, he hoped with all his heart, safely.
But he was going to do more for her than that.
Artemus had devised the perfect plan to help his daughter, whether she liked it or not.
He was sending the dream not only to Willow but to another as well. A man who he knew would aid any lady in need that he came upon, as stalwart and dependable and chivalrous a knight as Artemus had ever encountered. Sir Dudley of Mulcavia was of middle years, middle height, and middle intelligence. But he was a solid soldier, and with his graying hair and beard, years of experience, and strict adherence to every knight’s code of honor, he would be the perfect protector for the brave but impetuous Willow. Once Sir Dudley came upon her, a slender wand of a girl no more than nineteen years old bent upon a dangerous quest, Artemus knew he would stick by her side, loyal as a dog, and he would guard her with his life.
No worries here, Artemus reflected, his brows drawn together, of some young pup of a knight being smitten with Willow’s beauty and grace and getting any ideas. No, there would be none of that.
Sir Dudley was too old, too reliable, and too above reproach in every way even to entertain such notions. Artemus had no doubt that he would conduct himself properly.
Well pleased with himself, the sorcerer settled his aching back against the cold stone wall, scrunched his silver cloak into a ball and stuck it behind his head for a pillow. He squeezed his eyes shut and set about conjuring up the dream.
It was more difficult than he’d expected. Lisha’s damned spell was clouding his powers. He couldn’t quite see Willow—or Sir Dudley, for that matter. Keeping his eyes closed tight, he took several deep breaths and was at last able to picture Willow’s flowing red-gold curls. That will be enough, Artemus thought with relief. Enough to send the dream to her.
He then concentrated on calling to mind Sir Dudley’s jowly face, but the knight’s features remained blurred, and he had to settle for focusing upon the man’s famed golden cloak instead. It was rumored that the High King himself had conferred the cloak upon him as a gift of appreciation, and Sir Dudley was so immensely proud of the cloak with its jeweled fastenings and fur lining that he wore it always, no matter the season.
Artemus smiled with satisfaction. Ah, yes, the cloak. There it was.
With a muttered spell and a slight wave of his fingers, he tilted his head back against the rough stone behind him, took one more deep, steadying breath, and turned all his energies to sending the dream.
From the cracked tower of the collapsing keep, two plumes resembling pale gray wisps of smoke drifted up and across the night sky. The plumes were fainter than smoke and shimmered as they floated away from the keep and sailed upon their way beneath the canopy of sky, moon, and stars.
Each plume contained a dream, and each followed its own separate path. One headed toward Willow, the sorcerer’s daughter, as she lay curled fast asleep in the woods near the River Grith. The other moved across the sky to find the knight who wore the fur-lined golden cloak.
But unbeknownst to Artemus, at this point his plans went seriously awry. Miles away, in the Valley of Wye, events were transpiring at that very moment that altered Artemus’s plans beyond his wildest contemplations.
The dream intended for Sir Dudley reached a man as different from him as night from day: a young, hawkeyed, fearless man.
A man regarded warily by his enemies and respected by his friends. A mercenary soldier who despite his mere twenty-odd years was seasoned in battle and who hired out his services to the highest bidder. A man who owed allegiance to no one but himself.
A man whose heart had never been touched by a woman, but whose roguish instincts and rough good looks had drawn many smitten females of every imaginable rank to his bed.
A man called Blaine of Kendrick—known among his enemies and friends alike as the Wolf.
Blaine of Kendrick stood over Sir Dudley, smiling faintly at the snoring sounds the knight emitted as he lay huddled beneath his cloak.
“You won’t mind, will you, my friend?” he muttered softly. In the darkness, Blaine’s sharp black eyes glittered like coals. “I’ll get this back to you before you ever know it’s gone.”
In one swift movement, he swept the rich golden cloak from the knight’s chunky body and replaced it with his own plain black woolen one.
Sir Dudley twitched, his mouth opened, and another snore whistled out.
Blaine turned away, grinning as he donned the cloak.
At this very moment a certain acquaintance of his was drinking ale in the hamlet of Strachdale, less than ten miles away—an old comrade who had wagered him that he couldn’t get his hands on Dudley’s cloak. Blaine was about to win that wager and to impress a certain well-endowed tavern wench who had a fondness for riches.
Take what you want in life or else you’ve no one to blame for your troubles but yourself, Blaine thought. Then he
pictured Chandra, who would be leading him to the small room at the top of the inn within the hour. He chuckled with pleasant anticipation, congratulating himself.
But things did not go as he had planned. For when he reached the inn and collected the gold coins from his friend for winning the bet, he found that Chandra was already busy with another man in the small room at the top of the stairs.
The only other wench serving that night was Ina, who’d been clinging a bit too much lately whenever he’d come by. The last time they’d gone to bed she’d even mentioned something about marriage. Blaine had choked on his ale and hadn’t been able to speak for a full hour.
No, he would steer clear of Ina.
He waved warily as she caught his eye, and left with all due speed. She was working her way to the door to waylay him, but he moved faster. The cool night air felt good on his face as he headed back to camp.
The only woman he planned to marry was Princess Maighdin of the South Country. She was royal, highly sought after, rumored to be the most beautiful woman in five kingdoms.
And everyone wanted her.
For the Wolf of Kendrick, that was the real draw. The competition for her hand was intense. His old enemy, Sedgwick of Lothbar, was planning to slay a dragon and bring Maighdin its head. His old friend, Rolf of Cornhull, beside whom he’d fought often in battle, was off at this very moment pursuing a unicorn rumored to be hiding in the Elven Wood.
Sir Wallach of Graystone, who’d been his commanding officer when he offered his mercenary services to King Felix some years back, was on a quest to slay Angbar the Giant and bring back Angbar’s Golden Throne.
I need a plan, Blaine decided as he settled alongside Sir Dudley in the soldiers’ camp that night. He hadn’t bothered to switch the cloaks back yet. He wanted to sample the feel of luxury, since once he beat out all the other men vying for Maighdin’s hand in marriage, he would know nothing but luxury. So he would just keep Sir Dudley’s cloak for tonight and let the old rooster have it back in the morning.
