Primeval Magic (Demons of Fire and Night Book 3)

by C. N. Crawford

  When they reached the wall, Ursula peered over the edge at a sheer, rough cliff face, about two hundred feet to the sea. Every few moments, water misted the air when the dark waves crashed against the cliff’s base. No way down that way.

  Ursula glanced behind her again. With the stone slick from the sea air, climbing up would not be an option, nor would leaving the way they had entered. The portal had disappeared. Yet, as the mist continued to thin, she noticed something in the cliff face that she hadn’t spotted before—slate-gray doors carved into the rock.

  As the sea air chilled her skin, she crossed back to the cliff face, running her fingers over a silver door handle. “Bael.”

  She pulled it open, revealing a wardrobe of sorts, lit with a glowing amber light. Inside hung a row of cotton cloaks in a variety of sizes. The cloth was a faded periwinkle that looked as if it may have once been a deep royal blue. Old as they were, they beat the hell out of walking around naked. She slipped one over her shoulders, grimacing at the scent of mildew.

  Bael’s footfalls sounded behind her, and he sniffed the air. “Kester was here.” He pulled a large robe from the wardrobe. “I can smell him.”

  Ursula turned away as Bael pulled the cloak over his body. “These may help us blend in when we get to Avalon.”

  After a few moments, Ursula turned to look at Bael. The golden clasp was fastened at his throat, and his pale gaze pierced the fog, the faded blue of the cloak nearly matching his eyes. Somehow, the cloak suited him perfectly, a beautiful contrast against his warm skin. “Are you ready for what comes next?”

  Ursula frowned. “How do we get there?”

  Bael pointed to a part of the wall about twenty feet away from where they stood. “The path lies here.”

  As she followed Bael closer to the wall, peering over the side, she saw what he meant. Inset into the cliff’s side was a narrow staircase so steep it dizzied her. “Here—the path to the sea.”

  Ursula’s stomach clenched. There was no railing—just damp stone steps, roughly hewn. One slip on the sea-slicked stones would send her plunging into the sea. She started to follow him, but words carved onto the lip of the wall caught her eye.

  “Wait. There’s an inscription.” Angelic words marked the stone, and she translated them as she read. “Call, and the boatman will come for you. What does that mean?”

  “Of course. You need to announce yourself upon entering a kingdom ruled by another god, as this one is ruled by Dagon. It is the way it has been done for millennia. We must call the boatman.” Bael lifted his chin before shouting, “I am Bael, Lord of Albelda, Second in command to Nyxobas! I request passage to Avalon.” His gaze landed on Ursula.

  “What should I say?”

  “Just shout your name and where you are from.”

  Ursula took a deep breath. “I am Ursula!” After a moment she added, “Ursula of Mount Acidale.”

  Bael’s posture stiffened as though he’d been struck by lightning, and inky shadows darkened the air around him as his magic pooled. Shadows slid through his pale eyes, and the temperature seemed to drop. “Acidale?” he said sharply.

  Okay. Something about that struck a nerve with him. “Have you been there? The river hag told me I was born there.”

  A muscle worked in Bael’s jaw. “I see. I have been there. In battle.”

  Her pulse raced, and a memory flickered in the back of her mind. A man with stormy gray eyes, fighting with the fury of a wild beast… but in the next moment, her memory swirled away like the sea mist. “What can you tell me about it?”

  “It’s complicated.” His eyes bored into her. “I don’t have time for a history lesson. We should go.” Without another word, he started down the steps.

  Her heart pounded, and she began to follow after him, no longer thinking of the steep drop to the churning sea below. Of course. Of course he’d give her a bullshit answer like that.

  “Bael. What do you know of Mount Acidale? What’s this battle you were talking about?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  Emerazel’s fire began to flow in her veins. He was obviously keeping things from her—important things, about her own life. “I could see it on your face. Something important happened there. What aren’t you telling me?”

  Taking the steps two at a time, Bael was practically flying down to the sea. She hurried after him as fast as she could, her fingers slipping on the wet stone. The sea wind whipped her hair around her head, and her bare feet nearly slipped off the wet stone. And yet Ursula thought only of getting answers.

  Bael, with all his secrecy, was absolutely infuriating. By the time she reached the bottom, he had already made his way to the end of a stone jetty that jutted into the dark, churning sea. With his dark hair and pale blue cloak, he blended into the landscape. Waves crashed around him, spraying into the air.

  Ursula ran to him, nearly slipping over the jetty in her bare feet. When she reached him, she grabbed his hand, pulling him so that he faced her. His eyes had darkened, empty as an abyss.

  “Tell me. Tell me what you know,” she demanded. “Where is Mount Acidale? Why did you react that way?”

  “Forget Mount Acidale. You’ll find only suffering and betrayal there.” Shadow magic flicked around him like a mirage, and a blood-red fury burned in his eyes. She shrank back as he looked at her with the hunger of the old way, his humanity disappearing by the instant.

  Still, she needed answers. “Tell me.”

  Bael merely glared at her, his gaze as cold and terrifying as a god’s. Dark shadows cascaded from his back like giant wings, and Ursula’s breath caught in her throat. Something had really set him off.

  Behind him a light pulsed though the swirling fog, and a voice called from the mist. “Who has requested a passage to Avalon?”

  The shadows darkening the air around Bael retreated, and the stormy gray returned to his eyes. He turned back to the sea, the shadowy wings now gone.

  “I am Bael. I request passage to Avalon.”

  Slowly, a dark skiff emerged from the fog, a lantern hanging from its bow. In its center sat a man with his back to them. Soundlessly, he dipped a pair of oars into the churning water.

  The boat pulled along the stone jetty and Ursula got her first look at the rower’s face under his cloak. He was younger than she had expected, strikingly handsome with green eyes and golden skin.

  He flashed her a charming smile. “And you must be Ursula?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Do you have the golden apple?” he asked.

  Bael held up the pendant. “We do.”

  As the boatman took the pendant, Ursula spotted a tattoo along the edge of his neck, an octopus tentacle. Of course—they were in the territory of Dagon, the terrifying god of the sea.

  The boatman arched an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” she said.

  “Climb in then.” He beckoned them. “Take care not to fall into the sea. I don’t get paid to fish passengers out of the brine.”

  Bael stepped into the stern, his footfalls rocking the boat to and fro. As she stepped in, the boatman took Ursula’s elbow to help her balance, and she took a seat in the bow.

  With one oar pointing forward and the other backward, the man deftly turned the boat.

  “How far is it?” asked Ursula.

  “The Fortunate Isle is just through the mist.”

  “I’d ask if this was a regular journey for you,” Ursula began, “but it doesn’t seem as if the cloaks have been used in a while.”

  From his seat in the stern Bael glared at her. Apparently he was unimpressed with her small talk.

  The man took a deep breath. “Only those with golden apples are allowed on the island. I will only take you as far as the shore.”

  Bael stared into the fog, his expression grim, and the boatman lapsed into silence. As the rough sea jostled them, Ursula twisted around so she could see where the boat was headed.

  Slowly, a dark form
rose from the mist. As they drew closer to it, a breeze swirled the vapor. Ursula breathed deeply. Is that the scent of apple blossoms?

  The mist twisted and swirled. Ursula didn’t realize how close they were to the shore until they had practically run aground on a beach of black sand.

  His oars steadying the skiff in the shallow waters, the boatman nodded. “This is where you get out.”

  Immediately, Bael hopped into the sea and began striding through the knee-deep water.

  Ursula gathered her cloak, lifting it to her knees, and stepped out. She turned to the boatman, whose placid green eyes surveyed her though the moonlit mist.

  “To whom do I owe my thanks?”

  “The name’s Lir,” he said. For the briefest of moments his eyes flashed with a pale blue light, like St. Elmo’s fire. Then, with a dip of his oars, he disappeared into the fog.

  WHEN SHE TURNED BACK to the island, Bael had vanished into the misty night, and she plodded on through the ice cold water, stepping on sludgy rocks. Where the hell had Bael gone?

  Beyond the dark sand stood a forest of trees, their trunks gnarled with age. From their branches bloomed a thousand white flowers—apple blossoms. Breathtakingly beautiful. Ursula walked slowly into the grove, her eyes drawn to the extraordinary spray of blooms, glowing in the pearly light like a sea of stars.

  Despite the beauty, the atmosphere was strangely unsettling, and an eerie silence enshrouded the forest. Not a single bird trilled nor insect buzzed among the branches; not even a breath of wind rustled the thorny boughs. When a distant voice pierced the quiet, she practically jumped out of her skin. She moved faster through the trees, hurrying toward the sound.

  And there was Bael—standing tall in the center of a clearing, surrounded by five young women. Each woman had long hair that tumbled over silver-white dresses—apart from one, a beauty whose raven hair was threaded with pearls and piled in messy plaits on her head.

  The women stood in a small semicircle, staring at Bael, their eyes hungry. Ursula was only ten feet away from them, at the edge of the clearing, and they ignored her. Ursula coughed softly.

  The woman with plaited hair glanced at her for just a moment. “Is this the one you spoke of?”

  “Yes,” said Bael softly.

  The dark-haired woman—who seemed to be the leader—beckoned Ursula closer. As Ursula approached, she studied the women. They were all beautiful, with hair and skin that shimmered in the light of the moon. They wore no jewelry, adorned only with the delicate gold stitching along the cuffs of their dresses.

  “You wish to visit Avalon?” asked the leader.

  “I do,” said Ursula. There was a solemnity in the way the girl spoke that had Ursula subconsciously modulating her voice to match.

  “Why do you wish to visit?”

  “I am searching for a friend. His name is Kester.”

  The woman’s porcelain face remained impassive. If she knew Kester, her expression didn’t reveal it.

  “Are you willing to surrender your weapons? Avalon is a peaceful isle.”

  Ursula opened her hands. “I don’t have any weapons. I had to leave them on the other side of the portal.”

  “A follower of Emerazel carries hellfire in her veins,” she replied. “You cannot enter Avalon with the magic of the fire goddess.”

  Oh, not this again.

  The woman arched an eyebrow, and for the first time, Ursula noticed that her face was faintly tattooed with silver stars. “Do you consent to abandon your fire? We will return it to you when you leave.”

  “It’s all right, Ursula,” said Bael. “You can trust them.”

  Ursula sucked in a long breath. She didn’t have much choice, did she? “Fine.”

  “Kneel, please. Both of you.”

  Bael knelt and Ursula crossed to him, taking up a spot on the damp earth by his side. She glanced at him, taking in the tension in his jaw, his shoulders. Dark magic whirled around him.

  The leader reached into her cloak pockets, and pulled out two apples. She handed one to Bael and one to Ursula. “Do not eat the fruit of the island. Hold them before you.”

  Ursula studied the apple. Perfectly shaped, its skin was a deep red flecked with green. Even in the hazy light it seemed to sparkle.

  Next to her Bael lifted his apple up like an offering and Ursula followed suit.

  The maidens resumed their positions in a semicircle. Then in a clear voice, the leader began to sing in Angelic, her voice crisp and clear, in the night air.

  She sang a verse before the other girls joined in. Their voices intertwined, curling around round Ursula and Bael like sensual magic. As the girls sang, a gentle vibration began to grow within Ursula’s ribs. Emerazel’s fire swirled up from her core and out along her arms. Flames licked along her skin until they quenched themselves within the apple.

  The women sang louder, and the fire surged faster from her body, burning her veins. Her gaze flicked to Bael, and she took in the dark shadows snaking down his arms, embedding themselves in his apple.

  The girls continued their song, their voices slowly building to a crescendo. As they harmonized on the final note, Ursula felt the last of the fire leave her.

  The apple trembled in her fingers, now a deep golden hue and hot to the touch. When she studied it closely, she could see the goddess’s flames burning within it. Next to her Bael’s apple had darkened to a sooty black, with shadows moving under its skin.

  A girl with hair the color of honey crossed to Ursula, holding out her hands. “I will take your apple. When you leave, you can eat the fruit to regain your magic.”

  Another girl spoke softly to Bael, pulling the darkened apple from his fingers. He remained kneeling, his shoulders sagging just slightly. Ursula’s throat tightened at the sight of the red blotches that bloomed on the back of his cloak. The wounds from his stolen wings had begun bleeding profusely.

  “He is injured,” said the blonde.

  The leader cocked her head. “The queen will be able to help him.”

  Ursula rose to her feet. “You cannot heal his wounds. He needs to keep them open so that he can reattach his wings.”

  “Don’t worry. You can explain everything to the queen. She is just and wise.” The leader gestured to two of the girls. They each slung one of Bael’s arms over their shoulders and lifted him into a standing position, and the leader fixed her dark gaze on Ursula. “They’ll take care of him. Come with me.”

  CHAPTER 11

  T he woman led her from the clearing and into the forest. Here, the canopy of apple blossoms closed in above them, blocking out the moonlight, and Ursula felt a strange comfort in the darkness. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To your room in the castle. I will help you dress for your audience with the queen.”

  They walked under the apple blossoms in silence, their path lit only by the faint chinks of moonlight that danced on the damp earth beneath their feet. Ursula’s bare soles sank into the dirt as she walked.

  Ursula strained her eyes in the darkness, trying to see the other woman. “What is your name?” Ursula ventured.

  “Elaine.”

  “Who is the queen you spoke of?”

  “Her name is Nimue. She rules over our little isle.”

  At last they reached the forest’s edge, emerging at a narrow ridge that sloped steeply down on either side. On one side, the sea pounded against the dark beach. On the other, a valley stretched out before them, where small farms had been carved from the forest, quiet and dark in the damp night. In the distance almost entirely shrouded by mist was the shape of a mountain.

  “Are we going down there?” asked Ursula, pointing at the valley.

  “No. Nimue’s castle is up ahead.”

  “Who lives down there, then?” asked Ursula.

  “That is Camlann Valley. My family’s home is on the far side.”

  It seemed a cozy place—the kind of place it would be nice to raise a family. “Do your parents still live there?”

>   “Yes, but I live in the castle now.”

  “What exactly do you do there in the castle?” She had no idea how castles operated.

  “I am one of the queen’s ladies.”

  That didn’t exactly clear things up, but Elaine didn’t seem particularly eager to chat. In silence, they hiked higher along the ridge, until the castle came into view. Built at the apex of the ridge, its turrets reached into the sky like spindly fingers, and its dark stone glinted in the moonlight. As they drew closer, the path intersected a narrow cobbled road, an icy mist whirling over the stones. Ursula shivered at the chill. The road bent sharply as they approached, curving out toward the cliff’s edge. Cold stone bit into Ursula’s bare feet as they walked. Ursula peered up at the fortress. The smooth stone castle loomed over them like a spindly crown.

  Unlike the carefully restored castle at St. Michael’s Mount, Nimue’s castle fell somewhere between castle and ruin. Moss and lichen grew over the stone, and in places the tooth-like crenellations along its battlements had collapsed. A dark tongue of wood stuck out from the front of the castle, and it took Ursula a moment to recognize it: a drawbridge spanning a gap in the cliff.

  As they drew closer, a sentry appeared at the opposite end of the bridge gripping a long, coppery pike. Iron chains as thick as Ursula’s legs held the drawbridge in place.

  “She has already relinquished her magic.” Elaine projected her voice to the sentry.

  “You have followed the ritual of the fruit?”

  “We have.”

  “Welcome to Castle Dahut.”

  As they walked over the drawbridge, their feet thumped on the oaken boards. When they passed the sentry, Elaine nodded.

  “Thank you, Oran.”

  “You’re welcome, my lady. The queen is in the Moon Tower.”

  Elaine smiled shyly at Oran, and Ursula saw him blush.

  Ursula followed her through a stone hall where lantern light danced over the flagstones until it opened into a grassy courtyard. At this hour, few people lingered here. Two soldiers stood at one end, staring at Ursula. A few more soldiers stood in archways, but otherwise the place was empty.