“Davina,” he managed to cough out.
She knelt down and handed him a cup of water, her golden eyes fixed on him. Malcolm took it, but couldn’t manage to swallow.
“We’ve lost many in this village to the sickness,” she said. “Only a blessed few who’ve had it survive. It’s a shame to see my children die.” She stared off, but then her lip crooked in a half smile. “You did a foolish thing, stealing from Bram.”
“Do you think I am not aware of that?” Malcolm whispered.
Davina exhaled dreamily. “Bram is a brutish man. He cares not for those he sells across the sea, or those who fall victim to his laws. He believes in the old ways, believes in the old gods. I like that about him.”
Malcolm groaned as he tried to sit up. “I am sure he’s quite charming.”
Davina shrugged. “Charming, no. But he doesn’t pretend to be what he is not.” Her tone was accusing.
Malcolm straightened his back, his bones grinding with each movement. “And you present yourself as you are? They call you a sorceress.”
This made Davina laugh. “They do have their ideas about me.”
With his vision blurred and his head swimming, it took energy for Malcolm to scowl. She was arrogant, and whether she was a sorceress or not, she wore her pride too freely. She reminded him of Mara. No woman should believe they have that kind of position over a man.
“Perhaps someone should tell them there is no such thing as a sorceress,” Malcolm said with ice on his breath.
Davina peered at him observantly as a shadow fell across her face. “That all depends on how you define sorcery.” She leaned forward. “But I would guess you know a thing or two about it, don’t you?”
Malcolm paused, wondering what she knew. “Why don’t you set me free and I will tell you all that I know.”
Davina shook her head. “I know all I need to know. I sense what you are despite your mortal form. I can smell the stench of vengeance on you. And I can feel that shadow of a spirit you had hovering around. Did you think you were the only descendant left? You are in no place to bargain with me.”
Malcolm’s eyes widened, but he caught himself and feigned confusion. “I am no more than what you see before you; an ill man trapped in a cage. If you’re under any sort of notion that I’m more than that, then you are no more a sorceress than I.”
Davina laughed. “To me, you are not worth saving. That much I know. But my daughter—she has other ideas about you. It was at her urging I came to you.”
Malcolm slumped backwards in the shadow so he could gather his thoughts. If Davina was a Dia, why would she not want to set him free? He squeezed his hands together angrily. “Then why did you come if you had no intention of helping me?”
“Curiosity, I suppose. And the desire to appease my daughter.”
Malcolm scoffed. “Your daughter is the merciful one, then?”
Davina frowned. “My daughter is anything but merciful. She would throw a babe into the flames if she thought it served her purpose.”
“Let me out,” Malcolm tried one last time, “and you’ll never see me again.”
Davina shook her head. “If Bram doesn’t kill you, the sickness surely will. There is nothing I can do for you now.” She turned away from him and walked to the door of the hut. “We must look out for ourselves, Malcolm. It’s the only way we survive.”
“How did you know my name?” Malcolm asked, but Davina only gave him a wink and opened the door.
“Wait,” Malcolm urged.
Davina whistled and two of Bram’s sons came charging into the room. Malcolm grabbed the fire iron he’d hidden under his blanket and when the men opened the latch, he gathered all of his strength and jabbed it at them. They jumped back, but as Malcolm went to make a run for it, his knees collapsed beneath him, he stumbled, and soon a large hand clamped down on his shoulder. Malcolm collapsed like an empty sack. They grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out into the light.
“Unhand me,” Malcolm cried as he covered his burning eyes.
The men threw him on the ground. Malcolm scurried back when he saw the whole hamlet was standing before him. Fear bubbled up in his throat, but he couldn’t find the strength to get to his feet. The peasants parted and Bram stepped forward. “Get him on his feet,” he ordered.
Rigid arms hoisted Malcolm up again and held him in place.
“My apologies for taking your horse,” Malcolm choked. “Perhaps we can come to some arrangement for my offense.”
Bram laughed, his big arms crossed across his wide chest. “Oh, there will be some arrangement. You will pay with your blood.”
Malcolm sensed a hush come over those around him. He searched for Wynn, but only saw Davina, her expression unmoved, and Tristan, with a curious look on his face. Why wouldn’t they help him? If they were descendants, how could they watch him suffer like this?
Before Malcolm could answer Bram, the men dragged him to a tree stump, pushed him to his knees, and pressed his cheek in to the rough wood. Splinters pierced his skin as he fought against them, but he was becoming exhausted from the struggle and there was a moment where he thought he might lose consciousness. His heart raced. The men stretched a thick rope across his back and tied his hands behind him. Sweat dripped in his eyes as he searched the crowd, looking for his mother. When he spotted Davina’s daughter, Seren, her eyes were yellow like an owl’s and apprehension stretched across her face.
“Help,” Malcolm mouthed to her.
Bram stepped forward with an axe in his hand, the freshly polished blade shining. “Your blood will become our offering to the gods,” he said.
Suddenly, Wynn burst forward and threw himself over Malcolm. “No, don’t do it, Papa.”
“Be gone with you, vile pest,” Bram growled. He snatched Wynn by the neck and flung him out of the way. Bram took another step towards Malcolm.
“Don’t do it,” Malcolm whispered. “I am a descendant of the ancient ones. You will suffer if you harm me.”
Bram paused with a smirk. “Then free yourself. Surely you must have the power to do it.” He took an exaggerated step back. “Do it, boy. Free yourself.”
Malcolm struggled to get his hands loose, but his bonds were too tight. He gave up with a defeated sigh.
Bram laughed again, the whiskers of his beard quaking with each horrible chuckle. He lifted the axe over his head, directly above Malcolm’s neck.
Malcolm gritted his teeth and closed his eyes when he heard the sweetest sound he’d ever heard in his entire life; a soft voice, like that of a sparrow, called out, “Stop.”
He waited for the blow that never came, and he opened his eyes to see Seren with her hand on Bram’s arm.
“He will be more valuable to us alive, Bram.”
Bram lowered the axe and stared at the young woman. “You wish to keep him alive?”
Seren gave Bram a pretty smile and brushed the dark hair from her shoulder. “It’s not that I wish to keep him alive. I’m thinking of you. Look at his clothes. He is not a poor drifter. He may be highborn, well taught.”
Bram furrowed his brow. “What do I care if he is highborn or not? He is a thief.”
Seren was patient with the brute. “He may be that, but chances are, he’s a thief who can read and write.” She looked at Malcolm. “You can do both, can’t you?” She flared her eyes at him suggestively.
“Yes,” Malcolm coughed, on the verge of vomiting.
“That is of no use to me,” Bram said.
“Not to us,” she said, “but the Irish might have a use for him. I’m sure they would pay a pretty price for a slave who can write. Aren’t they always locking themselves away to copy texts?”
Bram grunted. “The monks don’t take slaves.”
She nodded in agreement. “But the traders on that side do. An educated slave fetches a higher price. Who they sell him to is not your concern.”
There was a tense pause between them. Malcolm tried to keep his eyes open, but darkness was c
losing in on him. The only thing between his life and eternal darkness was this girl.
Bram arched a brow and stroked his beard. “I suppose you’re right.” He relaxed his shoulders and hardened his stare at Malcolm. “You live another day, thief. But I can’t say the life that awaits you will be a blessing. You will wish I’d cut your head off once they get their hands on you.” Bram nodded to one of his men who untied Malcolm.
“What hand do you write with, thief?” Bram asked, standing over Malcolm.
Malcolm tried to look up. The sun behind Bram made him appear as one gigantic shadow of a man.
“Which hand?” Bram repeated, nudging Malcolm with his foot.
Malcolm shook as he held up his left hand.
“Very well.” Bram looked to the man standing over Malcolm. “Take the fingers on his right hand. That should stop him from stealing again.”
“No,” Malcolm pleaded.
The man grabbed Malcolm’s right hand, slammed it down on the tree stump and with a small axe, he brought it down with a hard thud on Malcolm’s fingers.
Malcolm’s eyes bulged and his stomach churned as he watched his four fingers roll off the stump and fall to the ground. The man released his wrist and Malcolm tumbled over, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest while the onlookers erupted in gales of laughter. Malcolm took quick shallow breaths, the pain from his hand mingling with the throbbing throughout his entire body. He couldn’t see or hear. And his mind became a cloud of smoke through which there was no escape.
A rough pair of hands grabbed him and flipped him on his back.
“A slave who can write has no use for his legs,” Bram said.
Malcolm didn’t see what came next; he could only feel the searing agony as something hard came down on his left leg. He heard the crack resonate through his entire body, but he couldn’t scream out loud. He writhed on the ground, his mouth open in a silent shriek, and then he became the pain. He felt himself being dragged, but could no longer fight them. There was a sound of a wooden door falling on soft earth, and then he felt himself dropping several feet until he hit the ground. The smell of soil and rotting wood surrounded him. It was like he’d been brought to the edge of the world and dangled off the cliff, with nothing to catch him. His mind raced and his heart beat at a thunderous pace in his ears, until finally, the pain and sickness running through him knocked him out cold.
A flock of buzzards coasted on the winds of the cloud-capped mountain. Corbin counted at least twenty of the scavengers gliding on their dark-tipped wings.
Something had died.
They danced on the air, weaving in and out of the mist, ensuring no predators larger than themselves lurked below.
Cautious, Corbin thought. These birds were instinctively cautious.
He understood it, because now he too was a creature of caution; the lessons of his experiences had not gone unlearned. The accident in Silver River had been a warning, a reminder that even with his power of Light, he couldn’t always protect the others from danger.
Ailwen had made a full recovery, but Corbin now understood Mara’s urgency to give the power of Light to the others. As mortals, death stalked them at every turn, and Corbin feared Mara’s heart couldn’t stand losing another person she loved.
In truth, he couldn’t either.
While becoming Dia wouldn’t make the others truly immortal, they would live twenty lifetimes; only fire or a fatal blow from steel could end them.
He turned just as the towering door of Ayrith Fortress, the veiled Dia dwelling, creaked open and Mara stepped out. She smiled, walked up beside him, and wrapped her arm around his. The moment they touched, Corbin felt the spark of energy as their powers connected, becoming a river between them. This is what happened every time, and this is what had transformed Corbin from a Halfling with his mortal mother’s blood running through his veins, in to a Dia with the strength and Light of one whose blood is pure.
While Mara was chosen to keep the power of the coire, the most commanding Light among Dia, Corbin was chosen as the guardian of the Keeper. But he didn’t need the gods to tell him he belonged with her. Guardian or not, she would have been his choice.
He wove his fingers with hers, savoring the soothing current of energy, and looked up at the dark clouds that seemed close enough to touch. Snow Hill was the highest point in the entire realm of Gwynedd. It was also the rainiest. Corbin sighed as he looked at the looming clouds.
“Of all the places we could have gone, did Drake have to choose the wettest?”
Mara laughed, her eyes sparkling like pale emeralds. “It’s the most isolated place, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s the most beautiful.”
She was right about its beauty.
Ayrith fortress had been veiled from mortal eyes on the tallest peak of a mountain for more than a millennium, surrounded by scooped out valleys and fringed by forests of oak, wych elm, and red flowering mountain ash. This place was remarkably different from Valenia. Ayrith was colossal, with dozens of rooms and chambers that led to an immense hall lined with stone effigies of Dia warriors. Wide stone arches encased the exterior, letting in light from all angles. Stone steps walked down the mountain, vanishing into the valley below. It was bright and airy and engendered none of the darkness that plagued Valenia. This was their new home, created by their ancestors and frozen in time with all it contained.
The sound of thunder rolled through the sky, bouncing off the mountaintops. The air was heavy with moisture, and with a quick flash of lightning, the sky opened up. Corbin stepped back under the stone canopy, pulling Mara with him and enclosing her in his arms. She smiled as he brushed his lips against hers, while his hand slid down the curve of her back. She smelled of lavender and her skin was as soft as a rose petal. He loved moments like this; moments when she was at ease, like the thumb of grief was not always upon her.
He pressed his lips to hers and she fell into him with a gentle sigh.
“You make me forget where I am and who I am sometimes,” Corbin said, drawing back and looking down at her.
Mara gave a half smile. “You see, rain has its benefits.”
Corbin glanced at the rain as it began to fall harder. “I suppose.”
Mara shook her head. “Does it bother you that much?”
He tilted his head with a shrug, knowing what she was about to do.
“Very well, then.” She stepped out in the open air and raised her arms, palms to the sky. A soft emerald light began to glow in her hands and suddenly a warm wind picked up. The breeze whipped about her black hair and the indigo skirts of her silk dress, and soon the wind became so strong that it pushed the dark clouds way.
When the sky was finally clear, Mara turned to him with a spirited grin, the inner green of her eyes alight. “Is that better?”
Corbin grabbed her close and squeezed her tight. “It certainly is,” he whispered. “Now come to bed so we can make a storm of our own.”
Just as Mara ran the tips of her fingers up his neck, the door behind them opened and Drake walked out. She stepped back with a flush of pink in her cheeks.
“Am I interrupting something?” Drake asked Corbin with a smirk.
“We were just commenting on the weather,” Corbin said. “It seems to have cleared up.”
“Yes, I see that,” Drake said, stroking his dark brown beard and looking out onto the mountain.
Drake was an imposing man, well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a kind face that could turn vicious with his anger. Corbin looked just like his father, and had it not been for the beard that masked half of Drake’s face, they might have looked like brothers. But Corbin and Drake were eons apart in age. Corbin had lived only mortal years on earth, and while Drake appeared as a man in his thirties, he’d lost count at five hundred years old. He’d lived in the time when there were many more Dia living in sidhes throughout the realm and across the sea. He’d seen many wars, the invasion of the isles, and became witness to the fall of Rome.
&n
bsp; As soon as Drake’s eyes fell on Mara, Corbin felt a tense silence come over them.
“What is it?” Mara asked evenly.
Drake exhaled. “I think you should reconsider what we discussed this morning. I don’t think they’re ready. And I don’t think you’re ready.”
There was an infinitesimal twitch of Mara’s lip. “I have thought about it, Drake. I have thought about it for two years. I used the power of the coire to make Corbin a pure Dia, and I brought Isa back from the Otherworld. Nothing bad came of it then, why should it now? I don’t understand your hesitation. I’ve made a promise to Annora, Ailwen, Barrett, and Gareth to make them Dia. They want the Light, and I am the one who can give it to them.”
Drake shook his head in frustration. “Giving Corbin Light and bringing Isa back was different than what you plan to do. I’ve never known mortals who’ve been given our Light. Their souls are not Dia. Their gods are not our gods.” Drake paused to reflect a moment. “Barrett is a dear friend to me. I want nothing more than to see him with the same power we have, but how can we know what will come of it?”
Mara’s mouth stiffened. “We will know by doing it. The alternative is to watch them whither and die. Or perhaps we can let them die in the pits of a copper mine.” She said it to make a point to Drake, but it pinched Corbin in his soul.
Drake nodded with a curtain of infinite patience on his face. “I understand,” he said. “But the power of the coire has not been used in over two thousand years.” He paused. “As the Keeper, you are to see that our kind survives, not give mortals the power of the gods.” He said it gently, but Mara’s face darkened with anger.
“Have you no faith in me? Do you think the gods would permit me to use the coire if they opposed it?”
Drake nodded. “Yes, I do think they would allow you to use it. You don’t know these gods, Mara. You were raised as a mortal. These gods are not what you think they should be. They are watchful, but they care not what happens to us.” He stepped forward, put his hands on her shoulders, and peered in to her eyes. “You are young, Mara. You have not learned enough to know what I’ve learned in five hundred years. You need to be patient, and you have to trust me.”
The Embers of Light Page 7
