by Nora Roberts
Yet he had told this girl, with her willful spirit and her brilliant eyes. And her stubborn, beautiful mouth.
Even as he sat guard, braced to fight whatever manner of creature might surface in this vile place, he wondered what it would be like to kiss that mouth, to taste those lips.
Strange, to be here in Org once again, and to think of something other than his hatred of this place and of Ondrea and Leopold, cursed be their names. To be thinking of this delicate enchantress with the midnight hair who had no idea what she was up against.
It is most certainly a spell, he told himself, his mouth tightening. Leave her be, he thought, as she sighed softly in her sleep. Get out of here come morning, while you still can.
But he knew it was a lost cause. He couldn’t leave her here to face the evil alone. He wanted to, wanted to believe that he wasn’t as foolish as she was, that he would put himself and his people above a futile attempt to save someone who refused to listen to reason.
But he was remembering how she’d touched his arm, told him he had no need for shame. Remembering how sensuous and regal she’d looked in that amber gown, and how deeply she loved her sister. Remembering that he had felt more alive since she’d swept off her cap in his hall than he had since he’d crawled out of Org.
And he knew he was doomed to stay by her side and guard her as well as he could until he could no longer stand, no longer see, no longer feel. He didn’t know why, only that this was how it must be.
So he let her sleep and didn’t awaken her, not until the first of the gnomes slipped into the crevices of the tunnel and charged at them in silent ferocity.
Chapter 6
ANTWA gazed into the fire, her arms extended, her palms up, opening herself to the vision as she had learned to do as a young witch apprenticed to the high-sorceress Mervana.
But the vision didn’t come.
As midnight crept nearer, the cold night air seeped through the stone cracks of the castle, chilling her skin, even as the loss of both Lise and Gwynna chilled her heart.
At last her arms fell wearily to her sides and her narrow old shoulders sagged.
Gwynna was lost to her, lost forever. And so was Lise. She could not penetrate Org. It was too thickly hidden in the mists of evil. Even the light of Gwynna’s magic could not shine through the dank foul fog.
Another possibility presented itself, but Antwa pushed it away. No, no, Gywnna could not be dead—not yet. Surely she would sense it. She would know if Gwynna was gone from the world of the living.
But soon, very soon now, Lise would be gone . . .
She visited the silent, withered thing that had been the Queen of Callemore every day. She paced the castle and the village, listened to the fearful whispers and dismay of the servants, knights and peasants of Callemore.
They were panicked, looking for a ruler, someone to guard them now that Lise and Gwynna were both gone. Sir Roland had been appointed Acting Commander of Callemore in their stead, but it was Prince William they all waited for. The queen’s husband, who must even now be making his grief-stricken way to Callemore.
I feel so useless, Antwa thought, sinking down upon the intricate carpet that graced the floor of her small, serene chamber.
With all my power I can see nothing, do nothing. If I am helpless against this, how much more so is Gwynna? The child is brave as a lion but she is not fully trained. She is nowhere near ready for such a challenge.
Why did I not prevent her from going? She wasn’t ready, she hasn’t a chance.
Her chin sank upon her chest and a great sorrow shuddered through her.
And then a voice of long ago whispered in her ear. It was faint, like the rustling of leaves, but clear as the distant ringing of a bell.
Despair is the sword of evil.
Antwa’s chin jerked up. Her sad eyes were now alert, wide beneath the broad sweep of forehead and delicate brows.
“Despair is the sword of evil,” she whispered to herself, an expression of wonder crossing her gentle face.
The voice she’d heard belonged to Mervana, her teacher of long ago. And so did the words.
She had learned the lesson in the third year of her apprenticeship. It was the final line in the ancient book of magical arts titled Battle Tricks and Weapons: How to Defeat Evil Incarnate.
“Thank you,” she whispered to the sorceress who had trained her so meticulously in the ways of the wise and good.
“I cast off this despair,” she announced aloud. As she spoke, a gust of wind swept through the room, cold and biting.
“Begone, shadow of Ondrea,” Antwa ordered and with the words the curtains flew aside, the shutters flapped back and the wind whooshed out into the star-laced night. Now in the chamber where melancholy had clung, a fine fairy dusting of hope glittered in the air, subtle and shining and nearly as invisible as moonbeams.
“Sisters of the Moon, Seekers of Wisdom and Good, hear me. A daughter of light needs our help.”
Antwa approached the fire, lifted her arms and turned her palms up in the ancient gesture of invitation and command.
“She fights for us all. Guide me.”
She heard nothing, felt nothing.
But Antwa stared unblinking into the fire.
She would not give up. She would wait, persist.
And believe.
“Guidance,” she ordered crisply, “come forth.”
Chapter 7
“WATCH out,” Keir shouted as a four-foot-tall slime-green gnome sprang straight at Gwynna, its six-inch claws extended. Two more leaped toward him as the others hooted in glee and swarmed toward them.
Fear jolted through Gwynna as Keir’s shout snatched her from sleep. Surging upward to a sitting position, she saw the creature flying toward her. Instinct and her training saved her.
“Halt,” she ordered, and her arm shot up just in time, her finger crooking at the gnome as it sailed down toward her. It froze, suspended seven feet off the tunnel floor, its red eyes hot with fury. “Back where you came from—augmentar vena-room!” she cried breathlessly.
The gnome in midair and the others swarming through the tunnel after him all screeched as if in agony.
And so did the two who had leaped toward Keir. His fist had knocked the first to the ground, and he dodged the second one’s grasping claws. A moment later he faced them both with his sword, and as they came at him again, lopped off their heads in one swift sideways thrust.
The heads rolled, even as a terrible din filled the tunnel. The remainder of the gnomes continued to scream in pain and fury as Gwynna’s spell repelled them back from their intended prey. They scurried away, unable to escape fast enough despite the fact that their blood-lust compelled them to stay.
The gnomes were gone in a twinkling, their screams fading through the rocks. The two gnomes Keir had slain turned into liquid pools of slimy green mold jiggling upon the tunnel floor.
“What were those creatures? I’ve never seen such things before.”
“Night gnomes. They come out in the last hour before dawn and each has ten times the strength of your garden-variety gnome. Poison rests beneath their claws—if they scratch you, you’re dead.”
“Lovely,” Gwynna murmured, frowning at the green slime on the ground.
He saw her tense, as if steeling herself.
“Are you all right?” Keir took a step toward her.
“Yes. Perfectly. Thanks to your quick warning.”
She smiled at him and he resisted the urge to smile back. It was too easy to smile at this woman, to easy to lose himself in the enjoyment of her company. She was like fresh, sunlit springtime melting the dark winter of his soul.
And she’d be dead soon. They both would.
He’d thought he was beyond futile quests, beyond the foolish tenets of chivalry.
And yet . . . he was here, accompanying her. To our doom, he thought, and scowled at his own folly.
“They, like all creatures in Org, serve Ondrea,” he said grimly. “We can no
w assume she knows we’re here.”
“That means she’ll send another welcoming party later in the day,” Gwynna said. “I must be prepared.”
Keir, she noticed, had donned his tunic and boots while she slept, as the fire had burned low, and she reached for her own garments, which had dried in the night.
“Perhaps you’d be good enough to stoke the fire while I dress?” She met his gaze, aware that he had watched with interest as she gathered her clothing. She was intensely aware that she was still clad only in a blanket.
His brows shot up. “If you’d accepted my offer of marriage there would be no need for such modesty.”
“But I didn’t accept it. And there’s no going back.”
“Isn’t there?” Keir snatched the clothing from her, ignoring her gasp. “We could leave Org now. It isn’t too late. I’ll uphold my end of the bargain if you return with me to Blackthorne now.”
“A bargain? Is that what you think a marriage is?”
“What else would it be?” He regarded her in amusement, as if she’d dropped down on a string from the moon. “You must have led a very sheltered life in Callemore, Princess.”
“I know that sometimes marriages are contracts, nothing more. But not always. And when I choose to marry, there will be more between my husband and me than a formal agreement drawn up by counsellors. When I marry, it will be for love.”
He snorted. “Love.”
The way he said it made it sound like something foolish, a child’s wish, without reality or substance.
“Love exists.” Her gaze held his and it was steady, direct. “I’ve seen it. Lise and William love each other more than anything in the world. I want that someday. Not . . . an arrangement. A bribe,” she added, thinking of what he had offered her.
He was thinking of it, too, and for the first time, anger twitched in his cheek. “A bribe to save your life.”
“What kind of a life is worth living without love?” Her voice was soft as she reached out, took her garments from his grasp, and met his eyes directly.
“If I were to abandon my sister, how could I ever give of my heart? I wouldn’t have anything worthwhile left in it to give.”
Keir drew in his breath. She might be naive, innocent and stubborn, but there was wisdom in her words. And a sense of hope that made him feel somehow ashamed.
He expected so little from the world. She expected so much.
But no less than she expected of herself.
Without a word, he turned away and stalked to the fire. He kicked at the dwindling pile of sticks with his boot, knowing that she dressed behind him in the firelit tunnel.
In his mind he watched her and was amazed at the intensity of his feelings as he pictured her lush body with its slender curves, the elegant column of her throat, and that glorious cloud of dusky curls. A shame to cover up such beauty with mere clothes. And it was tragic beyond words to think that such a beautiful, vibrant woman would be brought low by the likes of Ondrea and the demons who served her.
But short of dragging her back to Blackthorne by her hair, or trussed up like a pig, that would be her fate.
He scowled at the dying embers of the fire. When he turned around again, she was dressed—attired in her simple forest green gown and matching cloak. In the firelight that flashed and flickered golden upon the tunnel walls, her dark-lashed eyes glistened like pools of sapphire.
“Before we part company, is there any chance you’ve brought along food in that sack of yours?” she asked. “Or that you’d be willing to share it with a moon witch of Callemore?”
“I’ve both food and wine. But we must make it last. There is only enough for a short journey and nothing in Org is edible for humans. We still must travel two more days before reaching Ondrea’s fortress.”
“We?” She stared at him. “But I told you there’s no need for you to accompany me.”
“I know what you told me.”
Thoughtfully, she fastened her cloak. “Is this about vengeance then? Do you want to finally have your revenge upon Ondrea for betraying your brother?”
“My reasons don’t matter.” He strode over to his sack, drew out two apples and a hunk of cheese wrapped inside a square of thick cloth, and tossed one of the apples to her. She caught it.
“Eat quickly,” he said. His expression had become unfathomable. “The sooner we leave this place, the better. Ondrea might already have another welcoming party on its way to trap us here.”
So, she thought, studying him in confusion as he bit into his apple. He’s changing the subject. He won’t discuss his decision to travel with me, won’t acknowledge his own courage or chivalry in making a journey which he knows better than anyone is perilous beyond measure.
She knew vengeance must play a part in his decision, but . . . she sensed there was something more. When he handed her a wedge of the cheese, their fingers touched, and her pulse quickened. She turned away from him, facing the fire, suddenly wary of what he might see in her eyes.
They didn’t speak as they finished their small repast. Keir dipped a long branch into the dying fire and handed it to her, then lit his own torch. Gwynna’s attention was suddenly drawn to the center of the flames.
She thought she saw something there . . . a blur of colors, a shape trying to make itself known.
She stared intently into the heart of the fire, her mind focussing, but even as she did so the blurred shape vanished, and there was only the feeble glow of dying orange flames.
She blinked, looked again. Nothing.
“What is it?” Keir asked.
Slowly, she shook her head. “I thought I saw . . . something. . . . Never mind.”
Keir led the way along the tunnel and she could see he had come this way before. His steps were sure in the gloom lit only by their torches, and she followed quickly, wondering where this tunnel would lead.
They emerged eventually to hard dusty land, where nothing grew but some brown tangled vines which caught at their feet and some thick-trunked trees with twisted boughs devoid of leaves. A gray mist hung in the air, the same color as the sky, and there was no glimmer of sunlight or daylight, only the dull grayness of an endless winter and the silence of a deadened land.
“There are no birds, no rabbits, no creatures moving here,” Gwynna whispered, a chill creeping down her spine.
“There are creatures lurking but you can’t see them or smell them or hear them until they’re upon you,” he answered in a low tone. “Keep your dagger handy.”
Fear stalked her as they made their way across the strange sullen landscape. Gwynna began to long for the kiss of the sun, the aroma of rich earth and spring flowers, for the comfortable rustle of squirrels and foxes burrowing in brush, even for the refreshing iciness of snow. For anything but this colorless, dead land, brooding with silent evil and doom.
The feeling that someone was behind her, following her, kept plaguing Gwynna, but each time she glanced quickly over her shoulder, she could see nothing, no one. Instead, there was an endless sweep of empty land, dust and twisted trees where mist lingered like a great spider web among the boughs.
They walked for hours, and slowly, the mist faded and a dry cold darkness sank down upon them. It suffocated the spirit as it did the light and made them feel as if the air itself was unbreathable, too close, too thick . . .
“Is it night?” she asked, staring ahead, amazed that they had met no one, seen nothing alive during all this journey.
“It’s always night the closer you get to Ondrea’s fortress,” Keir said. “The moon never shines in Org. Its light, like the sun’s, and everything else that is healing to the spirit, is blotted out. The going will get rougher soon. We must try to find a place of shelter for the night—”
Harsh shouts and hoofbeats broke the silence then, reverberating like drums of thunder in the stillness. Two figures on horseback burst through the gloom straight at them.
Men, Gwynna saw, her heart thudding. Huge, bearded, savage looking men�
�wielding cudgels and swords, their mean little eyes red as rubies, gleaming with malice.
Keir’s sword sliced the air as the rider in front charged at him, but the rider swerved in time and circled back at him with a roar of glee, whipping his dun-colored mount. Gwynna lifted an arm, and pointed at the hefty man on the spotted gray horse who galloped at her.
“Halt!” she ordered. But to her horror the horse kept coming, the man astride him leaning forward with a wicked grin.
“Be still, move not!” she cried, but he closed on her, laughing, and she realized in terror that her magic didn’t work here. They had ventured too close to Ondrea’s domain, and now as she’d been warned, she was powerless.
She ducked aside as the man reached down to yank her up onto his saddle, but he wheeled the horse around and charged back. By then she had her dagger in hand.
To her left she heard a gutteral scream and a thud, and she spared one precious instant to glance over toward Keir. He was dragging the other man from his steed and as she watched the animal reared, hooves flailing the air. Then the second horse and rider was bearing down upon her and she dodged nimbly aside, but as she’d anticipated, the rider grabbed for her, snagging her cloak.
She struck out swiftly with her blade and stabbed him in the arm. He drew back, screaming a curse at her, and the next moment, he leaped, enraged, from his mount.
She struck at him again, but this time he moved quicker, seizing her arm, twisting the dagger away. He threw her to the ground and she found herself pinned beneath him, helpless, as he raised his cudgel above his head, blood streaming from the gash in his hairy arm.
Her gaze was fixed in terror on that furiously evil face, and she braced herself for the blow to come, but it never did.
Her attacker was seized and hurled aside like a sack of grain.
Keir stood over her, his face pale in the leaden light. “Are you hurt?” he asked urgently, his tone hoarse, and at her swift shake of her head, he let out his breath.
