by Nina Mason
When her psychic probes entered his mind, he cleared his head of all thought.
“Why do you wipe clean the slate of your mind, my knight? What is it you fear I will find?”
“Nothing, my queen. I simply seek to spare you the mundanities of my cognitions.”
“I doubt I would find your thoughts the least bit dull.” Patting the spot beside her, she gave him a captivating smile. “Can I persuade you to come and sit with me a spell?”
With a knot in his stomach, he approached her, being careful not to let his gaze fall—even for a moment—on the gem on her forehead. The Jewel of Allurement was legendary for its powers of seduction. Any who looked upon the gem surrendered his soul to the wearer. He might be her plaything, but at least he still possessed that divine part of himself.
When he was almost to the chaise, his gaze fell upon something he had failed to notice before: a pedestal beside the chaise on which an emerald goblet stood. The stemmed vessel was not merely green in color; it appeared to be turned from an actual emerald.
Axel blinked at the chalice in disbelief. Surely, it was not what it seemed to be. For an emerald of that size would be of incalculable value.
As he took his seat beside her, she took up the goblet and offered it to him. His heart clutched when he saw it was filled with golden liquid—a potion of some sort, no doubt, but for what purpose?
“Why do you hesitate, my knight? Do you distrust your queen?”
How was he supposed to answer such a leading question without further entangling himself in her sticky web? “Of course I trust you, my queen. What possible reason would I have to doubt you?”
“No more than I have to doubt you, my faithful knight.”
Her sweet demeanor no longer fooled him. She knew of his deception and meant to lure him into a trap. The goblet contained poison or a truth serum or some other elixir that would do him no good.
With a hard swallow, he made a silent plea to Odin: Oh, all-seeing and far-wandering one, reveal to me the aim of this sorcery so that I might arm myself against its evil.
No sooner had he made his entreaty then the room began to transform. No longer was he himself or at Castle Le Fay. He was Sigurd, the hero who had pledged his love to Brunhilde, at the court of the Niflungs. Morgan was the witch-hearted Queen Grimhild, who wanted him for her daughter, Gudrun.
The vision revealed the nature of Morgan’s game. She did not mean to accuse him of faithlessness or punish his transgressions; her intention was to wipe all trace of Jenna from his memory.
He waved the cup away. “No, thank you, my queen. I have no thirst at present.”
“Not even for a taste of the finest whisky ever distilled?”
As the goblet crossed under his nose again, he breathed in the subtle aromas of smoke, peat, and leather. It did indeed smell like a very fine single-malt.
“That is quite a claim,” he said, buying time. She knew how much he liked whisky. How could he refuse the cup without tipping her off? “May I know the maker of this alleged malt without rival?”
“The master distiller is elven.” She still held the tantalizing liquor under his nose.
He should have known, as the elves made the best single-malt in both worlds. Glamoured by the whisky’s intoxicating bouquet, Axel accepted the cup and took a sip. A perfect mixture of flavors laved his taste buds. Marveling, he rolled the whisky across his tongue. As he swallowed, her hand came down on his knee.
“You see?” Her laugh tinkled in his ears like wee bells. “You have nothing to fear. Now, lay back, relax, and let me see to your pleasure.”
Wrapped in a cocoon of euphoria, he did as she bade. All his cares had floated away, leaving him with only the potent desire to serve and obey the woman beside him. “I am your humble servant, my queen.”
“I know you are, my good knight. You simply forgot for a time because you were bewitched. And now that you’ve been restored to your senses, you will not be returning to the glen. You shall remain here, under my watch, until the time comes to embark on your quest. For we cannot have you falling under that witch’s spell again, now can we?”
“No, my queen,” Axel agreed, despite having no recollection of ever encountering a witch in the glen.
Chapter 13
Wanting neither to risk her safety nor flout Axel’s orders, Jenna remained inside the cottage all day with the doors and windows locked. She’d heard the birds fighting—what a terrible racket they’d made!—but stayed put, hoping he’d return to her when it was over. When he failed to come back, she kept herself busy to avoid obsessing about the possible reasons. She read part of Middlemarch, baked a batch of shortbread, watched Persuasion on the DVR, and experimented with her new telepathic powers. Since there was no one around upon whom to practice mind-reading, she tried to find Axel across the glen, but couldn’t seem to connect with his mental circuitry.
As it grew dark, she waited on tenterhooks for his knock. When he didn’t come, she grew increasingly anxious. She waited another hour. Then another, her patience unraveling a little more with each passing moment. By ten o’clock, she could stand waiting no longer. Grabbing her torch and cloak, she set off toward the falls.
Owing no doubt to her heightened senses, the glen was freezing cold, deathly still, and creepy in the extreme. Mother Nature had become a sentient being. The dirt was her skin, the wind her voice, and the plants and trees her hair.
Though frightened, Jenna fought to keep her imagination from running wild by reminding herself to assume all was well until she had reason to believe otherwise. Maybe he was tired; maybe he’d been hurt in the fight—though not too badly, she hoped; or maybe he had something else to do. His failure to appear at the usual time did not necessarily mean he was dead, had run out on her, or was shackled in the dungeons of Avalon.
Halfway to the cave, something drew her notice. Pale debris of some sort was scattered in a circle a little ways up ahead. Quickening her pace, she shone the beam of her torch on the patch of what turned out to be feathers. Gray ones, white ones, and speckled ones. Seeing some splattered with blood made her shudder. This, evidently, was where the birds had engaged. She shone the beam around the clearing, but, to her great relief, found no body.
Perhaps the owl turned out to be an owl after all and Axel had driven it off. Bending down, she picked up a feather—one of the gyrfalcon’s long white tail feathers—and tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans before resuming her trek toward the cave.
Her heart sank when, upon reaching the waterfall, there was still no sign of Axel. She’d half-hoped she might find him bathing in the pool. Drawing closer to the roaring falls, she shone her light around in search of the passage to the cave. There was a ledge cut into the face of the rock behind the cascading water. It was just wide enough to accommodate a good-sized horse.
Steeling her courage, she let the beam lead the way. Her hair and clothes were damp from the overspray by the time she reached the mouth to the cave. Shining the light inside, she saw unlit torches mounted on the walls near the entrance. Otherwise, the interior was so unbelievably dark she could make out no more than shadowy shapes of varying sizes.
Either he wasn’t at home or he was too incapacitated to light the torches. Neither prospect put her at ease.
Heart in throat, she stepped into the cave. “Axel? Are you here? It’s Jenna.”
Her words echoed eerily. She shivered, but got no answer. Pulse racing, she moved deeper, shining the beam around. It smelled of damp earth, herbs, horse, and smoke. There was a crude log chair in one corner, a fire ring made of stones in the center, and a cot piled with animal pelts along the wall.
Axel was nowhere to be seen. Not that it wouldn’t be easy to miss him in the blackness all around her. Making her way toward the bed, she tightened her grip on the torch. God help her if she should drop the bloody thing. The cave was so unbelievably pitch black she would never find her way out.
Just as she reached the cot, a noise deeper in the cave
stopped her heart. Freezing, she strained to listen over the blood-thunder in her ears. A thump followed by a soft nicker told her his horse was somewhere within. This, she found at once relieving and puzzling. Relieving because it wasn’t a vampire; puzzling because she couldn’t think where Axel would go without Odin.
Except to Valhalla, which she did not want to think about—or Avalon, which, in many ways, was even worse.
Discouraged, she sat on the bed. The pelts were wonderfully thick and soft, but otherwise, her knight lived as spartanly as a mountain man. And yet, he seemed content with his life. She didn’t mind living simply. This, however, was a little too rustic for her tastes.
As she shone the light along the opposite wall, the beam fell upon a crude set of shelves piled every which way with books. What did he read, she wondered, all alone in his cave? Fiction, non-fiction, or both?
Though she wanted to know rather badly, she moved the light down the wall until it revealed a small arched opening. Training the beam on the alcove, she strained to see what might be inside. As she struggled to identify the cluster of small objects, a sudden strong compulsion to go over welled up inside of her. It was almost as if the niche were a mouth silently calling to her.
Much as she hated to leave the safety and comfort of the cot, she got to her feet and picked her way across the cave to the opening. The torch’s illumination showed her several items arranged upon a linen cloth bordered with runic glyphs.
His runemaster’s altar.
She shone the light on each object in turn. The three carved wooden figures she presumed were the Old Norse deities. There also was a bloodstained knife, an awl with runes inscribed in its wooden handle, a drinking cup carved from the horn of a stag, an incense burner, a stout beeswax candle, and a few scattered odds and ends.
Fear pricked her heart when her torch lit the leather pouch containing his runes. Why would he leave behind his horse and his runes?
Picking up the pouch, she stuffed it into the front pocket of her jeans. Then, she noticed one of the runes was still on the altar. She was no expert on jewels, but it looked to be a large ruby. Closer inspection revealed the glyph carved into the gemstone’s surface. To her untrained eye, it looked like a capital letter M.
Outside the cave, the wind whispered, “Ehwo ehwo eeehwooooo.”
A chill crept up her backbone, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. It sounded like the echo of a voice bouncing back from a canyon. Axel’s voice, speaking words she could not comprehend.
Wrapping her hand around the rune, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the stone’s essence. It felt cold and hard, as one might expect, but that wasn’t all. There also was an energy radiating from the ruby’s core—a tangible current that traveled up her arm and across her chest to her heart. The stone also seemed to have its own pulse.
Now, she was sure Axel had left this particular glyph for her as a message, though she didn’t yet know what he was trying to communicate.
“Axel,” she whispered, still clutching the stone, “wherever you are, please tell me what you want me to know.”
She listened hard. Harder than she’d ever listened before. But all she heard were the roaring falls and the occasional pawing of the restless horse.
After several minutes of intense, albeit futile, attempts to tune him in, she decided to try another tack. Surely, his vast collection of books included another guide to the runes. It seemed unlikely he would have given her his only one.
Taking the ruby with her, she worked her way over to the bookcase, composed of roughly hewn boards stacked upon piers of carefully arranged fieldstones. The structure was taller than she was, and the books stood in rows three or four layers deep. Being confined to the glen, how did he come by so many?
A quick perusal revealed everything from philosophy and poetry to fiction and nature, arranged loosely by subject. Their bindings ranged from finely tooled leather to modern hardcovers and paperbacks. With only her torch to aid her search, going through them all would take her the rest of the night.
She was too beat to attempt a search of that duration. Though she’d passed the day in relative inactivity, the hours of worrying about Axel had taken their toll on her. Deciding it would be smarter to wait until morning, she found her way back to the cot, kicked off her sneakers, and crawled under the pelts.
The linen-covered feather pillow felt rough against her cheek, but smelled of Axel and apple blossoms. She hugged it to her, wishing it were him. Though the cave was freezing, the skins kept her warmer than she’d been in her bed at the cottage. Except when her knight was there to hold her in his arms, of course. At those times, she was as warm as warm could be, inside and out.
After falling asleep, she dreamed it was Halloween and she was hiding in the bushes near an old well, waiting to rescue Axel the way Burd Janet had rescued Tamlane. All the residents of the Thitherworld were riding past on horses whose tack was covered in bells. First came what she guessed by their pointed ears and long white hair were elves on Highland ponies. Behind them, a horde of hideous goblins rode giant wolves. Following the goblins were pale, red-lipped vampires on ghoulish equine creatures the likes of which she’d never seen before.
Legion after legion rode past. A solo rider on a white horse—one of their own kind—led each cohort. They were, she presumed, the individuals doomed to be tithed.
Finally, the Avalonian assembly trooped past with Sir Axel out in front on a pure white stallion. He looked remarkably serene, considering he was about to be sacrificed.
Mustering every ounce of courage she possessed, she bolted from the bushes, grabbed his horse’s jingling bridle, and dragged him down from the saddle. The faeries began to scream and shout things at her. When she tried to lead Axel away from the ruckus, he balked. “Do I know you?”
Before she could answer, the dream changed. Now, they were in a bed together, but there was a sword between them. Somehow, she knew the man was Axel, even though he had the face of a stranger.
“Why are we in bed together with a sword between us?”
“You are Brunhilde,” he said. “And I am Sigurd disguised as Gunnar, who wishes to marry you, but could not get through the fire surrounding your castle.”
Bewildered, she asked, “Why do you not marry me yourself?”
“Because a witch’s potion has erased you from my memory.”
Jenna came awake suddenly. The dream had been a message. Before she could work out its meaning, flapping drew her attention to the rear of the cave. It sounded like the wings of a very large bird. Her submerged hope charged to the surface. Please, let it be her gyrfalcon back from wherever he’d been!
“Axel? Is that you?”
The owl’s hooted answer told her it wasn’t. Adrenaline surging, she patted the bed in search of her torch. Finding it, she flipped on the beam and shone the light toward the rear of the cave.
Two huge yellow eyes glowed out of the darkness. When the owl swooped toward her with its fearsome talons extended, she dove under the pelts, dropping the torch in the process. The tinkle of breaking glass shattered her courage.
The owl latched on and tore at the pelts. Through the fear fogging her brain, Jenna tried to think what to do. Her mind showed her the knife on Axel’s altar. But how would she get to it in the dark without the bird tearing her to ribbons? She didn’t know. If, however, she didn’t at least try, she stood no chance at all.
Bringing her knees up under where the owl had attached itself, she kicked out her legs with all of her might. Her feet connected with something solid. The bird let out an ear-piercing screech and let go.
Jenna bolted from the bed and stumbled toward the alcove. The torch was down, but not out, so there was at least some light in the blackness. Giving chase, the owl lunged. Its talons grazed her head and caught some of her hair. She cried out as pain engulfed her scalp, but kept going.
She reached the opposite wall and ran her hands along the cold, rough surface until she foun
d the alcove. With frantic fingers, she groped blindly for the knife. Behind her, the owl’s wings were flapping. As if by magic, the knife came into her hand. Closing her fingers around the carved wooden handle, she swung around with the blade leading.
The owl was right there, all terrifying black talons and menacing yellow eyes. It tore at her arms, slicing her flesh. She plunged the weapon upward with all the strength she could summon. A blood-curdling shriek pierced the darkness as pain clawed her arms. She drove the knife deeper. The owl, wings flapping furiously, screeched again and retreated.
Jenna, still grasping the weapon, made a break toward the mouth of the cave. Stumbling over something in the dark, she lost her footing and fell hard on her knees. Pain barked through her lower half. In a flash, the bird was on her, tearing at her sweater and skin with its talons. The knife was no good to her unless she turned over, but the owl, as big and heavy as a man, had her pinned.
Still, she had to do something. If she just lay here like a victim, the owl would tear her to ribbons. And, if she let that happen, she would never see Axel again, know where he’d gone, why he’d left the rune for her, or what the dream meant. These thoughts worked in her system like a tonic. Suffused with new strength, she pushed up on her hands and knees and did her best to shake the owl off. The bird only grasped harder, tearing her flesh through her sweater.
Excruciating pain surged through her. A deafening scream echoed through the cave. It took her a few seconds to realize the sound had come from her mouth. God help her. She was no match for the owl.
Just as hopelessness threatened to pull her under, a shrill cry rang out from deeper in the cave. Hollow clomping bounced back from the walls and grew steadily louder. Through the miasma of mortal fear shrouding her brain, Jenna was unable to process what sort of creature might be causing the rumpus. She only knew, at some vague instinctual level, that it wasn’t human.
Whatever it was pulled the owl off her back. A riotous commotion followed. Pounding accompanied by high-pitched screeching. It sounded as if whatever had come to her aid was pulverizing the owl with some type of blunt instrument. Her mind conjured Thor, the golden-haired Norse god, wielding his mountain-crushing hammer.
