by Shea Godfrey
Cecelia came forward and he took her by the waist as she stepped through.
Her feet touched the soft earth of the garden maze and the night sky spun overhead, the stars turning oddly. “But you cannot see into the maze from the wall above…Not since that night. The vines have buried it all. How is it that we can see the stars?”
Owen set Clare next to her and the High Priestess looked up. “Those are not—”
“The stars of Lokey, nor Arravan either.” Cecelia finished Clare’s sentence in surprise. She spotted the bright stars of the Southern Cauldron, which could only be seen from the Wei-Jinn Islands, further south upon the Sellen Sea than Artanis.
Clare turned her eyes to the maze, the hedgerows already moving to close off the path. “Go!” she hissed and Owen ran.
Cecelia pushed from the shadow of the great library, her boots sinking into the heavy grass as she ran. Owen moved like a much younger man and she smiled as she chased him, her heart racing. The hedgerow upon their right reached out, and he crashed through it, lifting his arm to shield his face.
Cecelia ducked her head as a needle vine lashed out and she felt its sting through the sleeve of her tunic as she raised her arm in defense. There was a flash of light and the vine hissed with a finger of flame as it jerked away in pain. Part of the hedge before her rolled into her path, and she leaped, stumbling a bit as she cleared the height but keeping her feet. She looked back at the smell of burning vegetation, and though Clare had burned through the hedge, her cloak was caught upon a twist of needle vine that stabbed out and pinned the homespun into the ground. Another followed quickly, and then a third as she struggled to unhook the cloak from about her neck.
Cecelia slid to a halt and changed direction as she pulled the dagger from her boot.
Sparks of flames slid from Clare’s fingertips as she fought, but the maze had declared her the most imminent threat and she was caught about her ankles by heavy, meaty vines that exploded from the earth and wrapped about her boots.
Cecelia ducked beneath a branch that swung from the closing hedgerow and slid upon her knees, her knife flashing as Clare was taken hard to the ground. Cecelia’s blade was true, and as she hacked away she heard Owen yell in the distance.
Clare struggled and twisted as she struck the vine that grabbed her wrist. A rope of flame withered the vine as quickly as it had attacked, Clare’s voice filled with strength as she spoke her runes. Waves of red light washed free from her hands and burst into the air as Cecelia found her feet and grabbed Clare’s arm, pulling her up even as the High Priestess pushed from the ground.
They ran, the path narrowing much faster than they could cover the remaining distance to the tower, and Clare clapped her hands, a wave of scarlet light bursting outward with a boom of sound that rattled Cecelia’s bones. There was an explosion of leaves and branches as they raced ahead, showers of dirt and grass filling the air.
Owen’s arms were around her and Clare both, and he spun them, the three of them turning though the open doorway of Sebastian’s Tower and tumbling to the floor in a heap.
The ground trembled violently beneath the tower, branches breaking and the earth rolling and heaving as the hedgerows dug through the earth. Owen pushed to his feet and rushed the door. It slammed with a boom of sound and he swung the bar into place, sealing them in. Something deeper in the tower shattered as it hit the floor.
The silence that followed was deafening and they stilled in its sudden presence.
Cecelia pushed onto her knees and then tipped onto her hip, bracing herself with her left arm. Her hair had been pulled free from her clips, and she pushed it back with a shaking hand. She wiped at her right eyebrow, and her hand came away wet with blood. They were bruised and battered, and the sudden thickness in the enclosed tower was filled with a damp, stale heat.
Clare pushed onto her knees, wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and chin, and then smiled. “Perhaps next time, my dear Cecelia,” she said as she caught her breath, “might I just come for tea?”
Cecelia stared into the shadows and darkness and then she laughed. It was breathless but it was true, and the High Priestess of Jezara joined her.
“Can you give us light, Clare?” Owen walked to Cecelia, took her by the waist, and lifted her onto her feet. His handsome grin was filled with life. “My wild Lewellyn girl,” he whispered. He reached up with the sleeve of his dark jacket and touched gently at the cut beside her eye, and then his hand slid in her hair as he kissed her with passion. She grabbed his arms with fierce hands and returned the sentiment.
Witchlight popped and filled the confines of Sebastian’s Tower.
Chapter Seventeen
Darry slipped on her breeches and trousers and buttoned two of the buttons of her tunic before she walked to the hearth. She crouched down and ran her hand along the length of Hinsa’s body. Jessa leaned against the table, her hair tied back once more as she studied her scrolls, her quill scratching across the parchment.
Hinsa began to purr beneath the attention and Darry’s heart was full. A portion of her strength had returned and she felt their essential connection in a deep part of her soul. It was as it was meant to be and she could not deny it. Whatever happens, Hinsa, I will not be doing that again. Never again.
Hinsa shifted beneath her touch and rose in a lazy manner, brushing against Darry’s side as she went. Darry smiled as Hinsa’s tail dragged against her neck and flicked beneath her nose. She strolled to the now empty bed and leaped onto the covers, finding the underside of the blankets and turning in a tight circle beneath them, her face hidden in the warmth as she lay down.
Darry heard the clink of glass and the tapping of Jessa’s pen. “Akasha, my love.”
Darry stood up as Jessa covered the distance in several quick strides. Jessa took hold of Darry’s face and kissed her, Darry delighted by the entire scene as she held Jessa by the waist.
“I was going to wake you.” Jessa’s eyes were bright. “Sheeva, you taste so good.”
“So do you.”
“I love you,” Jessa whispered, and Darry could see how tired she was. “Are you hungry?”
Darry leaned down and kissed her a second time. “Yes, I am hungry.”
“I have soup and bread, and I have brewed fresh tea. The kettle is hot, and Hinsa likes the soup.” Jessa smiled. “I’ll bring you a bit of both.”
Darry chuckled. “I feel better. You make me better.”
There was a flash of humor in Jessa’s sable eyes. “Let us get some food in you, my love, and we’ll see how you feel after that.”
Darry let her go and walked to the table. She pulled one of the scrolls closer, and though the High Vhaelin was not unfamiliar, she could not read it without Jessa’s help.
“I have been looking at Neela’s letter,” Jessa said over her shoulder. “Looking for clues in her words that might lead to something more.”
Darry ran her hand upon the blank portion of the scroll, and once again she felt the tremor of what was hidden. The feel of the parchment had a weight to it that Darry had not encountered before, and she wondered if it was merely age. A thousand years of waiting would most likely take its toll on something, even words. Perhaps especially words, she thought as she let her fingers skate along the texture of the scroll. Forever falling through time, desperate to land before just the right eyes.
“I have moved the runes about, and translated them into three different languages,” Jessa continued as she poured two mugs of tea. “I have found nothing that is hidden, or a key of any sort that will unlock what is left. I will tell you, Akasha, I am becoming very angry with her.”
Darry considered the comment as Jessa moved the kettle. Her sleeves were rolled up and her tunic was untucked, and though Darry could see the determination in Jessa’s shoulders, she wondered if they were just too damn tired to figure it all out. She didn’t have an answer for that possibility, and she knew that Jessa wouldn’t stop. She returned to the parchment. “There has to be so
mething.”
“Yes, but what?” Jessa countered. “I am not finding it.”
“You need sleep, Jess.”
“I need answers, not another fikloche riddle to solve. I can hear Radha laughing at me from a very great distance.”
Darry grinned at that, though she couldn’t argue with the need for answers. She let her fingers play upon the last words Neela had written, the ink sunk deep in the parchment: I would hold my love beneath the skins, when the winter winds would scream beyond the walls of our tent. She would tangle me up and kiss me in her sleep.
Darry blinked as the words echoed through her thoughts, the voice that spoke them oddly familiar, though she could not place it in her memory. Her fingers trembled upon the runes as she felt the hairs rise upon the back of her neck, her shoulders reacting with a small shiver that tickled over the back of her neck and skull. “All you need,” she whispered, “is to remember your blood and let it rise…”
“Yes,” Jessa remarked as she turned from the hearth, a mug of tea in each hand. “And that is the worst one of—”
Darry’s eyes raked across the table and she stretched out, seizing the dagger beside Jessa’s extra quills. She pulled back, absolutely certain of her course.
“Darry!” Jessa called her name with true power as Darry pulled the blade and it sliced neatly in her left palm, opening the flesh. “What are you—”
The cut was made beside the scar her palm already carried, a now faded memento of a different life that was not so long ago. A wound that had been made with a better blade, but for a darker purpose. Her blood rose up as she tipped her hand above the parchment.
Darry watched the blood fall and held her breath as it hit.
The parchment swelled upward as Darry’s blood soaked its long fibers, and she heard the cups break against the floor as Jessa dropped them. She straightened away from the table with wide eyes as the center of the parchment bulged outward and rose from the wood.
Light exploded from the scroll and Darry twisted away as she felt it burn against her left side, though not for long as Jessa took hold of her tunic and pushed her back. Jessa placed herself between the table and Darry, and her strong voice rang out, her hands above the scroll.
Jessa summoned the Bird in the Hand, runes that had protected them once before in the Great Hall. A second surge of light and power pushed up from the scroll and passed through Jessa’s open fingers as she spoke with authority, her hair blowing back and her clothes billowing. The light changed beneath Jessa’s counterspell, and Darry heard Hinsa’s savage growl of warning as the blinding glow began to soften. It turned gold and then red and finally a vivid blue as it rolled away from the table. It scattered about the room and blew apart in a separate rush of power, a thousand fireflies of brilliance that slowly faded into nothing at all.
Darry took an awkward step back for balance and tried to catch her breath, her chest tight in the aftermath. She could feel her blood rushing oddly and the dizziness that swept over her in the absence of the glare was profound. There was a gust of air from behind her, and her heart gave a terrible push of pain that caused her shoulders to pull inward.
Jessa’s hands slid across the surface of the scroll. “It worked,” she said in a hushed voice. “Through Sorrow there is freedom. In that freedom, there is life. Sorrow will bring you through, unto the gifts of the Great Loom…My love, do what you must and come back to me.”
Darry turned to her right and looked up through the pain.
The bird floated just beyond reach, its neck arched back as its long elegant wings beat in a slow sweeping motion that kept it afloat. Its tail was brilliant with rich feathers, red and black, and a blue that was as deep as the darkest sky. He hovered smoothly, and as his feathers puffed out, his black eyes found hers.
Her memories came back in a terrible flood of power, and her shoulders jerked as she grabbed at her chest, her tunic caught in her closing fist. The mountain and the climb, and the Holy Man from the steps of Gamar’s Temple. The warm and loving touch of the scarred woman’s hand, and the safety of her laughter. Her tent beneath a sea of stars and the heat of a kiss upon Darry’s cheek. All of it came back, and with it, her heart seemed to swell beyond its limits.
Within the slow beat of his wings, Darry heard him speak, and his name was Sorrow.
Sorrow is the only weapon I have left with which to help you. That was my fault, and I’m sorry. When he comes for you, take his hand, or you will lose all that is yours. All that is good and clean and sweet. If you don’t, you will lose everything…just as I did.
Darry took a halting step through the pain, and it felt as if the sun were burning through her body. It was the pain of the end and she knew it without question as she stood beneath the gaze of Sorrow’s endless black eyes. She saw the stars turn in their depths as she had seen them once before, on a windless mountaintop in the eyes of Gamar’s beggar. “Jess.”
“It worked!” Jessa spun about, filled with hope. “Darry, you di—”
Jessa stumbled back into the table and grabbed its edge.
She heard Hinsa’s terrifying scream, and she heard the voice of her gods in her head as she reached out for Darry’s hand. There is terrible danger for her. Sorrow will come for her. Yes, a bird of sorrow will come for you both, if you’re not careful.
Jessa saw the agony in Darry’s expression, and her strong body was twisted as if she could no longer contain the pain. She heard Darry’s voice, and their eyes met as Darry reached out, though not for her. The wings of the giant bird swept forward and the air filled with colors, red and black and blue and gold. The long heavy feathers stroked smoothly across the skin of Darry’s offered hand.
“You shall have no endless night, my love.”
Jessa shoved away from the table and lunged. “Darry, no!”
The surge of utter darkness devoured Jessa’s hand as she grasped the tips of Darry’s fingers, a rush of pure terror crushing through her mind in a single heartbeat. Its weight was infinite as it pushed into her wrist and then farther still, racing up her arm, searching, consuming, a cold swarm of absence, of nothing, of death.
Hinsa’s weight slammed into her chest and she was sent spinning away, the great panther knocking her through the air. She hit the floor and slid, tangled in Hinsa’s legs and feeling the slash of claws against her arm, though only briefly. They hit the chair beside the hearth and Jessa’s head met the floor with a crack of sound that shuddered through her neck and into her shoulders. Her stomach lurched, and she felt Hinsa’s strength push against her and pin her to the floor.
The wave of darkness poured over them and Jessa felt her lover go. She felt her leave. She felt Darry move over and through her and then beyond as the nothingness washed across the room and wiped out every trace. She pushed against Hinsa’s immovable weight, her arms shaking and her mind dazed as she turned her head.
Everything was still, even the air, for the lamps had gone out and there was but the glow from the burning coals in the grate beyond the fallen chair. Darry lay upon the floor not far from the opposite hearth, her body still as her right arm was bent beneath her at an odd angle, her fingers lax and lifeless. There was no tension in her body, nor the tone and strength of muscle. There was no essence of her at all.
“Akasha?” The name caught and broke in the tightness of her throat.
She could smell Darry’s heady musk in Hinsa’s fur and her chest heaved as she pushed and pulled at the heavy ruff about Hinsa’s neck, her hands frantic. She could smell it on her tunic and in her hair when she turned her head. When Hinsa refused to move, Jessa arched beneath her, her scream filled with rage and fear as it lifted in a massive wave of blinding witchlight. Its raw power split and ripped the planks free of the roof, and blew the shutters from their hinges and into the night beyond.
Chapter Eighteen
Cecelia walked about the lower level of the tower and searched beyond the shadows that were cast by Clare’s witchlight. The elements had invaded the t
ower once more, and there was a rope of needle vine that had grown through a split in the shutters of the northernmost window. Something creaked deeper within the structure, and for a moment, she felt a rumble beneath the floor. She reached out for the divan, but Owen was there first, taking her hand and bracing her arm atop his.
“There is majik everywhere.” Clare held her hand beside a lamp and tried to coax the flame. There was a pop and a hiss and the glass flue screeched and cracked as she pulled her hand back. “Be careful what you touch. Fire will not burn here.”
Cecelia surveyed the divan and the sitting area, noting the chair had been tipped over and the floor before the hearth was…“Owen.”
He stepped around her and followed her gaze. “Clare,” he said in a voice that was clearly in command. “By the hearth.”
Clare brushed past him and stepped beyond them both, though only a few feet.
The floorboards were soaked and stained with the darkness of old blood, blackened and soiled bandages discarded near the raised hearth. The High Priestess stopped at the edge of the blood and crouched down. She wiped a careful hand across the boards at the edge of the dried blood and brought it to her nose. “Goldenseal root and black pepper,” she said as if to herself. She stood and walked behind the chair, keeping just beyond the stains. At the hearth she crouched down once more and moved her fingers just above the rough gray stones. “Speaking as a healer, this is an awful lot of blood.”
Cecelia swayed awkwardly near the divan and sat down as her knees gave out.
Clare stood up at once. “Cecelia?”
“I’m fine,” Cecelia answered as Owen came back to her. “Along the edge, Owen. Do what you must. I am fine.”
He stepped back along the blood and used the cushions for balance as he went to a knee. He traced a careful finger along the edge of the paw print, his eyes sharp. He saw a second one a short distance away, and then a third.
