Druid's Bane

by Phillip Henderson

  She glared defiantly at him. “Just let me go, Kane.”

  “Oh, come, come, Dee. How can I do that? You’ll just run off and tell Father.”

  The resolve in his eyes made it clear he intended to kill her no matter what she said. So, determined to be brave to the last, Danielle spat in his face.

  Anger flashed in his dark eyes and he twisted her wrist. The explosion of molten pain drew a ragged cry from her throat. Then he had her around the neck, pulling her to her feet. Danielle tried to struggle, clawing and gouging at his hand, but Kane had the better of her. He got a hand free and swung the dagger into her. The slender blade sunk deep and doubled her up. She blinked wildly, not quite comprehending what he’d just done to her. Her strength immediately failed and she staggered, but before her legs buckled, Kane pulled her into a hug and held her head against his shoulder.

  “It’s not your fault, Dee,” he whispered in her ear as he petted her hair. Danielle grimaced, trying to draw a breath. She could feel blood soaking the front of her attire and beginning to run down her legs. “Apparently you were destined to die, and I to live. It’s just the way it is, so don’t you blame yourself. And don’t you worry about Arkaelyon and Father; I’ll look after them both, in my own way, though this free republicanism, I’m afraid, dies with you. It’s just not me who will gain from the end to that awful set of ideas and your death, you understand.”

  Silent tears were gliding down her cheeks. The thought of all that she was leaving behind brought an aching grief flooding over her that was worse than the pain.

  Kane smelt her hair, revelling in the scent, and then bent and kissed her forehead. “I almost feel as if I’ll miss having you around. I’ll definitely miss facing you in the tournament ring tomorrow.”

  At that, he pulled the dagger out of her. Danielle groaned and slumped to her knees. Kane put his boot on her shoulder and pushed her over, talking all the while about how she had brought this upon herself as he leisurely cleaned her blood from the blade of his dagger with a handkerchief.

  Lying where she fell, her shallow breath rasping in her blood-slicked throat, Danielle was beyond the hurt his words intended. Death was coming fast. She could feel her vision fading, her mind wandering. She groaned a little, and her eyelids fluttered open as Kane picked her up in his arms and pushed in through the thickets of flax. He was still talking. She could see his lips moving, but she could find little meaning in his words. She was too weak to care. Then he kissed her one last time and casually dropped her over the precipice.

  As she fell, the foul smelling wind whipped past her broken body. At first there was only peace, but suddenly with the stench came an unbearable heat, as if she had been tossed into a smithy’s furnace. Her clothes began to smoulder, and then they burst into flame—her hair and skin were next. The agony was all consuming, and she screamed, wishing for death. Time vanished as terrifying images flashed before her eyes, each moving faster than the last. A faceless horde of black-robed Druids rushed across the Lake of Mist like wraths to assail the white Walls of Amthenium, home of her beloved Grand Assembly. War and the ruin it brought was everywhere. She saw her father’s banner go down, the black eagle on a field of sky blue. It was torn asunder, and then the banners of Arkaelyon’s allies were also torn to pieces: Corenbald’s snow wolf; the yellow star of Vafusolum; the white, gold and silver standard of Lunwraith’s Pegasus; the forest green flag of the Norenian republic. The battle was brutal and bloody, and she cried out at it, grieved to her soul, and more so when Amthenium’s great white walls were breached by the fiery missiles slung from catapults and the same dark horde swarmed into the city, fire and smoke illuminated by lightening flashing across the darkened sky as thunder rocked the earth and heavens.

  And then it was done.

  A quiet fell across the killing fields, broken only by her sobbing. All her father’s endeavours to bring peace to the world had turned to ash and were floating up into the darkened sky. Great knights, many of whom she knew by name, lay slaughtered in the mud, vultures and crows pecking at their eyes and wounds. A steady rain began to fall, and the stench of death was overpowering.

  “You must see this, child. And one more thing besides.”

  Danielle started with fright, realising she was standing among the ruin. It was a man’s voice, and not wholly unkind. But when she wiped her eyes and looked around her, there was no one to see. At least no one alive. She was about to call out when the scene around her dissolved in a blinding light and a moment later she found herself standing in the grand square that lay before the Amthenium palace. Bonfires and torches hissed in the steadily falling rain and all around her a vast steaming horde were on bended knees, their adoration directed toward the stairs of the Amthenium palace, their black hooded robs, muddied and many bearing grievous wounds. Danielle followed their gaze, wondering why she had been brought here and by whom. To her horror, Kane stood on the palace stairs in regal splendour. He held a huge, intricately engraved tome to his chest that emanated a presence that made her skin crawl and filled her belly with a fathomless dread. He was proclaiming the fulfilment of a prophecy that predicted the restoration of Maig’s mantle across the face of the world, the same of which her attackers in the royal cemetery had spoken. The words fuelled her fear like dry timber on a fire, and she began to back up, wanting to be away from here. But Kane’s gaze found her. He stopped mid-sentence, and a mix of anger and fear burst across his face visible even across the distance and through the rain. It was clear he had not expected to see her here. He shouted a command, pointing in her direction. Danielle turned to run. She shoved past the swell of dark shapes that were rising up around her. There were too many of them, and she made only a handful of yards before fingers tore at her clothes and she was dragged to the cold, wet cobble, screaming and thrashing. She heard Kane give the order to kill her, and her fear turned to terror as cold steel fell upon her in a frenzied attack. The unremitting agony consumed her utterly as blades sunk into her flesh.

  It was a blessed relief when a blinding light drew her away and she woke suddenly and found herself in her own bed. She pushed off the two terrified maids who were trying to comfort her, climbed out of bed and vomited in the chamber pot.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Damn it, open up!” Fren shouted, hammering at the front door of Lord Henry’s secluded villa high up in the Eastern Mountains. She stepped back and looked up at the darkened stone façade, the night her only company. To her relief, a soft yellow light grew in a second story window. Then the eye-slot in the large iron braided door ground open suddenly and a candle was held up to the gap, its feeble light illuminating Master Gaylon’s haggard face as he peered out at her.

  “Who be there, and what ya’ want? The hour is late and the house sleeps.”

  The old fool was squinting into the darkness. He couldn’t see a dozen steps in front of him on a fine summer’s day. He had no chance of making Fren out in her black robs.

  “Open this door, old man. I need to talk to your master at once.”

  The aged doorkeeper bleated a string of apologies as he moved to comply. There was a clatter of keys then the lock clunked open. Fren pushed inside as she was given entry.

  “Your master. Go and wake him. I must see him at once.”

  “Of course, at once,” Master Gaylon said as he hurriedly lit a candle to leave with her.

  Fren tightened her shawl and tried to calm herself. She could feel the chill of white magic in the air as surely as a mariner feels an approaching storm. Once she had a candle in her hand, the old doorman headed for the stairs, suggesting that she take her leisure in the library. Fren had turned to go when footsteps at the other end of the timber-panelled hallway announced the arrival of a maid. The young woman, dishevelled by sleep, was carrying a night lantern. She hesitated when she saw Fren and quickly offered a curtsey. Her look of trepidation was common among humble folk who knew what Fren was, and more importantly, what she was capable of.

  “
Have some Daria tea brewed, and bring it to me in your master’s library,” Fren said. The potent herb would help to ease her mind a little. “And make sure you use only fresh honey.” With another curtsey, the maid was on her way.

  Fren walked across the vestibule to an adjoining hallway, moving as quickly as she could without snuffing out the candle. The villa was as familiar as if it were one of her own residence, and reaching the library—its stone shelves lined with countless volumes—she set about lighting several lamps by the hearth. Ordinarily a servant would have seen to this task, but she was too anxious to be still. She had hardly finished when a manservant hurried in and set to building up the fire. Once done, he offered a respectful bow and was gone. Taking a seat by the fire to wait for Henry to arrive was more than Fren could bear, so she stood at the window and gazed out at the night.

  Situated high up in the wooded foothills of the Eastern Mountains, the villa had a considerable view of much of the Dukedom of Illandia; but under a crescent moon, there was little to see in the nocturnal gloom beyond the window. Even Illandia’s distant lights were difficult to make out. She closed her eyes, wondering for the umpteenth time how it was possible that the dream she had conjured to rob Danielle de Brie of sleep could have been interfered with. She knew of only one man capable of such a thing, and the very thought of Naratha, head elder of the Kathiusian Druid Council, half-terrified her.

  Hurried footfalls brought her from her dark musings, and she turned just in time to see Lord Henry burst through the doorway, his nightgown flowing about his portly frame. His stately features were pale and puffy from sleep, his salt and pepper hair a mess, and his usual genial smile nowhere to be seen as he closed the door.

  “Fren, what’s the matter?”

  “Danielle de Brie might not be what we think she is.”

  Henry’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. You have seen the mark she bears?”

  “She was a baby last I saw it and it could have been a freckle.”

  “But if she is not the girl child of the prophecy, then Lord Kane can not be the next Hand of Maig.”

  “That’s what I don’t understand,” Fren said. “Kane is the chosen one…”

  “Then Danielle is what we fear. It can’t be any other way. The prophecy is clear. The next Hand of Maig will share the womb with a girl child and enter the world on her heels. And she will be Druid’s Bane. What’s happened to make you doubt this?”

  Fren held her tongue as a knock came at the door, and she didn’t speak again until the tea was poured and the maid had left, closing the door after her. Henry waited as she took a sip from her cup and sat down. The herb was fast working and she was pleased to feel its effects.

  “The dream I conjured to disturb her sleep was interfered with.”

  Henry looked bewildered, just as she knew he would. If Danielle de Brie was what they suspected, then such interference wasn’t possible. Free will was the paradigm on which the world of the White Druids had always functioned. A servant of the First Mother could influence no man or woman whose name appeared in the book of the fates in mind or matter. It was as simple as that. And the Goddess certainly would not seek a mortal unless the mortal sort her first. And there was no way Paul de Brie’s only daughter knew what blood flowed in her veins or the power it possessed. And that she would utter a prayer to the First Mother, even in her fevered state, was as likely as her converting to the orthodox side of the Goddian faith.

  Henry walked over to his bureau and began to prepare himself a pipe. “It’s not possible that Lord Kane can be what we know him to be if his sister is not part of the prophecy. This can’t be interference. It has to be something else. Not even Naratha the White could breach the laws of the First Mother.” He glanced back at her. “You checked the bones?”

  “Yes, and they revealed nothing new. If this isn’t a breech of the laws, then whose hand was in this and who else knows about the prophecy, because it was all laid out for her to see, including the roles she and her brother are fated to perform. The Book of Minion was even there. I saw it all, and who ever was doing this has a great deal more power than I do because I couldn’t stop them easily. And if they can communicate to her through my conjuring, then she is not a fated one, merely common born.”

  “I refuse to believe that.” Henry lit his pipe and took a few long puffs. “The words of prophecy came directly from the Dark One—they cannot be wrong. The bones revealed no change, and we have all felt the white magic that radiates from that woman. It’s so strong that I’m surprised the Goddians are utterly blind to it, especially the reformists.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps things have changed.”

  “Maig would have warned us.”

  “If she knew, yes.”

  “We are talking about the First Mother violating her own laws?”

  Henry clamped the pipe between his teeth and slumped down in the chair opposite his guest. He looked about as pained as Fren felt, and when he spoke it was with little conviction. “We lost a great deal of knowledge at Brutarius’ fall. Perhaps this is another exception to the rule that we do not know about. It wouldn’t be the first time ignorance has undone us.”

  Fren knew he was referring to the theft of the Book of Minion two centuries before and the fall of the last Druid overlord to which the theft had led. They hadn’t seen that coming either. Nor had the Dark One. And that three reformist priests could manage such a feat unaided certainly had not been possible to her mind then or now.

  “So what are we to do?”

  “I guess we have to confirm that there is no basis to your fear, that Danielle de Brie does in fact bear the mark of the First Mother. You’re best placed to find a way to establish that once and for all. While you see to it, I’ll take this to the council after the tourney final tomorrow and recommend they strengthen the wards preventing our discovery. The more we can blur the fates the better. Everything else continues as Maig has instructed us, at least until we know more.”

  Fren nodded, wishing they weren’t so blind. “And the fact the princess now knows about the prophecy?”

  “None of it will make any sense to her. And if she takes the matter to that old priest of hers, even he and his well resourced fellows aren’t likely to turn anything up before the girl is dead and Kane is on the throne.”

  Fren gave a humourless smile. “Well, Maig help us all if you’re wrong.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Black’s ears pricked up as hurried footsteps echoed down the passageway outside his master’s chamber.

  “Madam General, are you in? Madam General?” The palace guard’s plea was hushed as he quietly knocked at the door of the guest chamber that the Lady Faith Galloway used whenever she stayed in Illandian. Black barked, bringing Faith awake with a jolt.

  She moaned a protest and rubbed at her bleary eyes. She had vague memories of the banquet out in the palace’s west garden the evening before, of drinking more wine than she should have, and of dancing and laughing with Danielle and then sneaking off to Michael’s bed. It had pretty much been the run of things over the week of the tourney. She guessed it had only been a few hours since she got to her own chambers.

  Smiling groggily at the memory of Michael’s gentle touch and the pleasures they had shared in each other’s arms only a few hours before, Faith pushed back the bedcovers and reluctantly eased her feet to the cold stone floor. She sat there a moment, hoping that Danielle was getting a better rest than she was so as to be prepared for today’s long awaited match. Or rematch was probably a more appropriate word.

  The knocking came at the door again, followed by the same urgent whisper and another bark from her wolf.

  Faith shushed Black and muttered a curse to herself as she ran her hands through her mane of long black hair. “What is it?”

  “Milady, it’s important. I have a message for you from Lady de Brie’s nursemaid.”

  Faith frowned across the chamber at t
he door, its surface dimly lit by the night candle on the chest beside her bed. What would Martha want with me at this hour? She got up and grabbed a shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders as she went to the door. In the flickering light given off by the torches set in iron brackets on the corridor’s stone walls, the guard’s bearded face looked tense with worry. He wore the sky-blue cape of the palace guard, and stitched in black on the front of his leather tunic was the Arkaelyon eagle, the emblem of the house of de Brie.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I wasn’t informed of the details, Milady. I’ve just been ordered to fetch you. Martha wants to see you immediately in Lady de Brie’s chambers.”

  Faith gave the guard a worried nod and then, out of soldierly habit, ducked back inside to fetch her sword. Black was up, his green eyes following her intently, waiting. “You stay here.”

  The wolf whined and settled down in front the hearth again. Faith closed the door behind her, locked it and headed down the corridor at a quick pace.

  A door cracked open farther up the passageway, and Michael’s head appeared, his blond hair tousled with sleep and a night candle in his hand. “What’s going on?”

  “Martha has asked to see me immediately. I think its Dee.”

  Michael frowned and then, bidding them wait, went back inside. A moment later he stepped out into the hallway pulling a robe on over his nightclothes. He fell in beside her as they struck out for the southeastern wing of the palace.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. She was fine at the banquet last night, and she’s been looking forward to this day for months.”

  Faith smiled wryly at that. She loved Michael deeply, but sometimes he could be utterly oblivious of what was going on around him, and bloody insensitive to boot, particularly when it came to his older sister.

  “What?” he asked defensively.

  “Just go back to bed, Michael.”

  “Gods, will you stop worrying. I’m sure it isn’t about Kane,” Michael said impatiently as he followed her down the wide marble staircase. “Danielle made that clear to the council four weeks ago. She has said herself that the incident in the palace garden was forgiven and forgotten and that she only wanted to compete for the joy of it.”