by Jan Delima
Elen couldn’t help but agree. “No, we cannot.”
The castle had two kitchens, one added later on with modern amenities and gas appliances, now bustling with activity as scents rose to tease her stomach, and an original one toward the back of the main building, built with a central kiln for bread baking and a hearth along the outer wall. The original kitchen was now Mae’s domain. Shelves lined the walls filled with herbs and powders kept in glass jars. Boughs of sage, hawthorn and willow lay strewn across a long wooden table, tied with twine to dry. A jar for payments rested on a smaller table by the door.
Mae offered her healing services for free but never her special tonics.
Currently she stirred a concoction in a kettle that hung from the hearth, much like the one Elen kept in her cottage, but larger. Only Mae would return so soon to fire without fear. The scent of ginger rose from the stew, along with mint and a few other herbs she couldn’t quite distinguish because of the ginger, but the combination had a soothing effect.
Elen loved Mae’s kitchen. It reminded her of childhood, of many afternoons spent learning healing properties of herbs, how to prepare them, and how to apply them. More than a mentor, Mae had been her substitute mother when her own had been consumed by sorrow over losing her mate.
“Elen child, I am surprised to see you this early.” She gestured toward an empty seat by the hearth.
“You cut your hair.” Elen hugged her first, and then brushed her fingertips over the blunt ends, dark but soft, like the pelt of a mink. “I like it.” There was a bald patch behind her ear and above her temple where scars had once been. The style would help it look less patchy while the rest grew in.
“Sit,” Mae ordered as dimples overcame her cheeks, adding softness to her formidable features. “Rest. After the caterwauls we all heard from your room last night, it is a surprise you can walk. I made you a tea to soothe your aches.” She grabbed a mug from a line of hooks and ladled in a portion. “Drink.”
Accepting the mug, she sipped the tonic. Her aches reminded her of the most beautiful night of her life, but she also wanted to enjoy this night just as fully. “What’s in this?” It tasted pungent but not unpleasant.
“Ginger, mint, feverfew and juniper,” Mae recited with impatience. “You have the recipe.” A twinkle entered her gaze. “I omitted the black cohosh root.”
Remembering the recipe, Elen looked down at her hands, knowing why Mae had omitted that one herb. “I can’t think about that,” she whispered. “I want it too much.” Black cohosh root was good for menstrual cramps and inducing labor, but not good during the early stages of pregnancy.
“Time will tell.” Mae patted her shoulder. “If ever there was a binding, it happened last night. Your mating braid has woven its strings, and it is strong. I can feel it even without your Cormack in the room.”
“Enough about me.” Her oldest friend had just suffered an ordeal and she had come to check on her, not revel in her own joy and selfish wants. “How do you feel?”
“Ah, my apprentice still wants to check on me, does she? And here I thought this was to be a friendly visit. Well, rest your fears. I am ready to have some of what you had last night . . . That is how I feel.”
A light knock sounded. Peeking her head around the corner, Bethan placed rolled bills in the payment jar. When the visitor would linger, Mae shooed her away. “You have grown strong, Elen child. To make these old bones feel whole.”
“It wasn’t me,” she professed once again, pausing when another person came to place money in Mae’s jar, gold coins this time, offering a grudging nod before leaving. “It’s that pool.” A magical pool by a magical tree. “Did you not see—”
“Hold your tongue,” Mae hissed. “Of course I know,” she chastised in a hushed voice, “but do not say its name aloud. Whispers carry from these walls.” Her hand lifted, no longer gnarled. She held Elen’s chin and pinned her with a stern gaze. “Have you forgotten what I taught you? We keep care of our secrets. It is how we survive. Never forget.”
Mae released her when another person came with an offering for the jar.
Unsettled by the warning, Elen changed the subject while visitors came and went. “Your kitchen is busy today. What concoction have you brewed that has caused such high demand?” Last visit she’d learned how to mix poison ivy in soap, an unpleasant contraceptive for female shifters, and one that had the same effect on males in a different manner. Mae titled it: Soft As Worms.
Mirth entered golden eyes. “It was not me doing the brewing last night.”
Cadan, Rosa’s cousin, turned the corner next, adding to the tally; a powerful shifter, more graceful than ruthless. With red hair and green eyes, he walked like a wolf who knew others couldn’t help but watch. His beauty made him a pawn for Guardian attentions, a bane he used to his advantage if necessary—to protect Rosa. Their bond was as close as siblings’, unbreakable even by Math, Rosa’s first husband.
“Elen,” Cadan greeted with a grin. “You made our Mae a very wealthy woman last night.” He yawned, not looking too put out, and then winked a farewell before returning to the main hall.
Understanding dawned. “This is about that ridiculous wager, isn’t it?”
“You cannot expect me to refuse easy pickings,” Mae cackled. “I knew you would be the first to dip that boy’s stick.”
“You bet on me winning? For money?” Flustered, Elen shook her head, fanning her face because it suddenly felt hot. Sweat broke out across her brow. An odd reaction because she held no embarrassment, nor should she; in Mae and Merin’s time, friends and family would have been invited to witness their ceremony of love’s most divine act. But that was before wolves were melded into their veins and the beast’s possessive nature took hold.
Once alone, Mae closed the oaken door, lowering the iron latch that served as a lock. “Elen child,” she said in a tone that turned heavy with torment, “I will wager the blood of my own heart on you winning.”
Elen’s flush increased. Her gaze fell to her half-consumed tonic. No, Mae would not do such a vile thing. Almost two thousand years they had known each another, years kindled with memories that had earned her trust. Long before Cormack, Mae had been her only friend when all others had shunned her; more than a friend, a mother, a teacher and a consoler in times of loneliness. It was Mae who’d held her when she wept after her own mother had shoved rods into her spine.
The room suddenly shifted and morphed. Colors blended into an obsidian pool. Suspicion turned to shock. And when her pulse began to race, she knew . . .
“Why?” It fell from her lips as a slur as betrayal wrenched her heart, and then anguish. From a distance she felt her muscles release and the mug fall from her hands; it shattered on the stones of the floor.
Air, she called, and then, Fire. Neither element came to her aid, because her self-will had been drugged and her mind imprisoned. Elements only responded to conviction—not intoxicated entrapment. She tried to scream but knew her desperation went unheard. No! Please no. Not now! Cormack . . .
Familiar arms encircled her, lowered her gently to the floor. Wetness coated Elen’s face, drops, not trails, falling from above like hot rain.
“You are the daughter of my heart.” Clogged with tears, Mae’s voice wove around her like a dark dream. “But you are stronger than the daughter of my blood. You have everything where Saran has nothing. You will survive where she cannot. Someday you will understand. Someday you will find forgiveness for what I have done. You will dance under the stars and whisper my name, and when you do”—her voice broke on a sob—“know that I will hear, know that I will be watching and dancing with you.”
Twenty-five
A small fire blazed within a circle of stones, crude but sufficient for the caldron that bubbled above, hung from cast-iron rods. For all appearances, it resembled any modern campsite—except for the enchantress who stood behind the fire stirring her brew.
The first born without the ability to shift, but like the ruby-throated hummingbird, she had proven her worth and flown the distance on the wings of another power. Enchantress, sorceress, healer, midwife—witch; no matter the title, Maelorwen owned them all.
And yet with all that potency she had not been able to cure her own curse, or her daughter’s—divine proof that their wolves came from a power beyond her reach.
Maelorwen’s healed visage surprised Pendaran. Not because of her inability to call her wolf—she could have healed her skin with magic at any point—but because she held her secrets close and her power unknown . . . unless crossed. She reveled in anonymity, welcomed the scars that hid her identity. Indeed, her healing held a signature of a sweeter gift from a kinder, less secretive heart.
Obviously not Mae’s; no doubt she had not been pleased.
Pendaran chuckled. Seeing her beauty restored brought forth memories of beginning times, when they had walked free among mortals, worshiped and feared. A melancholy sigh fell from his mouth. Science and machinery reigned in this modern day, owning the loyalty of humans as completely as his kind once had—if not more. It seemed every mortal these days held a gadget in their hands, unable to live without their new god of technology.
It saddened him. The reason why, he admitted, that Elen, with all her otherworldly gifts, held such an allure, even in all her sweetness. She reminded him that there was a higher place beyond this realm. That reassurance had become as important to him as the answers he sought.
Scents of licorice root and lungwort rose from the cauldron: a blood-growing potion. He had demanded it made in his last correspondence, an added insurance for Maelorwen’s cooperation. She needn’t know he intended to use Elen’s own blood. To her right, a woman lay on a bed of autumn leaves—but not the woman he sought. Aeron’s hair spread in a dark blanket across the earth, her mouth lax in drugged rest.
Pendaran knew the Walker well and therefore scowled, ignoring the power that coated his throat when he stepped into the clearing. “What is this? I told you to bring me Merin’s daughter.”
“Elen is near, Daran,” Maelorwen scolded without looking up from her task, using his common name as only his family had done before their deaths. “First you will seal your penned promises with a spoken oath, and then I will reveal her location as you have revealed this place to me.”
“You dare issue demands,” Neira hissed, stepping next to Pendaran, her breaths sharp whistles in his ear. Familiar with Maelorwen as the witch from old, as all Guardians were, but not aware, he suspected, that she spoke to the very same woman who’d felt her whip six months prior.
Maelorwen hid in Avon as a mutilated Hen Was, her features concealed under scars. He’d known she was there, skulking in shadows after the death of her mate and daughter, unaware the latter still lived. He also suspected that she had provided Dylan with access to Math, Rosa’s first husband, while the Guardian had been preoccupied, just one of many men foiled by her deceitful ways.
Dear Gods, he had missed her about to keep him entertained.
More astute than his comrade, William frowned in recognition, but kept his observations silent, as did Pendaran’s own two servants. The beasts contained within iron crates, however, did not. Their howls wrenched through the clearing like broken screams from madhouse dungeons, muffled by the blankets that covered their cages, off-putting nonetheless.
With patience worn thin, Pendaran rested his hand around his sword, now held by a leather scabbard. A replica of his old one was in the process of being cast from iron. “Why is the Walker here?” He had been specific in his demands that only Maelorwen knew his plans.
“It is not easy to carry a grown woman,” Mae complained. “I had my Elen in the wheelbarrow I use to gather herbs, but I was noticed by the Walker after crossing the bridge, and Aeron is bored, so she says she wants to come.” An impatient sigh expelled from her lungs. “So then I had to carry two.”
“Do not act feeble with me, Maelorwen,” he warned. “I have seen you bring an entire village to their knees.” In fact, Pendaran had never questioned why Llassar had fallen under her spell.
“Would you have me kill her?” she asked in a knowing tone. “They have lost Ceridwen’s favor, but they are shifters of pure blood, and females are few.”
With false disdain, he said, “The Walkers’ loyalty was cast when they stayed with the rebels upon awakening.” But, no, he did not want Aeron to die, as the witch well knew. Perhaps he should give her to William. That might be the perfect comeuppance the man deserved.
“Leave her or take her, it does not matter to me.” She gave an absent wave. “Aeron is your problem now and not mine.”
Neira left his side to circle the unconscious form. Next to the rich darkness of Maelorwen and the slumbering Aeron, the Guardian appeared tiny and pale. If it suited her, Neira could assume the role of an ashen child, a ruse that had lured many men to her aid, and then imprisonment in her playroom soon after.
“Neira,” Pendaran ordered, removing Cadarn, “return to me.” Sulky eyes lifted, and then fell to his sword, called by a tone he used when causing pain. Preferring to be the giver, not the receiver, she submitted to his command.
Maelorwen smirked, mocking him for the company he kept. “I will not tell you where Elen is until you speak the words aloud. You know what I say is true, because we have been here before, have we not? Torture me, burn me, rape me or kill me . . . but I will never yield to you. You will not find her,” she challenged. “The others will come before you do.”
Yes, they had been here before. No greater advisory had he yet to meet, the very reason he’d kept her only weakness alive and hidden under his personal care. “It is the Bleidd I would use to make your secrets spill.”
“My tongue will tie even more if you do,” she warned softly, “for then I will know you intend to kill her after all.”
“The Bleidd will be free.” He clipped the words she wanted to hear, waving for the servant to remove the blanket from her cage.
Maelorwen’s gaze fell and faltered. “And Elen,” she pressed. “I will have your vow to keep her unharmed.”
Pendaran ignored William’s snicker. Unlike Neira, the witch would never submit, a lesson learned a long time ago at the cost of his brother’s life. Moreover, Maelorwen was skilled, but her skills did not equal his, and whatever she was about, he would break it once his strength returned and he had Elen under his control. Plus, he did not want to be here all day for an oath he already planned to keep—to some degree. “Elen will remain unharmed.” And because he knew Maelorwen, he added, “But confined within my care and under my control.” And then another, “And our agreement is void if you do not reveal to me where she is.”
A satisfied smile spread across her lips as dimples concaved her cheeks. A warning tightened his spine; Maelorwen’s true smiles never boded well for him. “Proclaimed twice in ink, and now in voice, I ensure your pledge.” Uncaring of self-harm, she cupped her hands into the boiling brew, and then threw it in his face, repeating her incantation in their mother tongue. “May it keep your word true and your honor bound.”
In reflex, he turned his head and closed his mouth—but not in time. Damn this lingering weakness. Did she know? Gritting his teeth, the liquid burned and tasted sour on his tongue, and it was not the potion he assumed. A small fizzle heated his veins. He forced a laugh, a charade for others to hear and not question his delay. “An oath-binding spell? Really, Mae? You disappoint me. Have you forgotten who I am?”
“It is you who forgets.” A fire lit within her golden eyes, twirling like mists of Summerland dreams. “All harm done to my Saran and Elen will return to you in thrice.”
“What folly is this?” Frozen until then, William stepped forward. “You will allow this insult?”
“The insult comes from you.” Pendaran kept his tone low in warning. “Never question me. I will finish the
task I have come to do.” His gaze remained fixed on Maelorwen, drawn by an enchantress riding her power. “Where is Elen?”
“Release Saran, and then I will tell you where she is.”
Pendaran flicked his hand for it to be done. “She refers to the Bleidd,” he told the servants when they hesitated. “Release it.”
The mother watched in grave silence as the black wolf struggled to walk and collapsed twice. Maelorwen’s gaze lifted to him, filled with the same wounded confusion he’d once seen from another set of eyes. “You would do this to your brother’s daughter, Daran?”
“If Llassar had done what I asked,” he snapped, “then she would not have lived to suffer.” His Council members knew their history, but it needn’t be bared for retrospection. It brought shame to his lineage when his own brother had left his Council seat to live in hiding with a witch and their get. Pendaran had, of course, found them.
When the wolf stood, unsteady but proud, Maelorwen found her voice. “I would hold you in my arms once again, Saran, but our time will come in a different place. Go south. Follow the river to an island. You will find help there.”
Saran turned to Pendaran, too weak to lunge, but her lips peeled back to reveal canines as a growl vibrated low in her throat.
“Go,” Maelorwen ordered, stern with desperation, “unless you prefer to be back in his cell.” Saran looked to her mother, made a step toward her, only to receive gravel thrown in her face. “Go!”
The black wolf staggered and disappeared into the trees.
“Like wounded prey,” he warned. Rustled leaves and snapped branches told of the wolf’s direction as she faltered from fatigue. “Our agreement is void if you do not give me what I seek.”
“After the pines there are two oak trees intertwined as one.” Her shoulders slumped and her voice deadened. “You will see a boulder beside their roots.” She paused. “It is not what it seems.”
He inclined his head to William. “Go where she’s instructed. If it’s Elen, bring her here.”