by Janzen, Tara
Vivienne reached out with a trembling hand.
~ ~ ~
From the depths of his chamber’s embrasure, Soren watched the last of the sorcerer’s conflagration. He’d never seen anything like it, the flames, the colors, the sparks floating on the wind. The fool man ought to be brought up on charges for putting the castle in danger. Any one of a dozen or more thatched roofs could have caught fire. None had, of course. Lavrans had the Devil’s own luck, whereas he, Soren D’Arbois, Baron of Wydehaw, had none. He looked back at his bed and his thoughts turned brooding.
A strange air of anticipation had come over the castle of late, a strangeness confirmed rather than caused by the Hart’s fiery display. Spring was rushing in where winter had been, and the moon was waxing full. The conjunction of the seasonal and the celestial, especially on May Eve, always heightened the effect of both, a truth he’d never been told, but one he’d felt enough times to believe beyond doubt. ’Twas particularly hard on the priests, who seemed to lose their bearings in the midst of so much Nature enforcing Her will.
There would be fires in the hills tomorrow night, he thought, turning his gaze once again to the Hart Tower and the forest that lay past the walls of his keep. Fires not magically conjured, but no less potent than the one the sorcerer had sent to the heavens. Beltaine, as spoken in the old language of the pagan gods, was close upon them, and despite its centuries of Christianity, Wales was still full of pagan gods, none of whom had answered Soren’s prayers. But then, his own God had deserted him; he should have expected no better from Nemeton’s.
His personal anticipations had come in the form of deep longings, for what he was not sure, but he knew for whom—Vivienne, the wife he so easily could have lost yet again to Caradoc. Predictably, his longings had gone unanswered. He was a fool, his appetites beyond even his own understanding.
Dain was besotted with the demoiselle, that much had become apparent with her miraculous recovery within hours of Caradoc’s leaving. Soren had gone back to the tower to assure himself that she still lived and would continue to do so, at least until she was out from under his keeping. He’d found Ceridwen ab Arawn quite well, surprisingly well, sitting with the sorcerer over their evening meal. Soren had never thought to see such a cozily domestic scene in the Hart. Lavrans had nearly blushed at being caught, a delightful bit of fancy Soren had often dreamed of causing: a sorcerer’s blush.
Dain’s infatuation made him more human somehow, and, strangely enough, less sexually desirable. The unconquerable had been conquered, the seductive one had been seduced, and by an innocent, no less. At least Ceridwen had been innocent the first night Lavrans had taken her into his tower. Ragnor had sworn to her purity, though Soren would put no coin on the matter at this point in time.
“God’s balls,” he muttered at the realization. He wasn’t going to lose his whole damned demesne over a few drops of missing blood and some torn matter.
Vivienne, he thought. Vivienne would know what to do. Thank the Lord for a practical wife. She would know how to work a virgin’s ruse should the demoiselle need one for her wedding night.
He turned away from the window, fully aware of how his thoughts had contrived to bring him what he’d longed for. He had no choice but to call for Vivienne, to divert disaster for them all.
“Soren?” The sound of her voice brought his head up.
He had not heard her enter, not heard so much as a creak of a hinge, but she was there where she had not been for four years, in his chambers, standing opposite his bed. Tears marked her face. In her hand she held a rose.
“Cherie?” He strode toward her, concern knitting his brow. His arms opened of their own accord, and she ran into his embrace.
~ ~ ~
Dain was playing with fire, sitting so close to Ceridwen in the shadowy darkness of the upper chamber, sharing wine, feeling too alive, too good. They’d taken refuge on the floor between the table and the hearth when the rihadin had begun to flame, and they continued to sit shoulder to shoulder, knees drawn up, as the last sporadic bursts of color escaped from the orbs. A cloud of smoke had risen from the tower and passed over the face of the moon. Traces of it still lingered, wisps of a soft bluish-gray streaking Luna and obscuring some of her light, but the stars were adamantine, lustrous in their brightness against the night sky.
A grin teased his mouth. He’d explained to Ceri about the spheres and the Sun and the cosmic map, and in her own inestimable way she’d suggested that following such a skewed path could be the source of all his failures in the making of his Stone.
Silently, he offered her the wine. It wasn’t part of his plan to fill her with drink, but he’d noticed a general softening of her countenance as they’d passed the flagon back and forth. She took the wine and their fingers touched, hers warm, his warmer still. Latent flashes of rihadin color illuminated her face: a band of blue across her eyes, like a Quicken-tree warrior; yellow on her mouth, soft like butter, hot like the Sun. Gazing upon her lips, he could feel the heat and near taste their smooth sweetness.
He had promised himself a kiss, a true kiss, deep in her mouth and in no way chaste.
“I brought you a gift.”
“A gift?” She looked over at him, surprised.
He reached up to the table and retrieved the rolled-and-bound package he’d brought with him out of Wroneu. “The trader was known to me, a man named Toranen the Icelander. He came through Havn on his way south and had news of my family.”
“Family? In Denmark?”
“Danmark, ja,” he said, thickening his accent, his mouth curving into a grin. He untied the rope binding and gave her the package. When she hesitated, he lifted the first fold of cloth and let it fall back over her arm. “Kaereste?”
The endearment was no more than a murmur and in Danish, a language she did not speak, yet she lowered her gaze, turning shy on him. “You have already given me so much.” On Lady Vivienne he would have called the action coy. On Ceridwen he called it fascinating.
“The gift is yours, Ceri. I would not give it to another.”
She nodded once and lifted the next fold of cloth. Inside the coarse wool was the sheepskin Toranen had given him to protect his prize.
“Must be a precious thing,” she said.
“’Tis unique,” he agreed. “Like the one to whom it is given.”
Compliments and gifts? Ceridwen wondered. Both accompanied by smiles? She hardly knew what to think, other than to be on her guard against herself as well as him. He was her most damned weakness—and her most delightful. They had played like children with his celestial spheres and had surely awakened half the demesne. There would be talk on the morrow of the enchantments wrought in the night. She wondered if all or most of his magic was made up of such simple things, at least the magic that set the castle folk all aflutter and quaking in their boots. The other magic he had in him was subtler, less likely to be noticed, but no less potent, and it was this magic she guarded herself against. ’Twas the magic of allure and promise.
“Your news must have been good,” she said, working at the knotted leather cord holding the rolled sheepskin closed. “It has made you generous.”
“Aye.” Dain laughed at her cynical assessment. “But I would not have passed up this treasure whatever the news.”
“And your family? How do they fare?” The first knot came free, leading her to the second.
“My parents live and are well. My youngest brother, Jens, has become secretary to the Bishop of Roskilde. Eric, the oldest of us all, now has three ships trading from the White Sea to the Baltic, and my sister, Magrethe, has married a distant cousin of the king’s.”
“Richard?” she asked, obviously impressed.
“Valdemar,” he replied.
“Oh.” She went to work on the second knot until it loosened. When she didn’t open the skin, but only held it in her lap, he looked up again and found her watching him, her head tilted to one side.
“I had not thought of you having a family.
” Her brow was slightly furrowed. “Sister, brothers, a mother and father.”
“What did you think? That I was spawned by the Devil himself?”
“Mayhaps.” She gave a small lift of her shoulder and brought the flagon to her mouth for a sip.
“Surely I have not been that hard on you.”
She finished her drink and eyed him carefully. “Mayhaps by an angel in the midst of falling from grace,” she conceded.
“Redeemable?”
“All men are redeemable in the eyes of the Lord, even those tainted by the wickedest of sins.” She hesitated again, her next words coming with less confidence. “Is that why you are so far from home?”
Her question took him aback, being too close to the truth, but he recovered quickly enough. He had long since reconciled himself to not returning home. His father would know what he had done, with one look he would know. ’Twas a revelation Dain preferred not to make, not now, not ever.
“I but went to war. It’s a fine tradition of second sons.” He gestured toward the package, hoping to distract her. When she still didn’t open it, he shrugged. “In truth, I was much farther away than Wales. Now, are you going to finish opening your present? I swear ’tis worth the effort.”
“I heard you tell the Boar’s leech about being on Crusade. Were you with the Lionheart?”
His recovery was slower this time. She was breaching the barrier of his past, a privilege he had allowed no one. The secrets of his life were his alone, yet as he looked upon her in the quiet darkness, the desert years unfolded before him, daring him to reveal their contents to her.
She had asked, had she not? What harm could there be in telling her the barest of facts, about the truce negotiations between Saladin and Richard breaking down in Jaffa?
Richard had ransomed the English nobles among the legates and aides who had fallen afoul of Saladin in the treaty camp, but had left the rest of them to their fates, especially the two young Welsh princes guaranteed to give him trouble back home, Caradoc of Balor and Morgan ab Kynan. Dain had merely been their expendable companion, though the English had good enough reason to rid themselves of Danes. By the time peace had been made in October of 1192 and Richard had sailed for Europe, Dain and Morgan had been four months in the red sands of the Nefud Desert, sold by Saladin as slaves to Jalal. Caradoc had been imprisoned with them in the beginning, but had been bought by another trader, Kalut ad-Din, within weeks of their incarceration. Such was the fate of the youngest captives. The older men had fared much worse.
Yes, Dain almost said to Ceridwen, he’d been with the Lionheart, but the Lionheart had not been with him. Only his strong aversion to confessions of any sort saved him from the folly.
“Aye, I was with King Richard,” he finally answered. “’Twas not an altogether pleasant experience. Are you going to open your present?”
“Have you not been home in all the time since your return from the Holy Land?”
Persistence was one of her strengths and would surely be her downfall, if not his.
“I did not leave the Holy Land near as quickly as the English king,” he said obliquely, hoping she would let the matter drop. He should have known better.
“What were you doing?”
He gave a short laugh. “Exploring strange new lands.” Very strange lands.
“Wasn’t it dangerous to stay after the others left?”
“There is still a Latin kingdom in Palestine, and I was very well protected.” Actually, he’d been guarded twenty-four hours a day after his trick with the dagger. The pope couldn’t have gotten to him, which was a very good thing for the pontiff.
“What about the—”
“Shhh.” He softly hushed her, laying his finger against her lips. “Open your present. It’s magic.”
Her eyes instantly lit up with a mixture of curiosity and excitement, and he wondered why he had not thought to tell her such before. If naught else, he should have learned by now that magic was the key to her heart.
She tempered her eagerness with care, gently unrolling the sheepskin to reveal the prize within. For a long moment she stared at the gift without touching it. Then she lightly ran one finger down the ivory handle.
“A mirror,” she murmured, continuing her exploration by moving her finger up around the circular mount, also made of ivory. Inside the mount was a round of polished metal covered with glass. “’Tis beautifully strange.”
“Made by a Norse skald Toranen swore to me was from Thule.”
“Thule?”
“A place said to lie beyond the farthest known north, a place many men seek, but none has seen.”
“Except for the mirror maker,” she teased, sending him a sidelong glance from beneath her lashes.
“Aye.” He grinned. “Except for the mirror maker and mayhaps someday me.”
“You would go so far north?”
“’Twas my destination before Wydehaw caught my eye, to go north and evermore north and let the cold freeze the desert heat from my veins.”
“Was it so hot as that?”
“Hotter,” he said, telling her more than she knew, but doing it with an ingenuousness that gave none of the truth away, that the heat still crawled through him some nights, burning him.
“What are these holes?” she asked, returning her attention to the mirror. Toward the top of the glass were two almond-shaped holes, side by side.
“Keys to the magic.” He turned the mirror over, laying it facedown on the sheepskin, and showed her the runic letters carved around the holes in back. “The runes speak of a god’s journey in search of the love in men’s souls.” He glanced up. “True love, no less, the touchstone of every poet’s fancy.”
“You don’t believe in true love?”
“With all my heart,” he assured her, though he let a grin belie the words. “I fear ’tis true love that does not believe in me.”
“Posh.” She dismissed him with a flick of her wrist. “True love believes in all of us.”
“The runes say the gift of immortality, life everlasting, lies within true love.”
“Then ’tis the love of God the god was searching for.” Her brow crinkled. “That’s strange isn’t it? A pagan god looking for love from our God.”
“Your God,” he corrected her.
She gave him a vexed glance. “There is only one God.”
“Allahu akbar!” he agreed. “God is great!”
“You speak too many tongues.” She took another swallow of wine and gave him the flagon. “Sometimes I think I’m in the Tower of Babel.”
At that, he laughed again. “Sometimes I think the same. Here.” He handed her the mirror. “Hold it up to my face and tell me what you see.”
Ceridwen scooted closer to him while he set the flagon aside and lit a candle to put next to them. If there was love in his soul, she dearly wanted to see it. “Should the mirror be closer to you or to me?”
“To me, so my eyes are in place of yours while the glass reflects your face.”
She did as he instructed, bringing the mirror between them, and instantly she felt a breath of wind brush against her left cheek, then her shoulder and arm, spiraling down and reaching toward Dain. The long strands of his hair stirred in the breeze, lifting to caress and twine with her hand where she held the mirror.
The thing was magic, powerful magic. Her attention shifted from the feel of the wind to his eyes, and the sense of profound magic deepened. ’Twas her face she saw, every curve and line, but the eyes were an abyss, rich, dark, fathomless, thick lashed and terribly beautiful.
The runes lied. The god had not searched for true love—though her heart yearned to tell her that she saw some evidence of love looking back at her—but for the way to wisdom without pain. In this the mirror was clear, Dain had not found such a path. The wisdom residing in his eyes had all been wrought by pain. Despair shaded part of the path, degradation another. Fear had been there, and a thousand thousand hurts had lain along the track to wound and scar.<
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Unable to bear what she saw, she lowered the mirror and averted her gaze. She should not have looked. No one should be laid so bare before another.
“What did you see?” he asked, and she could only shake her head. “Was there so little?”
“No. Too much,” she answered.
“And none of it good?”
Her silence condemned him, and she heard him sigh.
“Well,” he began, “the mirror does not see all then, for I swear there is some good in me. Not much, but some, and of late, mayhaps even some love.”
“Had naught to do with love,” she told him, feeling awful.
“No love?”
She shook her head again.
“Then what?”
She would have kept her silence except for knowing he deserved to be told, if for no other reason than to protect himself from another who might try to look inside his soul.
“The knowledge that comes from suffering,” she said, still not daring to meet his gaze. “The mirror showed much of this knowledge in you.”
“Ah,” was all he said, then, “Well, we are friends, are we not?”
“Aye,” she said, and in that moment knew it to be true. They had become friends.
“Then you are unlikely to bandy it about.”
Her head came up. “Never.”
“My secrets are safe with you.”
“Forever,” she vowed.
“And yours with me.” He held up the mirror and smiled in that way of his, making her wonder if he’d been teasing her all along. “Shall I take a peek into your soul, dear Ceridwen?”
’Twas a dismaying thought, knowing the power of the mirror, yet her reluctance was more for his sake than her own.
“I have it on good authority that ’tis not a pretty sight,” she warned him. “And though I have learned to live with the darkness lurking in the corners of my soul, I would spare you, my friend.”
Dain felt his smile fade. She was serious, and he could well imagine the pious authority that had pronounced her a sinner.