Heart of the Dove

by Tina St. John

  "Don't go," Calandra pleaded. "You're all I have. I need you here, with me."

  Serena exhaled a sharp breath, denying her with a look. "Rand needs me more. If there is anything I can do to help him defeat Silas de Mortaine, I mean to do it."

  Chapter 25

  Egremont had seemed immense and crowded the day Rand had taken her there, but when Serena arrived on her own, exhausted and emotionally drained, the town had swelled to impossible size. Everywhere she looked, she saw people and horses and fine wooden conveyances bearing pennants and streamers. Several couples garbed in gay-colored silks had paused to converse beneath a shady tree, while children in like hues dashed about together in mad excitement, chattering and laughing, paying no heed to where they were going. One of them, a lad with freckled cheeks and sandy brown hair, trailed behind a group of larger boys. His eyes trained on his friends, he crashed against Serena's legs. She caught him on reflex, her hands clasping his little shoulders.

  --always leave me out I can play too wish I was bigger like Peter one day I'll show them wait for me let go got to catch up--

  The Knowing arrowed through her at once, all of the boy's thoughts filling her mind as he turned startled brown eyes up at her. Serena jolted back. In her haste to leave the woods, she had forgotten her gloves. She released him instantly, pulling her bare hands back against her body, shielding them beneath the folds of her mantle.

  "Peter! Kip! Wait for me!"

  The imp darted off without a word of pardon. Rubbing the tingle from her palms, Serena watched him chase after his friends and disappear into the thick churn of the crowd. She pivoted back toward the sea of humanity that choked the streets and knew a feeling of uncertainty.

  How was she ever to find Rand in the midst of so many people? He could be anywhere. In the crowd, near the docks, already aboard a boat bound for Scotland. She had to be sure. She had to find him, and that would mean she would need to wade through the heart of the crowd, she realized with dismay. And there was little time to waste.

  Serena girded herself in determination and walked into the center of the square. Although she kept her hands close to her person, it was impossible not to brush against people as she passed. She was jostled and bumped; here and there, her fingers grazed someone and the Knowing whispered of secrets and mundanity alike.

  A young woman, smiling up at the homely-faced man at her side: he doesn't suspect he cannot I've been so careful and he loves his brother too much to guess--

  A guard posted near one of the elaborate wheelhouses: should have taken the south road would've been here hours ago and my arse would not be yapping pray God they've a pallet for me and not the floor--

  A wealthy-looking matron, sweat dripping into the folds of her neck as she fanned herself with her bejeweled hand: such a gathering so very pleased I wore the lavender sendal I wonder if they'll serve peacock or swan when will we be admitted to the castle I am wilting in this sun--

  Serena was panting as she cleared the bulk of the crowd. Her ears rang with a din of voices, a jumble of detached thoughts. She started to dash between another group of laughing travelers, but just then someone came out of a tavern and stepped directly into her path.

  "I speak confidently when I say that Baron de Moulton would be well pleased--nay, honored--to have someone of your esteem at his table, my lord."

  "Indeed," murmured a smooth, unflattered voice.

  It was he--the first man onto the street and the one the taverner fawned after--that Serena collided with in that instant. Head down, she glimpsed only a gleaming black boot and the swirl of an embroidered white mantle before she bumped directly into him.

  "Watch your step, clumsy girl!" cried the shrill little man as the one in white and gold halted in offended silence. "My lord, she has made you drop one of your gloves. Don't just stand there, chit--pick it up for Lord de Mortaine!"

  Serena froze, every fiber of her being swiftly gone to ice at the mention of the man's name. She dared not glance up and see his wicked face, instead stared dumbly at the spotless boots and agitating hem of his mantle as it caught in the scant breeze.

  Her inability to move put a note of hysteria in the small man's voice. "Anon, girl! Retrieve it at once!"

  And through it all, Silas de Mortaine said nothing. But she felt him watching her. Mother Mary, but she felt his ruthless eyes cutting right through to her heart, razor sharp, merciless, eyes that had willfully enjoyed so much evil and destruction.

  At last, Serena found the strength to move. She slowly dipped down and retrieved the pale leather glove, then rose with it in her hand. Her dark hair fell around her face, shielding her from full view. Serena hid behind it willingly. She could not bear to lift her head and look at him full in the face, too stricken to manage it when she was trembling before him like a leaf.

  The taverner took her fear as deference, and clucked his pleasure. "That's more like it, clumsy fool. You have my deep pardon, Lord de Mortaine."

  "I would rather have your absence," growled the man who had ordered the deaths of so many for so much less cause.

  He reached out a lineless, elegant hand to Serena in expectation.

  Summoning every ounce of courage she possessed, Serena handed him the soft hide glove, purposely allowing their fingers to brush for the barest instant. Heat not unlike a purgatory flame licked her skin where de Mortaine's touch made contact. Serena weathered the pain of it, Knowing a sudden lashing of acid evil and the ugly twist of a beastlike heart that thudded within the man's ageless body. Above the rumble of his general wickedness, de Mortaine's thoughts pervaded her mind:

  --delectable mouth the things I'd have it do peculiar though have I seen her before a hundred years ago perhaps something familiar there should remember but no matter have one of the men fetch her for me this evening yes will own this whole town once the Chalice is mine soon yes very soon now look up little dove let your master see you--

  Serena wrenched her hand away, tucking it safely within her mantle. Her fingers burned, sending an ache up the length of her arm. She felt his disease reach out to corrupt her, creeping along her senses like black serpents that stretched and writhed in her blood.

  Silas de Mortaine was in her blood, she reminded herself, sick with the thought that she could share any tie to him.

  She backed away, a handful of steps to put him out of reach of her. He chuckled at her retreat as if her fear amused him, but then the taverner was speaking again, nattering on about the grand feast Silas would enjoy at Baron de Moulton's table, and Serena took the opportunity to flee into the crowd.

  Now she praised heaven for the thick gathering of people. She let her hands glance off all she could, trying in vain to drown out the horror of de Mortaine's touch. And as she let the throng swallow her, she understood that even if Rand was there, the best way she could help him now was to keep Silas de Mortaine in Egremont as long as she could, so that Rand could make his escape to Scotland and retrieve the final piece of the Dragon Chalice.

  * * *

  The demons plaguing Draec les Nantes were no longer content to haunt him in his dreams. Now, more and more, even his waking hours were dogged by nightmare visions of fire and thunder, of seething dragons, molten rock, and an endless fall down a black and jagged chasm.

  For all his life, Draec les Nantres had slept with the vision of his own death.

  Now he smelled the brimstone while awake. He felt the beast's huge jaws rip into his flesh, fire devouring his skin and hair. Saw himself plummeting down into the hot, smoke-filled void.

  Down, and down, and down....

  He shook off the sudden disorientation with a curse, and focused hard on his surroundings. The docks below Egremont's town square were bustling. Boats carrying supplies or passengers filled the small port, most of the hubbub centered on the grand feast taking place in the castle high on the hill above town.

  Draec and one of the shifter guards he had brought with him for reconnaissance watched from their position near all of
the activity, searching for signs of Greycliff and the Chalice treasure. Draec was agitated, both from lack of sleep and the impatience he felt for his mission. Another boat had pulled in, and as a group of travelers began to disembark, Draec motioned for his companion to follow him.

  But beside him on the dock, the shifter had paused. His big head went up, chin in the air. Wide nostrils flared as he turned his back to the ocean and sucked in a deep breath from the direction of town.

  "What is it?" Draec asked.

  The shifter's rough voice was thick with lust for the hunt. "Chalice gold." He sniffed again, then turned to Draec with a feral look in his eyes. "Part of the treasure is near. Up there, somewhere."

  "Aye," Draec agreed, hardly trifling to hide his contempt for the Anavrin guard. "No doubt de Mortaine has Avosaar with him as he stuffs himself at the high table of Egremont's baron. I can practically smell the cup myself, without the benefit of your shifter magic."

  The shaggy dark head shook in denial. "This is stronger than Avosaar. There is more than one piece of the Chalice on the wind," the shifter said, brows knitting on his swarthy forehead. "The cup I scent bears two of the Chalice stones, I'd say. Someone carries it."

  So, Greycliff and his friend had indeed recovered another of the Chalice pieces, Draec mused. His thoughts spun back to a night some weeks past, when a flame-haired temptress with shifter blood had drugged him in an attempt to aid her mortal lover, Kenrick of Clairmont. Haven had been crafty with her deception; drunk on herbs and arrogance, Draec had practically handed her the key to recovering one of the hidden treasures.

  He would not make that same mistake again. He would bide his time, and wait for opportunity to act. He had risked too much to fail in this now. The Dragon Chalice would be his, by God. He would seize it for his own, or he would die trying.

  Draec les Nantres pivoted to look up toward the busy street and center square of Egremont. Somewhere in the throng of travelers and folk, Randwulf of Greycliff carried one half of the Chalice's power. If Draec could get his hands on that, the odds were good that he could stand against de Mortaine and take Avosaar as well. Three pieces of the four would make Draec unstoppable in claiming the last.

  Aye, he was very close to reaching his goal now.

  "Lead me to it," he commanded the shifter.

  The mercenary grinned a wolfish leer, then loped off ahead of Draec toward Egremont's town square.

  Chapter 26

  Silas de Mortaine reclined in his seat on the dais, feigning interest in his host's banal prattle about the bounty of his demesne's crops and the fine marriage he had recently procured for his middle daughter. The feast that night had been in celebration of the betrothal, a match that had brought many folk to the old fortress keep on Egremont's highest hill. Although he generally preferred inconspicuous travel, Silas was several days sore from his ride north, and he found the offer of a true bed and a fine meal too great to resist. A pity those luxuries had to come at the cost of his infinite boredom.

  "Ah, there's my lovely Sybilla now." The proud father gestured across the great hall with his raised cup of French wine. "Do you know I presented her at the royal court when she was just three years old. The king was dazzled, do I say so myself. She was a charmer even then, my girl."

  Silas's disinterested grunt could hardly be heard over the spritely music pouring down from the grand gallery above the hall. He turned his indifferent gaze as directed, to where a group of country nobles attempted a dance that one of them was eager to announce he had learned in London. Young lords with too little sense and knights with overmuch ambition gleaming in their eyes vied for the attention of eight prim maidens. Sybilla de Moulton had her father's equine features, a long face and over-large mouth that was at the moment dropped open in an unappealing twitter of girlish laughter as her betrothed whispered in her ear.

  But where the daughter suffered her father's plain looks and manners, de Moulton's wife was nothing short of delicious. She sat demurely at his side, a petite beauty with golden hair and bold blue eyes. She caught Silas staring and held his gaze for a moment longer than was seemly. With a superior arch of her brow, she dismissed him with a cutting look of reproach.

  "She is a prize, is she not, Lord de Mortaine?"

  Silas kept his eyes trained on haughty Lady de Moulton, and bared his teeth in an indulgent smile. "Indeed. A prize, to be sure."

  Oblivious to the insinuation, Baron de Moulton launched into yet another tiresome recollection, but Silas scarcely bothered to listen. He slowly drew his attention away from the man's cool, comely wife and watched the dancers fumble their graceless steps in the center of the lavish hall. Without a care for the blatancy of his assessing perusal, Silas took in the rich appointments of the keep. He settled into his chair and indulged in a pleasant imagining, supposing, merely for amusement, that he might take all of de Moulton's holdings for his own once he had the Dragon Chalice in his possession. When that moment came--and he was certain it would--nothing would be out of his grasp.

  In truth, he could claim the place now, if he wanted. He was rich, he was powerful, and in the many long years of his life, he had met no steel strong enough to bar him from anything he desired. More than one fool had tried. Others would as well, but Silas would forever prevail.

  Immortality, after all, had its distinct advantages.

  But while he had no qualms about plundering for his own gain, he had long grown bored with counting his coin and adding to his bulging coffers. Where a sip from the Dragon Chalice had given him unending life, it was the cup itself he craved. With it, he would rule this world and the next, a king of both the mortal and immortal. He would be a god.

  Silas smiled, knowing the age of his reign was coming. How hard it was to be patient with so great a gift dangling before him, just waiting for him to grasp it.

  His pleasant musing was disrupted by a vague disturbance near the door of the great hall. He heard a woman's voice, indistinct, yet urgent, followed by the low rumble of the door warden who guarded the entry to the sumptuous celebration within.

  From over the rim of his goblet, Silas's gaze narrowed to hard slits.

  There was a slight parting of the crowd, and in the space between the awkward bobs and twirls and curtsies of the continuing dance, Silas spied something peculiar. Something intriguing. He sat up in his seat and leaned forward on the table, his gaze piercing through the dancers' alternating movements. The woman who stood near the tall doors of the great hall, newly arrived and arguing entrance, seemed familiar to him somehow. He could not see her face for the damnable shifting of the crowd. He glimpsed only a glossy crown of sable dark hair framing a smooth brow.

  The woman herself was a stranger to him, but the sight of her compelled him out of his chair.

  "Is something amiss, Lord de Mortaine?" asked his host, staring up from beside him at the table.

  "That woman," Silas murmured, "near the door...who is she?"

  Baron de Moulton grunted, perplexed. "Why, it must be one of Sybilla's friends, I should think. Or mayhap a cousin. We've invited so many to our celebration, I've no idea--"

  "I tell you I have urgent business here with your lord," she announced now in a clear, strong voice. "There is a man in this town who brings great danger to us all. His name is Silas de Mortaine."

  Baron de Moulton turned a questioning sidelong look on his guest. Silas had gone quite still at the announcement, but it was curiosity more than concern that drew his mouth into the beginnings of a smile. He dismissed his host's uncertain glance with a vague shrug of his shoulder and resumed his place at the table.

  "This should prove amusing," he murmured with droll humor, and deliberately lounged a bit deeper into his chair. "Please, bring the lady forward. Like everyone else in the room, I am intrigued to hear of this great danger she claims I pose."

  With a smirk of noble camaraderie, de Moulton motioned for his sentries to permit the woman entry to the hall. Silas held his goblet in an easy grasp before him, laz
ily swirling the bloodred wine as the two armed guards escorted his accuser through the parting sea of revelers. Amid the crowd of country nobles, even in her simple, shapeless cloak, she stood apart like a shimmering dark pearl among a field of drab, common stones. Silas's mood stoked from mere curiosity to smoldering, lustful interest.

  A note of surprise pricked him as she neared the dais.

  It was the clumsy girl with the rose petal lips who knocked into him in the town square. She had seemed shy then, but no more. Had he offended her somehow? he wondered, quirked into an amused sort of intrigue as he watched her approach, so serious now. The dark little dove seemed have found a hawk's tenacity, to attempt such a bold move as this.

  "I am Silas de Mortaine," he declared, letting his voice ring out to the rafters. He took perverse satisfaction in the young woman's subtle flinch of trepidation as she was moved forward to stand before him below the dais. "Well, you have our attention, dear lady, so speak."

  She licked her lips, glancing nervously to the armed guards who remained positioned at her sides. Waiting for the disruption to resolve, the rest of the gathered crowd approached in uncertain silence. The newly betrothed Sybilla stifled a sniffle behind a swatch of linen and lace, muttering over her ruined celebration.

  The weight of silence pressed down on Silas's threadbare patience.

  "Speak!" he barked, sending de Moulton's daughter into an earnest fit of sobbing.

  The young woman before him lifted her gaze to his and held it, though it was clear she did so with not a little fear in her heart. In that, he found a speck of respect for her. But he would have no mercy.

  "This man is evil," she began, directing her comment to the lord of the castle. "On his orders, a family was slain at a place called Greycliff..."