Moonstone Magic

by Jill Gregory

  Brianne knew how apprehensively her father had entered into this bargain—yet he had been forced to do so, forced to give Eadric his pledge in order to spare the countryside a brutal war which Morksbury could not possibly win. Her father’s fervent hope had been that by the time Brianne was grown, Eadric might have been killed in battle or overthrown by his own people —or that another king, more powerful even than Eadric of Wen, might have conquered Eadric and ended the threat he posed.

  But it had not come to pass. True, King Ralf of Kerric to the north was rumored to be a fierce fighter, a good king, and he was at war with Eadric, waging a bloody, savage battle, but even Ralf s eventual victory, should it occur, would not happen soon enough to save her now, Brianne reflected. Her cloak flew about her as she darted toward the drawbridge. Eadric was coming for her today, and she must go with him in order to find the moonstone.

  Summoning the shreds of her composure, Brianne raced toward the gates guarded by the men-at-arms.

  “Open the gates! I must greet our guests!”she commanded, and was respectfully obeyed.

  Eadric does not know you are lacking in powers, she reminded herself, scrambling to hold her balance on the barren hillside, for the wind was strong. He will have heard tales of the sorceresses in your family, and will expect you to be proficient in the high arts of magic. He will therefore fear you—or at least respect you for your skills. There is no reason to be afraid.

  Yet she was afraid. Fear coiled like a snake inside her. Eadric maimed for pleasure; he killed entire families for minor offenses that other kings would mercifully dismiss. The tales of rape and ravishment had reached Morksbury over the years—his reputation as a vicious man who conquered, abused, and discarded women was legend.

  But she would be his wife, Brianne tried to reassure herself through the twisting fear. Surely he would not mistreat her. Yet, thinking back on all the gruesome tales, she could not imagine that she would escape unscathed.

  Think of Emma, she told herself furiously. For once in your life, you can do something useful. You can save your sister and Feour and the babe...

  She forced herself to concentrate only on the moonstone. Pondering what lay ahead would not help her. She must focus on saving Emma and nothing else.

  Even her mother’s death must not distract her. She ached to grieve, to weep and mourn and reflect, but this was not the time, not yet. Her mother had given her a mission at which she must not fail.

  The fate of all three rest upon my shoulders, she told herself, teeth chattering, as she hugged the outer wall, buffeted by an unrelenting winter wind.

  Squinting through the blasts, she saw them then, the shadowy figures of a troop of riders emerging from the great dark forest through which the river wound. They hurtled toward her across the fields. Their horses were great monstrous beasts; their banners and swords gleamed in the growing sunlight. The earth shook with the thunder of their advance.

  Despite her resolve, Brianne shivered inside her cloak. The soldiers were coming at a frightening pace, nearly flying across the frosted fields. The sky above threatened snow, stretching endlessly gray, empty, disconsolate.

  She bit her frozen lips and dug her hands deep inside the pockets of her cloak, trying to stay calm. She had a plan of sorts. She would greet them with arms outstretched above her head, as if invoking a magical blessing. She would play her part with great drama, and maybe, if she was very lucky, they would hold her in awe, as her mother had hoped.

  In a clear, ringing tone, the kind of tone she had heard her mother use so often when speaking from her window to the villagers, she would invite them in, bid them break their fast, and inform Eadric that she was ready to accompany him...

  But suddenly, as all these ideas surged through her mind, she realized something that made her drop her arms and stare in uncomprehending horror.

  The banners flying so proudly alongside the charging troop were not the green banners of Eadric of which her mother had spoken. They were scarlet.

  Scarlet adorned with letters of gold.

  She blinked, wondering if her eyes deceived her. But no, the scarlet banners swept toward her in a mad, confusing blur, and, too late, she realized that something was very wrong...

  She tried to run back inside the gate at the last moment, and above her she heard the man-at-arms call out: “Princess Brianne—my lady, take heed!”

  But before she could reach the entrance, and before the arrows of the men-at-arms could stop him, the giant leader of the troop bore down upon her in a charge like thunder and swept her up before him on his great black horse. He wheeled about as the men-at-arms stayed their onslaught of arrows for fear of killing their princess, and Brianne, tucked beneath an iron-muscled arm, heard rumbling laughter from her captor.

  She shrieked, she fought, she kicked out in vain, but he rode off with her, surrounded by all his soldiers, and she had not a moment even to glance back at her home.

  The soldiers will give chase, she told herself as at last the leader slowed his horse enough to hoist her upright in the saddle before him. Flushed, panting, and breathless, Brianne could do nothing as his arms enclosed her like iron bars, and he spurred the stallion toward the forest.

  “Sir, I demand to know...” she began, straining to turn in the saddle enough to see him, but his mighty chest prevented her from having space in which to turn, and he cut off her words with a rich, deep laugh.

  “Princess, with all respect, I perceive that you are not at present in a position to demand anything,” the man returned in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Who are you?” she questioned furiously. “My soldiers will come after you, you son of a cur. And Eadric of Wen will pursue you as well—he is very near the castle...”

  “Aye, lady, he was near—but not near enough. We stole you from beneath his very chin!” Rich satisfaction rang through his voice. From all around her, Brianne heard the laughter and cheers of his men. The banners were lifted higher, and the troop galloped on at an even more furious pace.

  “Eadric is... my betrothed. He will kill you for this!” Brianne shouted into the wind, but her captor’s arms only tightened as he spoke grimly into her ear.

  “It is my hope that he will try, my lady. My most sincere hope!”

  And then the forest rose up around them, and the sunlight was blotted out as they passed beneath the ancient gnarled branches and plunged into the woods.

  Chapter Two

  Only an occasional patch of sky showed itself every now and then between the overhanging boughs. Twigs crackled and broke beneath the pounding hooves. Rabbits and deer scurried for cover.

  Brianne sank into her thoughts, dismay engulfing her as surely as the misty forest darkness.

  Fear for herself at the hands of these strange marauders who had abducted her vied with despair over her failed mission. She had to reach Eadric, to accompany him to his castle. She had to get her hands on the moonstone. But how? Each moment carried her farther from her goal. Why had no one pursued her? Or were her rescuers too far behind... or lost?

  Hope dwindled and died as the hours wore on, and relentlessly, unflaggingly, they rode through the great forest, crossed the icy shallows of the winter river, and continued on until the late afternoon sun was waning and the wind had begun to howl.

  Exhaustion tore at her shoulders and legs. She slumped in the saddle before the strange man, who had not spoken to her once since early morning.

  Brianne wondered bleakly of the doings in the castle at Morksbury, of her mother’s burial rites, of the panic that must have ensued when the men-at-arms reported her abduction. She wondered, too, of the fury that must have settled upon Eadric when he and his soldiers arrived to find her gone...

  A spasm of fear cut through her. She prayed he had not exercised his anger upon her people. If only she had the Sight. Then she might be able to understand what was happening to her, where she was being taken, how it would end.

  But she had nothing, not even a glimmer of vision, or wisd
om, or power to use in her own defense. She fought back the urge to scream in frustration.

  Her mother’s face swam before her as she rode. Emma’s appeared, too. Brianne yearned for the moonstone, from which she was being taken farther and farther away.

  Something strange happened then, deep within the bowels of the forest. Strange colors and shapes flickered inside her mind. A light-headedness came over her, and at one point, she felt that if not for the giant’s arms around her, she would surely lose her balance and topple from the horse.

  The strange giddiness faded, returned, and faded again. What was this? She felt cold, then hot. She thought she heard voices—no, not really voices, but faint whispers or echoes. No, she told herself, confused, fighting the dizziness—surely it was only the rushing of the wind, nothing more.

  At one point, she imagined she heard hoof beats behind them, and prayed it was Eadric in pursuit. But it was only the rustling branches, the odd forest sounds, and the gusting wind sending flutters of banked snow whirling up into her eyes.

  At last, when gray afternoon light shifted to dark silver shadows, and she felt she could travel no longer without whimpering aloud in pain, the troop drew to a halt.

  The men around her dismounted and began to make camp for the night. Darkness stole swiftly over the countryside, a countryside totally unfamiliar to her, with black, rolling moors, spindly trees, and a bleak, thick-forested horizon.

  Brianne, who had never before traveled outside Morksbury, had no idea where she was. Nor did she have time to wonder. Before she realized it, the man behind her had dismounted and was dragging her down from the saddle.

  Her knees sagged from weariness as she touched the ground. Immediately, his grip on her tightened, his strong hands easily spanning her narrow waist.

  Feeling his strength, the sudden possessiveness of his touch, Brianne panicked. Without thinking, she kicked him, her foot connecting with surprising force against his sturdy ankle. She took advantage of his astonishment and wrenched free, staggering sideways in the snow.

  “Stand back, you ignoble scoundrel!” she warned, regaining her balance. “Touch me again, and I will turn you into a rock like that one behind you. Or perhaps a squirrel—one your men will mount on a spit and cook for their dinner! Do you not know that I am Brianne of Morksbury and that my sorcery is more powerful than your spears and your swords? Approach me at your peril!”

  A great roar of laughter went up from the men engaged in making camp. They clustered around their giant leader, grinning.

  “The lady is fierce!”

  “Beware, my lord!”

  “Aye, if tongues were weapons, you would be dead!” the second-in-command told him with a chuckle.

  He silenced them all with a look.

  “The princess will be treated with respect,” he said in a terse, quiet tone.

  Silence fell over the group of men.

  “Any who violate the proper accord that is her due will answer to me. Is that understood?”

  Nods of assent followed quickly around the circle of soldiers. Chastened, they returned to their tasks.

  Brianne stared at him. He was by far the tallest and the broadest man she had ever laid eyes on. He was a good half a head taller than even the second-in-command, a lanky rust-haired warrior with a neat beard. But this man, the leader, was clean-shaven, lean-jawed, and not only larger than his second-in-command, but also stronger-looking by far. He was perhaps in his twenties, with thick, dark, curling hair, a strong, no-nonsense face, and intelligent, gleaming black eyes set beneath domineering brows. His features were hard and more rough-hewn than handsome. But for all his intimidating size and strength, his youth, and his easy air of command with his men, she thought that as he regarded her, his expression altered, appearing somewhat troubled, even apologetic.

  Well, he would look more troubled and more apologetic by far when Eadric caught up to him. Despite her apprehension at her predicament, Brianne kept listening hopefully for the sounds of pursuit and rescue.

  If she was going to be borne off by someone, at least let it be her promised husband —possessor of the moonstone!

  “Come with me,” the giant said in a low tone that brooked no argument. He grasped her firmly by the arm before she could protest and without another word, he tugged her relentlessly across the clearing, beneath boughs and through a tangle of scrub until they reached a small, dark copse hidden from the men. They were out of earshot, and now completely alone.

  Darkness had fallen. Yet the sky was light with scudding snow clouds, and she could see the purposeful glint that had entered his eyes. It took all her courage and self-possession, all her determination, to keep herself from trembling, and to prevent any fear from showing upon her face.

  She forced herself to glare back, defiant of this man who had swept her from her home and carried her off through the great forest and into these strange, bleak moors, farther and farther from the moonstone.

  He was nowhere near as handsome as Feour, she told herself, but that was not saying much, for she believed her sister’s husband the handsomest man alive. This stranger had the most compelling eyes, though. They were deeper, darker than a midnight sky, rich with intelligence, life, and ideas. Set beneath dark, slanting brows, they pierced her in a way that made her breath catch in her throat.

  ‘Princess Brianne of Morksbury, you will not come to any harm from me,” he said quietly.

  Brianne saw no reason to believe him. “Promises from a scoundrel?” she mocked. “Forgive me if your pledge does not allay my fears—or my anger.”

  She began to shiver, despite her warm cloak. The chill had grown with the falling darkness, and the wind whipping through the copse was savage in its intensity.

  He moved toward her hesitantly. She, in turn, retreated, clutching her cloak about her.

  “I know it is difficult for you to understand, but I have done you a very great service today—one you will eventually thank me for, I am certain,” he said firmly.

  “A service?” Brianne gaped at him. “Pray tell, my lord,” she went on, dripping sarcasm like icicles. “What service have you performed for me—other than to steal me from my home like the lowest of bandits and bring me here to this secluded spot probably to perform other... foul deeds... which I have no doubt you have every intention of...”

  Backing up two steps for every one of his, she suddenly tripped over a jutting rock behind her and tumbled backward into the snow.

  “Princess, are you trying to break your neck?” he growled. Springing forward, he yanked her unceremoniously to her feet as if she weighed no more than a bauble. “Stand still, by all that is holy. I only wish to talk to you.”

  He regarded her frowningly in some exasperation, his gaze taking in her slim form wrapped in the thick fur cloak, her flushed cheeks, and her blazing green eyes.

  “So pretty,” he muttered, almost to himself. “So delicate.” The exasperation on his hard features softened. “I never expected—”

  He broke off as she tried to wrench free of his grip yet again.

  So rebellious.

  “Look, my lady,” he burst out irritably, holding her fast with pitiful ease, “the truth of the matter is, I came to fetch you to take you for my own bride. There, I’ve said it. I’ve sworn an oath to have the Princess of Morksbury for myself,” he finished, eyes narrowing. “And so I shall.”

  He loomed over her, waiting for her to reply. Brianne did not disappoint him.

  “Who are you, knave?” she lashed out. “A madman or merely a dumb brute? I shall not marry you! Have you forgotten what I said?” She spoke to him as if explaining a simple matter to a slow-witted child. “I am pledged to Eadric of Wen! If you are not frightened of him, you ought to be. He is scarcely the man to stand by and see his betrothed carried off!”

  “I know.” She heard laughter in his deep voice. “That is why I did it.”

  Brianne went very still. “Explain.”

  “Have you not guessed? I am Ralf o
f Kerric.”

  She stared incredulously at him. Ralf of Kerric—the king who was at war with Eadric? The king rumored to be the only leader with an army strong enough to threaten Eadric’s rule?

  “Why?” she croaked out. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you are pledged to Eadric.”

  “You’re mad,” she told him with certainty.

  “My kingdom lies four days’ ride to the north. We will reach it in three days, however, riding hard and fast, with Eadric close on our heels, I hope. You and I will be immediately wed when we are within my castle walls.”

  “Utterly mad!”

  “Perhaps.” A sudden grin lightened his face. She looked so astonished, so adorably baffled, he had to fight off the sudden urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her. He didn’t know much about chaste, virginal women, much less chaste, virginal princesses, but he knew enough to know that such behavior as was appropriate with camp followers and lusty serving wenches would not suffice.

  Ralf had never spent more than a few moments with any woman equal to his own station, and those moments had been under formal circumstances in large company—feasts, ceremonies, celebrations.

  He was a warrior, had always been a warrior, and would always be a warrior. From the age of seven, he had been trained, first as a page in the household of Sir Dardion, then as a squire, before achieving knighthood and the right to fight in battle.

  Fighting. Governing. Protecting his lands and kingdom. Those were his passions. Such women as he met in his soldiering, those who could be had for the asking, were conveniences, diversions, pleasant trinkets to be enjoyed and forgotten, nothing more.