by Jill Gregory
All of the torches were lit.
They flared bright against the blue-shadowed sky, illuminating the shocked, frightened faces of the men holding them. Brianne felt her knees buckling beneath her. She forced them by sheer will to hold her as she turned her head to stare straight at Eadric.
The whites of his eyes showed as he glanced at her askance. The man looked terrified, and she nearly laughed aloud in exultation.
“What think you now, my lord?” she inquired.
“I think that you will make me a fine queen, Brianne of Morksbury,” he said in a hoarse tone. Then, clearing his throat, he addressed the white-faced soldiers clustered all about the torch-lit circle.
“It is an omen!” he shouted. “My bride-to-be, the Princess of Morksbury, has been returned to me unscathed by that demon, Ralf of Kerric. This is our signal to ride now in cover of darkness and attack the demon while he is unawares. To arms, to arms! I summon each of you to arms!”
The call went up, echoing like thunder through the forest camp, from tree to tree, sighing through the branches as once more the wind suddenly gusted, and all the lit torches abruptly went out.
“And you, lovely Brianne, will be well rewarded for your resourcefulness and your loyalty after we reach Wen. Our wedding will indeed be joyous. For now,” he said quickly, as eagerness to do battle came upon him, “you will remain here.”
“No! I must go with you!”
Eadric shook his head and lifted a hand dismissively. “Have no fear. Men will be left behind to guard your safety. I will return for you when Ralf is dead.”
“You can’t leave me behind,” Brianne implored desperately. “Think, my lord! You may have use of me—of my powers—on the battlefield.”
“A woman has no place on the battlefield—sorceress or no. Ogbar, take the princess to a tent and see that she has all she needs for comfort. Pick five men to remain with you. And guard your future queen well.”
Before Brianne could scarcely believe it possible, the troops were assembled and Eadric was mounted at the head of his army—a fearsome army, maybe two thousand strong, she guessed. The soldiers poured from the bordering woods like an onslaught of vermin.
And I remain behind, she thought in despair, imprisoned in a tent, with guards outside to keep me from Ralf.
It was hopeless. Brianne knew that as she huddled in the tent, exhausted, shivering, and feeling far more lost than she had ever felt before.
The hours dragged by. Darkness enveloped her. The woman’s screams had stopped, and Brianne wondered if they had taken her with them. Someone brought her food and drink. She heard the sounds of the men supping in the camp, smelled their wood-fires and the aroma of roasted meat.
She could not eat even a bite of what they had brought her.
How long she waited there, she didn’t know. She only knew that she could not stop thinking of Ralf, of his vigil at Raumerin Cog. Did he think of her?
No doubt if he did, he thought her safe, protected within the walls of his castle, awaiting his homecoming.
But she wasn’t safe, and neither was Emma or Feour or their little Owain. And though her faint power had burned strongly enough to summon fire, that was a mere child’s trick—she could not possibly be empowered enough to reach out across the sea to Emma. Not without the moonstone around her neck for the magical span of time.
Ralf! Her heart called out to him with a longing sweeter than springtime. She would not even be able to kiss him one more time before he met Eadric in battle. And what if something went wrong? Eadric’s army was vicious, fearsome. What if Ralf was killed?
She covered her face with her hands, unable to bear the thought. Better to remember the vibrant, soul-touching passion of their lovemaking, better to remember his strength and determination, and the loving gentleness of his touch.
Ralf must return to her, whole and sound and hearty.
He must.
Yet fear licked through her as she paced alone in her tent. She could think of no way to save her sister now, or to see Ralf again before the battle.
And then, as the pearly wisps of apricot dawn brushed the sky, suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. A chilling tingle swept over her—deeper, purer than the breath of the wild wind, icier than the frost of any winter.
She rose from the bench, trembling. A compulsion came over her, and like a sleepwalker, she obeyed it. Without knowing why, and with her cloak billowing around her, she slipped from the tent.
“What do you think you’re doing? Where are you going?” a guard demanded. It was Ogbar. He and another soldier both jumped forward to block her path.
“I can’t stay in that tent,” Brianne said quietly. And it was the truth. She didn’t understand it, but something was drawing her out here, insisting that she leave the tent and stand in the open camp. She felt so strongly compelled to follow this instinct that even the drawn swords of Eadric’s soldiers didn’t deter her.
“Get back inside!” Ogbar reached forward to shove her back through the tent’s opening. But he froze in shock as a great snarling sound roared across the open air and a huge gray wolf hurtled from the cover of the trees. With bared fangs the wolf leaped straight at Ogbar.
Brianne gasped in horror as the wolf knocked him to the ground. The other soldier raised his sword, but Brianne lifted her hand in warning.
“Stop. Don’t you dare touch that wolf!” she cried. “Leave now and you might be spared!”
Even as she spoke, the wolf whirled on his haunches, growling.
The other soldiers whom Eadric had left to guard her were all fighting now, charging in different directions, swinging their swords in the faint pink and gold morning light, yelling and cursing.
Brianne and the soldier on the ground faced the wolf alone.
The beast’s red eyes shone fiercely and its jaws dripped blood.
“Go,” she whispered to the fallen man. “Go now!”
But suddenly the wolf sprang—leaping past her, straight toward the battling soldiers.
Brianne trembled and closed her eyes.
She was enveloped in a pink mist. She heard only the screams of the men and the bloodcurdling snarls of the wolf. From all around her came the grunts and moans of those dying, the savage waging of a deadly battle. But it seemed a long way off. Cool, damp fog encircled her. She shivered, tingled.
And at last she realized that the clearing had grown quiet.
She opened her eyes.
A gruesome sight assaulted her. The stench of blood and death assailed her nostrils, sickening her so greatly that she dropped to her knees. A terrible trembling possessed her. Yet she felt oddly expectant. She looked around, searching, and then she saw the wolf.
It was bleeding, its gray fur now matted and stained crimson. There was a gash in its side that dripped a bright trail of blood as the wolf looked over and began slowly limping toward her.
Brianne remained on her knees, motionless, gazing into the wolf’s eyes. The beast gazed back at her, its unblinking stare hypnotic, wild, fierce.
Yet she wasn’t frightened.
The bloodlust was gone from the wolf’s eyes. Now, a dull gleam emanated, of pain, triumph, and purpose.
And tearing her gaze from those bewitching eyes, she saw at last what the wolf wore on a golden chain around its neck.
The moonstone.
She caught her breath as the animal halted directly before her and waited, its blood seeping into the snow.
“Ralf...” Brianne murmured dazedly, confused, trying numbly to remember the story her husband had told her of his ancestors, and the druids of Kerric, and the leader of the wolves...
The wolf made a growling sound deep in its throat. Its ears flattened.
Brianne swallowed. The nearness of the moonstone brought a myriad of prism colors dancing before her eyes. She felt hot, cold, damp, clammy—but her throat was parched.
“It is mine,” she managed to whisper, reaching out, meeting the animal’s suddenly wary gaze w
ith urgency. “You have delivered it to me—well done.”
She grasped the chain slowly, carefully, and lifted it from the beast’s neck.
The wolf allowed her to take the chain without a sound. Moving slowly so as not to startle him, Brianne slipped the chain over her own head. Her fingers quickly closed around the moonstone dangling between her breasts.
And a jolt of ice shot through her so suddenly that she gasped.
The wolf, ears pricking, then flaring back, turned and bounded away toward the forest.
“Wait, I will tend your hurts!” she called, but her words were drowned out by the sudden rising of the wind, which roared through the trees with such ferocity that several branches tore loose and whirled eerily around the deserted campsite.
The wolf never slowed.
It raced toward the cover of the trees on swift legs, seemingly unhampered by its wound, and disappeared within the murk of the forest.
Brianne shakily rose to her feet, bombarded by colors, sensations, feelings, and an almost painful sensitivity that seemed to pour right through her from the heart of the moonstone.
She knew what she had to do. There was not a moment to lose. Stumbling away from the camp she began to run, even as silvery morning light beamed across the gray-washed sky. She raced toward the hill that overlooked the camp, skidding and tumbling over mounds of frozen snow, slipping on patches of ice, clambering breathlessly upward until she reached the flat, open crest of the hill.
Snow was knee-deep here, glittering blue in the now dazzling sunlight. She moved slowly in a circle, looking out toward the ice-frosted forest, the deserted camp, the barren hills in the distance, and then at last at the plains over which she had ridden on her journey to the camp.
Brianne cupped the moonstone in her hands and closed her eyes.
Emma! She spoke no word aloud. Only thoughts quivered in her mind and soul, in a place deep within herself. Emma, she implored in silent fervency and utter concentration.
Emma, my sister, hear me!
Chapter Seven
She was floating. Wandering. Lost in a sea of blinding white light, unable to see anything... only the cold white light that hurt her eyes, pressing... pressing...
Raudinium, she told herself through the faintness that possessed her. Go to Raudinium.
And then she was floating forward, bodiless, light as a cloud, and the terrible hurting brightness faded, becoming a sheer hazy mist the color of sunlight, and she was flying...
Below her, the roar of the sea. Waves crashing, birds squawking, diving, and then only the waves... the waves... the ice-cold waves...
A land of green hills, of lakes blue as the moonstone... an estuary, a deep gorge, then meadows damp with dew. Brianne felt her senses dip and swirl, and then she was suddenly in a shaded courtyard of a great castle, and her sister sat before her on a stone bench with little Owain at her breast...
A dark cloud of death hung over Emma’s head, and within its swirling slate-gray shape leered the evil face of a devil.
“No!” Brianne cried.
Emma glanced up, her beautiful skin going white. “Brianne!” she gasped, and her waiting woman stared at her as though she was mad, for she saw no one there.
“Listen to me, Emma. There is danger, much danger. Our mother has passed from this earth, and she sent me with a warning—you and Feour and Owain are in danger. A man named Gandur is plotting to kill you, all of you. Warn Feour—now, at once! Warn Feour, or you will all be dead before the next sunrise.”
She felt herself drifting farther and farther from the courtyard as she imparted the last words of the message with all her strength. With thoughts only, she spoke to her sister, and wondered as a biting iciness washed over her if Emma had truly heard.
But Emma was now only a small figure in the distance, and faintly, Brianne heard Owain’s cries. Then, as the white light rose up again to surround her, she saw her sister running, and heard her cry out: “Feour! Feour, come quickly!”
Then the golden hazy light claimed her again, and Brianne glanced down at the rushing sea, felt herself falling, and managed somehow with rigid strength of will to keep from sinking down into the waves.
Then she was over a plain littered with dead and bleeding bodies. A scarlet banner fluttered on the ground, soaked in a sea of blood...
Ralf!
In fear, she searched for him. The love in her heart beat as furiously as the wings of a frantic bird, but she could not find him. He was nowhere to be seen.
Then she saw a lone figure lying dead upon the stony field, a broken sword beside him. His body was covered in blood.
She was cold. Weak. The power was fading. The great toll of energy required for her journey had drained the strength from her body. But she struggled, struggled to remain a moment more, struggled to see...
The man wore a green tunic. His hair was the color of gold.
And over his body stood a great gray wolf.
She saw the wolf’s shaggy head lift, and heard a triumphant unholy baying, a baying that filled the desolate battlefield, that echoed through the lonely distant hills, that clamored in her ears. And then she felt herself falling hard, falling fast... falling...
She struck the earth. And knew no more.
* * *
Brianne felt sunlight flooding over her. Dazzling warmth flowed through her body. Delicious warmth...
Warm, strong hands raised her, gripped her, and then she heard a voice that filled her with relief and love and a beautiful calm.
“Brianne, wake up. Brianne, my love, you’re safe. Do you hear me? Safe. You must wake now.”
She felt herself cradled against an iron chest, felt herself being held close and tenderly. Smiling, she opened her eyes.
“Do you see how obedient I am, my husband?” she murmured dreamily. “You have bid me wake, and I have done so.”
Ralf’s eyes lit with such happiness that her heart filled to overflowing. He kissed her cheek, the tenderest brush of his lips. His large, callused hand smoothed the pale tumble of her hair.
“If only you will continue to be so biddable, my wife,” he whispered back with a slow grin. And then: “Brianne, can you stand?”
She could, with his arm around her to help. Blinking, she gazed about. The hilltop sparkled in a molten glow of sunlight. The snow was nearly gone, and though the earth was damp beneath her feet, she was not wet or cold. Her skin and garments were dry.
Down below, across Eadric’s former encampment, she saw an array of horses, and men flying the scarlet banner of Kerric.
“The battle,” she exclaimed, as memories rushed back. “It’s over then—and Eadric?”
“Slain.”
Brianne nodded and fingered the moonstone around her neck.
She had seen part of the battle, but not all. The memory of it sapped at her still fragile energy, so she turned her thoughts away for now, focusing on the present. She wondered dazedly how long she had slept, with the moonstone’s powers seeping into her body, bestowing her rightful powers of magic deep into her soul, from where they had first been drawn.
And Ralf was with her—his black hair glinting in the sun, his rough-hewn features softened with gladness. He was whole and he was safe—and he had found her somehow in this desolate place. She supposed she ought to be surprised, but, smiling mistily up at her determined husband, she was not.
All about her, the open moors smelled enticingly of spring. Ice was melting, frost dripping from the lace-silvered branches of trees. The late afternoon breeze was balmy, fresh as the spring flowers which would bloom within weeks. Her spirits lightened, lifted. Winter was passing away—like the evil reign of Eadric.
She took a deep, grateful breath and leaned on Ralf’s arm. But as she looked into his eyes and began to speak, a sudden foreknowledge made her glance at his other arm, and she saw that it was bound up and hanging limply at his side.
“You are wounded,” she gasped in distress, but he merely shook his head.
&
nbsp; “A scratch, Brianne, the veriest nothing. But you...” He reached out to gently clasp the moonstone which hung around her neck. “You were not harmed by Eadric? And you received my gift in time?”
It came back to her then. The wolf who had brought the moonstone. Its wounded, bloody image flashed in her mind as she stared at Ralf with his bandaged arm.
“Yes, but how... what... did you...?”
His eyes gleamed into hers, their dark depths impenetrable as he gazed at her on that sunlit hill.
Brianne grew quiet then. A curious wisdom pierced her, flooding her with a sense of awe. Some things were not meant to be known or understood. Though questions and speculations and a sense of wonder filled her, even she, Brianne, who had been raised on enchantment the way some children were raised on gruel, knew better than to look too deeply into magic that entwined itself with fate.
Ralf said softly, “My squire followed you from Castle Kerric and saw those brigands take you away. He brought me that news, along with the reason for your journey. It was foolish of you to venture forth alone, Brianne, yet I cannot but admire your courage. Well, my queen, what of your sister? Is all well? Were the powers of the moonstone mighty enough to relay a warning?”
“Oh, yes, Ralf. Emma and her family are safe.” She knew this, too, knew it in her heart. She felt it, the way she felt the coming of spring.
And then, shyly, as he caught her to him in celebration, she breathed, “Thank you.”
She realized as she stood there, safe within his embrace, that all of the strange dancing lights and white mists which had plagued her since she’d first come in contact with the moonstone had vanished. She no longer needed the stone. Her powers had come home to her, and she possessed them now—she owned the power. Her power. She sensed that she would discover as each day passed how better to control it, but she already felt as light and clean as new bark, fresh as spring’s first flower.
Her hand crept up to stroke Ralf’s jaw, and there was no longer concern, but only love mirrored in her eyes as his brawny arm tightened around her.