by Lisa Jackson
Yet as she guided Alabaster into the woods, she kept her eye on the hawk soaring overhead, his speckled breast hardly discernible. With no other guide, she followed the hawk, which flew above a little-used path that cut deeper into the gathering gloom of the forest.
Little more than a deer trail, it seemed a ridiculous course. Bryanna told herself she should turn around, go back to Calon, admit that she was in love with Morwenna’s husband and suffer being banished to Penbrooke again. Would it be so bad to be under her brother Kelan’s rule?
And what then? Let him marry you off to some neighboring baron? So that you can do whatever he wants and bear him heirs? Is that what you want, to be the lady of a castle, shackled to a man you do not love?
Oh, Morrigu, surely Kelan wouldn’t be so unkind.
And yet, what would he want with her and her visions, her dreams of dead women speaking to her? Even Kiera, his wife, would think Bryanna was addled.
Nay, she could not return to Penbrooke.
Nor Calon.
As the horse walked steadily through the twilight, her thoughts turned again to her sister’s husband. Dear Lord, why could she not stop thinking of him? Why did she have to suffer these torturous feelings? Why, in all of God’s kingdom, was she chasing this lunatic dream when she could so easily turn around and return to her home? Her stomach rumbled and she thought of the cook’s pheasant pyes, and jellied eggs, and roasted eel. Her mouth watered and she considered the laughter and gaiety of the Christmas Revels, the dancing and singing and her large chamber with its warm, glowing fire and soft, canopied bed. She should return. In the daylight, she should forget this fool’s mission and turn back to Calon, head south and—
“Nay, Bryanna, fail me not. You must save the child,” Isa’s voice said, reverberating in Bryanna’s head and stilling her heart.
So now it was a child.
’Twas nonsense.
“What child?” she said aloud, her own voice ricocheting off the canyon walls. Why had she followed the hawk, anyway? She’d just followed a bird down an overgrown, little-used path. Had her senses completely abandoned her? “I asked you what child, Isa!”
But, of course, Isa chose not to answer and Bryanna’s question bounced back to her again. Alabaster snorted and the wind picked up, as if the old nursemaid had ordered it to slap at Bryanna’s face and ruffle her hair.
Her pride had stopped her from seeking the shelter of other keeps and imposing upon family friends. Nay, she was on a mission that many might construe as pure folly. How could she explain herself if she were to show up without a guard or companion at a friendly keep? The lord would be suspicious, the lady posing questions, the servants listening at keyholes.
“Fie and feathers,” she grumbled, as she spied what had once been a woodsman’s hut and was now falling into ruin, the roof collapsed, one wall missing. ’Twas a pitiful shelter, but it would provide some protection against the sleet that had begun to pepper the ground.
She dismounted, yanked off the saddle, the horse’s blanket, and her own rolled blanket. Then she untied the leather bags she’d bound to the saddle before tending to the mare. The grass here at the edge of the woods was sparse, but Bryanna carried with her a little grain from the stores at Calon and had bought a small satchel at the stable.
She offered Alabaster water from the stream that passed near the dilapidated hut, as well as a ration of feed that would last until the morrow, when she would find more sustenance for them both. She was not destitute. In truth, she carried far more coin with her than was safe, but she would be careful with it, for when it ran out, she would have nothing.
Oh, this was a bad idea, one born of a dead woman.
Or the demons in your mind, Bryanna.
Did they not come to you whilst you were hiding deep in the dark corridors of the keep? Yes, you were keeping your vigil, waiting to strike, praying to Morrigu for strength when the visions appeared.
Truth?
Or but a trick of your mind?
“Stop!” she shouted at herself.
Alabaster nickered softly from the spot where she was tethered, inside the small hut.
The wind raged as Bryanna found some dead moss and dry twigs and made a pathetic little fire in the pit within the hut. Then she walked to the stream, splashed some icy water upon her face and hands, all the while wondering what it would feel like if she were truly losing her mind. Would she even know it? Could it be any worse than the last few weeks of madness?
Upon returning to the hut, she poked at her meager fire. Watching shadows play upon the weathered, sagging walls, she heard Isa’s voice as clearly as if she were standing beside her.
“Fear not, Bryanna,” the old woman said.
“Humph. Easy for you to say. You’re already dead.”
“And now you must fulfill your quest.”
Bryanna pulled a piece of dry meat from her leather pouch. “How do I know to trust you?”
“Oh, child, was I not your nursemaid? Your companion? Did I not care for you?”
“But you’re dead. I saw you myself. I touched your cold body. Stared into your sightless eyes.” Bryanna shivered, remembering the night she’d viewed the old nursemaid lying upon the physician’s table. Isa’s pale eyes had stared upward to the rafters. ’Twas then the voice had first spoken to Bryanna, instructing her to take the items Isa had secreted away.
“Take them—they are yours,” Isa had told her, though, of course, the dead woman’s lips hadn’t moved and the voice had whispered only within Bryanna’s mind.
Isa had been wearing a pouch around her waist and a necklace with her own special talisman around her neck. The voice had instructed Bryanna to remove those items from Isa’s dead body and keep them as her own.
Within the pouch had been vials of herbs, bits of candles, and pieces of colored string. Bryanna had taken them all, along with the things she’d found secreted in Isa’s hut. Isa’s voice had directed her to prop a ladder against the post supporting the roof, and there, on the top of a crossbeam, invisible to the room below, was a false panel. Behind the panel, cut into the heavy wood, was a private little alcove. In this secret niche, Bryanna had discovered the dagger wrapped tightly in deer hide and tied with a leather thong. The knife was little more than a dull, cast-iron blade, the hilt tainted and rusting with empty holes where there had once been jewels.
Now, as the night wind seeped through the thin slats of the walls, she recalled how she’d first feared the old woman’s words, how she’d recoiled at touching Isa’s cold flesh, how she’d only done Isa’s bidding out of curiosity, and how that curiosity had become this journey.
By the light of the fire, she opened one of the bags she carried with her and dug inside. Her fingers touched the pouch of coins, but she pushed it aside, searching further until she found the soft doeskin she sought. Seated on a smooth stone, she pulled out the rolled piece of hide and unlaced its tie. Within the folds of the doeskin was a dagger, ugly and small, with a wicked curved blade. If her dreams were to be believed, this weapon had once been beautiful, with precious gems embedded upon its bone handle.
She held the hilt in one hand as if testing its weight. Then, swiftly, she thrust the little weapon out, as if attacking someone or something. Aye, she’d seen this dagger often enough in the dream that came to her night after night. But in her imaginings the blade had always been polished and smooth, the handle decorated with gems that glittered brilliantly.
Enticingly.
Not so now.
When Bryanna was but a child, Isa used to tell her stories of a magickal dagger, a weapon mentioned in a prophecy of the old ones. How did it go? “Sired by Darkness, born of Light . . .” Something like that.
Vexed as always by the blade, Bryanna set the knife aside and smoothed the doeskin open to stare at the faded markings upon it. Her brow furrowed as she concentrated, for she was certain the etchings upon the odd-shaped piece of hide were a map, but one she could not decipher aside from the point marki
ng a way north. She bit her lip and tried to make sense of the squiggles and marks. A river, perhaps, here in the eastern edge? Mountains to the northwest? It was impossible to tell.
But somehow, this flap of doeskin was her confounded destiny.
CHAPTER THREE
Morwenna felt like a traitor.
Nay, she was a traitor.
Biting her lip, she stared down at her sleeping husband, then eased out of the bed. ’Twas long before dawn and the man she married was sleeping deeply, snoring gently, unaware that she was about to go against his word.
Mort, her dog, rose to follow her, but she shushed him and pointed back to the bed, where he reluctantly curled up again. The mutt’s dark eyes followed her every move, and she prayed that he wouldn’t bark or stir again. It was imperative that her husband not waken.
Mayhap there was something inherently wrong with her that she could not meekly accept a man’s authority. Mayhap she’d been mistress of Calon, this very keep, too long, for though she loved her husband with all her heart, in this instance he was wrong. Perhaps dead wrong.
Morwenna wasn’t going to take a chance with her sister’s life. She slid into an old woolen tunic and dark mantle, then grabbed the pouch she’d tucked into a pocket earlier in the day. The coins within clinked a bit and she froze, certain that her husband would awaken. Hardly daring to breathe, she waited until his even snores assured her that even Pwyll, god of the underworld, could not waken him. Then, with a silent but stern order for the dog to remain upon the bed, Morwenna slipped out to the corridor.
A few candles smelling of tallow and sheep fat still burned in their sconces. They flickered as she passed, her movement disturbing the thin streams of black smoke that curled toward the ceiling. Stuffing her arms into her mantle, she crept down the stairs to the great hall, where one of the speckled dogs lifted his head before spying Morwenna and settling back with his mate near the dying fire.
She didn’t have much time.
Soon the laborers would be rising, the servants drawing water, tending the fires, replacing the candles, and gathering eggs.
Pulling her hood over her head, she crept down a long hallway and past the kitchen to a door leading out to the garden. Outside a fine mist was falling, the winter air cool and wet, and she was careful to step on the flagstones leading past the dirt, where, in the spring, flowers and herbs would abound. Now the wet ground had only thorny remembrances of last year’s roses and the scent of rain-washed rosemary as she brushed against the overgrown shrub’s stiff branches.
Glancing skyward, she saw dark forms upon the curtain wall, the sentries guarding the keep. Their eyes were trained to the exterior of the castle walls and rarely would they search the bailey. Clutching her cloak, she hurried past through the garden gate to the chapel, which was still dark, the priest not yet risen for his morning prayers.
She slipped inside and hastily made the sign of the cross over her chest. Her prayers were fragmented and filled with doubt. Oh, that she was doing the right thing. Oh, that she wasn’t lying. Oh, that she would learn to be an obedient wife.
’Twas never to be, of course.
In all her years she had never been able to accept authority without reason, forever unable to bend to any man’s will, be that man her father or brother. She had spent all of her life trying to be equal to Kelan and Tadd, proving herself as a huntswoman, a swordswoman, and eventually ruler of her own keep. And now . . . now she was married to a man who loved her with all his heart, who listened to her counsel as if she were a wise woman, who would die for her without thinking twice.
And yet she was going against his will.
“God help me.”
Sadness seeped into her soul.
She thought of Bryanna and wondered where she was. What was it that had driven her away? Bryanna had been so evasive about the real reason she was leaving but she’d been adamant. There had been no stopping her.
“As headstrong as an ox,” their mother, Lenore, had often muttered under her breath. No amount of shaming or locking away or forced prayers had dampened Bryanna’s spirit or destroyed her independence.
And so she’d ridden away before Morwenna could get word to their brother Kelan of Penbrooke, before she’d been able to persuade Bryanna to take a guard and a companion . . . and . . . oh, for the love of Morrigu. ’Twas too late. Closing her eyes and dropping to her knees on the cold stone floor, she whispered a quick prayer for her sister’s safety. Then, fighting back the uncertainty that nagged at her, she rose, genuflected at the cross mounted high on the chapel wall, and hastened outside to the thickening mist.
He would be waiting.
Morwenna had never been one to doubt herself, but never had she felt forced to lie to those closest to her.
She rounded the corner of the chapel quickly and gasped at the sight of him leaning against the wall, one shoulder propped against the smooth stones. How ironic, she thought, that he chose to meet here in the shadow of the chapel, this devil of a man.
They did not speak.
There was no need for words.
They’d said enough already.
She handed him her pouch, the coins jingling within the worn leather. She was turning away, when, quick as an asp striking, he reached forward and encircled her wrist with his good hand. The other arm remained at his side, still stiff from a wound he’d received while trying to track the killer who had terrorized Castle Calon.
“Will this then be enough?” he hissed. “If I am to do your bidding, will that mean that at last my debt to you has been paid?”
She thought for a second of all the lies, all the betrayal, all the anger and lives lost because of this man. Looking toward the shadows of the chapel, she knew his list of sins was long. He had beaten his own brother and left him at death’s door, though he’d recovered since then, with Morwenna’s care. Carrick’s charms were so enthralling that he had even seduced Morwenna herself years ago, teasing her into a passion, then abandoning her before dawn.
Morwenna longed to end all ties with this blackheart. And yet, he was the only man with the strength and courage to assure her sister’s safety. “Just do as promised.” Keeping her voice low, she withdrew her hand and stepped backward, creating distance between them. “ ’Tis all I ask.”
“For now.”
“Forever.”
His smile flashed in the darkness. A crooked slash of white that accused her of the lie. “You cannot trust me, any more than I can trust you.”
“Go to hell,” she spat.
“Is that not where I am already?”
She was unmoved. “Mayhap.” Steeling herself, she stepped toward him and stared into his handsome, shadowed face. “But ’tis a hell of your own making, is it not?”
She turned again and hastened back to the keep. Silently praying and hoping beyond hope that her husband had not roused, she half ran through the garden and into the entrance near the kitchen. Already boys scurried about gathering firewood. Some of the cows were making noise, their udders full, their bellies empty as they waited for the milkmaids.
Morwenna hurried up the back staircase, knowing deep in her soul that she’d just made a deal with the devil.
Once again the woman appeared to him . . . and he wasn’t aware of how much time had passed between her visits. Had it been minutes, or was it hours, mayhap even days. Each time Gavyn would try to call out to her, but it was no use, his voice failed him, and he was quiet, falling deeper into a wave of darkness after the deadly umbra that had been following her dragged him down.
Be wary, he thought, though he could not speak, and as the visions passed his sleep was light, thin as parchment. He was vaguely aware of whispered voices all around him, aware of the pain in his shoulder, as searing as a white-hot blade thrust into his flesh.
And then cool hands.
The woman of his dreams?
Gently she administered a salve that took away the fire and pressed something to his lips . . . a drink. He sipped the brew
she offered, but it tasted so foul that he coughed and spat, then cringed as a pain like no other cut through his chest.
Was he alive or dead?
Or in a netherworld somewhere between?
At times he smelled the scent of sizzling meat, and hunger pangs would attack him. Other times he recognized the acrid odor of urine and thought it might be his own. Often he was aware of the scent of sweat, and as chills would come to him and be burned off by great black waves of heat, he thought that the scents might be his own. Once in a great while there was music, an off-key humming that buzzed through his brain.
Someone tending to him.
His thoughts were short and sharp, like shards of broken pottery, and as they passed behind his eyes he caught only glimpses of his life, tiny fragments that made no sense. He knew he was lying on a straw bed of sorts, and as the days passed and some of the darkness subsided, he tried to swim through the mire that was his brain, attempting to open his eyes. But then she would appear upon her white jennet and the pain would ease and he would succumb to the gentle embrace of darkness. . . .
“See, he lives,” a woman’s voice from somewhere far away whispered through the veiled darkness. “Did I not tell you?”
“Aye, ’tis healing powers ye have, Vala.” This time the voice was that of a man, a big man by the sound of it. “ ’Tis why I brought him to ye when I found him in the woods.”
“Ye say he fell from the ridge?”
“Aye, that he did. But he was lucky, he was. His fall was broken by saplings and brush.”
“Lucky?” She snorted as a scraping noise began and somewhere nearby a cow lowed. “If bein’ half dead and chased by Lord Deverill’s men is luck, then, aye, this one, he’s got all the luck in the world. Seems as if our lad here has killed himself Deverill’s sheriff.”