by Lisa Jackson
As silent as a water snake gliding through the ripples, he slid from his saddle and tied the reins of his horse’s bridle to the low hanging branch of the nearest pine.
His bones ached from hours in the saddle, his head pounded, his mouth was dry and foul tasting. Each time his horse had taken a step, the pain in his ribs had reminded him that they had not healed. Worse yet, the wound on his shoulder felt hot to the touch and had started to ooze.
Which was too damned bad.
Soon enough he would arrive in Tarth, the land that had once been home to his mother. Surely he would find a friend, a healer there to help him.
For now, though, he would deal with whatever unsuspecting camper had made the mistake of settling here for the night. Unsheathing his knife, he approached with caution, his boots making not the slightest noise as he crept beneath branches and over needles littering the forest floor.
Then he spied her.
Not a band of robbers or cutthroats or a company of soldiers, but a lone woman.
The very woman of his dreams.
He froze. For the love of Christ, could it be? The same damned woman he’d seen upon the white horse night after night?
Nay! ’Twas impossible. Disbelief and rational thought told him he was, yet again, creating a vision in his mind, bending what was real so that he could see what he wanted. And yet . . .
There she was.
Standing at the fire.
Holy Mother Mary.
From a habit of his youth, he made the sign of the cross over his chest, though he’d lost faith years before. ’Twas his fever, that was it. He had to be seeing an image that didn’t exist; whatever illness he’d been fighting was causing these visions.
Yet he was certain this woman in the woods was she. Her hair was the same red bronze, falling down her back in thick, curling waves. Her features were even, her chin strong, and though he wasn’t close enough to see for certain, he expected there was the merest smattering of freckles upon her short, straight nose.
His jaw tightened and the dull, nagging ache in his shoulder subsided. How in the name of the devil had he imagined her, this woman he’d never seen before? How had his mind conjured her image?
You’ve been cursed, he heard his mother say as clearly as if she were standing just behind him. But he didn’t believe in magickal spells or hexes. Glancing about the small campsite, where the scents of burned fish still lingered, he saw her horse, the very same mare that raced through his dreams, causing stars to shoot from her hooves. ’Twas dog dung. Mind rot. And yet he was staring at the very same white jennet with her gray muzzle and stockings and bits of gray and black in her mane and tail as well.
He blinked, as if to dispel the vision, but the image remained the same and the woman stood at the fire, holding a ragged piece of something—leather?—in one hand.
In his dreams, she’d always been clad in a white dress embroidered with gold thread, the gown diaphanous and airy, her arms bare, her breasts and nipples visible through the sheer fabric, the strength of her calves and thighs obvious as they clenched the mare. He’d even caught a glimpse of the flatness of her abdomen and the soft red thatch of curls at the juncture of her legs when her filmy skirts had billowed around her.
This night, when he viewed her in the flesh, the gauzy white gown was replaced with heavy warm clothes. A black velvet mantle trimmed with rabbit fur and silver studs fell to her ankles, and though she was not wearing it, a hood was visible beneath her hair. As she paced to and fro near the fire, the hem of the mantle parted, the skirts beneath flashing a deep crimson color.
The dress of a noblewoman.
Riding alone?
Barely breathing, he studied her.
Who was she? Aside from the woman he’d conjured in his dreams, he knew nothing of her.
Why was she here in the middle of the woods?
Again he swept his gaze over the grounds around the campfire, where stones surrounded the fire pit and twigs and small logs burned brightly. Again he saw no one, but surely she was not camped out in the forest by herself. Someone had to be with her, either her husband or a guard or some kind of companion. Someone who was either relieving himself in the woods or was hunting for food.
But as the minutes slid by and the moon rose in the sky, no companion appeared from the surrounding darkness.
She seemed to be by herself.
And she was angry.
She was talking to herself, holding the leather scrap in her fist as she shook it toward the heavens. As if she were a raving lunatic, railing at the gods. Though her words were unclear,she was definitely vexed, her pretty features twisted in rage, her body fairly shivering in fury.
Throwing both her hands into the air, she shook her head, her long, wild hair moving against her back and reflecting the fire’s light. “Please!” she yelled, and the word echoed through the trees of this lonely canyon. “Isa, come to me!”
Isa? The name rang a distant bell in his memory. So she wasn’t by herself, after all. She had a woman companion with her. Someone who was hiding from her? Playing games with her? Or someone who had left her?
“Can you hear me? Isa! I beg you, come to me, now! I need you.”
And yet the woman to whom she called remained silent and concealed in the darkness.
Finally, she gave up. Her arms fell to her sides. “Fine! So be it,” she cried and slowly opened her palm, unrolling the piece of leather. “I shall do this for myself.” Frowning, she used one finger of her free hand to trace upon the deer hide, as if deciphering the contour of the leather.
“Isa,” she said again, more quietly. The name came to him on the smallest of breezes, calling up a faint, near-forgotten memory. He’d heard the name somewhere in the distant past, he was certain of it. But how? And when?
Calmer now, the woman plopped onto a large stump by the fire, then smoothed the scrap of hide onto a flat stone. Reaching into the cow’s horn strapped at her waist, she sprinkled some kind of powder upon the burning wood. The flames reacted, turning blue and snapping, sparks streaming upward as the woman chanted softly.
God in heaven, did this woman, this beautiful woman, think she was a witch? ’Twas nonsense. ’Tattle. Aye, he believed some women knew how to heal and care for the wounded, better than any physician in many cases. But the calling up of spirits and casting of spells and laying on of curses was surely no more than horse dung.
But she flung dust into the fire and turned it blue.
So what else was she carrying in the horns and pouches tied to her belt? Aside from powders and mayhap potions and scraps of leather, did she carry anything of value with her? Money? If so, why was she here, in the forest, alone? Was she foolish enough to think her spells would keep her safe from the criminals who banded together and haunted these woods? Was the woman, Isa, truly with her? Or had she abandoned this would-be sorceress? Perhaps because she was truly mad? Or was it possible Isa did not exist?
Again he wondered what valuables she had tucked inside the folds of her mantle.
He felt only the tiniest bit of guilt, for though he would not harm her, the thought of stealing from her still wasn’t far from his mind. He could use whatever bit of silver or gold she was carrying or wearing. There were no rings upon her hands and her collar was too high for him to catch a glimpse of any sparkling strands of gold or jewels around her neck, but just because nothing was visible didn’t mean she wasn’t wearing a necklace or brooch that he could pocket and sell.
If he could really steal from her.
Suddenly, in that instant, she became silent. Her head snapped up. Her eyes—blue with the greenish luster of dappled leaves in the forest—stared directly at him, at his hiding place. As if she’d heard his thoughts and knew he was concealed in the darkness. He didn’t move a muscle, didn’t so much as blink, but his heart knocked wildly within his chest and he wondered if she could hear it, could see him somehow.
By the Christ, she was beautiful. Now that she was looking at him,
the firelight warm against her skin, he saw the even features of her face. She was indeed the woman of his dreams. With high, sculpted cheekbones, finely arched dark eyebrows, and full lips around a small mouth now pursed in vexation, she glared at him.
“Damn you,” she said clearly. “Come to me!”
Who? Damn who? His heart nearly stilled. Was she speaking to Isa again? Or directly to him? Could she see him in the darkness? Did his eyes reflect the firelight?
“Show yourself, cur!”
He heard a noise beside him, a rustle of leaves.
Someone else was in these woods?
Isa?
Or another thief scouting out his prey?
A murderer?
Someone intent upon attacking her, robbing and raping her, then killing her, this woman who had come to him in his mind?
Was that a bit of movement in the darkness . . . or just the play of firelight? He shifted into a crouch, ready to spring, every sense heightened as he searched the darkness.
Gripping his knife more tightly, he studied the shadows, now unmoving and still.
Two gold, unblinking eyes appeared.
Holy Christ.
The damned wolf.
The hungry beast was staring at the horse as if it were her next meal.
“You there!” the woman called. Her furious turquoise eyes cut through the night to bore into his soul. “Yes, you, son of Satan,” she clarified, and he knew she’d somehow seen him. “Show yourself.”
In the second he’d taken his eyes off her, she’d retrieved her knife and was standing in front of her horse, wielding the blade as if she intended to defend herself. “I know you’re there, coward. If you do not come out of the darkness, I swear I will curse you with a spell that will cause your mind to rot so that you will have fewer brains than the village idiot.” Her eyes narrowed in seething fury. “And that’s not all. Once you are brainless, I will cast a hex upon you that will cause your cock to shrivel and dry like a dying worm in the sun, then crumble into tiny pieces before falling off completely, making you no longer a man.”
She let her words sink in and one side of her mouth lifted into a satisfied smile.
If he believed in such nonsense, he might have felt a shred of fear. Instead, he let her rant and found himself amused at her conviction.
“Do you hear me? From this night and forever the maids in every town you visit will titter and laugh and point as they whisper between themselves, calling you eunuch. If you don’t step into the light at this very instant, I will ruin your life with a snap of my fingers.”
What rot!
Bryanna glared into the night.
Someone or something was out there. She felt whatever it was watching her. With her free hand she touched her protection necklace, a red string upon which a strip of black snakeroot was tied.
Whoever concealed himself in the shadows was not an assassin, for no arrow had been shot at her heart, no mace swung at her head, no sword lunged through her body. If the presence she felt had wanted to kill her, she already would have left this mortal life.
Alabaster suddenly lifted her head to the wind, her gaze focused on the edge of the wood, her ears forward in attention.
“What is it, girl?” Bryanna asked, still searching the dark undergrowth, her gaze following that of the mare. She clenched her knife more tightly and suddenly wished it was much, much larger. In an instant she saw a flicker of light, the reflection of the fire. Her heart stopped.
From deep in the shadows, gold eyes narrowed upon her.
Man?
Beast?
Or something else? Something somewhere in between?
Fear turned her blood to ice. Her mind swam with thoughts of boars and wildcats, of robbers who would easily slit a throat, or worse yet, of demons from an underworld where evil reigned in wicked souls who could easily turn from human form to ghost.
Be with me. Give me strength, she silently prayed as a damp breeze crawled across her skin. Her heart knocked against her ribs and her blood pounded in her ears.
Alabaster moved and snorted, gaze fixed on that one terrifying spot in the darkness.
“Shah,” Bryanna said and whispered a prayer for protection.
The eyes followed her every move just as the castle dogs had when she was eating from her trencher and picking at a succulent roast boar or goose. ’Twas as if their gaze was fastened to her. So these eyes, out in the forest, a stray cur?
Nay, more likely a wolf.
Her heart nearly stilled. She swallowed hard. Morrigu, help me. All of the spells she’d learned for protection—the red string she’d tied, the lavender, and eye of newt and ivy she’d pulverized and spread around her, the black snakeroot in which she’d rinsed her clothes—none of these seemed strong enough to go against a beast as clever and deadly as a wolf.
Alabaster let out a frightened whinny as the wind gusted and plucked at her hair. Suddenly Isa’s voice came to her as clearly as the tolling of a church bell in the night: “There is more evil here than you know,” the dead woman’s voice confided. “The wolf is not the beast of the night you should fear. She is your protection. . . . Do you not remember her? When you were a child, she was with you.”
“This is no time for riddles,” she hissed, but she sensed Isa’s words were not a lie. ’Twas almost as if she smelled the beast. She felt her presence over the threat of sleet in the air. There was another force beyond that of the wolf—a dark, soulless predator haunting the forest.
By the Great Goddess, how had she gotten herself into such a predicament?
Her gaze scoured the shadows.
Mayhap the wolf was not an animal at all but a being capable of taking another shape, a demon who could appear in human or animal form, a beast like no other.
Morrigu, be with me now.
She stared the brute straight in her evil eyes. She held her free hand toward the beast, all five fingers spread, their magick untested. “What devil are you, cur?” she demanded, and the wind picked up, pushing her hair from her face, whispering through the dry leaves, keening through the canyon. “Did you not hear me that I will destroy your life?”
She braced herself, ready for the monster to lunge.
“Why not just kill me?”
Bryanna nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of a deep male voice.
“If you’re so powerful, why bother with addling brains and shrinking cocks?”
“What?” Surely the wolf was not speaking to her! By all that was holy, she was going out of her mind. That was it. Finally she was certain that she was mad.
“I said, why not just kill me now and be done with it? ’Twould save us both a lot of trouble.”
By the gods, was he serious? “Who are you?” she demanded, her heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Where was the voice coming from . . . surely not the wolf. Nay, it came from a spot near the downed tree, a fair distance from the crouching canine. “Why do you not show yourself? Are you afraid? A coward? Or hideous to the eyes?”
He laughed then, a deep, disgusted sound that rippled through the canyon. “Aye,” he answered, this hidden man or beast. “You are a sorceress, as you’ve divined not only that I am so afraid as to be unable to move, but that I’m ugly as well. So horribly disfigured that you would cringe at the sight of me.”
“Oh, for the love of Rhiannon.” How dared the man or whatever he was bait her? Irritated and keeping one eye on the doglike brute still crouching formidably just beyond the fire’s glow, she said, “Have you any idea that you are standing only a few yards from a wolf?”
“She’s with me.”
“With you?”
“Aye.” He actually chuckled, as if he were amused at her vexation. Well, then, let him be eaten alive! “She will not harm you.”
“How do you know this? Is she . . . what? Your bloody pet?” What the devil was going on here? To whom did this voice with its deep timbre and easy amusement belong?
He laughed again, further rili
ng her. “Pet? Nay. A stray who follows me.”
“And wants to rip out your heart.”
“I think not. If she wanted to kill me, she already would have tried. She’s been with me for the better part of a week.”
“She may still be waiting. And who the devil are you?”
“She’s an animal,” he said, ignoring her question about himself. “She takes what she wants when she wants it.”
“And stalks her prey until it is either tired, weak, or lets down its guard.” Just as you are, she told herself. Be wary. Remember Isa’s warning. “Enough of this! Whoever you are, quit hiding,” she ordered. Before the words had passed over her lips, a man emerged from the shadows.
At the sight of him, she nearly took a step backward, but somehow she held her ground.
He was tall, his shoulders broad. His body had long, muscular lines, though he seemed gaunt and emaciated. Wearing leather breeches and a worn brown mantle that hung on his skin and bones, he stopped on the far side of the campfire. By the gods, he was horribly marred. His face was discolored, his nose obviously broken, purple and green smudges beneath deep-set eyes. One eyelid still drooped a bit and flesh was healing where his skin had been scraped raw from his cheek.
She was surprised he was still standing. This was the warrior, the dark force she was supposed to fear? There had to be some mistake, for though he probably had been a strong, vital, muscular man at one time, he now appeared to have been beaten to the brink of his life.
“What happened to you? Was it the wolf?” Nervously she glanced to the spot where the creature still lurked, though the man’s wounds did not look to be the result of a mauling by an animal. No bite wounds were visible.
White teeth flashed within the man’s dark beard. “Nay.”
“You said that she’s . . . with you?”
“She followed me.”
“And you’re not worried that she’ll attack?”
“She has not yet.”
The man was daft—that was it. The wolf would strike only when the man was so weak that he was unable to fend off the attack, which from the looks of him would be soon. “So what happened to you?”