by Lisa Jackson
What would it hurt to pay for a hot meal and a few hours’ rest in a bed? Bryanna didn’t think twice.
Since Isa had not seen fit to tell her what to expect in this town, she ignored the heavy wife’s raised eyebrows at a woman traveling alone. She paid for a hot meal, warm bath, and private room for herself and a grooming and fodder for her horse. Before she actually took over the room, she walked through the town and found a seamstress shop, where an elderly woman was patching the sleeves of a pale green mantle. There were a few clothes for sale—tunics, breeches, mantles, shawls, and hats that, for one reason or another, had been left in the shop. Bryanna found a periwinkle shift that was a little large for her and a belt to cinch the waist tight. She also purchased another chemise, and a bag in which to keep her extra clothes. A few other pieces of apparel caught her eye, though they were far too costly. Still, she couldn’t help but imagine how smooth and warm the purple fabric of a long velvet dress would feel against her skin, how the woolen mantle trimmed in black fur would warm her.
“I could make you a bargain on the dress,” the old woman said from her stool. “’Tis like no other in all of Tarth. I was commissioned to sew it for a noblewoman who was staying at the keep, but she was ill and took a turn for the worse. When she died, her husband refused to buy it.” She frowned, the wrinkles in her face deepening. “I tell you, this is the most beautiful dress you’ll find. Oh, you can visit the tailor at his shop on the next street, but, Wallyn, he drinks more than his share and you can see it in his work. His stitches are often long and uneven.” She climbed off her stool and pointed a gnarled finger at the lovely embroidered velvet. “I did this myself. See that silver thread?” She ran a broken nail along the perfect stitches. “Is it not exquisite?”
“Beautiful,” Bryanna agreed, and she wasn’t lying. In her mind’s eye she saw herself in the dress, walking down the long staircase at Calon, or dancing in the great hall.
The old seamstress slid a glance at Bryanna. “You know, this gown, it looks as if I made it just for you. It would be much lovelier on you than the fine lady whot commissioned it, with her hair the color of a rat’s fur and teeth too big for her mouth. Not that I mean to speak ill of the dead, mind you. But you, now, you would look like a true lady in so fine a gown.”
Bryanna fingered the fabric and thought of all the beautiful clothes she’d left behind, hung upon pegs in her room at Calon. She would love this dress, but ’twas impractical. She could not be burdened by anything but absolute necessities on her journey. Sadly, she shook her head. “Not today. Sorry. Just these things here.” She held up the practical tunic, belt, and chemise.
The old woman clucked her tongue. “Sorry? Aye, ’tis sorry you’ll be when some fine lady buys it out from under you.”
Bryanna remained firm and, after paying for her purchases, walked onto the street, where a drizzle had begun again. She hurried past children chasing each other, and carts and horsemen on the street. Dodging puddles, scurrying rats, and piles of dung, she made her way to the inn, where she was shown to her room.
’Twas heaven!
Two men brought up the tub, and a boy, the innkeeper’s eldest son, lugged up buckets of warm water, then lit the fire. A girl lined the wooden tub with towels and offered soap. Once she’d left, Bryanna stripped off her clothes and sank gratefully into the warm water. She removed the plait from her hair then slid below the surface. Her muscles relaxed, the strain of riding for days and sleeping on the cold ground melting as she lifted her hair, washed it, then scrubbed her body. Using a pitcher of warm water left by the girl, she rinsed herself as best she could.
Once she’d finished washing, she leaned back in the tub and closed her eyes. Of course, her thoughts returned to Gavyn. She’d not ridden a hundred feet away from the camp before she’d begun to miss him. “Stupid girl,” she whispered aloud, just as she had all night long. But his image had lingered in her mind and she’d thought more than once that she’d made a horrible mistake in leaving him.
All because of a dead woman’s words. She wondered where he was at this moment. Surely he’d awoken by now. Oh, she knew he’d be furious with her, and that thought brought a smile to her lips.
Sighing, she tried not to remember his quicksilver eyes or how they’d sparked with amusement or sometimes a smoky desire when she argued with him. Nor did she want to think too much about the way she’d felt when he’d kissed her. Nor would she even consider the jokes they’d shared or the way his dark hair fell over his forehead or any bloody thing about him.
Would she see him again?
“Aye,” she said aloud. Of course. She just didn’t know when. There was a chance that he would follow her here; then again, he might be angry enough to head in the opposite direction. If that were the case, then someday, after this wretched quest was finished, she would track him down.
The warmth of the water oozed through her muscles to her bones. By the gods, she was tired. . . .
Bryanna was riding, faster and faster, leaning over the white mare’s withers, hearing her labored breathing. “Run, Tempest, run,” she yelled, urging the flagging horse upward along the rocky spine of the snow-covered ridge. Wind whistled eerily as the horse pounded up the incline, breathing hard.
Bryanna glanced over her shoulder and through the thin, brittle saplings she saw men in dark robes, their faces hidden. From atop their strong and fleet steeds, they chased after her, determined to run her to the ground.
Dear God, what was this?
Where was she? What mountains were these where the trees were sparse, the air thin, and the threat of evil lurking behind every outcropping of stone?
Her heart was racing a million beats a minute. Fear spurted through her bloodstream and it was difficult to draw a breath. ’Twas as if her windpipe were closing.
She leaned down, her nose nearly in the mare’s coarse mane, her hands wrapped in the reins. “Hurry!” she cried, her throat so tight it ached. “Hurry. Faster!”
She heard shouts behind her.
Who were these determined men on their dark horses?
Why . . . oh, God, why were they racing behind her relentlessly? The clamor of the horses’ hooves thundered in her ears. Bryanna felt the snap of their excitement. She sensed the bloodlust in their souls.
“Gavyn,” she cried.
Where was he? Had he not been with her but a second earlier? Sleeping beside her by the campfire, reaching out to kiss her and . . .
Her horse stumbled, nearly pitching Bryanna to the ground, and her gaze dipped downward to the bottomless chasm with its sheer stone walls. Oh, sweet Mother Mary!
“No!” she cried, pulling on the reins so hard that the frozen leather snapped in her hands. The horse suddenly broke free, galloping faster and faster, ever upward into the whiteness of a blizzard that screamed around her.
From behind, she heard the sharp shouts of her hunters, and from the depths of the dark canyon below the howl of a wolf rose on the shrieking wind.
Bryanna scrabbled for the torn reins as she saw the pinnacle of the ridge and beyond it nothing but blowing snow and open air. “Tempest!” she cried to her horse. “No . . .”
But it was too late. The horse raced at a breakneck pace, upward. Faster and faster until the ledge was beneath them. Every muscle in the mare’s body bunched. Bryanna gasped as the horse sprang over the edge of the sheer cliffs, flying through the air and into empty space.
Holy God, help me!
Bryanna clung to the mare’s mane and hardly dared breathe. Cold . . . so cold . . . and the breeze seemed to whisper her name. “Bryanna . . .”
She looked up.
Through the swirling flakes she spied a rosary falling ever downward, the sharp beads glistening, green, red, gold, and white. She tried to grasp it but the slippery holy loop eluded her fingers and fell over her head just as her horse began to fall into the dark nothingness.
Where was Isa when she needed her?
Where was Gavyn?
The
rosary circled her throat and began to close around her like a garrote being pulled ever tighter by an unseen hand. She coughed. Gasped. Tried to scream, but her throat was closed, the sharp-beaded drawstring strangling her, cutting off her air as she fell. The world was turning black! She clawed at her throat, clenched her hand around the garrote and pulled with all her strength.
The rosary broke.
Jewellike beads rained around her. . . .
An opal for the northern point,
An emerald for the east,
A topaz for the southern tip,
A ruby for the west.
Downward through the blizzard she fell, the horse disappearing from beneath her as she plummeted into the deep crevice where there was no light. . . .
“Bryanna!” Isa’s voice came to her at last. “Bryanna, awaken. There is no time to tarry. You must find the first stone. Look for the woman, Gleda. Trust her. Do as she says.”
Her eyes flew open.
Bryanna found herself still in the tepid water, a crick in her neck from resting against the rim of the tub. Goose bumps rose on her flesh and her teeth chattered, but most of the chill was the result of the lingering nightmare.
It had seemed so real. And now she felt as if she’d seen that ridge before, ridden upon the horse she called Tempest. ’Twas insanity. She knew of no such mare, and she’d never climbed high into the mountains of such a barren, snow-covered land. She had no rosary made of the stones of the old riddle. She touched her throat where the rosary had choked her; she still found it difficult to breathe.
The water in the tub was cooling by the second. She rubbed her arms, stood, and tried to dispel the horrid images as she dried herself by the fire.
“Isa?” she said, shivering as she threw on her new clothes. “Isa, are you here? Who is Gleda? Why should I trust her?” As she picked up her new belt, there was a soft rap upon the door. Half expecting the old nursemaid to appear, she called, “Come in,” as she finished cinching the belt around her waist.
The innkeeper’s daughter arrived with a platter of hard bread, cheese, and a bowl of lentil and onion soup. Seeing that she’d interrupted Bryanna’s dressing, the girl blushed and appeared frightened as a doe suddenly facing an archer. “Excuse me, but you said to bring it up in an hour.”
“Yes, thank you.” Bryanna’s stomach rumbled in expectation at the scent of the food. “Just put it here on the hearth, where it will stay warm.”
The girl settled the platter near the warm coals. As she straightened she asked, “Would you like me to have Henry come up and retrieve the tub?”
“Not just yet,” Bryanna said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll let someone know when I’m done with it.”
When the girl left, Bryanna tossed her dirty clothes into the tub of cooling water and set to work rubbing soap into the fabric. In truth, she had little experience with such a chore, but she’d seen the washerwomen at their task at both Penbrooke and Calon, so she did the best she could, scrubbing her chemise and tunic. Once she’d rung them of most of the moisture, she draped the clothes over a bench near the fire, then sat on a corner of the bed to eat. Dunking pieces of hard bread and cheese into the warm stew, she ate every last drop.
She was still tired and her vivid dream hadn’t quite disappeared, but at least she had an immediate task: to find this Gleda woman. She couldn’t imagine what she’d say to her when she met her.
Hello, I’m Bryanna of Calon. Yes, the daughter of a baron, and I’ve traveled many, many miles to meet you upon the orders of a dead woman.
No, that wouldn’t work.
Well, hello there, Gleda. I’m Bryanna and Isa sent me to find you. I don’t know why, and oh, by the way, Isa’s dead.
Not much better.
“Fie and fiddlesticks,” she grumbled. Using her comb, she eased the tangles from her hair. She longed to let her hair dry as she sat by the fire, but, of course, it would take too long. Hadn’t Isa told her to move? She had to find this Gleda before Gavyn showed up.
Assuming that Gavyn actually made the journey to Tarth, she knew that once he arrived he would be mad as all the dogs in Hades.
Quickly she plaited her damp hair. Donning her mantle and boots, she hurried down the stairs and through the hallway to the doorway, then stopped and turned when she spied the innkeeper’s wife hovering near the door to the kitchen. Perhaps she would know of Gleda.
Bryanna retraced her steps and approached the hefty woman. Obviously she had been close to the fire, probably cooking. Her round face was red as a winter apple and sweat was rolling down fleshy cheeks, where bits of flour indicated she’d been baking. “Do you know a woman named Gleda?” Bryanna asked.
“Gleda?” The wife frowned as if she’d heard incorrectly, all the while dabbing at her chin with the hem of her apron. A striped cat, slinking in from the kitchen, wound itself through the woman’s thick ankles. “The beekeeper, ye mean? Ye’re asking about her?”
Bryanna had no idea, but nodded. “Yes, the beekeeper.”
“Gleda, she’s an odd one, she is.” The woman’s eyebrows became one line and her nostrils flared as if she were smelling rotten fish. “Why would you want to see her?”
Why, indeed? “ ’Tis personal, a message I need to deliver,” Bryanna said with a smile. “Where could I find her?”
Rebuffed that she wasn’t going to learn a little gossip, the woman lifted a disgruntled shoulder. “She lives on the east side of the village, not far from the river.” The wife waved a pudgy hand in disgust. “Her husband, he raises goats and pigs on the other side of the creek. Ye can’t miss the place. It reeks to high heaven.” She turned back to the kitchen, where the fire was burning brightly. Pyes were baking and a cauldron hung from a metal chain, its contents boiling rapidly and the scents of savory meats seeping into the hallway.
Bryanna wasted no time and hurried out the back door to the stables. Alabaster had been fed and groomed, and though tired, greeted Bryanna with a gentle head butt. “That’s a girl,” Bryanna whispered into the mare’s ear as she scratched her neck.
“ ’ Tis a fine horse ye ’ave ’ere, m’lady,” the lanky man said as he saddled the mare. “Docile, yet she has a bit of fire in her, yes?”
“A bit,” Bryanna admitted, and allowed the man to help her into the saddle.
“That’s good. Too much and ye’ve always got yer ’ands full, ye do, but not enough and ’tis as if they’re ’alf dead—no amount of whippin’ will do ye anna good.”
“Do you know Gleda?” she asked.
“Liam’s wife? Aye.” He nodded, scratching his head. “What would ye want with her?”
“They live near?”
“On the farm, east of town, just across Butler Creek.” He worried his lip a bit. “But, m’lady, you donna look as if ye be in need of honey or a midwife, so I don’t know why ye’d want to be anywhere near Gleda.”
“Is there something wrong with her?” Bryanna asked.
“Nay, oh, nay,” he said quickly, but she noticed as she took the reins that he turned away to make a quick sign of the cross over his chest.
“Thank you.” Whoever Gleda was, the townspeople avoided her.
Yet Bryanna had no time to be discerning. With a quest to fulfill, she would have to take her chances.
She pulled on the reins and guided Alabaster through the narrow streets littered with the carts of peddlers, merchants, and farmers. Peasant women and children picked through the pottery, baked goods, cheese, and sacks of grain.
She found her way to the main road that ran along the river and turned Alabaster east.
To whatever lay ahead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The witch’s daughter was near.
Hallyd closed his eyes and shut out the noises of the keep as he stood at his window. His eyeballs ached, but the clouds were dark enough that the pain was bearable, and he’d been drawn to the window of his daylight prison by her impending approach. His nostrils flared and he caught her scent, closer than before
. His hands clenched into fists upon the sill and he felt a rush of blood through his veins, his manhood swelling as he imagined her lying beneath him.
In his mind, he saw her lying upon his bed, her eyes turning from blue to black as anticipation and fear dilated her pupils. She knew he would take her and that their rutting would be violent and harsh. She would welcome him with a semblance of terror, all of her senses heightened as the wanting and the fear collided, making her tremble with female lust. He would kiss her, taste her, and run his tongue over her hard little nipples until she quivered with need, writhing and bucking beneath him, and then, oh, then he would thrust into her with all the fury of sixteen years of denial.
And she would give him the dagger, soon replete with magick stones, possessing the power to lift the curse, the power to elevate him to an indomitable ruler.
The woman and the dagger.
The time was near. So near.
He rubbed his fingers together expectantly and his mouth was dry with the wanting. He forced himself away from the window, snagging his black mantle on a hook near the door to his chamber. Damn, the darkness that confined him! He tugged it free, then hurried into a hallway dimly lit by sconces, smoke curling to the ceiling. He hastened down the stairway, his boots clanging loudly, spurring him onward to the chamber far below. Today he carried no cup of goat’s blood, no bit of gruel to appease her, but simply flew down the steps and half ran down the hallways until he reached her door, unlocked it, and strode into the dark cavern.
A few candles were lit, burning low, their tallow pooling and dripping down the sides of the altar. Steam rose from the small bowl upon the altar cloth. He glanced around the large bare chamber. Her cot was empty, the sheeting thrown back, and for a second he thought Vannora was gone.
Then he spied her.
Small and gaunt, aye, but upright. Vannora’s cloudy eyes seemed brighter than usual, a swatch of color in her bony face. She emerged from the darkness to stand behind the altar, her bare feet within the circle drawn upon the floor, her long black tunic pooled at her ankles. Gold and silver embroidery decorated the bodice and sleeves of this gown, one he’d never seen before, but then it didn’t surprise him. Nothing about Vannora did. Though she’d never admitted it, he knew she did not stay in this dark chamber night and day.