by Lisa Jackson
“A priest?”
“No longer. His brother, who was baron, befell a horrible accident. Within hours of the death, Hallyd quickly gave up his holy cassocks for the barony. Truth to tell, he was anything but holy or God-fearing. But as a young man, he was power hungry. He had heard of Kambria and was obsessed with her, the dagger, and her magick. Upon learning that she was with child he became enraged. Proclaimed her both a whore and a witch. It was ugly, I tell you. Hallyd railed against her and threatened her with her life if she did not tell him the whereabouts of the dagger.
“She refused, but Hallyd was relentless in his persecution of her and he was determined to bring about her ruin. ’Twas thought that he had wanted her, and it infuriated him to learn she’d given herself to another and carried his child. In the end, Hallyd would be satisfied with nothing but death for her and the babe.”
Bryanna protested no more.
“Foreseeing his vengeance, Kambria stole away one dark winter’s night. She headed south and east. To Penbrooke.”
Bryanna’s stomach cramped. “No,” she murmured. “Oh, no . . .”
Gleda was nodding, her fingers working the wool. “’Tis true. Within days, Lady Lenore’s time had come, but the birth was not easy and lasted far too long. When the babe finally arrived,the cord wrapped around her tiny neck, she was blue and could not breathe. Lenore, too, struggled, bleeding and nearly dying herself. Had the babe survived, most likely she would have been severely addled, a half-wit, but it was not to be.”
“The child died?” Bryanna whispered.
“So it is said.”
Bryanna shivered. She had never heard this story, never known that she’d had another sister. . . .
“When Kambria appeared at Penbrooke, Alwynn, fearing his wife would not survive knowing she had lost a babe, made a bargain with his lover.” Her old eyes found Bryanna’s and she no longer rubbed the thread of goat’s wool. “He agreed to place Kambria’s daughter to Lenore’s breast.”
“You’re saying that was me,” Bryanna said, disbelieving. Oh, this was wrong, so very wrong!
“Lady Lenore, so near the brink of death herself, did not notice the difference. ’Tis said that when the babe took her teat in her mouth and suckled, Lenore began to grow stronger.”
“Oh, that is such rot!”
Bryanna shook her head so violently that the cup within her hands sloshed, splashing hot broth onto the table and her hands. As if she’d expected the reaction, Gleda dropped her piece of twisted thread and quickly mopped the hot liquid with a rag from a pocket of her apron.
“’Tis the truth I speak, child,” Gleda said.
“Then how do you know of it?”
“The only person who witnessed what happened, other than Lord Alwynn, was the woman who cared for Lady Lenore’s children.”
“Isa,” Bryanna whispered, stunned.
“Aye, not even her servant Hildy guessed the truth,” Gleda said, mentioning Lenore’s most loyal servant.
Bryanna was shaken by the truth in the old woman’s tale. The notion that she was not Lenore’s flesh and blood explained so many things. Had not she been different from her siblings? Had not Gavyn pointed out her father treated her differently than he did her sisters and brothers? Bryanna took a sip from the broth while her mind raced in a dozen different directions. Morwenna and Daylynn were but her half sisters? Tadd and Kelan not her full-blood brothers? Oh, sweet mother of the earth, was that why she was so different, why she was chosen for spells and visions and curses and charms. . . ?
“Aye, ’twas Isa,” Gleda answered, sniffing and swiping at her cheeks with the back of her sleeve. “She was sworn to secrecy.”
“What then happened to Kambria?” Bryanna asked, feeling a chill that ran the length of her body. Though a part of her wanted to hear the rest of Gleda’s tale, another part warned her that she wouldn’t like what she was about to learn.
Again the older woman sighed. “’Twas a tragedy. She returned here to Tarth, and Hallyd, he was waiting. Demanded the dagger, he did, and when she wouldn’t give it to him, he and the men closest to him chased her high into the mountains. ’Twas winter, everything covered with snow and ice. She could not escape. Killed for her witchcraft, she was. And when her body was found, strange markings were found upon her throat, much the same as the bruises upon yours.
“What? On mine?” Bryanna touched her throat.
“Aye.” Gleda brought her a mirror of polished metal and held a candle to Bryanna’s face. She saw her image, her tousled red hair, eyes that appeared more green than blue, the pupils huge. Circling her throat was a ring of tiny bruises.
“The rosary,” she whispered and thought of her dream. Fear curdled the contents of her stomach. What was this? How could something she only conjured in her mind bring a physical impression upon her? She pressed a finger to the small bruises and winced in pain.
“They are real,” Gleda told her solemnly. “They are identical to the marks upon Kambria’s neck when her body was discovered. Bruises and cuts, as if she’d been strangled by something . . . aye, a rosary would do it. Some say she was strangled, but rumor has it Hallyd and his men stoned her.”
“Dear God,” Bryanna whispered, thinking of her dream. Could any of this be true? Fear, like smoke oozing under a doorway, crawled up her back.
“You know ’tis true. Dreams that are grounded in truth leave a mark. Your dream came to you to reveal your mother. I suspect you felt her tragic destiny quite deeply.”
“It seemed so real.”
“’Twas only a dream,” Gleda said, but she seemed saddened, as if she knew something she didn’t dare confide. “You, Bryanna, are the only sorceress who can protect the Chosen One. Only you can piece the dagger together. It’s important, you see, for you will need the Sacred Dagger to save the life of the child. You must keep it with you always.”
“This child . . .” Bryanna shook her head. “I know not of a babe.”
Her eyes grew wide as Gleda slowly repeated the old prophecy. “Sired by Darkness. Born of Light. Protected by the Sacred Dagger. A ruler of all men, all beasts, all beings. It is he who is born on the Eve of Samhain. ’Tis your destiny, Bryanna, to save the child.”
“From what?”
“All that is evil.”
“Who is he?”
“Your own child, Bryanna. For you are the Light the prophecy mentions.”
“What? No!” She couldn’t think about this nonsense.
“’Tis the truth I speak.”
Bryanna’s mind ran in circles. Certainly this couldn’t be true. “Then what . . . then who is the Darkness?” she demanded, her heart racing. “If I’m the Light, then who is the bloody Darkness?”
When Gleda didn’t answer, Bryanna said, “I do not have a child. This . . . this is all the musings and gossip of . . . of old women. A bunch of lies, that’s what it is. Lies!” She gathered in a deep breath as the older woman stared at her.
“’Tis the truth I speak.”
“Then prove it. Where is she? Kambria. Where is she buried?”
Gleda snorted. “Your mother is in a pauper’s grave outside the village walls, far from the sanctity of the church’s cemetery. ’Tis nearly a day’s journey from here.”
“So all who were a part of this are dead, yet you know of this, how?” She studied Gleda, who was suddenly overcome with a deep sadness. “From Isa?” she guessed.
The elderly woman went over to the fire and picked up the metal prod. Jabbing at the burning logs, she adjusted the wood so that the flames crackled and burned bright. “Aye. Isa was my sister,” she said.
Was that true? Isa had never spoken of her family.
“Waylynn, Kambria’s father, was our brother. He was your grandfather. An apothecary.”
“Is he yet alive?” Bryanna asked, though she guessed the truth.
“Oh, nay. He died years ago. Far away, crossing the River Towy.” Her mouth puckered as a veil of sadness came over her. “So you see, child, you are of my blood
. Of Isa’s blood. Kambria was our niece, mine and Isa’s. And we’re all descendants of Llewellyn.”
“The great one?” Bryanna said. “Is—is that why people in the village fear you?”
Gleda nodded and sighed, as if she found the whole ordeal tiring. “ ’ Tis natural, I suppose. And then there are rumors that it’s not just Llewellyn, but Rhiannon as well, that she had a child sired by him.”
“The great witch? You’re saying that you and I . . . and Isa and this Waylynn are all descendants of an affair between . . .”
“Mortal and immortal, aye.”
“That’s impossible.” Bryanna wasn’t going to swallow this fish of a lie. ’Twas insanity.
“So you’re one of them? A disbeliever, eh? Don’t you know that all people fear that which they do not understand?”
“Then I would be afraid all the time because I understand nothing! Nothing!” Dead women talking to her, sacred daggers, now this . . . this heresy that she was . . . not even completely human. ’Twas an old woman’s folly. But an old woman who believed every word she breathed. Bryanna saw it in her eyes. “All right,” she said, catching her breath and trying to think clearly. “Do you have the stone?”
A whitish eyebrow rose.
“The first stone,” Bryanna said. “If all of this . . . belly rot is true, then you can prove it, right? By coming up with the first stone. So do you have it?”
“You mean a jewel for the dagger?”
“I . . . I don’t . . .” In truth, Bryanna wasn’t certain, but Isa had definitely mentioned a first stone. “Yes, the jewel,” she said emphatically, for then the little woman might tell her more, at least a portion of the truth. “Where is it?”
“Nay, ’tis something you must find.”
“I must find it? But I’m here. If you have the bloody gem, then—”
“I don’t.”
Bryanna was flabbergasted. This was crazy. “Then why did I come all this way?” she asked, trying to make sense of this. “So . . . so . . . how am I supposed to find it?”
“You’ll find a way. I’ll help.”
“You will?” She stared at the tiny bit of a woman. How could she possibly help? “So, now, let me understand this,” she said, trying to think while a hen clucked softly overhead. “You . . . you are a witch as well? You draw runes and cast spells and pray to the Great Mother?”
“A witch? Nay. Not really. What I feel is not nearly as strong as what Isa sensed.” She shook her head. “ ’ Tis true that I have seen visions at times. I foretold my own son’s death, I did. But I’ve learned to keep them to myself. When I saw that one of the potter’s daughters would drown in the river, or that the innkeeper’s wife would bear no sons, people got angry and afraid.” Her thin lips drew downward. “You see, they don’t understand.” She glanced around the interior of her home again. “Now, come. We have but a few hours of daylight left and much to do.”
“Just a minute.” Bryanna was still struggling to make sense of it all. “If you and Isa and I . . . and Waylynn are all of the same blood, why was not Isa, or you or any of the progeny of Waylynn, the child of Light? Why me?”
“ ’Tis written.”
“Where?” Bryanna demanded. “Written where?”
“Here.” Gleda tapped the piece of doeskin with her finger, then picked it up. “This”—she wagged the leather under Bryanna’s nose—“is only a piece of it. ’Tis your quest to find the rest.” Turning her back on Bryanna, she carefully wrapped the dagger in the deer hide, then tied it together securely with the twine she’d twisted from the goat hair.
“My quest?” Bryanna repeated, tired to the back teeth of riddles and circles and half-truths and especially quests or journeys or missions of any kind. “I thought my ‘quest’ had to do with a child. And the bloody jewels and dagger.”
Gleda smiled and handed the wrapped knife to Bryanna. “Keep this with you, always. Do not let anyone see it.”
Bryanna nodded and didn’t mention that already Gavyn had seen the map, that it was he who had pointed her in the direction of Tarth. Nay, from the serious expression in the birdlike woman’s face, Bryanna had best keep that information to herself.
“We’d best be off,” Gleda said, watching as Bryanna tucked the dagger and doeskin into a pouch on her belt.
As the woman rose from the bench, Bryanna experienced a chill. Was it possible Gleda could read her thoughts? She claimed she had some powers, that she had foretold events before they’d happened, but . . . nay, certainly not. The old woman crossed the packed floor and snagged a worn brown cloak from a hook near the door. “Your journey does involve a child, Bryanna.” There was a glimmer of sadness in her eyes as she tossed the mantle around her thin shoulders. “Now let’s find out what that is.”
“And how are ‘we’ going to do that?” she asked.
“By entering Tarth Castle.”
Bryanna remembered the castle upon the hill. “Why?”
“You need the protection of the castle gates, the guards and the castle walls.”
“From whom? Hallyd?” she asked, and without thinking about what she was doing, she touched the bruises at her throat. “The man who killed the woman you presume was my mother?”
“Aye.” She adjusted her cowl, drawing the string tight around her face. “You need protection from Hallyd. But there are others as well.”
“Others? Oh, no. Isn’t he enough?” Oh, this was crazy! Trust Gleda, Isa had told her. Do as she says.
“Many know of the dagger and its power. There have been legends and tales and lies spun for years, exaggerations.”
“So its power is limited?”
“Aye,” Gleda said, reaching for the handle of the door. “It depends upon the person who holds it in her hand. The Sacred Dagger derives much of its strength from she who holds it. Nonetheless, many would kill for it.”
“How comforting.” Bryanna didn’t bother hiding her sarcasm as Gleda opened the door and a rush of fresh air caused the fire to brighten.
“Oh, child,” Gleda said with a knowing smile as she stepped outside, “nobody said setting upon a quest would be easy now, did they?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sleet pounded upon the roof of the inn as the mercenary sipped his ale in a dark corner of the establishment. Carrick of Wybren had finally heard something that might lead him to the woman he sought—Bryanna, with her dark red hair, quick smile, and dancing eyes. She was as beautiful as her sister, Morwenna, the ebony-haired beauty he’d plundered so many years ago.
He felt a twinge of conscience at the thought of Morwenna. What odd twist of fate had led her into the arms of his own brother, to become his brother’s wife? He’d been a fool not to take her as his own, but then, how could he be expected to keep it in his breeches with so many fair wenches to chase? ’Twas best to ignore his conscience, just as he had for so many years. Ignore the regrets and enjoy the weight of the coins in his pocket, savor the game of tracking, the thrill of hunting.
Carrick took another swig and leaned over his mazer, the wound in his upper arm aching slightly. It had begun to heal over the past weeks, though it still felt raw at night. Ironic that the wound had been inflicted by the red-haired woman he was now pursuing. Not that he blamed Bryanna. At the time tension had been high in the keep at Calon, a killer on the loose. Still, it seemed odd that he was trying to save the same woman who’d damned him to this pain.
“Another cup would ye like?” the comely serving girl asked as she breezed past. With a tiny nose, pouty lips, and pillowy breasts, she was pretty and she knew it, using her flirtatious nature to her advantage. “Or more pye can I get fer ye?”
“No, thanks.” He’d already pushed the remains of his food aside. Though the crust had been flaky and sweet, the mixture of fish, onions, and lentils had been dry and tasteless. No amount of chives nor parsley could disguise the fact that the fish had been on its way to becoming inedible before it was cooked.
He drained his mazer, paid for the me
al, and armed with his newfound knowledge, slipped into the night, where the sleet still slanted from the nearly dark sky and the mud on the streets was thick enough to stop several carts. Oxen struggled, trying to slog onward, and drivers cursed, their whips useless in the bog, their clothes drenched and covered in mud as they tried to inch their cart wheels forward.
Turning his collar over his neck, Carrick glanced up at the sky and silently cursed the weather as he climbed astride his steed. He had considered staying in the town. He could afford to pay for a room and a woman for one night, but he’d ignored the temptation. It was best to keep moving, continue tracking.
Though he’d not yet located Bryanna, the gossiping girl at the tavern had sworn she’d served a woman who looked like the one he described. “Aye, red hair and fair complected she was,” the serving girl had said. “Dressed like a noblewoman, but her gown was dirty and . . . Oh, by the Fates, I remember now. How could I forget? She wasn’t alone.”
His head had snapped up at this information.
“Nay. She was with a man, and a good-looking one he was. Dark hair and eyes, but from the looks of him he’d been in a spot of trouble. He’d had a horrible beating, still bearing the bruises he was. Even so, you could tell he was handsome enough and a hunter, I think. I heard he traded his furs for goods—including the chemise of the mason’s wife!” Eyes gleaming, she’d leaned over the table, giving him a closer view of the tops of her breasts as she added, “The hunter, he insisted upon having the chemise. I tell ye, the poor woman barely had time to get into her house so she could undress with a little privacy. He practically ripped it off her body.”
Was this so? Or simply the imaginings of this chattering ninny?
“What did he want with the chemise?”
“’Twas for the noblewoman he was riding with, of course,” she’d said with a wink. “No doubt he ripped the other off as he bedded her. He looked the kind, I’m tellin’ ye.”
“So you know that kind, do you?”
She’d licked her full lips so that they glistened. “That I do.”
He’d ignored the obvious invitation, an offer of a warm bed and sex long into the night. But now, riding into the coming night with sleet running in icy rivulets down the back of his neck, he knew he was a fool.