Sorceress

by Lisa Jackson

  Gavyn pushed himself upright and walked to the spot where she was seated.

  “We must be getting close,” she said. “We’ve traveled so far.”

  “Aye, that we have.” He squatted beside her and traced their progress on the map, his finger following the path they’d taken. Just as he had every night since they’d first discovered this scrap of doe hide and Bryanna had attached it to the other pieces. The symbols never changed. In fact, he had committed the weird scratchings and hieroglyphics to memory. The flat hills, the rushing river, the steep cliffs and small villages. And at the lowest, most southern tip of the map, the markings that could only mean the sea.

  “Look, here,” he said, and indicated another cross scratched upon the map, a drawing nearly identical to the one that had led them to the monolith in the east. “We should be passing this landmark soon.”

  “Aye,” she agreed, nodding her head.

  “Would it not be the place she would hide the stone?” He hated to ask the question, because it wasn’t the first time he’d posed it.

  Bryanna’s face was drawn into a knot. She chewed on her lower lip in deep concentration, but shook her head, her deep red curls catching the firelight. “I think not. I know you think it would make sense and, I have to agree, aye, this cross is similar, but I think it may be just a landmark. I don’t have the same feeling I had about the first one.”

  “You have a different feeling,” he said. They’d been over this before. Instincts and feelings, or a witch’s intuition?

  “Aye. It seems too obvious for Kambria to mark precisely where she buried the stones. And why would she choose the same kind of statue?”

  “So that we could find them,” he said.

  “Not just us, but anyone else who stumbled upon the emerald and this piece of the map. It makes no sense. No sane person would do it.”

  “This is a supposed witch you’re talking about. Her actions have little to do with sanity.” She sent him a glare that he thought might just turn him into a stone sculpture, yet he reminded her, “The opal was not buried at a monolith.”

  “Nor will this one be,” she said in frustration and drew her finger along one edge of the map. “This line, it’s a river, is it not?”

  “It seems.”

  “And if this edge is to be believed, it flows to the sea at this point.” She indicated a square upon the map.

  “Yes.” The square, usually drawn to indicate a keep, was one of several scattered upon the leather. The map was full of squares and rectangles interspersed with etchings of circles and crosses and mounds and runes, none of which, it seemed, meant a wink to Bryanna.

  “What is the name of this river?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but we can ask someone in the next village,” he said, rotating his neck so that it cracked. “You think the river is important?”

  She shook her head. “I know not.” But she stared at those crooked markings as if they were significant.

  “Isa . . . she hasn’t come to you again?”

  “Nay,” she admitted, scowling. “I’ve not heard her voice in a long while.” With a disgusted sigh, she rolled up the map and tucked it into her pouch. “What good is this stupid ‘gift’ if I don’t know how to use it?”

  “I know not.” Standing and stretching, Gavyn took her by the hand and glanced into the black depths of the forest where the light didn’t quite touch.

  Was there something out there? Something watching?

  He saw nothing, but he felt hidden eyes upon them, and he sensed it wasn’t Bane the wolf. He’d sleep very little tonight, he thought. And he would be certain to have Bryanna snuggled close and his dagger in his hand. “Come. We’ll sleep on it.”

  He was not far behind.

  Riding through the night, the mercenary Carrick knew he could catch them. But he knew not where they were going. Only one thing was clear: they were forever riding south.

  He knew not why they traveled so far, but he’d caught their trail at Holywell and had spoken with an innkeeper’s wife who was as loose with her tongue as had been the tavern wench in Tarth.

  He was not alone in his pursuit of Bryanna and the man she traveled with. He’d heard the gossip, seen the small bands of soldiers, and overheard their mission. The soldiers, it seemed, were more interested in Gavyn, the bastard son of the Lord of Agendor. Word was that he had not only murdered a man—a sheriff, no less—but he’d also had the balls to steal his father’s prized steed. According to the soldiers, Baron Deverill was more infuriated by the thievery than the loss of his sheriff’s life.

  But there were other forces involved, another group of soldiers who sometimes joined the first. Having listened from a darkened corner of a tavern, he’d discovered they were from Chwarel, and they cared little about the murderer. Their orders were to follow Bryanna, whom they referred to as a witch and a sorceress.

  One night Carrick made it known to the soldiers from Chwarel that he was tracking Bryanna of Penbrooke and her traveling companion.

  “What’s your business with them?” one of the soldiers had asked, his yellowed teeth glinting dark in the dim light of the tavern. Afal, the others called him.

  “Strictly for the ransom,” the mercenary had said. “I’m in it for the prize offered by Lord Deverill for the safe return of his bastard son.”

  Afal had tossed back his ale, then nudged the soldier next to him. “This mercenary’s tracking the same quarry,” Afal had said.

  “Then my advice to you is not to harm the girl,” the other soldier had warned. “Lord Hallyd issued strict orders. No one is to impede her—at least, that’s what he’s saying this week.”

  “I have no quarrel with the girl,” Carrick had said. “I’m just a hunter in search of a prize.”

  Over a few mazers of ale Hallyd’s soldiers had warmed to him, sharing tales of their exhausting journey of the last few months. When Afal asked, the mercenary said his name was Edwynn.

  “So, Edwynn the mercenary, here’s how it shall be,” Afal said, a bit of spittle on his chin. “We’ll let you close enough to capture Deverill’s bastard son, assuming you be kind enough to leave our charge alone. Elsewise Lord Hallyd will have our heads, he will.”

  “’Tis a plan that can work to mutual advantage,” Carrick agreed, oddly comfortable at living a new lie.

  “Besides,” Afal droned on, “you’re best off leaving the daughter of Kambria alone. A sorceress and a witch, just like her mother.” He lowered his voice. “Killed at Hallyd’s own hands, Kambria was. You’d best stay away from this witch, Bryanna, if you knows what’s good fer ye.”

  Carrick knew Bryanna from his youth, if only slightly, and thought her beautiful, impertinent, curious, and a bit of a ninny. There was talk that as a child she’d had pretend friends. Foolishness.

  But now . . . all this speculation that she was a witch with magickal powers. He didn’t believe it.

  But, he thought, as a bat swooped over his head and a million stars twinkled in the black sky, he did believe that fate could offer as many twists and turns as a winding road.

  The mercenary had more on his mind than Bryanna.

  Carrick of Wybren was wondering if this assignment from Morwenna might prove to be his chance to turn the tables. What might his future hold if he returned to Wybren a hero?

  He smiled in the night and urged his horse to a quicker pace. He couldn’t risk letting them get too far ahead of him.

  Isa’s voice invaded Bryanna’s mind just as dawn streaked the sky in pale shades of pink and lavender. This time, not only did she speak, but as she did Bryanna was given a vision. . . .

  Pictures of a river estuary guarded by a keep with two rounded towers facing outward. Situated on the mouth of a great river, this castle had an upper bastion as well as a lower bailey.

  “From your ancestor who is great, you will find the stone past twin towers. Deep inside, hidden in a square. Pray to the Mother Goddess. Use the dagger.”

  “Holy Morrigu,”
she whispered, pushing on Gavyn’s shoulder.

  His snoring interrupted, he sputtered and snorted. His eyes flew open, his hand quickly finding his weapon. “What?” he said, instantly awake. “Is something wrong?”

  “Just the opposite,” she said, excitement coursing through her. “I know where we’re going.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes!”

  “Where?”

  “I do not know the name of it, but I will recognize it when I see it. I had a vision,” she said, describing what she’d seen and telling him what Isa’s voice had said. “The ancestor who is great must be Llewellyn, you see, and the stone is the topaz.”

  Gavyn seemed skeptical as he climbed to his feet and stretched, one arm lengthening over his head, showing off his buttocks as his tunic was pulled high. He cast a glance over his shoulder, caught her looking, and grinned wickedly.

  Swiftly, she looked away and gathered her things. They made love nearly every night, and sometimes in the morning as well. This was what Bryanna had won from their bet— mayhap what they both won.

  “No,” she said a bit reluctantly before he could suggest that they spend a few more minutes kissing and touching and exploring each other’s bodies. She felt her skin grow hot and tamped down any desire that dared heat her blood. Oh . . . she pushed those thoughts aside and hurried to cinch the saddle over Alabaster’s back.

  They were quick about it, their routines of making and breaking camp now second nature. Bryanna took the time to relieve herself and wash her face while the horses were given a measure of grain and Gavyn, too, made himself ready. They usually shared a piece of salted meat or fish, and then began their journey with the coming of the dawn.

  The days were warmer now, fog lifting early, rain frequent, but snow and sleet long past. Once in a while they got caught in a downpour or thunderstorm, but they rarely suffered severe, toe-numbing cold or ice-crusted puddles and roads.

  Bryanna had been able to mask her pregnancy because, though her waist thickened a bit, her abdomen had remained flat. That had begun to change this week, and she noticed the beginning of her rounding belly, which now would quickly become apparent. By her own calculations she was into her fourth month and the babe wouldn’t arrive until sometime between Samhain, at the end of October, and Yule, before the Christmas Revels.

  She didn’t like to think that her child might be born at Samhain, or summer’s end, the time of year when spirits and fierce, dark beasts could walk the earth. According to the lore of the old ones, Samhain was the time of year when the thin veil between the two worlds was lifted, blurring the line between the spirit world and the tangible world. When she was a child, Bryanna had gone off with Isa at Samhain to bury apples along the roadside. “For spirits who are lost, or those who have no descendants to provide for them,” Isa had explained. Thinking that apples weren’t quite enough, Bryanna had once slipped some quail eggs into the ground before covering the hole with dirt. If Isa was right, her spirit would be passing through this Samhain, journeying off to the Summerland. Gleda’s, too . . .

  She shuddered at the notion and turned her thoughts elsewhere. She must focus on the castle in her vision, the keep at the river delta, where, she silently prayed, they would find the topaz.

  “Hurry,” she said to Alabaster, letting the reins slip through her hands as she urged her horse into an easy canter.

  The roads were smoother now, but oftentimes the mud gave way to packed earth and dust. They guided the horses along the river, stopping at the first village for feed for the animals.

  While Gavyn spoke with a man in the stables about trading his fur pelts for grain, Bryanna caught the eye of a woodcutter walking through the village, carrying a large bundle of sticks upon his back, an ax over one shoulder. Once he’d greeted her, she couldn’t help but ask him a question, which he seemed all too happy to answer.

  “’Tis the River Towy,” he said, indicating the deep, wide waterway. He set down the ax, pulled off his cap, and wiped at his hair, brown tufts that stood straight up. “It flows to the bay at Llansteffan Keep.”

  River Towy? Had she not heard of it somewhere recently? It seemed familiar, but try as she might, she couldn’t recall where. She asked, “And there’s a castle at the mouth of the river?”

  “Aye, I’ve lived here all me life and it’s a beautiful place, it is. From the battlements you can see across the bay to the arm of land that juts into the water.”

  Bryanna pressed her lips together to suppress the thrill of recognition that flashed through her. This had to be the castle in her vision. It had to be the place where the topaz was hidden. “And the keep,” she asked the man as Gavyn joined them, a sack of grain on his shoulder. “Llansteffan, you say. Does it have a gatehouse with two towers that are rounded on one side and flat, or square, on the other?”

  “So you’ve been there?” he asked with a grin.

  “Nay,” she said, meeting Gavyn’s silver eyes, “but someone told me of it.”

  “They were right. ’Tis just as they said.” He shifted his load and admired the pelts strung across Harry’s back.

  Excitement bubbled up inside her. The vision was true. Maybe all the chants she’d said and runes she’d drawn and herbs she’d flung to the wind hadn’t been for naught.

  “Some very nice skins you have there,” the woodcutter said, nodding at Gavyn. “As I was telling yer wife, you can’t ride through here and not get a gander at Llansteffan, grandest keep in all the land, I say. As strong as she is, she’s forever been fought over.”

  “By Llewellyn the Great?” Bryanna asked, her fingers knotting in the reins. Astride Alabaster, she tried not to appear nervous and anxious, but she could barely contain her anticipation. They’d ridden so long, and now they were so close!

  “Llewellyn, aye, he was one. Claimed her back for the Welsh, he did. But there were others, of course. Now, if you keep to this road, you’ll find the castle. ’Tis but half a day’s journey, straight on. Don’t veer from the river.”

  “Thank you,” she said, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. They were almost there!

  “ ’Twas my pleasure.” With a wave the woodcutter was off, walking in the opposite direction.

  Bryanna couldn’t help but smile. “Half a day,” she said. “Let’s hope there’s an inn with wine, a bath, cinnamon tarts, and roasted eel.”

  “And a bed?” he asked, riding next to her.

  “A canopied bed with a feather mattress and velvet curtains and crisp linen sheets.”

  “ ’ Tis a lot to ask for.”

  “Is it?” She shook her head, then urged her horse into a full-blown gallop. “’Tis time to collect an amendment on that wager, husband,” she called over her shoulder, her voice floating on the wind. “Me and the babe, we deserve it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  By the time he caught up with her, the weight of her words had sunk into his brain. “You’re pregnant?”

  “Aye. Very.” They were riding more slowly, the horses walking side by side along the river flowing deep and dark beside them. Seagulls cried loudly, whirling and floating overhead. Signs that they were approaching the sea.

  “How?” He was thunderstruck. Not that he hadn’t known it could and probably would happen, but he’d thought she would have told him. Now that he thought about it, all the signs were there. She’d become tired early in their journey. Queasy, too, and she ate like . . . like she was eating for two. How had he not seen it?

  “How?” she repeated, both of her eyebrows shooting skyward.

  “No, I mean, when?”

  “From the first night, I think. I’ve never had my cycle since.”

  Another signal he’d missed. “But you said nothing and we’ve been riding for months and . . .”

  “And what?” she asked, tilting her head defiantly. “You’re not going to treat me differently now, are you? You’re not going to start thinking I’ll have to be treated as if I’m made of pottery and might break.”

&
nbsp; “No . . . I . . .” He was still trying to get his bearings. A father? He was going to be a father? “But, why did you wait? I mean, you should have told me.” It was not often that he became rattled, that his concentration slipped, but this. . . .

  “I just did.” Her eyes gleamed. “And you should be happy.”

  “I am,” he said, new emotions roiling inside him. A child? There was a child on the way? “When?”

  “I’m not certain, but I would think near Samhain, maybe before.” She bit her lip as she turned to him.

  At that moment he thought she was the most beautiful woman in all of Wales.

  The thought was wondrous to him: he was going to be a father. Have his own son or daughter. He thought of his own childhood, his relationship with his mother and the fact that he was nothing more than a burr in his father’s side. “Then we must marry.”

  “What?”

  “Aye, at the next town. No child of mine will be raised a bastard.”

  Some of the joy left her eyes and her smile faded. “Is that how it is? We must marry? Because a child is on the way?”

  “Aye,” he said vehemently. “Don’t you agree?”

  Her chin jutted out a fraction as she gathered up her reins. “’Twould be nice, I think, if we were to marry because we loved each other. I know sometimes love is dismissed as foolish and not practical, but ’tis what I think should be between a man and wife.” She sighed. Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she quickly looked away, as if she realized he was still staring at her.

  “I do love you. You know that.” He felt foolish saying it atop a horse while she was ten feet from him on her own smaller mare. He should be gathering her in his arms, twirling her off her feet, laughing with sheer joy at the thought of their child.