Sorceress

by Lisa Jackson

  “Do I? Know that you love me?” she asked, bristling again. Eyes the color of the sea stared over at him harshly. “Then, tell me, Gavyn, why does it take a baby for you to ask me to marry you?”

  “What? Because . . . I . . .” He couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “We’ve been busy with this quest and—”

  “And yet we pretend to be married, don’t we?” she charged. “At every town we visit. The happily married couple, Cain and Brynn, going from inn to inn, village to village.”

  “ ’Tis a disguise.”

  She looked at him again, and her face was suddenly cold as a deep well in winter. “Precisely.” Jaw set, she dug her knees into Alabaster’s flanks, and the little mare took off as if shot from a crossbow.

  “Christ Jesus,” he swore, and clucking his tongue at the damned packhorse, urged Rhi forward. He wasn’t even married yet and he was already understanding why some men complained about not understanding their wives!

  Hallyd strode across the bailey, startling a goose that had been searching for slugs. Flapping and honking angrily, the creature scurried away.

  “Shoo,” he said to the irritating bird and thought he might request the stupid thing be served for the evening meal.

  He’d spent hours walking the bailey, observing for the first time in sixteen years what the keep looked like in daylight. His eyes still burned a bit by day, but fortunately there were enough clouds blocking the sun that he was able to see where the roof had rotted over the stables, where the stones had begun to chip from the mortar of the north tower, and where the posts supporting the pentice were beginning to rot, either from the weather or pests. He didn’t mind seeing the flaws. At last, he could actually see for himself the sorry state of the keep. The steward, it seemed, hadn’t been completely honest with him. Repairs were in order.

  Squinting as the clouds parted, he felt a jab of pain. He knew better than to think that his eyes were mended, for he still had to turn away from a bright reflection. When bright rays ricocheted off a polished sword, he was nearly blinded. And if the day was cloudless, he still had to hide like a weak-eyed bat inside the great hall. Nonetheless, his eyes were better.Less sensitive. They seemed to be healing, though unfortunately their owlish appearance hadn’t changed. Yet.

  He spent a few hours discussing repairs with the master carpenter and mason before the pain became too severe and he returned to the keep. As soon as the guard shut the door behind him and he was in semidarkness again, the headache began to dissipate.

  He hurried down the stairs to Vannora’s lair, a path he’d traveled nearly every week. For the past few months, ever since his discussion with Deverill of Agendor, he had obeyed Vannora’s counsel. As agreed, he’d sent his armies to join Deverill’s men and he, himself, had stayed within the stony wall walks of Chwarel. As ordered, his soldiers had searched the countryside, sending one man back each week with news of their progress.

  There had been sightings of Bryanna and the murderer as far to the east as Holywell, where, he assumed, they had found a gemstone for the dagger. He suspected as much since his eyesight had markedly improved three weeks before the sentry had returned from Holywell. Hence he was attempting patience, but in truth, sixteen years seemed more than enough time to wait.

  He hurried down the stairwell and unlocked the door to Vannora’s room. ’Twas dark in the chamber, no candles or torches lit. For a moment, he thought she was hiding from him, playing a game. He wasn’t in the mood.

  “Vannora!” he called, squinting into the darkest corners of the room. “Vannora!”

  He stopped and listened, hoping for some sound other than the drip of water. But there was nothing, and the air within this tomblike cavern smelled foul and dank. “Vannora? Where the hell are you? My eyesight is better and I think I should aid in the search.”

  He glanced to the empty cot and the circle by the altar, now stone-cold, the cauldron empty, the candles unlit.

  She was gone?

  Where?

  Why?

  He felt a trickle of fear. He’d trusted her and now she had abandoned him, after having insisted that he stay imprisoned in his own keep. His fists balled at his sides and cold sweat beaded on the back of his neck. He’d been a fool.

  Well, no longer.

  Swinging around, he started for the door, only to find her blocking the way. She was taller than he remembered. Stronger. Her skin white, her lips bloodred, her body seeming vital, her eyes as opaque and shining as a full moon.

  “Where were you?” he demanded.

  “What does it matter? You brought me no drink?” she asked.

  He looked at her full lips and shook his head. “Nay. I think . . . I think mayhap you can get your own goat’s blood.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m leaving. Joining the hunt for Bryanna.”

  She shook her head. “Then all will be for naught,” she reminded him, walking past him fluidly, as if her old joints no longer ached. “You are feeling stronger. Your sight is somewhat restored. Why is that? Because the stones are being returned to the dagger and with each jewel the curse is reversing. But it won’t be complete until every gem is once again in the dagger. Let your foolhardy soldiers chase after her and keep you informed. Allow Deverill of Agendor to track his murdering bastard down, but you must do everything in your power to ensure that the stones are retrieved and placed in the dagger’s hilt. ’Tis of no use to us until its power is complete.”

  What she said was the truth; he knew it, and yet he was anxious, eager, his lust running as hot as his need for revenge.

  “She is still with the murderer,” he said, thinking of Bryanna and remembering their one night together. Oh, that there were more, that she was trapped in this dark keep with him, that she would warm his bed until he was tired of her and had no further use of her.

  And when would that be?

  Ever?

  One night with her and you could not get enough. How do you know that if she were here, the tables would not be reversed and you would be the one begging for favors from her? Mayhap the witch would become the master.

  “Ah,” Vannora said, as if she’d just read his thoughts. With a cunning smile, she added, “What do you care? You have done your part, have you not? Is Kambria’s daughter not with child?” Before he could protest, Vannora lifted a finger to her own eerie red lips. “Shh. Do not argue. She is far to the south, but will be returning. We both know where it all ends, do we not?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “So we wait. And we make certain she is not thwarted in her quest.”

  Not the answer he wanted to hear.

  He frowned as she stepped past him to stare into the empty cauldron. He followed her gaze, horrified. For a second he thought he saw liquid within reflecting her face, but it was not the image of the beautiful dark-haired woman in front of him. Nor was it the visage of a feeble old crone. . . . No, the flash of the face swirling in the depths of the cauldron that held no water was something else, something dark and vicious and completely without a soul.

  The image was gone in an instant, and he found her staring at him, the cauldron once again empty. Her voice was the barest of whispers when she said, “I believe that patience is a virtue. And, I think, HaIIyd, you need all the virtues you can get.”

  Llansteffan Castle, a great stone fortress with twin towers guarding the main gate, had been built on a hill that overlooked the River Towy where it drained into a wide bay. The sun was lowering in the sky when Bryanna and Gavyn approached. Shadows lengthened upon the ground as they hid their horses in a copse of oak, then walked, leading Harry with his load of furs, to the castle gates.

  Bryanna had nearly forgiven Gavyn for his reaction to her pregnancy. Was it so awful that he wanted to marry her? She did trust that he loved her, didn’t she? And she loved him. So she tried her best to push her childish emotions aside as they joined the traffic threading into the great keep. Cart wheels rattled over the rutted path and impat
ient horsemen loped around the slower pedestrians. Fishermen sang shanties as they lugged buckets of fish and shellfish, water sloshing over the rims to the great keep.

  As they passed into the lower bailey, Bryanna checked for soldiers, but none of the uniformed guards or horsemen wore the colors of Agendor or Chwarel. She felt a bit of relief, but she reminded herself that just because she didn’t see the uniforms of Hallyd and Deverill didn’t mean there weren’t spies lurking about. If one of these men recognized either her or Gavyn, he would most certainly forestall them or report back to his leader. She could never let herself forget that Gavyn had a price upon his head.

  “Where do we start?” Gavyn asked as they walked along the pebble-strewn path of the lower bailey.

  “Well, not here, where the towers are rounded. Not like the ones in the vision,” she said, eyeing the interior of the castle walls. What had Isa said? Something about being hidden inside a square.

  It was crowded and loud, people talking, chickens clucking, hammers pounding, wheels creaking, all punctuated with a bark of a dog or crow of a cock or bleat of a sheep. She grabbed her leather pouch, where the dagger and maps were hidden. “I’ll search the square towers while you sell the pelts. We’ll both watch for soldiers. And keep an eye out for anything that looks like it could be what Isa meant. You remember, don’t you?”

  “Aye, aye. Squares, twin towers, daggers, and prayers to the Mother Goddess.”

  ’Twas as good as she could ask. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “And what if someone sees you?”

  “I’ll tell them I’m only looking about,” she said, “admiring the castle while my husband sells the hides of many a sleek and unfortunate animal.” She smiled sweetly at him and started along a path to the upper bailey.

  But suddenly he caught up with her. Gavyn grabbed her arm with his free hand while Harry hobbled behind. “No, you must wait for me. Do not go anywhere alone!”

  “You have to stay with the horse,” she insisted.

  “I’ll find someone to care for him,” Gavyn said as she glanced through the main gate and saw the river behind, dark water moving slowly toward the sea.

  “The River Towy,” she whispered, and the conversation came back in a flood. “I know where I heard it. ’Tis the river where my grandfather Waylynn died. Gleda said as much. He was an apothecary. I wonder what he was doing here.” Her heart was beating faster, her memory clear. Now she was certain they’d traveled to the right place. Surely her grandfather had come here—mayhap to hide the stone, then lose his life? “He must be buried nearby. Yes, this is the right place.”

  “Oh, for the love of God, don’t tell me we have to dig him up, too.”

  “I know not.” She had no answers, but felt they were closer to finding the topaz than ever. “See what you can find out about him. If anyone remembers him.”

  “Wait, Bryan—Brynn. I think we should stay together.”

  “Say, is that a fox pelt?” a merchant said, approaching Gavyn and eyeing the pack tied across Harry’s back. “And a weasel and a stoat? You’re selling these? How much?” The man, who had a long beard and a rotund girth, was already stroking the hides.

  Gavyn released her arm. “Yes, all of them,” he said.

  Bryanna took advantage of the distraction. With a quick wave to her “husband,” she dashed away, continuing up the gentle slope to the upper bailey. She felt Gavyn’s gaze upon her backside and knew he was willing her to stay and wait for him, but she couldn’t. She was too eager, and, she felt, time was running out. No matter where they went, how far they traveled, HaIlyd or Deverill’s men seemed to be about. For months, she’d heard rumors of small companies of soldiers riding through the forests of Wales, searching for a wanted man and the woman pretending to be his wife. More than once she’d spied the colors of both keeps on the uniforms of soldiers in the villages where they had stopped.

  It seemed there was no getting away from them.

  Nay, she told herself, they couldn’t tarry. Not here at Llansteffan. Not anywhere.

  She walked briskly along a path strewn with crushed oyster shells and pebbles. A fire burned bright in the farrier’s hut as a boy pumped the horseshoer’s bellows and the brawny man banged on a piece of glowing steel, his hammer clanging loudly with each strike as he molded the metal.

  Elsewhere carpenters were shoring up a sagging roof, their hammers in quick counterpoint to the farrier’s. A tanner was scraping a deer hide that was stretched tight upon a frame and a potter was busy at his wheel.

  From the kitchen the smells of burning wood, baking bread, and roasting fish wafted in the air. Bryanna’s mouth watered, as she was forever hungry these days.

  Rounding a corner, she passed by girls checking the nests for evening eggs, then shrieking and laughing as boys toting buckets of water tried to splash them. For the first time in a long while Bryanna longed for her sisters and the comforts of Calon. It had been months since she’d seen Morwenna and Daylynn, and she missed the friendship, the camaraderie, the feeling of belonging that she always shared with her sisters. Oh, aye, they fought when they had the chance and they’d made fun of her when she was a child, but who else, aside from Gavyn, did she have to share the news of her pregnancy with? Who else would be as excited as she at the prospect of a new babe? Who else would tend to the child and care for her after the birth? Who else could she tell her most intimate secrets to?

  They are only your half sisters, she reminded herself, but ignored the thought. Her sister bond with Daylynn and Morwenna was strong, no matter how diluted their blood connection might be. Oh, to see Penbrooke or Calon again!

  She nearly stumbled when she thought of her sister’s keep and the husband from whom Bryanna had fled.

  As if hit by a stone wall, she stopped short.

  Morwenna’s husband.

  Bryanna hadn’t thought of him in a long while. Now when she did, she felt none of the ridiculous feelings she’d had for the man while watching him and Morwenna at Calon. Was it possible? Had she lost all her fantasies of him?

  ’Twas true. Morwenna’s husband was no more intriguing to her than the pockmarked stable boy leading a horse to the stables.

  Sudden relief slid through her veins. As she cast a glance downward into the lower bailey and spied Gavyn, still bartering with the tailor, he happened to look up. He caught her eye and her silly pulse jumped. How had she ever thought she was falling in love with Morwenna’s husband? The feelings she’d had for her brother-in-law seemed trite and ridiculous, a spate of girlhood silliness when compared with the depth of her emotions for Gavyn.

  She’d been such a fool, a goose of a girl.

  Gavyn glanced up at her, this supposed criminal, with his sharp features, brown hair shining with a bit of gold in the fading sun. Her heart squeezed at the sight of him. She waved, then turned and headed straight for the tallest of the square towers.

  “Isa, do not fail me,” she whispered.

  The stone structure was immense, but surprisingly unguarded. She stepped inside the darkened doorway.

  Should she climb up or descend down?

  All of the gems had been buried in the ground, so she took a chance and headed down the spiraling dirty stairs into an abandoned dungeon that smelled of rot and mold and all things foul. No wonder this place was unguarded. No one would want to be anywhere near it.

  “Please let this be the right spot.”

  She was alone, with only a little illumination from a rushlight that was burning out quickly. Proof enough that some sentry had been here recently and could be returning at any second. Mustering her strength, she pulled the torch from the wall. Nerves strung tight, she held the pitiful rushlight aloft and was able to see that the cells were empty, their rusted gates hanging open.

  Just then a scraping noise cut through the abandoned chamber.

  She froze.

  Her throat was dry as dust.

  A rat scurried across the tip of her boot.

  “Aaagh!” she
cried, but bit back a scream as her knees nearly gave way.

  Do not panic. ’Twas only a rat. You’ve seen them before.

  “Sweet Morrigu,” she gasped, placing the hand clutching her pouch over her heart.

  Now was the time to follow Isa’s instructions.

  Please let them work. . . .

  Swallowing back any lingering fear of rodents, she unlaced the leather bag and extracted the dagger with its two winking stones. How was she supposed to use it?

  “Isa, please, help me,” she whispered. She slung the pouch with its leather strap over her shoulder. Then, with one hand tight upon the dagger’s hilt, the other gripping the torch so hard her knuckles were white, she walked slowly from cell to cell. Her stomach churned as she recognized the remains of bones and scraps of cloth on the floors covered with rotting straw, smelling of stale urine. Hoping to God that the bones were the remnants of food left for whatever prisoner was ill-fated to have been locked down here, and not actual pieces of human carcasses, she kept searching.

  Water dripped from the ceiling and rodents’ claws scraped over stones. She eyed every inch of this horrible dank hole, her skin crawling as she spied a nest of furry spiders clinging to the ceiling.

  “Where?” she whispered, holding her flickering, fading light aloft. “For the love of God, Isa, where?”

  But the dripping, grimy walls offered no clues, and the small dagger seemed useless.

  Swallowing back a mounting sense of dread, Bryanna tried to recall Isa’s exact words. She closed her eyes and imagined Isa’s voice:

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

  “My ancestor who is great.” Was Llewellyn-ap-lorwerth really in these dungeons? Mayhap not as a prisoner . . . that was it. She’d thought the word “deep” had meant deep underground. But mayhap Isa had only meant deep in the interior. Hastily, she walked away from the cell and found the stairs again. She started climbing, upward, faster and faster, past the door to the bailey and higher still. That was it. It had to be. Llewellyn hadn’t been a prisoner in those cells. He was a warrior. He’d reclaimed the keep.