“I have been a fool,” he confessed. “I am indeed your slave.”
“William,” she called with a dreaming voice, opening her arms to welcome him.
He could not move. The barrier between them was transparent, at the same time immovable, and he felt the chasm inside his chest grow wider and darker still. The ache to consume her physically had changed to one that cried out for her spirit. They could never be totally together if he wallowed in the disabling pit of emptiness. “Olivia,” he answered, trying desperately to slide closer to her, be a part of the love she offered. The barrier held firm. His heart worked, pumping blood through his veins, but his soul was vacant. A scream of disparagement lodged in his throat. Wyldelock retreated from her dream, unable to sustain enough force to watch what he could not obtain.
“Show me the way,” he pleaded, holding her again with an unyielding embrace. “Help me to find this love you know.”
Her eyes opened, each glistened. The moment hung between them as they searched each other’s mind. She reached her tiny hand to his thrashing heart, slowly pressing her palm over the spot he believed to be dead. And he waited with dismay. What if she recoiled in total horror, knowing what he had done, how empty he was inside? What if she finally ran and never returned? It was what he deserved. That would be the ultimate payment for his past sins.
“Your sincerity is the beacon that will light our path,” she said.
Wyldelock was struck with wonderment. Perhaps it was innocence that made her declare such optimism. He lowered his gaze from hers in humility. “If you knew of me, then you might not....”
“Shush,” she said, tipping her finger to his lips for silence. “I know enough. What I don’t yet understand you must promise to tell me.”
The lace across her shoulder dipped as she lifted to wind her arms around his neck. He breathed deeply of her scent, now claimed, affirmed, secure. He folded her against his chest with hardened biceps and sighed. “Olivia, there is so much. Where do we begin?”
“We begin with this moment for there is no other.”
A shiver swept his spine. So young, so naïve and yet such wisdom. He was awash with a sense of unworthiness. Overpowering all failure an immense pride whelmed up instead, like a floodgate hurled wide. “Let us go to the bedchamber I have prepared for you,” he whispered with caution into her ear. “Let us spend this whole night wet with each other’s kiss.”
She laughed. “Your poetry prevails.” She smiled.
“Poetry pales in comparison to my thoughts of you. The greatest of art cannot claim justice to what we can achieve together. Yes, we begin with this moment but from this second onward you must never leave my side. I cannot bear one stroke of the pendulum unless I know you are near.”
“My poor wounded sparrow,” she teased, pulling slightly from his hold. “I’m afraid you must. I need to go home for awhile, tell Mother what has happened, where I’ll be. Otherwise she will worry and I can’t cause her to fret needlessly.”
“No,” he said quickly, feeling a slight pang of alarm. “I cannot permit this.”
“You can. And you will.” Her expression became serious. “Just an hour or so. I will return before dark.”
Wyldelock held firm. “Tell the Old Mother,” he said sternly. “Tell her with thought only. She will hear and relay the message.”
Olivia’s brow furrowed.
“She is more advanced in her craft than she admits. She will hear your voice.”
“No, I must go in person.”
A glow of stubbornness told him his protests were pointless. “Then I shall accompany you,” he said.
“Wrong again.” She grinned, fluttering a kiss into his cheek. As if this was enough to soothe his anguish, she tried to pull away again.
He clutched her wrists. “Olivia, we have a fearsome adversary. He lies in wait, ready to spring forth with destruction. You do not yet have capability to ward him off.”
“The Phoenix,” she whispered, her eyes widening.
“Yes, the Phoenix. Each claw is a razor that could cut us apart forever. He sharpens them as we speak for we have united. Such craze for revenge will destroy us if we do not take great care.”
“I saw him in the painting,” she said, squinting as though suffering an ache. “He asked for my help, called me sister. Why did he do that, William? Why does he want to hurt us?”
“I betrayed our friendship, a long time ago. His soul cannot rest because of it. He seeks my damnation.”
“How? How did you betray him?”
“Do not leave, Olivia. Please, I beg of you.”
“You’re right. There is much about you I don’t know and when I return, I have questions, ones that must be answered fully.” She took his hand, kissing it. “I have fallen madly in love with you, William. Your fight has become mine as well. But first I must return to my family. I owe them this.”
Wyldelock bowed in submission. Her loyalty was commendable, stretching beyond a relationship with him, tied to family honor. It was another admirable quality that made her so worthy of respect. “Then I will accompany you halfway,” he said. “And guard your steps until you return to my arms.”
She accepted the compromise.
What she could not know was that Wyldelock planned to shield his presence with a cloak of invisibility, to follow her every move, and guard more than her steps.
* * * *
So close was he as they walked the rough path from the Keep that Olivia felt his cape swirl across her legs. No conversation was exchanged between them even though she sensed his apprehension. It was contagious. She found herself glancing from side to side, expecting the unknown to pounce upon them at any moment. Nothing threatened their way and once her small home came into view, they stopped.
She twisted to peer up into his face. “I won’t be long.”
“If you require my assistance, call for me. I will hear the most quiet of pleas.”
It was more difficult than she imagined, taking those first few steps away from him. Turning often she saw him standing sentinel and felt warmed by his omnipotent protection. Even as she glided closer to the door she sensed he was still beside her, still felt the cape touch her legs, still heard his breath cut the air, but when she lingered on the step and lifted her eyes, he remained in position on the crest of the hill. A sea breeze caught his disheveled hair, tossing it to one shoulder. She could smell its scent, a short waft of sheer sensuality, expanding her breast with the crushing fulfillment of newness in love.
“I do love you,” she whispered, knowing he would hear her proclamation despite the distance. In response she felt a flutter of warmth caress her cheek and an eerie sensation that he had defied space to instantly melt into her body, causing her to briefly succumb to a quick wave of elation. “Oh,” she sighed, her lids drooping at the surge that rendered her faint.
“My Mistress. Precious jewel. Only you can decree what providence has granted me.”
Olivia was already cold from separation and threw a kiss to him before pushing the door open.
The tenderness popped like a soapy bubble in a ruthless storm once she was inside. Mother sat at the table, her eyes swollen from tears. Beside her was Stephen Fillmore, holding her hand across the tablecloth, muttering condolences.
“Mother?” Olivia said, fearing the worst. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Ollie,” Mother gasped, quickly wiping a tear from her face. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Olivia darted frantic glances between her mother and the photographer, who stood upon her arrival. He paled slightly before retreating to the couch against the wall.
To Olivia’s relief Gran appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray of steaming mugs. She set the tray on the table and found her easy chair without acknowledging Olivia’s presence.
“You’re safe,” Mother said, picking up one mug with trembling fingers. “I was so worried.”
“Of course I’m safe. I was with William. There’s no n
eed to be upset.”
Mother exchanged a sorrowful glance with Stephen Fillmore who ventured an explanation. “Olivia,” he said. “The store has been vandalized. This afternoon, after....” He reached for his neck, which was streaked with a nasty burn under each ear. “After our incident a few of the locals decided to torch your mother’s store.”
“What?” Olivia gaped. The horrifying news wasn’t sinking in. The possibility of anyone being so malicious was too unreal to be true. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, sweetheart, I’m fine. Stephen has been a great help.”
“Has he now?” Olivia said, her voice laced with suspicion. She was annoyed at the tenderness in the way this stranger had caressed Mother’s hand and she was even more annoyed at his worming his way into their home. Other issues deemed a heavier importance, however, and Olivia pulled out a chair.
“The police have a good idea who started the fire,” Mother went on, smiling weakly. “And thankfully the insurance policy is up to date. So, I guess it could have been worse.”
“I’m so sorry,” Olivia whispered, knowing full well this was her fault. She felt Stephen Fillmore’s stare, that silent condemnation that her sinful behavior was the origin of the clash, but kept from verbalizing the deserved accusation. If she hadn’t displayed her so-called gift of telekinesis for one and all to witness, then the rumors of Morgan witchcraft would have remained rumors. As it was she had inadvertently given credence to the gossip.
“It might be a good idea if you stopped seeing William Talbot,” Mother said guardedly.
Obviously there had been a long discussion of the afternoon’s events, and why wouldn’t there be? In front of a group of stunned onlookers she had nearly strangled the photographer merely by lifting a finger. The tongues wagging would go wild in spreading the shocking news that one witch had been stoned but survived, so the mother should be the next focus of their crazed mob mentality. It was a wonder they weren’t all carrying torches, meaning to hang them all from the nearest oak tree. But what William had to do with the dastardly events was unclear, and certainly there was no need to suggest she not see him. Olivia could feel her ire rise. This had something to do with Fillmore’s earlier protests, and she struggled to remember exactly what he had said to her after ‘the incident.’
“I should have been honest with you from the start,” Stephen said. “If I had, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. I apologize.”
Mother twisted her mug of tea, her expression wracked with concern, looking as though she might burst into tears again. “Listen to him, Ollie,” she pleaded.
Stephen cleared his throat. “I am here to follow research but my quest is fully devoted to this man you know as William Talbot.”
Olivia sat in silence preparing to defend whatever reprehensible deed that William was supposedly guilty of.
“I’m an archeologist by profession,” Stephen said. “For the past five years my crew and I have been searching for the medieval ruins of an estate in Germany, one that once belonged to an infamous swordsman by the name of Wyldelock Talan De Croft. It is my job to separate facts from myth and our results have been quite ... startling.”
Olivia took a deep breath. This peculiar name she was acquainted with. The depth of the one behind the name she was only just becoming conscious of and even that sliver of light was a mysterious illumination, coaxed without words. She knew of this story the archeologist was about to tell, as well as she knew her own history. The faint taste of blood, the blood he had so anxiously wanted her to partake of, told her why. Buried within its salty flavor was enlightenment.
“Go ahead, Mr. Fillmore,” she said. “Tell me this story of yours.”
“De Croft was born in the mid thirteenth century in what was once the Holy Roman Empire. Little is known about his childhood, except that he was orphaned early, his parents succumbing to the plague. Adept at using a sword he sold his services to local noblemen and his fame became legendary. With money and prestige he had time to pursue his interests in the dark art of sorcery, kept a secret, of course, because such adherence was considered an offense to organized religion, punishable by death. He joined a group of thirteen with similar interests in practicing the supernatural, known simply as The Brotherhood, and quickly rose as the High Priest. He continued to be a mercenary, at his own choosing, and met up with another swordsman named Dietrick Von Der Weilde. Their friendship was strong and as the account goes they were virtually inseparable. The two were both feared and loved, unscathed in battle, which led to rumors of satanic protection. And both were strikingly handsome. No woman could resist their charms, a quality they took full advantage of.”
Stephen paused in the telling of his lecture and fumbled in his pocket. “Would you mind,” he asked, “if I had a cigarette?”
Mother shook her head. “We need something a little stronger than tea as well,” she said and retrieved a bottle of Scotch whiskey, usually saved for special occasions.
“This Brotherhood,” Stephen continued, “is the part shrouded in myth because their records were destroyed for the sake of survival. However, it is curious to note that of the thirteen, De Croft was the only one to flourish. The others all died in what could be seen as convenient accidents, and as a result De Croft grew wiser and extremely powerful. His lusts were far from sated and he sought out the ultimate in supremacy--immortality. This is where his record blurs into myth.”
Stephen pinched the bridge of his nose, relieving tension before lighting his cigarette. He inhaled so deeply barely any smoke filtered out. Then he knocked back a gulp of whiskey in one swallow.
“As the story goes, De Croft asked the Gods of the Underworld to grant him eternal youth. All but one laughed at his request, Intarsia, The Goddess of Seduction. She was impressed with the young man’s brawn and promised to grant his wish for immortality if he would go to her bed. He readily agreed, soon to discover it was a trick. She wanted not his physical favors. Instead, she wanted what she did not have, the power to feel love. No sooner was he in her bed when she stabbed his heart and stole the most sacred of emotions from his possession. True, De Croft was given eternal life, but one without the ability to love any woman. All he was left with was a searing desire to fornicate, which would burn without fulfillment. And the blood from the wound in his chest manifested into the purest of rubies, priceless gems that he collected and supposedly kept in a box. Why he kept them is speculation, but the favorite theory is that he hoped they contained the key to one day regain the emotion that was cruelly stolen from him.”
“Show me the way. Help me to find this love you know.”
Olivia shivered. An icy hand had crept down her spine. She wanted nothing more than to rise from the chair and leave, go back to William and comfort him for the loss she now understood. But she was firmly planted, unable to move.
“He told no one of the betrayal, except his blood-brother, Dietrick, who scorned the tale as nothing more than silly imagination. De Croft showed him the rubies to confirm the incident, even giving him three to adorn the sword Dietrick carried in battle. The rest, as it was told, was buried beneath his estate, hidden until the time he could again seek out the Goddess and ask for his emotion back again. The contents of this small box have been the object of treasure seekers for innumerous years, as of yet still undiscovered.”
“So that’s it then, is it?” Olivia asked sharply. “You’re a relic hunter, hoping to become rich.”
“I won’t lie to you. It did cross my mind more than once. Six months ago we discovered the ruins of De Croft’s estate. The local villagers told of an earthquake that had shaken the hill where the home once stood, opening up the cavern below. There was a lot of talk that the great sorcerer had finally risen up from the depths, and we were the only ones who would go near the place. The superstition perked my interest into examining the whole story further and when we found no jewels, I decided to follow up on the idea that De Croft was again alive and well.”
A lull settled over the
room. Finally, Stephen cleared his throat. He stood up and poured himself another drink. Remaining on his feet he hovered near the table where Olivia sat.
“Odd as it may seem,” Stephen said, “I found a family in the village that claimed relation to the Von Der Weilde lineage. They filled in a few gaps in the story that eventually led me here.”
Olivia was uncomfortable at his close proximity. She was even more uncomfortable with speculation as to what was to follow in this lecture, sensing an inevitability of personal connection. Von Der Weilde blood, although thinned from many generations, coursed through her veins as well.
“De Croft seduced Dietrick’s sister Sophia. She fell pregnant and when De Croft refused to marry her, the friendship between the two men became, to say the least, strained. When Dietrick failed to convince De Croft to honor the family, he too, drew upon the dark forces of magic to obtain revenge. He couldn’t kill his friend but he did manage to subdue him in the cavern beneath the estate. And when Sophia had the child it was physically deformed, its hands having three fingers each, like a claw. She committed suicide in a fit of madness and the infant disappeared. Dietrick spent the rest of his life searching for the child and when found, forty years to the day after its birth, he stabbed it to death with the sword embedded with the rubies De Croft had given him when they were young men. Before dying, however, a curse was instigated--that the first born of each generation of Von Der Weilde’s would carry the mark of the sorcerer--until the birth of one woman who would lift Wyldelock Talan De Croft from centuries of sleep.”
The Sorcerers Mark Page 13