The ring had lost luster; it had darkened as they spoke.
“Will it be enough, what you’ve been taught, what he can do to protect you? I just don’t know.”
“The gems on my necklace are real,” Olivia said. “This I know for certain.” She took hold of mother’s fingers and placed them on the lower rubies. “Can you see this?”
“Yes,” Mother answered, fondling each one. “These carry truth.” She didn’t elaborate but her softened expression comforted Olivia. “You have love on your side.”
“We should be going,” Olivia urged. The isolation of this lonely place and the conversation had left her feeling very unsettled.
“I know I’m asking a lot,” Mother said, not quite ready to leave. “It would make me feel better if you got rid of the ring. If Gran knew what I had seen, she’d tell you the same. Please, for me, throw it away.”
Olivia was torn.
“The ring is his, the evil one, not the sorcerer’s. If you never believe anything else I tell you, just believe in this. I can’t explain how I know, except he’s using it to get to you. I can’t bear the thought you might become as the others.”
The ring had turned black--the true color of its deadly secret--the weight of Mother’s foreboding rang true. Olivia had been naïve. She had been careless. Not everything was as it appeared. If Gran could be misled, if William had been blinded, how much more hopeless was she to the continuous deceit? A trick, issued by a hand malevolent in nature, darkness veiled as light. Truth humbled her pride and at the same time told her how vulnerable she could be to lies presented with honesty.
She tugged at the ring. It held onto her finger, tightening, not ready to give up its hold on her, angered that she believed what was meant to remain hidden. “Leave me,” she ordered, relying on the magic she had been taught rather than the physical motion. It had no other choice than to obey and slid effortlessly over her knuckle. Falling to the ground it pulsated, the gem now so blackened it resembled a bottomless hole, bleeding out corruption that fed on decency.
“Damn you,” Olivia snarled as though her enemy listened near by. “Damn you.” She picked up the ring and flung it as far into the fog as she could.
It thumped into the earth out of sight. An eddy of gray air tunneled upwards, swirling around the tall mausoleum-like headstones. Wisps curled around these aged pillars, where names had been lost to time, where lone statues of weeping cherubs watched over the souls of those the living had long since forgotten to care about. One dark mass seemed to move, gently floating to where the ring had fallen. Olivia squinted as the fog dipped again. She strained to catch a glimpse of the figure that had caused the swirl. But when she blinked and focused harder she saw nothing.
“Let’s go home,” Olivia said with urgency.
The fog had thickened, just in the last few moments. Even Stephen was virtually drowned. The ends of the car blurred without definition. The trees had dissolved totally.
Mother shivered beneath her shawl. “Yes. I agree.” They started toward Stephen. He squashed his cigarette under the one heel and opened the door. While Mother slid in, Olivia threw one quick glance over her shoulder. The stones were all vanishing too quickly. She had never known a fog to come in from the ocean this swiftly. She felt it was actually following her, thin long fingers gliding along the ground at unnatural speed and within seconds the talons would wrap around her ankles, pulling her back into the hazy nothingness and her anguished calls for help would be lost to eternity.
“Olivia?” Stephen said abruptly, shaking her from the trance.
She couldn’t take her eyes away from the condensing fog, however. “Someone is out there,” she said aloud, but meant for herself.
Stephen shut the car door and leaned slightly into her shoulder. “You know exactly who’s out there,” he said through gritted teeth. “And guess what, little lady? He’s bringing a small army with him. Been nice knowing you.”
He opened the back door for her but circled the car without delay. The engine clicked over and she never questioned he’d start off, with or without her. She got in and slammed the door, reiterating her disapproval at being spoken to with that ‘told-you-so’ tone, even though she likely deserved it. As the car glided down the short path toward the road Olivia was sure she caught a quick glimpse of a lone figure on horseback. Then it, too, was swallowed by the fog.
* * * *
“Why don’t you go lay down for awhile, Mother? You look exhausted.”
“I think that might be a good idea. Do you mind?”
“Hardly. It’s been a trying day.”
She started for the bedroom and then turned suddenly. “Will you be here when I get up?”
Olivia nodded although she had planned on getting back to the Keep before nightfall. The weather meant the daylight would fail long before it should. “Yes. I’ll be here.”
The promise meant she had to share company with Stephen, not a prospect that warmed her in the least. He seemed content with a freshly opened bottle of Scotch. When he wasn’t sipping that, his knife thin lips were pinched together. She couldn’t help but show her aversion of him, turning her shoulder as she picked up her needlepoint.
He drank in solitude. Finally he got up and positioned himself directly in front of her. He slumped on the couch. She felt the convicting stare, and missed a stitch because of it. “You’re going through with this, aren’t you?” he said, his voice a graveled purr. “I can’t decide whether you’re unbelievably stupid or incredibly brave.”
A flame of anger shot through her breast. “This may come as a surprise to you, Mr. Fillmore, but I don’t give a damn what you decide.”
The corner of his mouth twisted to a short grin. “Fine,” he said sharply. “You’re all that’s keeping your mother here. Once this is over she’ll be free to come with me.”
Olivia threw down her needlepoint. “I resent the implication. What makes you so certain I’m going to fail? You don’t know me. You don’t know William. For that matter, you barely know Mother. Pompous man.”
“Call me what you want it’s not going to change anything.”
“Well, let’s take a look into this crystal ball you rely on so heavily on,” she said, dripping sarcasm.
“Your little magic acts are good,” he said, leaning forward, elbows planted on his knees, fingers rubbing together. “And his are very impressive. But I’ll tell you what--neither of you are going to be any match for what Von Der Weilde has in store. See, the thing is, your boyfriend made many enemies during his reign way back when. That Brotherhood I told you about, well, they weren’t a bunch of shrinking violets. True, he picked them off one by one--he wouldn’t have become as powerful as he was if he hadn’t--but what he never reckoned on was dear old Dietrick finding a way to bring them all back again. Funny, isn’t it, how the undead can have such astute memories. Those boys are all too willing to do Von Der Weilde’s bidding. Revenge is an unholy attitude. I suggest you come with your mother and me and leave them to fight it out amongst themselves.”
Dislike for Stephen Fillmore had deepened. His tone reeked of belligerence. He was so quick to spout off that infinite wisdom, whether asked for or not, and his lecture was being delivered as if pearls to swine. “You sound awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Fillmore.”
“I should be.” He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a flat stone carved with strange etchings. “I didn’t find the rubies that were supposedly buried in his lair, but I found this. I was as confused by the markings as you are right now. Kept it though because I figured there was some significance to it. The only document about the Brotherhood that ever survived had the same peculiar scrawl, a logo, so-to-speak. I guess the sorcerers caught a glimpse of what might happen to them and left the document with a local, someone they trusted or paid well, who knows? That withered parchment survives till this day in the village near the De Croft ruins. I saw it and I read it. And in short it said if their deaths were in any way ‘peculiar in source’ that they
promised aid to anyone who could revive them, a promise that Von Der Weilde seems to have taken very seriously. Sort of leads me to believe that if this guy cannot only survive eight hundred years but rejuvenate a small army of sorcerers, we’re not dealing with a rabbit being pulled out of a top hat. De Croft is merely an illusionist compared to Von Der Weilde and the lost Brotherhood. Your boyfriend doesn’t stand a chance, with or without you.”
“You have no proof of this parchment? You said nothing survived.” She was clinging desperately for some ray of hope, a ray that was quickly dimming into obscurity.
Stephen shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”
She rolled the stone over in her hand. “Why would he have it? Why would it be buried with him?”
“My guess it was a keepsake, a reminder of the lives he took, the power he stole from them. Just a guess, mind. But after seeing his display the other day I would venture to say his ego has blinded him into thinking he’s an almighty. Choking me wouldn’t have been much of a challenge but I’m not one of the Brotherhood. He wouldn’t wrap his magic around their throats as easily as he did mine.”
“You’re saying he murdered them?”
“Wake up, would you? You’ve been with him enough to know he’s capable of just such an act. Why do you think the two of them were such close friends? They had more in common than you’re choosing to believe. Lust, Olivia. Sheer unadulterated lust--money, fame, women--but most of that lust was reserved for power, and there was no way they were going to share, then or now. De Croft will use you in whatever way he can to come out of this on top. Personally, I don’t think he’s going to do it. He gave it a go once and came out short. You’ve got to give him an A for effort though. He’ll go down in a blaze of glory, but it’d be a crying shame to see you go down with him. It’s their own private Armageddon, little lady. You prepared to die for a lost cause?”
“You don’t know him like I do.”
“A small blessing I’m sure.”
She threw the stone to the floor. “I’ve got to go, warn him.”
Stephen sighed heavily. “After all this and you’re still going to walk right into it. What about your mother, Olivia? Is she going to have to mourn another loss?”
“As soon as I’m gone wake Mother and take her as far from here as possible.”
He shook his head in stunned disbelief. “You are one stubborn little b--”
“Enough,” she ordered, lifting her finger to seal his words. “Enough. I will take your warning at face value, only because I see that you believe it to be true. That doesn’t necessarily mean it is. But if these spirits are rising to Dietrick’s call then William must be told immediately. If you care about Mother, get her away from here. I don’t want her to be hurt in this. Whatever the outcome, she’ll cope. Do you understand?”
He nodded, once.
One last luxury, she glanced around the room that had been home. She might never see it again and wanted to carry the memory of safety with her for as long as she could. After issuing a silent good-bye, she dashed outside to make her way through the thickening dusk.
Chapter Eleven
“Sorcerer, it’s been a long while since you’ve come to ask my counsel. Do I take from that your last visit was more successful than expected or that another satisfied your search for wisdom?”
“I know of none wiser than you, Counselor.” Wyldelock tread with extreme care. Elvar was a master at trickery, especially with innocuous words. Many who had sought information had been reduced to dust from issuing careless thoughts that were interpreted as insults. All Gods had fragile characters. Those who approached for enlightenment needed to remain vigilant of the fact and slip into the conversation as many compliments as possible, whether meant or not.
“Sit down, Sorcerer. Tell me a story.”
Wyldelock bowed, draping his cloak over crossed legs. The campfire sizzled as another hare was thrust over the flames. Two hungry wolves waited in the shadows behind their master, waiting for a morsel to be thrown to them. None came. Elvar had a legendarily ravenous appetite. Even bone would be consumed. Yet his faithful pets waited, long tongues panting at the succulent smell of burning flesh.
“Two warriors, gifted in their art, became steadfast friends,” Wyldelock began without delay. Elvar bored easily, except with a meal, which he continued to eat without etiquette.
“Why?” Elvar interrupted. “What made them such good friends?”
“Respect. Each revered the other for talent.”
“And beauty. Don’t forget beauty.”
“Yes, Counselor.” Wyldelock bowed slightly, a gentle compliment. Elvar loved to add to the stories that were told to him. It was this improvisation that Wyldelock meant to skim off. A God’s creative imagination was not only rooted deeply in history but was also a reflection of human nature. It was why their eccentric ways, complete with flaws, were tolerated with acceptance. It was also why their counsel was sought, despite the challenges--improvising often led to prediction.
Elvar ripped a piece of steaming meat with bare hands and sucked. Fat glistened over the pudgy chin as he leaned to listen. “Go on. What became of these friends?”
“Sadly, they parted.”
“Ah! I think there was a woman involved. Always a woman,” he muttered. “Especially with beautiful men.”
“You are wise, my Lord and Counselor. The woman was the sister of one friend, coveted by the other.”
“Magnificent. The virgin was seduced.”
“Fearing wrath the guilty man fled.”
“Thus his weakness ruled. A story often told. Me, I lust for food. Virgins hold no interest for me. I prefer a good meal.” Elvar patted his bulging stomach in satisfaction.
“The brother was angered and found his friend’s hiding place.”
“Of course. I would search out and slay the hand that reached for my meal.”
“Swords were never drawn.”
“Really? Then I think this brother loved his friend. The bond meant more than the woman.” Elvar’s eyes widened with interest. Sexual misdeeds interested him second only to a good meal. “I suspect there was more than respect between these two warriors.”
“Yes, there was love between them but the friend feared such affection and journeyed into the Underworld.”
Elvar froze, meat hanging from a gaping mouth. “What did he seek there?”
“Immortality.”
At this the Counselor laughed, spraying particles of half chewed food into the flames. “A fool in every story. Why, even I have not obtained immortality.” He chuckled, layers of fat shivering to the joke. “Although I have lost count of my years.”
“A fool,” Wyldelock repeated in confirmation. “For the Goddess who promised just such a gift offered him her bed but took from him Love. In return she gave him nothing more than rubies, formed from the wound of a bleeding heart.”
“I know this Goddess you speak of. She wishes for a child. Her unions bear no fruit. The more she lies the more withered her womb becomes. Serves her right.” He continued chewing. “What happened to this fool?”
“He lives still, Counselor.”
“Of course he does. But a few centuries is far from eternity.”
“The friend lives as well.”
“And what was his price for prolonged life?”
“Conscience.”
“Small price,” Elvar snuffed. “If he was a good warrior.”
“There is more. The centuries passed. He lived within the world of the dark and ugly demons. He learned from them the deadly art of revenge. He continues to seek aid from the darkness to bring forth great ruin to the friend.”
“Hm. I see.” Elvar pinched his chin in meditation. “Lost passion lives within him but is so buried in the mire that he cannot know it exists still. Nasty little fellows, these demons. Deceit is all they understand. Had he no consolation?”
“There was. In regret the friend gave to him a gift--three rubies--the largest dro
ps that fell from an empty heart. Far from appeased, the gift was used to adorn a mighty sword, the tips of great claws. The brother uses it still as a threat.”
Elvar clapped his hands and squealed. “A magic sword! Excellent. Woe be to the friend for another silly choice.”
“He used his magic to imprison the friend into dreamless sleep. He used the sword to murder the sister’s son.”
“Murder as well! His own nephew. This story pleases me, Sorcerer.”
“Before the death, the nephew issued a curse to follow the murderer’s bloodline. A claw, on the shoulder of each first born of every generation, a mark that would lift the friend from sleep.”
Elvar’s cheeks glowed. “He cursed his own mother’s family in favor for a lost father. I like this child. I think he was noble. Scarred, but noble.”
“Scarred with deformity,” Wyldelock said dramatically, for Elvar was listening intently now, thoroughly enticed by the twists and turns of depravity.
“Deformity. Let me guess! Claws! Three fingers, resembling claws, as his mother’s family crest. Am I correct?”
“You are,” Wyldelock proclaimed, overemphasizing astonishment.
Elvar clapped his hands. “The brother’s firstborn had the mark. And on and on, until the one who silently called to the sleeping friend. Male children as well as female.”
“Yes, my Lord. Your talent to envisage humbles me.”
“Oh,” Elvar said as if embarrassed. “It’s nothing. I think, however, that a male child would not call the friend to stir. It had to be a woman. Beautiful, intelligent, gifted.”
Wyldelock gasped as though he were truly awed. “Yes. A virgin. Innocent yet carrying the cursed blood. Not only did he smell her scent, he recognized redemption. She is gifted in the art, a worthy mate for him.”
“He claims her innocence,” Elvar said, glazed to images of union. “Marks her with his seed.”
“True. But he carries sadness for he cannot love her.”
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