The Sorcerers Mark
Page 29
History had been altered.
The sky tore open, folding back the blackness, stars blurring to the passage of countless nights of century upon century. Olivia couldn’t be certain which of them moved--she as she clung to this her hiding place--or them as they held each other’s hands beside the fire. All she knew was they were separating, rushing ever away, motionless within their places, yet fleeing, faster and faster, succumbing into nothing more than a pin point of light, which burst and vanished.
His quest had been fully secured. Serenity washed over her for one last time and as she closed her eyes to the eerie dreamless sleep that encased her, she heard his voice.
“I love you, Olivia.”
* * * *
He called her his treasure, he called her his beloved, he called her wife, but never in their twenty-seven years of marriage could Wyldelock call Sophia his jewel.
Their first son grew to be a learned man--a scholar, a philosopher--respected in writing and teaching. Five daughters, as beautiful as their mother, as eloquent and kind and pure completed Wyldelock’s family. And when one daughter, Wyldelock’s favorite named Olivia, married Dietrick’s son, the two families became even more secure in their bond. Life was not without its struggles, but they were all together, sharing joys and triumph, illness and defeat, as strong families always did.
He was content because he knew.
Dietrick remained a faithful and loyal friend, comrade and brother. When Death wrapped graceful arms around his brother, Wyldelock was there, held his hand, and thanked him for years of friendship. As the family mourned, Wyldelock rejoiced, for their path had been one of sincerity, void of darkness, jealousy and hatred. Wyldelock knew, because he remembered.
In the privacy of old age Wyldelock prepared for a world that only Death could guide him through. He hung his sword upon the wall and draped from it a delicate chain, one he had worn a lifetime, a small owl with a solitary ruby in its grasp. He dressed in his cloak, the warmth protecting him from the cold breath of transition into eternity. He stretched out on the bed he had dutifully shared with his wife, and closed his eyes one last time.
“My jewel,” he whispered before taking the hand that would lead him forth.
Timeless mist swirled around Wyldelock’s spirit as the journey began. Through the haze he searched for the beacon. He promised to return and the centuries would not prevent the fulfillment of sincerity. He knew, because he remembered.
Then, he lifted his weary eyes and saw the yellow hue. She called for him and he answered. Love had been his guide.
Wyldelock Talan De Croft was reborn.
* * * *
The hand on her shoulder, warm and concerned in its touch, did nothing to alleviate the shock of waking on a wooden floor.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you all right?”
Olivia jolted, her line of sight filled with the handsome face that peered anxiously at her--olive complexion, dark eyes, sculptured jaw, and black hair that curled around his neck--an artist’s dream of aesthetic perfection. She caught a short gasp, desperately trying to come to grips with what strange world she had been flung into.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he smiled, crouching on bended knee in front of her. “The estate agent said the place was empty so finding a lovely lady up here was the last thing I expected.”
“Up here?” She scanned the room. The frame of a once large four-poster bed lay in ruins, the fireplace, disused through time was cold, supporting a cast iron grate. The cherubs that decorated the mantle were gazing heavenward, their expressions ones of tranquility. An oval oak table stood nearby, its one leg planted to the floor with a circular support. One candlestick rested on its surface, the candle half burned. And she was sitting on the bare floor, beside a trunk, its lid tipped back. “The turret,” she said, blinking, absorbing the reality of her surroundings.
The diary rested on her lap, open to the page where she had been reading before ... she crushed her palm into her aching forehead. What had happened to her? Had she literally walked into some perverse fantasy or dream or nightmare? The diary offered no relief. The scrawled writing by the hand of a woman obsessed with a family curse was now replaced by nothing more than notes--births, marriages, deaths, and the weather--and stuffed within were countless newspaper clippings about shipbuilding and fishing.
History had changed. There was no longer the dreaded curse, one that had ensured fear throughout generations in her family. Her fingers crawled to her shoulder where the skin was smooth and free of blemish. The sorcerer’s mark was gone. The battle had been victorious, not only for them, but the countless souls that preceded them--by talking to Dietrick on that one fateful night Wyldelock had opened his heart to his friend and consoled him--no bitterness took hold, no seed of hatred or revenge flourished--the garden of providence was freed of thorns.
The sorcerer’s mark was gone but so, too, was he.
“We did it,” she muttered.
“Miss, are you okay?”
The voice drew her attention back to his friendly face as he continued to study her. His hair, not long but not short either, fanned out to wide shoulders. He sported a jean jacket over a white T-shirt and as she fought the bewildering daze that was stubbornly holding onto her, he shrugged out of the jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said, breathing the scent that emanated from the material. His scent. She lifted her eyes to find that his were now clouded with confusion. But she recognized the soul that peeked at her from within. His soul. It might have all been a living dream but William, her William, had come back to her.
“This is really odd,” he said carefully. “But I could swear we’ve met before.” He paused, searching for the logic behind the comment. By his creased expression it was haunting him mightily, like a name that eluded the tip of the tongue, or a dream, which had just been so real, fading quickly, taking with it every memory except the shadow of sentiment.
“What name do you go by now?” She was addressing the man who resided within and it was lost to the one who continued to find her company enjoyable, despite her surely sounding ridiculous.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He crouched to sit on the floor with her, crossing his legs. He wore jeans and running shoes and looked deliciously casual. “My name is William, William Crofter, but all my buddies call me Bill.”
A huge chasm cracked open inside Olivia’s chest. Not so different after all, she thought. She wanted to scream and cry together, yet in his presence the unease was soon sucked out of her being and she merely smiled. “William,” she sighed, as though a call throughout time and space, where no boundary could impede its progress. Catching the drenched tone she cleared her throat. “I prefer William,” she said.
He grinned, never once breaking his stare from her face. “Yeah,” he said. “I like it when you say my name like that.”
“Mine is....”
“Olivia,” he said before she did, and then blushed. He puffed a breath in astonishment. “How did I know that? We must have met before,” he went on, running long fingers across his scalp, silken strands of inky black hair sliding right back into place. “It’s just for the life of me I can’t think where.”
I’d tell you, Olivia mused to herself, but you’d go screaming from the room. “What brings you here?” she asked aloud, breaking his concentration.
“Hm? Oh, I’m an art dealer. The last couple of years I haven’t had a moment to sit down, so I permitted myself an extended vacation, look for a summer home. You know, a place I can go where I can rejuvenate, get in touch with my ... spirit. Strange how all roads led me here.” Elbow resting on one bent knee he tapped the air. “Have you ever been to art exhibitions in New York?”
She grinned and lowered her eyes to her folded hands. “No,” she said. “I never have.”
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he said quietly, unconcerned with her never having been to New York for an art exhibition.
It was Olivia’s turn to blush now.
Olivia laughed, and it felt so good. But when the laughing eased, her heart broke, and she started to cry. Having been on the brink of madness for what seemed forever, this ordinary exchange of casual conversation was wonderfully sweet and innocent.
“Hey,” he cooed. “You sure you’re all right?” He reached over and brushed his thumb over her damp cheek.
How often had William Talbot done that when she shed tears born of fear or foolishness or fulfillment? She closed her eyes and remembered his touch, and remembered it well for here and now the thumb upon her skin was drenched with his familiarity.
He had honored his final promise. He had returned to her.
Without even thinking she stroked his wrist. “I’m fine. It’s the magic in this place,” she teased. “The history of it has an odd effect on those who visit here.”
He squinted, while taking her hand. “You telling me this old Keep is haunted?” he grinned. “Because if it is I might reconsider buying it. Not one for ghosts and goblins.” He winked. “I still have a nightlight at bedtime.”
When he tipped his chin to laugh at his own joke she caught the glimpse of a gold chain, and followed the dark line of it through the white shirt. “What’s that you’re wearing?” she said, pointing to the small bump at the bottom of the chain.
“This?” he said, tugging the chain. “Funny you should ask.” He reached up and unclasped it, dropping the whole piece in her palm. “A good friend of mine took me to this little antique store in the north of Germany. We were poking about and this was dangling off an old sword that was hanging on the wall. The minute I saw it I just felt as though it was calling out to me, I had to buy it. Kept it with me ever since. Unique, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” A pewter owl, wings widened in flight and in its claws was one solitary ruby. Olivia clasped her heart. “It’s very striking.” She handed it back to him; it was all becoming too much to bear.
Instead of pinning it around his own neck, he leaned forward and clasped it around hers, so close she sensed the soft brush of his breath, smelled the scent of his hair. “My jewel.”
For a split second he was William Talbot. Long black hair cascaded over his ruffled blouse, the silk doublet, ivory buttons. The waist narrowed to firm hips that carried a magnificent sword in its sheath, crushed trousers that were tucked into high doeskin boots. And he smiled at her, his soulful eyes bottomless pits where he conveyed the endlessness of his love, a love that no barrier could shield them from obtaining, not even time. “My jewel. My own. I love you as no other. Your light has been my beacon. We will always be together.”
A shy kiss fluttered on her lips so gently she barely registered it. The pewter owl lay against her breast, the ruby dipping to the curve of her cleavage. Her fingers went from it to the smooth jaw line that lingered only inches away. “You really are so beautiful,” he whispered.
“So are you,” she said, swallowing a lump, another surge of tears ready to rise. But these were tears of gratitude. She understood the instant magnetism, the chemistry between two people that psychologists often talk about but fail to measure. She understood the reasons for their closeness even though they were, in actuality, strangers.
“Olivia,” he said, leaning closer, a prelude for another kiss.
“William,” she teased in return.
“Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“I believe in dreams,” she said, welcoming his advance. “And all the magic that dreams can make come true.”
“I think you must be a poet,” he said, his mouth so close she felt the brush of fullness.
“And you are a gentleman and a thief.”
“A thief?” he said, pulling away slightly, the shadow of a worried smile on his mouth. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s a long story, William Crofter. A long story indeed.”
“Will you tell it to me?”
“Of course I will.”
And as they sat together in the turret of Byrne’s Keep the sun finally dipped into the distant curve where the sky fell into the crystal sea, taking with it one long single trill of the owl.
The End