He took in his fill of her lovely face and decided to let her sleep a little longer. The gods knew she hadn’t slept much last night, he mused with a reminiscent smile. Too soon, they would both face the consequences of his failure. He tried not to think of the punishment for him and Briana, but fears haunted him, ‘til he could think of nothing else. Gods, he prayed, please protect her. She must not suffer for my failure.
Needing to relieve himself, he headed for the copse of hemlocks down the rocky path, alongside the winding stream. Afterward, he knelt on the ground and drank from the stream, fresh water that eased his dry throat. Moisture still dripped from the trees and bushes, but the sky promised a day of sunshine, a day only slightly cool with a light breeze. He turned back to look at Briana, who still slept several yards away. She turned onto her side and he knew she would awaken soon. Ah, if only they lived in Magh Mell, if only they didn’t have to return. If only—
“Weylyn!”
He spun around and blinked his eyes, afraid his senses had left him. “Regan! What in the name of the gods are you doing here in the forest?” He spoke quietly, reluctant to wake Briana just yet. Regan, as beautiful as ever, but a sorceress, just the same.
She shook her chestnut hair from her shoulders, the movement stretching the bodice of her green gown across her full breasts. She edged closer, a look of seduction on her face. “I had to see you, Weylyn. I’ve missed you so.”
“Missed me? I’ve been away only a few days.” Or so he hoped. Any other explanation did not bear scrutiny.
“A few days. Hmm.” She frowned and then smiled a captivating smile that made him forget everything but the woman before him. Gods! She was lovely. Why had he never realized that before?
She nodded toward Briana as a slow sun lightened the sky, turning Regan’s hair a flaming red and highlighting the ivory perfection of her alluring face. “Briana,” she murmured. “Why did you marry that bitch?”
He grimaced, a hundred regrets taunting him. “Sometimes I wonder. Ah, Regan, if only I had waited for you. It’s you I love, you I have always loved.” He embraced her, thrilling to the pressure of her breasts against his chest. He wanted to make love to her now, his loins aching for her. “But what can I do now, with that wench as my wife?”
She kissed him, a long, slow kiss that drove him to madness, then stepped back. “I’ll tell you what you can do. Turn her over to the druids when you reach Lochlann. She cheated them once before. You must not permit her to cheat them again.”
“I won’t.” Hope burst within him. A chance remained for his happiness, his and Regan’s. As soon as we reach the village, I’ll lock her up, tell the druids she bewitched me. I was helpless under her power.”
“Dear Weylyn, I knew you’d think of something. They’ll burn her at the stake for beguiling you, for thwarting the will of the gods. Just think! We can watch as they light the fire.” Her eyes gleamed. “Maybe they’ll let you light the fire.”
A twinge of conscience nagged him, for he would not wish that punishment on his worst enemy. Still, he would relinquish Briana to the druids and await their verdict, anything to have Regan. Then he and Regan could marry. Ah, such happiness they would have.
She nodded in Briana’s direction again. “You hate her, don’t you?”
“I loathe her!” He pulled Regan into his arms again and kissed her, never wanting to let her go, fearing this was all too good to be true, too wonderful to last. “Will you wait for me, Regan? A beautiful woman like you must have many suitors. Say you’ll wait, darling. I can’t live without you.”
“You know I’ll wait for you.” She spoke in a low, provocative voice, her lips red and full, her body tempting him. “I must leave you now—”
“So soon?” He couldn’t bear the disappointment.
“Yes, but we’ll have each other for the rest of our lives. You’ll see. Before you know it, I’ll be your wife, instead of that bitch over there,” she said, gesturing toward Briana. “Goodbye, dear Weylyn.” She blew him a kiss.
He reached for her again, but he touched empty air. She disappeared, just like that! He stood for long moments, trying to make sense of what he’d seen … or hadn’t, when she disappeared so quickly. Shaking his head, he strode back toward Briana, hating to look at her. He could think of nothing but turning her over to the druids for execution, so that he and Regan could marry.
Weylyn nudged her with his boot. “Wake up! You’ve slept long enough. We don’t have all day.”
She opened her eyes and stretched. “I was having the most wonderful dream.”
“Who cares about your damn dream? You’ve held us back far too long. Time to leave for Lochlann. You won’t be dreaming then, unless it’s a nightmare.”
Raising herself on her elbow, she stared at him. “Weylyn, what’s happened to you?”
Briana couldn’t believe her ears. “What’s come over you? Have you lost your senses?”
“No, just found them. You’ve fooled me long enough, but no more. Briana, no more! Now get up so we can leave.”
She gulped as tears flooded her eyes, but she brushed them away. Her mind went back to the time he’d come after her, only a few days ago. Even then, he hadn’t spoken to her in this cruel manner. What had made him change? She shoved her cloak aside and stood. “Very well, then. You want to leave? Fine with me.” She reached for the basket. “A quick breakfast and we’ll be on our way.”
He kicked the basket aside. “No breakfast. Gods, you try my patience. Get dressed, damn you, so we can leave.”
“Great, Weylyn. You know best. I wouldn’t dream of detaining you.” She nodded toward the copse of hemlocks. “At least let me….”
“If you must, but be quick about it.”
“By all means,” she said, not even trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “Weylyn knows best.” She walked away, headed for the copse of hemlocks. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she doubled over, as if she could never stop crying. What has happened to him? she asked yet again. What has changed him? She returned a short while later, wondering if she had only imagined his sharp voice, his brusque, nay, cruel manner. No, of course she hadn’t imagined his spiteful ways. His voice rang in her ears, every word a knife through her heart. She retrieved her dress that lay discarded on the ground, and a rush of memories erupted inside her, of their lovemaking last night and all their nights together, his kisses, his sweet murmurings in her ear. She wanted to weep for all the love they had shared, all gone from her now, like a vanishing mist.
If he noticed her red face, he said nothing. As she eased her dress past her waist and hips, one question nagged her. “What did you mean when you said that I’d fooled you long enough?”
“Just what I said.” He scowled. “You fooled me into believing that I loved you, and so I married you. Biggest mistake of my life.” He nodded in confidence. “But just wait. When we arrive in Lochlann, I’ll turn you over to the druids—”
“What?” This could not be happening. Not her Weylyn.
“You heard me. The druids will know what to do with you. They’ll take care of you in their own way. It can’t be soon enough for me.”
She glared at him. “That’s what you think. You don’t own me—”
“Oh, no? You’re my wife, unfortunately.”
“Your wife with a mind and will of her own. Think twice before you take me to the druids. I’ll tell them you dawdled, wasted time—”
“A lie!”
“So? Who’s to doubt me?” She picked up her satchel and threw on her cloak. “But we must return right away, mustn’t we? Never let it be said that I delayed you.”
They continued their journey in silence, Briana suppressing her tears, not only tears of sorrow for her marriage, but of anger toward Weylyn. What had happened to change him from the sweet lover of the past few days, to this stranger, as one bewitched? Bewitched. She ran that word through her mind, unable to find a satisfactory explanation. Something must have happened during his sleep. An evil s
pirit had entered his mind and turned him against her. She could think of no other reason for his irrational, nay, cruel behavior.
As the sun trekked across the western sky, they approached the western entrance to the village … and stopped. “Weylyn, those oaks….” Forgetting her hurt anger, she turned toward her husband. “Saplings when I left….”
“Now full grown,” his jaw dropped and his eyes wide.
They both stared upward. From each side of the dirt road, the stately oak branches met in the middle, an interlacing filigree above their heads that shut out much of the bright sun.
A horrible comprehension grabbed her stomach and bridled her words, but she found her voice. “So it’s been—”
“Years. But how many?”
Her heart thudded and she felt sick. Her head pounded with a hundred unanswered questions. “Donoria, the fairy country—”
“Aye. Time is different there. I’d heard that before, but forgot it during our stay and after our return, except for your satchel, my saddlebag.”
She nodded, wanting to cry for the lost years, for.… “Enid! Is she still alive? What has happened to her, to all our friends? Weylyn, I must go see—”
He grabbed her arm. “Not now. You must come with me, whether you want to or not.”
“Well, I don’t want to.” She jerked away. “Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do. I’m my own woman with my own mind.”
“You’ll do as I say.” He grabbed her again. “You’ll—” He stopped as the sound of chanting taunted them from the village square. A scream echoed through the air, then another, and another.
Briana and Weylyn stared at each other with gut-twisting horror.
Samhain.
Weylyn blinked his eyes, as if emerging from a daze, a nightmare. A slow understanding nudged his brain, the knowledge that Regan had truly bewitched him. She had applied the glamour, making herself look young again. She had convinced him that he loved her, not his dear wife, Briana. Gods! What a fool he was! How unkind to this woman, his own dear wife, whom he loved and honored above all others. Someday, he must make it all up to her, show her how much he truly loved her. But his natural prudence advised him to postpone his amends for another day. He must remain stern and unrelenting, for a difficult task awaited him. He could not permit any vulnerability to affect his actions.
He pulled her along. “Come. No time to waste. I’ve a job to do.”
He strode toward the village square, past the shops and businesses, along the dirt roads until he reached the cobblestone street and the village square. The chanting grew louder, the screams deafening. His strides quickened, and he broke into a run, glancing at Briana from the corner of his eye. She followed his pace, her expression mirroring his terror.
Crowds had gathered in the square, hundreds of people, all chanting. A young girl, bound and helpless, wept at the foot of a druid. A knife glinted in his hand while he bade an enforcer to raise her to her feet. The enforcer stepped forward menacingly. Eight other long-bearded druids stood to the side, looking on in calm detachment. They had seen this same occurrence so many times in the past. The crowds all stood farther back, about an eighth of a mile, Weylyn reckoned.
“No!” She screamed in terror. She clasped her hands and begged. “No!”
At the edge of the crowd, Weylyn pushed Briana to the side. “You stay here. Don’t go anywhere.” He pushed through the crowd, elbowing the spectators out of the way. He cursed the time it took to break through
Every nerve, every beat of his heart told him to stop, to let the sacrifice take place. He had no power over the druids. What made him think he could halt the ritual? Yet he must try, even if it cost him his life. Briana, my dear wife, I don’t want to leave you a widow.
The enforcer jerked the screaming girl to her feet. Why, she’s not even sixteen, Weylyn lamented.
The druid aimed his knife at her heart—
“Stop!”
Weylyn broke through the chanting multitudes. His heart pounded every step of the way. Fool! How in the name of all the gods could he halt the sacrifice? How could he convince the druids that they must end this barbaric ritual? But he must try, must be true to himself. Above all, he must save this innocent child.
“Stop!” He stood before the druid. “Sacrifice is not the way. There is a better means of protecting the people.” He swallowed. “You must not kill this child.”
The druid stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment. The chanting stopped, the people muttering among themselves. The druid’s expression turned to shock, then anger, his face red, his body trembling with fury. The other druids exchanged glances of bewilderment, soon transmuted to rage.
Still clutching the helpless girl, the enforcer took a step forward, his hand on his sword hilt. “You bastard!”
The head druid glared at him, his knife at his side. “Who are you to tell me how to conduct the religion?” He looked Weylyn up and down, contempt in his voice and his expression. “This sacrifice is the will of the gods. How dare you interfere with this sacrifice, the most sacred day of the year. The gods will punish you for your interference.”
Weylyn stood his ground, aware the druids had condemned him. They would burn him at the stake. But he would not give up. “I dare because this sacrifice is wrong. Wrong to sacrifice this innocent child to appease the gods. There is another way—”
“Be quiet, or I shall bring the wrath of the gods on you. A flick of my fingers will make you wish you had never been born!”
Is he bluffing? Weylyn agonized. From the past, he knew the druids practiced magic, but how strong was it?
The druid laughed with derision, the enforcer joining in. The crowd remained silent but restless.
“So!” The head druid wagged a bony finger at him. “He fears me, fears my powers.”
Weylyn found his voice, a renewed sense of purpose. “The only thing I fear is that this poor girl will suffer at your hand. You think you have power? Show me!” He flinched inwardly, but he would not reveal his fright.
The druid raised his hand to the sky and flung it down. Sparks flew from his fingers, but nothing else, no bolt of lightning, no fire. But that action alone drew exclamations from the crowd. He tried again, the result the same. Simple sparks, magical in themselves, but nothing harmful. Weylyn watched him, his eyes alert, wondering what more was to come. Folding his arms across his chest, he stifled his fear, resolved to present an image of nonchalance. But every instinct urged him to run, escape, for surely the druid would bring fire down on him, burn him to death. Only a matter of time.
The druid’s eyes slid from Weylyn to the other druids and enforcers. He raised his voice, addressing the people. “You see what evil exists among us. The demons from the Otherworld have sent this fiend to do their bidding, to turn us from our religion. This is why we must have the sacrifice, to keep the demons at bay, to prevent them from entering our houses.” Lifting his arms, he turned in every direction, his long white robe fluttering in the cool breeze, his unruly hair streaming behind him. “This is the reason we must observe this tribute. We must not permit evil to sway us from our beliefs. We must persevere!”
The enforcer released the girl and stepped forward. Wildly, she looked around and ran. Another enforcer grabbed her. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re staying right here.”
The first enforcer addressed the druid. “Druid Conan, let my skill determine if we continue with the sacrifice.” He drew his sword from the scabbard with a ringing peal. “Let me kill the meddler! What say you, Druid Conan? We all know I am the best swordsman in the village.”
Weylyn glanced from the enforcer to the druid, and saw the myriad of emotions that crossed the holy man’s face—shame because proven powerless, defiance, and finally hope that the enforcer would provide him with a means to escape his predicament.
“Agreed!” He smiled slyly at Weylyn. “It is agreed, then. If the enforcer wins, the girl dies.” He pointed a finger at Weylyn. “And you, too.”
G
ods give me strength. Help me. “Agreed. And if I win, the girl goes free and there will be no more sacrifices—ever.”
The enforcer laughed. “Prepare for the Otherworld, pretty boy. I haven’t lost a match in ten years.”
After Weylyn removed his cloak, they separated the required distance. He tried to judge how his opponent would attack, but he had no previous experience with him, nothing to guide him. His opponent equaled him in height and weight, he guessed. But in skill? He didn’t know. They raised their swords to salute the druids, then brought their arms down into guard.
The enforcer moved forward and lunged quickly without any apparent warning. Weylyn parried, always remembering to keep a firm grip on his weapon. He followed with a riposte, the enforcer following with a parry.
Ever mindful that fencing is as much deft footwork as skill with the hands and arms, Weylyn kept his feet moving, even while his mind worked, trying to find a pattern in his opponent’s movements. He kept a sure gaze on the enforcer’s body, not allowing himself to fall into the trap of following the weapon. The man was good—very good. Still, his motions seemed almost perfect, too perfect, as if he were stepping through a drill. If he could discover the enforcer’s pattern, he might be able to anticipate the man’s moves. He remained on the defensive, letting the enforcer set the pace, encouraging him to fall into predictable habits. The outcome of the duel taunted him, a constant reminder that he must not lose. Could not lose.
The enforcer continued his attacks, each time deftly parried by Weylyn. How long the bout had lasted so far, he could only guess. Sweat dampened his clothes and soaked his hair. The enforcer made a hit, a cut on his arm, the blade drawing blood. Weylyn felt the sting, saw the blood flow. Gods! He could not let this happen again. He might not escape with only a scratch another time.
In the Witching Hour Page 23