A dank chill invaded as he was assailed with a foul smell—a mixture of vinegar and sulfur with a hint of moldy orange. He covered his mouth with his sleeve and searched the shadows. An iron pot hung over hot coals encased in brick in the center of the room. Gray smoke curled and twisted upward through a dark cone-shaped hole in the ceiling. The carcasses of bats and rodents hung from the ceiling alongside various dried herbs. A table to his left was crowded with mortars, alembics, braziers, sieves and bowls, while shelves of books and two chairs perched to his right. More than a dozen candles attempted without success to push back a darkness that LeGode sensed was more than mere shadows.
One of the shadows moved. Drogo materialized. Hair that looked more like gray straw hung about his face, matched by a long, frizzled beard. The black band wrapped around his head starkly contrasted with a white tunic ornamented with oddities that made LeGode wince—bird wings, animal feet, amulets, and trinkets of various sorts. Even a small book that looked as old as the warlock himself. Drogo stared at him with eyes so small and pointed, LeGode could never guess their color.
A shiver ran through him. He hated coming down here. Hated begging favors from this warlock. But what choice did he have? He’d come to realize long ago that there were powers at work in the world, in this very castle, powers that were against him, powers for which he possessed no weapons to defeat—none but what this man offered.
“Ah, LeGode, a pleasure.” Drogo sneered.
LeGode dared a step forward. “Things are not going as planned.”
“Do tell.”
“No doubt you are already aware.” As naught escaped the warlock’s attention.
Drogo stared at him with eyes devoid of light.
“The Bishop of Montruse is here with the King’s Guard searching for the Spear of Destiny,” LeGode offered.
For the first time since LeGode had met Drogo, fear made a brief appearance on his face. So, he does not know.
“The Spear of Destiny!” he roared.
“Aye, the Spear that pierced—”
“Do not say that name!” Drogo waved his hand, and LeGode’s tongue clung to the top of his mouth as if someone had nailed it there. “Never say that name!”
Terror sped LeGode’s heart into a frenzy. He nodded his assent and Drogo snapped his fingers.
LeGode’s tongue loosed. He clutched his throat as Drogo walked to the pot and peered in.
“It is not here, I assure you. I would know.”
“Alas, as I have been telling the bishop,” LeGode coughed out. “But the pompous puttock won’t listen to reason and insists on searching the manor and even Emerald Forest on the morrow for some insolent lady thief.”
Grabbing a bottle from which puffed white smoke, Drogo poured it into the pot, then stirred and stared within. “They will not find it.”
“I would rather they do and be rid of them!” LeGode drew a deep breath and instantly regretted it as the stench of rotten eggs saturated his lungs. “Alack, can you at least tell me when they will leave?”
Drogo shook his head. “That is unclear.”
LeGode frowned. “The king sends another suitor.”
A rare smile lifted Drogo’s pale lips. “Indeed? And what would you have me do to this one?”
“The same.” LeGode took up a pace, fingering the ruby brooch at his neck. “Wait. Mayhap that would cause the king to cast suspicion my way.”
“There are many wolves in the land. The deed will not bloody your hands.”
“These suitors are not weak, feckless men, Drogo, to be so easily overcome by wolves.”
Drogo laughed, an evil laugh that never failed to sour LeGode’s stomach. “You do not know my wolves. Never fear. When Cedric and Lady D’Clere announce their engagement, the king will be so glad to have the matter resolved, he will give no thought to his losses.”
A rat skittered across the floor, halting LeGode. He swung to face the warlock. “It will be done, then?”
“It will be done.” Drogo mumbled, still staring into the pot. “There is something else…something which disturbs the darkness.”
“Pray, what now?”
With his bare hands, Drogo grabbed a handful of burning coals from beneath the pot and scattered them over an iron table to his right.
LeGode’s palms began to sweat as he waited for the stench of burning flesh to greet his nose. Though he had witnessed Drogo perform this feat a dozen times, it never failed to disturb him.
The sorcerer stared at the coals intently for several seconds. “There is another suitor. He is near to Lady D’Clere. She will choose him unless fate intervenes.”
“Devils Blood!” LeGode raged. “That vain wagtail of a King’s Guard! You must get rid of him for me.”
Unmoved by LeGode’s outburst, Drogo continued staring at the simmering coals. When finally he raised his gaze he replied, “I cannot. He is protected.”
“Protected! By who?”
Such hatred twisted Drogo’s features, LeGode regretted the question and thought to make a quick escape. Instead, he appeased the warlock with, “Never mind, I will handle Jarin the Just. But prithee, give me something to keep Lady D’Clere abed. That should keep the coxcomb away for now.”
“You do well to remember that I have kept her ill for two years now.” Drogo turned to search through myriad bottles scattered on his shelves.
“And I thank you for it. When the little whelp celebrated her fifteenth birthday, she thought to run Luxley herself—send me scurrying back home as if I were naught but a servant boy! Devil’s Blood!”
Selecting a vial, Drogo turned and handed it to him. “Your debt to me grows, LeGode.”
“I have already pledged my son after his wedding. What more can I give you?”
“We shall see.” The warlock grinned and dismissed him with a wave and a look that made LeGode question whether the man’s price would be too high for him to pay.
♥♥♥
Alexia dashed behind the waterfall, down the winding tunnel, and barreled into her home. The friar was just placing steaming bowls of porridge on the table, the scent of rabbit, onions, and carrots rising to tempt her to stay.
But she couldn’t.
“Friar, the king’s men are searching the forest.”
“Sit and eat, dear.”
“Did you hear me?” She scanned the room for her bow and arrows, which the friar had insisted she leave behind when she’d claimed a need for fresh air. “There are dozens of them. The castle knights join them.”
Pouring wine into two cups, the friar took his seat. “Come pray with me.”
“There is no time! They look for the Spear. Why are you not alarmed?”
“God is never alarmed, dear one. He is patient and wise, not rash and driven by fear. And so must we be.” He gestured toward her chair, the peace on his face casting shame on the torrent brewing within her. “Pray with me. Let us seek His wisdom.”
Against everything within her, Alexia plopped into the chair, her breath and heart refusing to calm. “You’ve forbidden me to leave this place for two days. The village needs food and now danger is near. I’ve done enough praying. ’Tis time for action.”
“There is never enough praying.” He took her hand and squeezed it, then breathed out the most eloquent prayer she’d heard him speak, praising God over and over, then asking for His wisdom and will. Silence settled her heart as they waited for God’s answer, the Spirit welling within her, filling her with indescribable joy and a love of which she would never tire. Then came the strong sense of affirmation, the knowing that they were in God’s will, and the friar continued his prayer asking for angelic protection over her as she went forth.
Alexia opened her eyes, met the friar’s, and nearly cried at the love pouring from them. She sipped her wine, then leapt to her feet and planted a kiss on his cheek. He blushed as usual as she gathered her bow and quiver, strapped on her knives, and headed toward the door.
“I’ll return anon, Friar. Never fe
ar.”
“You are in God’s hands now, dear one.”
Once past the waterfall, Alexia took to the trees as was her way in battle. Though she tried to cling to the peace of only moments ago, the fear returned. She’d thwarted bands of warriors before, drove them out of the Circle, but never when they purposely sought the Spear.
Strapping the bow around her shoulder, she leapt from branch to branch, tree to tree, making her way to the last spot where she’d seen the knights. Birds, long since accustomed to her presence in the forest, greeted her with tweets and squawks and happy tunes. Squirrels darted. An owl flapped its wings, angry at having its sleep disturbed. Though ’twas midday, low hanging clouds shrouded the forest in gray and lured a mist from the ground, coating everything in moisture. Good. ’Twould make her harder to see.
Halting, she flattened against the trunk of a tree and listened. Voices and the thud of heavy footsteps alerted her to their position. Within the Circle of the Spear. Not good news for them.
With a balance honed from years of practice, she dashed down a thin branch, then hopped to another tree, sending two wrens from their nest in a tizzy of feathers and screeches. Leaping to another tree, she landed hard on a high branch and stopped to catch her breath. Through a web of leaves, she spotted five men beneath her. No, six, seven…more came, all having abandoned their horses and now creeping through the forest, weapons drawn.
Did they expect the Spear to simply appear, lying on a fallen leaf or atop a rock? Or mayhap dangling around the neck of a rabbit? She suppressed a laugh at the thought. No doubt they hoped to find a woodsman’s home or hunter’s lodge to search—or better yet, torture the inhabitants for any news they had of the holy relic.
Or mayhap they searched for her! Though she’d been a wanted criminal for years, never before had anyone ventured into the forest to find her. Which was a blessing since they surely would have noticed the change that had taken place since the Spear had arrived. More game, milder weather, an abundance of fruits and nuts. The trees grew ever taller and fuller. The waterfall that hid her home had been naught but a trickle dripping into a puddle before the Spear. In truth, the entire western section of the forest had become a mini-Eden.
The crunch of leaves sounded as the warriors moved beneath her. Three more emerged from the greenery. The leap of her heart betrayed her at the sight of Sir Ronar LePeine—all leather and man, and moving so stealthily with his two companions, she barely heard them. How could men so well-muscled make such little sound?
More knights followed, spreading out in a long line, combing the forest like a giant sieve.
And heading straight for the Spear.
“Father, grant me thy grace,” Alexia whispered.
Then pulling an arrow from her quiver, she nocked it, leveled it on one of the men, and closed her eyes. The temporary world faded, the real one appeared—all glitter and glory and wonder.
The knights moved as either shadows or light.
She released the bow at a shadow.
Chapter 11
The scream spun Ronar around, his sword drawn ere he completed the turn. Rushing toward the sound, he shoved aside a branch, and came upon one of the castle knights on the ground, an arrow in his thigh. Before Ronar could lift his gaze to scan the foliage, another arrow sped past his ear and struck another knight, expertly aimed between the upper and lower armor shielding his arm.
The knight stumbled backward, plucked out the arrow, and uttered a curse.
Dashing for the nearest tree, Ronar flattened against the trunk, directing Jarin, Damien, and the others to do the same. More arrows rained on them from above. He craned his neck and scanned the canopy but could not spot Lady Falcon. Forsooth, it had to be her! Leaves rustled, a branch creaked, and he thought he saw a shadow leap from tree to tree before more leaves swallowed it up. Sword still drawn, he dashed in that direction just as wails of agony filled the air.
He circled a large boulder and saw two more knights pierced by arrows, three more darted for cover, and the head knight, Sir DeGay, swayed in place as he stared in puzzlement at the leaves above him. Grabbing his arm, Ronar yanked him out of the clearing and shoved him beside a tree.
“Have a care, Sir Knight, or you may be next.”
“Where, how? He attacked from nowhere.”
A cloud of alcohol enveloped Ronar. “She.” He sheathed his sword and withdrew a knife.
More knights burst into the clearing. A hailstorm of arrows shot from the sky—at least five of them in such quick succession, ’twas hard to believe they came from one bow. Two of the knights were hit. Before they even struck dirt, more arrows assailed them from the south.
Mayhap Lady Falcon did have help.
“We have to split up or she’ll shoot us all!” Ronar shouted. “Sir DeGay, assist your wounded out of danger, then divide your remaining knights in groups of three and send them in different directions. Tell them to keep low and fast. Jarin, Damien, with me.”
He didn’t wait to see if the besotted knight complied. The man’s incompetence was not Ronar’s problem. Though how his knights won so many battles was becoming more and more suspect. Mayhap this Spear of Destiny truly was close.
Wiping sweat from his forehead, Ronar took off in a sprint, keeping low to the underbrush—brush that was dense and verdant. As were the trees and shrubs. Even the moss covering trunks and rocks was the most beautiful shade of green he’d ever seen. Water dripped from leaves like diamonds. Patches of wild flowers sprouted here and there. Why had he not noticed how lush the forest was before?
Mayhap because the last time he had ventured within, Lady Falcon had shot him in the thigh.
Ducking from tree to tree, shrub to thicket, Ronar followed the screams of pain as the phantom archer wove a trail through the forest toward the north—back toward the village and castle. She was leading them away from someone or something.
Ronar would not play her game. He gestured to Jarin and Damien to make no sound, attempt no engagement, and follow the archer. Both men nodded their understanding, and all three proceeded forward, quiet as a summer breeze and eyes peeled to the canopy. More than once they lost her trail, halted and listened for the wails of her victims or any creak of branch or sudden flight of birds disturbed from their nests. Mist curled up from the ground, chilling the sweat on Ronar’s back as ever-increasing shadows made it difficult to spot anything in the trees above. Finally, after an hour, they had followed her north, northeast, and then south to west again. All grew still and quiet. Even the forest creatures hushed as if in reverence to this Falcon of the forest.
Ronar inched west toward the last sound he’d heard. Night approached, darkening the gray skies even further. The gurgling of water drifted past his ears… then a splash, ever so slight. He crept forward, held up his hand to halt his men, then knelt behind a thick hedge and moved aside the leaves. There. Lady Falcon in her breeches and leather doublet, quiver at her back and bow over her shoulder, leaned by a creek and cupped water to her mouth. A tumble of red hair spilled over her like a cloak of fire.
Ronar smiled. He gestured for Jarin to circle around the creek to her right and Damien to her left where they could trap her when he forced her forward. They nodded and as soon as Lady Falcon rose and started on her way, the three of them did the same.
Ronar kept at least ten yards behind her, training his eye on her every movement, her confident gait, the sway of her feminine hips, and the way she wove effortlessly around trees and bushes as if she were one of the forest creatures who inhabited this verdant paradise.
Two times she halted and turned. Both times, Ronar enjoyed the vision of her comely face searching the foliage. Both times she proceeded on her way.
Finally, the thunderous rush of water grew louder. The lady shoved through a thicket and disappeared. Kneeling, Ronar peered through the leaves. Water careened over a ledge of stone into a large pond. The lady strode directly to the falls as if she would dive into the powerful deluge. Instead, she halte
d, turned once more to scan her surroundings, then ducked beneath the water and disappeared.
He kept staring, expecting her to reappear, but after several minutes, there was no sign of her. He didn’t have time to ponder where she’d gone when Damien appeared beside him, stealth as ever. “I circled around and tracked her here. Where is she?” he whispered.
♥♥♥
Soaring on the wings of her victory over the knights, Alexia begged and begged the Friar to allow her to venture to the castle to determine how her sister fared. He finally agreed she could bring game to the village and seek news from her friends. But she was to go no farther. ’Twas something at least. She understood his fear. Sir Ronar LePeine knew her face and was surely seeking revenge for slipping the potion into his tea. God’s truth, the man was not one to cross. He may have already revealed her identity and alerted the castle guards to be on the lookout for her. Especially after she had won a victory over him and his men in the forest. In good sooth, he was most likely the one who had sent the knights after her in the first place.
Pride surged through her as she realized she’d routed over thirty warriors—including the infamous King’s Guard—away from the Spear and back to the castle, injuring over half. She did, indeed, feel a morsel of guilt over the latter. She took no pleasure in causing anyone pain, but her task was simple: Protect the Spear at all costs.
Why the knights had not since returned to the forest she couldn’t say. Mayhap they were plotting another way to trap the elusive Falcon.
The villagers welcomed her with happy smiles and grateful words as she delivered her load of deer and rabbits. After the game was taken away and hid, they begged her for a few verses from the Holy Scriptures. Regardless of the danger to herself, how could she deny those who were so starved for God’s Word? Hence, she perched on a bench outside Wimarc’s home, a mob of children at her feet, while their parents huddled behind them and recited Psalm Eighty-One from memory. The people soaked in the Words with rapt attention, oohs and ahhs, joyful smiles, and sighs. And Alexia grew even more angry that the Church kept such hope and comfort from the people who needed it the most.
She Walks in Power Page 8