“Ah. Well, then, it is a puzzle as to how she got those burns.”
“Ravelle’s imps, I thought.” Marius said.
“So you told me. I respectfully disagree.”
“But they are no bigger than sprites and as evil as he is. If Ravelle did not make the circle of flame around her, they might have—”
Quercus raised an eyebrow. “Speculation, given the evidence. Tell me everything that happened from the time you set foot on the Forest Isle.”
“We landed and in time I led her to the sacred meadow. You know the place.”
“Of course I do. A little paradise. Primeval. Unspoiled. Some say it is where love began in the world.”
Marius was almost overcome with emotion to hear him say so, even in his absent way. “Oh, Quercus—we made love for hours there—I cannot count the ways—”
“No doubt it did you both good,” Quercus said thoughtfully. “Happiness is an antidote to evil, to be sure. Your lovemaking could have protected her from the poison of the mist, in fact. I will have to look it up. Your seed may be extraordinarily potent in that regard.” The old healer gave him an approving look. “But tell me of the other happenings, if you please. The unusual ones.”
“Well,” Marius went on more slowly. “There was a blue fire that appeared very briefly once or twice near us. At night. It went away. Could that have been—”
“A fire sprite,” Quercus sighed. “Just as I thought.”
“The circle of fire?”
“That is new to me. I do have a scroll on demon-circles and other black magic.” Quercus paced again and glanced into the alcove at Linnea. Marius went to look in too, unable to keep away for long. Her soft breasts rose and fell under the woven cloth that covered her.
“May I see the scroll? I trampled the fires so quickly—I was half-crazy with rage—but I do remember it,” Marius said. He would never forget. Tongues of flame, darting upward from the crushed grass. A living noose of death for a gentle girl who had never harmed a soul.
“Of course.” Quercus took an odd device from a hook on the wall, a tube of wood that had been fashioned with infinite patience and connected to a smaller tube with a hollow vine. “Let me listen to her heart.”
His face was a study in wrinkles as he concentrated on what he heard, but he did seem pleased. “Steady and strong. An excellent sign.”
Marius’s regard for the healer shone in his eyes. “Is it?”
The tree spirit put the device back on the wall. “Yes. However, she is not out of the woods yet, as we say.” He gave a chuckle, pleased with his little joke.
It broke the tension. Marius smiled. “Would it be all right if I sat with her for a while? Never mind the demon scroll for now—I just want to—”
Quercus patted him on the shoulder. “I understand.”
He left Marius standing there, looking down at Linnea, lost in slumber. Her color was better although she was still motionless. Something about the atmosphere of Quercus’s home within the heart of the old oak was doing her good.
Marius perched on the edge of the bed. He smoothed the cover over her, feeling clumsy but not caring. Her motionless hands rested at her sides and he picked up one and kissed it as softly as he could. Then he set it down between her breasts, over the scar of Ravelle’s wound, over her beating heart.
Steady and strong.
No words had ever made him happier.
He turned his head at the sound of Quercus returning. The tree spirit’s gaze was piercing and Marius was hard put to meet it.
“She will not recover without you, Marius. If you must be a hero, think about that.”
“What do you mean?”
Quercus extended a spindly arm and drew Marius away from the alcove to the other side of the space. They sat at a small table next to a window that looked out over the treetops, tossing and nodding in the balmy breeze.
“Let me explain,” Quercus began. “You thirst for revenge against Ravelle, but if you lose the battle, Linnea will be alone forever.”
Marius cast a yearning look back to where Linnea slept. He could not say that he would be beyond all caring after his death. His soul would always long for her. Their union on this earth was meant to last forever.
He curled his thick fingers into his palm until they hurt, thinking.
“The circle of fire injured you more than it did her.”
“It was meant to kill her, Quercus!”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. There is often more than one explanation for things and—”
“It was not done as innocent sport, you fool!” Marius had no trust in Quercus’s reliance on pure reason. “Investigate, deduce, eliminate—bah! I prefer a punch or a kick!”
“And how many times have I bandaged your knuckles and mended your split hooves?” Quercus inquired dryly.
“Often.”
“But this time, my impetuous friend, you have someone else to consider besides your enemy and yourself.”
“Linnea would want me to do my utmost to destroy Ravelle,” he growled.
“She cannot tell you what she wants.” Quercus glanced toward the alcove and back at Marius. “Your mind is enflamed with hatred. I can understand why, but—”
“Should I extend the hand of brotherhood to Ravelle?” Marius’s tone was scathing. “Only if I can break his fingers one by one in the next instant. And then I would tear him limb from limb—”
Quercus sighed and gave a little shake of his head. “You told me that the other lords of Arcan had convened to decide what to do. Accept their help and do not run away from it. You are not alone in this difficult time and acting as if you are is unwise. You are too willing to risk all, Marius.”
“What else can I do?” he muttered.
“Love her. Stay with her while she heals. What if she cannot walk when she awakes, Marius? Be her hero then.”
Marius fell silent, his thoughts troubled.
“I cannot do it all myself if you rush off on a rampage. And if you never come back, well—enough said on that subject. There is yet time to consider the best course of action.”
“You sound like Simeon,” Marius scoffed. “He thinks too much, as does Gideon.”
“Then you should listen to them.”
“I did!” Marius said angrily.
“Then think of her. Without you, she will pine away like a flower without the sun.” “Ravelle has struck twice. There will not be a third time if I can help it,” Marius said under his breath.
“So. You are determined to kill him?”
Marius’s face was set in hard, stony lines. “Yes.”
“Banishment to the Outer Darkness is not enough?”
“No. He doesn’t stay there. It is time someone did what is necessary to rid our islands of his evil.”
“And will the other Arcan lords be in your way?” Quercus inquired acidly. “You can simply kick them aside, I suppose.”
“I would not do that, but Simeon and Gideon are too cautious.”
“And Vane?”
Marius grunted. “The great lord of fire has his good points, although he is a sot and a rogue. He cannot be trusted, in my opinion.”
Quercus made a wry face. “So that leaves you and only you, eh?”
“Yes.”
“You are very sure of yourself.” Marius said nothing, and the old healer heaved another sigh. “Well, I have said my piece. Ravelle is a formidable adversary.”
“I will take my chances. His legions have not yet appeared on the island. For now he seems to act alone, except for his evil imps.”
“Alone? Hm.” Quercus fiddled absentmindedly with a second mushroom that had begun to grow where his left ear was. “I would think he would know better by now. But his powers were far greater than those of his kind and he has always ruled by force. Still, his arrogance makes him vulnerable.”
Marius sensed what the healer would not say out loud. So are you, Marius. He only shrugged in reply.
“You have the advantage if he
is old and getting careless. I suspect advancing mental deterioration. You may well win.”
“I will win.” Marius clenched his fists again. “For her. Because of her. Love comes once and I have found it with Linnea. I want to be with her for the rest of my days, here upon this island. Paradise has no meaning to me without someone to share it
The old healer nodded, lost in somber thought. “And if she should die?”
“I will too. By my own hand.”
Quercus took down a bottle from the shelf and brushed the cobwebs from it. He pulled the cork with some difficulty and set it on the table, then plunked down two wooden goblets.
“What is that?” Marius asked.
“Elderflower wine.” Quercus looked into a net bag and pulled out something folded in moist leaves. “And here is a sweet cake to eat with it. Let us talk no more of death and vengeance. As I said, there is hope. And there may be a way to do in a demon without risking your handsome hide, Marius.”
“Only one bottle? I could drink five.”
“There is more.”
“Bring them out. Let us discuss the many ways to do in demons. I might even listen. When I am drunk, I can be talked into anything.”
Quercus hesitated, then bent down to take more bottles from a hidden cupboard. “If that is the only way I can convince you, then I will take it.”
12
Several hours later…
“Good stuff. Give me more.” Marius held out his goblet. He had eaten none of the cake, but nearly all of the wine had gone down his throat.
“You have had enough. Centaurs shouldn’t drink.”
“Now you tell me.” Marius tipped his goblet over his face to get the last drop, but he missed his mouth. The dregs went into his eye and made it sting. “Ow! Querky, make me a poultice!”
“Serves you right if it stings. Maybe it will snap you out of it—”
Marius’s eyes rolled and his temper exploded. He railed at Fate, at Ravelle, at Quercus himself.
“Keep your voice down! Would you wake her?” The healer dashed to the alcove and looked in on Linnea.
“I would avenge her,” Marius muttered, filled with swirling rage.
Quercus came back and leaned over him, staring into Marius’s bloodshot eyes. “Your centaur nature is taking over. You must leave before the rest of the change happens. Now! Go!”
A second later Marius swept his arm across the table with impulsive anger, throwing the empty wine bottles and the scroll with Quercus’s carefully outlined plans to the floor. He got up, knocking over his chair and wandering from the table to look at Linnea.
Quercus’s barky chest heaved as he suppressed his own anger. A worthless emotion, in his opinion. Hard to control for him; impossible to control for Marius. He heard nothing from the alcove for several minutes but stayed where he was, hoping that the sight of Linnea would bring Marius to his senses again.
“She is the same!” came a deep, moaning voice. “Still as death!”
“Do not wake her, Marius!”
He came back to the table, his eyes glazed by tears and rage. “I must find the fiend—it is now or never, Quercus!”
The tree spirit was rolling up the damaged scroll. “Then go!” he snapped. “You will not listen to reason and neither Linnea nor I should have to listen to you!”
“You do not know what it means to love as I do!” Marius bawled. With his human foot, he pawed the floor and gave Quercus a maddened glare. Not because he was drunk, though he was, but because the change to a centaur was coming on just as the healer had said.
“She has been here but a few hours and already her condition has improved. Would you risk a relapse, you fool?”
“No—no—” Groaning with confusion, Marius stumbled down the spiraling stairs, Quercus hot on his heels. The healer pushed him outside.
Marius stopped a few paces away, breathing hard as his sides expanded and his buttocks transformed into the heavy hindquarters of a centaur.
“Go!” Quercus slammed the door and opened it again for a parting shot. “I wish you luck. Try to come back alive.” He shut the door again with a polite click and the thick bark rolled rapidly over it.
Befuddled and angry, now pawing the ground with enormous hooves, Marius looked at the place where the door had been. He shook his head, but that was not enough to clear it.
Her…on that bed…he could not help but think of her lying helpless in the circle of fire. What if he had not come back in time to put it out? Ravelle had done it. Marcus would gallop over the island without stopping until he found the demon.
Trample him. Split his skull. Fling him off a cliff.
To hell with Quercus and his caution. Same for the lords of Arcan. They had no real use for an animal like him. He didn’t belong in places where battle shields hung on the walls, never used.
He blew out a snorting breath that reeked of wine.
He looked to the tree and said a silent good-bye to Linnea, knowing she at least was safe. It was time. Marius’s blood surged in his veins. He took off, head lowered, tail flying. And ran for hours.
Exhausted, his hide foamed with sweat, Marius stopped at last. Gods above. Was that a centaur in the road? Or an apparition? The mange-eaten creature was hideous.
“My brother…help me,” the centaur said in a querulous voice.
Marius circled it but only once. “Brother? I have one, but he is a man. Who are you?”
“I have no name.” The centaur coughed and the carved piece of stone about its neck banged against its collarbone. Marius could not see its eyes, but was sure they were rheumy. There was an air of age and illness about it, as if it were about to collapse inside the hide that sagged upon its bones.
A bad omen, Marius thought wildly. He galloped on.
The old centaur picked up its head and looked after him. Its eyes were demon eyes, glowing red in the darkness. It took a shambling step after Marius, then another, and shuddered as its mangy hide wrinkled off the leathery skin beneath.
Ravelle followed, sometimes on the earth, sometimes in the air.
It was time to deal firmly with Marius. His return to the Outer Darkness had been worthwhile and the nascent rebellion quieted. He would not miss his troublesome cousin, who’d met a deservedly miserable death.
When that unpleasant business was over, he’d returned to the Forest Isle, looking for Marius. Not an hour ago, one of his imps had glimpsed the real centaur charging madly through the woods and flown off to notify the demon, looking for him first at the northern coast, where hell-soldiers had put in, transported at night from the Outer Darkness in galleys manned by slaves, to a narrow valley where nothing lived and they would not seen. There they waited, not patiently but silently, for Ravelle’s command.
The entire island would be his in time. He had particular plans for Marius.
After Ravelle’s fall from the magpie’s nest, it had taken him hours to find the amulet that had fallen with him. All he had to do was wear it around his stringy neck. Warmth empowered it and the all-powerful spell of the gods who’d enchanted it was still effective.
To his chagrin, it did not turn him into a centaur like Marius. Ravelle had wanted to be entirely virile again, endowed with powerful muscle and a glossy hide. It was not to be. Each time he put himself through the transformation, he looked worse.
As for tonight, in the valley, he desired the pleasure of attacking Marius as himself. His cracked, leathery, and wicked self. His iron ropes would bind the centaur’s legs this time, not just his tail. His blacksmith had fashioned an iron bridle, too. And tipped a supple whip with it.
Rising into the air again, he saw the glimmering sea beyond the valley. A swift ship was waiting there to remove Marius to his ultimate fate.
Ravelle wanted to make the agony last. Merely killing him was not enough. Forcing Linnea to watch his torment would break the centaur’s heart. He did not know where she was, of course, but she would be easy enough to find when the verdant isle was set afire.<
br />
Smoked out of hiding, running for her life, screaming for Marius. The great thundering idiot would bellow for her and earn himself worse punishment.
Furlongs away, Marius picked up a cold but still foul scent of Ravelle at last. Maddened all over again, he followed it, slipping on cinders into a valley of death which opened into the pounding sea. He had been here only once—few beings ever went to this dreadful place.
Lord of the Forest Page 16