He said to the spot where Sarimund had stood but a moment before, “Captain Jared is at Wyverly Chase.”
They heard Sarimund’s voice as a sigh in the still air. “What a grand man he was. He was so very sorry he could not pay the debt, but it was not to be; time had shifted on itself. And so the dreams came to many firstborn sons, and generations passed, all waited for the right time. When the two of you were finally united, Captain Jared wanted to see both of you, learn what you were about. He tells me you will succeed. But his magic is now as weak as a flicking flame in a high wind. Alas, he cannot even sing as he used to.”
The great dragon bowed his head to them and sang in a sweet high voice, “My son would like to burn you to your toes, my lord, but he swallowed his flame since it is forbidden that he expel fire until he has reached his maturity. The penalty is grave enough to make even an immature dragon consider carefully. I was pleased he was able to show some restraint. Unfortunately, his mother also believed it would be great sport. It is difficult to chastise her, for she is very quick to violence. I, however, am a god. I have knowledge none other have, dragon or man; I have visions that would blind others. I know what is and what could be. I am an extension of the Great Wizard. I am here and I am now, and will always be here. Let us go.”
Sarcasm rolled out of Nicholas’s mouth as he rolled his eyes. “You know ‘what is and what could be.’ Ah, I wish to take lessons in magic speak.”
Taranis’s eyes whirled madly. The ground shook. “Perhaps first, you should learn to sing properly.”
Rosalind said, “He is right, Taranis. Perhaps when this is over you can give us instruction. But now, what are we to do?”
Taranis landed beside them and the earth shook beneath his weight. He lowered his great head and sang, “Settle yourself between my magnificent scales and hold on tightly.”
After Nicholas and Rosalind managed to climb upon his back, he sang, “That’s right, hold yourselves steady.” He lifted himself effortlessly into the night sky.
I am riding on a dragon’s back, Rosalind thought. I am terrified and I wish to sing with the joy of it. Her soft white woolen skirts billowed, longer it seemed now, billowing behind her. She and Nicholas clung tightly to Taranis’s shining scales. His wings moved rhythmically, and her hair tangled about her head in the wind.
Rosalind tightened her hands together around Nicholas’s waist. “Look at all the snaking rivers and lakes. They appear, at least from up here, to bulge inside their boundaries, like a man’s veins rising on his hands. Isn’t that strange?”
The barren land below them was a vast plain that led to Mount Olyvan, its peaks jagged-toothed, bleak, and desolate. On its highest summit stood the huge fortress of Blood Rock. It was like a Hieronymus Bosch painting—Nicholas could easily picture abundant sin and moral turmoil residing within that fortress, and endless suffering, and endless pain and wailing.
Taranis rose higher and they felt moisture on their faces as they passed through clouds the color of eggplant and as wispy as dreams before dawn.
Nicholas said, “Sarimund wrote that you, Taranis, were the Celtic thunder god. The Romans wrote that Taranis was the god to whom human sacrifices were made. Your name is Taranis. Are you indeed he?”
“It is all of a piece,” Taranis sang. “All knits together in this realm and in most other realms as well. There is sin, there is worship, there is some good and more evil, and there is unity and devastation. The ancient Celts knew both, as do you in your modern day. As do we in the Pale. Ah, but the Romans, they were something else entirely.”
Rosalind rolled her eyes at this and said to Nicholas, pointing, “There are so many animals running on the plain. Ah, there are Tiber below running in a herd, at least two dozen of them.”
Taranis sang, “The Tiber believe the meat of the red Lasis will somehow elevate it above other creatures.” There was a snort, then, his voice singing higher, sharper, “But the red Lasis is much too smart. You should see Bifrost throw the fire spears in the pits he builds. It is one of the few things that give him pleasure since the death of his mate.”
But Bifrost has hooves, not hands, Rosalind thought, how could he ever build a pit or hurl a fire spear?
“Existing in your tedious, mind-numbing world has given you such limited imaginations,” Taranis sang into the high wind that had just sprung up near Mount Olyvan. He glided straight up, right at the fortress of Blood Rock. “There, I have distracted you, made you forget what is to come. Endless worry can limit a wizard’s powers, make his magic freeze. Now, however, it is time for you to focus and think and remember. As Sarimund said, be cautious, believe nothing you see.
“Ah, I quite despair of all this, but Sarimund is so very confident. Even though I am a god, all is hidden behind a thick veil. Events are trapped in the folds of time, and since time is bounded by place, my vision is obscured.”
In the next moment, Taranis came to a smooth landing on a wide flat expanse at the top of the black stone fortress that had frozen Sarimund’s blood when he’d first seen it, and now froze theirs as well. They saw the streaks of blood snaking down the black rock, thin as the rivers cut in the land below. It looked fresh, a vivid red. It looked thick and heavy, the droplets rolled slowly, inexorably. Nicholas remembered Sarimund had written that the sight kept all creatures in the Pale away from the fortress because it terrified them. Nicholas suspected all were right to be terrified of this hideous pile of blooded black rock. The fortress rose high above them, impossibly high arches with sharp spikes coming downward a good six feet, towers that speared into the eggplant-colored clouds or passed through them, wide entrances with huge iron portcullises poised halfway down, and so much ugly black stone covering everything. A marvelous illusion, Nicholas thought, and fancied he would alter this damned illusion once he had the time to do it. He smiled. He turned when Taranis sang, his voice deep and smooth, “Go, my children. I shall return when the time is right. Don’t forget that here, in the Pale, you are very powerful, you are ancient magic.” Then he raised his mighty head and trumpeted. It seemed the very fortress trembled and the streaks of blood on the black rocks spiderwebbed, creating new rivulets, a terrifying sight.
Nicholas and Rosalind carefully climbed off Taranis’s back. Suddenly Rosalind cried out, “Oh, dear, I cut my finger on one of the scales.”
“Let me see,” Nicholas said and took her finger. He didn’t think, simply squeezed and more blood shot to the surface. Then he took her finger in his mouth and sucked the wound. He studied the prick for a moment, then looked closely at the drop of blood on the tip of Taranis’s scales.
Taranis rose straight into the air. He hovered there, his great eyes on Rosalind. He sang so loudly Nicholas would swear all the beasts on the far plain could hear him, “I have mixed with your blood. A Dragon of the Sallas Pond mixed with a witch. Now, what will come of that? I wonder.” And he glided upward, wheeled to the right, and was away. They watched him fly back across the barren plain, where from their vantage point atop Mount Olyvan, the herds of creatures below looked very tiny indeed.
“What did he mean mixing his blood with—”
Rosalind got no further.
50
A young man stood directly in front of them, paying them no attention, as he shaded his eyes with his hand, watching Taranis fly away.
“He did not speak to me,” the young man said as he turned to Nicholas and Rosalind. “Surely he did not see me, else he would have spoken to me. My lord, mistress, my name is Belenus. I am vastly important in your history, a god—of agriculture, the giver of the life force.”
Rosalind eyed the brightest red hair she’d ever seen. Only his incredible blue eyes were brighter. She felt like a faded copy standing next to him. He had big, very white square teeth. She said, “The Romans called you Apollo Belenus and named the great May first festival after you, Beltane. In this modern age, we still celebrate Beltane. Did you know that?”
“Modern age? An age is an age, nothing m
ore.”
Belenus bowed to Nicholas, deep and graceful. “I am relieved you are finally here. There is only a sliver of time. I feel it; all do. We must open the door and step into the seam that divides what Epona wished to happen from what actually will come to pass. You wonder how I know this. Taranis had no choice but to think it to me so I would not stand here like a dolt, questioning you but not understanding. I have no time to give you a nice cup of witmas tea.” He grinned, showing every one of those big square teeth. “It is Epona’s favorite drink. She tries to hide it from the other witches. Witmas changes its taste, you know. I prefer it when it tastes of the juice of the newly killed Tiber. Now, follow me.”
Nicholas and Rosalind fell in behind the young man with his pale white skin, and his burning blue eyes, and that violent red hair. It seemed even redder now. Nicholas felt the power in him, felt it drawing him, though he walked in front of them, saying nothing, simply walking.
They passed through impossibly wide corridors, like rooms really, some lined with Roman swords and helmets, others with skeletons, all standing erect against the corridor walls, like soldiers standing at attention. They walked through chambers, all painted in vivid colors, from the deepest purple to a pale, pale yellow, filled with precious Greek statues standing immediately next to crude wooden statuary, carved by ancient hands.
“All of this is much too large, too vast,” Nicholas whispered to her. “It is an illusion meant to impress us.”
“Of course it is an illusion,” she said matter-of-factly, “and it is well done.” Rosalind called out, “Belenus, perhaps you have created too many rooms and corridors to impress us with your power. However, you said we must hurry. Why are you delaying us?”
Belenus stopped at the next chamber, one whose walls were painted vivid bright blue, the color of his eyes, Rosalind saw. There were velvet-covered benches against all the walls, a sultan’s large jeweled pillows stacked everywhere, and on the walls were niches where statues of the Celtic gods stood. How he knew this, Nicholas didn’t know, but he was sure.
Rosalind looked toward Nicholas, at his long thick black hair, clubbed now at the nape of his neck, and that hardness about his mouth, the promise of infinite violence and cruelty. She felt also the promise of wholeness, perhaps of a long-missing justice. He was now of the Pale, he was now of Blood Rock. This wizard was unfettered; he was at home.
She said to Belenus, her voice imperious, the air shimmering around her, hot and alive, her red hair a fiery nimbus around her head, “You will lead me to Epona right now. I know that I must proceed alone and that my lord must remain here. There is not much time left. What must be done must happen now or else times can overlap and there would be confusion even I cannot fix.”
Rosalind felt incredible power flow through her. She embraced it, felt it grow stronger, felt herself one with it. She said to Nicholas, her voice calm, remote, “I am more powerful than the three blood moons. I could lift them out of the black sky and juggle them. Perhaps I could even sing to you as I juggled the moons.”
In the next moment, Rosalind stood in the center of a vast stark white chamber. It was as blinding a white as she and Nicholas had experienced at Wyverly Chase—had that happened only the night before? Or a hundred eons ago? There were many windows with white gauzy curtains blowing into the chamber. The windows were not open.
On the far side of the room stood a narrow bed draped in white gauze hangings. The hangings, like the draperies, billowed over it.
She called out, her voice sharp, impatient, “Epona! Come here immediately. I want Prince Egan!”
Time passed.
“Epona!”
There was only the dead white and silence.
Rosalind wasn’t alone. She was standing tall, smiling, atop a large flat platform. Beside her was a smooth flat stone, an altar. On top of it lay a man, his arms and legs chained down. He was naked, unconscious, and it was Nicholas.
His eyes flew open, dark, nearly black. He smiled. “I will kill you,” he said. “I will kill you.”
“No, you will not.” She raised the knife in her hand and brought it down in a firm clean line, and stabbed it deep into his heart. She jerked out the knife, then cut away the flesh. She reached into his chest and cut out his still-beating heart. She raised her head to the heavens and chanted words that had no meaning to her, and then she flung the heart away from her. A great wind came up and blew her hair away from her face, plastered her flowing white gown against her.
She looked down at the man, dead by her hand. And she saw that it was indeed Nicholas. She had killed him just as Richard had seen her do in his dream. She sank to her knees, blind with hollowed pain. She felt her own life seeping out of her, and welcomed it.
Silence fell around her, into her, pain roared through her head. Then she felt something move inside her, and it was awareness, and it was knowledge.
And she knew.
She stood and yelled, “A lie, it was all a lie! You will not fool me again, Epona! Show yourself, you bloody witch!”
Epona seemed to fly in through one of the large windows, though it appeared to remain closed, and the white draperies flowed about her until she was standing directly in front of Rosalind. She was gowned all in white. The material welled up, then settled around her, leaving one very white shoulder bare. Her hair was black as a moonless sky. She looked very young and very beautiful, her mouth as red as the blood tracking down the fortress stones.
Epona looked her up and down, sneered. “You are too late, witch. I had told Belenus to delay you and so he did, because he, like all the others, fears me. Yes, it is too late and you have failed. Sarimund has failed.”
“Of course I am not too late, you witless creature,” Rosalind said. “That illusion—you plucked it right out of my head, didn’t you? You also gave it to Richard Vail in a dream to terrify him.”
Epona laughed.
Rosalind said, “Well, no matter now. At last I realized the truth and you will not fool me again. I heard you represented beauty, speed, and sexual vigor.”
“And bravery!”
“As you wish. Perhaps some of that could be true. However, you strongly resemble your mother. You look like a horse, albeit a beautiful horse, perhaps an Arabian.”
Epona flew at her, her nails sharp as daggers. “You bitch! I am a beautiful woman, all say so.”
Rosalind laughed as she held up her hand. Epona’s nose smashed against her palm. Epona tried to draw back, but Rosalind’s palm remained stuck to her nose. She laughed again. “Not only do you look like a horse, your power is pitiful. Where is Prince Egan?”
“Let me go or I will say nothing!”
“Ah, is that a neigh I heard? By all the gods, I pray Egan does not look like you, Epona.” Rosalind drew back her hand from Epona’s nose and wiped her palm on her cloak.
“Bring him to me now.”
Epona cursed under her breath, a strange mixture of ancient Celtic and Latin words, all of them crude and graphic. Rosalind gave her a very cold smile. She felt viciousness sing through her blood. “I will not ask you again, Epona. I will reverse the spell of the witmas tea if you do not obey me. Ah, I wonder what you really look like?”
Epona vanished. Rosalind remained standing in the middle of the room. The air was silent and still. The curtains were no longer blowing inward from those closed windows. She heard a child’s voice, coming closer. A boy child, and he was speaking. “Who am I to meet? There isn’t anyone left that I have not met.”
51
Rosalind listened, and waited. Suddenly he was in front of her, arms crossed over his chest, and he looked her up and down. He was perhaps eight, a finely knit boy, dark eyes, handsome. “Who are you, woman? What do you want with me? She said only that you were another stupid witch, not even from the Pale, and she would dig out your ugly eyes with her nails. She said she would drown you into eternity. She is very powerful. I would believe her.”
“I am Isabella. You are Prince Egan, Sarimund’s
son?”
“Yes, who else would I be?”
She smiled down at the handsome little boy. “No, you are yourself, of course.” Rosalind studied the boy. Did Nicholas look like him when he’d been a boy? They didn’t look alike, precisely, but there were similarities, the olive tone of their skin, the dark, dark hair and eyes.
“I do not recognize you. Why do you wish to see me?”
I am in time to save him, to save Nicholas, and she wanted to shout with the relief of it. She whispered, “Nicholas.”
“No, I am not this Nicholas. I am Egan. Why are you here, Isabella?”
“I am here to save you from Epona.”
“How can you possibly save me when I can outrun you, I can blight you into a white bug?”
Ah, the arrogance in his young voice. But it was Nicholas, she knew to her soul that it was, at least here in the Pale it was. She smiled. “Did Epona not tell you?” She could not bring herself to call the witch his mother, not when Epona wanted to murder him.
Egan said, “No, she never tells me anything of use. I wish to become a man. Sometimes I think that I have been this small size for far too long a time. But who can be certain of anything?”
“You will become a man, I swear it.” And soon, she thought, soon now.
Suddenly, Epona was standing beside him, shaking her fist at him. “I am Epona. I am your mother.”
“More’s the pity,” said the little boy.
“You will never be a man, you will never displace me!” In the next instant, Epona drew a knife and lunged toward the boy.
“No!” No time, no time. Rosalind hurled herself in front of the child, and felt the knife sink swift and smooth into her chest. She felt it sink into her heart, rend it clear in two, and settle deep inside her. She felt a great lassitude, a sense that time had somehow stopped, and she was trapped within it. She dropped slowly to the floor. She looked up at Prince Egan, who had fallen to his knees beside her, his small fingers hovering over the knife, but he did not touch it. A smile came out from deep inside her. “I have succeeded. You will be a man.”
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 158