The wish had been heard.
Time turned, hurtling back along its path until it reached a spring day when the forest echoed with the triumphant voices of hunters, and the ground trembled beneath the hooves of their horses. Once there, it slowed, halting for less time than it took to blink before resuming its more sedate, forward journey.
As destined, a horse had stumbled and thrown the Earl of Rothwyn to the ground. As destined, the injured man had been taken to the nearby home of a merchant. There, he’d been tended by the merchant’s daughter before returning, with little more than a headache, to Rothwyn. The girl’s beauty and kindness had stirred the earl’s admiration and gratitude…but not his heart.
The wish had been granted, and destiny had since forged a new and different path.
The traveler fingered the gold medallion at her breast. The moon, with its rare silver girdle, was surely a wonder to behold. A miracle, some would say. She knew, though, that the light of true miracles could not be seen by human eyes. It was too brief, too brilliant, beyond their mortal comprehension but not always beyond their belief.
Faith, they called it. A crucial ingredient. Magic never worked without faith.
Where William failed, his child succeeded. Everyone is now where they are supposed to be. The traveler tore her eyes from the night’s splendor and turned back toward her door. Almost everyone.
Sometimes, destiny needed a little extra manipulation. The time had come to visit an old friend. The traveler would have to assume a different form, of course.
One William recognized.
Chapter 23
The small bird shot across Rothwyn’s bailey like a bright blue arrow and disappeared beneath the eaves of the stable roof. Moments later, another followed, flashing its tawny underbelly as it darted by.
“Welcome back,” Lora murmured, settling her laden basket into the crook of her arm. She gazed up at a cloudless spring sky and drew a deep, contented breath. She’d awoken that morning to a heady feeling of buoyancy, as if her spirit had somehow sprouted wings overnight.
Today, everything just feels so…right. The blessings of a new season, no doubt.
Humming, she spun on her heel and headed for the kitchen entrance, throwing a glance toward the old well. The wooden fence around it had all but collapsed, giving it an air of neglect and abandonment. Ever since she could remember, she’d had a fascination for the strange opening in the earth. It was supposed to be magical, a pagan oracle of sorts, granting wishes to those who threw gold down its throat. She’d been warned away from it many times, but still dared to approach and peer over the broken barrier into the blackness, listening for the faint rush of water far below.
After dropping off her basket, she went in search of her father. She paused at his office door, which stood ajar, and peered through the gap. He sat at his desk, quill in hand, head bent over one of his meticulous ledgers. Lora studied him for a moment, her heart swelling with an unexpected rush of love.
“Papa?”
His quill paused and his expression relaxed as he turned to her. “Come in, little ’un. What’s new?”
She entered, bending to kiss his cheek before perching her backside on the narrow window ledge next to his desk. “The swallows have returned.”
“Have they now? Good news. ’Tis a day for it, it seems.” William glanced at her dusty skirts and raised his brows. “Where on earth have you been?”
Lora grimaced and brushed off some of the offending dirt. “In the root cellar. A day for it? What do you mean?”
He leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “It was announced just this morning. At long last—” A knock interrupted his remark, and a young male servant poked a tousled head around the door.
“Forgive the interruption, Master William, but you have a visitor. Are you able to receive him?”
William frowned. “May I know his name and business?”
Before the boy could respond, the door swung wide and a man stepped over the threshold.
“Greetings, Will.”
William gasped, his face donning a mask of disbelief. Lora stood and looked from one man to the other, a tingle crossing her scalp as curiosity flared. Who was this visitor? His simple attire, reminiscent of a cleric, did little to diminish the instant allure of his presence. His pale features, in contrast to his dark hair and equally dark eyes, gave him an air of mystique rather than ill-health. As if aware of her scrutiny, his gaze met hers and he inclined his head. Lora’s breath stalled in her throat. They had never met, she would surely have remembered such an occasion, yet she had the odd impression he knew her.
Who is he?
“Iorwerth.” Still wearing a stunned expression, her father rose to his feet. “By all the saints, I can scarcely believe my eyes. After all this time. Where, under God’s great sky, have you been?”
“Traveling,” Iorwerth replied as they shook hands, a prolonged gesture suggestive of a long-overdue reunion.
William scoffed. “For sixteen years?”
“Sixteen, is it?” Iorwerth shrugged. “It doesn’t seem that long to me.”
“Nor does it show, you’ve changed not a bit.”
Iorwerth smiled at Lora. “And this must be your daughter.”
William straightened. “Forgive me. Yes, this is Lora, my eldest. Lora, this is Iorwerth, an old friend who has a habit of disappearing with nary a word. I last saw him the day I wed your mother.” He cleared his throat and bent his lips to her ear. “He’s rumored to be a warlock, so tread carefully or he’ll turn likely you into a toad.”
Lora’s eyes widened. “A warlock? Truly?”
Iorwerth’s mouth twitched. “Your father still has his sense of humor, I see. It’s an honor to meet you, Lora.”
“You too, sir,” she replied, fascination for the stranger growing with each breath. He had shrugged off her father’s odd comment but not denied it. A warlock? Her eager imagination took flight.
“We also have a son,” William said. “Marcus. A fine young lad of ten summers. He’s somewhere about.”
“I look forward to meeting him. Beth is well, then, I take it?”
“In fine health, thanks be. So, do you mean to stay a while? Or will you be vanishing again before nightfall?”
Iorwerth chuckled. “I’d like to stay here a day or two, if I may.” He cast his gaze around the room. “You’ve done well for yourself, my friend. It pleases me to see it.”
“Aye, although credit for our good fortune must go to my wife. The earl never forgot her kindness to him after he fell from his horse. He attended our wedding, if you recall. A short time after, when Rothwyn’s previous steward died, I was offered the post. The earl’s way of showing his gratitude.”
Iorwerth nodded. “A fine wedding gift.”
“Indeed. And after the earl’s marriage, Beth became lady’s maid to his countess, the Lady Margaret, a gracious woman of good heart. Our lives have indeed been blessed.” William’s expression brightened. “That’s what I was about to tell you, Lora. It seems the good lady is at last with child. An announcement was made this morning.”
Lora clapped her hands. “God be praised. That’s wonderful news. I knew something special was going to happen today. I felt it the moment I awoke.”
“Her first child?” Iorwerth asked.
“Aye.” William lowered his voice. “They’ve been wed for nigh on twelve years, and the lack of children has been the only shadow in their marriage. This is a long awaited and very welcome blessing, one, I confess, I never thought to see. Lora, go ask the kitchen to send us some refreshments, will you? Then you’d best go find your mother. She’s in a bit of a dither with all the excitement and might appreciate some help.”
It was a pointed request, Lora knew. A gentle dismissal.
“Yes, of course.” She stood on tiptoes to kiss her father’s cheek again and then nodded to Iorwerth, her curiosity about him like an itch she couldn’t scratch. “Welcome to Rothwyn, sir.”
“Thank you. And pl
ease, call me Iorwerth.” He smiled. “It’s all right. I swear I won’t turn you into a toad.”
Lora’s responding chuckle was interrupted by a sudden thought. “Tell me, do you happen to know anything about the ancient wishing well that sits within Rothwyn’s walls?”
He looked vaguely amused. “I do indeed.”
Her heart skipped. “Then may I speak to you about it later? I’ve long been fascinated by it.”
“It would be my pleasure,” he replied. Lora wondered if she’d imagined the brief flare of light in his eyes.
*
Lora stepped out into the dusk and took a moment to absorb Rothwyn’s evening aura. Patches of pale mist lingered here and there, while the sky’s rosy glow hinted at a fiery sunset, its burning heart obscured by castle walls. It was, nevertheless, a fine display, marred only by an intrusive human presence. Subdued chatter drifted from some of the outbuildings. A horse whinnied. From some obscure corner an ill-timed cockerel announced his presence. The still air clung to odors of rancid torch oil and the sour stench of manure from man and beast. Lora’s nostril’s flared as she descended the steps to the bailey. Frustration pulled a sigh from her and she kicked at a stone.
All day she had bided her time, helping as required while listening to endless excited chatter about babies and the various stages of a lady’s confinement. In truth, she had enjoyed herself. Lady Margaret’s quickening was a long awaited and happy occasion. The enthusiasm and joy was an infectious delight. Yet Lora had also looked forward to day’s end, when she’d be free to speak with her father’s mysterious friend. When she’d first laid eyes on him, she’d felt a stirring in her spirit. This was no romantic attraction. If her heart beat faster in his presence, it did so because the stranger exuded a sense of mystery that stoked her imagination. And he knew about the well.
Since childhood, Lora’s father had entertained her with tales of the well’s supposed magic, but he sprinkled them with a touch of frivolity, shrugging off the authenticity of its legend. Lora had long guarded a feeling that there was nothing frivolous about the mysterious hole in the earth. It tugged at something inside her. Drew her to its side like a moth to a candle flame. Yet, fearing ridicule, she’d never spoken of her feelings. She wanted to hear what Iorwerth had to say. What he knew. Then, perhaps, she could at last share her own thoughts.
Now, it seemed, the man had vanished. According to her father, both men had gone into the village that morning to take care of some business, but her father had returned to Rothwyn alone.
“He said he had something to do and off he went,” he’d explained, when she’d remarked on Iorwerth’s absence. “I wasn’t about to wait. Knowing him, he might not be back for another sixteen years.”
Hopeful thoughts playing in her head, Lora meandered along the wall of the keep.
He said he’d be staying a day or two, so maybe he’ll be back later. Or perhaps tomorrow.
For now, she’d appease her disappointment by visiting the well, embracing its mystery, and listening to its enigmatic song. As she turned the corner of the keep, Lora gasped and halted midstride. The familiar rotting fence had been removed, replaced by what appeared to be a temporary barrier of several wooden stakes and rope. In effect, the well now lay naked, exposed to the air. A near circular gash, it brought to mind an open wound, as if a giant spear had fallen from above and pierced the earth.
At its side, its paleness accentuated by the fading light, a haphazard pile of stones sat beside a stonemason’s block. Lora approached and circled them.
“A wall?” she muttered, treading warily as she neared the opening. “They’re building a wall around it?”
“It’s called a crown.”
Lora started and spun around to see a dark figure not three strides away, his familiar features as pale as the stones at her feet.
“Iorwerth!” Her heart clenched. “Dear God. How did you…? I mean, I didn’t see you there.”
“Forgive me.” He stepped to her side. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine, truly.” She pressed a hand to her chest as if to calm the hectic thud beneath her ribs. “I just didn’t hear you approach. Does my father know you’re returned? He said he thought you might have… um, vanished again.”
Iorwerth chuckled. “I haven’t seen him since I got back, no. And I have no intention of vanishing for a day or two.”
“Ah.” Lora struggled to hide her relief. She cleared her throat and glanced at the well. “A crown of stones. Befitting, I think.”
“’Tis one of the reasons I’m here,” he said. “The well is an ancient site revered by those who once occupied this land. It should not be allowed to languish, forgotten. Its crown, while humble, is indeed merited. Your father agreed and secured the earl’s approval this morning. I’m pleased you appear to agree also.”
Nerves tingling, Lora nodded. Iorwerth’s declaration seemed to beg a confession. “I’ve always been drawn to the well. I feel connected to it, somehow, though I’m not sure why. Does that sound foolish? It has heard so many secrets, spoken by those who made wishes, hoping for answers.” She smiled. “I can’t help but imagine, too, the many treasures that lie beneath our feet. Papa told me about the golden offerings.”
“There’s no foolishness in what you say, Lora. Your mind is clearly open to beliefs that many now frown upon, which is likely why you feel a connection to the well’s ancient power. Treasure, though, is not always attributed to material worth. The value of gold is superficial. The simplest of offerings might be more meaningful and therefore more powerful.” He pulled something from his sleeve. “These, for example, have no monetary value at all, yet they were priceless to the owner.”
Lora regarded the small leather pouch in his grasp. “What does it contain?”
He extended his hand. “See for yourself.”
She took the pouch, opened it, and tipped two small stones into her palm. Her brows raised. “Pebbles?”
“Tokens of hope, given to a girl who, at one time, believed the world had abandoned her. She valued those little stones beyond measure, yet to anyone else they would be deemed worthless. Such an offering, made in good faith, has more substance than any amount of gold.”
Touched by a sense of reverence, Lora closed her hand around the pebbles and her throat tightened. “Did you know her?”
He shook his head. “I met her briefly many years ago, near the end of her life. All that she was has since been lost to time.”
“How very sad.” A wisp of desolation drifted through her mind as she returned the pebbles to the pouch. With some reluctance, she pressed it back into Iorwerth’s hand. “I wish I knew her story. What was her name? Can you at least tell me—?”
Iorwerth’s sudden, harsh gasp sliced into her question. Uttering strange, urgent words, he fumbled inside his collar and pulled out a gold medallion. Lora sensed his obvious panic and, for a fleeting moment, shared it.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, a moment before a shard of pain sliced through her skull. She let out a cry and collapsed to her knees, her hands cradling her head, one thought sweeping away the rest. He’s rumored to be a warlock…
“What…what are you doing, Iorwerth? Stop it, please. I beg you.”
Iorwerth spat out another incomprehensible word. “It’s too late, Lora. I can’t stop it. The pain will soon pass, I swear it, but you’ll need to be strong for what is yet to come. And may the gods curse my folly.”
His words barely registered through her pain. Blinded by flashes of agony, Lora whimpered and folded over. She felt Iorwerth’s hand caressing the back of her head.
“Dear god,” she whispered. “What’s happening?”
His voice brushed across her ear. “You made a wish just now.”
“But…” She whimpered and squeezed her eyes shut against another stab of pain. “I- I never spoke to the well. Nor did I cast anything in it.”
“Nevertheless, your wish has been heard and will be granted. It s
eems I underestimated the magic in those little stones. Because of you, they have become very powerful.”
All at once the pain ebbed from her skull like a swift, receding tide. Lora parted with a groan of pure relief. “Because of me?” She lifted her head and squinted at Iorwerth through bleary eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“You will.” Iorwerth’s smile contained little humor. “In a few moments, you’ll understand everything.”
Trembling, she reached for him. “What do you mean? I only wished to know the girl’s story. Is it so torturous a tale?”
Iorwerth pulled her upright and kept hold of her hands. “Look at me,” he said. Lora blinked and stared into eyes that seemed fathomless. “Good. Now listen to what I say.” He drew a breath. “The girl who owned the pebbles is you, Lora. Her story was yours. And you’re about to remember that story. Every moment of it.”
Lora released a bubble of nervous laughter and tried to tug her hands free. “What in the Devil’s name are you talking about? Are you mad? Let me go.”
He gave another grim smile. “You made a wish once before, in another life. You turned back time. Changed your destiny. This recollection…” his hold on her tightened, “…was never supposed to happen. You need to prepare yourself.”
Fear parched her throat as she struggled against his grip. “You’re frightening me, Iorwerth. Release me. I cannot—”
She choked on her words as a dam burst in her mind, a powerful capitulation that unleashed a countless horde of memories. They swirled around like snowflakes in the wind, each one unique and fully formed. Then they settled in her brain in perfect, practiced order, as if they belonged there. As if they had always been there. And they exposed themselves without reserve.
Lora held her breath as she glimpsed Rothwyn through the eyes of a child, a noble child growing up within the castle’s protective walls. The earl’s daughter, a girl with a rebellious nature, a bright mind, and a passionate heart.
The Wishing Well (Legends of Love Book 1) Page 22