Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3)

by Nina Mason

  Not that she was ready to broadcast her condition quite yet, despite already feeling the baby growing inside her. Not physically, of course—it was far too early for that—but she could sense it there, feeding off her body like a microscopic vampire.

  Her ability to sense the embryo was no doubt an aftereffect of the blood exchange. Another was her sudden ability to read Gaelic and understand the runes—not at the same level as Axel, of course, but well enough to know what the glyphs represented.

  The thought of Axel gutted her. She missed him so terribly she felt actual physical pain. Never before had she been so full and yet so empty at the same time. If he were here, they could kiss and make love and hold each other and work out together what to do about the owls. Of course, even if he did come back to the glen, he couldn’t really be here until after she freed him on Halloween—and, even then, they’d be foolish to hang around Rosemarkie.

  They’d have to go someplace where Morgan and her owls couldn’t find them. And she had no bloody clue where that might be, though she did have an idea where they might hide out for a few days while they figured out their next move.

  At work yesterday, one of the mothers mentioned an abandoned crofter’s cottage a little ways off the roadway. Nobody, not even Morgan’s owls, would think of looking for them there.

  First, however, she needed to come up with a way to drive off the trio of spies watching her from the tenant parking area. The only way she knew to kill a vampire was to drive a stake through its heart. But, how would she ever get close enough to those bloody birds to attempt such a feat? And how to get all three before one or two got wise and fought back or flew off?

  Heaving a sigh, she went into the bedroom, lay down, and, with a heavy heart, looked up at the runic medallion Axel carved for her, which she’d hung above the wooden headboard.

  If only I could come up with a way to stake those awful owls from a distance.

  And then, her gaze fell on the carving of Teiwaz, and she knew exactly what she had to do.

  Climbing off the bed, she went into the closet to retrieve the bow and quiver of arrows she’d brought along to relieve her boredom. She’d found the bow years ago in a bothy—a rustic shelter for travelers—in a field near the vicarage in Ayr. After practicing covertly for several years, she’d asked her father if she could join the archery team at school.

  “Bowmanship is neither ladylike nor practical,” he’d replied. “You’d be better off taking up something useful to running a household—like cooking or sewing.”

  How glad she was now she’d ignored his narrow-minded advice and continued her self-training in secret.

  * * * *

  Axel jumped down from his horse, fished the dead goblin’s key out of the saddlebag, and, using the hem of his tunic to protect his fingers from the iron, pushed the blade into the lock. To his surprise, the key turned under its own power, the tumblers clicked, and the gate began to swing open. As he jumped back to give it room, he fell over a root he was sure had not been there a moment ago.

  He landed flat on his back, winded in the dirt and leaves. Curse this place. Though he did not relish the errands he had been called upon to perform in Brocaliande, he would not regret being out of the Borderlands.

  Looking up the path through the now-open gate, he saw something seemingly impossible. The iridescent violet of approaching evening stained the sky. On this side of the fence, it was daylight. On the other, twilight. He had thought the sun never set in the Thitherworld, but clearly, he was mistaken.

  To make his presence less conspicuous, he left his horse behind and walked through the gateway. The atmosphere instantly changed from menacing to peaceful. On this side of the fence, the whole forest seemed more welcoming and less gloomy, despite the descending darkness.

  As he followed the path, the sweet sound of birdsong rose from the bushes on either side. Somewhere in the distance, a stream or brook babbled genially. Even the stars twinkling in the deepening blue canopy above him seemed friendly.

  Guilt wrapped a garret around his conscience. Every sense told him Brocaliande was a good and tranquil place—a place even more serene and unspoiled than his precious glen.

  Here, he was the only threat. He, who had come to deceive and murder. Never before had he cast himself as a villain, but he now wore the role like an ill-fitting suit of armor. He could always turn back. Retreating would mean braving the Borderlands again, offering himself as the tithe, and never finding the red-haired lass. Those, however, seemed like small prices to pay for doing what was right.

  So, why was he still moving forward?

  As the path began to gently rise, the murmur of running water grew louder. In the darkness, still a ways off, the white froth of a short fall shone in the moonlight. Then, suddenly, he stepped out from the forest into a glen. There, he saw the brook, glistening under the stars as it tumbled over the rocks lining its bed.

  He looked up the path, now well-tended and bordered with stones. It wound up to the top of a grassy knoll, upon which stood a small, circular temple with a domed roof. Light beamed out from between the supporting pillars encircling the structure. A magnetic force drew him toward it. He took a step and, the next thing he knew, he was on the edge of the folly bathed in a brilliance that was at once blinding and blissful. His weariness left him, as did his worries. Feeling a deep sense of peace, he stepped through the pillars, onto the mosaic-tile floor.

  At the center, stood a man with flowing white hair and a long gray beard beside a table-height column. Light radiated from his body like a nimbus. He wore a robe of green lavishly embroidered with a golden border of interlinking Celtic knots. In one hand, he held a silver branch covered in tiny brass bells. In the other, he gripped a goblet by the stem—an ornate golden chalice embedded with precious gems.

  Axel knew in his bones it was the Cup of Truth. His instincts also told him the man was Cathbad, the head druid.

  The priest shook the branch with the bells, filling the space with the sweetest music Axel had ever heard. He stood, spellbound, as the joyful sound washed through him. It was an exquisite feeling rivaled only by love. Behind his eyes, he saw the bonny red-head again. This time, she was cradled in his arms atop a comfortable bed strewn with flowers.

  “Approach and identify yourself,” the priest commanded in an Irish brogue.

  Axel, feeling a bit drunk, stepped forward and bowed at the waist. “I am Sir Axel Lochlann.” He stopped there, afraid to elaborate lest the cup detected the lie.

  “And what brings you to Brocaliande, Sir Axel?” Though the druid smiled, his eyes remained as dark and hard as obsidian. “Before you answer, I feel it only fair to warn you the cup I hold will divulge whether or not you speak truthfully.”

  Axel smiled. “Your honesty does you credit, Your Excellency.”

  “As I hope will yours.” The druid set the chalice on the short pillar beside him.

  Axel licked his lips and swallowed the truth yearning to spring forth. The duke had said that, in order to fool the cup, he must believe his own lie, or say something he wished might be true.

  “I fought with King Robert the Bruce in the Wars for Independence,” he began, sticking as close to the truth as he could. “And hear tell you are amassing a rebel army here in Brocaliande.”

  There. He had uttered nothing the least bit false. If he could keep this up, he may well get away with it.

  “Is that so?” Cathbad, eyeing Axel with skepticism, stroked his long beard. “And where, pray tell, did you hear such a preposterous rumor?”

  “In Avalon, Your Excellency.”

  The druid’s eyes narrowed to slits. “From whom in Avalon?”

  “Queen Morgan and the commander of her vampire army.”

  So far, so good. The Cup of Truth was still intact.

  “How great is her vampire army?”

  “Not so very great,” Axel replied. “By my estimation, they are fewer than ten thousand in number at present.”

  “Does she
plan to hire more?”

  “I do not know, but believe she might.”

  “Does she also plan to retrieve her cup—and the knight who brought it to me?”

  “She does.”

  Cathbad pursed his wrinkled lips. “And do you play a role in that plan?”

  Beneath Axel’s feet, the ice was suddenly thin enough to see through, so he took his next step with the greatest of care. “She believes me to be.”

  The druid’s stare burned into him like hot coals. “And when you do not return with the cup and her tithe, what will she do?”

  The truth rose in Axel’s throat. This time, he did not fight to keep it down. He hated the idea of killing Lady MacQuill or ever doing Morgan’s dirty work again. Neither did he relish being summoned to her bed as her sexual slave. He wanted to be free, to find the red-haired lass, and to finally know love and happiness.

  “She will kill me, Your Excellency—unless you can break the enchantments she has cast over me.”

  Cathbad, looking pensive, regarded him for several moments. “Much as I would like to help—and to free all of her drones—my ability to counteract her sorcery is limited. I can break her curses, for instance—now that I possess the Cup of Truth—but I cannot break the hold of the torque that enslaves you. If I could, there would be no need to stage a rebellion.”

  Confusion puckered Axel’s brow. “But…is it not true that you freed Sir Leith from his bonds?”

  “While I broke his curse, I did not break his bonds,” Cathbad explained. “Queen Morgan removed his torque herself when she banished him from the Thitherworld.”

  Though Axel’s heart sank, he kept his gaze forward, on the druid. “Is there no other way to free myself?”

  “As far as I know, there is only one way to free a drone, short of overthrowing the queen. And, to work, several elements must be harmonized in a way that’s all but impossible. Only one drone in the history of Avalon has ever succeeded in breaking his bonds—a knight by the name of Tammas Lin.”

  Though the name was vaguely familiar to Axel, he could not place where he had heard it. It seemed to be obscured by the same curtain in his mind as his lady fair. “I still must know how it was done. Please tell me, Your Excellency. I beseech you.”

  “A drone can only be freed every seventh Samhain—when the tithe is due—by a witch who truly loves the man she seeks to liberate. At the stroke of midnight, when the faeries troop out, she must pull him down from his horse and hold fast to him—no matter what happens—until the cock crows at daybreak. If she is not powerful enough…or brave enough…or does not love him quite enough, the drone will not go free.”

  An image of the red-haired lass took shape in Axel’s mind. What were the odds she was a witch? Slim at best and, even if she was, he could not get to her to make a plan before Samhain. Cathbad was right. His situation was hopeless.

  Even so, he would like to remember the lady he loved. “Can you break a memory spell?”

  “I can make an attempt, but not tonight. First, I will need to construct a counter spell and gather and consecrate the necessary plants, all of which will take time. I’m also weary, as you must be after your journey through the Borderlands.”

  Cathbad shook the branch, setting off the bells, and within seconds, a handsome raven-haired man in an old-style kilt stepped through the pillars.

  Addressing the newcomer, the old druid said, “Bran, this is Sir Axel, another knight who wishes to join in the fight for freedom. He will be our guest for a few days while I work on breaking some of the minor enchantments his queen has cast over him. Would you be good enough to show him to one of the guest cottages?”

  “I would be delighted.” Turning to Axel, Bran regarded him with eyes as clear and blue as his own. “Welcome to Brocaliande, my good knight. We have been expecting you.”

  * * * *

  Never taking her eyes off her targets, Jenna eased up the window sash and picked up her bow. Holding her breath, she pulled an arrow from the quiver she wore on her back and set the feathered tail against the bowstring. Aiming at the breast of the great gray, she let the arrow fly.

  A piercing screech told her she’d hit her mark. The gray owl now lay on the pavement beside her car with the arrow’s shaft protruding from its chest.

  Snatching another arrow from the quiver, she repeated the action, this time aiming at the little brown owl, which didn’t appear to realize he and his fellows were under attack.

  Again, the arrow hit her target on the first try. The thrill of triumph spread through her, making her tingle all over. Her improved skill was as amazing as it was satisfying. Normally, she was good, but not that good, leading her to conclude she’d absorbed some of Axel’s archery skills along with his knowledge of Gaelic and runes.

  The barn owl, roused by the assault on his companions, spread his huge white wings and flapped wildly. Quick as wind, Jenna pulled the third arrow from her quiver, took aim, and released the taut string. To her dismay, the arrow only grazed the barn owl, which had just achieved lift-off.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she set another arrow, drew back her bowstring, and took aim at the owl’s white chest. “Bull’s eye,” she whispered as the launched arrow found its mark. The mortally wounded owl screeched and plummeted downward, landing hard on the bonnet of her car.

  Three for three. Were they still alive? If so, they wouldn’t be for long. While making her preparations, she’d done her homework and made a plan. First, she’d use a butcher knife to decapitate the birds. Then, she’d bury their bodies in the churchyard of St. Peter and St. Boniface’s, the Roman Catholic Church in Fortrose. While she was there, she’d take the holy water she’d need to form a protective circle around herself on Halloween.

  Afterward, she’d move to the old crofter’s cottage off the highway. Much as she’d like to, she couldn’t stay here. To be safe, she needed to move somewhere farther afield—somewhere Morgan’s vampires wouldn’t find her again. She’d hole up there until Halloween, and then come back to Faery Glen to free Axel.

  Staying in the abandoned dwelling would be cold, rough, and inconvenient. There would be no running water and no electricity, meaning she’d have no bathroom, no lights, and no refrigeration. She’d have to go without washing, do her business in a bucket, and survive on oatcakes and Highland hard cheddar for several days, but at least she’d be out of harm’s way—or so she hoped.

  She’d also have to quit her job, as she could hardly show up to work without showering for days on end or risk being tracked by more vampire owls. But, if all went as planned on October 31, she’d be quitting anyway, since she and Axel would thereafter be hiding from Queen Morgan.

  With worry and hope combating inside her, Jenna patted her belly. It looked like they were going to be a fugitive family after all. Still, she’d much rather be on the run together than be separated forever. She just prayed, when the moment of truth finally arrived, she’d find the courage to do what she must.

  Chapter 17

  A knock at the door of the guest cottage drew Axel from his trance. Rising from the chair in which he had been meditating, he crossed to the door and pulled it open, expecting Bran. The younger druid had promised to take him to the other side of the forest that morning to show him the construction site for the rebel camp.

  Tingles of mild surprise washed through Axel when he found Sir Leith and a petite, chestnut-haired lass on his doorstep.

  Before Axel could recover his wits enough to speak, Sir Leith said, “It’s good to see you. I’ve come to apologize for the position I’ve put you in...and to present my wife, Gwyndolen MacQuill, the Second Baroness of Glenarvon.”

  The very pretty baroness smiled up at him as she attempted an awkward curtsey. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Axel. Leith has told me so many wonderful things about you.”

  “Has he? How good of him.” Turning a steely gaze on her husband, Axel added, “Though perhaps you ought not to be so quick to believe everything you hear. You mig
ht find you have been fed a pack of lies that will get you into trouble.”

  Leith coughed into his hand. “I’m sorry about the way things went down, Axel. Truly. And, for what it’s worth, I swear I had no intention of deceiving you when I asked for the favor.”

  Keeping up the pretense of censure, Axel deepened his scowl. He had already forgiven Leith—for the most part, anyway—but still wanted his friend to feel bad for leaving him holding the bag.

  “You should know she sent me here to bring you back—and the cup you stole,” Axel said dourly. “And to kill your wife while you watched.”

  The faces of both MacQuills grew pale and took on worried expressions as they looked first at each other and then back to Axel.

  “Is that still your intention?” Leith asked, pinching the skin at his throat.

  Axel withheld his answer to let his friend dangle on the line a few extra moments. He should not be enjoying this, but he was. Leith’s self-centeredness had brought him grief. If he went too easy on him, neither of them would learn the spiritual lesson the situation presented.

  In Axel’s case, the lesson was the same one as always: forgive and forget. For grudges and resentments only clogged the pipe through which serenity flowed. And he would much rather have peace than revenge. He had also reached the point where he would rather have freedom than enslavement—even if death was the only way to break his bonds.

  “I have decided to offer myself as the tithe instead of you,” Axel said simply.

  “But…” Leith began, then cleared his throat. “Why not stay here and join the rebellion?”

  “For two reasons.” Axel moistened his lips. “The first is that I was forced to drink a potion that will kill me if I do not return to Avalon within three days. The second is that I left someone behind. A lady I know I love, but cannot remember, thanks to another of Morgan’s charms. Cathbad has been trying to help me remember—to no avail so far, sadly.”