Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3)

by Nina Mason

Earlier that morning, the old druid had given Axel an antidote to try, but the door blocking the red-haired lass’s memory remained locked. Would he ever remember the woman he loved? He was beginning to despair of the idea.

  Leith put his arm around his wife and pulled her closer. The gesture aroused Axel’s envy. Somewhere out there was a woman he knew well enough to share such an intimacy. A woman he could not remember, despite missing her terribly.

  If only Cathbad could concoct the right anti-spell, so Axel could take the memory of her with him to Helheim. He would much rather go to Valhalla, of course, but that seemed impossible now—unless he could find a way to join the rebels. Though he did not see how, the gods might yet find a way. They had shown him Teiwaz and Gebo, after all—two runes whose promises had not yet come to fruition.

  Seeing that Lady MacQuill was uncomfortable standing, Axel considered inviting his guests inside, but decided against it. The cottage—sparsely furnished with a double bed, night table, bookcase, and chair—offered nowhere for three people to sit.

  “Have you seen Bran this morning? He promised to show me the site of the rebel camp.” Axel chuckled. “But only after he and Cathbad extracted my solemn vow to reveal nothing about it or their plans once I return to Avalon.”

  As if he would—even under the duress of torture, which he fully expected the duke to inflict upon his return.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go back.” Leith looked miserable.

  “So do I,” Axel said, heavy hearted. “Believe me.”

  “We could show you the construction site,” Lady MacQuill chimed in. “I’m sure Bran won’t mind.”

  Still nestled against her husband, she barely came up to his armpit. Axel wondered abstractedly how they managed the standard position of coitus. As he began to imagine her on top of Sir Leith, the picture changed.

  Now, it was he being ridden by a woman—the red-haired lass. The scene was so real, he could actually feel the sublime sweetness of her lush, enveloping heat. As his passion for her combusted within him, he blinked the image away. It would not do to sprout an erection while in company with the MacQuills.

  Looking past the couple, he saw the raven-haired druid coming through the trees on a black horse, leading another pony by the reins. “I appreciate the offer…but here comes Bran now.” Axel pointed, drawing their attention to the approaching druid. “Perhaps if we round up two more horses, we all can go together.” Dropping his gaze to the baroness’s swollen belly, he added with a qualm, “Unless, of course, Lady MacQuill is unable to ride in her delicate condition.”

  Leith grinned. “I’ll fetch a carriage, and we’ll meet you there. How does that sound?”

  Axel returned his friend’s smile. He had missed Sir Leith and was pleased they had buried the hatchet. “That sounds good.”

  * * * *

  Jenna, toting a shovel and the rubbish bag containing the decapitated owls, crept toward the roofless brick ruin of Fortrose Cathedral. She’d decided to bury the owls inside, where she’d be hidden from view, before visiting the newer church next door to complete the second part of her mission.

  As she walked, icy cold wind swept through her hair, blowing a loose strand across her cheek and into the corner of her mouth. She tried to push it out with her tongue. The air tasted of frost. Up high in the branches, the leaves rattled like bones. Those at her feet swirled and crackled in little flurries. Her fingers ached from the chill and twitched with impatience. Tension pounded in her temples and, beneath her sweater, her nipples were as hard as hailstones.

  Needless to say, she was eager to put this grim task behind her.

  A spiked iron fence protected the ruin. When she arrived at the gate, she reached for the handle. Searing pain shot up her arm. As she drew back her hand, she remembered reading that iron burned faeries. Using her cloak to protect her hand, she broke the lock. The stiff hinges screeched in protest as she hustled through and scouted for an unoccupied spot of floor among the tombs. Finding one, she hurried to it, dropped the bag of dead birds on the cold, hard earth, and began to shovel. Had the blood exchange not increased her physical strength, she might not have managed to dig a deep enough hole, given how hard the earth was from age and the cold.

  Within a few minutes, she’d completed the job. Setting the shovel aside, she rubbed her hands together and looked around. In the dark, the crumbling ruin was eerie in the extreme. Looking up at the star-dusted night sky, she thought of her father with a pang. He’d hated Catholics as much as he’d hated Pagans. Never mind that the Bible specifically stated judgment was the exclusive province of the Lord.

  As a cold shadow fell across her heart, she heaved a sigh. She loved her father because he was her father, but she also hated his narrowmindedness and hypocrisy. Like many so-called Christians, he was forever quoting the Good Book while twisting its creeds to justify his hatred.

  Jesus said, “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.”

  He did not say to point the finger of judgment at all who make different choices and torture and drop bombs on your enemies. As far as she was concerned, anyone who did the latter—her father and William included—had no right to call themselves Christians.

  Shaking the thought from her head, she looked around at the desolate interior, suddenly missing Axel so much she could barely breathe. With any luck, their story would end like Tamlane and Janet’s, not Brunhilde and Sigurd’s.

  Taking a deep breath, she kicked the bag of vanquished owls into the hole and replaced the dirt she’d just removed.

  There. That was done. Now, to score some holy water…

  * * * *

  As Axel and Bran rode eastward, away from the druid enclave, the forest grew denser, darker, and cooler as the towering canopy formed by the tallest trees screened the sunlight. Bright green moss covered the north side of their enormous trunks. Twisted vines hung from every limb like climbing ropes. Ferns and dead leaves carpeted the floor around their ancient gnarled roots. The air smelled richly of moist, fertile earth, making Axel homesick for the glen.

  “What is this place?”

  Bran rode a wee ways ahead of Axel on a stallion as black as the druid’s hair. “This is the Forest of the Nine Sacred Woods. If you ever wish to return to Brocaliande through the Hitherworld, you must enter through the standing stones at Callanish on the stroke of midnight with the help of a nawglen.”

  Though Axel could not imagine he would ever be blessed with the chance to return to Brocaliande, he welcomed the druid’s conversation. For the past hour, they had ridden in silence, and he’d had his fill of birdsong, buzzing insects, and his own depressing reflections. “What’s a nawglen?”

  “A powder made from the ashes of the nine sacred woods: rowan, birch, ash, alder, willow, hawthorn, oak, hazel, and holly.”

  Axel was well acquainted with the sacred woods and their properties. Rowan and holly had protective powers; birch governed regeneration and rebirth; ash and alder were associated with knowledge, prophecy, and divination; willow was a healing wood; hawthorn attracted good spirits while deflecting bad ones; oak, the tree of Thor, was associated with masculine power and fertility; and hazel aided divination, dowsing, and dream journeys.

  In his time, all nine woods were used in ritual bonfires, but he could not recall their ashes being kept for magical purposes. So, he was extremely curious to know more.

  “How does one use a nawglen to cross through the vale?”

  “By walking widdershins around the stones while pouring the ashes on the ground to form a sacred circle. Then, at the stroke of midnight, the parties who wish to cross over must join hands and recite an incantation.”

  “Any cross-over incantation or one in particular?”

  “One in particular.”

  Bran proceeded to teach Axel the words, as well as to explain how to reach the Isle of Lewis via the overland route.

  A wee while lat
er, they came out of the forest into open land. Wide grasslands stretched before them. A green ridge of low hills hugged the distant horizon. The highest of them stood off to one side, separate from the others. Though conical in shape, its top was flat—as if the pinnacle’s point had been lopped off by a giant’s axe. The path they were on led to the decapitated rise and wound around it like the threads of a screw.

  “That is the overlook.” Bran pointed. “The site of the rebel encampment is just below it, on the other side.”

  The sun was high overhead by the time they reached the butte. Down below, in a wide valley, druid workmen were constructing the outer walls and watchtowers of a huge stone fort. Their labors produced a cacophony of hammering, sawing, and chinking.

  “When they have finished the main building, they will start on the barracks and officers’ quarters,” Bran explained. “Progress, unfortunately, is slow because of the ban.”

  Axel, puzzled by his statement, shifted his focus from the building site to the druid. “What ban would that be?”

  Bran regarded him for a long minute with his black eyebrows drawn together. “Are you telling me you’re unfamiliar with Lord Morfryn’s prohibition on all devices invented after the eighteenth century?”

  Axel nodded and shrugged. “How would I know of such a thing? Before coming to Brocaliande, my experience of the Thitherworld was limited to Avalon, and Queen Morgan has never been what I would describe as forthcoming. And, as far as the Hitherworld is concerned, I have passed my days in a cave and my nights in a protected glen that has changed little over the centuries. I am peripherally aware of automobiles, plastic containers, and the odd wee devices all the tourists now seem so preoccupied by, but not much beyond.”

  An understanding smile broke across the druid’s face. “In that case, let me bring you up to speed.” He shifted in his saddle. “Several centuries ago, the Dark Lord banned all firearms and many so-called advances when his oracles showed him the disasters they would wreak in the Hitherworld—both in terms of the environment and human civilization. That is why we have no modern tools to speed the building of our headquarters or modern weaponry to aid our cause.”

  Axel blinked at him, trying to imagine what sort of “modern” weaponry might fall under the ban. His familiarity with firearms was limited to the small collection of pistols he had amassed over the centuries, including the one Sir Leith had gifted him. He kept them hidden in a secret compartment in his cave in Faery Glen, along with other objects of value the local maidens had left for him in the well. All were lost to him now, he supposed. Not that material possessions mattered to him anymore. Even his horse and his runes could be replaced easily enough—if, by some wondrous act of the gods, he should live past Samhain.

  As far as other armaments went, he knew none apart from those in use in his soldiering days: bows, swords, axes, schiltrons, maces, lances, staves, and such. How he missed those days and longed to take part in another battle. That wish, unfortunately, seemed impossible under the circumstances.

  “When do you expect the rebellion to get underway?”

  “The prophecy tells of a sign in the heavens,” Bran replied. “When it appears, we will know the time is at hand.”

  “Will any other domains take part?”

  “It will be up to the drone of the prophecy to do the lion’s share of alliance building, though we expect the gnomes and Queen Glorianna to offer assistance, as they abhor slavery—and Avalon’s isolationism—as much as we do.”

  Confusion drew Axel’s brows together. He knew of no queens in this realm except Morgan. “What land does Queen Glorianna rule?”

  “Elphame, one of the Seelie colonies,” Bran replied. “She is one of Morgan’s sisters, and her archers are every bit as renowned for their skills as those in Avalon.”

  Though Axel now burned to be part of the rebellion, he could not see a way to bring it about. If he returned to Avalon—and he must or die—he would end his long life as the tithe to Lord Morfryn.

  It was not the glorious death he had long dreamed of nor would it gain him admission to Valhalla, but at least there was some honor in being sacrificed. He just wished he could remember his lady love—or, better yet, spend one last night with her before he must cross into the underworld. But, alas, it seemed the Norns had fated them to be torn asunder by the selfish machinations of others.

  The same fate they’d assigned to Sigurd and Brunhilde.

  With a woeful sigh, Axel reined his horse around, ready to be gone from this place. It was too much like looking through the window of a pie shop when he was starving and skint. The view he found in the opposite direction was equally unsatisfying. Coming toward them from out of the trees was an open carriage conveying Sir Leith and his new family.

  Envy grated Axel’s heart as he watched the couple share a deep kiss. He would never have their happiness, never be a proper father and husband or have another chance to fight for something he believed in to the core of his being.

  Instead, he would go back to Avalon cloaked in defeat and suffer unspeakable tortures before being butchered on the altar of the Dark Lord.

  * * * *

  Jenna shivered beneath the blanket she’d been trying in vain to sleep under. The crofter’s cottage was dark and spooky, the floor was a block of ice, and outside the crumbling walls and broken windows, the wind wailed like a banshee. Every time the hoot of an owl punctuated the moaning, her heart threatened to explode. Even as she cowered, she reproached herself for her lack of courage. If she was this afraid of a few harmless noises, how would she ever be brave enough to challenge Queen Morgan?

  She had to, damn it. That was all there was to it. When the time came, she would pull Axel down and hold on for dear life, no matter what. If she didn’t, he would be sacrificed to Lord Morfryn, and she couldn’t let that happen. However hard it might be, she had to find the courage to take him back before he was lost to her forever.

  Giving up on sleep, she sat up and rubbed her arms against the cold. The fire she’d lit to warm the drafty room was almost out. Clambering to her feet, she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, crossed to the falling-down fireplace, and tossed a piece of wood on the glowing embers.

  Taking a seat on the dusty fieldstone hearth, she pulled up her knees, wrapped her arms around her shins, and set her forehead against her knees. “I have to be brave. I have to be brave. I have to be brave. If I’m too afraid, Axel will be tithed, and I’ll die of a broken heart—if Queen Morgan doesn’t kill me first.”

  She was crying again, damn it. She’d cried a lot lately—from loneliness, fear, and self-doubt. Pregnancy hormones probably played a part, too, but knowing as much didn’t make her feel any better. The heroines in the books she admired so much didn’t mope. When life knocked them down, they got back up, dusted off their skirts, and did what had to be done.

  And so must she.

  * * * *

  That evening, Axel, feeling bereft of hope, returned to his quarters to find Cathbad waiting for him with yet another potion to try.

  “I really think I’ve got it right this time.” With a smile, the old druid held out the gem-inlaid golden goblet.

  Axel knew better than to hold his breath. Cathbad had said the exact same thing the last time—and the counter-spell had not restored his memories of the red-haired lass in the slightest.

  Taking the chalice with some reluctance, Axel ran the brimming bowl of the cup under his nose. The harsh medicinal smell of the greenish-amber elixir within made him wince. “What is in this?”

  “Wolfsbane, belladonna, rowan berries, ginseng, and the leaves of a maidenhair tree.” With an elusive smile, Cathbad added, “Among other ingredients, which shall remain unnamed.”

  Axel flared his nostrils, which still burned from the tincture’s unpleasant odor. “It sounds disgusting. Not to mention deadly.”

  “It won’t kill you, I promise. Now, drink up.”

  Holding his nose, Axel drained the chalice. As he handed the c
up back to Cathbad, he licked the potion’s vile flavor from his grimacing mouth. “How long will it be before we know if it worked?”

  “Twenty minutes, give or take.” The druid’s eyes shone with a confidence Axel hoped was not misplaced. “Would you like me to stay with you until we know the result?”

  “That will not be necessary,” Axel told him, “but I thank you for the kind offer.”

  After spending the better part of the day having his nose rubbed in the things he could not have, he wanted to be alone to work through his discouragement. His chest was so tight he could hardly breathe and his heart felt as if it had shrunk two sizes since he awoke that morning.

  As soon as the old druid took his leave, Axel lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, which was low and bisected by dark beams. He could not recall a time when he had felt so bereft of hope. Meditating was the only thing he could think to do to restore his equilibrium.

  For some time, he lay there, attempting to quiet his mind while watching the changing patches of sunlight on the wall and listening to the sound of a distant waterfall. When he closed his eyes and began to count his breaths, he drifted off.

  In his dream mind, he was at Bannock Burn again—except things were not quite as they’d always been before. The battlefield was a marsh, but not the Stirling Carse. He wore chainmail over his tunic and rode a horse, but his mount was a black destrier instead of a dapple-gray garron. The enemy still donned the uniforms of the English army, but the red coats of a later era—and their faces were as ashen and bloated as corpses.

  They were vampires. Morgan’s mercenaries. And he was fighting on the side of the rebels alongside Sir Leith, Bran, and—no, that could not be. Callum Lyon, the Baron of Barrogill, had been tortured to death centuries ago in Avalon. There was another knight with them, too—a brown-haired young man Axel had never seen before.

  Jarred awake, he opened his eyes to find the room dark. As the dream retreated, the red-haired lass rushed in to take its place. Her name was Jenna. Jenna Cameron. Then, he remembered everything. She lived in a cottage at the edge of the glen, they were handfasted, and she was indeed a witch.