by Nora Roberts
He saw only white, the gauzy draperies, the glow of candles through them, the richness of the flowers. Then he saw her as she rose up beside him and again laid her lips on his.
“If this is hell,” he said aloud, “it’s not so bad.”
“You are not dead. You live. You are unchanged.”
He sat up, amazed at the energy running through him, the absolute freedom from pain. “How?”
“Love was enough.”
“Works for me. Where are we? What did you do?”
“We’re in yet another dimension. Rhee the sorceress…my mother, brought us. She healed us.”
“And what, exorcised the demon?”
“That was for me. A kiss waked you, and brought you back whole.”
“Like Sleeping Beauty? You’re kidding.”
She leaned back. “You look displeased.”
“Well, Jesus, it’s embarrassing.” He scooped his hair back, slid off the bed.
“You would rather die, with pride?” Though part of her understood the sentiment perfectly well, it still rankled. She who had never believed in romance had found the event desperately romantic. The kind of moment the bards write of. “You are ungrateful and stupid.”
“Stupid, maybe. Ungrateful, definitely not. But if it’s all the same to you, let’s just keep this one portion of the experience completely to ourselves.”
She jerked a shoulder, lifted her chin. And made him smile. “You saved my life, and you made me a man. Thank you.”
Now she sniffed. “You are a brave warrior and did not deserve the fate Sorak intended for you.”
“There you go. My ego’s nearly back to normal now. And can I just say you look gorgeous. Incredible. In fact, there’s an expression in my world about how you look right now. It goes something like, wow.”
“Ritual foolishness,” she replied, flipping a hand at the robe.
“I love the way you look. I love you, Kadra.”
She sighed. “I know. If the love between us was not strong and true, you would not have waked so I could be annoyed with you.” She looked away from him, deliberately, when he came to her, when he wrapped his arms tight around her.
So he kissed her cheek, kissed her temple where a bullet had grazed. “I thought I had lost you, and that was worse than thinking I’d lost myself.”
Yielding, she turned her lips to his. “Harper Doyle.”
“Kadra, Slayer of Demons.”
She eased back, her eyes solemn despite the humor in his. “Do you wish me to be your lifemate and bear your young?”
“You bet I do.”
“This is what I wish as well. This is not a traditional path for a slayer.”
He lifted a hand to skim a finger over her circlet of rank. “We’ll make new traditions. Stay with me, Kadra. Be with me. We’ll stay here, wherever this is. It doesn’t matter.”
“This is not our place.” She stepped back, gestured to the two globes. “The one on the emerald stand opens to my world. The ruby to yours. I believed that to keep the balance we must each go back, must each remain in the world where we came from. But, I have vision.”
She looked back at him. “My mother is a sorceress, and her blood is my blood. I see what I once refused to see. I have magic inside me. I must practice with this as I once practiced with a sword. Until I am skilled.”
“Slayer and sorceress. I get a two-for-one.”
“There can be no balance when love is denied and refused. We are meant, so we will be.”
“Choose,” he told her. “I’ll live in any world, as long as it’s with you.”
She picked up the bag that held their things, tossed it to him. She lifted her sword. And, crossing to the table, she lifted the globe that rested on a ruby stand.
“The Bok have lost their king, and the slayers who are my sisters will rout them, and continue the fight against all demons. But there are battles to be fought in your world, demons of a different kind to be vanquished. I wish to fight with you there.”
“Partners, then.” He took her hand, kissed it. “We make a hell of a team.”
“And I like the pie called pizza, and the beer. And even more than these, the kissing.”
“Baby, we were made for each other.”
He swung her into his arms, crushed his lips to hers. When the portal opened, and the light washed in, they leaped into it together.
And went home.
IMPOSSIBLE
Jill Gregory
With love and “kisses” to Larry and to Rachel,
and to my favorite magical ladies,
Nora, Marianne, and Ruth.
Prologue
A GOLDEN MOON rose over the Cliffs of Murgullen as Cyrus the Sorcerer stood in a patch of moonlight and frowned down at his three young protégés, huddling in their cloaks upon the damp grass. Their faces shone pale and hopeful in the shimmering light.
“Each of you,” he said in a thin, disgusted tone, “has failed. Failed abominably. Not one of you, not a single one”—Cyrus’s voice boomed out and the sea tossing fitfully below began to churn—“has received a passing grade upon this, your final and most important test.”
Young wizard-in-training Barnaby threw his long, thin body backward with a groan, sprawling upon the earth in abject frustration. Red-haired Ophelia covered her freckled face with her hands and gave a great quivering sigh. Elwas, whose father was a quarter elf, and whose great-grandmother had been a sorceress of some repute, banged his fist on the ground. His pointed ears twitched as he glared at his mentor.
“With all due respect, sir, that is not our fault, but yours. That exam you gave us was impossible. The things you asked us to do—no wizard can do such things. It goes beyond what we’ve been taught.”
“He’s right, sir.” Barnaby pushed himself up to a sitting position. His narrow, handsome face was even paler than usual, and he struggled to keep his voice calm. “We don’t mean any disrepect, but if you’d asked us to perform something reasonable for our exam, like changing an oaf into a prince, or concocting a healing potion for boils, or making grass grow in the dead of winter, rather than something quite impossible—”
“Enough!” Cyrus fixed him with a quelling glance. “What I asked of each of you was nothing more than to apply yourselves, to incorporate all that you have learned in several areas of our craft, plus a touch of imagination, ingenuity, and intelligence. Being a wizard is not merely about charms and tricks—only fools believe that. One needs creativity to make real magic!”
“But, sir.” Ophelia swallowed hard as she gazed up at the imposing figure of the sorcerer in his pointed hat, with his tangled gray beard and flowing robes the color of the mist swirling at his feet. “You wanted us to end the feud between King Vort of Marlbury and Duke Tynon of Bordmoor. Everyone knows that their noble families have been fighting one another for a hundred years!”
“And what does that have to do with anything?” Cyrus shot a cold glare at her.
“Well, it’s just…impossible!” she sputtered. “How are we to end such a deep and long-standing feud?”
“Especially since wizards—good wizards, anyway—are not allowed to tamper with the minds or hearts of humans,” Elwas pointed out. “You taught us that yourself, sir!”
“And for a century the royal family of Marlbury and the llachland dukes of Bordmoor have despised each other, hated each other, killed each other—”
“Precisely,” Cyrus snapped. “And that is why this was a challenging but certainly not impossible test of your powers. The fact that each of you failed does not reflect upon the challenge, it reflects upon your own abilities. Obviously none of you is ready to advance to the next level of your training.”
“Sir, we are ready. We are proficient in every area. But this…this is impossible!”
“So you say.” Cyrus’s displeasure was clear in the downward curve of his lips.
“No wizard or sorceress could meet this challenge!” Barnaby burst out. “Why, even you, sir, could not
stop a feud like this. There is simply no way—”
“Is there not?” Now Cyrus’s voice had become silken. But it was edged in ice. He looked at each of his pupils in turn, and there was thinly veiled impatience in his countenance. “There is a way to meet this challenge. There is always a way. Would I have presented it to you otherwise? I think not.”
The three shrank a little beneath the glitter of his eyes. Cyrus noted the confusion, despair, and frustration on each face. He fought his own disappointment and reminded himself that teaching required patience. His students truly had no notion how to proceed. Each of the three before him had great potential and shining talent, but clearly they were not ready to advance. He sighed.
“Ending this feud is by no means impossible.” He spoke in a more level tone. “Any wizard with skill, experience, and a drop of imagination can accomplish it.” He cleared his throat, then lifted his arms, so that the flowing robes blew in the sudden wild gust of the wind.
Cyrus closed his eyes. “Watch.” His arms lifted still higher, above his head, as if reaching, reaching toward the stars. “And…” He shouted over the rising rush of the wind. It grew to a low roar. The students grabbed at the earth as they were nearly blown over the side of the cliff.
“Learn!”
1
Two Days Later
THE VISION WOKE her in the blackest hour of night.
Erinn lurched up in her bed in the high-ceilinged chamber, staring without recognition at the crimson silk bedhangings, which blew softly in the breeze. For one terrifying moment she didn’t recognize anything around her, not the satin coverlet upon her bed, or the gilded bench before the flickering hearthfire, or the twin bronze chests near the foot of the bed.
Golden moonlight glimmered across the room, but she saw only the man, the man in her vision. He filled her mind. His face was lean, dark, so incredibly handsome that she could scarcely breathe—handsome in spite of the scar slashing down the left side of his jaw—or perhaps because of it. It added to the aura of strength and toughness and danger that clung to him, real as armor. His hair was dark as the night sky, his body strong. His eyes…they pierced hers, bluer than the Sea of Azul. So blue they hurt. Then the scent of musk touched her, whisked past her even as the vision faded into blackness, and the man’s face, which had so forcefully and completely filled her mind, vanished like mist.
And her own bedchamber returned, cool and flowing with moonlight. Erinn drew a deep breath, trembling still, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
She was shivering, but not from the chill night air. From the vision. The man.
“Who is he?” she muttered to herself, as she hastily dressed, yanking on a dark-green woolen gown, fumbling in the darkness.
“My lady?” She heard Tira, her lady-in-waiting, stir in the antechamber.
She called out softly, “No, Tira, stay abed. There is nothing I want.”
“Very well, then, my lady,” the sleepy voice murmured, and the bedcoverings rustled once more.
Erinn waited a moment before snatching up her fur-trimmed crimson cloak and tossing it around her shoulders. Quietly, she eased open the chamber door and edged out into the stone corridor.
The castle was asleep, and only dimly lit by tapers, as she made her way silently down a curving staircase, through a long hallway, and then outside, bypassing the great hall and the kitchen in favor of a side door that led to the courtyard.
Her mind was roiling as she made her way to the gardens, where tiny spring buds were just beginning to sprout upon the peach and apple trees and delicate flowers nestled just beneath the earth. Moonlight spilled upon the smooth stone bench, and there was little wind—yet still, the night was cold. Early spring in Marlbury was like that—but in another fortnight everything would be abloom and the nights would become soft, soft as a lover’s kiss, she thought—and then gave her head a tiny shake.
And what would you know about a lover’s kiss? she asked herself silently, hugging her arms around her body as she huddled on the bench and watched the swimming stars above. She’d never had a lover; in fact, she’d only been kissed twice. Her ever-vigilant brothers had seen to that. Though Cadur and Braden amused themselves with every unmarried wench in the kingdom, they felt no one was good enough for their little sister, and no matter how much Erinn complained to her father about their constant interference whenever a young knight or noble tried to engage her in conversation, Cadur and Braden did just as they pleased.
They insisted that when the time came they would find her a suitable husband. In the meantime, they took turns planting themselves beside her at every ball and feast, glowering watchfully at any male guest who dared speak to her. Once, though, Sir Rudyan had followed her after a round of dancing, and stolen a kiss just outside the great hall. He’d been drunk, though, and the kiss had been rough and wet and unpleasant—not to mention that it had gone on far too long. She hadn’t enjoyed it in the least. That had been quite disappointing, for she’d always dreamed about her first kiss and how wonderful it would be.
There had been one more after that. This time, it was the charming fair-haired son of the duke of Chalmers, a young man her father had often told her would make a good match for her. He had paid quite a bit of attention to her when they’d met at a feast in Amelonia, and even Cadur and Braden had kept their distance, at her father’s instructions, though they hadn’t looked pleased about it. And young Stirling of Chalmers had drawn her into an antechamber in the midst of the festivities, placed his hands upon her shoulders, and kissed her—but it had been a dry, unexciting peck, quick and cautious and over in a twinkling. And even though he’d smiled at her as if quite pleased with himself, Erinn had needed to force herself to smile back. She’d felt nothing—nothing but a pang of disappointment. In its own way, the second kiss had been as much a failure as the first.
Failure.
Erinn was beginning to wonder if that was to be her destiny in life—failure at every goal to which she aspired.
Apparently, she wasn’t very good at kissing, and she was even less successful at her one supposed talent—magic.
She scowled into the darkness as she leaned back on the bench. The cool air whistled around her, and the castle loomed overhead, tall and strong and gleaming in the moonlight. Her castle, her home. She loved it, loved her father and her brothers, and worried constantly about them. They had been at war all their lives with the savage llachlanders across the border, ruled by the duke of Bordmoor. For one hundred years, Marlbury’s soldiers had been forced to fight battle after battle to keep their lands and homes safe from the marauding llachlanders.
No one knew how it had all begun—they only knew that the various dukes of Bordmoor had been their enemies for as long as anyone could remember, that Bordmoor despised the Royal House of Marlbury with a fury and passion that left no room for negotiation or treaty.
Battle after battle brought blood, death, grief, and barely enough victory to keep the enemy at bay. So far, they’d not been able to destroy the keep of Bordmoor and bring down the savage duke who ruled that wild land.
If I were any kind of a real witch, like Mama, I could help them, Erinn thought, pain slicing through her. As the wind quickened, catching at her pale gold hair, she lifted her hood and snuggled deeper into the warmth of the garment. But the chill inside her didn’t go away.
Her mother had been a powerful witch, a seer with marvelous abilities. She had many times foreseen visions of the llachlanders’ battle plans and had been able to warn of impending attacks—even to see where the enemy lay hidden. Once she had caused a great fire to impede a thousand soldiers lying in ambush for the knights of Marlbury, led by her husband, King Vort. During her lifetime, King Vort’s army had sustained fewer casualties than ever before. But since her death, things had gone badly for Erinn’s father and his troops. King Vort had lost not only his beloved wife but also a source of powerful aid to his kingdom. Tynon, the newest duke of Bordmoor, had won more victories in the pas
t few years than his late accursed father ever had, and there was nothing Erinn could do about it. Marlbury was suffering, the battles were growing increasingly fierce, and the outcomes were rarely in Marlbury’s favor.
Tynon was gaining ground.
Erinn only wished she had turned out to be half the witch her mother had been.
Somehow or other, the powers had not been strong in her. Oh, she could do some simple spells and charms, and sometimes, if she concentrated hard enough, she could even move objects with her thoughts, though they traveled slowly and she sometimes had difficulty controlling them once they were in motion. A most unreliable talent in that department, she reflected glumly. Her healing powers were modest as well, and she did have visions on occasion, but they had never proved useful and were rarely clear.
Except for this one tonight. It was different from any of the others. More vivid, more immediate, as if the man, the man with the dark, silky hair and the fire-blue eyes, was right there in her chamber, in her mind, in her very soul….
Who was he, and why had his image come to her?
“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered to the empty garden as the wind whistled around her. None of her visions ever mattered.
Of course, no one knew that. Thanks to her father and brothers, everyone in the kingdom—indeed, in all the lands from the Hills of Davenall to the Sea of Azul—thought that she was every bit as powerful as her mother had been. That had been Braden’s idea. He’d convinced their father and Cadur that no one need know about Erinn’s “shortcomings,” as he so tactfully put it.
Least of all the llachlanders. The people of Marlbury had for years been emboldened and reassured by the notion of a powerful witch acting on their behalf, and it stood to reason that the enemy was to some extent kept uneasy and off balance knowing that they had a foe who could not be defeated by sword or arrow.