Enchanted Again

by Robin D. Owens

  Eight Lightfolk, four couples, were being hugged and held with the murmurs of goodbyes floating to her. She watched as the short, stocky dwarf and dwarfem separated themselves from the group and marched hand-in-hand to the circle of green light. Amber saw them nod to the men by the columns, pass through to the center of the small circle, then vanish.

  Another dwarven couple grunted and made noises like the rattling of rocky gumballs falling through a dispenser. Golden light flared around them. “The old Earth royals have left through the dimensional gate. We are the King and Queen of Earth, now,” the dwarf said in a language that Amber heard and understood with her mind, not her ears. She recalled that the brownies had said some royals had left in the fifth century.

  The king straightened, sweeping his arms before him and causing the chime of thick golden bracelets on his wrists. The dwarfem laughed. She wore a woven metal headdress with the strands ending in bells that tinkled. The echo of the bracelets and bells flowed outward on a wave of musical magic that seemed to notify all Lightfolk that Earth power had changed.

  Next a green-skinned man and woman linked arms. Their hair sparkled with droplets and they left seafoam in their wake as they walked through the grove and the gate.

  She watched as elves more beautiful than belief glided through the air and into another place.

  Each time there was a reaction to two left behind, a growing in stature and magic, a sending through the water or the air by the new kings and queens. And from the vibrations and reverberations, Amber sensed they were in what would become Italy.

  Finally only the guardians and two couples remained, glowing deep lava red and orange. The King and Queen of Fire, djinns, and the couple who would soon become royal.

  A man stepped from the shadows, a person who felt part human, whose magic was duller. The brightest woman cried out, stretched her arms toward him. The current King of Fire wrapped his arm around her waist. The lesser couple faded back from the trio, as did the guardians.

  “I want my child to come with us! There is magic and time and energy enough to carry a babe,” the Queen of Fire—the djinnfem—cried.

  “No,” said the human man wearing leather pants, a cloth shirt and long cape, cradling a bundle in a sheepskin. “She is my daughter, too, and she will stay here, on this planet with me.” He didn’t glow as brightly as the others. Definitely had human blood.

  The red-toned man’s thin upper lip lifted showing orange fire teeth. He spoke to the djinnfem. “She is only three-quarters Lightfolk. She should not leave this benighted place draining of magic for a realm richer in energy. She will not live as long as we. She will not appreciate her new world. Leave her with her father.” The djinn turned the beautiful woman to face him and not the man and the baby. “Now we have wed, I will give you full-blooded Lightfolk children who will prosper in the world we go to. Not puling human-get.” The infant had begun to cry.

  Glancing over her shoulder at the man who held the tiny girl, the djinnfem’s face showed lava tears flowing down her cheeks. “It should be my decision to make, whether I have her or not. Not his. Her father is not full-blooded Lightfolk. My decision.”

  “But it is not,” the man said, and his tone was cool. “Your fellow queens and kings gave that decision to me and I choose to keep our child.”

  “I love her!” The queen wept.

  “So you say. As you told me you loved me. But you don’t,” the human-Lightfolk man said. His expression turned fierce. “I love her.”

  The Fire King focused on his queen. “I have chosen you as my wife. You are Flashingsmoke now, Queen of Fire, strong in power and passion. Look to the future. Not the past.” He took her hand, drew her to the center of the grove where rainbow waves of light shimmered like a soap bubble. “We’ll go through the dimensional gate and to our new life. Forget her, she is his, and he is nothing. Our children will be rich in magic and power and grace. His will die the human deaths.”

  But the queen wrenched away, ran back to the columns. “Give her to me, I beg you!” More lava tears hissed.

  “No.” The man cuddled the baby and stepped back.

  The queen tossed her head of black and bronze ringlets. “Then I curse you, Cymbal Lore. You shall only have this one child. I curse you.”

  He rocked back on his heels

  Her smile was cruel. “I curse you and your sons!”

  “You would hurt our child’s child!”

  “Only males! Men with magic who would claim and take a babe from their mothers.”

  “And you don’t think seeing her sons harmed will hurt her?” He spat on the ground. Bad move, it infuriated the queen more and her arm came up and her index finger pointed directly at him, streaming a current of magic Amber couldn’t see but could feel.

  “You shall lose your precious grandsons, males, soon after they are born. When you find them again, or their fathers find them again, the fathers will soon die. You take my daughter from me, and my chance to see her grow into her beauty. And I know you prize sons more than daughters. So sons shall be taken from your line.”

  The man’s face went so expressionless it became scary. “You are djinnfem and fire and hurt yourself as you hurt me and our line. You let your temper reign with no thought to consequences. You demand what you want in the moment and will serve up grief to all, including yourself, to have that moment.”

  “Don’t do this, Flashingsmoke,” the other djinnfem said. “You tie this curse to yourself, you will always recall the grief you feel now. It will never fade. How will that work on your temper?”

  “I care not for how she suffers,” the human snapped. “I feel the curse upon me.” He touched his daughter’s cheek and looked stricken. “Upon us, to every tiny droplet of our humors.” His head jerked up and his eyes seemed to burn. “What of the release? Each curse must have a release, a condition that must be met to break it.”

  The Fire Queen’s smile got sharper, again she tossed her head. “The release is that you or one of the males of your line will bring his babe to me, at a dimensional gate, and offer the child to me in reparation for what I have lost.”

  Cymbal Lore sucked in a breath that held the weeping of the wind. “Magic is fading here. Who knows when there will be enough power gathered to form another gate?”

  “Who knows?” the queen said and turned to her king, pressing herself against his side. He was frowning. “Let us go make those children of ours. I am done with this place.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Pavan the elf guardian said as she stepped through the gate. He shook his head, as did Vikos.

  The new King and Queen of Fire blazed as power flowed to them, settled upon them—to the very last droplet of their humors—and sent crackling sparks showering high like fireworks, spreading over the sky and beyond. Fire Lightfolk followed a new royal couple.

  Turning to the human, the queen said, “We are sorry for your curse, Cymbal Lore.” She brushed her hand over the baby’s head. “But I cannot lift the curse from this one. I am sorry.”

  “Time to go,” said her consort. He inclined his head at Cymbal Lore. “It is never wise to mix Lightfolk and human blood.”

  The scene began to fade as if a gauze curtain misted before Amber. She felt the yank of the present and a rush of atmosphere compressed her lungs. The fall would be long and vicious, the landing hard.

  A golden being appeared, held his hands out and she stopped. Flowing robes were gold, his hair shimmering blond, his skin tanned. His features were male perfection.

  “Who?” The word was released on the merest breath, but echoed.

  He smiled and it was charming and fun and tugged at her heart.

  “Bilachoe,” he said.

  He flicked a hand and his magic slammed into her, toppling her end over end, lost like an untethered satellite in space. Fear swept through her in an icy tide. She must have been trembling but there was nothing to tremble against. Her breathing was harsh to her ears and fast, but not as quick as her stuttering heartb
eat. Cold sweat beaded and slid grimly along her skin.

  Bilachoe’s brows arched. “Interesting, you have some tiny measure of magic.” Again he smiled and again it was beautiful and pulled at her and she had to wrench her gaze away. Needed to close her eyes to escape him. Didn’t dare.

  “Do not help the cursed Davail, Cumulustre-get.” One more brilliant smile. “Or I will peel the skin from your bones millimeter by millimeter.”

  The images he put in her head showed exactly that. How he’d done it to others.

  Amber’s gorge rose and she concentrated on forcing the vomit down.

  “And I will do the same with Tiro, Pred and Hartha.”

  Now she saw him torturing a brownie—and a brownie-skin cover on a book of dark magic.

  “And your dogs.”

  With the first raw slice of the boning knife along the side of a dog and the fur peeling back showing red and bloody muscle beneath, Amber screamed and screamed.

  Pain wrapped around Amber’s ankle like fiery whips and the scene and its neon colors vanished as she was jerked into the present. Then dog tongues rasped on her face and she writhed with pain, but she flung out her sensitized hands to grab them, hold them with hands that felt scraped raw by their fur. She let their wiggling bodies smash into her, gritted her teeth as her flesh and bones seemed pulverized. They were all right.

  The hurt on her ankle went away. She didn’t dare open her eyes.

  “So you’re back,” Tiro said.

  The puppies nudged her and she whimpered and they did the same, adding whines that screamed through her head like sirens. More sound pounded through her like earthquake vibrations, then stopped. Rafe yelled, “What’s happened?”

  “Lower your voice, boy, and don’t touch her. She went far into the past.” There was thudding and creaking. “Apparently to the Cymbal Lore curse.”

  “Conrad’s curse? Hell. Amber, honey, how can I help?”

  She managed to form a word on her lips, push air out to give it life. “Juice.”

  “Hartha!” Tiro snapped.

  The scent of the browniefem came to Amber—newly turned earth.

  Hartha tsked and Amber flinched at the sound. A tiny puff of breath from the woman. “That sensitive, is she? Hmm.” The hum of three beehives drowned out other sounds. “I have a nice herbal tisane that might help.” There was the thunder of two pops of displaced air, then the fragrance of sage. Amber grimaced and thought her face would crack and fall to the floor.

  The air moved around her and Rafe was there with his natural scent overlaid with soap and shampoo. Back from his training at the lyceum. He slipped an arm behind her back and she groaned when he raised her; she didn’t have the strength to lift her head. He grumbled and laid her back down, slid one arm under her neck, then the other under her back. She felt him, his concern, his tenderness, protectiveness. Slowly he brought her to a sitting position. She should open her eyes, but believed they would be hurt most by her sensitivity to things around her, maybe permanently, so she kept her eyelids down.

  Rafe shifted until he was behind her, her head propped against his chest. A warm mug was placed against her lips. “Here, Amber honey, drink the good tea.”

  “Not good,” she mumbled.

  His chest trembled behind her but his laugh didn’t emerge. “It has honey.”

  “Drink the damn tea,” Tiro said. “Got brownie magic in it. We’re of the Earth, and we can make healing potions.”

  That was more than she’d known before and her curiosity piqued. She wondered what brownie magic tasted like. When she opened her mouth, Rafe poured the brew ruthlessly down her throat.

  It was a wonder she didn’t choke, but Rafe had gauged the stream of liquid right. The drink tasted like sage, neither the brownie magic nor the honey cut that much. “I’ve closed the draperies over her bedroom windows,” Hartha said. “You can take her in there.” More movement around Amber, as if the brownies were as fretful as the dogs.

  Rafe kicked the door closed behind them, then placed her gently on her bed, toed off his shoes and joined her, leaning on one elbow. He stroked her hair back from her face, kissed her lips. She felt like Sleeping Beauty or Snow White or something, not just Amber Sarga. A dribble of energy began to course through her, enough that she could turn her head and meet his eyes. He was beautiful.

  Tears stung her eyes, dribbled down her temples. “Bilachoe was there.”

  “At the time Conrad was cursed?”

  “No.” Her lips cracked and salty blood welled, all too reminiscent of the images the evil one had planted in her brain. “He ambushed me.”

  “Did he hurt you?” Rafe sat up, tension infusing his muscles.

  Amber managed to put a hand on her chest between her breasts and rub. That didn’t make the sharp spiking of her heartbeat calm. “I don’t think so. He threatened…if I broke your curse…torture me and the brownies…and the puppies.” Her voice was low and raspy.

  Rafe snarled, “All the better that I kill him, then.” Rafe kissed her forehead. “And I don’t want you to risk yourself or others by breaking my curse. Is that clear?” His eyes had turned dark sapphire and harder than the stone.

  “Clear,” she said, but if he needed her to break the curse so he could kill Bilachoe…she’d reconsider.

  Rafe curved his hand around her face. “Where…when were you?”

  Glad to change the subject, she said, “I have the story of Conrad’s curse. It’s very interesting.”

  He rolled from the bed to his feet, paced the width of the room at the bottom of her bed. “That’s where and when you went? To the start of the curse on Conrad’s family?”

  “Yes, fifth-century Italy.”

  He circled the bed and sat next to her, enveloped her face with his hands. “We already know what needs to be done to break my curse, the Davail curse. Bilachoe laid the curse and I must kill him to break it. I don’t want you to look at that scene. No need. You got that?”

  “Yes.” She frowned and was glad she had the energy to pucker the muscles. When she spoke her voice was stronger. “But your curse was invoked in the twelfth century. Seven centuries later.”

  “Don’t care.” His thumbs stroked her cheeks. “You aren’t going that far back into time. No way. And—” he moved to lay down beside her, one of his hands went to the tab of her blouse and began unbuttoning “—neither of us are going back into that deadly game the elf loaded onto my tablet. The danger needs to be minimized for all of you.”

  She smiled. “All right.” Sexual desire unfurled within her, warming her core, sending her more energy. She wanted this man. Pulling his shirt from his jeans, she slid her hands up his torso, lean and strong. His heart was beating as rapidly as hers. He leaned forward to kiss her. She opened her mouth so they could taste each other, connect deeply with each other even before sex.

  Reassure each other that they were alive.

  He drew back and all she could see was his dark blue eyes, his gaze fixed on hers. His hands slid down to link fingers with her. A shiver passed through her as she felt a circuit of energy between them open and cycle. Strong and steady and…lovely.

  “I care for you,” he said in an absolute tone.

  “I care for you, too,” she responded.

  He squeezed her fingers. “We’ll get through this together.”

  Then he closed his eyes and kissed her and she let her mouth cling to his and didn’t call him on his lie.

  Chapter 21

  HARTHA MADE DINNER that night. It wasn’t leftover corned beef and cabbage, which is what Amber usually ate after St. Patrick’s Day. Of course, she’d had no leftovers.

  The meal was a hearty beef stew, a pile of biscuits and side salads that included greens Amber didn’t recognize. She thought that the Mistweaver brownies were there because Amber had chocolate in the house again, but they didn’t say anything. Their noses had twitched—along with Tiro’s—when they’d seen the chocolate near the fondue pot on the kitchen island. When Raf
e and Sizzitt had returned, Amber had gathered the silver frames and let the firesprite set her own magical shields. Amber wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but the air wavered like heat over concrete around the kitchen island.

  While they ate, Sizzitt kept them company in the dining room fireplace.

  Tiro slurped his last bite, burped and waved his china and utensils away to the open dishwasher in the kitchen, then said, “You manifested the Cosmos Shield.”

  Rafe stood and cleared his and Amber’s bowls. “I did.” He nodded toward the living room and the shield tilted away from the wall and rolled into the dining room. When he came back, he had bowls of chocolate pudding Amber had made. He set one in front of Amber at the large dining room table, three at Tiro’s small brownie table and a little one close to the fire, where the pudding heated to liquid and rapidly vanished. The fire looked a little sluggish to Amber after the siphoning.

  She applied herself to the pudding nearly as quickly as the brownies as Rafe picked up the shield and began doing tricks with it.

  “I practiced stuff at the lyceum today. They had a little shield someone from the Society for Creative Anachronism brought in after I asked about them.”

  Amber raised her brows. She didn’t think Rafe had ever heard of the SCA before today. “Don’t you want some pudding?”

  “I’m tired of chocolate,” he said.

  Tiro choked. Hartha and Pred and Amber stared at him. Rafe flipped the shield around some more, sent a slow smile to Amber. “I’ll have dessert later.”

  He propped the shield against the wall again. “Not only did I manifest the shield, here. But I brought the knife to Denver somewhere. Amber’s going to help me find it.”

  She nearly sagged in her chair at the thought of more magic. But if things worked out the way she thought, he’d be using his.