She took a deep breath and tipped her head back, squared her shoulders and squeezed her eyes closed. Her pose was a curious blend of vulnerability and strength that tore at Niall’s hardened heart and for an impetuous moment, he wished he might have had the opportunity to know more of this Viviane.
“I wish,” she said softly but with passion. “I wish that I were as far away from here as ever a person could be.”
And no one could have been more surprised than Sir Niall of Malloy when the lady shimmered right before his eyes, shimmered with the same strange blue light as was trapped in the gemstone. A flash blinded him and he heard a tinkle as he instinctively closed his eyes.
When Niall looked a mere heartbeat later, there was naught before him but a single moonstone, tangled in its silver chain, lying on the floor before him.
And the crowd beyond, baying for the spectacle of execution.
The knight spun but there was no one behind him, not a sound in the corridor. Niall bent to retrieve the glowing pendant, a shiver dancing over his flesh when he touched the fragile chain. The odd sensation made him draw his fingers briefly away, for ’twas unnatural beyond all else.
’Twas witchery.
Against all odds.
’Twas then Niall knew that he had been wrong. He cautiously picked up the pendant and considered anew its eerie light. There were such creatures as witches for he had just seen the truth of it. Niall had been not only in the company of one, but had been lulled into granting her the chance for freedom.
’Twas clear that he had made a grievous error in doubting his patron’s knowledge.
Niall lifted his head and surveyed the roaring crowd, inadvertently catching a glimpse of the archbishop’s impatient expression. The sight made his blood run cold, his hand closing instinctively over the wicked gem.
’Twas equally clear that this particular mistake would cost him dearly.
*
Chapter Two
Viviane cringed at the sudden blinding light that leapt from her moonstone. ’Twas silvery and blue and cold as death. She could not see anything, not even the stalwart knight directly beside her, not even her own hand. She reached for his solid strength as fear stole her pulse, but her fingers closed on emptiness.
And suddenly she felt as though her body was not her own, as though ’twas scattered to the four corners of the earth, spread thin and laid bare to the chill of an angry moon.
No sooner had Viviane formed that thought that she felt a sense of gathering. The far flung parts of her seemed to hasten together, though they did not fit as well as they did before. She felt disheveled and disoriented, dizzy and uncertain what had happened. The cool moonlight faded, the chill left her flesh as abruptly as it had descended.
Viviane cautiously opened her eyes, only to find herself on completely unfamiliar turf. She blinked and looked again, though the scene did not change. Then she gasped aloud, for clearly, she was not where she had been before.
Her father’s charm had worked! Oh, he must have loved her dearly to have left such a wondrous gift in trust for her. Viviane nearly hugged herself in delight.
But where was she?
Viviane was standing at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by wondrously tall pine trees and facing a marvelous span of sparkling blue water. The sky was perfectly clear, the air was warm and she could hear the birds calling. She spun in place just to be certain, but the archbishop and his palace was not to be seen.
Gone was the foul smell of the dungeons, the tang of smoke. Instead her nostrils filled with the smell of flowers, the tang of a salt sea. The air was warm, the breeze gentle, the countryside etched in glorious hues. Viviane took a deep breath and smiled.
This might have been paradise, but the great handsome knight with compassion shining in his green eyes was gone as well.
That realization made Viviane’s smile disappear. Oh, to be sure, he was gruff, but there was a heart of gold secreted beneath that man’s mail, Viviane knew it well. He was like one of the great knights in the tales she copied over and over again, a tawny lion, both bold and gentle, a knight worthy of serving at King Arthur’s own court.
Aye, Viviane could readily imagine him atop a stomping charger, his standard held aloft, while he departed in search of the Grail itself. He would ride with deft strength, she knew it well, he would lead with authority. She wondered how he would smile.
Slowly, to be sure, with a deliberation that would heat a woman’s blood.
Indeed, Viviane wished she might have had the chance to know more of this man. Aye, it could not be an easy labor her knight had in the archbishop’s dungeons, and he must have a good reason to take it on, for a woman could tell with a glance that he was a knight of fearsome ability.
Viviane sighed and glanced about herself one more time, just to be completely he had not been flung from that foul space along with her.
’Twas then she saw the orchard.
Off to one side of the road and continuing over the rolling land, ’twas filled with trees hanging with ruddy fruit. And this was no orchard such as those Viviane knew from home. Nay, these trees were young and vibrant, not twisted and old.
The fruit was larger than she knew possible, easily three or four times the size of the apples she regularly saw in the markets of Cantlecroft. It was redder than red and Viviane could nearly smell the sweetness of that fruit, even from this distance. She knew she had never seen trees so heavy with bounty.
And she knew that no earthly tree could bear as a single one of the dozens before her did.
Which could only mean they were enchanted.
Or unearthly.
Viviane looked to the blue water, the sky, took a breath of the perfumed air and suddenly guessed where she had come.
As far from the court as possible.
From earthly hell to unearthly paradise. Her gaze strayed to the apples one more time and the answer came to her with perfect clarity. Nay, ’twas not Paradise in the Christian sense.
This must be Avalon.
Viviane smiled and breathed the name in wonder. Avalon! The hidden island of the ancient Celtic gods, the refuge secreted in the mists to the west of Ireland, the home to all immortal beings weary of the world and its ways. Avalon, where all was possible; Avalon, as far from the false justice and worldly wealth of the archbishop’s court as anyone could ever hope to be.
Avalon, the isle of magical apples.
Viviane’s pulse quickened. Though she was no bold knight herself, ’twas clear that she had found herself an adventure fitting of a grand tale. She had fallen right into one of the old stories she so loved! Could anything be more perfect? Oh, Viviane had always wanted to visit foreign lands and exotic horizons, and Avalon was the most exotic of them all.
She was indeed a most fortunate woman! ’Twas just as she had told her knight - she was luckier than lucky and none could contest the truth of it.
Well, her mother had taught her to use her wits to make the best of what she was granted, and Viviane was not going to discard that good advice now. Indeed, she had grown adept at providing for herself these past two years since her mother’s death - she considered it to be a fitting tribute to her mother’s memory.
The rope her knight had knotted around Viviane’s wrists was not tight enough to hurt - there was a hint of his noble character! - and some sustained wriggling let her work one hand free. ’Twas easy then to free the other, a deed she managed just before a man appeared from the woods on one side.
He was garbed oddly and she had the impression that he was a minstrel, though she could not have identified why. Perhaps because there was a disreputable air about him. He had not troubled to scrape the dark stubble from his jaw, his hair hung lank and dark, his gaze was pixie-bright.
Viviane straightened, uncertain what language might fall from his lips and wondering who the first occupant of this blessed realm to cross her path might be. His face brightened at the sight of her, though, and he looked amiable enough. He quickly st
rode in her direction and waved.
He wore a strange manner of chausses wrought of a dark green cloth and cropped above the knees, and a chemise that looked like purple sheepskin with teeth lining its front. Beneath he wore another chemise of some fine cloth dyed a vivid yellow hue and inscribed with script that insisted “Just do it.”
This Viviane could not fathom. Do what? And why?
Or considered another way, what precisely did the Just do? Just deeds, she supposed, though that was hardly worthy of such acclamation.
But then, she could not be surprised to be greeted by mystery in Avalon. Wisdom was oft shrouded in riddles such as these. She knew this from the old tales.
’Twas another proof of where she was, no more than that.
“Hey, are you with that historical recreation group?” he called by way of welcome. “Cause if you are, you’re like way lost, honey. They’re on the other side of the island today.”
Island! She was right! Avalon was an island as any fool knew. Viviane’s flush of victory was quickly followed by confusion. She supposed they spoke the same tongue, though his words and his accent made it difficult to be sure.
And what did he mean?
Was his query a test of her eligibility to remain? Viviane caught her breath. Aye, ’twas said that the immortals dearly loved to play games of wit and ’twas not uncommon for them to test those whom they might indulge.
But Viviane could not risk failure. Indeed, to be returned from whence she had come would only mean certain death. She squared her shoulders, determined to prove herself as clever as could be.
There was too much at stake to even consider the alternative.
“I do not understand,” Viviane said carefully.
The man grinned, revealing an array of remarkably white teeth, then cocked a finger at her. “Right, I get it, you’re like staying in character.” He nodded with what might have been appreciation. “Cool.”
Viviane perceived naught intemperate about the weather. The air here was, in fact, delightfully warm and the sun was lovely. ’Twas quite unlike the damp overcast days so typical of Cantlecroft.
Viviane eyed her companion and wondered whether she should question his conclusion. ’Twas important, she knew, to not let magical beings and sorcerors underestimate one’s wits.
But before she could decide, the man continued, his gaze as bright as a cat’s. “So, like where are you supposed to be from, anyhow?”
Honesty also was key, as any child knew, for the magical ones could see directly through the most artful lie. “I was raised in the midlands of England,” Viviane supplied, “and ’twas 1395 when last I was told the Lord’s date.”
“Really?” He pushed a hand through his hair and left it yet more disheveled. Viviane supposed ’twould be easy to lose track of the years when one was immortal and living in a timeless realm.
“I had no idea you people were, like, so specific.” He scanned Viviane from head to toe while she again tried to make sense of his words. Surely he knew that all mortals kept track of years from the Lord’s birth? Or knew from whence they came?
His gaze was more forthright than she appreciated and Viviane stiffened. “I guess your costume is authentic, but it’s like a bit dull, don’t you think?”
Oh!
“My mother wrought this kirtle with her own hands!” Viviane declared indignantly before she could consider the wisdom of speaking her mind. “And we dyed the cloth together. ’Twas woven by the old woman in Kiltyre who knows best to spin the wool and the woad was plucked from the hills not far from town, where ’tis said to grow best. ’Twas the last labor we completed together and a fine piece of workmanship for mortal hands, and I will thank you to not belittle the result.”
The man flung up his hands in surrender and took a step back. “Hey, easy. It was just like constructive criticism. How would I know you had so much baggage with it?”
Viviane kept her mouth closed, for ’twas clear she had no baggage at all.
Were there madmen in Avalon? She could not recall such a detail, though in this moment she most assuredly tried.
He leaned closer and his manner became confidential. “Really, though, you should like work on that accent. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but it sounds really, really fake. I’d ease up on the ’twas action. It’s just a bit over the top, you know? “
Viviane folded her arms across her chest, more than done with this man’s manners and his mysterious allusions. “Nay, I do not know,” she said as crisply as she dared. “You speak most oddly yourself and make little enough sense, sir, in addition to the strange manner of your own garb.”
“This, strange?” He laughed as though she had made a fulsome jest, though Viviane found naught amusing about her comment.
“Aye, strange ’tis and there can be no doubt of that.” Viviane pointed to his outer chemise, annoyed that he would pretend otherwise. “What need has a chemise of teeth? And what whimsy turns the fleece of sheep to such a violet hue?”
He visibly preened and she wondered if his garb was some fanciful invention of his own.
Could he be one who shifted shapes?
“Hey, this is polar fleece, the good heavy duty stuff.” He lifted a fistful and shook it at her. “No sheep died for this, honey, just a few polyesters.” He fiddled with the front of his chemise as Viviane wondered precisely what a polyester might be.
“Teeth,” he echoed with a grin and a shake of his head. He then meshed both sides of his chemise together by means of a little bar, clearly proving the extent of his magical powers. Viviane gasped when the two edges fastened and remained together. Then she narrowed her eyes, glancing about herself cautiously.
He was not mad. He was a sorceror! She would do well to not cause offense, lest he cast a spell upon her. Too late Viviane wished she had not been so quick to speak her thoughts, but then, she ought to be used to such sensation. She was not known for her silence.
She had best bide her tongue. Severely.
“Zipper,” he informed her archly. “Like, hey, we may be out in the sticks, but you can’t be that amazed.”
Viviane was indeed amazed, but considered it unwise to say as much. Her chattering had gotten her into considerable difficulties in places much less wondrous than this.
Perhaps he - remarkably - did not realize that she was a stranger here. Perhaps ’twould not be clever to draw attention to that fact. Perhaps if she could merely blend in, no one would think to evict her from Avalon.
Or send her back to the archbishop’s court.
’Twas worth a try.
Her companion seemed to be waiting for her to say something, so she chose what she deemed the safest topic possible.
“My name is Viviane,” she said with a smile. “I do not believe I have made your acquaintance.”
“Monty Sullivan,” the man asserted and stuck out his hand in the manner of knights pledging no harm to the other. It could not be a bad import. Viviane took his hand and shook it, as she had seen the knights do at home. “And spare me the Monty Python jokes, okay? And no, just to get it out of the way, I don’t do the full Monty either.”
Viviane was only too happy to nod agreement, since she could not fathom a guess as to his meaning. He seemed well disposed toward her, despite the oddities of his manner.
And her mother had always said to take fortune wherever ’twas found.
Viviane smiled her best smile. “Could you possibly aid me in finding accommodation on your enchanted isle, Monty?”
“Just arrived?”
Viviane demurred. “I seek a change.”
Monty grinned. “Oh yeah, you were like probably camping out with those re-enactment types. Sure, there are B&B’s out here or a hotel back in town. What’s your price range?” Viviane must have looked blank, because Monty leaned closer and frowned. “You know, your budget. Like how much cash do you have to spend every night?”
“Oh.” That could be a problem. Viviane knotted her hands together. She had na
ught in her pockets and no purse any longer - hers had been seized when she was cast to the dungeons.
’Twould undoubtedly be better to not mention her incarceration, the charge against her, or indeed her sentence. Convicted criminals, however innocent they claimed themselves to be, were seldom welcome arrivals in any realm.
“I have no coin.”
Her companion winced sympathetically. “I know that tune. Do you like have a job?”
Viviane knew her incomprehension showed.
“You know, what you usually do for money.”
“Oh! For coin, I write manuscripts…”
“A writer!” He clapped one hand on his forehead. “Man, I knew you were like a kindred spirit. Waiting on royalties, huh?” He hunkered closer beside her, his manner yet more confidential. “Jeez Louise, but publishers are a stingy bunch of bastards, don’t I know it. Keep your money forever and a day before they finally ship it off to you, and everyone thinks cause you’ve got your name in print, you’re a millionaire.” He clucked his tongue. “Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.”
He looked most earnest and Viviane did not trust herself to say anything of intelligence when she understood so little of what he meant.
Monty fortunately was undeterred by her silence. “Hey, look, take it from me. You’re gonna survive in this biz, you like gotta get a day job. There’s no way around it.”
“I see,” Viviane said slowly, even though she did not.
Monty studied her for a long moment, then grinned. “No clue what you’re going to do, right?”
Viviane smiled. She was getting used to his strange manner of speaking and considered that it might be her very good fortune that had ensured she met this sorceror. Indeed, he did not seem troubled by her ignorance, which was most fortuitous.
“None,” she admitted.
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