by Amanda Ashley, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Maggie Shayne, Ronda Thompson
She heard his footsteps move toward the door.
"I shall see ye this evening. The larder is well stocked with meat. Prepare whatever ye wish for supper."
"Aye, my lord."
She breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the door close. She would cook for him and sing for him, and at the end of a year she would go home.
Darkfest cursed softly as he left the girl's room. He should not have brought her here. What folly had possessed him to do so, to think he could look at her every day and not want her, to think he could remember the touch of her hand upon his wolf self and not take her to his bed? Even now, he burned for her, for the touch of her hand, the sound of her voice rising in ecstasy, sobbing his name.
With a harsh laugh, he plunged down the stairs to the dungeon room where he practiced his sorcery. What did he know of women? Of ecstasy? No doubt she knew more of the carnal nature of what went on between a man and a woman than he did. His only experience in coupling had been in his wolf form with a she-wolf late one moonlit night. It had left him feeling satisfied and confused and frightened.
A wave of his hand, and a dozen candles sprang to life, illuminating the room where he kept the ingredients he used in his magic. Powdered horn of a unicorn. Saint-John's-wort. Crushed rosemary and thyme, vervain and yarrow and lavender, garlic and sage and rue, mugwort and cinquefoil and hyssop. He kept a large supply of tree bark and leaves: birch for cleansing and to expel evil; hazel for wisdom and the divining of water; yew, the tree of death; rowan for life and healing; ash for power and absorbing illness; pine for rejuvenation; willow for enchantment; hawthorn for male potency; holly for beauty; the apple for fertility; mistletoe for love and peace. And the alder, said to be the tree of fire, the wood of witches and wizards. He carried a whistle made of alder in his pocket for use in summoning and controlling the four winds.
He needed but little help in conjuring or making spells. The power was within him, within his hands, within his heart and mind. His, for good or for evil.
But it was not power or magic that concerned him this night. It was a fair lass by name of Channa Leigh. What was he to do with her, now that she was here?
Dinner was a silent affair. He could think of nothing to say to her, the beautiful young woman who sat across from him, her head bowed, the shimmering curtain of her hair concealing her face from his prying eyes.
The meal she had prepared was fit for a liege lord: the roasted venison succulent and swimming in a rich sauce, the vegetables sweet, the bread still warm from the oven. And yet he would have traded it all for a plate of cold ashes to see her smile.
When the meal was over, he thanked her, curtly, and left the room.
He took refuge in the high-ceilinged library that was his favorite room in the castle. It was a large chamber, with a cozy hearth and leaded windows. A bearskin rug was spread before the fireplace; curtains of so deep a blue as to be almost black hung at the windows. An enormous overstuffed chair, large enough to seat two comfortably, was angled toward the fire. A heavy oak table stood beside it. Two walls were lined with shelves that were crammed with ancient books and scrolls that held the wisdom of the known world. He had read them all many times over.
He whirled around, his gaze going to the door, which he had left open. He heard her footsteps in the corridor, hesitant, barely audible, and yet they echoed in his mind like thunder.
"My lord?" She stood in the doorway, her head cocked to one side. "Are you here?"
"Aye, lass. What is it ye want?"
"You said you wished me to sing for you."
He grunted softly. "Come in," he invited, and then, remembering that she could not see, he went to her. Taking her by the hand, he led her into the room, bid her sit down in his chair.
"I would rather stand," she said, "if you dinna mind."
"As ye wish."
"What will you have me sing, my lord?"
"Whatever pleases ye."
She hesitated a moment, and then she began to sing the lullaby he had heard her sing on the night of First Harvest. Hands clasped to her breasts, head high, eyes closed, her voice filled the room, soft and sweet and filled with yearning, and he knew in that moment that she dreamed of marriage, that she hungered for a babe of her own.
"My sweet bonnie lass,
A boon from heaven above,
I cradle you to my heart
And pray you know my love.
"Sweet bonnie lass,
My sweet bonnie lass,
Heaven sent you to me.
Heaven sent you to me.
"My sweet bonnie lass
So young and fair of face,
May you ever walk in sunshine
And be blessed with God's good grace."
She sang to him for an hour, and he felt her words twine around his heart, as delicate as a silken web, as binding as silver chains.
How beautiful she was, this woman known as Channa Leigh. There was magic in her voice, a mystical power equal to his own as she sang of a maiden's dreams and a mother's love and a warrior's heart.
"Enough," he said, his voice hoarse, his mind reeling from the images her songs had planted within his mind.
"As you wish, my lord," she said, and with a curtsey she left the room, leaving him awash in darkness though the room glowed with the warm rosy light of the fire.
And he knew, as he listened to her footsteps fade away, that he was totally, irrevocably, lost.
CHAPTER 6
In her room, as she undressed for bed, she resolved to be brave and strong. A year was not so very long, after all, and when it was over, she would go home and marry Ronin.
She found her bag at the foot of the bed and dug through its meager contents for her nightgown. Slipping it over her head, she crawled under the covers. The mattress was soft, the sheets wondrously clean. And warm. They were not made of the coarse cotton she was used to, but some soft material that seemed to enfold her. Her pillow, too, was softer than what she was used to. Filled with down, she thought.
Lying on her side, one hand beneath her cheek, she stared sightlessly into the darkness, a single tear slipping down her cheek.
"Mama's life is worth it," she whispered. But it didn't stop the tears.
Darkfest stood before the hearth in the great hall, listening to the sound of her tears. She was lonely and homesick and afraid. Why had he brought her here?
Why, indeed?
Without conscious thought, her image danced across his mind—her body supple, her hair like sunlight, her skin the color of the wild peaches that grew to the north. Oh, yes, he knew why he had brought her here, knew it with every breath, knew it in the deepest region of his heart and soul.
But he could not admit it. Neither could he stay away from her side.
He changed to wolf form as he made his way down the corridor. A thought opened the door and he padded into her room. For a time, he stood beside the bed, watching her, and then he licked her arm.
She woke with a start, her sightless eyes wide, her mouth open in a silent cry.
A low rumble rose from his throat as he leaned forward and licked her arm again.
"Magick? Is that you?"
He growled softly in reply.
"But… how did you get in here?"
With eager hands she reached for him, her fingers gently grasping his fur. And he felt the darkness leave her eyes, saw her smile as the shadowy room became visible. She gasped as the candle at her bedside sprang to life.
"Oh, my," she murmured, glancing around. " 'Tis even bigger than I thought."
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, one hand still clinging to his fur. "Look how high the ceilings are. Oh! Magick, look."
He heard the wonder in her voice as she stared at the painting on the ceiling. It had been done hundreds of years ago. He had stopped seeing it long ago; now, as he looked at it through her eyes, it was like seeing it for the first time. Fluffy white clouds were scattered against a pale blue sky. Turtledoves nested
within the branches of a tree. A fawn slept in a thicket. A handful of sheep grazed in green pastures. It was a lovely mural, meant to lull one into peaceful slumber.
She ruffled his fur, and then she frowned. Leaning forward, she cradled his head in her hands. "Your eyes," she murmured. "They were blue before, and now they are gray. How is that possible?"
The wolf's tail thumped on the floor.
" 'Tis very strange," she said, and then laughed softly. "But no more strange than the way my sight returns when you are here."
Slipping out of bed, she crossed the room, opened the door, and peered up and down the corridor. "Where do you suppose he is?" she asked. "Do you think he's asleep?"
The wolf gave a low bark.
"Come," she said, and with a firm grip on his fur she left her chamber. The wolf padded quietly beside her.
She paused when she reached the bedchamber where Darkfest slept. Pressing her ear to the door, she listened for a moment, then looked down at the wolf. "I dinna hear anything." She giggled behind her hand. "I thought he would snore loudly, like Papa."
The wolf looked up at her, tail wagging.
They explored the main floor of the castle. She thought it odd that candles burned in every room even after the lord of the castle had retired for the night. He must be rich indeed, she thought, to incur such waste.
She ran her hands over the rich green velvet that covered the thronelike chairs in the great hall. An enormous carpet, woven in muted shades of green and blue, was spread before the chairs; another was spread before the hearth. She ran her fingertips over the exquisite tapestries that covered the cold stone walls, paused in front of a painting that hung from a gold cord. "They are a handsome couple, are they not?" she mused, and smiled when the wolf thumped his tail on the floor.
She touched everything she saw. Several long tables and benches lined two walls. All were covered with a fine layer of dust. She trailed her finger over one of the tables, leaving a clean streak behind.
" 'Tis a great deal of work to be done," she remarked.
She paused at the great stone hearth and stared up at the sword that hung above the mantel. It was a large, heavy weapon. The hilt was set with sapphires and emeralds that winked a bright blue and green in the candlelight.
"Is that his sword, do you think?" she mused. "Looks very sharp."
Leaving the hall, they went into the solarium. There were a myriad of flowers and other plants growing there and she touched them all, stopping to smell the flowers, marveling at the silky feel of one of the blossoms, amazed that there were flowers at all when winter winds blew.
"Do you think he knows the names of all these flowers?" she wondered aloud. She stooped to smell a delicate bloom.
The next room was filled with books, more books than she had ever dreamed existed in all the world. Shelves of books, of scrolls covered with strange lines and symbols. Surely it would take several lifetimes to read so many books.
She picked one up and turned the pages. The words meant nothing, but there were pictures on some of the pages—pictures of animals and plants and people. A storybook, perhaps.
They left the library and went into the kitchen and she studied the pots and pans, the knives, the placement of the dishes and cups in the cupboard, so she could better remember them tomorrow. She lifted the lid on the bread box, cut a thick slice from a loaf of crusty brown bread, and covered it with butter and honey.
"Hmm," she said. She looked down at the wolf as she licked a drop of honey from her lips. "Would you care for a taste?"
The wolf wagged his tail, so she broke off a corner of the bread and offered it to him. He took it gently from her hand, then licked the crumbs from her fingertips. The rough velvet of his tongue sent a shiver down her spine.
It was near dawn by the time she returned to her own chamber. Yawning, she climbed up on the big bed, then patted the mattress beside her.
With a low woof, the wolf leaped up beside her. "Oh, Magick, I wish you could stay with me always," she said wistfully. She slid under the covers, and the wolf stretched out beside her. "Are you really here?" she asked, her voice low and dreamy and sleep-edged. "Or am I just dreaming?"
Perhaps I am the one dreaming, the wolf thought as her breasts pressed against his back. Her arms wrapped around him and she rested her chin on the top of his head. If so, I hope I never awake.
He lay there, her warm body pressed against his own, feeling her fingers stroke his head. Eyes closed with pleasure, he remained at her side until sleep claimed her. And then, unable to resist, he took on his own shape, his body humming with desire as he felt her soft curves pressed against his back.
He stayed there, unmoving, until the torment grew unbearable. And then, muttering an oath, he left her bed without a backward glance.
He woke to the tantalizing aroma of sausage and fresh-baked biscuits. A word brought the fireplace to life, the flames quickly chasing the chill from the air.
He slid from his bed, naked, to stand before the hearth, all thought coming to a halt as the heavenly sound of Channa Leigh's voice filled the air. She sang a cheerful morning song, praising the God of heaven for the beauty of the new day, for home and family and friends.
Darkfest stood there, mesmerized by the pure, sweet notes, by the knowledge that, for the first time in hundreds of years, he was not alone in the house. A year, he thought. She would be here for only one year. And already one day was gone.
He closed his eyes, letting the music caress him, feeling it move over him and through him. He was startled to find himself smiling.
When the song ended, he pulled on a pair of woolen trousers, a heavy shirt, thick stockings, his boots. And then, wondering if she would tell him of her adventure with the wolf, he went downstairs.
Channa Leigh sensed his presence even before she heard his footsteps. Though she had never seen him, she knew he was a big man, tall and broad. His voice was rich and resonant; sometimes it seemed to reach deep down inside her.
His nearness, the way she trembled whenever he was close by, frightened her.
She heard the scrape of wood as he pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. Surely he didn't mean to eat in here, with her?
"My lord," she stammered, "if you will wait in the dining hall, I shall serve your meal."
He grunted softly. " 'Tis cold and drafty in that great dungeon of a room. I shall eat in here."
"Yes, my lord. Very well, my lord."
She filled a plate and placed it before him, along with a mug of black tea, then went to stand by the stove while he ate.
"Here now," he said gruffly. "Why are ye not eating?"
"I… I'll eat later."
"Cease this foolishness. Come, sit with me."
"My lord?"
"I wish yer company."
"But…"
"Do not argue with me, lass."
Biting down on her lower lip, she filled a plate for herself, walked carefully to the table, and sat down. She felt terribly self-conscious, sitting there, eating in front of him. It was one thing to eat with her parents. There were times, however few and far between, when she spilled a cup of milk or dropped food on the floor. At home, such incidents were of little consequence, but here…
Trying to be extra careful only made her clumsy and uncertain. To her horror, she misjudged the placement of her cup and knocked it over. Her cheeks burned with humiliation as she heard it hit the floor.
"I'm sorry, my lord," she said hastily. "I am not usually so clumsy."
She had started to stand up when she felt his hand on her arm, staying her.
" 'Tis nothing to fret over, Channa Leigh; 'tis only a bit of a spill." Rising, he took a clean mug from the shelf and poured her another cup of tea. Then, very gently, he placed the cup in her hand.
"Thank you, my lord," she said.
He shrugged; then, realizing she could not see him, he sat down, muttering, "Yer welcome."
It was the longest meal of her life. Once, he complimented
her on her cooking. She murmured her thanks, pleased and embarrassed by his praise. She would have to take his word for the quality of the meal; she might have been eating dirt for all the notice she took of the food, so disconcerted was she by his nearness.
"Did ye sleep well?" he asked.
Channa Leigh nodded." 'Tis a very fine chamber, my lord. The painting on the ceiling is—" As soon as she realized what she'd said, she clapped her hand over her mouth. She was blind. How could she explain that she had seen the ceiling?
"Go on," he said quietly. "Tell me about the ceiling."
"I…"
"Yes?"
Her fingers worried a fold in her skirt. What should she say? If she told him about the wolf, would he believe her? She could scarcely believe it herself.
"I know about the wolf," he said, his voice carefully neutral.
"Do you? But how?"
"I am Darkfest," he said, a touch of arrogance in his tone. "I know all."
" 'Tis most amazing, my lord," Channa Leigh said, her excitement momentarily chasing away her awe at being in his presence. "When I touch him, I can see. Oh, my lord, 'tis a miracle."
"Aye," he agreed. "A miracle." And knew in that moment that he would not rest until he had found a way to cure Channa Leigh's blindness.
Later, alone in his workshop, he pored through his books, looking for a spell that would restore Channa Leigh's sight. Her lack of vision was not a sickness that he could absorb into himself or heal with a bit of magic, but the result of an accident sustained in childhood.
He spent hours searching through every book, every manuscript, every scroll, and then, at last, he found it:
From dark to light,
The trail is trod,
With faith, hope, and courage
And a dark dragon's blood.
He stood up, stretching. A dark dragon's blood. There were no dragons in the mountains of Krendall and few in the lands beyond. Their numbers grew less with each passing century, for they were solitary beasts who had been hunted to near extinction. But he knew of one. Far to the north, in an enchanted valley, lived an ancient dragon known as Blackencrill. He was rumored to be a fearsome beast, friend to none and enemy to all. A powerful beast, it was said he was subject to no magic but his own. All who dared enter his valley did so at their own peril.