by Steve Berry
“One of those men will one day save what is yours,” the Sorcerer says to me.
His voice is its usual breathy whisper, each word perfectly enunciated.
“Save what?” I ask.
No reply.
“And from whom?”
Silence.
To find out more, I flee the gate and rush toward the horsemen, who seem to only move farther away, as does the Sorcerer’s voice. He’s still speaking, but I cannot hear. I call out for more explanation. There’s a reply, but it echoes away like a stone down a deep well.
Which brings me awake.
My eyes open.
I shiver beneath the pelt comforter. The fire in the hearth has burned down. A chill fills the night air. What did the dream mean? I should know. I am properly schooled in the healing arts, as well as the skill of second sight. True, more Christians than Celts and Druids now exist across the kingdom, but the old ways linger. My aunt trained me as a priestess, which by its mere label makes me suspect to all those who have adopted the one god philosophy of Christ. Priestesses are now called witches, as people fear what they do not understand.
Particularly men.
No. Just weak men.
Jealous of the power women possess. A power a man can never have. The ability to give life. And that, coupled with lust and passion, can become a threat. Women are never perceived as dangerous because they might rebel or conspire. But dare to control a man? To have him do what he might not ever normally do?
That is a power men fear.
Men long for us. Yearn for us. They grow stupid wanting us. A smart woman can exploit that weakness. I have done so many times and will do it again. But in retaliation for their own shortcomings, their own mistakes, weak men have come to label intelligent women witches.
But there is no such thing.
The late hour, the crackle of the dying fire and the effects from the honeyed milk once again make my eyes heavy.
Sleep is returning.
Which I welcome, knowing the messages are over for the night.
* * *
I awake.
Morning has arrived.
I rise from the bed and send my maid to retrieve a bowl of rain water, wine, and oil. I’m still bothered by not being able to hear all of the Sorcerer’s message. I should have stayed by the gate and listened to what he had to say. The dream had felt portentous, and I need to try and glimpse the future and perhaps learn what the Sorcerer was trying to tell me.
The maid returns with the rainwater in a wooden bowl. I drop in oil until the surface is glassy and reflective. I send her away and strip down naked. To the fire in the hearth I offer sage leaves and juniper berries, savoring their scents in the chilly air, staring into the oily surface, trancelike. It takes a moment, but an image appears. A man, unknown to me, and the Sorcerer, talking to one another. The other man gestures and a beam of light shoots from the ring he is wearing. A thick band of gold, with a red stone at its center, that glows like the sun.
“You shall know from the color of the stone,” the Sorcerer whispers from the surface of the water.
Then his voice grows faint. I bend close to hear more. His mouth moves but I cannot determine his words.
“Say it again,” I tell the image.
But he is gone.
A sense of anticipation rolls through me, followed by joy, then dread.
None of which I understand.
* * *
I don my favorite robe, purple shot through with red silken threads, then have my maid weave a red ribbon into my long dark hair. I fasten my mother’s moonstone necklace about my thin neck and hasten to join the late-morning festivities outside of the castle walls. The fifteen-day celebration of the new year is drawing to a close with a final tournament. I take my place of honor in the crowd, doing what is expected from Arturius’ sister, though if only half by blood. As leader he is likewise in attendance and acknowledges me with a casual wave and a smile.
“My lady?”
The voice comes from behind me and I turn to face a man.
He’s handsome with black hair, firm jaw, and deep, almost liquid eyes. I do not know him so I say only, “How may I help?”
“I’m Helians of Gormet.”
And he holds out his hand.
On one finger I see a heavy gold ring, its stone flashing the red color of the silk in my dress.
You shall know from the color of the stone.
From the Sorcerer.
My senses come instantly alert but my face and eyes betray nothing. The mask, I call it. Essential for survival in a man’s world.
“Might I wear your colors in the fight?” he asks me with a smile.
It’s not an unusual request, as it is customary for the participants to seek a female patron. Why I was chosen remains a mystery. But the ring he wears signals the correct reply.
“I would be honored, good sir.”
Over the next hour I watch as Helians bests all competitors. No one rises to the challenge, and every time he catches my eye I feel my cheeks flush, my blood warming. A strange and different sensation, but one I welcome. Particularly since I was warned that this man might prove important. No break occurs before the evening festivities, so I’m not able to speak with him. But I find myself spending more time preparing my hair and clothes, in anticipation of seeing him at the late meal.
I arrive as the men enter the great hall after attending Mass, singing shouts of Noel, Noel. Bright torches illuminate the cavernous space. Tapestries hang from the walls and trap the warmth from two hearths that burn bright. Smells dominate. So many, mingling together like sweat on skin. Roasted meat. Baking bread. Sweet oils the men and women wear. Many people of high standing fill the tables, drinking and eating with abandon. The merrymaking continues for hours, the mood growing more and more carefree as more wine is consumed. Whether by chance, or at his specific request, or thanks to Arturius’ insight—I do not know which—Helians has been seated beside me. Our talks are interesting. His travels. My family. Our fortresses. The longer he keeps me at arm’s length, the more outrageous my flirtations become.
Coy has never been my nature.
My aunt taught me the ways of the old world. I live by an uncommon belief system. Always have. Always will. Which can lead to trouble. But knowing that the meek inherit nothing, I lean forward and lay a hand on his arm, making sure he notices my décolletage. Tomorrow I head back home. This may be my only opportunity to understand the Sorcerer’s message.
“Good sister,” Arturius calls out from across the hall. “Will you honor us with a song?”
The moment between us breaks.
I turn and catch my half-brother’s eye and nod, knowing that the request must be granted. I enjoy showing off my voice and the performance is well received. After finishing three songs, while accepting the compliments of those present, Helians offers his personal praise and presents me with a gift, a token of good luck, he says, for the coming months.
“It’s the finest thing I have brought with me and I’m pleased to offer it to the finest maiden here.”
He opens his fist and reveals the gold ring studded with a ruby.
“Place it on my finger, please,” I say. “So that I may always think of your hand touching mine.”
If he is shocked by my forwardness he hides his surprise. But my message is clearly heard for once the ring is on my finger, he draws me with him into a carola, joining hands with the other dancers. His eager glances to my lips and breasts, and my encouraging smiles of agreement inflames us both.
He wants me.
Once the song ends we slip from the great hall and hurry toward my room.
The next few hours change my life.
Had he not pursued me. Had I not responded. Had we not begun our lovemaking in the hallway before retiring to my bedchamber. Had he not been such an ardent lover. Had I not been so anxious to understand the message.
So much would be different.
Chapter 4
&nbs
p; I opened my eyes and looked around expecting to be inside a great hall lit by torches. To see trestle tables lined with men and women making New Year’s merry. Instead I was lying on the wet ground, my right cheek in the mud, staring out at a rugged mountainside and the azure sea made hazy by rain. The glass bottle from the box, the one I’d been examining right before the attack, lay at an angle beneath me, its stopper partly uncorked. I righted the bottle and plugged it, making sure the top was tight, remembering Antoine’s warning about smelling what was inside.
The vision had been so vivid. Like a curtain within my mind had parted. As if I were there. Somewhere else. In another time.
Then I recalled the attack.
A few deep breaths cleared my lungs. My brow ached, the pain even more intense than my bruised feet. Whoever attacked me must have hit my head, with a boot, if I wasn’t mistaken. The world spun, like being drunk off far too much wine without the pleasure of ingesting it.
I blinked the cobwebs away from my eyes.
Antoine lay on the ground beside me. Unconscious with a nasty gash to the side of his head. Blood oozed from the wound and had congealed in his hair. I crawled over and felt his pulse. Slow and weak. His breathing seemed labored too. He needed a hospital. The nearest one was in Nice about a dozen kilometers away. I reached for my cell phone but it was gone. Had it fallen out? I looked around. Nothing. It was with me when I left the shop. I searched Antoine’s pockets hoping he had a phone. Nothing. The backpack and the wooden box had also vanished. All I had was the one vial that had gone down with me.
I glanced at my watch.
4:08 p.m.
Two hours had passed since the attack.
That shocked me.
Two hours we’d lain here in the rain and no one had come by?
I tried to wake Antoine, but he would not rouse. No way I could carry him back up to the village or down to ground level. I had no choice but to head for help. I pocketed the vial, then stood, fighting the dizziness, my legs trembling. I moved as fast as I could back up to town. Fifteen minutes later I banged the iron hand knocker on the door to the shop.
Nicodème answered.
“Cassiopeia. Finally. I’ve been so worried about you.” He stared at my bedraggled appearance. “Are you all right? What happened?”
“I’m not hurt badly, but telling you about that has to wait. There’s someone who is unconscious and injured.”
I described Antoine’s injuries and where I’d left him, then said, “He’s the thief.”
Nicodème immediately made a phone call to the local emergency service and in rapid French described the situation and the victim’s location.
“The medics will be sent,” he said, as he hung up. “Now what about you?”
I was barefoot, soaking wet, and muddy. My clothes clung to me like a soaked towel. “I need to get back to him.”
“Are you capable?” he asked.
“My feet are sore. My head hurts. And I have a bump the size of an egg, but I’ll live.”
I didn’t mention the glass vial in my pocket. Not yet, anyway. A little voice in my head told me to hold that knowledge for now. I gingerly touched the top of my head and grimaced. That bastard’s boot caught me hard.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine. But if you have them, I’ll take two pain killers.”
He shuffled across the shop to a bathroom, opened a cabinet, and found a couple of pills which I swallowed without water.
“Can you tell me exactly what happened?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you everything, but I need to go back and make sure they come for Antoine.”
Then I realized he didn’t know.
“Peter Hildick-Smith was an alias.”
The revelation didn’t appear to shock him. “I’ll come with you. You’re in no state to handle things alone.”
I shook my head. “Someone dangerous is out there and I don’t want to worry about you too. I’ll be back as soon as the medics take him.”
I stared down at my feet. I needed shoes. “You don’t happen to have a pair I could wear, do you?”
“Sylvie’s still got some clothes here,” he said referring to his daughter who lived just down the hill in Nice. She was married, with two children. She and her husband owned a wonderful restaurant by the sea I’d frequented often.
“That might work,” I said.
He left and returned with a pair of espadrilles a minute later. “These are all that was there.”
He handed them to me.
“They’ll work,” I said, wincing as I forced my feet into them. At least they were a half size bigger or I never would have been able to wear them. My soles screamed in pain, but there was no time to give in to the discomfort. “I’ll come back as soon—”
“Do you have a phone?”
“It’s gone.”
He disappeared for a few seconds, returning with a phone. “Take mine. Call on my landline, if you need me.”
I pocketed the cell and left the shop, following the same route I’d taken before, winding through the cobbled streets to the viewing platform, then climbing over the railing. The rain had eased to more of a drizzle. Luckily the day was unseasonably warm, the air comfortable even with the wet. I reached the area where I’d twice been ambushed. Antoine was gone. Had the medics already arrived and taken him off? If so, that had been fast. Had someone else come along and helped him down the trail? I found the phone and called Nicodème, explaining what I’d discovered and asked him to check with the local hospital and find out if they had him. He told me he’d be back to me shortly.
I stood there and surveyed the scene. What a day. My clothes were ruined, including an expensive silk Armani shirt and a pair of Louis Vuitton shoes. I’d dressed to meet Nicodème for lunch, not chase a man through the rain and fight in the mud. I still had the one bottle from the Sabbat Box in my pocket, which I slipped out and examined. On its bottom, on a faded parchment label was the word Henbane.
What it meant I had no idea.
The dream in the great hall, then at the banquet lingered in my mind. I’d never experienced anything like that before. What had Antoine said? The fumes have some kind of hallucinogenic properties. I experienced a wild vision when I made the mistake of taking a sniff. Was there a corollary between the bottle and vision?
One way to find out.
I sat against an out-of-the-way tree in case my theory proved correct. I popped the cork free and brought the bottle to my nose. The scent seemed unusually fresh and sweet. Was it orange? Or lime? Hard to tell.
I recorked the bottle.
Then I saw trees.
And—
* * *
The forest looms heavy with rain.
A canopy of leaves provides some shelter, but I do not stop to seek protection. I love rain. It cleanses me. Makes me feel connected with both the earth and the sky, like nature’s release, as pleasurable and spontaneous as the joy between a man and a woman.
I tighten the reins and drive my mare at a trot through the dripping branches. My hair and cloak are soaked. But it’s necessary. I’ve come to gather plants needed for my box. I do not like for its contents to draw low. Nothing can be mixed without the proper ingredients and, sometimes, to gather those, it’s necessary to get wet. The day is fading and I must hurry back and prepare for the evening.
A visitor is on the way.
Sir Helians.
Four weeks have passed since we last lay together.
He is extraordinary in so many ways, and the thought of welcoming him back to my bed, along with the rhythmic movement from the horse’s gallop, sends waves of pleasure up through me, reminding me of what I’ve been missing.
I see a horse approaching from ahead. I slow and spot my servant. He yanks his reins, stopping before me.
“There’s trouble up ahead, mistress,” Erec says. “A dozen men are waiting for you at the fortress gates, and none are from Sir Helians’ party.”
I’m
alarmed. But the harassment is not unexpected. Six factors have long been working against me. I’m only Arturius’ half-sister. I was also once his lover, though we did not know of our relation at the time. I gave birth to his son. His wife hates me. Many have labeled me a witch. And witch hunts are growing in popularity.
“Ride ahead,” I tell Erec, “and tell my lady to ready the oils and unguents, then find two empty jars. Bring my Sabbat Box and the jars to the road that winds around the back of the fortress, where they’ll not be expecting me.”
He nods and rides away at a fast pace. He’s a good servant, in my charge for many years. Utterly trustworthy.
Or as trustworthy as anyone could be.
By the time I reach the place of assignation, Erec is there with my box at the ready. I dismount and open it with the key I wear on a chain around my neck. Inside are bottles of dried herbs, leaves, barks, flowers, and oils that, when mixed properly, accomplish feats that, to the uninformed, appear to be magic. But they are simply the power of plants. Chymistry, the Sorcerer would say. The natural result when differing substances combine and change into something new. The skill comes from knowing how to combine them.
A skill I’ve mastered.
I know of many compounds. Some help the sick. A few inflame men. Others give women relief during childbirth or rid them of an unwanted pregnancy. A few open a portal to the past or allow me to gleam the future. The power of the plants seems boundless. But also frightening. Some people claim I’m a shapeshifter, a seductress, a monster, a wonder, sometimes even a ghost. One term has come to sum up all of their accusations into a single indictment.
Witch.
I learned about plants from the Sorcerer. He showed me how to find them in the woods, how to dry and prepare them, how to mix them in the right amounts. The one I now combine will make the men awaiting me grow tired and sleep, which will allow me the opportunity to re-enter the safety of the fortress without incident.
I know why these men have come.
But Sir Helians will arrive soon and I must be ready.
I slip my horse’s dry caparison from the saddle bag and lay it on the wet ground under a giant oak. From my box I measure out the needed herbs and oils. I pour some of the mixture into one jar, the rest into the other.