Miri frowned. Who was Ashtoreth? What was this nonsense about taking a bride? Everyone knew that the giants were all women.
The other girls fell to their knees before the flat altar stone in the center of the ring. They moaned as though in some strange ecstasy, while the buxom one swayed and brandished a knife.
“Oh, come to us, great horned one. We offer a sacrifice in your honor.”
A sacrifice? Miri craned her neck for a better look and her blood ran cold. The altar stone, usually laden with floral offerings to the giants, was bare . . . except for something dark bound to the flat rock. Something living. It struggled and stirred, lifting its head, enabling Miri to make out the form of a small black cat.
Its amber eyes seemed to pierce the darkness, sensing Miri’s presence in the shadows. The cat set up a plaintive yowl that she understood as clearly as if the creature had called out to her.
Help me. Please.
Even as the cat yowled, the dark-haired girl loomed over the altar, raising the knife.
“No!” Miri cried, charging forward.
Her shout caused all the girls to freeze, the chanting dying abruptly away. Miri hurled into their midst, shoving the dark-haired girl out of the way. She flung herself in front of the altar stone.
“Get back,” she shouted. Snatching up a stout branch, she brandished it at them. “You leave this poor creature alone. You—you wicked barbarians.”
Miri’s unexpected appearance stunned them all for a moment, even the dark-haired one hesitating before she demanded, “And just who would you be, foolish mortal? Who dares to interrupt our witches’ sabbath?”
Before Miri could reply, one of the other girls tugged urgently at the dark-haired one’s elbow.
“Berthe, that’s the Cheney girl from across the island,” she said fearfully. “She’s a real witch.”
Berthe’s eyes slid uncertainly over Miri, then she sneered. “Bah, she is only a weak little girl.”
“I’ll show you weak,” Miri said, raising her stick like a club. “Come a step closer and I’ll break your stupid head open. And—and put a curse on you besides.”
Her fierce words caused most of them to draw back, but Berthe cast a contemptuous glance at her companions.
“What? Will you be frightened by a child? Seize her!”
Most of the girls hesitated, but urged on by their leader, a few of the bolder ones inched forward, trapping Miri against the rock, ringing her in on all sides.
A lump of fear rose in Miri’s throat, but she was determined to go down fighting. Curling back her lip, she emitted a savage snarl. She lashed out from side to side with her branch, but the girls only leaped back laughing and taunting her.
Then they fell on her like a pack of jackals. Miri fought desperately, biting, kicking to no avail. She was dragged to her knees, her arms pinioned roughly to her sides. Berthe strode forward and seized her so brutally by the hair, Miri’s eyes watered.
She wrenched Miri’s head back, gloating down at her.
“So you wanted to save the cat. Well, perhaps we don’t need him any longer. Maybe it is you we should sacrifice.”
With a wicked grin, Berthe laid the knife alongside Miri’s throat. Heart pounding, Miri closed her eyes and braced herself.
“Hold! You daughters of darkness.”
The voice came like a call on the wind. For a moment, Miri believed she had imagined it, then she heard the indrawn hiss of Berthe’s breath. The hand holding the knife at her throat seemed to waver, as did the others that were holding her down.
“Heaven save us,” one of the girls muttered. “Who is that?”
A surge of hope rushed through Miri, but as her eyes fluttered open, her relief died. She felt as daunted as any of her attackers by the sight of her rescuer.
Firelight caused his shadow to loom up against one of the rocks, but he seemed scarcely more than a shadow himself as he glided closer across the grass. Tall and thin, he was robed entirely in black, his cowl pulled far forward, obscuring his face.
“Let that girl go,” his voice rasped from the depths of his hood.
After a brief hesitation, Miri felt herself abruptly released. Even Berthe’s hand fell to her side as the phantom loomed closer, his long robe rustling across the grass.
“By the order of the Malleus Maleficarum, I command you to cease your hellish practices here at once.”
“He—he’s a witch-hunter,” someone shrilled.
Girls screamed, and stumbled, colliding with one another in their haste to flee. Berthe dropped her knife, nearly trampling over Miri as she bolted to escape. The weapon fell inches from Miri’s knee.
Miri reached out to seize the knife. Although her own heart was hammering with fear, she scrambled to her feet and bent over the altar stone. The cat emitted a plaintive cry.
Even as she feverishly sawed at the ropes, Miri tried to soothe the little creature. “Don’t be afraid. I am not like those other foolish girls. I am a true daughter of the earth.”
The cat blinked up at her. I know.
As the last of the bonds fell free, the cat staggered to its feet. It was not entirely black as Miri had at first supposed, its paws as white as though they had been dipped in snow. Miri scooped the cat gently into her arms, the poor thing so thin, she could feel the ridge of its bones beneath its matted coat of fur.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “You will be safe, but we have to get out of here.”
But as she turned to flee, she collided with a wall of black, the hooded phantom who had crept up behind her far more solid than he had appeared from across the grove. A terrible silence ensued, broken only by the crackling of the bonfire and Miri’s own frightened breathing.
She was alone with the witch-hunter. Her eyes took in the details of the flames embroidered on the hem of his robes, the fiery crosses emblazoned on the sleeves that signified his dreaded trade. Shrinking back against the altar stone, she cradled the cat protectively in her arms. As the witch-hunter reached up to draw back his hood, she sucked in her breath, bracing for some truly hideous visage.
But the face revealed was that of a boy. Although about a foot taller than Miri, he did not appear much older than she. Lustrous black curls tumbled over his brow, his smooth cheeks as yet showing no hint of beard. His skin was milk white, providing a startling foil for his dark brows, thick lashes, and intense dark eyes. All she could do was stare at him, spellbound. He was quite the most beautiful creature she had ever seen walk upright on two legs.
“Are you all right, mademoiselle?” he asked gruffly.
Miri released a long breath and managed to nod. “Who—who are you?”
“Simon Aristide,” he said proudly. “A servant in the order of Malleus Maleficarum.”
Malleus Maleficarum . . . the Hammer of the Witches. Miri shivered. Even she knew this was the most fanatic of orders, their sole purpose to track down and destroy sorceresses. Yet as Miri’s gaze roved over the handsome boy standing before her, those dreaded crosses embroidered on his sleeves made no sense.
“You . . . you truly are a witch-hunter?” she faltered. “But I thought all witch-hunters were old and ugly.”
“Odd. I have always believed the same about witches.”
“But I am not a witch.”
“I never said you were,” he said gravely. His smile broke free in spite of himself, softening his face and lighting his eyes. Miri stared deeply into them.
She had never been as good at reading human eyes as she was with animals. She was not foolish enough to believe she could trust any creature simply because it walked on all fours and bore fur. Sadly, some became irreparably damaged by contact with the world of man.
Simon’s eyes sparkled like the distant stars. Besides, it was clear the little cat trusted him. The creature actually purred as Simon stroked it beneath the chin.
“And so what is a little girl like you doing out here alone at night?” he asked.
“I am not a little girl,” Miri prot
ested. “I would wager I am as old as you.”
“I am fifteen,” he said, puffing out his chest a little.
“Well, I am . . . am fourteen,” Miri replied, stretching the truth by a few years.
“You don’t look much more than eight.”
Miri bridled, starting to indignantly refute the claim when they were interrupted by a distant shout.
“Simon? Simon Aristide?”
The boy’s smile fled. He stiffened away from Miri like a soldier called to attention. Whirling around, he shouted back into the darkness. “Over here, Monsignor.”
Miri heard a footfall, the sound of heavy boots dislodging stone. Another figure emerged into the grove, an older man, shorter and stockier than Simon, but far more alarming. His robes were of blood-red satin, his hood flung back to reveal a rough-hewn visage and bristle of white hair.
Miri’s pulse skittered and she felt the cat tense in her arms. It reached up one white paw to tap urgently at her chin, its eyes glowing up at her.
You must flee, daughter of the earth. Now!
But as though sensing her fear, Simon glanced back to offer her a reassuring smile. “It is only my master, Monsieur Le Vis. You needn’t be afraid of him. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Miri smiled back at him, trying to draw comfort from his words. But she watched anxiously as Simon stepped forward to make deep obeisance to the older man.
Monsieur Le Vis stared at Simon, his heavy mouth twisting in displeasure. “You there, boy! I told you not to march so far ahead of the rest of us.”
“Forgive me, Monsignor. I saw the smoke from the bonfire and was too eager to wait.”
“Yes, these islanders have been at their hellish rites tonight just as I supposed. It would have been a good place to begin our hunt except now you have given them all a chance to flee with your clumsy barging in.”
Simon ducked his head. “I am sorry, master, but—”
“Silence. I need none of your excuses. Well, at least you have managed to capture one of these daughters of darkness.”
Miri shivered, realizing that the man was staring directly at her. Simon positioned himself in front of her.
“Oh, no, Monsignor. This is a child who I managed to save from the witches.”
“I am not a child,” Miri cried. Although she trembled, she tilted up her chin proudly and continued, “I am not a daughter of darkness either. My name is Miribelle Cheney and—and I am the daughter of the Lady of Faire Isle and the Chevalier Louis Cheney, the greatest knight in—in . . .”
Miri’s voice faltered, realizing at once she had said something terribly wrong. Even Simon was regarding her strangely, his look somewhere between wariness and disbelief.
Monsieur Le Vis thrust Simon out of the way, stalking closer.
“Well, well, Miribelle Cheney, is it?” he rasped. “It is the wrong sister, but she will serve our purpose. Excellent work, Simon, my lad.”
Miri swallowed hard, shrinking farther away from him as Le Vis’s face was more fully revealed by the firelight. Deep pit-like scars were embedded in his skin, one eye drooping slightly lower than the other.
Far worse was the blank expression in his eyes. They were empty and flat as murky glass. As Le Vis stalked closer, the cat’s fur bristled and he hissed at Miri.
Run.
Heart leaping into her throat, Miri whirled to do so, but it was already too late. More shadowy figures were emerging into the clearing, the circle of stones suddenly alive with robed phantoms.
Miri glanced wildly about her for a route of escape but there was none. As the witch-hunters closed in on her, she shrank down. Clutching her cat, she closed her eyes, sending up a fervent prayer for the Earth Mother to turn her to stone.
Ariane rubbed her eyes as she tried to stay awake. She had no idea what time it was. Shut up in the workroom, it could be nearly dawn for all she knew. The candles certainly had burned far lower in their sockets and were in danger of guttering out.
She had been laboring for hours and with no success. The beautiful white gloves were laid out before her like an elegant mockery, refusing to yield their secrets. A half-dozen chafing dishes lined up in a row, filled with the fibers she had carefully removed from the garments and the various solvents she had brewed to test them.
She had uncovered nothing malevolent so far. Whatever poison Catherine had employed, all the science in Ariane’s ancient texts was proving useless in aiding her detection. Either the Dark Queen knew of some substance older than anything recorded by a daughter of the earth or she had developed her own.
This was one of the few times in her life when Ariane actually wished she was better versed in the dark arts. She scarcely knew what to try next.
As she turned over the possibilities in her mind, her hand crept toward the ring on the chain around her neck. She frowned, realizing she’d developed a habit of fidgeting with Renard’s ring every time she felt tense or worried about something.
Four days had passed since she had parted from Renard in the market square, four days in which she constantly expected him to turn up on her doorstep, or spring at her from out of nowhere.
He had kept his word this time. The man was truly gone, but Renard’s own words kept coming back to haunt her.
“No man could be worthy of you, my lady, who would give up so easily.”
But that was ridiculous. She didn’t care if he gave up. After all, she was the one who had wanted him gone, wasn’t she?
Then why did she feel this hollow sense of disappointment when another day slipped by with no sign of him? It was almost as though . . . as though she missed Renard, which was quite absurd.
And yet she was constantly beset by memories of his wicked, teasing smile, of the banter they had shared, of the way he could make her laugh even when she tried so hard not to, coaxing her out of her solemn, serious self, even if only for a little while. Most of all, she kept remembering the dark, sweet heat of his kisses that had stirred such unexpected fire within her. She could not stop herself from wondering where those passionate embraces might have led if she had not insisted upon sending him away . . .
Into trouble, that was where, Ariane reminded herself firmly. Despite the tug of attraction she felt, the comte was still a stranger to her. A seductive smile and a devastating ability to kiss were not good enough reasons for any woman to marry, let alone the Lady of Faire Isle, who had to be so careful of her choice.
Besides, it was not a husband she needed, but answers to the riddle of those wretched gloves. Ariane tucked the ring and chain back inside her gown and turned her dispirited gaze back to her experiment. Yawning, she packed the gloves away, resolving to make further tests after she had obtained a few hours sleep.
But as she started to rise, Ariane was alarmed by thumping at the hidden entrance above. Before she could respond, the trap door was wrenched open.
One of the older servants all but stumbled down the stairs in her haste. Agnes’s face was as white as her nightcap and for a moment the woman was too breathless to speak.
Ariane rushed to the stairs, peering up at her. “What is it, Agnes? What’s wrong?” she asked sharply.
“Oh, m-milady. You . . . must come at once. Ch-charbonne is here to fetch you.”
Ariane’s heart went still. There was no good reason Marie Claire would have dispatched Charbonne to her.
“Dear Lord! The soldiers have not returned, have they?”
“No! F-far worse.” Agnes pressed her hand to her heart, the old woman looking like she was going to drop from sheer terror on the spot.
“Witch-hunters! Here on our island, milady. And they have taken Mistress Miri.”
Chapter Twelve
The pallor of a gray morning hung over Port Corsair. Shop windows remained closed, doors were locked, even the customary bustle of the harbor seemed muted, the men going silently and grimly about their work.
A cluster of frightened women gathered about the notice nailed to the door of the market hall. They f
ell back respectfully when Ariane arrived. She passed through the group, closely followed by Charbonne and Gabrielle.
Several of the women curtsied and Ariane did her best to calmly return the greetings. But as she drew closer to that piece of parchment fluttering in the wind, she felt a chill sweep through her that had nothing to do with the brisk morning air.
Mounting the steps of the hall, she trapped the paper against the door with her fingers and read.
NOTICE TO THE PEOPLE OF PORT CORSAIR
You are hereby directed, commanded, and required, that if anyone knows of any person reputed to be a witch, that it should be revealed to this tribunal, especially if that person is suspected of such foul practices that cause injury to men, cattle, or the fruits of the earth. The withholding of such evidence shall be deemed to be a crime punishable by death.
VACHEL LE VIS
Grand Master, Order of the Malleus Maleficarum
Ariane stared at the notice, a cold lump of fear settling in her throat. Vachel Le Vis . . . there could have been no more dreaded name to any wise woman. A merciless fanatic, Le Vis had already cut a swath through the south of France with his torturing and burnings. By the time he had finished practicing his hellish trade, there had scarcely been a daughter of the earth left alive.
Swallowing hard, Ariane tore the notice from the door and rent it slowly to pieces. She heard an awed gasp from the crowd of women behind her and was glad no one could see the way her hands trembled as she tossed the bits of parchment into the wind. She needed to appear calmer than she ever had in her life as she turned back to face the women of Port Corsair.
A throng of faces gazed up at her, many of them plainly terrified, some merely anxious, and a few, like Gabrielle, bristling with defiance. Ariane wished she could have forced her sister to remain behind at Belle Haven, but short of chaining Gabrielle in the old dungeon, there would have been no way to do so.
She looked up at Ariane, her chin resolute, her blue eyes as fierce as a soldier waiting the order to attack. Ariane directed her attention to the crowd instead.