Sorceress

  As she started slamming the shovel into the ground, he reached her and dragged the handle from her hands.

  “I can do it,” she insisted.

  “It’ll take all day.”

  “Really, Gavyn,” she argued, “I can do it.”

  “And I can do it faster.” And to prove his point, he jabbed the shovel’s blade into the ground and began turning the earth, digging and tossing mounds of mud all around the spot where Bryanna had pulled up the grass. One hole two feet deep, then another.

  “You know,” he said, tossing another dripping shovelful of dirt to one side, “’Twould really help if that voice in your mind was a little more precise.” Again he thrust the shovel deep, the blade cutting into the grass and soft loam. “I mean, if Isa’s going to all the trouble to talk to you from the grave, the least she could do is speak so that you could understand her.” He glanced over his sodden shoulder at Bryanna as he discarded another shovelful of mud and grass.

  “That’s not how it works.”

  “How it works isn’t very well,” he grumbled.

  “We have three pieces of the map, don’t we? And one jewel.” Why she was defending Isa, she didn’t know. But it wasn’t any more ridiculous than digging around an ancient statue in a downpour.

  “Well, this time we need more instructions. So why don’t you see if you can talk to her and tell her to bloody well let us know what she means?” He rammed the shovel into the earth angrily.

  And the blade struck something that sounded like metal.

  They stared at each other for a split second.

  “Holy Jesus,” Gavyn whispered. He redoubled his efforts, kicking out more dirt with his shovel and exposing the top of a small hammered tin box.

  Bryanna held her breath as she knelt beside the hole and lifted the rusting box from the ground. She could barely trust her trembling hands to unlatch the lid.

  With a creak, the lid opened.

  Inside, winking upon a bed of doeskin that was being peppered with raindrops, was a perfectly cut emerald.

  “So, husband Cain,” she said, a note of triumph in her voice as she blinked against the rain. “It seems as if you just lost your bet.”

  Gavyn never thought he would be a believer. Not in a million years. But too many unexplained occurrences had happened on this trip for him to doubt Bryanna. Standing in the rain in this field, with lightning sizzling from the sky and thunder resounding, she’d pointed him to the very spot where the gem had been hidden.

  It was not mere happenstance.

  Something unworldly was happening here.

  Something that made him rethink all of his previous beliefs.

  Just as she’d predicted, they’d found the emerald, which, of course, was nestled upon the next piece of the map.

  When they spread the ragged, torn bit of leather and, blinking against the rain, fit it into the existing pieces of the map, it indicated that they were to travel south.

  “A topaz for the southern tip,” she said.

  But what bothered him was the map itself. It was etched on a much larger piece of deerskin, and upon its crude surface was a rudimentary drawing of the sea.

  “Does that mean the southern tip of the dagger . . . or of Wales?” he asked.

  Bryanna looked at him with eyes that were only slightly bluer than the brilliant green stone they’d found in the rusted box.

  “Both,” she said with what appeared to be newfound conviction and strength. Lightning flashed again, and raindrops drizzled down her face. “I fear, Gavyn, we’re in for a very long journey.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Morwenna stripped out of her riding clothes, though the fresh scent of spring still clung to her mantle. This morning, with the sun shining upon rooftops and fields, she had not been able to stay within the keep. So she’d ridden upon a little bay gelding and seen the signs of the changing season. Farmers had been plowing their fields and sowing oats and wheat and rye. Frisky spindly-legged foals had frolicked at their mothers’ sides. The river had been swollen from the melting snow and days of rain, and she’d even spied a fox with kits.

  Renewed, she’d asked her serving woman to send for her husband. After changing and combing her hair, she now waited for him in the solar at Calon. Outside the window swallows and wrens sang, while inside the fire burned cheerily.

  Her stomach was in knots.

  “I have something to tell you,” she announced as he strode into the room. Wearing a black tunic with leather and silver tooling, he was certainly the most handsome man in all of Wales. His hair was thick and dark, with the hint of a curl, his eyes intense and clear as he studied her, his jaw angular and strong.

  Morwenna wanted to wring her hands. How she wished she’d spoken up earlier! She stiffened her spine, squared her shoulders, and took a deep breath.

  “You’re pregnant,” he said before she could utter a word.

  “You knew?”

  “I can count, Morwenna, and we do sleep together. We do make love.” He walked to the fire, where he warmed the backs of his long legs. “Your time of the month has not come for a long while. Three? Mayhap four months? I have seen how you devour food, then often throw it up. Other times you are weepy, still others extremely tired. How would you think I could not know?”

  She sat on the chair near the wheel where she was supposed to take pleasure in spinning, which she did not. She’d always been more interested in riding and hunting, any activity in which she could compete with a man. Tending herbs, spinning, keeping track of the castle accounts, and even, aye, taking alms to the poor, though all worthwhile, did not fill her with the same sense of excitement as riding through a winter forest at a full gallop or chasing down quarry.

  Slowly she turned the spinning wheel, hearing it hum. “I tried to speak with you about it earlier, but it never seemed the right time. You were preoccupied with learning the ways of this keep, of ruling it and making alliances, and I . . . I admit it, I’ve been worried about Bryanna.” She nodded, as if finally acknowledging a fact she’d tried to deny. A stupid spate of tears burned the back of her eyelids. Again! Damn it all. She’d never been a weepy woman, never had such strange feelings, but with the coming of the child, she seemed forever either uproariously happy or unspeakably sad.

  “This should be a time of joy for us,” he said as he left the fire to come to her.

  “It is! Oh, husband. I want nothing more than to bear this child and as many more as you would like.” She was sincere, smiling up at him through eyes wet with tears. “The babe is due soon after the new year dawns. Aye, not even half a year away, and I care not whether it be a son or daughter, just as long as it’s healthy and strong.”

  “And so our child shall be.”

  “And, of course,” she said, sniffing back her infantile tears as she took his hands and stood, “if it is a girl, I am hoping for a strong one, like those of Penbrooke.”

  “Like Bryanna,” he said.

  She nodded, for it was true. Of all of her brothers and sisters, Bryanna was the least like the others, both in spirit and in looks. But Morwenna would not be saddened at thinking about her sister at this moment, not when she and her husband were close again.

  “You may have a son.”

  “We,” she said, “we may have a son, and would that he not be as strong-willed as his father.”

  “Or his mother.”

  She laughed and felt as if a cloud that had settled over them had been lifted. “I am sorry for hiring your brother to work as our mercenary. He has wronged both of us in so many ways, and—”

  “Carrick is a black mark upon the House of Wybren,” her husband interrupted. “He’s a consummate actor, skilled in the art of half-truths and lies. A rogue and a violent blackheart. And yet this is the man you hire to find your sister?”

  “He’s also an excellent tracker, and if truth be told, he seemed eager to gain some modicum of forgiveness.”

  “Forgiveness?” His lips curled in a sardonic smi
le. “That does not sound like my brother.”

  “Husband, I was just out riding past a farmer sowing oats into his field. A field that was barren and overgrown last summer. But just because a field has been fallow does not mean it cannot be turned over to reap a plentiful harvest.”

  “I married a lady of wisdom,” he said, his hand sliding over her belly to find the slight swell of their baby. “You’ll be a fine mother, Morwenna.”

  “I will never do anything behind your back again. I swear it on my life.” She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him hard on the lips. His arms wrapped around her body, holding her close in that perfect fit that she’d always found so magickal. “I love you with all my heart,” she vowed.

  He squeezed her close. “As I love you.” His voice was rough and raw—nearly cracked—and she felt new tears fill her eyes again. “And, wife, I trust you with everything I own, as well as my life.”

  She nearly sobbed as she clung to him, grateful for the relief that washed away her guilt. She kissed him again and her knees went weak. Then, suddenly releasing him, she stepped back a pace, grabbed his hand, and placed it upon her abdomen again.

  He smiled. “Thank you,” he said, and his eyes seemed to shine.

  She shook her head. “Thank you for”—she lifted a hand to indicate all that surrounded her—“everything.”

  “I have a gift for you,” he said, “though not as great as this—” He flattened his hand over her belly. “’Tis something you’ve been waiting for.”

  “What?”

  From within his tunic, he withdrew a scroll. “This came by messenger today, from Tarth. ’Tis, I think, from your sister.”

  With a cry, Morwenna took the scroll, untied it, and scanned the short message. “Aye,” she said, her voice cracking. “She is safe! And on a quest.” Finally she let the tears roll down her cheeks as her husband’s strong arms surrounded her.

  Bryanna was safe.

  Morwenna’s husband loved her.

  Of course he did, and she was going to bear them a child.

  All was good with the world.

  And yet, as she held her husband close, she crossed her fingers for good luck.

  Deep in the forests of South Wales, Gavyn sat at the fire and smelled the scent of the sea. Overhead stars shone bright and a breeze stirred the highest branches of the surrounding trees. Three months they’d traveled to hear these unfamiliar sounds of rippling water and frogs croaking. He knew they were alone, and yet, he sensed someone, or something, nearby.

  You are imagining things. All the talk of sorcery and dead witches has burrowed deep in your soul. You are safe here. You know it.

  Still his eyes searched the darkness. He wished the wolf were out there, but the damned beast had been missing the past few days. Mayhap she’d given up a trek that had taken her far from her home.

  A twig snapped and he shot to his feet, only to see that Alabaster was the culprit.

  Calm down, he told himself as he returned to his position, propped against his saddle.

  Tonight he and Bryanna had made camp in a clearing that wasn’t that different from the one where he’d first seen her railing at Isa.

  Had it been four months past?

  She was washing in the stream, just out of the circle of flickering light cast by the fire. They’d traveled a long way since Holywell, the tightness in his muscles a testament to days, weeks, and months in the saddle.

  Gazing toward the creek where she was washing, he remembered being stunned that she’d known where to find the emerald. That was when he’d realized that mayhap Isa, the dead woman, truly did visit her.

  He’d been shocked beyond belief when his shovel had struck the tin box. Moments later, when they’d discovered the stone and map tucked inside . . .

  He’d been wrong. So wrong.

  Bryanna had looked up at him, triumphant and smiling, her face and hair bedraggled and dripping with rain. Later, when they’d taken shelter in an abandoned, dilapidated shed, where they’d managed to build a fire, she’d taken out the knife and placed the emerald into the open space in the eastern side of the hilt. The stone had fused with the metal surrounding it, the dagger warming in her hand. He’d snorted when she’d said as much, but when she’d handed him the damned blade, it had been hot. For a few seconds, the bloody knife had seemed almostalive, pulsing with a vibrant heat for the slightest of seconds.

  After the stone was affixed, she’d laid out the map, and they’d scrutinized the worn doeskin together. As he’d guessed, it was fairly clear that their search for the next stone would take them far to the south, to the sea.

  An arduous journey.

  It had taken three months.

  They’d traveled over mountains and through valleys, followed rivers and cut through deep forested chasms. The terrain had been rugged and their progress slow. With each ragged ravine and twisting river, they’d done their best not to leave a trail. Fires were well extinguished, hoofprints best left on the riverbank, where the swelling waters would cover them. They couldn’t chance leaving hints for Deverill’s men—or any other mercenaries, like Lord Hallyd’s soldiers, who might be hunting him down for ransom.

  On the run and crossing a no-man’s-land . . . he had to marvel at Bryanna’s determination. She had taken the time to send a missive to her sister, though Gavyn wondered if it would ever reach Morwenna at Calon.

  At night when they camped in the forest, she practiced her spells and chants, the rituals Isa had taught her when she’d first embarked on this trek. Ofttimes she tried to reach Isa, casting herbs to the wind, speaking to the stars, scratching runes in the ground—all to no avail. He’d watched her each night, intrigued that he could be so beguiled by a woman whose actions he’d once thought daft.

  His dreams of Bryanna upon Alabaster, riding through the sky as it rained jewels, came frequently now. The darkness that followed her, the umbra, was still behind her, ever chasing her. Sometimes it was close on Alabaster’s tail, other times it remained at a distance, lurking, waiting. Somehow he knew it was dark and shifting, always dripping evil.

  Those nights, when the dream had torn through his brain, he’d found it difficult to sleep. He would awaken terrified under the stars, and he would hold her more tightly against him, silently vowing to keep her safe.

  As the days had passed, winter had finally abated and spring was now blooming into summer. Often now the sky was clear and blue, migrating birds returning, insects beginning to hum.

  To their good fortune, game had been plentiful and they were fed. And until the past few days, the wolf kept pace, disappearing whenever they came upon a village, only to reappear when they were in the woods. When meat was roasting on a spit, he could always count on Bane to arrive in time for dinner.

  Bryanna, who had come to rely on the wolf’s distant company, now wondered if she wasn’t a guardian angel.

  “I doubt many angels come to the earth as wild snarling beasts,” Gavyn had said. Admittedly, he’d enjoyed watching as she bristled astride Alabaster, the sunlight catching in her fiery hair.

  “If not an angel, then at least a protector, a spirit that is with us in the guise of a wolf.”

  “Or mayhap she’s just a wild beast who is too lazy to kill her own food.”

  She’d laughed and sent him a wink then, telling him she knew just how he felt about the bloody animal, then urged her horse to a faster clip, leaving Gavyn and Rhi slowed by the pack animal behind them.

  “Bloody wench,” he’d said upon catching up with her.

  She’d tossed back her head and laughed softly again, her eyes a bright verdant color that bordered on blue, her face flushed.

  “And you love it.”

  He hadn’t been able to deny what he felt for her. Aye, the truth of the matter was, he thought now as he gazed up at the stars, he did love her. More than he’d ever thought possible; more than a man should love any one thing, including a woman. ’Twas dangerous. To love something so much made a man vulnerab
le, perhaps even overly protective and afraid.

  Which made his fears that much worse.

  He suspected they were being followed.

  ’Twas nothing he was certain of, and he certainly hadn’t spotted any soldiers wearing the colors of Agendor. . . . Still, he had the uncanny feeling that he and Bryanna were but one step ahead of a pursuer.

  Could it be Deverill, the son of a cur who had sired him? Or Hallyd of Chwarel, the hideous priest-baron who had killed Kambria, if the stories Bryanna was spinning were true. Considering his vicious history, Hallyd might add up to be a worse enemy than Deverill. ’Twas worrisome.

  Clearly, the pursuers had descriptions of them and their horses. Gavyn had suggested selling Alabaster and Rhi, but Bryanna had refused. She loved that little white jennet, a gift from her sister, and Gavyn himself had a fondness for Rhi. The black destrier was not only a good fast steed but a symbol of Gavyn’s disregard for his father. Old lame Harry was also distinctive. No doubt Gavyn and Bryanna would be safer on three old farm horses, all brown without any identifying markings, even if they were slower.

  He’d gone along with Bryanna’s wishes, however, a fool-hearted decision because he, too, liked the horses.

  He picked up a stick and tossed it into the fire, watching the greedy flames burn away the bits of moss, crackling and snapping, sending bright sparks heavenward.

  He wasn’t a believer in all things mystical, but then again, he couldn’t deny that there was more than a bit of witchcraft in the air. Witchcraft, or even magick.

  He saw movement in the darkness beyond the ring of flickering light cast by the fire, and Bryanna appeared, the hair around the edge of her face wet where the water still clung to it. She dabbed at her face with the corner of her mantle and he couldn’t help but grin. Aye, she was beautiful, to be sure, but there was something more than outward beauty to her. An inner spark often lit her eyes or tugged at the corners of her lips or pulled up an eyebrow, as if a bit of the devil was in her spirit.

  “So . . . have you figured out where we are going?” she asked, plopping down upon a rock near the fire. The map was stretched out on a flat stone, its hieroglyphs visible in the firelight, but still an enigma. She’d stitched the last piece onto the others months ago, but still the specific location of the next stone was a mystery. They’d followed rivers and streams, roads and trails, always heading south, not knowing their ultimate destination.