Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3) (25 page)

“Any cross-over incantation or one in particular?”

“One in particular.”

Bran proceeded to teach Axel the words, as well as to explain how to reach the Isle of Lewis via the overland route.

A wee while later, they came out of the forest into open land. Wide grasslands stretched before them. A green ridge of low hills hugged the distant horizon. The highest of them stood off to one side, separate from the others. Though conical in shape, its top was flat—as if the pinnacle’s point had been lopped off by a giant’s axe. The path they were on led to the decapitated rise and wound around it like the threads of a screw.

“That is the overlook.” Bran pointed. “The site of the rebel encampment is just below it, on the other side.”

The sun was high overhead by the time they reached the butte. Down below, in a wide valley, druid workmen were constructing the outer walls and watchtowers of a huge stone fort. Their labors produced a cacophony of hammering, sawing, and chinking.

“When they have finished the main building, they will start on the barracks and officers’ quarters,” Bran explained. “Progress, unfortunately, is slow because of the ban.”

Axel, puzzled by his statement, shifted his focus from the building site to the druid. “What ban would that be?”

Bran regarded him for a long minute with his black eyebrows drawn together. “Are you telling me you’re unfamiliar with Lord Morfryn’s prohibition on all devices invented after the eighteenth century?”

Axel nodded and shrugged. “How would I know of such a thing? Before coming to Brocaliande, my experience of the Thitherworld was limited to Avalon, and Queen Morgan has never been what I would describe as forthcoming. And, as far as the Hitherworld is concerned, I have passed my days in a cave and my nights in a protected glen that has changed little over the centuries. I am peripherally aware of automobiles, plastic containers, and the odd wee devices all the tourists now seem so preoccupied by, but not much beyond.”

An understanding smile broke across the druid’s face. “In that case, let me bring you up to speed.” He shifted in his saddle. “Several centuries ago, the Dark Lord banned all firearms and many so-called advances when his oracles showed him the disasters they would wreak in the Hitherworld—both in terms of the environment and human civilization. That is why we have no modern tools to speed the building of our headquarters or modern weaponry to aid our cause.”

Axel blinked at him, trying to imagine what sort of “modern” weaponry might fall under the ban. His familiarity with firearms was limited to the small collection of pistols he had amassed over the centuries, including the one Sir Leith had gifted him. He kept them hidden in a secret compartment in his cave in Faery Glen, along with other objects of value the local maidens had left for him in the well. All were lost to him now, he supposed. Not that material possessions mattered to him anymore. Even his horse and his runes could be replaced easily enough—if, by some wondrous act of the gods, he should live past Samhain.

As far as other armaments went, he knew none apart from those in use in his soldiering days: bows, swords, axes, schiltrons, maces, lances, staves, and such. How he missed those days and longed to take part in another battle. That wish, unfortunately, seemed impossible under the circumstances.

“When do you expect the rebellion to get underway?”

“The prophecy tells of a sign in the heavens,” Bran replied. “When it appears, we will know the time is at hand.”

“Will any other domains take part?”

“It will be up to the drone of the prophecy to do the lion’s share of alliance building, though we expect the gnomes and Queen Glorianna to offer assistance, as they abhor slavery—and Avalon’s isolationism—as much as we do.”

Confusion drew Axel’s brows together. He knew of no queens in this realm except Morgan. “What land does Queen Glorianna rule?”

“Elphame, one of the Seelie colonies,” Bran replied. “She is one of Morgan’s sisters, and her archers are every bit as renowned for their skills as those in Avalon.”

Though Axel now burned to be part of the rebellion, he could not see a way to bring it about. If he returned to Avalon—and he must or die—he would end his long life as the tithe to Lord Morfryn.

It was not the glorious death he had long dreamed of nor would it gain him admission to Valhalla, but at least there was some honor in being sacrificed. He just wished he could remember his lady love—or, better yet, spend one last night with her before he must cross into the underworld. But, alas, it seemed the Norns had fated them to be torn asunder by the selfish machinations of others.

The same fate they’d assigned to Sigurd and Brunhilde.

With a woeful sigh, Axel reined his horse around, ready to be gone from this place. It was too much like looking through the window of a pie shop when he was starving and skint. The view he found in the opposite direction was equally unsatisfying. Coming toward them from out of the trees was an open carriage conveying Sir Leith and his new family.

Envy grated Axel’s heart as he watched the couple share a deep kiss. He would never have their happiness, never be a proper father and husband or have another chance to fight for something he believed in to the core of his being.

Instead, he would go back to Avalon cloaked in defeat and suffer unspeakable tortures before being butchered on the altar of the Dark Lord.

* * * *

Jenna shivered beneath the blanket she’d been trying in vain to sleep under. The crofter’s cottage was dark and spooky, the floor was a block of ice, and outside the crumbling walls and broken windows, the wind wailed like a banshee. Every time the hoot of an owl punctuated the moaning, her heart threatened to explode. Even as she cowered, she reproached herself for her lack of courage. If she was this afraid of a few harmless noises, how would she ever be brave enough to challenge Queen Morgan?

She had to, damn it. That was all there was to it. When the time came, she would pull Axel down and hold on for dear life, no matter what. If she didn’t, he would be sacrificed to Lord Morfryn, and she couldn’t let that happen. However hard it might be, she had to find the courage to take him back before he was lost to her forever.

Giving up on sleep, she sat up and rubbed her arms against the cold. The fire she’d lit to warm the drafty room was almost out. Clambering to her feet, she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, crossed to the falling-down fireplace, and tossed a piece of wood on the glowing embers.

Taking a seat on the dusty fieldstone hearth, she pulled up her knees, wrapped her arms around her shins, and set her forehead against her knees. “I have to be brave. I have to be brave. I have to be brave. If I’m too afraid, Axel will be tithed, and I’ll die of a broken heart—if Queen Morgan doesn’t kill me first.”

She was crying again, damn it. She’d cried a lot lately—from loneliness, fear, and self-doubt. Pregnancy hormones probably played a part, too, but knowing as much didn’t make her feel any better. The heroines in the books she admired so much didn’t mope. When life knocked them down, they got back up, dusted off their skirts, and did what had to be done.

And so must she.

* * * *

That evening, Axel, feeling bereft of hope, returned to his quarters to find Cathbad waiting for him with yet another potion to try.

“I really think I’ve got it right this time.” With a smile, the old druid held out the gem-inlaid golden goblet.

Axel knew better than to hold his breath. Cathbad had said the exact same thing the last time—and the counter-spell had not restored his memories of the red-haired lass in the slightest.

Taking the chalice with some reluctance, Axel ran the brimming bowl of the cup under his nose. The harsh medicinal smell of the greenish-amber elixir within made him wince. “What is in this?”

“Wolfsbane, belladonna, rowan berries, ginseng, and the leaves of a maidenhair tree.” With an elusive smile, Cathbad added, “Among other ingredients, which shall remain unnamed.”

Axel flared his nostrils, which still burned from the tincture’s unpleasant odor. “It sounds disgusting. Not to mention deadly.”

“It won’t kill you, I promise. Now, drink up.”

Holding his nose, Axel drained the chalice. As he handed the cup back to Cathbad, he licked the potion’s vile flavor from his grimacing mouth. “How long will it be before we know if it worked?”

“Twenty minutes, give or take.” The druid’s eyes shone with a confidence Axel hoped was not misplaced. “Would you like me to stay with you until we know the result?”

“That will not be necessary,” Axel told him, “but I thank you for the kind offer.”

After spending the better part of the day having his nose rubbed in the things he could not have, he wanted to be alone to work through his discouragement. His chest was so tight he could hardly breathe and his heart felt as if it had shrunk two sizes since he awoke that morning.

As soon as the old druid took his leave, Axel lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, which was low and bisected by dark beams. He could not recall a time when he had felt so bereft of hope. Meditating was the only thing he could think to do to restore his equilibrium.

For some time, he lay there, attempting to quiet his mind while watching the changing patches of sunlight on the wall and listening to the sound of a distant waterfall. When he closed his eyes and began to count his breaths, he drifted off.

In his dream mind, he was at Bannock Burn again—except things were not quite as they’d always been before. The battlefield was a marsh, but not the Stirling Carse. He wore chainmail over his tunic and rode a horse, but his mount was a black destrier instead of a dapple-gray garron. The enemy still donned the uniforms of the English army, but the red coats of a later era—and their faces were as ashen and bloated as corpses.

They were vampires. Morgan’s mercenaries. And he was fighting on the side of the rebels alongside Sir Leith, Bran, and—no, that could not be. Callum Lyon, the Baron of Barrogill, had been tortured to death centuries ago in Avalon. There was another knight with them, too—a brown-haired young man Axel had never seen before.

Jarred awake, he opened his eyes to find the room dark. As the dream retreated, the red-haired lass rushed in to take its place. Her name was Jenna. Jenna Cameron. Then, he remembered everything. She lived in a cottage at the edge of the glen, they were handfasted, and she was indeed a witch.

Odin be praised! Cathbad’s latest counter-spell had worked.

As his elation ebbed, what she’d said after they’d argued about the Wild Ride came back to him. “
Go on your quest. Do what you must. And I will say no more about breaking your bonds—unless you fail. In which case, I will do what I must to keep you from being tithed.”

What a fool he had been to try and dissuade her. Fortunately, she was too determined to be converted by his defeatist arguments. He just prayed her steadfastness had not deteriorated in the days since he left her.

If she did break his bonds on Samhain, they would not have to live as fugitives, always on the run and fearing for their lives. He could bring her back to Brocaliande, where they could live as man and wife and join the rebels in the fight to overthrow Queen Morgan, free all the drones, and put a king as good and just as Robert the Bruce on the throne of Avalon.

Chapter 18

Dead tired but unable to sleep, Jenna watched the sky shift from deep black to misty charcoal gray through the jagged break in the cottage’s east-facing window. Apart from the crackle and snap of the fire behind her, the surrounding fields were eerily silent. Despite the fire, the room was cold. And so very lonely. She missed Axel something awful and wondered at every moment where he was and what he might be doing. Had he gone on his quest? Was he thinking of her? Would she be able to break his bonds on Halloween?

In just two more days, she would face the legendary sorceress Morgan Le Fay in an attempt to steal back one of her knights. A bolt of fear cracked through Jenna at the thought. Hugging herself for warmth, she fixed her gaze on the light peeking out from behind the silhouetted hills on the eastern horizon. Another sunrise. Another day to brave without modern conveniences. Another endless stretch of hours to endure without her beloved.

As more of the sun rose over the hills, a dark hazy patch blocked out some of the dawning light. Gradually, the spot grew larger and seemed to float toward her like smoke on the wind. Squinting, she puzzled over what it might be. Soon enough, she got her answer—and not the one she wanted. The shadow was a flock of birds—or rather, a parliament of owls—soaring on silent wings over the landscape, searching for something.

That something was her. And they were steadily drawing nearer.

Panic exploded in her chest. What should she do, run or stay put? Worrying her lip, she shot a backward glance at the fire.
Bugger.
They would see the smoke rising from the chimney. Frantically, she glanced around for something to douse the flames. Would a blanket smother the fire or only make the smoke worse? Unsure, she turned back to the window with her heart in her stomach.

A whole regiment of birds had broken away from the main host, and were flying straight toward the cottage. As they passed overhead, they made a terrible screeching sound that chilled her to the marrow. The chill did not leave her until the birds disappeared over the sea to the west.