Sinners of Magic (2 page)

‘
Is this your
daughter from the princess?’ she asked, whilst her mouth tightened
with spite.

Bridgemear’s face flushed.
‘Enough questions!’ he hissed, his face contorting in anger.

‘
So she is
then,’ said the witch, flashing a crafty grin, ‘why it’s nothing
more than what I expected.’

She looked upon the babe’s
sweet face and was surprised to see how peacefully she slept.

‘
The child is
to be named Crystal,’ Bridgemear said, allowing a deep sigh to
escape. ‘It was her mother’s choice, not mine.’ He made to scoff at
his own remark, but a weak rasp escaped from his throat
instead.

‘
Give the
child to me,’ said Tremlon, his arms eagerly outstretched. ‘She’ll
be fine in my care. I promise I’ll look after her and ensure no
harm befalls her.’ His eyes locked upon the magician’s, willing him
to give up the child.

It felt like an eternity, a
whole lifetime, before Bridgemear began to untie the child from his
breast. His strong fingers tore at the fabric, releasing his hold,
allowing his daughter into Tremlon’s care. Smears of blood stained
her body from the birth and a sense of sadness appeared to engulf
them both.

‘
There’s
something else,’ Bridgemear added, pulling at a leather pouch
secured to his belt. He lifted his hand and displayed a beautiful
chain of bright golden orbs, placing it with care upon the
table.

‘
What have
you there?’ asked Tremlon, sounding rather confused. ‘It looks like
the amulet which belongs to the inner circle of my
people.’

‘
It did
belong to your people or, rather, a certain person,’ said
Bridgemear, his voice thick with genuine sorrow, ‘but it’s
Crystal’s now.’

The necklace had a plain metal
clasp with silver entwined and in the centre lay an exquisitely cut
jewel that shone fire-red. Tremlon reached out a trembling hand and
retrieved it. He interlaced his fingers between the orbs that made
up the thickest part of the chain, becoming absorbed by its natural
beauty. He brushed his fingertips over the stone, watching in awe
when tiny sparks of light ricocheted from inside it. Mesmerised, he
saw the colour swirl from red to a deep purple, showing him his
feelings of utter despair.

‘
Without the
amulet, Princess Amella will be unable to return to her people,’
Tremlon stated, his own words making him realise he would never see
her again. ‘She can’t do this,’ he insisted. He glared dangerously
at the magician, his eyes turning to slits. ‘I won’t allow this to
happen; she’s our only princess.’

‘
Calm
yourself and be reasonable,’ roared Bridgemear, becoming
infuriated. ‘Don’t you think she knows the consequences of what
she’s giving up? I tried to make her keep the amulet, but it’s her
wish that the child should have what would have been passed down to
her, if she had been born legitimately.’

‘
Why would
she destroy her own life for this child?’ Tremlon gasped, releasing
the necklace and watching it fall helplessly onto the table. Guilt
washed over him as he looked down at the sleeping babe who
Bridgemear had so trustingly nestled into the crook of his
arm.

‘
We broke the
law!’ Bridgemear cried, jumping to his feet and banging his head on
the ceiling. ‘Amella felt she could no longer honour her father and
people after what we did and has taken a life of exile.’ Tremlon
averted his eyes whilst the sorcerer cursed and his gut tightened
at the thought of his inadvertent betrayal of his princess. It had
just been a little love rivalry; he had never meant to be the one
who told the king of her secret love affair with
Bridgemear.

‘
It’s no use
fighting between ourselves,’ said Lilura, edging her way to the
door. ‘What’s done is done. My lord, it’s time you left.’
Bridgemear’s eyes filled with regret.

‘
I only did
what the Elders forced me to do,’ he said, sounding
pitiful.

‘
Then take
peace in the knowledge that you did only what the law-makers asked
of you,’ she replied testily, ‘you could do no more.’ With hard
eyes, she lifted the latch and exposed the dreadful
night.

‘
Forget her,’
she advised. ‘Your terrible secret’s safe forever. You must
understand that we cannot have her here, as in time her powers
could be far greater than all the elite magicians put together. She
could so easily destroy us all.’

‘
I think
you’re over-exaggerating,’ said Bridgemear, refastening his tunic
and looking beyond her into the night.

‘
My lord,’
the witch said, bowing her head, ‘I exaggerate nothing.’

Slamming the door behind him
once he’d left, Lilura cackled almost to the point of hysteria.

‘
Stop your
noise,’ Tremlon snapped when he could stand her hysterics no
longer. ‘You don’t know what he’s going through.’

‘
Oh, and you
do,’ the witch snapped back with a hiss. ‘Why is that, I
wonder?’

Tremlon
glared at her, a look of repulsion spreading over his face, but her
own facial features merely mirrored his own and he read his secret
in her eyes.
She knows what I’ve
done,
he thought, aghast. Blanching, he
dropped his head in shame.

‘
It’s time we
finished his dirty work,’ she told him, before picking up his cloak
and with a swift movement for one so old she threw the garment
towards him.

Catching it with one hand,
Tremlon spun the cloak in the air until it fell neatly upon his
shoulders. ‘So be it,’ he said with a bitter twist of his mouth.
‘The dirt must fall at someone’s feet; it may as well be mine.’

*

The moon cast an ominous glow
through the large open window. Death’s dark shadow crept across the
bedroom wall of the sleeping household until he willingly slipped
back into the darkness from whence he came. Tremlon stepped out
from his hiding place and knelt, head bowed towards the lifeless
babe lying in its crib. The room felt icy and Tremlon could not
decide whether he shook from the cold or from despair. The misery
surrounding these terrible circumstances clung to his heart with
invisible fingers, causing him to feel the pain of loss once again
that night. After a moment, when his composure had slipped back
into place, he lifted the tiny, lifeless body from its resting
place and laid it with care on the floor.

‘
Hurry,’ he
urged, searching the darkness for the witch’s shadow. She heard the
desperation in his voice and stepped forward, placing Bridgemear’s
daughter into the crib, a baby who appeared almost identical to
that which Tremlon had just removed.

‘
It’s done,’
she said, bowing her head. Respectfully, she picked up the dead
child and wrapped it in a fine woven cloth that she took from
inside her robes. She placed the bundle gently back upon the
floor.

‘
Away,
child,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘Go now, for it’s time to rest
amongst your own.’ She closed her eyes, her lips moving as she
reached down and touched the cloth. Slowly, the small bundle
flattened until all that was left was empty material. An unexpected
sigh escaped from her lips. Tremlon stood up and moved towards her.
She drew back, her hand still clutching the silky material. The
cloth began to unravel carelessly in her grasp and for a moment he
felt afraid, until he saw the material no longer held the tiny
body.

Turning to Tremlon, Lilura
said, ‘We’ve got to be on our way.’

‘
I must wait
awhile,’ he argued, ‘to be sure the mother does not
suspect.’

‘
I have laid
an enchantment,’ said the witch. ‘The plain folk will not sense a
thing. Why stay?’

‘
I have my
orders.’

‘
I should
have known your king wouldn’t trust me,’ she said, flashing a
scowl. ‘Shall I wait with you?’

‘
If you
wish,’ he answered, shrugging his shoulders, ‘but I have no need of
you now.’

As dawn finally broke, the
witch and the elf moved closer to the shadows, and slowly their
shapes began to melt away. Arms and legs dissolved, creating a
different shadow to grace the walls where, only moments before, two
human outlines had been displayed. Within the blink of an eye,
their clothes faded to nothing, replaced in a breath by velvety
feathers. The witch took the shape of a large black crow whilst the
elf had chosen his natural change, to a dove.

Moments later, his beady eyes
watched with anticipation for the mother’s arrival. They both sat
on the windowsill, waiting in silence for the king’s wicked plan to
take effect. His eyes locked upon her when she finally entered, and
his head bobbed up and down as he strained his neck to get a better
look. He observed the young woman who bent over the crib and lifted
the mage’s baby into her arms. He held his breath in expectancy,
releasing it only when she began to kiss the baby’s forehead and
stroke her cheek with a delicate finger.

The black crow cawed by his
side, her dark feathers blowing gently in the cool morning
breeze.

‘
We must
leave before they suspect,’ she urged.

Stretching out his wings,
Tremlon flapped them simultaneously. The beautiful white feathers
caught the sun’s warm rays and they bowed together before the tips
of their wings touched; then Tremlon vanished. The crow followed a
moment later, but not before she watched the new mother place the
baby safely back inside her cot. She noticed her hesitate, before
rummaging her fingers between the sheets. A moment later, the glow
from the amulet lit her surprised face. She had found the string of
orbs that had been placed between the sheet and soft blankets, a
gift left by another mother.

‘
Live long,
princess,’ the witch cawed; ‘live long and pray your life in this
world will be easier than if you were in your own.’ Startled, the
woman’s eyes shot to the window pane.

‘
Shoo,’ she
shouted, waving her arms in the air like a lunatic. She rushed over
and pushed the window wide, intent on making the bird fly away.
‘Get away, you horrible bird!’ she yelled, still flapping her arms.
‘Go and find yourself an abandoned churchyard to haunt.’ For a
moment their eyes locked; jet-black held silver grey. A cold shiver
forced its way down the woman’s slender spine and in that instant
she felt the crow to be a bad omen.

‘
Beatrice!’ a
voice called out. ‘Close that damn window before you catch a
chill.’ The crow took flight and the woman watched it move towards
the horizon.

‘
Meg,
something’s wrong,’ Beatrice told her friend when she came into the
room and placed a caring hand on her shoulder. ‘Look what I’ve
found, some kind of necklace.’

‘
Well, aren’t
you the lucky one; bet it’s only a bit of costume jewellery though.
What with your crib coming from the charity shop, I bet it was
under the mattress or something; these things do happen from time
to time.’ Beatrice agreed that her theory had a ring of truth, but
deep down she knew the necklace hadn’t been there when she put the
baby to bed.

‘
Come on,
let’s get you back into bed,’ said Meg, shaking her head. ‘You know
you shouldn’t be up so soon after the birth.’

‘
Something’s
not right,’ Beatrice persisted, heading back to her child. ‘I’ve
only just lost my husband; I can’t lose my baby too.’ Hot tears
hung on her dark lashes, threatening to spill down her flushed
cheeks.

‘
Look,
everything’s fine,’ Meg insisted, sweeping her eyes over the
sleeping infant. ‘It’s only natural that you should be feeling
fretful after what you’ve been through. Now, let’s get you back to
bed where you belong.’

With some resistance, Meg was
able to guide her charge to her own room, directly opposite the
nursery.

‘
Your baby’s
going to be fine,’ she soothed, turning on the bedside light, ‘you
just need plenty of rest.’ Beatrice sat on the bed, her face
turning pale and drawn.

‘
But you
don’t understand,’ she bleated, her eyes still shining like glass
with her unshed tears. ‘That crow’s a sign of bad luck.’

‘
Nonsense,
dear,’ Meg insisted, pulling at Beatrice’s slippers. ‘It’s just a
silly little bird that’s all. You know there’s dozens of them
around here. Why, you should see my place; there are hundreds of
the damn things living on my roof!’

Meg covered her body with a
soft bedspread and Beatrice breathed in the scent of fresh linen.
When she laid her head on the pillow, a whispering voice called out
to her somewhere in the back of her mind. She focused her senses,
unsure where the voice was coming from, until a whispering murmur
brought with it a name that seemed to be balancing on the tip of
her tongue.

‘
Crystal,’
she said, aloud.

‘
What’s that,
dear?’ Meg asked, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Have you come up
with a name for your baby?’

‘
Yes,’
Beatrice answered, trying to stifle a yawn. ‘Yes, I have. My baby,
she’s to be called Crystal.’

‘
That’s an
unusual name,’ said Meg, pulling a face, ‘and it’s certainly
different.’

Beatrice looked up into her
friend’s kind face and saw only her smile; her instincts were
telling her there was something wrong, but she found she couldn’t
quite put her finger on it. Her eyelids were beginning to feel
heavy with sleep and she felt herself drifting off. The last images
held in the swirl of her subconscious came swimming to the surface
as soon as the darkness penetrated her thoughts. She began dreaming
and saw her dead husband, William, standing in a place she could
not recall. So vivid was the dream that she tried to call out to
him and touch the man she loved, but no matter how hard she tried
her fingers could never quite reach him. He floated closer, his
handsome face much clearer and her already outstretched arms
pleaded for him to allow her a moment’s embrace. But then horror
exploded in her mind and a sharp pain erupted in her heart when she
focused on something small and lifeless lying in his arms. A silent
scream left her numb and with trembling lips when she realised he
was clutching the limp body of a dead baby to his blood-soaked
chest.