Sorceress (37 page)

Her old fingers held fast to the rabbit and squirrel as she tipped her head to Gavyn. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell Lord Hallyd’s men if they return that I saw nothing of that couple,” she said, winking at Gavyn.

As they rode away, Bryanna felt herself sinking into a panic.

Already someone had recognized them.

A peasant woman, no less.

She’d known they would have to be on the lookout for spies and soldiers and mercenaries, anyone who knew that Gavyn was a wanted man, but she’d thought she could trust an aging widow who lived in such a small and isolated village.

Thankfully, Rosie had proven trustworthy. . . .

But what of the league of soldiers searching for them?

As soon as they were out of earshot of Rosie’s small cottage, Gavyn shot her a warning look.

“Don’t be crumbling to bits now, Brynn,” Gavyn said, his horse trotting easily alongside her. “We’ve made it this far, and I’m not about to get caught by an old woman in want of a few gold coins.”

“But did you hear what she said?” She struggled to control her voice, not wanting to reveal the panic that coiled inside her at the mention of his name. “Lord Hallyd’s soldiers are looking for us.
Hallyd,
the man who murdered Kambria. What would he want with us?”

“Mayhap he’s looking for the ransom everyone else on earth is vying for. Or hungry for excitement,” Gavyn said. “What other pleasures are available to a man who remains confined in his own keep?”

Staring at the jagged landscape rising ahead, Bryanna wondered if Gavyn was right. Could it be just a matter of one nobleman supporting another, lending out his men to join a search . . . or was something else driving Lord Hallyd?

He couldn’t possibly know that Bryanna was the daughter of Kambria. She herself hadn’t discovered the true facts of her birth until a few weeks ago. It wasn’t possible that this nobleman who had seen fit to murder her mother could know that she was the sorceress’s daughter.

Was it?

Soon after they rode away from Rosie’s little house, they reached a narrow stretch of road where the horses had to climb single file. A high cliff rose on one side of the cart path; on the other the landscape dropped down to a deep ravine.

Bryanna’s teeth were on edge, her heart in her throat as she watched Gavyn, astride Rhi, lead the packhorse. This narrow ridge, winding its way along the side of the mountain, was too familiar.

Her heart thundered in her chest at the memory of the chase along the rocky spine of a snow-covered ridge, horses’ hooves pounding.

Throughout the ride she remained tense, every muscle clenched as she rode along the pass. She couldn’t free herself of the urgency she’d felt in her dream, the strong sense of evil lurking behind every outcropping of stone.

Astride Alabaster, she brought up the rear, her worried gaze upon Harry’s uneven gait, her ears trained for the sound of approaching horsemen—Deverill’s men or Hallyd’s soldiers, who were now searching for them.

But they were alone.

Not even the wolf appeared on the treacherous cart way. The beast had been missing for nearly three days now. Although Bryanna assured herself the wolf would return, she couldn’t help but think the lone animal had sensed their deepening danger and decided to go her own way.

Eventually, the narrow path opened to a wide meadow at the summit of the mountains.

Bryanna finally let out her breath. The air was crisp and clear, sunlight parting the clouds. A few flowers dared peer between blades of grass that were darkening to rich, verdant green with the spring.

Gavyn pulled his mount to a stop at the crest and Bryanna rode close to him. For as far as she could see, green tree-covered mountains surrounded them. Sunlight danced over the dewy grass and thin clouds scudded across the sky.

“We’re lost,” she said, taking in the terrain that bore no distinction, no landmarks that matched the map. “We’re lost, and under siege. Hallyd’s men are looking for us. Deverill’s soldiers are probably searching for you. We’re following a map that we’re not even certain is leading us anywhere, and even if it is, we could have taken a wrong turn.”

“You have no faith,” he accused.

She glanced over at him and caught the devilment glinting in his silver eyes as he dismounted in one fell swoop and dropped the reins of both horses, allowing them to graze on the sweet grass.

“What?” She let the reins slide through her hands so that Alabaster could pick at blades of grass. “What is it you know?” she demanded, climbing off the mare. When he didn’t immediately answer, she followed him to the highest point of the meadow. “Gavyn?”

“You have the map?”

“Of course.”

“Open it.”

“Oh, fie and feathers.” She hiked back the few yards to Alabaster, unlaced one of her leather bags, and hauled it with her up the hill to the spot where he stood gazing over the mountainous terrain. “You think you know where we are.”

“Mayhap.”

“I’d prefer to hear, ‘Of course I do, Bryanna. Worry not.’ ” She handed the sewn leather pieces to him and waited, arms crossed over her chest, while he unrolled the doe hide with its odd-shaped etchings.

Eyeing the position of the sun, he moved to a patch of earth that afforded him a view across two mountaintops. “Look this way. East,” he said, wrapping the arm with the map around her middle and pulling her in front of him. With his free arm he pointed over her shoulder. “See that mountain that appears to have a broken top? It’s jagged and without trees.”

She nodded.

“Here. Look at the map.”

She took the doeskin and stood nestled against him as she studied the map she’d nearly memorized.

“On the eastern portion,” he said, and touched the doeskin where the drawing was of three mounds. The two on either side were rounded, the one in the middle was jagged.

She trained her eyes on the mountains again, examining the vista. “You could be right.”

“Could?” he said, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head. “What was it you wanted me to say?”

“That you knew where you were going. That I shouldn’t worry.” She turned to face him. So close. Only a hairsbreadth separating them, so near she could feel the heat of his body, see the barest outline of a bruise upon his cheek. “But you still don’t know where we’re going.”

“Of course I do, Bryanna,” he said with a wink as he threw her own words back at her. “Worry not.”

She felt the icy panic of the mountain crossing slip away in the glow of his confidence. “Where?” she asked. “Where are we going?”

“To Holywell.”

“And why are we going there?”

“Because, as Rosie told us, it’s to the east, and if you look at the map, you’ll see the dark spot with a cross upon it. We thought it might be a grave or a church, but I think we were wrong.”

“You think it’s a holy well?” she asked, as the wolf climbed into her line of vision. She slunk just beyond the first layer of trees rimming the spot of grass.

“Not only that, wife Brynn,” he said, nettling her. “I believe that somewhere in the town we’ll find another piece of this bloody map and another stone, the damned emerald for the east.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“
I
don’t want to hear one more excuse! Not one!” Hallyd’s patience was as frayed as one of Vannora’s blankets as he stood in the great hall with this ragged group of men who were part of his army, such as it was. Still sweating from his daily sparring ritual, he looked from one man to the next, most of whom avoided his eyes. Because they were ashamed, or because his discolored eyes set people on edge? Son of a cur, why did he have to trust his fate to imbeciles, idiots, and incompetents?

He tossed his sword to a page with instructions to have it cleaned, then mopped his brow with the back of his hand. Bloody hell, the men were still staring at him like the morons they were.

One gloved fist clenched, and he would have liked nothing more than to slam it into Frydd’s reddish face, yet he knew it would serve no purpose. The men were tired, having ridden for weeks in search of her. And truth to tell, he knew his rage burned not because of his inadequate patrols but because
she
was with another man. He burned for Bryanna. Each night he itched to find her again.

This was not the way he had foreseen his release. But then, Vannora had misled him.

While one servant replaced candles and another swept the floor rushes away from the fire, he glared at his pathetic lot of warriors. “You found nothing? No sign of them?” he asked, pacing in front of the fire. The men stood in a semicircle around him, shifting from one foot to the other, their swords clinking at their sides, their uniforms dirty, their faces unshorn and haggard.

“Our company headed east,” Galton said. He was the tallest of the soldiers and the smartest, a man whose allegiance Hallyd doubted, but whose brains he did not. “We searched the mountains and hills. Though at times there was rumors of a man and woman who had been traveling through the countryside, she on a white jennet, he a black steed, the stories were few. A traveling musician in one town swore he’d seen their camp. A woman selling eggs in a village saw them stopping at the well. One innkeeper swore a couple had spent the night there.” Galton shrugged at that point, and Hallyd wanted to reach down the man’s throat and drag the words over his damned tongue.

The thought of Bryanna with the bastard Gavyn caused his blood to boil, and he nervously scratched the side of his face, irritating a spot that was already raw.

“Ain’t ye gonna tell ’im about the grave?” Afal asked.

“What grave?” Hallyd’s impatience manifested itself in a tic near his eye.

“The one we discovered east of here, long ago. We thought it might be where the witch was laid to rest,” Galton said, his eyes dark as a bat’s wing. “There were rumors that Kambria was buried in a pauper’s grave, though no one knew the exact location.”

“You found it?”

“We found a mound of freshly turned earth, two days after the man and woman upon the distinctive horses had passed through a nearby town.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Weeks.”

“And I was not told?” he roared, and mopped his brow once more with the back of his glove. Christ, he could use a cloth.

Galton had the audacity to take a step forward. “You ordered us not to return until we had found them . . . m’lord.”

Hallyd’s teeth gnashed together. He wanted to cuff the insolent pup with the back of his hand, for there was defiance in Galton’s stance, a challenge in the set of his jaw. They both understood that he was the smartest, strongest, and most daring of any of Hallyd’s soldiers.

“You will take me there,” he said. “Tonight. We’ll travel at sunset.”

“The men are tired.”

“They can rest now. There are still a few hours of daylight.” Hallyd eyed the soldiers, who dared not grumble but were clearly unhappy. Had they no vision? No desire? No damned understanding of how important this pursuit was? “Stay here and the cook will see that you are fed, your thirst well quenched.” He snapped his fingers at a page, and the boy took off at a dead run to the kitchen.

Let them rest, simpleton soldiers. They had no idea of the scope of their task—the immense magnitude of the victory Chwarel would know once they recovered the dagger.

It would soon be in his hands. He could feel it.

The rise of power.

So this is Chwarel,
Lord Deverill thought as he gazed up at the huge keep made of dark stone. Astride a great dappled steed that was far inferior to Rhi, the Lord of Agendor was followed by a small army, as well as Hallyd’s greedy little spy.

On horses of differing sizes and color, they clustered together on a hillock that rose above the road leading to the massive castle. Deverill narrowed his eyes upon the wide wall walks and barbicans. From the highest watchtower the black and silver standard snapped in a stiff breeze as steely clouds, cut by shards of sunlight, slid across the sky like the underbelly of a great serpent. The entire keep seemed gloomy and dreary, a fortress devoid of color.

Deverill watched as men and women—peasants, peddlers, soldiers, and tradesmen—walked into and out of the main gate, a wide mouth yawning open that showed just a hint of the edges of the portcullis like brittle metal teeth.

’Twas an ugly castle.

“This is where your lord resides?” he asked the spy. “Day and night?”

“Aye.”

“But he only leaves the great hall after the sun sets?”

Cael nodded. “Or if the day is dark with clouds.”

Deverill had learned much about Lord Hallyd, the night marauder, from this runt of a man. A spy who couldn’t keep his mouth shut and was forever searching for a way to get into Deverill’s good graces.

’Twas a sign that Lord Hallyd’s judgment was skewed. Even a blind man could see that Cael was untrustworthy, the kind of soul who would sell his services to the highest bidder.

“Nay, he stays inside if there is too much sunlight. As I told ye. ’Tis cursed he is.”

“Gut rot.” Deverill didn’t believe in curses or spells or anything that could not be seen. Oh, he pretended to be a pious man, for it was expected. Being the baron, he had to at least appear to be a believer, but the truth of it was that he wasn’t convinced there was a God. Not the pagan gods of his ancestors, nor the Christian God who demanded such a price in blood for His Crusades.