Soul Magic (6 page)

             
Geoffrey saw how pinched and white Darrick’s mouth became.  “He keeps her by force?”

             
The man nodded.  “Yes.  She has tried twice to escape.  He keeps her under lock and key, as he does the boy.”

             
“The boy?”  Darrick became, if possible, as still as stone.  Once before in the holy land, Geoffrey had seen Darrick in this particular kind of stillness.  At the time they had been held captive, to be executed that very day.    Hatching a daring plan, Darrick had led an escape.  Three guards had died by his hand.  Geoffrey and he had escaped, along with numerous others.  Many of these same former prisoners had expressed their thanks by becoming Darrick’s loyal men.  They had helped defend Thorncliff on this very day.

             
“What news of the boy?”  Alanna came boldly forward, eagerness in her husky voice.  Geoffrey waited for Darrick to push her away, but he did not.

             
The messenger nodded, exhaustion showing on his grimy face.  “Morfran has taken another captive as well, a small boy of maybe four or five summers.  For what purpose, no one knows.  His advisor, Gorsedd brought the child there and bade Morfran keep him.  Perhaps he likes young boys.”

             
Geoffrey winced.  “Morfran’s reputation has not carried that particular accusation before.”

             
Darrick made a sound deep within his throat.  It might have been a growl.  To Geoffrey it sounded much like the sound of a man drowning. 

             
`Twas Darrick who asked the impossible.  “Could this child be his son?”

             
“Morfran’s?”  Though his tone indicated doubt, the rider shrugged.  “All know he has sired no children.  Still, anything is possible.”

             
Wanting to set the record straight, Geoffrey stepped forward.  “’Tis well known that Morfran has no sons.  Nor daughters either, for that matter.”

             
The rider gave him a gap-toothed smile.  “His lack of children is truth and has vexed him sorely over these past many years.”

             
Once again Darrick’s profile seemed to have turned to stone.  But this time, instead of watching the mud-splattered messenger, he watched Alanna. 

             
Noticing Geoffrey’s scrutiny, he grimaced.  “I believe you may be wrong about Morfran’s lack of children.”

             
“If he had sired a babe, we would know of it.  Morfran himself would trumpet the news far and wide.”  Geoffrey shook his head.  “Nay, Morfran Mortimer has no offspring, bastard or legal.”

             
“He does now.”  Darrick jerked his head at Alanna, whose emerald-colored eyes had gone smoky.  “This child Morfran has taken is hers.  Alanna bore the man a son.”

             
The messenger’s mouth dropped open. 

             
Stunned, Geoffrey felt himself do the same.  Closing his mouth with a snap, he stared at Alanna, as did all of the men who’d gathered. 

             
Color high, she jerked her head in a nod. 

             
“Darrick speaks true,” she said.  “I have a son who was stolen from me.  Caradoc is his name.  And Gorsedd is well-known to me.  He is of my people.  He was the one who took him.”

             
Geoffrey found his voice.  “Why should we help her?” He looked at Darrick as he spoke.  “She betrayed you.  Now you tell us she bore the heir of your enemy.” 

             
Reasonable questions.  The rest of the men muttered, agreeing with him. 

             
But Alanna did not appear cowed, though all hint of color had drained from her face.  She locked gazes with him, and Geoffrey felt a moment of shame before his righteous anger reasserted itself.

             
“He raped me,” she said, spitting the words at him.  Chin held high, she looked at each man in turn, daring them to speak.  When none did, she turned to Darrick, eyes blazing.

             
“Now you have one more reason to make haste for Morfran’s keep.  Not only must we regain my son, but your own mother as well.”

             
Squelching pity, Geoffrey stepped forward.  “Morfran is Rowena’s brother.  Surely she is in no great danger.”

             
The messenger’s throat moved as he swallowed, gaze darting from Alanna to Darrick, then to Geoffrey. 

             
“The Lady Rowena,” he swallowed again.  “Her suffering is mighty.”

             
Darrick made an inarticulate sound of rage as his men began again to murmur among themselves.  “Go on.”

             
Encouraged, the messenger elaborated.  “Morfran keeps her in a damp cell under the keep.  There is a dirt floor and starving rats and all other manner of crawling creatures.  Because she must wear chains, she is not able to fend them off.   But that is not the worst of it - Morfran visits her, sometimes as much as twice a day and forces himself upon her.”

             
Darrick snarled out loud. 

             
Geoffrey himself felt like vomiting. “Her own brother?” 

             
The messenger nodded.  “She is fed,” he continued, “though her meals consist of a watery porridge and hard bread.  She fears she will die there, in the dampness and darkness, her body eaten by rodents, unless you can free her.”

             
Alanna uttered a wordless cry.  Glancing at her, Geoffrey saw that even she looked nauseated.  Then he remembered that she too had suffered at Morfran’s hands.

             
“The man is a monster.”  The messenger, having finished his tale, slumped on his horse’s back, his exhaustion plain to see.

             
“Take your horse to the barn at the southern end of the keep.  There she’ll be well taken care of.  You yourself need to rest.” 

             
Nodding, the man and his tired horse moved off.

             
Darrick clapped his hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder.  “I would ride out now to rescue my mother and,” he inclined his head towards Alanna, “her son.”

             
“Now?”  Geoffrey did not bother to hide his dismay.  “The men have battled long and hard this day.  They need food and rest and--”

             
“Now,” Darrick interjected, his tone brooking no argument.  “And I want you to go with me.”

             
Geoffrey swallowed back the rest of his protest.  “Of course.”  As if there would be any doubt. 

             
Several others stepped forward.  “We would ride with you as well, my lord.”

             
Considering, Darrick shook his head.  “I cannot leave Thorncliff unprotected.  I will take four, plus Geoffrey.”  He singled out the men he wanted.  “The rest of you must stay here in case Morfran and his army try again.”

             
Alanna lifted her head.  “I will go.”

             
About to protest yet again, Geoffrey held his tongue when Darrick slowly nodded. 

             
“We will ride hard,” Darrick said, frowning. 

             
“I can do it,” she responded.  “I can also climb and fight and win.”

             
Now Geoffrey had heard enough.  “But can you follow orders?”

             
The green gaze she turned on him felt like ice.  “Whose orders?”

             
Darrick interjected.  “Mine.  He is right.  You must agree to do as I say.  Blindly rushing into battle can get us all killed.”

             
To Geoffrey’s disbelief she lifted her chin stubbornly.  “I want my son.”

             
“You are no good to him dead.  You must have patience.”

             
“Patience?”  She came closer, so close Geoffrey could smell the light floral scent she wore.  From the stricken look on Darrick’s chiseled face, he noticed this as well.

             
“How can you ask that I have patience when my son needs me?”

             
“Methinks `tis more that you need your son.  I’m sure Caradoc is well-tended.”

             
“Well-tended, you say?  Knowing what kind of man this Morfran is?”

             
“He will not harm his own son.”

             
“He rapes his own sister.”

             
Gaze stricken, Darrick swallowed.  Watching him, Geoffrey stepped forward.  “The man is vile, `tis true.  Still, for decades he has desired an heir.  Now that he has one, he will take pains to assure nothing endangers him.”

             
Her gaze swung from Geoffrey back to Darrick.

             
“He will not harm his own son,” Darrick repeated.  “Truly I believe this.”

             
“Assuming he knows Caradoc is his.”  She pursed her lips.  “He has no reason to know this.”

             
Darrick shook his head.  “Why else would he have taken him?”

             
She opened her mouth, then closed it.  “There is a legend, an ancient riddle.”  Reluctance colored her voice.  She looked at Geoffrey and the other men and lowered her voice.  What she said next made no sense to Geoffrey.

             
“Most interpret it to mean that a changeling son can restore the fading magic to my people.”

             
Darrick however, seemed to understand perfectly.  “And you think Caradoc might be this son?”

             
“No,” she sighed.  “If you and I had a child, the lines of Reagan and Tadhg would have blended. 
This
would be the bloodline necessary to bring about such a magical birth, an exceptional child.  Born of violence, Caradoc is not the one.”

             
Geoffrey rubbed his suddenly aching head.  Her strange words with unclear meanings leant further credence to the rumors he had heard before she left.  He became more certain Alanna was some sort of witch. 

             
But her words, incomprehensible as they might be, seemed fine with Darrick.  The other man, God bless his soul, appeared to know of what she spoke.  Not only know, but he seemed to accept it as truth. 

             
This time Geoffrey did cross himself.  Several of the men, though unable to hear what was said, saw and did the same.

             
Darrick took no heed of them.  He watched only Alanna.  Geoffrey’s stomach turned.

             
“Explain why else Morfran would take him if he is unaware that Caradoc is his?”

             
“Gorsedd.”  She spat the word.  “Gorsedd is from Rune, and
he
believes Caradoc to be the child of legend.”

             
“Gorsedd does not know that Morfran is not descended from the Tadhgs?”

             
“No.”  Her faze softened.  “He knows not Morfran’s blood, nor yours.  He has only heard that the father must be one of your line.”

             
Turning away, Darrick made a sound.  Well might he have uttered a curse, or made a war cry to vent his anger.  These things, any warrior, Geoffrey himself included, could easily understand.

             
“What is it?”  Alanna’s tone sounded worried. 

             
Darrick spun to face her.  “`Tis this.  Every time you speak of your child, of Caradoc, I picture Morfran’s hands on your porcelain skin.”  Spoken low-voiced so that the others could not hear, the words seemed wrung from him.  His face contorted in the throes of some unknown pain.

             
Geoffrey gasped and took a step forward.  “Darrick--”

             
Alanna held up her hand to stop him.  Then she nodded, as though she understood.

             
Fury mingling with concern, Geoffrey sought words to comfort his friend, but could find none.  He made a helpless gesture, wanting to interrupt the conversation, but Alanna spoke again. 

             
“Caradoc knows nothing of how he was conceived,” Alanna said. “He is much like any boy of nearly five summers.”

             
With a stoic look of resignation, Darrick nodded.  To Geoffrey’s relief, he appeared to have regained the iron control he was known for far and wide.

             
Still, Geoffrey himself could not understand the way she spoke of the child.  When she would have walked away, he touched Alanna’s shoulder to detain her.

             
“I listen for disappointment in your voice, but hear only affection,” he said.  “That you could love a child created in such violence astounds me.  I imagine most women would cast such an offspring away.”