The Penwyth Curse (24 page)

“What do you mean they weren't men?”

“I realized that Mawdoor gave them a bit of power by enhancing their skills beyond the ordinary, adding to their strength. He hoped it would be enough to kill me.”

“Thank the ghosts that the power he gave them wasn't enough. Do you really believe you impregnated me, prince?”

She was on her elbows above him, and she was looking at his mouth. He smiled at her, touched his fingertips to her chin, the tip of her nose. “Aye, my child is in your womb. I will not be such a fool again. If there is to be a next time,
I
will be the one protecting
you,
Brecia.”

She felt a sudden chill, or maybe it was a ruffle of wind through her hair, drying her sweat and his as well. “I don't like this,” she said, sniffing the air. “I want to know where we are.”

He didn't answer her. She stared down at him, realized he was still inside her, hard again. She could feel herself stretching around him. His breath was warm in her face, and he wanted her.

“We're in a cave,” he said finally, yawned, and was even harder than just the moment before. “We're in my cave.”

“Your cave? You have a cave? How could that be possible? Which cave is your cave? There are no caves in my oak forest.”

“No, there are no caves in your forest. I suppose this is where I always felt safe when I was young. The cave isn't very deep, so there was never any fear of monsters or enemies hiding to come upon me and slay me. Aye,” he said, “I somehow brought you here to my cave.”

“It's warm, the air is warm. It smells sweet, like newly grown grass.”

“Aye, all of that. I just brought you a breath of breeze. Did you feel it?”

“It dried our sweat. And you even brought blankets for us to lie on.”

“Aye, I did. In your bed, if you will remember, once you began having your way with me, I never touched it. You brought me off your bed, Brecia, with your lust.”

“Now that I think of it, I did think it was very easy to put my arms around your back,” she said, and nipped his chin.

He was a wizard. He found no surprise in what he'd done without even focusing his mind on it. Truth be told, she hadn't thought of anything either. She'd known something was happening when her body had flown upward into the heavens, but she hadn't thought, hadn't begun to realize that even in his own lust his will had preempted hers. His will was the stronger.

She was suddenly afraid. He was the more powerful. To admit that to herself would be to admit to a lesser position. She hated that, and it frightened her. And now this. Had she really conceived, after just one joining? No, it wasn't possible, was it? When she returned to her oak forest, she would consult the old ghost who was blind but could see into the heart of an oak tree, into a streak of flame, into a witch's womb.

He was moving again inside her, hard, smooth, deep. “Brecia,” he said into her mouth as he drew her down, “come with me again. We may end up this time back in your fortress. I will set my mind to it if you wish.”

And it was his will that would take them back, not hers. She kissed him and forgot to worry, forgot to be afraid. Lust roared through her, making her ears ring. “Oh, yes,” she whispered against his temple. “Oh, yes.”

Present

Bishop awoke and wanted her again, so powerfully that his brain couldn't even focus on the specific words that possibly could convince her to let him have her, again.

He merely rolled on top of her, spread her legs, and came into her.

Her eyes snapped open. He was big and he was inside her body. She wasn't afraid; she wasn't even overly concerned. She knew to the soles of her bare feet that it would be different now. It was already beginning. He was part of her—such an incredible thing—a man inside your body. He was deep inside her, then pulling back, only to come in again.

She kissed his shoulder. He came up on his elbows.

“Merryn? I swear you will like this.”

“I know,” she said. “I think I'm already beginning to.”

He kissed her, and each time he lifted his mouth off hers, he told her in great detail what he wanted to do to her. And as he spoke, his fingers slid over her belly to find her. She stared up at him. The wildness came over her so quickly, she didn't think, just screamed and screamed again.

She heard him over her, his breathing hard, fast, and then he wrapped his arms around her and rolled onto his back, bringing her over him, and he was still deep inside her, and she didn't want to scream now, just wanted to mayhap whisper how she felt, let it flow through her, and know that if she had to move she would die on the spot.

She lay on top of him, felt his hands moving down her back, onto her hips, and he was kneading her flesh, squeezing, pressing her down on him, and he said, “What do you think, Merryn? Did you enjoy me?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.” She sounded absurdly pleased with herself.

“Now, we must solve that damned curse so we can marry, because you have conceived my son.”

That gave her back a modicum of strength, and she sat up on him. “Surely that isn't possible. How would you know such a thing? Surely men don't even think about that when they begin roaring and pounding.”

“I just know. If you wish to speak about roaring and
pounding, then think about the yells that came out of your mouth. You nearly deafened me with your pleasure.”

He had a point there. She said, “You think you are that potent, my lord?”

He pulled her back down, kissed her mouth until she was mewling, little sounds that drove him to madness, and she was moving on him, and he knew she wanted him, again, and he was hard inside her, and once more it began.

“Surely all this can't be what is done.” She was panting the words and he was drowning in lust, drowning in this seeming endless need for her.

“Oh, yes, this is just right. Trust me. Scream for me again, Merryn.”

And she did. On the other hand, he yelled like a drunk warrior attacked by bandits. Merryn imagined just before she felt into an exhausted sleep, that after all this, she should be pregnant with at least three strapping sons.

She heard a laugh as she sank into sleep. Not a man's laugh, a woman's. Was it her? Her mouth wasn't moving, was it? But then the laugh was gone, and the air was still. She breathed in his scent, tasted the sweat of his shoulder, and smiled. She fell asleep with his heart pounding solid and steady against hers.

26

B
ISHOP LEANED OVER THE
black hole, waiting to be slapped again, waiting to hear that laugh again.

Nothing. There was no movement in the air, no sense that something else was near, something that he should understand, should be able to see, or sense, or at least feel.

He had a torch with him. He raised it high over the hole. He saw only blackness. He held it down in the hole. Nothing but darkness—no ladder, nothing.

He was ready to believe he was mad, when suddenly the torch went out with a bang, as if someone had slammed it between two hands. Bishop was standing in the pitch black. He took a step back and stumbled over something. He landed on the sand floor of the cave.

Then, just as suddenly, the torch flamed up again, even though it was lying there in the sand. It was burning as brightly as it had been before those invisible hands had slammed together. Invisible hands? He'd surely been tossed into a witch's pot of madness. Aye, he'd been gaining in madness since he first saw Penwyth. Slowly he
eased himself up, picked up the torch, and looked at what he'd tripped over.

He saw a stick half buried in the sand. A stick? Why hadn't he seen it before? Had he knocked it free of the sand when he'd tripped on it? It made sense, yet it didn't, not at all. Fear nibbling around the edges of his consciousness, Bishop studied the stick before he planted the torch in the sand, feeling it sink down a good six inches—and surely that was strange, for there was nothing beneath the sand save rock, was there? But it didn't matter. He reached for the stick, gently shoved away the rest of the sand, and lifted it.

His hand burned, suddenly, fiercely, as if he'd stuck it into a flame. He dropped the stick, rubbed his fingers, and just as suddenly the pain was gone. Without thinking, without pause, he reached out his right hand for it and lifted it. It was warm, that damned stick was warm against the skin of his hand. There was no burning, nothing but steady, pulsing warmth. It seemed that the stick was settling in, that it was made for his hand and no other's, and it fit his hand perfectly. It was perhaps a foot long, no longer. It felt like nothing he'd ever touched in his life. By all the saints' muttered prayers, he thought, he could tell it was old by the very feel of it. No, it wasn't just old—“old” was a word that didn't apply to it. No, it was beyond old, it was something from before anything a man could understand. He knew it, deep inside.

Nor was it just a simple stick, torn from a tree limb. He held it close to the torch. No, it was finely carved, indentations all around it where there had been stones, perhaps. Precious stones? He didn't know. He wasn't at all certain that it was wood. But it wasn't metal, he knew that. But then, what was it?

“Bishop?”

He looked up to see her standing not three feet away, watching him.

“Look, Merryn, I found it.”

“What did you find?”

“My torch went out and I stumbled over it. It looks like a stick, but it's not. See, there were possibly precious stones worked into it.” He reached toward her with it. “Tell me what you feel when you touch it.”

Merryn reached out her hand.

“That's it, your right hand.”

“Why?” she said as she took the stick.

“I don't know. I first picked it up with my left hand and it burned me. How does it feel to you?”

“Warm. The wood feels almost soft.”

“Aye,” he said. “That's it.”

She sat down beside him, the stick still in her right hand. She touched it with the fingers of her left hand, and her fingers felt scalded, like she'd just dipped them in boiling water.

“Be careful. For whatever reason, it won't accept your left hand.”

“I wonder what it is,” she said, holding it so gently, as if it were something very precious, something very fragile.

“It's the reason I came here,” he said, and in that instant he knew it was true.

“There's something strange at work here, isn't there, Bishop? Something we don't understand.”

“Yes, and it has something to do with the damned curse. We will figure it out. It's why we're here.”

Merryn stared at the stick, turning it in her right hand, feeling the warmth of it against her palm. It was so strange, so very strange. Then she said, “Once when I was a little girl, my grandfather showed me a drawing in a very old parchment. I'll never forget the drawing, it was so vivid, the inks so bright. It was so real, as if someone had pressed it there, an exact image of real life.”

His heart began to pound slow, deep strokes. He sat forward, not touching the stick, but watching her turn it slowly on her palm, caress it. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me about the drawing.”

“There were three old men, all with long gray beards, smooth, like they'd just been combed, coming nearly to
their waists. All of them wore long white robes with lovely worked-leather belts, studded with gems. One of the old men held a stick like this, and the stick looked very new. It was shining and shooting off sparks, as if from a fire. He was pointing the stick outward as if at the person looking at the drawing. My grandfather leaned over my shoulder and said in his rolling, deep voice, “These are wizards, young Merryn, from long ago. The one in the middle, he is holding his wand.”

“Was he holding the wand in his right hand?”

She closed her eyes, tried to remember that wonderful drawing. “Yes,” she said after several moments. “He was.”

“This is very interesting,” Bishop said. “You think this is a wizard's wand? It's like the one in the drawing?”

“I don't know, Bishop, but you came here because something pushed you to come here. You found this stick. It must have something to do with the curse.”

He said, still looking at that wand in her palm, “It wasn't on the ground when I came in here before. I am very certain of that.”

She felt fear prickle her skin. “How can you be certain?”

“I just am. Now, the question is what to do with this—this wand.”

She rolled it back and forth in her right hand, and let the warmth of it sink into the sleeve of her gown, touch the skin of her forearm, warm it, and she felt good. Deep down, it made her feel very good.

He said, never looking away from the wand, “I know that Penwyth has stood where it stands now.”

She looked at him, her head cocked to one side. “Not longer than a hundred years.”

“Oh, no, Penwyth was there long before then. Aye, it was there, all right—not the castle, not the moat, something else—but it was there and it had that name.”

“How do you know this?”

He started to say,
I was there,
then he realized how
mad that sounded. But he saw it now. By all that was holy, he saw Mawdoor—saw himself as well, only he was the prince and Brecia was with him. He saw all of it very clearly. He looked at the wand in Merryn's right hand, and he saw it all even more clearly. He saw the flecks of gold in Brecia's eyes.

Bishop blinked, shook his head to clear it. He'd touched that wand, and now everything was as clear as if it had all occurred but moments ago. Was it the prince's wand? Brecia's wand? A witch's wand, not a wizard's? “So very long ago,” he said. “It all happened so very long ago.”

“How do you know this, Bishop? Are you a wizard?”

“No, I'm not a wizard,” he said and knew down to his bones that he wasn't, only—“but the past is coming through to me. Don't be afraid, Merryn. I'm not, at least not anymore.”

She swallowed. “I'm not afraid.”

He looked at her, that red hair of hers braided in a tight circle around her head, the green eyes, alert and dreamy at the same time. He looked at that wand in her right hand and felt a lurching in his heart.

She looked like Brecia, that witch who'd lived in a time far distant, the witch who'd mated with the prince. And just who was the prince?

He realized in that instant that he was glad she wasn't Brecia. Brecia was a very long time ago. Merryn was here, with him, right now. His seed was in her belly. He shuddered with the knowledge of it.

Bishop carefully took the wand from her in his right hand, and rose. He had to learn more.

He stood there, in the shadows, holding that wand, the torch flame wreathing his face in darkness and a glowing red light, and he wasn't himself in that moment. She knew it, but she wasn't frightened. She sat staring up at him, wondering what was happening.

She watched him raise the stick high above his head. But surely the cave ceiling hadn't been that much higher than Bishop's head was. Surely. But now it seemed to go
up and up, no ceiling at all in sight. And Bishop, he seemed somehow larger, shadows and light and the flame from the torch making him look like a demon called from the bowels of hell.

She said, her voice as thin as the grains of sand that fell through her fingers, “Bishop, come back.”

The moment ended.

Bishop looked white. Slowly, he came down onto his knees. He gently laid the stick on a small stone ledge that protruded a few inches from the cave wall. That ledge had been there all along—it had to have been—she knew that, but now she saw that it was there because it held the wand. She reached out her hand to touch it, drew it back.

“I must think about this,” Bishop said. He raised his head and looked at Merryn, and she saw the blast of hunger in his eyes, eyes focused completely on her. It was the same lust she'd seen in him the night before, the utter loss of control. She picked up her skirts and ran.

Sometime Else

Brecia was brooding, worrying the golden chain at her waist as she brooded. She said, “Mawdoor sent those men. The women were with them because Mawdoor knew they would lull you, just in case.”

“Aye, he did.” The prince took another bite of a partridge leg, roasted to perfection over one of the ghost fires. He knew that her people were throughout the oak forest, close if they were needed. It was the ghosts who stayed in the courtyard, near their fires, and watched. She handed him a wooden bowl of soup, filled with carrots and cabbage and garden cress.

“Will you eat until the next full moon comes?”

He swallowed and smiled up at her. “You exhausted me, Brecia. I am only a wizard. I must rebuild my strength.”

She threw a plum at him, which he caught and brought to his mouth. “Ah, the smell. Sweet plums.”

“We must beat him, prince. We cannot let him continue to terrorize the countryside. He might succeed in destroying you, maybe even in taking me.”

“I am thinking about this, Brecia.”

“No, you are not. You are thinking about me being naked. I know because just look at how you're licking that wretched plum.”

He took a final lick, the final bite, and tossed the plum pip to her. “You should eat something as well,” he said.

She took some sloe berries out of a beautiful old glass bowl that was filled with red and green shadows and popped them in her mouth as she paced back and forth in front of him. She stopped suddenly, in midstep.

“I know what to do,” she said, and she drew in a big breath. “I know what we will do.”

He suddenly heard a soft sibilant sound coming from outside. It was different levels of voices, and they were humming, in harmony. It was a gentle sound, and it pulsed through him.

“My ghosts,” she said, her head cocked to the side, her incredible red hair falling halfway to the ground. “They are pleased. Isn't that strange? I believed they wanted me to remain as I was, but I was wrong. They are pleased with you, pleased with what has happened.”

“Are they also pleased that my son grows within you?”

“Aye,” she said, “they are.”

He smiled, nodded. “Now will you tell me what you think we should do about Mawdoor?”

She ate some more sloe berries, then said, “We will leave at first light.”

“Should I take off my clothes?”

“Why would you do that?”

“If you already know what we're to do to Mawdoor, then I don't have to think about it. I can have you again.”