A Passionate Magic (22 page)

“Well, there you are, then,” Emma exclaimed.
“It must be Agatha, if she’s familiar with the beads. The one left
for me to find is almost the exact color of Dain’s eyes. First the
herbs in his wine, then the gifts. It does make sense, doesn’t
it?”

“You think Agatha is stealing into Penruan
Castle to leave offerings on your pillow?” he asked, sounding as
though he could not accept her conclusion.

“If I have judged Agatha correctly, she
doesn’t need to enter the castle,” Emma said. “Her magic is strong
enough to move those small objects into the lord’s chamber without
her having to venture anywhere near Penruan.”

“My dear girl, you have it all wrong.” To
Emma’s amazement, Hermit burst into laughter. He sounded as if he
hadn’t laughed for a long, long time. It was as if the rusty,
half-choked noises issuing from his throat surprised him as much as
they did Emma.

“Is this some kind of game?” she
demanded.

“No,” he said, sobering. “No game at all.
It’s deadly serious. There’s more here than you know. I’ll tell you
this much: you can trust Agatha, and me. But beware of Lady
Richenda. That jealous, spiteful woman will do you any harm she
can.”

“Because of the feud?” Emma said.

“Out of jealousy,” Hermit answered. “It’s the
reason for everything she does.”

“Have you ever met Lady Richenda?”

“I have no desire to meet her,” he said.

“Then how can you say such things about her,
if you don’t know her?” Emma cried.

“Are you defending her?”

“I am saying it’s not fair to judge someone
you don’t know. Her life has been difficult.”

“How innocent you are. I wish I could keep
you safe,” he murmured. His left hand came up to caress her cheek.
Then he rested his hand on her shoulder and looked into Emma’s eyes
until she broke away from his gentle touch. With an excuse about
returning to the castle to check on Lady Richenda’s condition she
left him there, alone on the beach.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” Hermit crouched
by his smoky peat fire, feeding more turves into it. He did not
have to look up to know when Exile entered the cave and came to
join him.

“You are troubled,” Exile said from across
the fire.

“I met Emma again today,” he said. “I do not
know how much longer I can resist telling her the truth. Yet I must
say nothing to her. She’s not safe as it is, and the truth could
put her into mortal danger – as it could do to you, too.”

“Have you spoken to Agatha?”

“Her advice was the same as yours. I am to
remain silent for the present, and to be patient. But it’s not
natural for a man to do nothing in the face of danger!”

“You are recovering,” Exile said. “Your heart
grows ever bolder. Even your hand is becoming more flexible. Soon
you will be the man you once were.”

“Oh, no,” Hermit said. “I never want to be
that man again. I’d rather die first. And if I must die, I’ll do it
in defense of that kindhearted enchantress who is forced to conceal
her true self while she lives at Penruan!”

***

“Just because you have nursed me through this
illness,” Lady Richenda said to Emma, “don’t think we will ever
become friends. I still despise you.”

“Then you ought to despise your son, too,”
Emma said, rising from the bedside stool. “Dain was eager for me to
treat you.”

“Only because he is under your baleful
influence,” Lady Richenda declared. “You lure him to bed each night
and perform disgusting acts with him, but I warn you, arrogant
young fool that you are, men do not long remain enchanted by a
woman’s body when there exists no other common interest. Dain will
desert you soon enough. You will be left to sleep alone, with only
your regrets for company.”

A harsh response burned on Emma’s tongue,
until it occurred to her that Lady Richenda was speaking out of her
own experience. Emma thought about Lady Richenda’s herb-induced
revelations of how she had been Lord Halard’s second wife, and how
Halard had left her to march north and fight Udo, returning to
Penruan later with a terrible wound from which he never recovered.
Lady Richenda had borne only one child and she had been a widow for
more than a quarter of a century. Emma doubted there had ever been
much love or tenderness in her mother-in-law’s life. With that
thought in mind, she stifled her angry words and turned to Blanche,
who lingered in the shadows in case her mistress should require
some duty of her.

“I do not think Lady Richenda needs my
constant care any longer,” Emma said to the maidservant. “You may
give her the last of the medicine later this afternoon. By tomorrow
she ought to be well enough to leave her bed.”

”I, not you, will decide when I am ready to
leave my bed,” Lady Richenda snapped at her.

“Do as you please, my lady,” Emma responded,
and walked out of the room before she forgot her good intentions
and lost her temper.

It was a relief to be free of the dark
bedchamber, with its oppressive atmosphere, but leaving Lady
Richenda’s room wasn’t enough. Emma wanted to be away from the
castle. The midday meal was over and there were only a few people
in the great hall when she reached it. She did not see Dain
anywhere. Emma paused just long enough to provide a report on Lady
Richenda’s improved condition to Father Maynard before she hurried
across the bailey and over the drawbridge.

”I am going to look for herbs,” she called to
the sentry on duty at the gatehouse, and he smiled and waved her on
her way.

When she went out alone she usually went to
the beach. Not today. She did not want to chance meeting Hermit, or
even Agatha. She had learned so much over the last few days, though
she had been too busy to sort through all of the new information.
If she was going to make sense of so many disturbing facts she
needed to be alone without interruption for a time.

Emma set out for the moor, using the path she
and Blake had taken several times. She was sure she could easily
find the spot where the adder’s tongue fern grew. Once there she
planned to sit on one of the rocks in the sunshine until she had
put her thoughts into order. Too late, she realized she had
forgotten to take her basket from the stillroom, but she decided
she didn’t care. Any herbs she picked in her present disturbed
state would likely be useless.

Either she missed a turning in the path or
she was so absorbed in her contemplations that she walked right
past the place where she intended to stop. Before she knew it, she
was high on the sloping ground, close to the top of the ridge. She
wasn’t overly concerned about getting lost, not as long as she
could see Penruan below her, perched on the edge of the cliffs.

It was wonderful to be so free, to be
surrounded only by blue sky and fresh air and the open moorland.
Her spirits reviving, Emma looked toward Rough Tor. Blake always
told her it was actually farther away than it appeared to be, yet
today it was so close she thought she could almost touch it.

“This ridge I’m on is much higher than the
rest of the land around here. Therefore,” she reasoned, “it ought
to be dry and safe to walk on. I’ll walk a short distance, just to
learn if Blake is right and Rough Tor does recede as I approach
it.”

She set off at a brisk pace. The wind was at
her back, the sun was warm, and her concerns about Lady Richenda’s
hostility, the appearance of mysterious gifts, even the overriding
worry about Dain’s true feelings for her, all suddenly seemed
unimportant. She was in a magical land and the tall rock formation
beckoned.

No matter how far she walked, Rough Tor was
never any closer. When Emma began to grow tired and turned once
more to measure the distance between Penruan and the place where
she was presently standing, she discovered she could no longer see
the castle. Fog was creeping in from the ocean and even as Emma
watched it edged closer, veiling the sun and threatening to conceal
the few landmarks she was able to recall from previous
expeditions.

She was going to have to turn back and hope
she didn’t stray from the path or wander into one of the bogs. She
remembered all too well Blake’s warnings about quicksand so deep it
could swallow up small animals, sheep, or even humans.

The problem was, she had turned around
several times while seeking spots she recognized, and now she
wasn’t sure in exactly which direction the castle lay. She could no
longer see Rough Tor, either, so she couldn’t take her bearings
from it. At least she was still on the high path along the ridge.
If she kept to it, sooner or later she would come upon a familiar
landmark and would know how to proceed from there. She tried not to
think about the brigands who infested the moors and who surely knew
the area well enough to find their way through any fog.

Before she had gone more than a few yards the
seeping fog reached her, enveloping her in damp, wooly gray so
thick that she could not even see her own feet. She was forced to
stop again while she reconsidered her situation. As the fog flowed
about her the air became noticeably colder and more damp, and the
daylight began to vanish into a deep, gray gloom.

“I’m lost,” Emma said to herself.
“Completely, thoroughly lost, in an unfamiliar land. There is only
one way I’m ever going to find Penruan again. I need to see through
the fog to the correct path, and I must do it before either Dain or
Sloan decide to send out searchers. I have no right to put anyone
else into danger because of my thoughtlessness. What harm can magic
do when there’s no one here to see?”

Her decision made, she closed her eyes and
stood quietly for a moment, concentrating, gathering the power,
accepting the uprushing sense of joy as she unleashed her magic. It
was such a relief after keeping that part of herself hidden away
for months; it was rather like taking off a pair of too-tight shoes
that constantly pinched and blistered her feet. Her heart soared at
the release of all restrictions. She knew it was only for a short
time, but still she reveled in her own ability.

She did not make the fog retreat, for
banishing it would reveal the presence of a magician to anyone who
was nearby, and Emma intended to keep her magical skills hidden.
She let the fog remain, though she could see through it with vision
so sensitive that she was able to recognize every pebble along the
path. And the path itself was suddenly clear to her, heading
gradually downhill, wandering a bit to avoid the boggy areas, yet
leading steadily toward Penruan Castle. To Emma’s intensely
perceptive eyes the very stones of the castle at the end of the
path shone with a welcoming glow. Penruan was home. She had known
it before, but now she perceived it with magical clarity,
understanding with her mind and soul, as well as with her most
tender emotions, that Penruan was where she was meant to be.

She set out upon the path revealed to her,
walking quickly, wanting to be close to the castle before any
possible searchers found her, so she could pretend she hadn’t
wandered far and wouldn’t have to make explanations she would
prefer not to offer about how she had found her way back.

She came to a large rock that she hadn’t
noticed on her outward trek. She did not doubt the evidence of her
sight; the rock definitely had not been there before. She stopped,
drawing her magic about her for safety, though she felt no sense of
danger. She caught a glimpse of something white floating, drifting
on the fog, like a long scarf or a banner, and she relaxed a little
in recognition.

“Who are you?” she called. “I know you are
there. I’ve seen you several times, on the moor and at the cliffs.
If you are lost, perhaps I can help you find your way home.”

“So you will, when the time is right,” came a
whispery murmur, the speaker hidden by the rock. “Agatha says you
will.”

“Are you a friend of Agatha’s?” All the
residual tension left Emma’s body at mention of the familiar name.
“I can show you the direction to her cottage.”

“I thought you were lost,” said the voice. “I
came to help you. Now I find you require no help from me.”

“Companionship on my walk would be pleasant,”
Emma said. “Please, show yourself.”

From behind the rock stepped a figure draped
in white, a scarf covering the head. A pale, slender hand reached
out to Emma, who lifted her own hand, accepting the clasp and
knowing in the instant of touching exactly what the stranger was.
Though not who. There lay within Emma’s knowing an empty place, a
blank at the very heart of the ghostly creature. As soon as their
hands separated, the odd sense of awareness that was not truly
recognition ended abruptly. Still, Emma knew with absolute
certainty that the strange woman was human.

“I am Emma,” she said. “May I know your
name?”

“Vivienne.” The voice remained a whisper.

”A magical name,” Emma said, recalling
stories she had heard about King Arthur and Camelot.

“Magical,” said Vivienne, “and cursed.”

“Surely not, if you have Agatha for a
friend.”

“I have only two friends.”

“Will you count me as a third? I don’t have
many friends either. I’d consider myself fortunate to find a new
one.”

“Me?” Vivienne gazed at her in disbelief.

“Why not? You also possess inborn magic. I
felt it just now, when you took my hand. We ought to be friends,
don’t you think? Our kind seldom find other folk with whom they can
reveal themselves.”

“Oh, yes.” The scarf slipped from Vivienne’s
head, disclosing long auburn hair. Her features were delicate, her
eyes pale silver. As the scarf slid off her shoulders, Emma saw the
silver chain about her neck and the silver and turquoise pendant on
her bosom.

“You mentioned Agatha,” Emma said. “I assume
she is your first friend. Who is the second? Another person with
magical ability?”