Autumn Moon (18 page)

Familiar arms encircled her, lowered her gently to the floor. Wetness coated Elen's face, drops, not trails, falling from above like hot rain.

“You are the daughter of my heart.” Clogged with tears, Mae's voice wove around her like a dark dream. “But you are stronger than the daughter of my blood. You have everything where Saran has nothing. You will survive where she cannot. Someday you will understand. Someday you will find forgiveness for what I have done. You will dance under the stars and whisper my name, and when you do”—her voice broke on a sob—“know that I will hear, know that I will be watching and dancing with you.”

A small fire blazed within a circle of stones, crude but sufficient for the caldron that bubbled above, hung from cast-iron rods. For all appearances, it resembled any modern campsite—except for the enchantress who stood behind the fire stirring her brew. The first born without the ability to shift, but like the ruby-throated hummingbird, she had proven her worth and flown the distance on the wings of another power. Enchantress, sorceress, healer, midwife—
witch
; no matter the title, Maelorwen owned them all.

And yet with all that potency she had not been able to cure her own curse, or her daughter's—divine proof that their wolves came from a power beyond her reach.

Maelorwen's healed visage surprised Pendaran. Not because of her inability to call her wolf—she could have
healed her skin with magic at any point—but because she held her secrets close and her power unknown . . .
unless crossed
. She reveled in anonymity, welcomed the scars that hid her identity. Indeed, her healing held a signature of a sweeter gift from a kinder, less secretive heart.

Obviously not Mae's; no doubt she had
not
been pleased.

Pendaran chuckled. Seeing her beauty restored brought forth memories of beginning times, when they had walked free among mortals, worshiped and feared. A melancholy sigh fell from his mouth. Science and machinery reigned in this modern day, owning the loyalty of humans as completely as his kind once had—if not more. It seemed every mortal these days held a gadget in their hands, unable to live without their new god of technology.

It saddened him. The reason why, he admitted, that Elen, with all her otherworldly gifts, held such an allure, even in all her sweetness. She reminded him that there was a higher place beyond this realm. That reassurance had become as important to him as the answers he sought.

Scents of licorice root and lungwort rose from the cauldron: a blood-growing potion. He had demanded it made in his last correspondence, an added insurance for Maelorwen's cooperation. She needn't know he intended to use Elen's own blood. To her right, a woman lay on a bed of autumn leaves—but
not
the woman he sought. Aeron's hair spread in a dark blanket across the earth, her mouth lax in drugged rest.

Pendaran knew the Walker well and therefore scowled, ignoring the power that coated his throat when he stepped into the clearing. “What is this? I told you to bring me Merin's daughter.”

“Elen is near, Daran,” Maelorwen scolded without looking up from her task, using his common name as only his
family had done before their deaths. “First you will seal your penned promises with a spoken oath, and then I will reveal her location as you have revealed this place to me.”

“You dare issue demands,” Neira hissed, stepping next to Pendaran, her breaths sharp whistles in his ear. Familiar with Maelorwen as the witch from old, as all Guardians were, but not aware, he suspected, that she spoke to the very same woman who'd felt her whip six months prior.

Maelorwen hid in Avon as a mutilated
Hen Was
, her features concealed under scars. He'd known she was there, skulking in shadows after the death of her mate and daughter, unaware the latter still lived. He also suspected that she had provided Dylan with access to Math, Rosa's first husband, while the Guardian had been preoccupied, just one of many men foiled by her deceitful ways.

Dear Gods, he had missed her about to keep him entertained.

More astute than his comrade, William frowned in recognition, but kept his observations silent, as did Pendaran's own two servants. The beasts contained within iron crates, however, did not. Their howls wrenched through the clearing like broken screams from madhouse dungeons, muffled by the blankets that covered their cages, off-putting nonetheless.

With patience worn thin, Pendaran rested his hand around his sword, now held by a leather scabbard. A replica of his old one was in the process of being cast from iron. “Why is the Walker here?” He had been specific in his demands that only Maelorwen knew his plans.

“It is not easy to carry a grown woman,” Mae complained. “I had my Elen in the wheelbarrow I use to gather herbs, but I was noticed by the Walker after crossing the bridge, and Aeron is bored, so she says she wants to come.”
An impatient sigh expelled from her lungs. “So then I had to carry two.”

“Do not act feeble with me, Maelorwen,” he warned. “I have seen you bring an entire village to their knees.” In fact, Pendaran had never questioned why Llassar had fallen under her spell.

“Would you have me kill her?” she asked in a knowing tone. “They have lost Ceridwen's favor, but they are shifters of pure blood, and females are few.”

With false disdain, he said, “The Walkers' loyalty was cast when they stayed with the rebels upon awakening.” But, no, he did not want Aeron to die, as the witch well knew. Perhaps he should give her to William. That might be the perfect comeuppance the man deserved.

“Leave her or take her, it does not matter to me.” She gave an absent wave. “Aeron is your problem now and not mine.”

Neira left his side to circle the unconscious form. Next to the rich darkness of Maelorwen and the slumbering Aeron, the Guardian appeared tiny and pale. If it suited her, Neira could assume the role of an ashen child, a ruse that had lured many men to her aid, and then imprisonment in her playroom soon after.

“Neira,” Pendaran ordered, removing Cadarn, “return to me.” Sulky eyes lifted, and then fell to his sword, called by a tone he used when causing pain. Preferring to be the giver, not the receiver, she submitted to his command.

Maelorwen smirked, mocking him for the company he kept. “I will not tell you where Elen is until you speak the words aloud. You know what I say is true, because we have been here before, have we not? Torture me, burn me, rape me or kill me . . . but I will
never
yield to you. You will not find her,” she challenged. “The others will come before you do.”

Yes, they had been here before. No greater advisory had he yet to meet, the very reason he'd kept her only weakness alive and hidden under his personal care. “It is the Bleidd I would use to make your secrets spill.”

“My tongue will tie even more if you do,” she warned softly, “for then I will know you intend to kill her after all.”

“The Bleidd will be free.” He clipped the words she wanted to hear, waving for the servant to remove the blanket from her cage.

Maelorwen's gaze fell and faltered. “And Elen,” she pressed. “I will have your vow to keep her unharmed.”

Pendaran ignored William's snicker. Unlike Neira, the witch would never submit, a lesson learned a long time ago at the cost of his brother's life. Moreover, Maelorwen was skilled, but her skills did not equal his, and whatever she was about, he would break it once his strength returned and he had Elen under his control. Plus, he did not want to be here all day for an oath he already planned to keep—
to some degree
. “Elen will remain unharmed.” And because he knew Maelorwen, he added, “But confined within my care and under my control.” And then another, “And our agreement is void if you do not reveal to me where she is.”

A satisfied smile spread across her lips as dimples concaved her cheeks. A warning tightened his spine; Maelorwen's true smiles never boded well for him. “Proclaimed twice in ink, and now in voice, I ensure your pledge.” Uncaring of self-harm, she cupped her hands into the boiling brew, and then threw it in his face, repeating her incantation in their mother tongue. “May it keep your word true and your honor bound.”

In reflex, he turned his head and closed his mouth—but not in time.
Damn this lingering weakness.
Did she know?
Gritting his teeth, the liquid burned and tasted sour on his tongue, and it was not the potion he assumed. A small fizzle heated his veins. He forced a laugh, a charade for others to hear and not question his delay. “An oath-binding spell? Really, Mae? You disappoint me. Have you forgotten who I am?”

“It is you who forgets.” A fire lit within her golden eyes, twirling like mists of Summerland dreams. “All harm done to my Saran and Elen will return to you in thrice.”

“What folly is this?” Frozen until then, William stepped forward. “You will allow this insult?”

“The insult comes from you.” Pendaran kept his tone low in warning. “
Never
question me. I will finish the task I have come to do.” His gaze remained fixed on Maelorwen, drawn by an enchantress riding her power. “Where is Elen?”

“Release Saran, and then I will tell you where she is.”

Pendaran flicked his hand for it to be done. “She refers to the Bleidd,” he told the servants when they hesitated. “Release it.”

The mother watched in grave silence as the black wolf struggled to walk and collapsed twice. Maelorwen's gaze lifted to him, filled with the same wounded confusion he'd once seen from another set of eyes. “You would do this to your brother's daughter, Daran?”

“If Llassar had done what I asked,” he snapped, “then she would not have lived to suffer.” His Council members knew their history, but it needn't be bared for retrospection. It brought shame to his lineage when his own brother had left his Council seat to live in hiding with a witch and their get. Pendaran had, of course, found them.

When the wolf stood, unsteady but proud, Maelorwen found her voice. “I would hold you in my arms once again,
Saran, but our time will come in a different place. Go south. Follow the river to an island. You will find help there.”

Saran turned to Pendaran, too weak to lunge, but her lips peeled back to reveal canines as a growl vibrated low in her throat.

“Go,” Maelorwen ordered, stern with desperation, “unless you prefer to be back in his cell.” Saran looked to her mother, made a step toward her, only to receive gravel thrown in her face. “Go!”

The black wolf staggered and disappeared into the trees.

“Like wounded prey,” he warned. Rustled leaves and snapped branches told of the wolf's direction as she faltered from fatigue. “Our agreement is void if you do not give me what I seek.”

“After the pines there are two oak trees intertwined as one.” Her shoulders slumped and her voice deadened. “You will see a boulder beside their roots.” She paused. “It is not what it seems.”

He inclined his head to William. “Go where she's instructed. If it's Elen, bring her here.”

The woods remained quiet where the Guardian searched; a skilled wolf in a warrior's skin eager to make amends. William returned with Elen lax in his arms and a sneer on his face as if what he held had a stench. He lowered her next to Aeron and returned to Pendaran's side.

“You have dwelled among the weak for too long.” Triumphant, Pendaran smiled at his adversary. “It has made you complacent. You should have included your name in your oath spell.” Not that he wouldn't break the other names once he regained full strength. Closing the distance between them, he stated, “I cannot let you leave to tell our tales and bring the dissenters directly to my gates.”

“My daughter lives and she is free.” Her chin lifted, exposing her neck without resistance. “That is all that matters to me.”

Pendaran readied his sword—but then hesitated before the final strike. She accepted death without fear, reminding him once again of his brother, who had done the same for her. Regrettably, the recollections of his youth were dying with each betrayer, and it made him feel oddly depressed—
and old
. If she hadn't challenged him in front of other Council members, he might have let her live.

“I take no pleasure in your fall, Maelorwen.” However, it must be done.

The slightest of smiles turned her lips. “But I will take pleasure in yours.”

He thrust his sword through her heart. As soon as iron pierced her beating organ he realized his grave error. Black fire burned through his veins as her spell kindled and took hold, dormant until his potent binding act. His breaths faltered, and in his weakened state he almost buckled from its force. She had ensured his vow with her own life's blood, and a death binding could not be undone.

Not even by him.

“Well done, Mae,” Pendaran whispered, because worthy adversaries were so few. Buckling forward, he used her body as a shield for his limitations, pretending to sneer in disgust, not agony, as he lowered her to the ground and removed Cadarn.

Under watchful eyes, he straightened out of sheer pride and walked over to Elen's lifeless form. Unconscious and malleable, she appeared even softer than he remembered, almost sickly sweet. With the tip of his sword, he sliced a vertical path down the inside of her arm, letting her blood drain and pool among amber-colored leaves.

Because of the oath bind, with each drop spilled he felt the effects of three. Ensnared by enchantment, but not weak of will, he waited until a quarter of her blood drained before removing his necktie and wrapping it around her wound. He was a shifter and sorcerer—not a healer—but since she was immortal, he need not be. Like autumn, it was a temporary death, a slumber, and soon a reawakening.