Deryni Checkmate (22 page)

Rimmell wiped his sleeve across his brow and crossed hesitantly toward the lantern, stood looking down apprehensively at the woman called Bethane.

“So, Master Rimmell,” the woman said, her black eyes flashing and glowing in the flickering lantern-light. “Do you find my appearance offensive?”

Her teeth were yellowed and rotted, her breath foul, and Rimmell had to control the impulse to back away in disgust. Bethane chuckled—a reedy, wheezing sound—and gestured toward the floor with a sweep of a scrawny arm. Gold winked on her hand as she gestured, and Rimmell realized it must be a wedding ring. Yes, the townspeople had said she was a widow. He wondered who her husband had been.

Gingerly Rimmell lowered himself to the rough stone floor of the cave and sat cross-legged in imitation of his hostess. When he had settled, Bethane gazed across at him for several moments without speaking, her eyes bright, compelling. Then she nodded.

“This woman: Tell me about her. Is she beautiful?”

“She—” Rimmell croaked, his throat going dry. “This is her likeness,” he said more positively, withdrawing Bronwyn’s locket and holding it out timidly.

Bethane extended a gnarled hand and took the locket, opening it with a deft flick of one twisted and yellowed fingernail. One eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly as she saw the portrait, and she glanced back at Rimmell shrewdly.

“This is the woman?”

Rimmell nodded fearfully.

“And the locket is hers?”

“It was,” Rimmell replied. “He who would wed her wore it last.”

“And what of him who would wed her?” Bethane persisted. “Does he love her?”

Rimmell nodded.

“And she him?”

Rimmell nodded again.

“But, you love her, too: so much that you would risk your life to have her.”

Rimmell nodded a third time, his eyes wide.

Bethane smiled, a ragged parody of mirth. “I had such a man once, who risked his life to have me. Does that surprise you? No matter. He would approve, I think.”

She closed the locket again with a click, held it by the chain in a gnarled left hand, reached behind and brought out a yellow gourd with a slender neck. Rimmell caught his breath and watched wide-eyed as Bethane removed the stopper with a flick of her thumb and moved the gourd toward him. The faint foreboding that had plagued him all morning again niggled at the back of his mind, but he forced himself to disregard it.

“Hold out thy hands, Rimmell the architect, that the water may not spill to the thirsty rock and be forever lost.”

Rimmell obeyed as Bethane poured water from the gourd into his cupped hands.

“Now,” Bethane continued, setting the gourd aside and holding up the locket by its chain. “Watch as I trace the sacred signs above the water. Watch as the eddies of time and holy love breathe upon the waters and mark their passage. Watch as this which was hers now generates that which will be her downfall and make her that which is thine.”

As she spun and swung the locket above Rimmell’s cupped hands, tracing intricate patterns and symbols with its path above the water, she muttered an incantation that rose and fell, watched her subject’s eyes as they trembled, heavy-lidded, and finally closed. Palming the locket, she dried away the water from Rimmell’s hands with the dark cloth, that no moisture might escape while she worked and thus reveal the passage of time. Then she sighed and opened the locket again, searching her mind for a suitable charm.

A love charm. And not just a love charm, but a charm to transfer a woman’s love from one man to another. Yes, she had worked a charm like that before—many times.

But that had been long ago, when Bethane was not so old, or toothless, or forgetful. She wasn’t sure she could remember just how it went.

No, that was a charm for a good harvest. True, it might be applied to the lady at a later date, perhaps even to produce a son, if that was what Rimmell wanted. But it was not the charm that Bethane needed now.

There was the call to Baazam—that was very powerful. But, no, she shook her head disapprovingly. That was a dark charm, a killing charm. Darrell had made her give up those things long ago. Besides, she would never wish that on the beautiful young woman of the locket. She herself might have looked much like that lady once. Darrell had told her she was beautiful, at any rate.

She squinted down at the portrait again as a ghost of remembrance flitted across her mind.

The woman in the locket: Had she not seen her before? It had been years ago, when her sight was better and she was not so old and crippled, but—yes! She remembered now.

There had been a beautiful blond girl-child, with three older boys who must have been her brothers or cousins. There had been a ride on mountain ponies, a leisurely meal on the green grass carpet that covered Bethane’s hillside in the summer months. And the children were noble children, sons of the mighty Duke of Cassan: that same duke whose servant now sat entranced on Bethane’s floor!

Bronwyn! Now she remembered. The girl-child’s name had been Bronwyn. The Lady Bronwyn de Morgan, Duke Jared’s niece, and half-Deryni. And she was the lady of the portrait!

Bethane cringed and looked around guiltily. A Deryni lady. And now she, Bethane, had promised to work a charm against her. Did she dare? Would her charm even work against a Deryni? Bethane would not want to hurt her. The child Bronwyn had smiled at her in the meadow many years ago, like the daughter Bethane had never had. She had petted the lambs and ewes and talked to Bethane, had not been afraid of the wizened old widow who watched her flocks on the hillside. No, Bethane could not forget that.

Bethane screwed up her face and wrung her hands. She had promised Rimmell, too. She did not like being put in a position like this. If she helped the architect, she might harm the girl, and she did not want to do that.

She glanced at Rimmell, and practicality crept back into her thoughts. The pouch at the builder’s waist was heavy with gold, and the sack he had dropped on the floor by the entrance was filled with bread and cheese and other good things she had not tasted in months. Bethane could smell the fresh, savory aroma permeating the cavern while she debated with herself. If she did not keep her promise, Rimmell would take the food, the gold, and go.

Very well. It would only be a little charm. Perhaps even a charm of indecision would do. Yes, that was the solution. A charm of indecision, so that the lovely Bronwyn would not be in such a hurry to marry her intended.

And who
was
her intended? Bethane wondered. A known Deryni woman could not expect to marry high. Such was not the lot of that long-persecuted race in these troubled times. For that matter, so long as there was no high-born lord to risk offending, why
couldn’t
Bethane work a more powerful charm, give Rimmell the results he desired?

With a decisive nod, Bethane climbed painfully to her feet and began rummaging through a battered trunk against the rear wall of the cave. There were dozens of items in the trunk that Bethane might use in her task, and she hunted agitatedly through an assortment of baubles, strangely worked stones, feathers, powders, potions, and other tools of her trade.

She pulled out a small, polished bone and cocked her gray head at it thoughtfully, then shook her head and discarded it. The same process was repeated for a dried leaf, a small carved figure of a lamb, a handful of herbs bound with a twist of plaited grass, and a small earthen pot.

Finally she reached the bottom of the chest and found what she was looking for: a large leather sack filled with stones. She dragged the sack to the side of the chest, grunted as she hoisted it out and let it half fall to the floor, then untied the thongs binding the bag and began sorting through the contents.

Charms for love and charms for hate. Charms for death and charms for life. Charms to make the crops grow tall. Charms to bring pestilence to an enemy’s fields. Simple charms to guard the health. Complex charms to guard the soul. Charms for the rich. Charms for the poor. Charms yet unborn, but waiting for the touch of the woman.

Humming a broken tune under her breath, Bethane selected a large blue stone embedded with blood-colored flecks, of a size to fit just comfortably in a man’s hand. She rummaged in the chest until she found a small goatskin bag that would hold the stone, then replaced the large sack in the trunk and closed it. Then, taking stone and bag back to the lantern, she sat down in front of Rimmell once more and tucked stone and bag beneath the folds of her tattered robe.

Rimmell sat entranced in front of the guttering lantern, his cupped hands held empty before him, eyes closed and relaxed. Bethane took the yellow gourd, poured water into Rimmell’s hands, and once again held the locket swinging above the water. As she resumed her chant, she reached gently to Rimmell’s forehead and touched his brow. The architect nodded as though catching himself falling asleep, then began watching the locket once more, unaware that anything out of the ordinary had happened, that minutes had passed of which he had no knowledge.

Bethane finished the chant and palmed the locket, then reached beside her and produced the blood-flecked stone. She pressed the stone between her hands for a moment, her eyes hooded as she murmured something Rimmell could not catch. Then she placed the stone on the floor beneath Rimmell’s hands, rested her taloned fingers on Rimmell’s, and looked him in the eyes.

“Open thy hands to let the water wash the stone,” she said, her voice rasping in Rimmell’s ears. “With that, the charm is accomplished, and the stage is prepared.”

Rimmell swallowed and blinked rapidly several times, then obeyed. The water washed over the stone and was absorbed by it, and Rimmell dried his hands against his thighs in amazement.

“It is done, then?” he whispered incredulously. “My lady loves me?”

“Not yet, she does not,” Bethane replied, scooping up the stone and placing it in the goatskin bag. “But she will.” She dropped the bag into Rimmell’s hands and sat back.

“Take you this pouch. Inside is that which you have seen, which you are not to remove until you may safely leave it where the lady is sure to come alone. Then you must open the pouch and remove what is inside without touching it. Once the stone is exposed to light, from this moment on, you will have only seconds in which to remove yourself from its influence. Then the charm is primed, and wants only the lady’s presence to be complete.”

“And she will be mine?”

Bethane nodded. “The charm will bind her. Go now.” She picked up the locket and dropped it into Rimmell’s hand, and Rimmell tucked it and the pouch into his tunic.

“I thank you most humbly, Dame Bethane,” he muttered, swallowing as he fingered the pouch at his waist. “How—how may I repay you? I have brought food, as is the custom, but—”

“You have gold at your belt?”

“Aye,” Rimmell whispered, fumbling with the pouch and withdrawing a small, heavy bag. “I have not much, but—” He put the bag down gingerly on the floor beside the lantern and looked at Bethane fearfully.

Bethane glanced at the bag, then returned her gaze to Rimmell.

“Empty the bag.”

With a gulp that was audible in the still cavern, Rimmell opened the bag and spilled the contents on the floor before him. The coins rang with the chime of fine gold, but Bethane’s gaze did not waver from the architect’s face.

“Now, what think you the worth of my services, Master Rimmell?” she asked, watching his face for telltale signs of emotion.

Rimmell wet his lips, and his eyes flickered to the pile of gold, which was fairly substantial. Then, with an abrupt motion he swept the entire amount closer to Bethane. The woman smiled her snaggled smile and nodded, then reached down and withdrew but six coins. The rest she pushed back to Rimmell. The architect was astonished.

“I—I don’t understand.” His voice quavered. “Will you not take more?”

“I have taken ample for my needs,” Bethane croaked. “I but wished to test that you do, indeed, value my services. As for the rest, perhaps you will remember the widow Bethane in your prayers. In these twilight years, I fear I may need supplications to the Almighty far more than gold.”

“I—I shall do that, I promise,” Rimmell stammered, scooping up his gold and returning it to his pouch. “But, is there nothing else I may do for you?”

Bethane shook her head. “Bring your children to visit me, Architect Rimmell. Now leave me. You have what you asked, and so have I.”

“Thank you, Dame Bethane,” Rimmell murmured, scrambling to his feet and marveling at his luck. “And I
shall
pray for you,” his voice floated back through the cave entrance as he slipped through the goatskin curtain.

 

AS the architect disappeared into the outer world, Bethane sighed and slumped before the lantern.

“Well, my Darrell,” she whispered, rubbing the gold band on her hand against her lips, “it is done. I have set the charm to give the young man his wish. You don’t think I did wrong, do you, to work against a Deryni?”

She paused, as though listening for a reply, then nodded.

“I know, my darling. I have never used a charm against one of that race before. But it should work. I think I remembered all the proper words.

“It doesn’t matter anyway—as long as we’re together.” IT was nearly dark when Morgan finally signaled for a stop. He and Duncan had been riding steadily since leaving Coroth early that morning, stopping at noon only long enough to water the horses and gulp down a few handfuls of travel rations.

Now they were approaching the crest of the Lendour mountain range, beyond which lay the fabled Gunury Pass. At the end of that pass lay the shrine of Saint Torin, southern gateway to the free holy city of Dhassa. In the morning, when men and horses were rested, both men would pay their respects at Saint Torin’s shrine—a necessary procedure before being permitted to cross the wide lake to Dhassa. Then they would enter the free city of Dhassa, where no crowned head dared go without approval of the city burghers, but where Morgan would enter anyway, in disguise. There they hoped to confront the Gwynedd Curia.