Knight of Pentacles (Knights of the Tarot Book 3) (23 page)

Chapter 16

Stomach knotted and hands trembling, Jenna gazed out the rear window of her flat at the owls perched atop her car. Overnight, the great gray had been joined by a grizzled brown one and a heart-faced white barn owl. Even though it was broad daylight now, all three were roosted on the landau roof of her Cooper Mini. Clearly, they knew it was hers and where she lived.

Why were they watching her? And, more importantly, how was she going to drive them off? Because, until she did, she couldn’t leave her flat, which was extremely inconvenient, given that she now had a job to go to. Luckily, the library was closed today, but it would be open tomorrow. And something told her not showing up on her second day of work would go over about as well as announcing she was pregnant.

Not that she was ready to broadcast her condition quite yet, despite already feeling the baby growing inside her. Not physically, of course—it was far too early for that—but she could sense it there, feeding off her body like a microscopic vampire.

Her ability to sense the embryo was no doubt an aftereffect of the blood exchange. Another was her sudden ability to read Gaelic and understand the runes—not at the same level as Axel, of course, but well enough to know what the glyphs represented.

The thought of Axel gutted her. She missed him so terribly she felt actual physical pain. Never before had she been so full and yet so empty at the same time. If he were here, they could kiss and make love and hold each other and work out together what to do about the owls. Of course, even if he did come back to the glen, he couldn’t really be
here
until after she freed him on Halloween—and, even then, they’d be foolish to hang around Rosemarkie.

They’d have to go someplace where Morgan and her owls couldn’t find them. And she had no bloody clue where that might be, though she did have an idea where they might hide out for a few days while they figured out their next move.

At work yesterday, one of the mothers mentioned an abandoned crofter’s cottage a little ways off the roadway. Nobody, not even Morgan’s owls, would think of looking for them there.

First, however, she needed to come up with a way to drive off the trio of spies watching her from the tenant parking area. The only way she knew to kill a vampire was to drive a stake through its heart. But, how would she ever get close enough to those bloody birds to attempt such a feat? And how to get all three before one or two got wise and fought back or flew off?

Heaving a sigh, she went into the bedroom, lay down, and, with a heavy heart, looked up at the runic medallion Axel carved for her, which she’d hung above the wooden headboard.

If only I could come up with a way to stake those awful owls from a distance.

And then, her gaze fell on the carving of
Teiwaz
, and she knew exactly what she had to do.

Climbing off the bed, she went into the closet to retrieve the bow and quiver of arrows she’d brought along to relieve her boredom. She’d found the bow years ago in a bothy—a rustic shelter for travelers—in a field near the vicarage in Ayr. After practicing covertly for several years, she’d asked her father if she could join the archery team at school.

“Bowmanship is neither ladylike nor practical,” he’d replied. “You’d be better off taking up something useful to running a household—like cooking or sewing.”

How glad she was now she’d ignored his narrow-minded advice and continued her self-training in secret.

* * * *

Axel jumped down from his horse, fished the dead goblin’s key out of the saddlebag, and, using the hem of his tunic to protect his fingers from the iron, pushed the blade into the lock. To his surprise, the key turned under its own power, the tumblers clicked, and the gate began to swing open. As he jumped back to give it room, he fell over a root he was sure had not been there a moment ago.

He landed flat on his back, winded in the dirt and leaves.
Curse this place
. Though he did not relish the errands he had been called upon to perform in Brocaliande, he would not regret being out of the Borderlands.

Looking up the path through the now-open gate, he saw something seemingly impossible. The iridescent violet of approaching evening stained the sky. On this side of the fence, it was daylight. On the other, twilight. He had thought the sun never set in the Thitherworld, but clearly, he was mistaken.

To make his presence less conspicuous, he left his horse behind and walked through the gateway. The atmosphere instantly changed from menacing to peaceful. On this side of the fence, the whole forest seemed more welcoming and less gloomy, despite the descending darkness.

As he followed the path, the sweet sound of birdsong rose from the bushes on either side. Somewhere in the distance, a stream or brook babbled genially. Even the stars twinkling in the deepening blue canopy above him seemed friendly.

Guilt wrapped a garret around his conscience. Every sense told him Brocaliande was a good and tranquil place—a place even more serene and unspoiled than his precious glen.

Here, he was the only threat. He, who had come to deceive and murder. Never before had he cast himself as a villain, but he now wore the role like an ill-fitting suit of armor. He could always turn back. Retreating would mean braving the Borderlands again, offering himself as the tithe, and never finding the red-haired lass. Those, however, seemed like small prices to pay for doing what was right.

So, why was he still moving forward?

As the path began to gently rise, the murmur of running water grew louder. In the darkness, still a ways off, the white froth of a short fall shone in the moonlight. Then, suddenly, he stepped out from the forest into a glen. There, he saw the brook, glistening under the stars as it tumbled over the rocks lining its bed.

He looked up the path, now well-tended and bordered with stones. It wound up to the top of a grassy knoll, upon which stood a small, circular temple with a domed roof. Light beamed out from between the supporting pillars encircling the structure. A magnetic force drew him toward it. He took a step and, the next thing he knew, he was on the edge of the folly bathed in a brilliance that was at once blinding and blissful. His weariness left him, as did his worries. Feeling a deep sense of peace, he stepped through the pillars, onto the mosaic-tile floor.

At the center, stood a man with flowing white hair and a long gray beard beside a table-height column. Light radiated from his body like a nimbus. He wore a robe of green lavishly embroidered with a golden border of interlinking Celtic knots. In one hand, he held a silver branch covered in tiny brass bells. In the other, he gripped a goblet by the stem—an ornate golden chalice embedded with precious gems.

Axel knew in his bones it was the Cup of Truth. His instincts also told him the man was Cathbad, the head druid.

The priest shook the branch with the bells, filling the space with the sweetest music Axel had ever heard. He stood, spellbound, as the joyful sound washed through him. It was an exquisite feeling rivaled only by love. Behind his eyes, he saw the bonny red-head again. This time, she was cradled in his arms atop a comfortable bed strewn with flowers.

“Approach and identify yourself,” the priest commanded in an Irish brogue.

Axel, feeling a bit drunk, stepped forward and bowed at the waist. “I am Sir Axel Lochlann.” He stopped there, afraid to elaborate lest the cup detected the lie.

“And what brings you to Brocaliande, Sir Axel?” Though the druid smiled, his eyes remained as dark and hard as obsidian. “Before you answer, I feel it only fair to warn you the cup I hold will divulge whether or not you speak truthfully.”

Axel smiled. “Your honesty does you credit, Your Excellency.”

“As I hope will yours.” The druid set the chalice on the short pillar beside him.

Axel licked his lips and swallowed the truth yearning to spring forth. The duke had said that, in order to fool the cup, he must believe his own lie, or say something he wished might be true.

“I fought with King Robert the Bruce in the Wars for Independence,” he began, sticking as close to the truth as he could. “And hear tell you are amassing a rebel army here in Brocaliande.”

There. He had uttered nothing the least bit false. If he could keep this up, he may well get away with it.

“Is that so?” Cathbad, eyeing Axel with skepticism, stroked his long beard. “And where, pray tell, did you hear such a preposterous rumor?”

“In Avalon, Your Excellency.”

The druid’s eyes narrowed to slits. “From whom in Avalon?”

“Queen Morgan and the commander of her vampire army.”

So far, so good. The Cup of Truth was still intact.

“How great is her vampire army?”

“Not so very great,” Axel replied. “By my estimation, they are fewer than ten thousand in number at present.”

“Does she plan to hire more?”

“I do not know, but believe she might.”

“Does she also plan to retrieve her cup—and the knight who brought it to me?”

“She does.”

Cathbad pursed his wrinkled lips. “And do you play a role in that plan?”

Beneath Axel’s feet, the ice was suddenly thin enough to see through, so he took his next step with the greatest of care. “She believes me to be.”

The druid’s stare burned into him like hot coals. “And when you do not return with the cup and her tithe, what will she do?”

The truth rose in Axel’s throat. This time, he did not fight to keep it down. He hated the idea of killing Lady MacQuill or ever doing Morgan’s dirty work again. Neither did he relish being summoned to her bed as her sexual slave. He wanted to be free, to find the red-haired lass, and to finally know love and happiness.

“She will kill me, Your Excellency—unless you can break the enchantments she has cast over me.”

Cathbad, looking pensive, regarded him for several moments. “Much as I would like to help—and to free all of her drones—my ability to counteract her sorcery is limited. I can break her curses, for instance—now that I possess the Cup of Truth—but I cannot break the hold of the torque that enslaves you. If I could, there would be no need to stage a rebellion.”

Confusion puckered Axel’s brow. “But…is it not true that you freed Sir Leith from his bonds?”

“While I broke his curse, I did not break his bonds,” Cathbad explained. “Queen Morgan removed his torque herself when she banished him from the Thitherworld.”

Though Axel’s heart sank, he kept his gaze forward, on the druid. “Is there no other way to free myself?”

“As far as I know, there is only one way to free a drone, short of overthrowing the queen. And, to work, several elements must be harmonized in a way that’s all but impossible. Only one drone in the history of Avalon has ever succeeded in breaking his bonds—a knight by the name of Tammas Lin.”

Though the name was vaguely familiar to Axel, he could not place where he had heard it. It seemed to be obscured by the same curtain in his mind as his lady fair. “I still must know how it was done. Please tell me, Your Excellency. I beseech you.”

“A drone can only be freed every seventh Samhain—when the tithe is due—by a witch who truly loves the man she seeks to liberate. At the stroke of midnight, when the faeries troop out, she must pull him down from his horse and hold fast to him—no matter what happens—until the cock crows at daybreak. If she is not powerful enough…or brave enough…or does not love him quite enough, the drone will not go free.”

An image of the red-haired lass took shape in Axel’s mind. What were the odds she was a witch? Slim at best and, even if she was, he could not get to her to make a plan before Samhain. Cathbad was right. His situation was hopeless.

Even so, he would like to remember the lady he loved. “Can you break a memory spell?”

“I can make an attempt, but not tonight. First, I will need to construct a counter spell and gather and consecrate the necessary plants, all of which will take time. I’m also weary, as you must be after your journey through the Borderlands.”

Cathbad shook the branch, setting off the bells, and within seconds, a handsome raven-haired man in an old-style kilt stepped through the pillars.

Addressing the newcomer, the old druid said, “Bran, this is Sir Axel, another knight who wishes to join in the fight for freedom. He will be our guest for a few days while I work on breaking some of the minor enchantments his queen has cast over him. Would you be good enough to show him to one of the guest cottages?”

“I would be delighted.” Turning to Axel, Bran regarded him with eyes as clear and blue as his own. “Welcome to Brocaliande, my good knight. We have been expecting you.”

* * * *

Never taking her eyes off her targets, Jenna eased up the window sash and picked up her bow. Holding her breath, she pulled an arrow from the quiver she wore on her back and set the feathered tail against the bowstring. Aiming at the breast of the great gray, she let the arrow fly.

A piercing screech told her she’d hit her mark. The gray owl now lay on the pavement beside her car with the arrow’s shaft protruding from its chest.

Snatching another arrow from the quiver, she repeated the action, this time aiming at the little brown owl, which didn’t appear to realize he and his fellows were under attack.