Old Magic (29 page)

“Eloise!” he calls in a ghostly squeal.

Jarrod crawls out from beneath a lifeless Rhauk. He is finally dead. As if he needs to assure himself, Lord Richard, his mouth hanging open in stunned awe, crosses himself against the obvious evil of his half-brother, then grabs a fistful of Rhauk’s hair and yanks his head back. Rhauk’s cold black eyes stare vacantly. Only then does Lord Richard nod his satisfaction.

Jarrod is exhausted. I’m frustrated that I’m so near, yet can’t go to him. Suddenly someone screams, a soldier is on fire. Others run to his aid. I glance about, realizing we have formed a kind of close circle—the cliff at my back, Richard and the others now gathered right beside me. The fires have enclosed us completely.

Jarrod slowly moves and I see bloodstains on his tunic right down one side of his leg. “The fire sur-rounds us.” His voice lacks life.

“But Rhauk is dead,” I add.

Our eyes meet and he half crawls, staggering, until he is right in front of me. “What did he do to you?”

“He drugged me. My limbs are useless.” I purpose-fully look at Malcolm. “He sold you out, Jarrod. That man is a traitor.”

“A traitor perhaps, but not mine,” Jarrod replies softly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He told me how you tried to escape.”

“Did he also tell you he caught me and gave me back to Rhauk?”

Malcolm kneels in front of me, his face disturbed. “I wanted to help you, my Lady, but I knew Rhauk was watching your every move. I thought for a moment we could make it, but then he appeared. I had no choice but to give you back.”

Jarrod’s hand finds mine, our fingers lace. “Let me explain,” he tells Malcolm, then to me he says, “At first Malcolm thought I wanted more than just Rhauk, but Thorntyne Keep as well. But somehow I managed to convince him of the truth. Then he started helping me train for this duel. He taught me all he could in the short time we had. He could see how worried I was for you, and came up with a plan: to feed Rhauk false information about my strengths and weaknesses, in exchange for a small reward. If he didn’t ask a price for this information, Rhauk would only suspect ulterior motives.” He peers up at Malcolm, who has one eyebrow raised, a smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “As I understand it, he played his part so well Rhauk didn’t suspect a thing.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this in the woods yesterday?” I demand of Malcolm.

“With Rhauk’s witchcraft he could have been listen-ing to our conversation. I couldn’t risk it. I had to keep Jarrod’s plan alive.”

“What plan?”

Jarrod interrupts, looking embarrassed, reminding me of the Jarrod I remember. “Let’s finish this later.”

“No!” I’m too intrigued to let this pass. “What else, Malcolm? What was this plan?”

Malcolm glances fleetingly at Jarrod, and smiles good-naturedly before answering. “I was to rescue you, if something happened to him. At least, under the guise of a reward, I had reason to return to Blacklands, securing myself a way to get in.”

I nod at this, understanding it all now. Malcolm’s treachery was a backup plan to rescue me if fate worked against Jarrod. “You risked your life.”

“No more than Jarrod did for you and my homelands.”

I’m so relieved Malcolm’s not a traitor. I wonder how we would have coped if he had been. Malcolm will inherit Thorntyne Keep one day, then battle to keep it. I wish him well.

Jarrod takes my wrists in his hands, then, concen-trating with eyes closed, focuses on the iron clasps. They fall open, releasing my hands. After doing the same with the iron clasps at my ankles, he pulls me into his arms, cradling me against his chest. “We’re still in trouble, Kate.”

“Put me down, Jarrod. Remember your wound.”

He holds me tighter.

Morgana screams as the fire, buffeted by a subtle wind change, suddenly closes right in around us, pushing us frighteningly back to our only means of escape—the cliff. I peer briefly over Jarrod’s shoulder and feel nauseous, no one can survive a jump that high. Let alone Jarrod, who is still bleeding openly from the stab wound in his side, nor me in my drugged lethargic state. Besides, there are also many jagged rocks directly below. “We’re trapped.”

“We’re all going to die!” Morgana screams.

Isabel turns on her. “Shut up, child!”

“I can’t swim,” Richard mutters, peering over the loose edge.

“Nor can I,” Emmeline adds.

“Is this how it’s going to end, Jarrod?” I ask, as he’s the only one among us who has the ability to do any-thing. “Is all your strength gone?”

He’s better off forgetting me, forgetting us all, and saving himself, I balance in my thoughts. He alone right now has the gift. Of course he could use the amulets and take us both back to Jillian, but this would mean Jarrod would have to live with the fact that he fled his own ancestors, leaving them here to burn or jump to their deaths. And this is not how their lives are supposed to end.

He peers into my eyes as if he can read what I’m thinking. “I could never desert my family, Kate.”

My mouth drops open in awe. He did read my thoughts! His gift must be immense! Then use whatever powers you have, Jarrod, my mind-thoughts say. “Save us.”

A smile forms and he nods. “I can only try.”

I don’t know what he plans, but it had better be fast-working. His eyes close, and almost instantly a wind starts to blow. It builds rapidly in strength, twisting in a northerly direction, not only away from us but away from Thorntyne Keep as well. And better still, it’s bring-ing with it dark, thunderous clouds. They roll toward us with lightning speed. Morgana whimpers, over-whelmed. But the raging fire is still too close. The heat is intense, scalding us, while smoke invades our lungs, making us choke. The knights have fallen to their knees, coughing and gasping and mouthing silent prayers.

“Hurry, Jarrod,” I urge softly, curling into his chest, knowing a horrid death is only seconds away. “Bring that rain.”

And suddenly it’s falling in torrential sheets, driven by gusty winds. It becomes dark, almost as night, as the rain puts out the fires at our feet and all the way up the southern slope to Thorntyne Keep. Cheers erupt in the distance as servants and soldiers alike realize Thorntyne Keep is safe.

It’s over, and we live. Relief makes me light-headed. Isabel, Emmeline, and Morgana openly weep. Even Richard’s eyes are glassy, the moisture on his face not all caused by the sudden rain.

“Look!” Malcolm points toward the northern peak to Blacklands. There, it is not raining at all. The sky is still blue, and now the fire has Blacklands by its heart. The tower too, burns fiercely.

I look up at Jarrod, who’s still holding me tightly. He has purposefully not let it rain over Blacklands. This way the curse too will die. “Brilliant,” I say softly. He looks down at me, smiling. “I didn’t really want to live with Rhauk, you know.” Suddenly I have to explain.

He nods. “I know.”

It’s all he has to say. But it’s enough. I return his smile and feel some of that drug-induced lethargy leave me. Strength starts returning slowly to my limbs. I fight back tears.

“It’s another crow!” Morgana squeals, pointing to the tower of Blacklands.

It’s not Rhauk, but his faithful trained companion.

We all look, and stare, mouths gaping in a mix of astonishment and horror. The crow is on fire.

“Oh!” I cover my mouth with my hand.

“It burns,” Jarrod says softly.

The rain stops, the overhead clouds disappear. I only fleetingly notice. We’re all watching, mesmerized, as the burning crow squawks in agony, spinning around in pain-induced insanity. Finally, it drops with a thud into surrounding burning scrub, its whole body quickly engulfed in flames.

“Oh no,” I groan sadly. It was after all only a bird.

An explosion drags my focus back to Blacklands. The tower is erupting. Rhauk’s laboratory, with the cursed wine inside, explodes. We watch entranced as broken stones and bits of timber, glass, precious tools, and anything else that hasn’t already burned, shower the surrounding landscape.

After a long time the explosions stop, and it falls silent.

Kate

Richard declares Thorntyne Keep should celebrate. Jugglers, jesters, poets, and musicians prepare to entertain us in the Great Hall. With Rhauk now dead, so too is his claim on Thorntyne Keep. And so the cause for a celebration.

Jarrod and I are keen to return home, to Jillian, to our time. But Jarrod’s wounds need immediate attention. I watch over Morgana’s treatment. She stitches him up well, working through layers of muscle skillfully, soothing his burns with an herbal balm with anesthetic qualities. Still, I’d like Jillian to have a look. A real doctor would be a very last resort. He would ask too many questions.

Emmeline follows us everywhere, not allowing us a minute of privacy. She’s edgy, barely tolerating my presence, but is hanging all over Jarrod. If anything I begin to think she’s particularly distressed that I’ve returned safely. I don’t like this feeling at all. Later I get a chance to quiz Jarrod, but he’s totally unconcerned. “She was just born a thousand years too early,” he explains. “She’s bored and frustrated. Malcolm says he’s trying to talk his father into sending her to Court.”

Midafternoon, the feast begins. We sit with Richard and Isabel at the head table in the Great Hall, enjoying their company and entertainment for the last time. Emmeline is sitting beside Jarrod, looking sullen and sulky, and I start to see hopelessness in her eyes, as if all her dreams have recently been shattered. It’s a strange thought as everyone else is really excited. I realize Malcolm is right, and the sooner Emmeline is sent to Court the better, for her own sake. As for Lord Richard, I think he is celebrating the hardest. His cheeks are rosy, his eyes glowing. He’s deliriously happy, and I think his disgustingly harsh wine has helped him on his merry way.

“A toast,” he suddenly declares, pushing back from the table. Rising unsteadily he moves to stand behind Jarrod and me. When he has the attention of everyone in the Hall he raises his goblet in one hand, and with the other thumps Jarrod’s back affectionately. “To my nephew and Lady Katherine, may all their children be born here in my castle before I die, so that I may look upon their cheery faces and know they will be safe.”

The Hall thunders with applause and riotous cheering. I don’t share their enthusiasm. I’m having enough trouble stopping the heat from turning my face crimson at the thought of Richard’s suggestion.

“A mighty thanks to Jarrod for annihilating our greatest enemy, a man who gave us more worry than the restless Scots on our border.”

More thundering cheers erupt. Richard drinks heartily from his goblet like there’s no tomorrow. Both Isabel and Richard look at us expectantly. Reluctantly I lift my wine-filled cup and sip.

For a second I think the world has tilted off its axis. Goose bumps skitter like lightning across my skin, making me shiver. I take another sip, just to be sure.

The wine is sweet, smooth, robust. Nothing like Richard’s usual rough, dry red. Everything like . . . No . . . !

Richard sits, his head tilting forward politely. He’s trying to hear the words my mouth is having trouble spitting out. Finally, “Wh-where did you get this wine?”

His face beams proudly. “From the cellar, my dear. Isn’t it spectacular? We use it only on auspicious occasions like this one, or weddings, or other important feasts.” He shrugs.

I choke in a strangled breath. It can’t be . . . “Who gave it to you?”

“Why, the King of course, for services well performed. Our victories over the Scots are legendary. Only the King’s talented servants can brew such fine wine. And it’s strictly for family members, by order of the King.”

I stare at him, speechless, my mouth gaping.

He thinks I don’t understand. “It’s a gift from the King,” he emphasizes every word.

“How-how-how long?” I stutter badly.

“Oh, for about twenty years or so.” He seems to consider this, glancing at Isabel for confirmation.

She says, “The first crate arrived not long after Jarrod’s father left us. I remember it well as it brought life back into our family. We had reason to celebrate once more.”

I glance at Jarrod. He has his cup of wine in his raised hand, my conversation with Richard having momentarily drawn his attention. Now, he glances at his cup as if seeing it for the first time. “Sweet, you say,” he mutters mostly to himself, and puts the cup to his lips.

I panic and whack the cup straight out of his hands. Emmeline screams as sweet red wine saturates and spoils her pretty blue dress. She jumps out of her seat, her dismal mood exploding into frustrated bursts of idiot speech. Her anger seems a little overdone, and I think there must be more to it than Jarrod’s explanation of her just being bored. I remember how she barely tolerated my return. I’m thinking about this when, out of the corner of my eye, I see her pick up a shiny platter of salted meats.

Luckily, Malcolm sees her too. Both of us are too late though to stop her throwing the platter directly at my head. Shoving me out of the way, Malcolm physically restrains his cousin, and Isabel goes into a rage. Lord Richard turns brighter red, staggering to his feet. “What’s wrong with this wench? To Court I think, Malcolm, just as you suggested. Make the arrangements immediately.”

I have no time, nor wish, to think about Emmeline’s problems now, but will remember to ask Jarrod again later. I have enough concerns of my own.

Jarrod’s head swings from me to Emmeline, then back to me again, stunned. This distraction is what I need to quietly slip away.

“I’m sorry for spilling the wine,” I mumble quickly, and drag Jarrod away by his elbow. I don’t let go until we’re clear of the smoke-filled Hall and into the cold twilight air of the bailey.

There are two knights on sentry duty on the wall nearby, and by their merry cackling, it’s obvious they aren’t doing much guarding, but I need a quiet, isolated place, so I drag Jarrod into the courtyard that houses Isabel’s private gardens.

“What’s going on? Why did you spill my wine?”

Breathing deeply to try to restore order to my jangled nerves, I find the nearest stone bench and sit, yanking Jarrod down beside me. But I’m too hyped up to sit and start pacing the short length in front of him.