Sorceress (10 page)

The flesh on the back of her scalp crinkled in warning.

As she whispered a spell for protection, she fingered the amulet she wore around her neck, a bloodred stone worn smooth from Isa’s old fingers rubbing it for years.

Something evil was out there in the darkness.

Watching.

Waiting.

Ready to strike.

Her insides turned to ice and she reached for her dagger, though she knew in her heart that this foe was more than a mere mortal; a simple knife could not stop whatever it was that had the power to quiet the forest.

Nor, she feared, could she.

He waited until the rustling of the straw mattress had abated and the husband’s snoring was even and steady. Gavyn chanced opening one eye. The fire had all but died and ’twas nearly dark within the long room, the tiniest hint of red embers giving him enough sight to ease off the bed. In a flash he was across the room, reaching for his tattered clothes hanging on a peg near the door. One of the chickens clucked loudly and he froze, hand on the latch.

The snoring stopped, interrupted. Gavyn didn’t so much as breathe and quietly counted his own heartbeats. There was a snuffling sound as the man snorted noisily, then the rustle of straw as he changed position. Gavyn waited, slowly letting out his breath, hoping the damned hen had settled onto her roost in the rafters again and that the woman hadn’t awakened. As he did, he heard another noise, the sound of hoofbeats fast approaching. In the dark of the night?

Why?

All the spit dried in his mouth.

He could no longer hide.

Quickly, he stole the man’s hunting knife and sheath, always left on the table, along with the quiver, arrows, and bow that hung by the door. Quietly, he opened the latch. He grabbed the shovel without a sound and, closing the door behind him, slid into the shadow of the night. His legs weren’t steady, for the few times he’d been able to walk around the hut when no one was inside hadn’t prepared his muscles and bones for this. The air was clear, no cover of fog to hide him.

Time and safety were quickly running out.

The horsemen were closer, the thunder of hooves shaking the ground.

Flattening himself against the exterior wall at the side of the hut, his fingers gripping the handle of the shovel, he heard the hoofbeats slow. Horses snorted, leather creaked, and bridles jingled in the night.

He raised the shovel, ready to use it as a club.

“You, Reece! Stand guard.” A man’s muffled voice cut through the night. Gavyn recognized it. ’Twas the Baron of Agendor.

His father.

Guts twisting, he waited.

“The rest of you, with me . . . and aye, that means you, Father,” Deverill instructed.

“But, m’lord, nay. ’Tis not my duty—” His thin voice began to whine.

“Hush! ’Twas you who brought the news to me that my son was hiding here, was it not, Father Peter? Let’s find out just how much truth there be in it.”

Gavyn’s jaw clenched. Was there no escape?

Ears straining, he heard the men dismount, then the sharp pounding of a fist upon the door.

“Dougal, open up,” the gruff voice of one of the guards yelled through the thick panels of the door. “’Tis the Lord of Agendor.”

No response.

“Dougal! Open up or I’ll break down yer door, I will. The baron, he’s come to talk with ye.”

“Wha—” A groggy man’s voice from within.

”Oh, by the saints.” The woman sounded fully awake. And frightened out of her mind.

Gavyn heard more anxious whispers that he couldn’t understand.More rustling and a gasp. No doubt they’d discovered him missing. He slung the quiver and bow over one shoulder.

“What do ye want?” Dougal asked.

“Shhh,” the woman whispered, distress evident in her voice. Gavyn eased closer to the front of the hut.

“Dougal, do you not hear me?” the soldier tried again. “Open the—”

“Hell!” His father’s voice again.

“Oh, dear God . . . ,” Vala wailed.

The latch of the door broke free. Heavy footsteps pounded into the tiny cottage.

“Where’s your prisoner?” Deverill’s voice now. Gavyn edged to the front of the hut. The door hung open, horses stirring nearby.

“Me what?” Dougal repeated. “A prisoner, ye say? As ye can plainly see, there’s no one here but me and me wife. I’ve no—”

Something, mayhap a stool, was flung hard against the wall. Vala screamed.

Gavyn risked peering around the edge of the building. The one guard left outside was astride a tall steed, leaning toward the open door to observe the confrontation inside. The other animals shuffled restlessly but remained close.

“Where the hell is he?” the baron hissed as chickens clucked and the woman began to mewl. Gavyn didn’t want to consider what kind of force his father and the men might use to get to the truth as he eased from his hiding space and slipped between two of the horses in the darkness. The animals were nervous, but the guard didn’t notice as Gavyn loosened first one cinch, then another.

“Ye need some help, Lord Deverill?” the guard called as the scuffle inside escalated. Gavyn slunk away from the horses, far enough that he had room to swing, and just as the guard turned . . . “Hey—what the devil?”

Gavyn struck. Rounding, he swung the shovel hard and bashed the guard across the midsection.

“Oof!” The soldier grabbed wildly. “M’lord!” he cried. The horse squealed, rearing, and Deverill’s guard toppled to the ground, hitting hard. “Hey!” he cried, but Gavyn had already swung into the saddle of his father’s dark steed. “Thief!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Nay! Halt! Oh, bloody Christ! Lord Deverill!”

Men shouted and boots thudded as Deverill and his company filed out of the hut. But the sounds were already fading as Gavyn leaned over the big stallion’s neck, pushing the horse forward.

Gavyn urged the stallion into a gallop. The beast responded with a quick surge of speed, long legs bunching, then straightening, neck extended as he ran full out, his strides smooth and steady. Leaning into the whistling wind, Gavyn squinted into the darkness, the air cold and frigid. He felt the power of the animal, his father’s favorite mount, as they thundered north along the road, using moonlight as a guide.

Certainly a few of the men would follow, but the others— his father without a horse, and the two who would have to tighten the cinches of their saddles—would be left far behind.

They would never make up the distance.

He had no doubt that stealing the horse had just added insult to injury, but so be it. He had sealed his own damned fate and knew the names by which he would forevermore be branded.

The irony was not lost on Gavyn as he rode upon his stolen steed: the once unwanted child was now a very wanted man.

CHAPTER SIX

U
pon his bed, Hallyd dared not move. His eyes, if he had any left in his head, burned so painfully he thought he would never see again.

’Twas as if all the embers of hell had been stuffed into the sockets of his skull to sear away the flesh and scorch his pupils. No amount of cold water or compresses or poultices from the physician alleviated the pain. And he could release no tears. The witch had seen to that. ’Twas part of his curse, and this searing sensation would be with him for hours, until dusk had given way and the shadowy night, forever his companion, returned.

So he had to trust in others.

Those who had their own gnawing hungers.

“I know not how to treat your condition,” the physician said, frowning. Cedrik had taken some of Hallyd’s urine to check it, but frowned at what he found—as if there were a vial of piss somewhere that would actually make the stern man smile. ’Twas all nonsense. Just as Vannora had said. If only he’d listened to her and held on to his unraveling patience, he would not have gone riding and risked the dawn. Now ’twas too late to second-guess himself. The damage was done, and no doubt the old hag in the basement would berate him for his foolishness.

Through the haze of pain, Hallyd caught a glimpse of the perpetually scowling Cedrik. Short of stature and slightly built, the physician had little hair upon his pate. What was left was gray and matched his thick beard. Cedrik’s nose wrinkled when he was deep in thought, as if he were forever coming upon a bad smell. “Leeches might help.” He scratched at his chin thoughtfully and his scowl deepened as he studied his patient.

Hallyd lay upon his bed and tried to ignore the agony screaming through his skull. “Bleeding? Nay.” Closing his eyes, he held a cold compress to his face and bit down hard. The pain would eventually go away. It always did. He’d been foolish, drawn into the woods before day had broken, hoping to find her, but the dark clouds had given way to sunlight and he’d had to trust his horse to take him back to the keep. No amount of shading from his hood could protect his vision. In the end he’d ended up here in his chamber, lying upon his bed, hoping blessed darkness would arrive and he would find comfort once again.

At the thought of his crippled state, bile rose in the back of his throat. Silently he berated himself.

“Bloodletting is known to cure some ailments. I would place the leeches carefully in the areas of the body that affect the eyes,” the physician said, his voice holding the merest trace of superiority.

’Twas like salt in his wounds.

“I said no bleeding,” Hallyd ordered. “Did you not hear me? And the same goes for purging. God’s eyes, I’ll not be in the latrine all day.”

The physician sighed as if the weight of the castle had fallen upon his already overly burdened shoulders. Cedrik did not pander to anyone, let alone a stubborn, ill-advised patient. “Then I can do nothing for your vision.”

Of course you can’t. ’Tis part of Kambria’s damned curse,
Hallyd thought, though he held his tongue. Cedrik’s craft was of little use; he needed a witch to raise this curse. Only those closest to him knew of the dagger, of Kambria, and of the curse she cast upon him before she died. Those who had kept his secret were still in his company, though his trust in them had faded with time. Already some who had gossiped of that day on the ridge had died.

Quickly.

Hallyd accepted no excuses.

He held the compress over his eyes and ground his back teeth together. Eventually, the night would come and the excruciating pain pounding through his body would subside to a dull throb deep in his skull, behind his owlish eyes of mixed color. He could endure it. He had in the past. And then he would wait, just as Vannora had instructed, because, he knew, within a fortnight Bryanna would arrive.

Gavyn’s breath fogged the air as his horse slowed. Every bone in his body ached, but he pushed onward, determined to put as much distance between himself and his father’s soldiers as he could.

For two days Gavyn rode northward, passing through sleepy villages, where he bartered the prey he’d managed to kill. A duck or pheasant or hare could be traded for a hot meal and a measure of grain, even a cup or two of beer. He always ate in a dark corner of an inn, keeping to himself. He was always looking over his shoulder to make certain he wasn’t followed.

He guided his horse along roads seldom used, past millponds and through streams, urging the stallion ever deeper into the mountains. Though he had no evidence that his father was giving chase, Gavyn knew it was only a matter of time before he heard the anxious baying of the castle dogs mingled with the excited shouts of soldiers as they tracked him, their quarry.

The Lord of Agendor would not rest until he’d hunted his bastard down. Deverill would watch without emotion as Gavyn was led to the gallows. Only when Gavyn’s spine had snapped would his father be satisfied, glad at the sight of Gavyn’s corpse swinging from creaking timbers, relieved that the thorn in his side whom he’d sired would no longer disobey or embarrass him. His father would delight in seeing Gavyn’s irreverence punished.

Unless he could outfox the old man.

Which was exactly what he intended.

There was still time.

Gavyn wasn’t dead yet.

So he rode the big black steed as if Satan himself were breathing down his neck. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the fever that sometimes swept over him, he rode on, his bones jarred by each long stride the stallion took.

If he were clever, he supposed, he would sell the steed for a good price, then buy a smaller, less visible mount and some different clothes. On a more modest horse, he could play the role of a pauper, using flour to gray his beard and hair, attiring himself in plain peasant garb.

But he wasn’t about to sell the black destrier.

Not only did he admire the sleek stallion, but the fact that Rhi was his father’s pride and joy only made it that much more satisfying to ride him.

So he risked recognition and felt that the farther he was from Agendor, the less likely anyone would take note of the black horse with the peculiar long-tailed star upon his forehead and the irregular white stocking.

Near twilight on the third day of his trek, fine flakes of snow coated his shoulders as he searched for a campsite. In no time at all, a light dusting of snow covered the ground and undergrowth, and icy patches glistened under the darkening sky.

From the corner of his eye, he caught movement—a silver-gray shadow that darted into a thicket. His horse snorted and minced, ears flicking nervously.

“Shh, boy, ’tis all right,” Gavyn said, though the hairs on the back of his neck had lifted and he felt an icy warning in his veins. “Hold on, Rhi.”