Sorceress (22 page)

“Y-yes.”

“Do they look like you?”

“Yes!” she said so loudly a rooster who’d been sleeping in the rafters crowed loudly and ruffled his feathers at being disturbed.

Gleda’s old eyebrows lifted in question. “You all resemble one another?”

“Aye!” Bryanna insisted, though she knew it was a lie. Swallowing hard, she watched a solitary coppery feather drift from the ceiling. Is this what she had ridden so long to hear? Lies about her mother? Lies about her birth?

But as she counted out the heartbeats pounding in her ears, all the old doubts assailed her. ’Twas true, she was the fairest of all her siblings. She was the only sibling who used her left hand, the only child whose eyes were not the same deep blue as Lenore’s. Her hair was curlier and redder than any of the others’ and . . . Oh, dear God, she thought she might be sick.

What was this woman saying? That all of her life had been a lie? That she didn’t even know her own mother?

“You know I speak the truth,” the woman said sadly. “And because you are here, I know without question that Isa is dead, may she finally rest in peace.” She blinked against a sudden spate of tears but sniffed them back and placed an old hand upon Bryanna’s shoulder. “You, child, are Kambria of Tarth’s daughter. There is no doubt. You’re the one we’ve been waiting for. You, as foretold, are the sorceress. And with you comes the darkness.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

H
is head pounded and his bladder was stretched to the point of bursting.

Gavyn opened one eye and winced as daylight pierced into his brain, not the gray of dawn, but a higher mist with sunlight reaching through the branches overhead. He rubbed his aching head and blinked to push the sleep from his brain. By the gods, he felt as if he’d drunk too many cups of mead the night before, when all he’d had was that miserable-tasting potion that the beautiful witch had concocted.

He glanced over to the area where Bryanna had been sleeping.

It was empty, the log where she’d propped her saddle now bare. “What?” he whispered, disbelieving. He rolled over, his gaze, now clear, searching the surrounding area. Maybe she’d moved away from the fire. . . .

But there was no sign of her.

Nothing.

“Bryanna?” he called, the sound echoing in his chest, for he knew she’d disappeared, felt the emptiness. Yet he couldn’t stop himself. “Bryanna, where are you?”

He sat up quickly, yanking on the reins, and Rhi snorted at the disturbance.

The camp was empty.

She was gone.

As was her horse.

And all her things . . . the dagger, pouch, map, amulets, and horns of herbs, too, were missing. All that remained was the damned wolf, sitting up near a mossy oak tree, looking at him expectantly.

“And where were you, eh?” Gavyn asked the wolf. “Could you not warn me?” Determined not to think about the headache thundering in his skull, he climbed to his feet and quickly searched the camp for any sign of her. There was none. For a second he thought something might have happened to her, but there was no sign of a struggle, no blood upon the ground, and he was certain her cries would have awoken him from his deep sleep. Since neither his own stallion nor the damned wolf had let out so much as the smallest of sounds, he assumed no foul play had occurred. Nay, she had left of her own volition.

Without so much as saying good-bye.

“Damn fool woman,” he growled, kicking a charred stone from its place by the fire and sending it flying into the woods, where it slammed against a tree trunk, then ricocheted to hit another sapling.

Why had she left him? It wasn’t thievery. She’d not taken any of his few pathetic belongings. No, she’d just stolen off into the night.

Well, she was an odd one now, wasn’t she? With her spells and potions and curses . . . a damned witch. And a beautiful one at that.

His head felt as if a steel-shod destrier was trampling his brains. Most likely she’d mixed a strange herb into that foul piss-tasting brew she was always forcing down his throat.

Furious at himself for trusting her, for caring what the hell happened to her, he walked to the nearest tree and relieved his overloaded bladder. He had slept far longer than usual, as evidenced by how thick and long was his stream, as well as the position of the sun, which, though shrouded in mist, was obviously high in the sky. Lacing up his breeches, he cursed again.

At the creek, he splashed water upon his face and raked it through his hair to clear his thick head and cool his temper. Still furious, he packed his few things quickly and considered changing direction. Why follow her?

“Christ Jesus,” he said as he saddled his stallion and climbed astride. It had been his intention to ride to Tarth before stumbling upon her; he shouldn’t change his plan just because of the whim of some bloody woman.

As he lifted the reins, he glanced back at the wolf, still sitting and staring at him. Probably hoping for some breakfast. Too late, for either of them.

“Well?” he said to the wild dog as he kneed his stallion and took to an overgrown path leading to the road. “Are you coming?”

As if she understood, the wolf scuttled under a fern, leapt over a fallen log, and started following the horse, always trailing ten or twenty yards away, running in the shadows of the trees, just as she always did.

When he reached the road, Gavyn didn’t think twice. He turned toward Tarth. He’d not yet reached the three rocks, but they were nearby, so, if he was lucky, he’d reach the village before nightfall.

He’d been blinded by her beauty, and aye, by her quick tongue, but it might have all been a trick of his mind. She had, after all, left him. And could he blame her? Nay. He touched his wound, where now there was little pain. His headache was also fading. Truly, the woman had the healing touch, and though he’d nearly stupidly lost his heart to her, he did feel clearheaded again. He’d seen her dagger often enough and wondered if it was the magickal, legendary knife, the Sacred Dagger of Tarth. His mother had spoken often enough of it, and as a youth he had dismissed it as an old woman’s tale, a puff of smoke. But she’d told him of the intricately carved hilt, and Bryanna’s blade had been just as his mother had described it.

According to legend, the Sacred Dagger was once owned by a powerful witch. Its magick was strong enough to cause storms to rise, the sea to roll back, or the earth to crack. Men had killed for the dagger and wars had been waged. Fearing it would get into the wrong hands, the witch had dismantled it, removing the magick stones from the hilt and scattering them to the four winds.

Though he hadn’t believed in the tale, why would a noblewoman, riding alone, have such a blade? Devoid of stones, the knife was worth no more than a huntsman’s weapon. But, if the jewels could be found, the damned dagger would be worth a king’s ransom. Valuable enough to buy his innocence or, mayhap, bring his father to his arrogant knees.

If he believed in the legend.

Which he did not!

He felt a jab of conscience, but not for the old man. Nay, Deverill’s soul could rot in the hot embers of hell for all eternity. But Bryanna had been kind enough to him and helped him heal, and he could not lie about how his blood ran hot at the sight of her.

Though she had lied from the beginning. He knew not why he’d caught her scolding and calling for Isa, but he didn’t believe for a second that the woman and her husband would be patiently waiting for Bryanna at Tarth. Nay, ’twas a bold untruth said quickly to convince him she was not really alone. But as the hours had passed, she had never once admitted the truth.

’Twas a mystery.

Did you not lie to her?
His conscience was such a nag! He’d been forced to avoid the truth for most of his life, and yet he felt more than a tad of regret that he had not been completely honest with her.

He imagined her now, riding alone on some kind of mission, on her way to Tarth. He missed her. As irritating and bossy and headstrong as she was, he’d gotten used to her and had spent many an hour dreaming of what he might do with her were their trip together to continue.

Angry with himself, he spat into the bushes.

Aye, ’twas a curse to be attracted to her, even care for her.

“Damn you, woman,” he muttered, as if she were nearby. Her face flashed in his memory, her laughter trilled in his ears and her fury, when she’d been angry with him, was still nearly palpable. He’d been half in love with her before he was a man at Penbrooke, and those old feelings were surprisingly rekindled. There had been other women in his life, but none who had left such a searing impression on his brain.

And just these nights past, it had been all he could do not to kiss her. She had felt it, too. He was certain of it. Had he not witnessed the fire in her gaze when she’d touched him? Had he not felt a thrill slide down his spine, a tightening in his groin? Had he not imagined making love to her long into the night and groaned when his cock had become rock hard, a stiff shaft aching for release?

Now,
that
was a curse.

He reined Rhi past the carcass of a dead boar, flesh rotting. Its predator was nowhere to be seen, though crows cawed overhead in anticipation of a meal.

So was it true? Could Bryanna of Penbrooke, that spoiled, fearless child who had confided that she had friends no one else could see, truly be a witch? Could that bit of map be some kind of ancient chart that would lead her to . . . what? A spot where the hidden stones were buried or locked away? Where were the other pieces of the map? He’d memorized the etchings and they made little sense. Mayhap only a true witch could read the old piece of deer hide.

“Bah!” He didn’t believe in hags with cauldrons, magickal potions, and curses and spells. He urged Rhi northward. He would ride to Tarth and find Bryanna if she was still there. If not, he’d track her down.

Why?
he wondered.
Why follow her? Why not just leave her be? She left and you can wash your hands of her. Aye, she’s beautiful and aye, she does seem to have some healing powers, but so what? There are many women who profess to heal or know magick. So what if they are not the woman you
dreamed about? Leave her and be done with it. She’s trouble, Gavyn. As are the dagger and map.

And therein lay the problem.

If there was one thing Gavyn could not ignore, it was trouble. For the first time that afternoon, his lips twisted into a determined smile.

Like it or not, he was going to catch up with her.

“ ’Tis a lie!” Bryanna could not believe the untruths of this little woman she’d traveled so far to meet. But all the doubts, all the questions, everything that had made her think she was different from the rest of her family rushed through her mind. The noise became a dull roar, like that of the sea crashing inside a cavern on a cliff face. In an unsteady voice she asserted, “I am the daughter of Lenore of Penbrooke.” She hooked a thumb at her chest and suddenly doubted everything she’d held true for all of her sixteen years.

“Are you certain?” Gleda asked. “Because, I swear to the stars above, you’re the spitting image of Kambria.” Gleda turned to the door and latched the lock. “’Tis my husband,” she said in a whisper. “Though he’s deaf as a stone, ’tis surprising what he sometimes hears.”

She walked to the fire, stirred the stew with a long spoon, then ladled some of the soup into a cup and brought it to the table. After setting the mazer in front of Bryanna, she took her seat across from the younger woman again and leaned over the planks. Her voice was little more than a whisper when she said, “Now listen to me, Bryanna, for this is the story of your birth. You can tell me you do not believe me when I’ve finished. You can call me a lying wench, if you see fit. But trust me, what I’m about to tell you is the truth and I swear it upon my poor son’s grave.”

Bryanna wanted to disagree, to tell this goat farmer’s wife that she’d made a horrible, stupid mistake. Instead, she swallowed back her protests, placed both her hands upon the mazer to warm them, and nodded for the old woman to continue.

“You are the sorceress, here to light the way for the Chosen One. Nay, do not argue—” Gleda held up a quick hand, palm out, to silence the protest she saw forming upon Bryanna’s lips. “Just listen. I know you think that Lady Lenore of Penbrooke is your mother, and that’s as it should be, for she herself knew no differently.”

“What? Nay! ’Tis impossi—”

“Shh,” Gleda scolded. “Hold your tongue until I’m finished.” She glanced toward the door, then, satisfied that her husband wasn’t listening at a crack in the wood, continued.

“’Tis true enough that you’re the Lord of Penbrooke’s daughter. Lord Alwynn, a handsome man was he, and lusty, too. He spread his seed near and far from Penbrooke.”

“I want not to hear this about my own father.” Bryanna felt her face warm as she stared down into the mazer she held in a death grip.

“Yes, you do, Bryanna. Elsewise why would you have traveled all this far? You are Alwynn’s daughter, aye, but your mother was an apothecary’s daughter. Her name was—”

“Let me guess,” Bryanna said mockingly. “Kambria.” She didn’t believe a word this old crone said, except, mayhap, that she knew of Isa and her father.

“Yes.” Gleda’s thin lips pursed. “Kambria was a small woman, but strong, with flaming red hair and eyes as green as the emeralds in her dagger.”

Bryanna froze, her gaze rising from her cup to stare at the woman.

“So you know of that, do you? I did not know if you were aware of the missing jewels. Without the gems, the knife, as you see,” she said, lifting the ugly dagger, “has no power.”

Bryanna didn’t answer and Gleda, apparently satisfied that she was convincing the younger woman, placed the blade onto the table near the map again. “Like you, Kambria had a flare to her dogteeth and used her left hand more often than her right.”