The Penwyth Curse (12 page)

He said, “You look like those damned hermits who spin out their lives in caves beneath desert cliffs in the Bulgar.”

“What is this Bulgar?” Callas said, staring at him. “I know of no place called Bulgar.”

“You are so provincial, Callas. The Bulgar is a hard, brutal land from whence come many of the greatest wizards of the world.”

“There are hermits in this place? In caves? Why have I never heard of this?”

The prince laughed. “You cannot travel like I can. Forget the Bulgar. Enough. I wish to go now into the forest. I wish to see Brecia.”

“She will kill you, prince.”

“Let the witch try,” the prince said, rubbing his hands together. He felt a burst of pleasure at the thought of actually seeing her face when she beheld him, seeing her seething rage that would surely bubble and boil. He said, “Just smell you, Callas. You are filthier than usual.” The prince stepped forward.

Callas raised his hand. In it he held his priest stick, his
kesha
, at least two feet long, its length signifying to all who knew of such things that he was one of the most learned of the priest seers, having spent more than seventy years of his life in study. It was carved deeply with the symbols of life. Its tip glowed black.

The prince waved at the
kesha
. “Where did you get that thing?”

“My dead mentor,” Callas said. “An ancient priest who became a ghost four or five years ago. It's mine now, and it will remain mine until I give it to a student upon my own passing, and only the gods know when that will be.”

“In fifty years? A hundred?”

Callas just smiled. “You know the worth, the power of the
kesha
.”

The prince nodded. The black tip of the
kesha
had always seemed to the prince to be like a small candle that simply never went out. It illuminated the darkest night, lighted the deepest passages through the oak forest. He'd heard stories of the
kesha
all his life, knew it had come down from the ancient beings who had built the vast stone circle at the very dawn of time. Now, in the present, wizards used these mighty stones—fifty-six of them standing in a rough circle like huge, silent sentinels—to go beyond to another place where sights and sounds intermingled and light became lighter still, and all was whole and safe, and there were answers there, perhaps answers to questions no one yet knew to ask. If the prince closed his eyes, he could see the circle of stones, hear the wind blowing through them, hear the low, rhythmic chants of the priests, placating ancient beings they didn't really understand but knew to be potent.

“What is this game you play with me, prince? You know the power of the
kesha,
you know that if it touches you, your heart will shrivel in your chest and you will gasp for breath and then you will fall bloodless to the ground.”

The prince threw back his head and laughed. “You touch me with that and I will send you to live on an ice floe in the northern seas.” The prince crossed his arms over his chest and looked intimidating. He remembered that he had a knife fastened to his wrist, hidden by his long woolen sleeve. The wool was soft against his skin.

Callas didn't move either himself or his
kesha
. He said, “You are wearing new woolens. They are far too white. You stand out like a streak of lightning in a black sky.”

The prince shrugged. “The wool is soft and clean, something you should consider.”

“You don't look quite right,” Callas said. “There is something that is different about you, prince—”

In a flash, the prince pulled the knife out of his sleeve, a move so practiced it was merely a blur.

Callas jerked back. He swallowed hard, his eyes on the slender knife.

The prince said, “You've always been afraid of me, and that is very wise of you. I can see you more clearly now. The night darkness has thinned a bit.” He paused, then shook his head. “It is a strange time we live in.” The thick blackness was receding. Now directly overhead was a sickle of moon. The inverted black cup of the gods was full of stars, shining so fiercely that the prince could see the small scar from a long ago cut on his right ankle.

Callas said, “Aye, you're right about that.”

“At least the darkness isn't what it was. Now, Callas—”

“I am now the highest priest, prince.”

The prince snorted through his laugh. “I hope this means you know the right direction. Let us go, Callas. Take me to Brecia.” Just saying her name made him hard. It was an excellent feeling, this instant, overwhelming lust he felt just saying her name. Soon he would have her. At last.

Callas stroked his long, dirty beard, plaiting it in his fingers, then smoothing out the plaits. A long-standing habit, the prince knew. “Brecia won't have you, even though she wants you. She said if you come near here again she would kill you.”

The prince gave him an evil grin, filled with white teeth and infinite malice. “I tremble with fear at that threat. Now, let us go, or I will slit your ancient throat. Then I just might turn you into blue smoke and send you back to puff out of one of Brecia's witch's pots.”

Callas extended his
kesha
closer, but the prince just laughed and shoved it away with his hand. “Old man, don't even try any of your dismal magic with me.” He smiled, sheathed the knife, and pulled out his narrow, beautifully worked wand, not much longer than his forearm. “Or,” he said, grinning now as his fingers caressed the length of the wand, “I will make you itch.”

The prince flicked his wand, nothing more, just flicked it in Callas's direction. The old man leapt back, then yelled. “No, don't, prince, no! Damn you, prince, no!”

The prince watched for a moment while Callas tried to scratch all the places on his body that were itching so badly he was nearly dancing with it.

“Make it stop. Please, make it stop!”

“Will you take me to Brecia?”

Callas yelled, “Aye, I will take you to her. Let her destroy you with her magic. She is strong now and—yaagh, make it stop!”

The prince flicked his wand once again, still smiling. Callas shook himself down, scratched violently at his left knee, then paused, blinked, and looked immensely relieved. “I wish I could do that. Will you teach me? It really is a stupid curse, but it is very effective.”

“I will consider teaching you if you take me to Brecia.”

Callas turned his long
kesha
in his hands, watching the tip glow. “A dark wizard such as you should not come into the forest. Your darkness destroys the holiness of our sacred oak groves.”

“Leave go, Callas. I promise I will destroy nothing. Take me to Brecia. I am sure the witch will see me.” So close, he was now so close to her. He laughed. “Perhaps I will cast a spell on her. Not itching, no. I will make her desire me above all men. I will make her want to strip me down to my hide and caress me. Aye, I would like to have that witch in my power. Do you think she would like that?”

The prince thought Callas would fall over in a faint. “Brecia would not do that, even under a spell. She is inviolate. You should not make sport with us, prince.”

“All right,” the prince said agreeably. “Since I am a wizard, I can snap my fingers—” And he snapped his fingers right in Callas's face. The old man yelped and jumped back. The prince laughed. “Aye, I can snap my fingers and we will be there, at your most sacred shrine, right in front of Brecia.” If only he really could do that,
he thought, glad Callas didn't realize he couldn't. “Is that what you wish me to do? Only the gods know what shifts and changes that would bring.”

Callas groaned, then swallowed it as if realizing that a priest should not show weakness, particularly to the dark prince. “No, no. You will not do your evil magic on me. No, stay away from me. Follow me. It is not far, only as far as Brecia deems it to be.”

That sounded ridiculous to the prince, but he would be the first to admit that Brecia was cunning, mayhap just that clever. He fell into step closely behind Callas, who was walking as nimbly as a mountain goat. The floor of the forest was soft with rotted leaves and pulpy vegetation beneath his boots. It was still darker than not, and he stumbled several times.

He wanted Brecia, and he fully intended to have her this time. No more treaties to dictate his mate. He was free to follow his own way. He began whistling in the darkness, and Callas looked ready to spit with fear.

The prince smiled.

12

Present

B
ISHOP LAY STILL
,
WAVES
of pain crashing through his head, the stark image in his brain of a filthy old man and a young man—no, the young man was more than that, aye, the young man was a prince, by all the saints, he was magic, he was a wizard, he had a damned wand and he could use it. It was impossible, but there they were, alive in his brain, their faces as clear as if they were standing right in front of him. But even in the next instant, they were fading into the mist that covered that thick, ancient oak forest. For an instant he swore he heard the young prince's laughter, and he thought,
He is going to get Brecia
.

Then there was nothing. Just nothing.

Bishop didn't move, perhaps afraid to move. A dream, he thought. He'd dreamed—a vivid, very strange dream, nothing more than that, no matter the rich, detailed colors, the strange speech they'd spoken, which he'd understood.

He drew a deep breath, shook his head. The images were gone.

But there was one thing he was very sure of in that moment.

There was no oak forest near where he and Merryn had lain in that tent beneath the drowning sky. “Wake up, Bishop. Come on, wake up.”

“I don't want to.”

“Good, you're alive. In the single day I've known you, I've learned a lot about you. Now I'm seeing that you're also selfish. Just listen to you—
I don't want to
—” She'd mimicked him quite well, actually. “Well, I don't care what you want. Get up before the tent collapses.”

He opened his eyes to see Merryn not an inch from his nose, her warm breath fanning his face. His brain righted itself. What was this? She was the one who had gone headfirst down the hillock. He said, frowning, “Are you all right? You fell and hit your head. I remember that.”

“I'm better than you are. I opened my eyes and I saw you hunkered over me. You jerked your head up at this loud clap of thunder, and a flash of lightning streaked your face white. Then you just fell on top of me.”

“A loud clap of thunder,” he said.

“Aye, something must have happened. There aren't any lumps on your head that I can tell. My lump is good-sized, but you don't see me flat on my back, do you? You're a warrior, aren't you?”

“It's raining.”

“It's more than raining. It's making up for the months when there was nothing at all except blowing dust. I don't know how much longer the tent can stay up. You have to get yourself together, Bishop.”

He looked past her, saw the blur of rain battering down on the tent. Surprisingly, it was holding. But for how long?

“You were right about the rain. It is incredible. You are a wizard, aren't you?”

“Aye, I am a wizard,” he said without thought, without any consideration at all. Now wasn't that odd? He felt
suddenly filled with energy, the pain gone, and he wanted to draw his sword and leap out of the damned tent and kill bandits. No luck there. No self-respecting bandit would be out in this deluge.

“We can't stay here. How do you feel?”

“I healed myself,” he said, just to see what she would say, just to see how she would react to that.

She reared back, alarm in her eyes. “You are jesting again, aren't you, Bishop?”

“Of course,” he said. “We will stay here until the rain stops or the tent collapses in on us. Come down beside me and we can warm each other.”

She hesitated only a moment before easing down beside him. They were both damp, and that wasn't good, but she realized soon enough that the heat from his body would warm her quite well. Even in the dead of winter he would warm her. She said, “When I woke up I realized that I didn't know how much time had passed. But it's dark. It wasn't dark when I fell down the hillock. It was full into the day, wasn't it?”

“Aye, it was, but then the sky darkened, don't you remember?” He was remembering that huge flash of white light that stayed and stayed until suddenly—there was just nothing. The dream, there had been the dream. Gone now, all of it.

“Aye, just before the rain came down it darkened, but look now, Bishop. It's night. Did you do something?”

“By all the saints' knee-bent prayers, what do you think I am? A god to change day into night at my whim?”

She was silent. He felt her fingertips wandering over his chest. “Could you?”

He wanted to laugh. The cost of coincidence. He'd been right about the damnable rain and now he'd moved beyond that simple task—now he could change the march of the sun. “Very well. I am a god, not just a wizard.”

She giggled. “You are jesting with me again. My head hurts a bit, but it isn't bad.” She paused a moment, then
said, “Were you really going to tie me down? Let me lie there in the rain?”

“Yes.”

She didn't say anything more, just settled her cheek against his shoulder. Soon both of them slept.

And when they awoke it was still raining and the tent still hadn't collapsed. They could see dirty light outside. How long had they slept? Had it really been night? How long had that bloody dream lasted?

He knew suddenly, knew with absolute certainty, that if he left Penwyth land, there wouldn't be any more rain. The rain was for this land only. But how could that be?

Five hours later, Bishop, with Merryn in front of him atop Fearless's back, rode beneath a now sunny sky to St. Erth Castle. The torrential rain had turned to billowing dark clouds that hid the sun, and then the clouds turned white and the sun was bright.

All this happened the moment they left Penwyth land.

He shouted to the porter at St. Erth's gate, waved at Gorkel the Hideous, and Eldwin, the master-at-arms, and shouted out greetings.

The last thing he wanted was an arrow through his gullet because someone believed him an enemy.

When he rode Fearless into the inner bailey of St. Erth, he was nearly deafened by all the noise.

It was warming, that noise, because it was normal. It didn't hide any mysterious dreams, or any—what? He couldn't remember. The children shrieked, animals grunted, butted each other and any humans close enough. Chickens squawked as they pecked at the children's bare toes, sending them running and yelling. Above it all was the armorer's hammer, striking iron, making it ring and echo throughout the bailey.

The main thing was, the noise was all young.

Bishop breathed in the scents of baking bread, horse dung, human sweat, and fresh rosemary. He saw Philippa
holding a basket in her hand, and in that basket was a pile of rosemary she'd just picked.

“Bishop. Welcome. Who's this? Goodness, neither of you looks very good. What happened?”

Merryn could just imagine how they looked. Their clothes weren't yet dry, but she knew her gown was wrinkled and torn, her hair whipped into tangles around her head.

She looked at Bishop, saw that he was smiling.

“It is good to be back to something I know and understand,” he said, “something that is utterly normal. Merryn, that bent little man is Crooky the Fool and the other is Gorkel the Hideous, well named indeed, a man endowed with the ugliest face in Christendom. And that is Eldwin, Dienwald's master-at-arms, out of breath from running down the wooden stairs from the ramparts.”

Bishop looked down at Dienwald and Philippa. “This is the maid of Penwyth who's been married four times. Merryn de Gay, this is Lord Dienwald de Fortenberry, earl of St. Erth. And this is Philippa, his wife and helpmeet, the king's sweet daughter.”

Merryn had never before visited St. Erth. She'd heard stories about the Scourge of St. Erth, but he didn't look at all wicked. And Philippa, the king's bastard daughter, was beautiful, all that thick, curly hair, plaited through with pale yellow ribbons.

Dienwald laughed and clasped Merryn beneath her arms to lift her off Fearless's back. “You're just a bit damp, both of you. Why? Look at the sun overhead. You were sporting with her, weren't you, Bishop, and you both fell into a river or perhaps a small pond somewhere?”

“Ah, Dienwald, no sporting around with her.” Bishop laughed, dismounted, and handed Fearless's reins to Gorkel, who gave him a blinding smile. “Actually, it is raining hard on Penwyth land.”

“But not here?” Dienwald arched an eyebrow. “How is that possible, Bishop?”

Bishop could do nothing but shrug. “It is a bit unusual, I suppose. I cannot explain it.”

“Bishop made it rain,” Merryn said.

That brought instant and complete silence.

“No,” he said, all calm and indifferent, “I didn't. She jests.”

Dienwald gave him an odd look, then stepped aside as his wife said, “We can have explanations later. Come in, come in. First, dry clothes for both of you. Ah, it is a very good thing that we have more than enough sheep now to weave wool for clothes. Merryn, you're about my height, so my gowns should fit you well enough.”

“Ha,” Dienwald said. “You're a giant, a maypole. This is but a little bit of a girl and—”

Philippa stuffed a bit of rosemary into her husband's mouth. He spat it out, laughed, and said, “Come along, Bishop. Gorkel will take good care of Fearless. Indeed, he is the only one to take care of the brute, since he's the only one Fearless won't try to bite.”

“Aye, Fearless is afraid that Gorkel will bite him.”

Not long thereafter, Merryn walked beside Philippa de Fortenberry, countess of St. Erth, up the deeply worn stone steps into the great hall.

There was so much noise, everyone talking at once, everyone moving here and there, going about their tasks, half their attention on Bishop and Merryn. And the laughter and the sounds of children playing, shouting, arguing.

“At Penwyth,” she said to Philippa, “there isn't this noise.”

Philippa raised an eyebrow at that. “Every keep I've visited shatters the eardrums, even the inner bailey at Windsor.”

“It's all old men at Penwyth,” Merryn said. “They don't usually speak loudly. Thank you for the clothes.”

“These lovely clothes were given to me by Kassia de Moreton some years ago. They fit you well enough. What do you mean there are only old men at Penwyth?”

They'd reached the great hall. “Oh, no,” Philippa said and rolled her eyes.

Crooky the Fool had hopped on top of one of the trestle tables. He sang at the top of his lungs:

Merryn looked up at Philippa. “That rhymed, Philippa—at least some of it did—but it wasn't true what he said. What is wrong with him? Bishop didn't come to Penwyth to marry me. He came just to remove the Penwyth curse.”

Dienwald roared, leapt over to the trestle table and cuffed the fool so hard he flew off into the rushes and rolled and rolled until he lay on his back and grinned up at his master.

“Master, heed me, I will do better. Until the evening arrives on night feet, I will practice until I can find rhymes that will rhyme even with themselves, mayhap even a few choice words to rhyme with ‘husband.' Another line? Aye, I'll even add another line. What think you, noble master?”

“Enough, you brainless sot,” Dienwald said. “Bishop isn't to wed her.”

“But he is, I heard all of you—” Crooky's eyes rolled back in his head and he clasped his own hands around his throat and started squeezing. “Oh, dear, oh, begorra, and oh, my mother too, I will be smote down because my brain has grown warts and died.”

“Aye, it has,” Dienwald said. “Keep your mouth shut.” He looked over at Bishop, who hadn't moved an inch. He still held the goblet of fine St. Erth ale in his hand. He was staring at Merryn. He was wondering if Crooky the Fool had just signed his death warrant.