Pagan Fire (21 page)

“Remove your hand from me,” she ordered.

“I will not.” He gave her a tug, fury twisting his face. “I won’t be punished for you running off again.”

“Sir, my arm is sore and bruised. And I am too tired to run away,” she said. When he didn’t loosen his grip, Maere continued, “I swear by all that is holy I will not run off.”

“What you and I consider holy are two very different things.”

Maere raised her chin. “What does it matter? If it is holy to me, then I will not lie against it.”

Grimnir studied her for a moment, then let go of her arm. “If you turn out to be Loki in women’s clothing, I will hunt you down and kill you. Do you understand?”

She glared at him, then walked toward the crowd. Grimnir followed a few steps behind. “You think you could catch me only because your leader did before. I would not be so foolish again,” she called over her shoulder. “I would take a moment beforehand and dream you gone from here.”

“Witch,” he muttered.

Maere fought to keep back a smile, lest he see it and grab her again.

As they reached the gathering, she spotted Jorvik at the center and made her way to him. He stood quietly over a neat rectangular pile of sticks and branches, surrounded by large stones.

In the middle of the formation, on a berth made of wood, lay the body of an old man. Dressed in brown and white furs, a bronze helmet on his head and a silver hilted sword clasped in his hands, Maere thought he looked ready to rise at any moment to do battle.

Jorvik met Maere’s eyes, his glistening with unshed tears. “Go away from me. You have no place here.”

Her gaze swept over the dead man and returned to Jorvik. The resemblance was very close. “This is your father,” she said softly. “This is why you needed to return so quickly. Because you heard he had died.”

“I needed to come back quickly to prevent his death, not witness it.” He turned away and whispered, “I know this is your work, Morrigu.” Then Jorvik pulled his dagger from its sheath and sliced his palm. He held his fist high in the air, blood dripping freely onto his father’s funeral pyre. “The wind will carry the message of my Valkyrie soul, my song of battle, to you.” He unclenched his fist and held his hand open to the sky. “I will seek you out, goddess. It is not over between us. If I have to die in the process, I will avenge my father.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The moon rose slowly, its face embraced like a lover by streaky clouds tinged with orange. Dylan threw another log on the glowing embers that remained from the fire he’d made earlier in the afternoon. If it were up to him, they’d still be on the trail. They were so close to finding Maere. He felt her presence as a tangible thing deep in his soul. He saw her fair face and her wild hair flying about her. He saw the agony in her eyes as she struggled to remember anything of her past life, unsure if she should trust the stories he told her.

But the rain of the previous day had soaked Seelie clear through and by this afternoon she was thoroughly chilled. He couldn’t leave her behind to fend for herself, so they stopped for the day to let her rest and dry her clothes. He’d offered her a shirt from his sack. She twisted her wet hair into a knot and wrapped a thin piece of wool around it as a covering against the cool night air.

He rose and walked to the low branches of a hawthorn tree to check her clothing for dampness. Feeling the seams, he nodded to himself. Good. They would be dry by morning.

Dylan glanced over to where Seelie lay near the fire. She was sleeping and, from the looks of it, would sleep straight through the night. That was a good thing. She needed the rest for their journey.

Nearby, an owl hooted. “Has someone died, my friend?” Dylan whispered. “Or is it death you bring with you?” A fluttering of wings and the bird was gone. Dylan sighed. No answer. Not that he had truly expected one, but stranger things were known to happen in his world. He smiled ruefully and shook his head.
An understatement, to be sure.

Looking toward the fine sliver of moon highlighted against the now-indigo sky, he uttered a simple prayer. “Nimue, look over my love and keep her safe ‘til we are together again.”

Dylan walked back to the fire and sat cross-legged. He pushed his black hair out of his eyes and picked up his leather pack. Opening it, he dug deep inside. He closed his eyes and felt around until his hand touched what he was looking for. Carefully, he pulled out the tattered linen cloth. Placing his sack beside him on the ground, he spread the fabric across his lap. Dylan caressed it and raised it to his face, inhaling the long-gone fragrance of a little girl he once knew. A little girl who smelled green like the trees, talked to the Fays, ordered him about, and healed with just a touch.

His hand moved to the center of the material where a jeweled brooch glinted in the firelight. It was the pin Maere’s family had given her in honor of their betrothal. Dylan smiled at the memory. Maere had looked utterly terrified when she entered the gathering with her mother and father on that Beltane night so long ago. He remembered winking at her and wondering what she was thinking as Manfred made the announcement.

“Before the sacrifices begin, I have something to say,” Manfred had said. The gathering grew quiet as their leader arranged his family in front of him. He gestured for Fox mac Connall to join them, who in turn pulled Dylan along by the arm. Fox was a big, burly man with thick arms and muscled legs, a warrior, used to fighting. His hair, as black as his son’s, was tied into a knot at the nape of his neck.

Maere covered her mouth as she giggled nervously. Rhea squeezed her shoulder to quiet her and leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “Hush, child. This is important.”

“But Ma,” Maere said, “Dylan looks like a scrawny bird next to his Da!” Rhea smiled and patted her on the head. Dylan elbowed Maere so she’d be quiet.

Manfred continued. “Tonight, I announce the joining of our two families.” He took Maere’s hand in his left, Dylan’s in his right. With great solemnity, he placed their hands together and took a step back. “Tonight, I announce the betrothal of Dylan mac Connall to my daughter, Maere cu Llwyr.”

Murmurs of approval reached their ears. Maere managed a shy glance up at Dylan. He sensed her looking at him and gently squeezed her hand. Oh, he could only imagine what the girl had been thinking, so full of ideas was she!

But it was not to be. Eugis, in his bid for power, murdered their families and carried Maere off. All these years Dylan had lived on the memories, had quenched his thirst with the promise of retaliation. He’d finally found her, only to lose her again. He buried his face in the linen, already stained with countless tears, and quietly added more.

* * * *

“Blast this,” Maere said under her breath. She’d been trying for what seemed like ages to unfasten the sinew tethered tightly around her ankle that bound her to a large central column of the longhouse. Grimnir had deposited her here. Whatever the knot was these Vikings used, it defied her nimble fingers. It seemed as if the more she fussed with it, the tighter it became until – her nails torn and bloody – she finally gave up.

She sighed and leaned against the column, watching the cook fire for a moment. Seeing the play of flames made Maere uneasy, as it had for as long as she could remember. Looking for a distraction, she dug around in her pocket and was surprised to find the circular stone given her by the Viking girl. Maere turned it over and over in her palm, feeling the smoothness of it against her skin.

She opened her hand and held the talisman out to the fire. The mottled golden quartz picked up the color of the flames and glowed. It was much like her own necklace, the one Dylan had forced her to look through and see those devilish beings.

But were they really devils? The miniature woman had seemed harmless enough. She shook her head. She was truly going daft to even contemplate such thoughts.

Maere considered the stone again. Should she? After all, what harm would it do to look through the hole? If nothing else, it would put her mind at rest that such small beings didn’t exist; surely that black-hearted Dylan mac Connall had cast a spell to make her see them.

Muffled voices outside the blanketed opening told her she wouldn’t be alone for long. Spying a scrap of sinew on the floor near her, she grabbed it, tied it through the center of the stone, and slipped the makeshift necklace over her head. She would find time later to investigate the matter of little people and dark spells.

Jorvik pushed back the woven fabric hanging in the doorway and stood in the portal for a moment, surprised to find his captive making an amulet to hang around her neck. He rubbed his chin. Perhaps she wasn’t so Christian after all. Perhaps there was a bit of the old beliefs still tucked away in her head.

As she slipped the charm on, Maere glanced up. Her body jerked with a start to find the Viking there.
Pull yourself together. He can never know how afraid you really are
. Maere carefully stood. “What do you want?”

Jorvik’s eyes sparkled in the firelight. “It would seem I’ve developed a terrible itch.” He paused to let his words sink in. “And it’s in need of scratching.”

Someone behind Jorvik, beyond the doorway and out of Maere’s line of vision, laughed. He must have slammed the Viking on the back, too, for he came stumbling into the dwelling. Before he could catch his footing, he stepped in a wooden bucket, tripped, and landed sprawled out at Maere’s feet. She looked down at the man, wide-eyed. She leaned over.

“Are you hurt?” She quickly straightened as the odor of sour wine reached her nose. “Not hurt, I see. Just drunk!”

Jorvik made a grab for Maere’s ankle, but she sidestepped the move. She moved as far away as the tether would allow, just barely out of his grasp.

Jorvik pushed himself to his feet, shook off the bucket with a noisy clatter, and moved toward Maere with the caginess of a wolf stalking its prey. His intent shone in his eyes, the firelight reflecting a feral light within them.

Maere pulled at the tether but it wouldn’t budge. She glanced all about her for something that would keep the man away. For heaven’s sake, there wasn’t even a stick of firewood within her reach.

“Stay away from me, Viking,” she said. “Or I’ll, I’ll—”

Jorvik stopped his advance and smiled. “Or you’ll what?” He raised his hands and wriggled his fingers at her. “Will you steal my soul to sacrifice to your Christian god? Or will you simply ‘dream’ me gone?” He laughed at his own cleverness.

Maere stared hard at him. Why did men believe themselves deserving of the amusement of any woman who crossed their path? She took another step back, balancing on one leg while the leashed one stretched in the air in front of her. Jorvik grabbed the suspended leg. Maere tried to shake him off, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You didn’t answer me.” He ran a rough hand up her calf. “Shapely and firm.”

“I am not a horse to be judged so!” Maere struggled again, terror gripping her. “Leave me be!”

“I can see why Eugis desires to bed you.”

“B-b-bed me?” Maere sputtered. “He can’t bed me!”

Jorvik waived his free hand and reached for the skin flask fastened to his belt. “You needn’t worry about being a nun and all. It won’t make a bit of difference to Eugis. From what I’ve seen of the man, he’ll enjoy the challenge you would present.” His eyes swept over her. “Makes no difference to me either,” he slurred. He took a gulp of warm wine and offered the skin to Maere.

“He can’t bed me. He’s my uncle! It’s unnatural! It’s against the laws of the church.” She shook her leg again but he held firm. “Please let go of me, Jorvik. You’re drunk.”

“I cannot argue with you, that I am. Now, drink up. It’ll help you relax.” He leered at her. “And make the lessons I’ll impart this night all the more enjoyable.”

Maere slapped the skin away. It landed on the floor, the reddish contents spilling out like blood. The sight transfixed her. Blood. There was something about it that shook her memory. In her mind’s eye, she glimpsed a bowl filled with the dark liquid, held by a man whose hands were covered in it. A hot burning sensation began to build in the pit of her stomach.

“I asked: What’s the matter with you?” Jorvik moved past the bound leg, resting it on his hip, and cupped his hand under her buttocks. “Mmmm,” he murmured against her cheek. “Round and soft, just like I imagined it to be.”

“Get away from me!” Maere shoved at him. But the man was a mountain, unable to be moved from his intent. The heat in her stomach traveled up to her chest and down her legs. The internal fire spread out her arms and rushed through her head. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered. “I am on fire.”

“Fire. Yes.” Jorvik nuzzled her neck and trailed kisses down to the curve of her shoulder. “I am on fire as well.”

Maere grabbed Jorvik by the wrists and he immediately stopped what he was doing. The heat was intensifying. He must have felt it as well, as he looked at her with surprise. Maere broke out in a sweat. The fire centered in her hands – where they were placed on the Viking – and she swore she could see a white glow emanating from them. Almost the same as it had been with Seelie.

“What manner of witchcraft do you practice, Sister Maere?” Jorvik whispered. He tried to pull away but he was frozen to the spot, by her touch.

Her eyes grew wide for an instant as the power overtook her body. She couldn’t fight it. Whatever magic it was, it owned her. It possessed her soul. Her sight grew narrow and was confined to the face in front of her.

“Don’t touch me again, Viking,” she said. The heat surged through her and out her hands. Jorvik skidded across the room and landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him.

Maere held her hands out in front of her, palms up, and studied them as if they belonged to another person. Slowly, she turned them over. The heat was gone from both her hands and her body. The intensity of the light abated. She dropped to the floor, drew her legs up under her gown, and wrapped her arms around them.
What had just happened?