The Penwyth Curse (15 page)

Was Brecia somehow shielding the very feel of them from him? No, he was too powerful for her to do that. He knew they were ghosts, but he simply couldn't sense them. But why? Mayhap they weren't really ghosts, but shadows from another realm. Unreal beings Brecia had called up to frighten him? Simply props like those the mummers used in their plays? He shook his head. What they were didn't matter. She could have conjured up mad dogs flapping around him, snarling, and he wouldn't have been bothered. But all in all, the ghosts with their long, naked toes were a nice touch.

He had never before been to Brecia's sacred place. He let himself settle into it, and soon he could feel the power pulse around him, though the feel of it wasn't familiar to him. It was like a lover's lips, light, nipping, flowing over his flesh, coming close to him, but never touching, a lover he'd never yet had. He would swear that that power dipped quite near him, almost alighted on his shoulder, on the back of his hand, then flowed softly away. A power he didn't recognize, that was something new to him. What would happen if it did touch him? If it went into his mouth, his eyes, his nostrils, and he breathed it in? He felt his wizard's wand grow warmer against his forearm.

He realized then that the lazy orange threads of fire
from all those small campfires seemed to connect, entwining, dancing through each other, then soaring higher and higher. They warmed the entire space inside the fortress.

He smiled. He pulled out his wizard's wand and flicked it at one of the small fires. It blasted upward, threads of orange scattering, sending sparks leaping up at least fifty feet. The ghosts soared, seeming to dissolve into each other, all heads craning upward to watch the sparks burst high over their heads. He would swear that their feet became even clearer. Well, he'd announced himself, given Brecia warning. He smiled. He wanted very much to see the witch.

He slipped the wand back into his sleeve and walked forward to the tower.

Bedamned, the fortress was bigger now than it had been just a minute before. He would say that it was now more than forty feet high.

He threw back his head and yelled, “Brecia! Where are you?”

“I am in here, prince,” she said, and he wondered for a moment how her voice could be so clear when she was inside the tower. Clever witch. He saw random small windows, all cut in geometric shapes—triangles, circles, squares—and each shape seemed to glow in the night darkness.

Clever magic from the clever witch, he thought, but nothing more than that. Nothing compared to what he could do. He wouldn't let himself forget that.

The prince pushed open the door to the tower and walked in. The floor was bound wooden planks, smooth, stretching endlessly. He smelled lavender, and other fragrances he didn't recognize, saw that their leaves were scattered over the wooden floor. A huge fire burning in the middle of the large chamber went all the way to the roof, escaping through a wide hole in the top. The air was faintly blue with the smoke.

Then he saw her.

Brecia.

Three years since he'd first seen her, at the ancient sacred gathering place where representatives from all known tribes had traveled to the flat plains in Britain to speak within the great sarsen circle of stones and look at the rising sun balance for a few precious moments atop the great sloping stone. All knew it was the moment of the summer solstice.

She'd been so beautiful then that just to look at her made his tongue dry in his mouth. She was even more beautiful now, standing on that immense dais, looking down at him, her arms crossed over her breasts. Her effect on him was even more dramatic now after three long years. He swallowed. The damnable witch, she'd escaped him, nearly cursed him into oblivion, but at last he'd won.

He'd managed to find her—only the thing was, he still had no idea how he'd come so close to her sacred forest or why he'd been lying there alone on the ground with that old man Callas standing over him. He remembered Callas had been with her at the great stone circle, standing beneath one of the huge lintels, staring at him, and he'd seen fear and hatred in the old man's rheumy eyes.

Like Callas and all those damnable ghosts outside, she was wearing a white wool robe. Hers, however, was so white, it shone like pure light. He could have read ancient parchments in the light cast from her gown. No dirty rope around her waist, rather a thin golden chain that pulled the gown snug, made a graceful knot, then hung down nearly to her knees.

No one else seemed to be in the chamber.

Were there indoor ghosts? He walked closer.

She had the same incredible hair, longer now, perhaps. So very red, a pure red, pure as a flame fed by magic. It hung down her back, nearly touching her hips, and because his vision was excellent even without magic, he could see her mysterious green eyes, and knew they hid her secrets and skills more dangerous than a curse ripe with vengeance. Her skin was pale, smooth. She smiled
at him, showing very white teeth. That smile—it was a smile of triumph, a smile that told him she'd bested him and was savoring the knowledge at this very moment. He wanted to take out his wizard's wand and force her to her knees in front of him. Perhaps before that, he would make her fall to her knees and crawl to him, kiss his feet. Aye, he liked that image. Then she could pull off that white wool gown and show herself to him, and then he would—

“So, prince, why in the name of all the evil demons that surely created you did you come here? How did you find me?”

15

H
IS HEART POUNDED HARD
and fast. He hadn't felt like this in the three years since he'd first seen her, since she'd gotten away from him, the damnable witch, furious because she'd heard of his upcoming marriage to Lillian. He'd tried to hold her, tried to explain, but she'd managed to escape. He'd yowled with fury, tried desperately to forget her, but couldn't. He said easily, drinking her in, “Callas brought me.”

“He would never allow you anywhere near to me, particularly here in my own grove.”

His wizard's wand lay calm and smooth against his forearm. He could feel it faintly pulsing, making his flesh warmer now than it had been just a moment before. He knew he had to go carefully, knew in his gut that he couldn't let her suffocate his magic, not again. He couldn't allow her once again to reduce him to a mortal man's lust, a mortal man with no brain at all, no sense of himself and who and what he was, reducing him to just his pounding, hard sex, wanting beyond reason to be inside her.

The prince said, “Callas did bring me. Sufficient proof, even for a witch, since I am standing in front of you.”

“You must have threatened to kill him to make him bring you here.”

“No. I made him itch.”

She stared at him. He knew she wanted to laugh, but she managed to hold it in. Slowly, she stepped off the dais and began her lazy walk toward him. The white wool swung at her ankles, as if there was a slight breeze teasing the fabric, showing golden sandals. But the air was stone still. Where were all her priests, all her servants? Where were those bloodless lurking ghosts with their naked feet?

She stopped a good six feet away from him. She seemed taller to him now than she did three years before, taller and more stiffly proud, arrogant in her own power. He would change that soon enough. Or maybe she was afraid of him now that he'd found her, had actually come into her sacred grove, proved that her power wasn't inviolate.

Ah, just to look at her. He watched as she slowly raised her left arm, the white sleeve, full and billowing. Smooth as magic, which it was, in her hand was suddenly her witch's wand. It was more like his wand than like the
keshas
carried by Callas and all the other Karelian priests throughout the world. It was elegant, finely carved, just like his, no more than ten inches long, gleaming with gems so old they seemed to carry the finger marks of the gods who had flung them to earth at the beginning of time.

Where were her other priests? Why was she seeing him alone?

“You are here, prince. What do you want?”

He looked at her face to see some sign of what she was thinking. He said nothing, just kept studying her. As always, a shield was firmly in place in front of her mind. He couldn't penetrate it, and that infuriated him.

She came closer. She pointed her witch's wand directly at him.

He said, “Don't point your ridiculous stick at me, woman.”

“A stick? You arrogant, black-brained bastard.”

“I am not a bastard. I was born as the result of a hallowed joining. As for you, what can you claim as your antecedents?”

“I had no beginning and will have no end.”

He laughed. “That is nonsense and you well know it. You come from good wizard stock, only it is different from mine. Your sacred grove, all these oak trees that rustle in the night breeze, this fortress that you've spun from fancies in your mind, none of it means anything to me. No more than those ridiculous ghosts hovering outside by those puling campfires, their feet dangling in the air above the ground.”

“Ghosts? Why do you think they're ghosts?”

“Don't mock me, woman. They have no substance, no presence.”

“Ah, so you mean you cannot sense them.”

He hated it, but he had to nod.

“Aye, they are ghosts. It's hard for anyone from outside the oak forest to sense them. Callas will become a ghost sometime in the future. Ghosts all live and breathe and worship and ply their crafts. Eventually they grow so old that they begin to fade—the last part to fade is their feet. They finally fade into the very roots of the oak trees, becoming one with the oak. It is an ancient, revered ceremony.”

“I have heard that the ghosts exist in all times.”

“Yes. They are my people, past, present, future. They are my closest followers.”

“All your followers are ancient? Nearly faded away, all of them?”

“No. Many of my people dwell in the forest. The old ones—the ghosts—feel uncomfortable in the forest. They feel threatened, they are always cold. They like to remain close to me, and thus all the fires with the magic flames. They are so very old in their power, their strength beyond what either of us can imagine. As for my people who live
in the forest, they will remain hidden until I tell them it is safe.”

“It sounds like all your followers are as insubstantial as this fortress you've conjured up.”

“Don't mock what you don't understand, prince. That is stupidity that even a wizard can't afford.”

“They worship you, Brecia?”

“Of course they worship me. I give them food and water and shelter. I provide them harmony and order and balance so they can become all they wish to be, with no impediments.”

“Is this fortress real or is it just a special treat for my eyes only?”

“It is real enough to those who see it.”

Since he had said something like that many times, he let her get away with it. “When will Callas begin to fade?”

“In perhaps a hundred years or so. I'm not really sure. So many of them overlap in age, it is difficult to know individual ages.”

“And who will the old priests and all the hiding ghosts worship when you are dead?”

“You're right, of course, I will have an end, I will die. They will worship my heir.”

“Who is your heir?”

“I am very young, prince. I have no need as yet for an heir.”

“Good solid witch blood for your heir?”

She inclined her head gracefully, sending thick red hair over her shoulder. By all the ancient powers that poured through his blood, he wanted to touch that hair of hers, wrap it around his hand, over and over, and keep wrapping until she was not more than an inch from him, and then he would wrap again until she was against him, then he would put her under him. He blinked away the image.

“Yes, as you say, good solid witch blood.”

“You need a powerful wizard to bring forth a decent heir, a wizard to strengthen your sputtering blood.”

“I have yet to meet a wizard who could meld his powers with mine in a way that would blend properly. Wizards are too unbending, too contemptuous of anything that isn't of their making, of their beliefs.

“Perhaps I will travel to Spain. I understand the Karelia there have fashioned incredible sacred places, all hidden from mortal eyes. Aye, there I might find a Spanish wizard who would complement my own powers, who wouldn't seek to control me, make me a slave.”

“I have been told that the Spanish Karelia capture men and stuff them into wooden cages. At night they burn them for warmth.”

“I had not heard that. It is something I would not accept.” She shuddered as she said, “The smell. It would be offensive.”

“It makes me think they are weak and cruel. Who needs to burn a mortal in a cage when all you have to do is cast what warmth you need with your wand?” He slipped it out fast, flicked it upward, and the faint blue smoke became a narrow funnel. He watched her look at the smoke, now swirling upward in a tight circle to the hole in the ceiling.

“Now your eyes won't burn, will they?”

“They didn't in any case. A clever trick, prince, but then you—” She raised her own wand from where she'd held it against her skirt, and smiled at him. He waited, doing nothing, watched her lips move. Suddenly he was in a wooden cage, suspended by a long iron chain from the roof of the fortress. The cage swung back and forth.

The prince said nothing at all. He was cramped, his left leg felt ready to break. He gave a soft whistle, lightly flicked his fingertips over the wooden bars. The cage disappeared, and he was once again standing at his ease in front of her.

He smiled at her, pointed his wand at her, nothing more than that. Suddenly she wasn't standing in front of him, she was lying on her back on a bluestone altar, her white
woolen skirts fanned around her, hanging over the sides of the altar.

“Bluestone,” she said, slowly sitting up. “You stole the bluestone from the sacred circle of stones in Britain.”

“Aye, it's a mighty stone, beautiful and thick. A fitting resting place for a witch.”

Quick as a swallow, Brecia raised her wand. In that same instant, the prince tilted his head back, his throat working over strange words. Suddenly her wand was in his left hand. He smiled, waved his own wand toward her, and there were ropes tying her down, quite thin beautiful leather straps that even a wizard couldn't break. She was at his mercy now, and still he smiled.

He held the two wands up in front of her, hers so beautiful and graceful, his hard and deep, solid power with little ornamentation. “See these, Brecia? If I cross the two wands, then it is very possible that the world would end. What think you?” He slowly brought the witch's wand and the wizard's wand close, until only a breath separated them.

She tried to jerk free of the ropes, but couldn't. She raised her head, stared fixedly at the two wands so close to each other. “Don't, you fool. You have no idea what would happen.”

Since he had no idea what would happen either, he pulled the wands apart and held one loosely in each hand. “Have you any power without your wand?”

“Of course.”

“Then free yourself, Brecia.”

She was speaking, some sort of chant, he imagined, and closed his eyes to see the words in his mind, and to counteract them.

She was sending him to hell. No, wait, not exactly to hell. She was with him, there, deep in an oak forest, and he was tied to an ancient oak that shuddered around him, branches trembling as if in a high wind—but there were no high winds deep in an oak forest.

He walked to the altar, stared down into those green
eyes, and felt the force of her and himself, tied to that damned oak tree. He stood over her, and lightly, very lightly, he touched his finger to the tip of her nose. It broke her concentration. She looked up at him, and he knew she would slay him if she had the chance. She would send him to the Spanish Karelia to roast in a cage during one of those cold nights. He touched the tip of her nose yet again, smiled.

“Listen to me, Brecia. Shall I make you itch like I did Callas?”

“Black bastard.”

“I have told you I am not a bastard. Is my magic black? You say that only because you like to imagine yourself some sort of angel, decked out in pure white.”

“You are a fool. Release me.”

“No, not yet. A fool, am I? I learned my lesson with you three years ago, after you managed to escape. You refused to understand that the marriage was one I had to make. There was no choice.

“When I awoke from that fathomless sleep that was steeped in dark dreams with phantoms chaining me to boulders at the edge of the sea, I also awoke with the knowledge of how to control you. I have your wand now, too. You can't bring me down, Brecia. I have all the power.”

Her lips weren't moving, but he knew, simply knew, that she was fashioning another curse, one designed specifically for him.

He lifted his wizard's wand high, lightly skimmed it over her, from her bare toes to the top of her head.

The white robe didn't disappear. She wasn't naked. Now what was this? He didn't use his wand again, merely thought her naked, dwelt on it with precise concentration. Her damned robe stayed just where it was. So she wasn't cursing him. Instead, she was fashioning chants to keep her clothes on.

He leaned over her. “You will yield to me, Brecia. You can struggle all you like against those ropes, but they can hold you—until forever and beyond.”

She was suddenly silent, staring up at him, and then she cursed him in vivid words that called upon every power from Satan himself to the first Druids who'd lived in caves and dyed their hair green, to the crude, barbaric Karelia from the south, who filed their teeth to points to better rip the meat from the bones of their sacrifices.