The Penwyth Curse (21 page)

They heard a loud crack, then flames shot up around
them, hot flames, coming close, closer still. The prince yelled, “Hold steady, Brecia. Hold steady.”

But her wand was on fire, so hot she could see her fingers turning black. “By the sacred ancient mother of the oaks,” she whispered, but she held on because she had no choice; she held on despite the awful pain, the smell of her own flesh burning. His hands weren't burning. She saw that his eyes were steady on the point of power, and she redoubled her concentration despite the pain. Why weren't his fingers burning like hers were?

It wouldn't be long now. She knew the pain was going to kill her, burn her to ashes. No, no, she had to concentrate, she had to send all her power to the tip of her wand, hold steady—hold steady.

Suddenly the bubble burst outward, flinging flames high into the sky overhead, as far as the eye could see. There was the sound of crashing glass, and it was everywhere. Shards flew up around the flames, merging together to encase the flames, and flame funnels flew so high into the air, they met the clouds. The prince and Brecia waited, not moving. No broken glass fell back down into the courtyard. Nothing at all fell back down. The flames seemed to snake through the clouds. Brecia could have sworn she heard a hissing sound, like water poured on a fire. The funnels disappeared.

The prince saw that Brecia was lying on the ground, unconscious. And her hands—by all the gods—her hands were still burning. He didn't think, just touched the tip of his wand to hers, now lying on the ground beside her.

From one instant to the next, they were no longer in that wretched courtyard, they were lying on their backs on a deserted beach, as if flung there by an invisible slingshot. How far away their wands had sent them, he didn't know. At the moment it didn't seem all that important.

They were free.

Brecia's beautiful green cloak was lying on the warm sand next to her, smoldering, the wondrous fine-woven
material blackened, tattered, as if torn into strips by an animal's claws. It was ruined.

She awoke to see her cloak burning. Incredibly, it was her cloak that got her attention, not her burning hands. She began scooping up sand and throwing it on the cloak to bury the flames. “Oh, no, oh, no.”

He couldn't stop her. He looked at her cloak, wished it whole, but nothing happened. He wished it whole with all his being, directing it through his wand. Nothing happened. The cloak continued to smolder sullenly.

He didn't understand; whatever was burning the cloak was beyond him. He said, “Brecia, leave go. By all the gods, look at your hands.”

She looked down at her outstretched hands, saw her blackened fingers, felt her skin peeling and bubbling, felt pain so deep, so foul and vicious, that she didn't think she could bear it.

“Don't snivel. I'm not going to let you die, you careless witch. I'm not going to let your hands burn off. Close your eyes and hold still, dammit.”

He took her hands in both of his, saw that the fingers were raw, bent, so badly burned that they were curved like claws. He leaned down, kissed each of her fingers, touching his tongue to her burned flesh. He kissed each one again, his tongue cool on her flesh. And yet again.

The pain was gone. Her fingers were white again, whole. She was crying silently from the awful pain, tears running down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. He touched his fingertips to her eyes, and the tears fell onto his hands. He turned his hands over, cupped them, and let her tears flow. When his hands were filled with her tears, he looked at her smoldering cloak and whispered two ancient words that he'd never spoken before. “
Blashen norna.
”

He opened his hands and let the drops of water fall onto the cloak. Nothing happened. He said nothing more, merely looked at the cloak lying there on the ground,
burning sluggishly. Then he smiled, lifted her right hand and touched it to the cloak.

The cloak became brilliantly clean and fresh again. There was no sign of fire, no smell of burnt fabric. It was exactly as it once had been. She sucked in her breath, and he felt her joy, her bewilderment, and he smiled at her even as the cloak came around her shoulders. He made a cup again with his right hand, flicked his fingers, and the hood came over her head.

“You saved me. How did you do it?”

She heard his unspoken words in her mind:
My father is a great wizard. I am a greater wizard, and you and I will birth a wizard who will be known throughout the ages, for all time, forever and beyond.

She stared down at her hands, flexed her fingers, felt the smoothness of her flesh, felt the blood flowing easily. It was as if she'd never been burned. Her cloak was soft and warm around her shoulders.

“We're sitting on a beach.” She tasted the salty air, inhaled it deeply.

The prince came to his feet and stretched. She wondered if he was testing all his parts, making certain that he'd not left anything of himself at Mawdoor's fortress.

“I touched our wands together once more. This is where they sent us. I'm very pleased you're all right, Brecia.”

She had no choice, and it didn't seem at all difficult to say. “I thank you, prince.”

“I believe it is time we left Penwyth—aye, we're still close to the fortress, I recognize this beach at the western end of Penwyth—before Mawdoor finds us and thinks of another challenge.”

He took her hand and pulled her quickly up and against him. She felt her cloak spreading out, as if under a spell, enclosing him against her, making them one, and then they were gone from the beach, gone from Penwyth. Only an instant passed, she knew it, felt it, but still it seemed a very long time before her feet were on solid ground and she knew herself to be home.

He'd actually brought her home, despite being close to Penwyth and Mawdoor. She breathed in the very being of her oak forest, felt it comfort her, enclose her.

They were still pressed together inside her cloak. She said against his throat, “We're home,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, and she felt his mouth against her temple. “I brought you home.”

23

T
HEY STOOD AT THE EDGE
of the dark, ancient oak forest and felt the brilliant noonday sun, full and hot overhead, beating down on their faces. “It doesn't seem that any time has passed,” she said.

“Time has passed,” he said. “It is another day.”

He started to say something else, but stopped when they saw seven travelers, four men and three women, some walking, some riding mules, coming toward them.

Mortals.

An older man walked at the head of the small group, a gnarly stick in his hand. He saw them, stopped, leaned on his big stick, and said, “We saw you coming from the dark forest. There's danger in there, you know. Are you all right?”

The prince, Brecia realized, was garbed just like the mortals, as was she. She hadn't noticed that he'd whisked away her white robe. She looked down at the long green woolen gown, at the soft leather slippers on her feet. She fingered the delicate gold chain at her waist. He hadn't done away with that.

“Oh, aye,” the prince said to the man, nodding to the rest of the travelers. “There is nothing in that forest save
very old trees that block out the sunlight, nothing menacing.”

The man said, “My name is Branneck, and these are my people. We are traveling to the plain to see the sacred stone circle.”

“You are a religious group, sir?” Brecia asked, aware that the women riding the mules were all studying her. Why? She fingered the gold chain at her waist. The women's eyes followed her fingers. They wanted her gold belt. Why couldn't the prince have put a leather belt around her waist?

“Aye,” Branneck said. “We come from Caledonia, to pour the Loch Ness monster's tears on the stones.”

There was no end to human foolishness, the prince thought. He smiled at them and said, “My wife and I are returning home. We spent a week deep in the oak forest. It is said a woman will conceive a child if she is taken standing up, her back against one of the ancient oak trees.”

“Ah,” Branneck said, staring now at Brecia, at her golden belt. “That is an interesting notion. Think you that you are now with child?”

Brecia closed the distance to the prince's side. She took his arm and leaned into him, smiling up at him. “Mayhap I could be with child if only my husband could have brought himself to a proper size to accomplish it.”

The seven men and women stared at her. The men blinked, looked toward the prince to see if he would cuff this disrespectful woman, but the prince threw back his head and laughed.

Branneck said, his fingers tightening around his walking stick, “It seems that you are alone.”

“One wants to be alone when one is bent on impregnating one's wife,” the prince said. Then he withdrew a golden disk from beneath his tunic, a beautiful creation fashioned during the time of the Romans, and set it just so that it gleamed beneath the brilliant sun. Brecia
wondered if he'd gone mad. The men were eyeing that gold disk just as the women were eyeing her golden chain.

Branneck smiled, all complacent and confident, nodded to the men, and raised his stick. He ran at the prince and brought the stick down to crack open his head. The other men were on the prince in the next moment. Brecia eyed the women, who were smiling, watching the four men against one.

Brecia called out, “Attacking a single man amuses you?”

“Shut yer mouth,” one of the women said. “Else we'll let the men plow you until it is certain you do conceive.”

Brecia turned to watch the prince. He'd blocked Branneck's stick with his arm and shoved the man back onto the ground. The other three men had closed in on him, and were ready to kill and rob him. His life meant nothing to them, save a few coins in their pockets.

“Brecia,” the prince said, “would you like to deal with these kind fellows or shall I?”

“It will be my pleasure to watch you,” she said. She expected the prince to blink them into oblivion or dash them into a pile of small black stones, each one's arms and legs inseparable from the other's, but he didn't do either. He watched them as would a mortal man, bent forward, hands extended, and he said, “Come here, my brave fellows. Let me how you how a real man treats scum like you.”

She realized then that he had made himself a vulnerable mortal man. He'd blanked out his wizard skills. Did he believe himself so beyond mortals? He had run mad. She felt a sharp hit of fear. Why was he doing this? She nearly yelled at him, then stopped herself. No, he was strong, well made. He could protect himself, just as a mortal man would.

One of the men yelled in rage as he rushed forward, motioning the other two to come at the prince from the side. The man Branneck, whom he'd knocked on the
ground, was on his feet again, moving around behind the prince.

One of the men ran forward swinging his stick at the prince's head. The prince laughed, grabbed the man's stick and swung it in a full circle, striking the other three men in their bellies. There were cries and curses, and a moan from a fellow who now had a broken rib.

The women were getting worried. One of them yelled, “Branneck, bring him down, stab him in the back! I want the woman's golden belt. Do it!”

Brecia walked to the woman, grabbed her arm, and pulled her off the mule's back. The woman shrieked as she fell to the ground at Brecia's feet. The woman cursed even as she flew at her, her fingers curved like talons, her fingernails aimed at Brecia's eyes and face.

Before Brecia could react, the prince picked up one of the moaning men and threw him at the woman. They went down together.

The men looked at Branneck, nodded. Each of them drew a knife, long and sharp, and it was obvious they knew how to use them, had used them often. The prince merely laughed again and said, “What will you do with those, lads? Do you want to feel them dig into your ribs? Then come here, and let me assist you to your mortal sinners' hell.”

Branneck hung back, not rushing forward in rage with the other three men. The prince clouted each of them, a fist to the side of the head, a fist to the belly, a knee to the groin of the unluckiest. He had turned to smile at Brecia, preening, very pleased with himself, when Branneck, silent as a cat streaking through the oak forest beneath a full moon, crept up behind him. Brecia didn't think, she just shouted, “Behind you!”

The prince turned, but he was too late. Branneck's knife stabbed him in the chest. Branneck jerked the blade out and stood back, panting. “Now you can die, you devil.”

Brecia couldn't believe it, she just couldn't. Because the prince was enjoying himself playing at mortal games,
she'd let him have his way. But it had gone wrong, terribly wrong. Now it was too late, too late. The women were coming at her, the men rising, coming with them.

“. . . teach the bitch a lesson.”

“. . . plow her belly.”

“. . . aye, give her the blade too.”

Branneck said, “I want that gold chain she's wearing.”

The prince was lying on his back, his eyes closed.

“You miserable fools!” Brecia slipped her wand out of her sleeve, screamed words she'd scarce ever spoken in her life, and pointed at each of them. They were all suddenly on the ground, hands and feet tied. As for Branneck, she sent him straight up into the air. “You will stay there for all to see,” she said. “Forever.”

She heard him screaming even as she knelt over the prince, covered both of them with her cloak, closed her eyes over the awful fear, and whisked them back into the oak forest.

“Don't you dare die, damn you,” she said over and over. He was quiet, too quiet, and now he lay on her bed inside her fortress, his blood flowing over his tunic, staining it deep red, the blood of a man mortally wounded.

Callas was at her side in an instant. “Move, mistress. He might try to kill you.”

“Go away, Callas. He isn't my enemy. By the gods, what do I do?”

The prince opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Brecia,” he said. “I didn't make a very good mortal, did I?”

“You were a splendid mortal,” she said, “but there were four of them and they were bent on killing you. Hush now.”

But he wasn't a mortal, and that was the point. She nodded herself back into her long white woolen gown.

“Tell me what to do.”

“There is nothing,” he said. “I was a fool. I'm very sorry. I don't want to leave you. I wanted to impregnate you.”

“You're saying you can't fix yourself? What sort of
wizard are you, prince? Damn you, do something! Tell me what to do!”

His eyes closed, and that ironic smile fell from his mouth. She knew in that moment that he was dying. He was dying as a mortal man would die because as a mortal man he'd been stabbed in his heart.

“NO!”

She stretched out her full length over him. She felt his blood seeping into her gown. She felt his heartbeat, slow, faint.

She closed her eyes and stretched herself so that her arms covered his arms, her legs covered his legs, her heart pressed against his heart.

She closed her mouth over his mouth, breathed in his breath. “You will not die,” she said into his mouth. “Do you hear me, you pathetic wizard? Where is your magic? Damn you to beyond—shuck off the mortal's skin and heal yourself!”

She felt his pain, pulsing up now, coming through her gown, coming from the deepest part of his heart where the blade had entered and torn. She began to shake with the pain as it grew and grew, pouring itself into her, digging into her very being, hard, stabbing deep. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she felt the knife blade sinking into her, felt her own blood explode around the blade, felt the icy cold of the blade's tip vibrating, the death bringer. Then she felt the blood—his blood, her blood—begin to seep out of her chest.

She held on, closed her eyes and kept the pain deep and close, not making a sound. She whispered against his mouth, “Prince, you will not die. Give me your pain, all of it.”

“No, Brecia,” he said, and she heard the death sound in his throat. “I was a fool, I wanted to prance about like a mortal man, and now I will die, but I will not allow you to die with me. No, Brecia.” With incredible strength, he threw her off him. She landed at least six feet away, rolling onto the floor. The soul-deep pain was suddenly gone.

He lurched up onto his elbow, looked at her. “I didn't mean this to happen,” he said, and fell back. “I wanted to amuse you, fight those ridiculous men, make you laugh.”

“You will not die, damn you!” She shouted his name, surrounding it with every curse she knew, screamed it to the roof of her fortress, as she leapt back up and threw herself on top of him again. His chest against her chest, her arms against his arms, her legs against his legs, his bleeding heart now bleeding into her heart.

She held him down with her strongest spell, pressing her forehead against his. The pain grew and grew. She didn't know such pain could exist. It was beyond the pain of her burning hands, beyond anything she could have imagined. She heard Callas screaming at her, telling her to leave the miserable wizard to the fates.

She felt the prince trying to throw her off again, but he was weakening. Her spell was holding, and she was too strong for him. She realized that she could easily die as well.

It didn't matter.

She pressed harder and moaned her pain against his forehead. She felt his breath whisper against her flesh. “Get off me, Brecia, it's no good. It is my fate.” He knew in his wizard's soul that no one could change fate.

Brecia didn't waste time worrying about fate. She prayed to her mother, to her mother's mother, to all the long line of witches who had come before her, who had nurtured and taught her, and she cried, her tears falling on his closed eyes.

The pain was breaking her. It was beyond a mortal's pain, beyond a witch's pain. It was a shared pain, a final pain, and it would break her.

She didn't know how, but she managed to hold on. She felt the last of her own blood flowing into his now, and then, suddenly, she felt empty, a husk that meant nothing anymore. She was above that husk, looking down and wondering what was wrong.