Newly returned from the Crusades, Rhys ap Gryffin is tired of fighting. But he has one last battle—to regain his lands in Wales. Little does he guess that he’s in for a bigger challenge when he comes across a mysterious maid in an English meadow, a maid who so utterly beguiles him, he almost forgets his quest. So when they meet again—and she proposes a night in his arms in exchange for his combat on her behalf—he agrees.
Chapter
One
England, 1192
"DID YOU HEAR THAT?” A mailed knight jerked nervously at
the reins of his mount and cast quick, furtive glances into the gloom. Mist
had begun to rise like smoke, drifting along the ground in vaporish wisps. It was too quiet—too ghostly in the dim, dusky
silence of the forest. Tangled tree branches of ancient oaks formed a
high ceiling overhead, as ribbed and vaulted as a French cathedral. Diffused
sunlight pierced the tight-knit canopy of new leaves in thready streamers to
light the narrow road, a hazy contrast to the air of expectant darkness looming
beyond.
A faint
tinkling sound like tiny bells carried on the wind. It faded so swiftly Rhys ap
Griffyn wasn’t certain he heard it. He pulled off his helmet to listen; light gleamed on blond hair, catching in thick
strands dampened from the weight and heat of his helmet. Gray eyes
narrowed as he surveyed the road and dense weald around them. Nothing stirred.
No sound but the muffled thud of hooves on soft ground and the clink of harness
disturbed the sudden hush.
The
mailed knight rode closer to Rhys, looking around anxiously. "Did you hear it?”
Sir
Brian was as full of superstition as an old woman. It would never do to let
fear take hold of him. Rhys shrugged. "I heard only the wind.”
"Nay,
this was different. It was strange. Like... faerie bells.”
Brian glanced around the road nervously. His
back stiffened, and one hand tightly gripped the loop of leather reins.
His mount danced fretfully, pulling at the bridle’s bit.
One of
the foot soldiers muttered uneasily, and Rhys sought to forestall more mention
of faeries. "I heard only soldiers’ footsteps and the sound of hooves on
deadfall.”
It was
an unfortunate choice of words. Brian blanched, face paling beneath the
noseguard of his helmet. "Do not look behind us, for the footsteps will be
those of dead men.”
Losing
patience, Rhys nudged his mount close and spoke low so only Brian would hear.
"There are no footsteps of the dead. You frighten the men with such talk.”
Freckles stood out like splotches of mud against the pale
skin stretched taut over Brian’s cheekbones and nose. He was past hearing sense.
"‘Tis Lá Bealtaine. We shouldn’t be out. Spirits roam on the borderline eve
between spring and summer, when it’s not one season or the other.” He paused to
suck in a deep breath. "It’s a borderline hour, neither day nor night, the time
when the faeries and spirits roam most freely.”
Several
of the soldiers within earshot glanced around, gripping weapons as if to fight
the spirits. Silently cursing Brian’s superstitions, Rhys leaned on the pommel
of his saddle to gaze at him with open amusement. "Big as you are, do you
think the Tylwyth Teg will be strong
enough to carry you with them, Sir Brian?”
One of
the Welsh archers laughed, although it sounded strained. Another said tensely, "Vsbrydnos.” The Welsh name for "spirit
night” rippled through the ranks of Welshmen and only baffled the English
soldiers and knights, yet they responded to growing anxiety with low murmurs.
Rhys
settled his helmet atop his damp hair. "The spirit night will not harm us. Nor
will the Tylwyth Teg.”
"In
Ireland,” Brian said darkly, "we call them the Daoine Sidhe. And it’s been said about more than one man that the
faeries captured him.”
"Pah!
‘Tis more likely wayward husbands invented excuses for angry wives,” Rhys said.
"Claiming capture by the faeries would be enough to convince almost any
goodwife that her husband was detained beyond his will.”
"You
mock me,” Sir Brian said irritably when several of the men laughed. He glanced
around, tugging off his helmet. Sweat plastered his red hair to his head.
Splinters of light filtered through the roof of leaves, providing enough
illumination to see the narrow road, but in the trees beyond, it had grown
darker. Looking back at Rhys, he complained, "We should have lingered at the
inn in the village. The maypole was lifted on the green, and there is to be
feasting and merrymaking.”
"And
winsome maids to go a’maying with—perhaps to get lost in the woods with while
picking whitethorn flowers?” When Brian flushed, Rhys took advantage of the
moment. "Nay, I know your way with the ladies. If we’d lingered, we’d not leave
Wytham by Saint John’s Eve, nor reach Coventry in time to meet Owain’s
messenger.”
"Aye,
there is truth in that.” Brian turned his mount on the close road, his mood
lighter. He moved to replace his helmet, but his horse gave a shrill whinny and
half reared, huge hooves thrashing in the air. Leaves shuddered as the animal
backed into a hawthorn hedge thick with white flowers and thorns, and Brian
cursed loudly as his helmet fell to the ground, rolling out of sight.
Suddenly all the horses began to plunge and snort,
throwing the knights into turmoil. When his own stallion threw up
his head and snorted, Rhys drew his sword and adjusted his shield. He’d been
too long a soldier and knight not to trust the instincts of his warhorse.
Brian’s
sword flashed in the gloom, as did those of the other men. Some muttered
curses, others offered prayers as they tried to calm their mounts without being
unhorsed. Footmen drew their swords in a clang of steel. Then one of the men
gave a shout.
Rhys
looked up. The hair on the back of his neckprickled a warning, and he fought his horse to a standstill before he was
able to focus on the object of this terror. His blood chilled.
In the
middle of the road just ahead stood a small figure, wreathed in shreds of mist
as if newly sprung from the very ground. Flowing robes of deepest purple
completely draped the motionless form. Rhys made the sign of the cross over his
chest, an instinctive ward against evil. A light peal of derisive laughter
emerged from the cloaked apparition. Discomfited, he ignored the spurt of
irrational dread and regained control of common sense.
He
curbed his plunging mount and spurred forward a few steps. "Move from the
road,” he ordered in English. Instead of immediately yielding, there was the
sound of more amusement and a brittle tinkle like tiny bells.
"In nomine Patris,” Sir
Brian moaned, crossing himself in a clink of chain mail that was echoed by the
others. "Confiteor Deo omnipoténti,
beátae María semper Virgini...” His prayer faded into
silence.
Rhys
lifted his sword; a runnel of sunlight skittered along the wicked edge of the
blade. Light reflected from chain mail and shield in erratic sparks. It was
warning and threat. He sought a conciliatory tone. "Seek the safety of the
verge, ere you be trampled.”
Another
laugh drifted toward him. Open denial of his authority. He could not see the
face as the hood was pulled too far forward, leaving only a dark blur beneath.
A spur to his horse or a quick thrust of his sword would remove the obstacle,
yet he hesitated.
". . . beáto Michaéli Archángelo, beáto
Joánni Baptíste,” Brian wheezed, inviting panic.
Enough.
He risked rampant rebellion from his soldiers if he did not prevail, for they
would scatter through the weald like crows. He would pluck this miscreant from
the road.
He
kneed his mount, but Malik only pranced nervously, tossing his head and
snorting instead of charging. Rhys swore, uncertain if he was more angry or
amazed at the horse’s refusal to obey a command.
Finally,
the figure moved. One arm lifted slowly. A small hand was barely noticeable
beneath the flowing garment. Rhys saw only a deep shimmering green on the
underside; no weapon was visible in the folds.
The
horses grew still, and an unnerving hush descended upon the forest road. Tiny
bells chimed in the wind, and from the shadows of the hooded cloak came words
in an exotic language Rhys had never heard—high, soft, and mysterious.
His horse shuddered, sleek black muscles rippling as the
head stretched toward the source of the song. Rhys nudged him to move closer, but
with a jangle of curb chain and bridle bit, the great head shook hard enough to
whip the long mane about in a stinging brush. It wasn’t until the figure spoke
again that the stallion calmed, but the words were smothered by Brian’s droning
Latin prayer.
". . . sanctis Apóstolis Petro et Paulo,
ómnibus sanctis, et tibi pater...”
Sir
Brian’s confessional entreaty grated on Rhys’s uncertain temper. Devil, faerie,
or enemy, this creature could not be allowed to make a mockery of him.
Clenching
his teeth hard, he ordered, "Move from the path, or be ridden over. I have no
time for foolishness.”
A snort
of unfaerielike laughter greeted his command, and a gust of wind blew, shaking
tree limbs and bells. His eyes narrowed. No mystical faerie bells, just the
wind.
". . . quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne, verbo
et ópere...”
"Cease,
Sir Brian.” Rhys glanced over his shoulder in exasperation. When he turned
back, the purple robe glided toward him. He tightened his grip on the hilt of
his sword. Nay, this was no reckless man barring the road, but a woman. There
was a fluid grace and fragility to the dainty form that could not be achieved
by any man he’d ever seen. It was almost as if this were a faerie on winged
feet.
Curse
Brian’s talk of elves and faeries—he had little patience with such
superstitions. Life had taught him much harsher lessons than to believe in
enchantment. It was not magic that ruled men’s fates, but the might of the
sword.
A full
score of knights and soldiers awaited his response. Squires and followers
straggled behind. Wind rustled tree branches overhead with an eerie clacking
sound, then it grew very still. No birds chirped; no normal forest sounds could
be heard. Mist crawled along the ground, rising slowly, curling around the
specter.
"Why do
you block the road?” he demanded, switching from English to French. "We would
pass.”
A sudden wind eddy lifted a spiral of dry leaves into the
air in a slight whisper, and the figure stepped
forward. A graceful lift of one hand pushed back the hood of her cloak.
Rhys stared at her.
She was
beautiful. Faerie-fragile and as luminous as moonlight on dark water, the maid
staring up at him with a faint smile left him speechless. Lustrous hair, black
as a raven’s wings, straight and shining, fell around her face, and her
eyes—Jésu, but her eyes were as deep and dark as the night. She stared directly
at him, and he was caught by the intensity of the eyes holding mysterious
promises in their depths.
For
what seemed like hours but in truth could only have been a moment, he stared
into that liquid gaze. Until she broke the spell.
"Greetings,
fair knight,” she said in soft, perfect French. "I bar your path only to warn
you. The bridge ahead has been washed away, and is not easily seen until too
late to stop. I thought you should know of the danger.”
"God’s
mercy on you for the warning.” He cleared his throat and gestured with his
sword. "Did we frighten you?”
Soft
laughter was accompanied by the tinkling of tiny bells as she shook her head.
The movement dislodged a skein of her unbound hair; it fell in a gleaming
ribbon over one shoulder nearly to her waist. She was close enough now he could
almost touch her.
"Nay,
brave knight. I was not frightened. Were you?”
"Frightened?
By a wisp of a maid? Do you think we are children?”
"I
thought perhaps you would fear the Beltane Eve, as many do.”
Sweet
Mary, but she was bold to taunt him with a subtle, feline smile and sly words.
"I fear naught,” he said shortly.
"Is
that so? Courage is always needed in these fearsome times.” She took a step to
one side, scattering shreds of mist that curled up around her like smoke. The
teasing smile still played at the corners of her mouth.
Provoked,
he said, "Times would be fearsome indeed, if the king’s knights were to fear a
simple maiden in the midst of the road.”
The
maid paused. Her gaze was eloquent and rich with scorn. "Yea, English knights
are valorous indeed, as courageous as the king is said to be. Yet I’ve heard
that Richard slaughters children.”
Rhys
swung his shield over his shoulder again. A gleam of sunlight caught the
metallic edge and flashed into his eyes. Blinking, he looked back at her. He
could hardly deny it when it was true, but it didn’t sweeten his temper to be
reminded of it. "Are you Richard’s enemy?”
The air
grew radiantly bright. A thin shaft of light speared the gloom to fall directly
on the maid’s face. She waved an imperious hand, and the sunlight shifted from
her eyes as if commanded away.
"Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” Brian
choked out, striking his chest with a mailed
fist, and Rhys turned to give him a quelling glance.
When he
turned back, the maid had faded into the shade of an ancient hawthorn;
snow-white flower petals trembled delicately. Shadows darkened, obscuring all
but her voice. "I am no man’s enemy. And I fear no man.”
Rhys blinked again, and the dwindling sunlight
disappeared with a startling swiftness, as if an oil lamp had been
doused. Staring into the black void, his first instinct was to call her back.
"Demoiselle—you should not be alone in the night.”
Faint
laughter drifted back on a sudden gust of wind. The sweet scent of hawthorn blended with a vaguely familiar,
intriguing fragrance. In a trice,
Rhys dismounted to follow her. His spurs clinked softly as he steppedinto the tangle of trees.
Brian
flung himself from his horse, catching up to Rhys to tug frantically at his mantle.
"Nay, Rhys—do not. If you follow her, she will take you into the faerie world,
and you will never escape.”
Rhys
shook his arm loose impatiently. "Do not act a fool, Brian.”
But
when he moved deeper into the trees where the maid had disappeared, he saw no
sign of her presence. No broken branch gave indication of her passage. Only the
faintly familiar whiff of fragrance remained as a teasing reminder. A gust of
wind caught a slender branch that swayed toward his face, and he put up a hand
to grab it. He grasped a handful of hawthorn flowers and swore softly when a
barb found its way through the metal links of his gauntlets to prick him. No
one could just disappear like that, like—like mist.
Brian
nudged close to him, his voice rough with fear. "I cannot say if the maid was
elf or faerie, but whatever, she has frightening powers.”
"Do you
think she summoned the dark?” Derision hid his own misgivings; he knew not what
to believe. "She’s only a simple maiden warning us of danger ahead. If she has
any sense, she’s wise enough not to become too friendly with roaming knights.”
"Still,
I cannot like this,” Brian muttered. Rhys fell silent. There was no point in
arguing deeply held superstitions. Pointing out to Brian now that dark oft came
abruptly in the deep forests would do nothing to abate his belief that the maid
had summoned the night. Nay, it would be a waste of breath even to attempt it.
The
maid certainly wasn’t a faerie. But
who was she? If she was from the village they had passed through, she was too far
from home and safety. No young maiden should be alone in the forest, day or
night. But was she alone? She could be a ruse, a distraction, while villains
lay in the trees ahead to fall upon them. Mercenaries could always set upon
them, for the forests were thick with thieves on the roads in England these
days.
Yet it
was not a mortal enemy his men feared....
Just a
glance at their strained faces and wide eyes was enough to convince him they
would be worthless the rest of the night. It would take a miracle to put them
at ease—or more magic to counter what they feared.
He
summoned Sir Robert, an older knight with experience and sense. "We will return
to the clearing we passed earlier. We’ll camp and light a coelcerth for the Beltane Eve.”
"Aye,
my lord.” Sir Robert turned and gave orders to prepare to halt for the night.
Some of the Welsh soldiers nodded in relief. A ritual
bonfire to chase away the demons should restore their courage, so that the morrow
would find the men free of the numbing fear that seemed to grip them now. It
seemed to ease the worst of their fright. When they returned to the clearing,
the sounds of making camp lent a reassuring normalcy to the night. Welshmen
readied themselves to gather the
sticks from nine different kinds of trees to perform their ceremony, removing
all metal from their bodies, including mail
and swords.
Rhys looked down. He still held his naked sword. Slowly,
he sheathed it. This sword had been used on the field of battle at Acre and was
forged of the finest steel, with a hilt of carved copper and bronze. He had
captured it while on Crusade with King Richard, and it had served him well.
He thought of those distant, sun-drenched
lands where towering stone fortresses stood stark against barren hills. It hit
him then, as he stared into the enveloping darkness, that the intriguing
fragrance he had detected among the hedges was Turkish jasmine.
"THAT
WAS FOOLISH,” Elspeth said sourly.
Sasha
flushed with annoyance. Her chin came up instinctively as she caught Elspeth’s
unspoken words: Reckless—and proud as
Lucifer’s own daughter...
Ignoring
the thought and addressing the spoken reprimand, Sasha said, "What, to warn the
knights of the bridge? Nay, ‘twas only kindness.”
"They
could have killed you. I’ve noticed no kindness from wandering knights to
solitary maidens.” Elspeth shook her head. A long shadow wavered on the cave
wall. "Your Gift won’t protect you from folly. It was foolish.”
Sasha
didn’t want to admit how unsettled the encounter had left her. She managed a careless
shrug as she seated herself before the fire and held her hands out to warm
them. She still shook with reaction. Faintly amazed at her own daring, she’d
not expected to have such an effect on the knights. She couldn’t say she was
sorry for frightening them, but she had expected the full use of her Gift to
learn how best to approach the tall, lean knight who was their leader.
Instead,
she’d encountered only a brilliant silence when she bent her talent toward the
knight. No identity, unspoken words, or images had come to her when bid, only
that bright, brittle band of silence. Alarmed, she’d turned her talent to the
score of men ranging behind the blond knight. Jumbled impressions couched in
several languages had come from the armed men with him, restoring a shaky faith
in her Gift. It was not gone, only powerless with this one man. She’d found the
lack bewildering, then frightening.
Why
couldn’t she read his thoughts? It had never happened to her before. So she’d
stood staring up at him while mist coiled along the ground in annoying shreds,
dampening her cloak and veiling the knight in gauzy streamers. And then, bright
and swift as a bolt of lightning had come the illuminating explanation: He must
be the answer to the prophecy.
Elspeth
made a soft clucking sound in the back of her throat, and Sasha looked up.
Firelight danced over craggy walls and ceiling. Tucked beneath a shelf of rock
and heavy brush not far from the road, the cave was well hidden and not easily
seen, a perfect spot for travelers seeking safe shelter for a night. The low
roof grew higher toward the back, and a bone-deep chill emanated from the rock
walls. She also felt the chill of Elspeth’s disapproval, and Sasha answered her
at last.
"Not so
foolish, if you will. My Gift has always given me the ability to see the true
nature of men. The blond knight is not evil. I knew that when I spoke with him,
even without using my Gift.”
"Bah.
He is arrogant and proud,” Elspeth grumbled. "You should have fled, as did
Biagio and I.”
"Biagio
fled with you?” she murmured. "‘Twould be the first time that brash youth
abandoned danger.”
Elspeth
shrugged. "I did not say he came with me willingly. But at least he gave heed to my warnings. When I saw
you were not with us—if those men had taken you...”
She let
her voice fade, but Sasha did not need to hear thoughts or spoken words to know
what she meant. Outlaw knights had little compunction about taking a woman
against her will, even killing her.
Richard was on his Crusades, and all of England had been left in the hands of
his brother Prince John. With a villain as their ruler, villains roamed freely.
"Where
is Biagio now?” she asked to avoid more censure from Elspeth. "We must re-pack
the cart for the morrow.”
"He
went back to look for you.”
Elspeth
turned her head, but Sasha intercepted a brief mental vision of Biagio’s face,
contorted and angry, his words sharp. Dio—I
am going back... I will
find her... should not have left... Then Elspeth firmly focused on the leaping
flames of the fire, and her mental images of Biagio disappeared to be replaced
by a resolute study of the flames.
Sasha’s
cheeks puffed out in a sigh. Elspeth and Biagio worried unduly. But she
couldn’t change that. And in truth, there was often reason for apprehension. "I
hope Biagio is careful,” was all she said.
Biagio
could take care of himself well enough. The young Italian seemed to have a
multitude of talents, none of them fully developed, some of them irritating,
but all accompanied by a strong sense of self-preservation. He was reckless and
insolent, and though she would never have admitted it to him for fear his head
would swell with conceit, she blessed the day he had joined them. And she was
infinitely grateful that he had not interfered in the weald.
She
thought again of the knight who had resented her warning. Having newly come
from the ruined bridge that barred their path, they’d had only enough time to
hide in the trees upon first sighting the approaching knights, peering out at
them through thorny branches. The men made no effort to be quiet, and Sasha
found herself greatly amused by the man named Rhys’s disbelief in
superstitions. His arrogant denials had prompted her to mischief, to tweak him
a little. It was easy for her to agitate their horses. And it had been worth it
to see Richard’s stalwart knights struggle with uncontrollable mounts, swearing
and praying and sweating. She’d not been able to contain her laughter. There
was a deep-seated belief in the world of elves and faeries in all men, whether
they wished to acknowledge it or not.
But
then the leader had shifted his shield, and she’d glimpsed a mythical beast on
the hammered metal surface. The gryffin—it was the sign she had long sought.
Half-closing
her eyes, Sasha gazed into the leaping flames. She’d not expected the answer to
the prophecy to be so young. She’d envisioned a grizzled warrior with battle
scars aplenty, savage and impressive, bellowing threats and even defying the
heavens. But not this, not a man who looked more like a princely knight in a chansons de geste than a fierce fighter.
She didn’t want a romantic hero. She wanted a proficient warrior. That was what
it would take to succeed.
Elspeth
was right. It had been very foolish to stand in the midst of the forest road,
gazing up at an angry knight and gaping like a lackwit, but she’d been so
startled by the lack of her Gift that she couldn’t react. And then she’d seen
the emblem he wore and really looked at him. That had almost been her undoing.
He could have been Apollo stepped down from the sun—as blinding, blond, and
beautiful as the Greek god. No helmet hid his bright hair or clean-shaven
features, and she’d found herself staring at him as if struck dumb, thinking
that he couldn’t be the man for whom she’d searched so long.
But
perhaps he was....
There
was character in his noble visage, in high cheekbones not at all marred by the
scar curving from one temple, integrity in the pale eyes beneath a slash of
dark brows, strength in the hard, arrogant set of his jaw. The very air had
seemed to shimmer, as it did in the midst of a summer storm, when lightning
charged the air.... Yea, perhaps he was the man she’d been
promised, the champion who would fulfill the prophecy.
Sasha.
Drifting
to her through leaping flame and smoke, the unspoken word had all the raw power
of a scream. Sasha looked up from the fire, reluctantly meeting Elspeth’s eyes.
As usual, she knew what the older woman was thinking. She slowly shook her
head, and the tiny bells sewn into the lining of her cloak tinkled lightly.
"Elspeth,
I must confess. His mind is closed to me. But this is the one—I’m certain that
he is the man of the prophecy.”
Elspeth
stared at her. A frail hand moved up to her throat with a small flutter. "The
prophecy... child, child, you were only eight years old when
Rina told you of it. She was just a crazy Kievan Rus seer. Who could know if
this prophecy is true?”
"It’s
true. Nothing else makes sense.” She drew in a deep breath. "It has to be true.
I have searched so long for my champion, and now he is come.”
Elspeth
moaned. "Nay, Sasha, he’s a rogue knight. He cannot be the one. You said
yourself his mind is closed to you. It must be a mistake. We shall yet find the
one who was promised. Perhaps when we get to my village—”
"It’s
this one. I’m certain of it. Do not ask me how I know. It’s a
feeling... think of the prophecy, the chance meeting with a
fierce knight who is half eagle, half lion.”
"How
can you be so certain it’s this one?” Elspeth’s veined hands shook as she held
them out. "Your Gift cannot foretell the future—”
"You
didn’t see his crest before you fled.” Sasha’s eyes began to burn, and she
closed them against the smoke and doubt. "He wore the sign of the gryffin on
his shield and surcoat. It was the half eagle, half lion that has haunted my
dreams since I was only a child. ‘Tis he, I know it. I cannot be wrong—”
"Because
he wears the gryffin? Perchance, it’s only his overlord’s colors he wears, and
not his.”
"That’s
a possibility, of course, but it doesn’t matter. He wears the sign. This is the
one. I feel it, Elspeth.”
"Holy
Mary, child.” Her voice quavered. "What if you’re wrong? You know your Gift is
truly useful, but it cannot save you from disaster.”
"Yea, I
know that well. Too well. There are times this Gift is a curse, though it’s
often helped me learn truths others cannot see. He must be the one, Elspeth, he
must—or I would be able to see in his mind as I can all others. He’s too strong
for me to penetrate the wall of light around him, too powerful for my Gift.”
She opened her eyes. "I intend to ask him to help us.”
"Aiee!
Child, you frighten me. Have you no regard for your own safety?” Elspeth rocked
back and forth, her arms crossed over her bony chest in a gesture of grief. "I
fear for you if you deal with hedge knights. They’re evil men, with no regard
for others, devouring all in their paths. If it’s meant to be, it will happen.
Do not ask him, I beg of you.”
"But
this knight is different.” She searched for the words to explain herself, to
make Elspeth understand. "When I look at him, I see a gryffin. We need
such a fabled beast, need a man with the strength of a lion and the fierce
courage of an eagle. Take heart. He is the knight that was promised, and he
will help us. I know he will.”
Elspeth
subsided, but the discussion was not ended. Sasha knew better. In truth, she
had misgivings of her own. What if Elspeth was right? What if she’d made a
mistake? But even if she had, wasn’t anything better than what yawned before
her—living out her years in a remote English village so far from everything? In
a moment of despair and weakness she had yielded to Elspeth’s pleas, and now
they were so close to the village where Elspeth had been born, so close to the
end of their long journey across most of Europe and all of England. Years of
wandering, from gilded palaces to burning desert sands, over towering mountain
heights and down into valleys beautiful enough to hurt the eyes, would soon be
over. It hadn’t all been wonderful. There had been terrifying times, times when
she was certain they would be killed and their bodies left in a desolate
wilderness, but they’d survived. She had done what she must—donned disguises,
foretold futures at county fairs, even danced with a bear once on frozen
tundra. She’d perched atop the bare backs of racing horses and won the
admiration of a French count—the most dangerous kind of attention for a maiden,
and one that had sent them scurrying from the chateau in midnight hours. Yet
the enmity of a powerful prince may well see them ruined if she did not hide
away. Yea, she had not spent the past thirteen years idly.
But for
what? If she gave up now, what would have been the purpose of surviving when
those she loved had not?
"Remember,”
Elspeth said softly, coming to stand in front of the fire, "that you are a
princess. Men oft grow greedy, or swollen with the lust for power. Do not trust
too readily, child.”
Sasha’s
mouth twisted wryly. "A princess without a throne or a country, hunted by those
who would slay me for an accident of birth. I have riches but not enough to buy
an army, royal blood but no title. Not even the name I use is my own. No, you
don’t have to remind me. It would be impossible to forget who I am. Or who I
once was...”
Those
days were gone, vanished in the uprising of fierce men who had swept over her
father’s land, seizing the white-washed towers and minarets, slaying all those
in their path. Her mother, the fair English rose renowned for beauty and
wisdom, had been slain as well. Dark days, dark memories...
The inherited Gift, passed from mother to daughter, had not been enough to save
Elfreda from death. It had only allowed her to see her daughter and maidservant
safely away, forfeiting her life to ensure theirs. That was the ultimate gift,
the ultimate sacrifice, and it had been for love of her child. No, she would
not allow that sacrifice to be in vain, not allow the murderer of her parents
to go unpunished. And she would take back that which was hers.
Al-Amir
would not be allowed to keep what he’d stolen; neither would he succeed in
annihilating all of Ben Al-Farouk’s heirs, for she was still alive, the last
one. And if her enemies knew it, she would die as well.
Rising,
Sasha removed her cloak, laying aside the useful garment. It was royal purple
on one side, green on the other, suiting whichever mood was on her, as
changeable as she needed it to be. She moved to a bundle and rummaged inside
until she found what she sought. Then she returned to the fire and knelt before
it. After carefully inscribing a few words on a chip of sandalwood, she placed
it in a brass censer.
"What
do you wish for?” Elspeth asked.
Sasha
looked up, pausing. "Only for an answer to the prophecy. What is meant to be,
will come to us. I wish for another sign to prove that I am not wrong.”
She lit
the sandalwood with a burning twig; a fragrant coil of smoke rose to mingle
with the scent of burning oak. She closed her eyes. Joy and peace, all the
things that eluded her, were written on the sandalwood. The prophecy would come
true. Opening her eyes, she stared intently at the brass censer, thinking hard
of the wish rising with the smoke, repeating it over and over, until the wood
was nothing but ash.
Eyes
half-closed, she turned her head to stare into the fire. Among the leaping
flames and curling smoke she saw a land of sunshine and warmth, peace and
beauty—and the knight who could win it all back for her.