The Magic Read online

  “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 romant
ic 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.

  Chapter Two

  MIST ROSE ABOVE the woodland pool in soft gray wisps, hovering in the windless chill of dawn. Rhys knelt at the edge, bare-chested and prickled with cold, one knee pressed into damp mud and fallen leaves. Avoiding tiny swimming creatures, he scooped up a handful of water to drink. It eased his parched throat and dripped down his chest to wet the waist of his braies. He raked his dripping hand through his hair and stood up. It was quiet here in this small copse of trees. He was alone, none of his men brave enough to dare faeries, nor fool enough to admit their fear. These were the same men, of course, who thought little of fighting screaming infidels that were armed to the teeth and flinging Greek fire at them. Good soldiers and worthy men, but mindless idiots in the face of the unexplained. He grimaced. Brian was the worst of the lot when it came to believing tales of faeries and elves.

  Rhys had outgrown those fears with his milk teeth. There was no room for intangible worries in a world too full of harsh realities. He’d learned that early enough. By eighteen, he’d been knighted. At twenty-eight, he was a battle-scarred veteran of several French wars—and of his most recent exploit, the grandly named Crusades to convert infidels who had no desire to abandon their pagan beliefs. Not that it mattered. King Richard gave them little chance to consider conversion, preferring the sanction of the sword to that of the priest. But that was Richard. Magnificent, courageous, and as utterly ruthless a man as Rhys had ever met.

  Not that Richard was without a streak of mercy when he wished to display it. When news of Griffyn ap Gryffyd’s untimely death had finally reached Rhys in Acre, Richard had insisted he leave the Crusades and go home to Wales. This act of kindness was only slightly tarnished by the king’s expectation that Rhys would hold for England the Marcher lands that Rhys’s father had bequeathed him. Or—more important to an always financially needy Richard—the coffers this inheritance would bring. Crusades were expensive. Money was always short. And so Rhys was summarily sent home with Richard’s best wishes ringing in his ears. He fully expected the king’s tax agent to beat him to the gates of Glynllew.