“I know that if I trusted you, you would try to bind me to you, or, mayhap you would even use me to barter for your wand.”
The earth shook beneath his feet, and both of them felt it. His rage was that great. “Damn you, you obstinate, blind witch, I would die before I let anyone harm you!”
His words hung in the air, hard and heavy between them, the air undulating as if unseen fingers were sweeping through it.
She stared at him for a very long time before she said, “There is much between us, prince.” He knew she could see the shimmering air, knew she was using her own breath to warm it, sending her soft breath to him, to stroke his face, to calm him. “I will believe you until you become again as you once were.”
“Whatever that was,” he said, blowing that warm air back into her face.
“Mawdoor is dangerous,” she said, and it was true. His fortress was too near her oak grove for her peace of mind. Her people, even the ghosts so old they could see into the future as easily as they could the past, spoke very quietly when Mawdoor was the subject. All feared him.
“Mawdoor has never tried to harm either me or my people. He’s never come into my forest as far as I know.” She paused a moment, and he saw a flash of fear on her face. “I remember late one night, several years ago, Mawdoor—just to remind me of his power, I suppose—sent a powerful bolt of lightning down to strike not a foot away from my fortress. A huge plume of smoke rose high above the forest, and I knew he’d sent it.”
“Not much of a warning,” the prince said. “What did you do?”
“I? I did nothing. I have heard stories of his power, of the devastation he brings when he is displeased.”
He frowned at that. “He knows where you live, where your fortress stands.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Somehow he must have divined that I was there also.”
“And he was surprised,” Brecia said slowly. “And then enraged. You’re right, he must be planning something quite spectacular since he didn’t kill you right here.”
“He could not divine that I was with you. Even I could not divine that. Perhaps one of your ghosts is his spy.”
The ground shook.
He smiled. “Well done, Brecia. Do you really wish to help me fetch our wands?”
The ground stilled. He heard a bird flying overhead, actually heard it, and the march of an insect near his foot.
“Aye,” she said, “I’ll help you. There is something else you must know, prince.”
“I don’t think I’m going to like this, am I?”
She merely shrugged. “Mawdoor sent one of his advocates into the forest to see me. Three months ago, at the time of the full moon.”
He waited.
“It was his offer of marriage. But it was much, much more. It was also a threat if I refused him.”
“What did you do to his advocate?”
“I did nothing, merely told him that I had vowed celibacy until the third millennium.”
“What did he say to that?”
“The advocate suggested I rethink the millennium.”
“Did you turn him into a snail and step on him?”
“I wanted to mix him into my blue smoke and have him meander out the top of my fortress, but I feared Mawdoor’s retribution. I sent him on his way with blessings and kind words. I am not a fool, prince.”
“No,” he said, “you are not. And no, you will never wed Mawdoor.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“Oh, yes. You will be mine.”
20
MAWDOOR’S FORTRESS WAS stark black and forbidding. It was the kind of forbidding that made a man’s toenails fall off, as grim as a Druid priest’s altar ready for sacrifice. It was an immense circular black wooden tower standing on a hillock that he himself had created, a thick black spear aimed some fifty feet toward the heavens. A ten-foot wooden wall—a perfect triangle—surrounded the tower, with other towers at each of the three corners. The wood was blacker now than when it first appeared, because, it was said, every time a mortal saw it and fear sank deep into his heart, the wood became blacker. No one knew how much darker the darkest black could get.
This was true. Local tribes avoided the fortress; indeed, they walked carefully, eyes on their feet, when they were within a mile of Mawdoor’s lands.
Mawdoor had named his fortress and all its lands Penwyth, a name that had come to him in a dream, he’d said to his acolytes, a name that meant nothing really, but it sang softly in his brain. His dream was of a not-so-different future with his fortress still here, just changed a bit, perhaps not so very black. It pleased him.
The prince had never been inside Mawdoor’s fortress. The only reason he’d come this far west was because he’d wanted Brecia. He looked up at the fierce black fortress and knew he didn’t want to go inside it now either. He’d heard for years that Mawdoor had become quite mad and shut himself away in his black tower for long periods of time. Then he would emerge, looking fit and enraged and ready to string mortals’ entrails from one end of this huge island to another. It was a pity, because the madness hadn’t interfered with his powers. Nor his brain. He was very proud of his brain, an instrument that could see the fastest birds flying in the sky, could tell him what sorts of birds they were and whether or not he wanted them for his dinner.
His brain gave him great beliefs. He was convinced that the gods themselves had sent the great bluestones at the sacred meeting circle in the British plains from the ancient land just north of the Erin sea. He also believed that the gods had hidden a treasure in one of those bluestones, a fabulous prize for a wizard who was clever enough to figure it out.
The prince agreed that there was madness in Mawdoor. There were always rumors about wizard treasure, theories exchanged behind cupped hands, but no one really believed them. Besides, what sort of treasure could be hidden in a bluestone?
He said to Brecia, “Mawdoor cursed me in my cradle. My father told me that, told me he hated that I’d been born because he feared I would be more powerful than he. My father said Mawdoor was only seven years old at the time. I hope he has skills and imagination above the ordinary. I am ready to be impressed by wizardry.”
Brecia chewed on that a moment, then said, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe he couldn’t hurt you because you were in my forest. I have always put a stop to any violence in my forest, if possible.”
“You’re saying that you protect your forest?”
“Aye, that’s what I’m saying. I don’t know if it’s enough to stop a wizard as powerful as Mawdoor. Perhaps it is.”
The prince said nothing, but he didn’t believe it for a minute. No, Mawdoor wanted him to come to his home.
He paused, watching Brecia pull her hood over her head, hiding her hair.
The prince pulled his soft woolen cap down over his head, pulled it tight. All he needed was a gust of wind to knock it off. The fitted cap was blacker than Mawdoor’s fortress, as black as a moonless midnight, and softer than a mink’s fur. The cap would hold him invisible, but for no longer than one hour, because he didn’t have his wand to steady the spell for a full twenty-four hours. An hour had to be enough. He knew no one could see him, not even Brecia.
“We must hurry,” Brecia said, eyeing where she knew he was because she could hear him breathing. “I wish I could do that, flick my fingers, or curl over my toes, or stick my elbow at an odd angle, and conjure up a cap like that. If I could, my cap would be white, the purest white imaginable.”
He smiled at that, and said, “I saw you disappear, and you didn’t have your wand.”
“Aye, but I couldn’t go far at all. I was no more than two feet away from you, prince. I would fall flat on my face in view of anyone looking if I moved any distance at all away from my wand.”
“You have just told me one of your secrets, Brecia.”
She had indeed, and she wondered at herself. Why had she said anything at all to this wizard who threatened all that she was and all that she c
ould become in the mists of the future? “Mayhap I’m just speaking aloud because I believe I’m alone.”
“Mayhap,” he said, and laughed, pointing, even though she couldn’t see him. “I can see the cook chopping up something green on his table. Maybe Mawdoor is eating plants now. I wonder what that would do to his disposition?”
She laughed, and it warmed him.
The prince looked up at the black fortress, felt his blood pound thick and hard. He wanted Mawdoor, wanted his neck between his hands. To take another wizard’s wand, that was a very bad thing. He said, “We must go in. We must get this done. Time runs short.”
Brecia walked up the impossibly steep stone steps that led to the fortress gate, a huge structure that was banded with iron, the prince invisible at her side.
A querulous old voice yelled down, “What do ye wish, woman?”
“I wish to see Lord Mawdoor.”
“Why?”
“If I wished to speak to an old graybeard with fewer teeth than my ancient cat, I would. I am a witch. Open the gate, now, or I will turn you into a lily pad.”
“Ha! There bain’t no lily pads hereabouts, no place for them to sit.”
“Then you will be a lily pad sitting on a rock,” Brecia said.
She saw that he still wasn’t sure. She nearly smiled when he said, “A woman or a witch who has no respect for her elders isn’t worthy of anything. I think I’ll leave you until you rot clean into the dirt and roll back down the hill. What do you think of that?”
“Mayhap I would roll onto a rock and land on you, an old withered lily pad, baked from the sun and brittle with age and no water. What are you called, old man?”
“I am called Debbin, I guard the gates on Tuesdays, and I am not an old man. I am in my prime.”
“Prime of what?”
The old man shook his fist at her, he opened his mouth and yelled out several full-blooded curses, all aimed at her head, only to have Brecia nod pleasantly at him. When he opened his mouth again, he discovered that his tongue was so fat he couldn’t begin to stuff it back in. Debbin wanted to spit it out, no, he wanted to gag. He stood there, looking at the cloaked woman, and wanted to howl, but he couldn’t do that either—his tongue was just too big.
“If you would like your tongue to fit again into your mouth, then let me in.”
His cheeks bulged, and his face was red as a sunset off the western coast.
She said, “Or, if you like the size of your new tongue, and still refuse me entrance, then I will send you to the underworld, where they fry old men like you over huge, smoking fires. Demons are fond of human tongue, I’ve heard.”
The old man cursed and choked on that big tongue of his, but the old gate swung open. She smiled at him and splayed her fingers in front of him. His tongue fit once again in his mouth.
“That was well done,” the prince said in her ear. “A creative use of a body part.” She felt his mouth suddenly touch her earlobe, lick, then bite gently. She squeaked.
“What is wrong, witch?”
She shook her head at old Debbin, who was pressing his palm over his mouth, and walked through the open gate. She stopped cold, heard the prince draw in his breath beside her, and heard the old man cursing under his breath. He was probably wishing her in the depths of Mawdoor’s dungeons, but he was afraid to curse more loudly, and of course Brecia knew it.
She cleared her throat and gave him a little wave.
The prince said in her ear, “If you are through performing your little tricks, we must get inside.”
She snorted.
“Or are you trying to impress me so that I will judge you to be worthy as my mate?”
“I wonder how you would look howling around a fat tongue, prince.”
“Don’t even think of trying that on me, Brecia. However, it was well done of you.”
They walked into a vast courtyard. There were no horses, no animals, no children, just old men and old women, shuffling with shoulders bowed, eyes to the ground, saying nothing at all.
“This is all very strange,” the prince said, and she heard the rustling of his clothes. “There is no magic in any of these people. There is only despair.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t feel anything coming from them. They are quite mortal. But they are all old. Why?”
He said nothing. She felt his hand under her elbow, leading her toward the immense black tower door.
“They cannot die because their misery keeps them alive. I remember my father telling me that he should have killed Mawdoor’s mother before she mated with a demon and birthed a black stain on all wizards. I wish that he had managed to rid the world of her, but he didn’t.” She could practically hear him frowning.
Brecia said, “Why not?”
“I believe Mawdoor’s mother talked him out of it, swore to him that her son would be pure of mind and heart.”
“And your father believed her.”
He nodded.
He realized that Brecia had stopped and was staring upward. She said, “I had believed my own tower to be the state of a witch’s art. But this?”
He laughed. “I can feel that he has spent many, many years constructing this fortress. It is designed to terrify both mortals and other wizards. He doesn’t feel your presence yet, Brecia, nor can he know I’m here with you.”
“How can you feel that, prince? How can you know what he knows? Mawdoor might be staring down on us right this minute, rubbing his hands together, deciding how to kill both of us.”
The prince said, “Brecia, if Mawdoor knew you were here, he would have this tower studded with gems to dazzle your witch’s eyes. He would fill this dank, barren courtyard with budding fruit trees and lovely blossoms to inflame your simple witch’s heart. He wants you, doesn’t he?”
She didn’t say anything, just kept walking toward the huge black door at the bottom of the tower.
The prince said, “If he guessed I was with you, he would have that door open onto a viper pit.”
“But you know such things fade quickly.”
“Aye, in the normal course of things, but with Mawdoor? I don’t know. There are tales, of course, about black deeds and blacker sacrifices.”
The huge black door flew inward before Brecia could open it.
Mawdoor stood there, staring down at her. He was tall, too tall for a man or a wizard, but that simple spell would fade as well. She craned her neck and said, “Hello, my lord.”
“Brecia, is it you? It is about time you have come to Penwyth. I have been waiting for you.”
“I have come to fetch my wand.”
“So, it is true, you cannot work your magic without your wand.” In a move so fast it blurred, he pulled her wand out of his sleeve. He gave her a slight bow and handed it to her. “I was holding it safe for you. How did you know I had it?”
“It seemed to me that it was something you would do, Mawdoor.”
“Ah, something clever, something you wouldn’t immediately realize. Is that what you mean?”
“That is,” she said, “more or less exactly what I mean.”
Mawdoor looked around the vast courtyard. “Where is that damned prince?”
“I don’t know. I left him in my forest sleeping away the spell I placed on him.”
“You truly guessed that it was I who had taken your wand?”
“Aye, there could be none other,” she said. “May I come in, my lord?”
He stood back, watched her enter, and stiffened suddenly. “There is something else here, something that came in with you, Brecia. What is it? What are you hiding?”
21
BRECIA WHIRLED ABOUT. In a voice no louder than a whisper, she said, “Did the wretched prince of Balanth somehow manage to slip in with me? But how?”
“Oh, no, but—” Mawdoor took two steps back. He stilled, closed his eyes a moment. She could feel him searching in the air around her, poking, prodding, and she held herself very still. She couldn’t hear the prince breat
hing, wondered if he’d managed to shield himself in yet another layer of invisibility. Without his wand? If so, that was impressive indeed.
When Mawdoor opened his eyes, the air was still and flat again, sweet-smelling from the lavender he’d sprinkled on the stone floor, probably in the last few moments. He smiled. “No. I must have simply picked up the trace of him on you. Take off your cloak, Brecia. Let me see you.”
She was a witch, she had her wand, but she wasn’t a fool. A witch who wasn’t a fool was always cautious. There was a darkness in him that bespoke thoughts and dreams that were powerful and crude. Heinous dreams he reveled in, and dominated every act in them. She knew he was not many years older than the prince, but still he looked much older, maybe because of black thoughts, blacker deeds that had to take a toll, even on a wizard. But still he was a man in his prime, fit, not so tall now as he’d first appeared but strong, thick with muscle. His eyes were bright green, perhaps another affectation, she didn’t know, but they just didn’t look natural.
Slowly she slipped her cloak off her shoulders, shook back the hood, and handed it to him. She watched as he brought it to his face and rubbed it against his cheek. “It smells like you,” he said. “Make the cloak disappear, Brecia.”
She lifted her wand, her lips moved, and the cloak was gone.
“Is it in limbo or did you destroy it?”
“It is in limbo. It is a lovely cloak, woven long ago by a ghost with great talent and flair. Why would I want to destroy it?”
He shrugged. “Because the prince touched it, perhaps. But it wouldn’t matter, would it? You would just fashion another for yourself.”
“I was not taught to do that. The cloak belonged to my mother and her mother before her. When I touch it, I touch them. I would be distraught if something were to happen to it.”
“If the prince saw it, knew it was precious to you, he would shred it like wheat in a miller’s wheel.”
She cocked her head to one side in question.
“Come, Brecia, all know that the prince saw you at the sacred meeting place, in the shadow of a mighty trilithon, and he wanted you. Not to wed and cherish you like I would, but to force you to bow to his will, to render you helpless, to make you his slave.”