Bedeviled Angel (39 page)

Dear Reader,

Salem, Massachusetts, is a wonderful city to visit, and the majority of the events I portray in
The Kitchen Witch
are available to visitors, some all year long, and others only at Halloween. Owing to my experience as a special events' coordinator, and to the evolving nature of such events, I renamed those herein to fit my story and to protect the actual events from my imagination. Among the figments of said imagination are WHCH TV, "The Salem Museum of Witchcraft," and "The Keep Me Foundation." For more information on Salem, please visit their website at www.salem.com.

Annette blair
www.annetteblair.com

Turn the page for a special preview of Elizabeth Minogue's novel Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

ROSE twisted through the crowd, sweating in her heavy kirtle as the relentless sun beat down upon her uncovered head. Safe within the press, she dared cast a quick look over her shoulder. As far as she could tell, she had not been followed.

Yet.

Two weeks on shipboard had left her legs uncommonly stiff. The wooden planks rose to meet her, jarring her off-balance.
Clap clap, clapclap
. Heel and toe of her wooden pattens hit the planks more quickly as she found her land legs. She hurried on, breathing through her mouth against the oily smell of fish, thick as fog on the unmoving air. She kept to the most crowded places, head down, meeting no man's eye. Yet still the sailors noticed her.

"Slow down, Jenny—sweeting—
chevra
," they called after her. "What can be the rush? Stay a moment, let me show you—"

Despite the paralyzing heat, she wished desperately for cloak and hood. The past year of silent solitude had stripped her of defenses. Even before that, she had never been the focus of so many eyes. On the few occasions she was permitted to appear in public, her cousins were always present. The two of them rendered her as invisible as any magic cloak could ever do.

But today Melisande and Berengaria were far away. She was alone in a place where no respectable woman would be seen. No woman at all just now, not in this unrelenting heat. Even the dockside whores had retreated to some shady chamber to wait for evening's cool.

But she could not afford to wait. She must go now, and swiftly, before her absence had been noticed. Eyes fixed on the wooden planks beneath her feet, she concentrated on her destination.

I must be calm
, she told herself.
Or
, she amended, wincing as a sailor trod upon her toe, I
must
look
calm
. But that should present no problem. She was good at looking calm; so good, in fact, that those who knew her best would swear she was half-witted.

But
he
must not think that. He must believe her story, strange as it might seem.

She would be bold. Bold and firm… yet not overbearing. After all, she was a supplicant. Or would be, if she ever got there.

Almost running, she crashed into a bearded sailor no taller than her chest with a broad basket balanced on his head.

"Forgive me—please, sir, could you tell me—"

"Piss off," he snarled, shoving her away.

She took a few stumbling steps toward the edge of the dock, but was halted on the edge by a hand fastened on her wrist.

The moment she regained her balance, her plump dark rescuer released her and turned away, wiping his palm fastidiously upon his flowing crimson robe.

"Wait!" she cried, hurrying after him. "Pardon, sir, but could you tell me—"

"
Channa zayra
," he snapped, not slowing his pace.

"
Alet amia
," she answered sharply.

He stopped instantly and turned, one hand moving to his brow. "Forgive me,
serra
. How may I serve you?"

"Can you tell me where the Prince of Venya may be found?"

He shut one eye in the Jexlan manner, a courteous gesture denoting careful thought.

"I have not seen him," he said at last. "And had I done so, I would not tell you."

"But I must find him! Please,
serrin
, it is a matter of life and death."

He sighed. "Daughter, whatever this matter is, you should take it to your family.

The… one you speak of cannot help you." He clicked his tongue, a
tsk tsk
of disapproval. "To so much as speak his name is to sully your honor."

Perhaps in Jexal; if it were so in Valinor, every maiden in the country was already sullied beyond redemption, for the Prince of Venya's name was shouted out constantly in every market square. Despite a dozen edicts, half the troubadours in the country made their living courtesy of his adventures.

"But I must speak to him," she insisted. "My family is dead; they cannot help me, and I haven't a moment to waste."

He studied her face for a long moment, then gestured toward the row of stalls. "If the Venyans are here at all, that is where you will find them."

He touched his brow again, this time with one finger only.
Why, the man thinks I
am a whore
, she realized with a shock as he turned away without the customary bow.
Jehan help me, will
he
think the same
?

I
must behave with dignity
, she thought, turning toward the stalls.
Dignified,
bold, calm, and spirited
—

"Good day, master," she said to the man behind the counter. "Are there any Venyans here?"

"Oh, thou dost not want those sly sorcerers," the man said with an ingratiating smile. "Whatever they have, 'tis no match for what I can offer you. See, here is—"

"I thank you, but only Venyan will do."

His smile vanished. "I cannot help thee."

She tried the next stall.

"Venyans!" A burly man spat at her feet. "I have no truck with their kind. Move off, you're blocking the way."

An hour later she was soaked with sweat and so thirsty she could barely rasp out another question. But all that was nothing to the anxiety gnawing at the pit of her stomach. She started at each footstep behind her, heart leaping to her parched throat. What if he was not here? What if she had misheard or Captain Jennet had been mistaken?

She had no food, no water, not a single coin with which to buy the most basic necessities, let alone passage on a ship. And soon, if not already, she would be hunted.

She dragged shaking hands across her eyes.
I'm not giving up. Not yet. Not while
there is still the slightest hope
.

She reached the end of the row of booths and turned the corner. A single stall stood in the deserted stretch of dock. She held her breath as she approached it.

The shelf was not crowded, but what was there drew and held the eye. A knife with a plain silver hilt, two rings, a glittering crystal on a stand of twisted strands of gold and silver. A tiny bejeweled windmill whirred and chirped a merry tune without a breath of air to stir it.

The man who stood above these offerings was no less exotic. He was immensely old, his eyes lost within a network of wrinkles. Hair the pale silver of
carna
blossoms fell nearly to his waist.

"The blessing of the day upon you," she said cautiously in Venyan. The man's eyes lit and he smiled.

"And upon you,
acelina
," he replied in the same tongue, his weathered face creasing in a smile. "How may I serve you?"

He is a mage, she thought, giddy with relief. A Venyan mage. So they
do
exist.

"A
sheeral
ring, perhaps?" he offered. "One for you and one for your…" He used a Venyan word that could mean either husband or lover. "It will burn with Leander's fire should he ever be unfaithful, recalling him his vows."

"No," she said, "Not that. I—"

"Then perhaps this knife. Have him wear it for a moon-span. When he journeys forth, it will be a comfort to you. So long as it stays bright, you can rest easily, knowing he is well. Should it rust…" He ran a finger across the shining edge. "Is it not better to know than sit and wonder?"

She shook her head. "No—though they are very fine. I am searching for your prince."

The mage carefully replaced the knife in its sheath. "
My
prince? Lady, I am but a simple wanderer without home or country."

"But you are Venyan."

"Ah, you seek Prince Rico? Then I fear you have gone far astray. You would do better to look in Valinor, perhaps at Larken Castle."

She shook her head. "Not him. Your
true
prince."

"I am sorry, but I do not know of whom you speak."

"Of course you do! Everyone knows of him! And he is here somewhere, I'm certain of it. Please, can you not take me to him?"

"I am sorry," he repeated, reaching upward. "I cannot help you."

A wooden shutter rolled down across the opening. She caught it before it latched and lifted it an inch. "He who will return upon the flood tide with all who have been lost," she said rapidly in Venyan. "His cause is just, his followers true, and you shall know them when they speak his name."

She shoved the shutter up another few inches. "Well? I spoke his name, didn't I?"

"You did."

"And I know the words. By right of custom, you must answer me!"

The shutter began to fall.

"I am Rose of Valinor."

It halted.

"And I demand—no, I entreat you to take me to your prince."

The sorcerer bent to peer through the opening, regarding her with hooded eyes.

"Venya
has
no prince."

"Until the true prince is restored," she answered promptly. "When Leander's heir returns, the stones will sing and the land rejoice."

When he did not answer, she tried again, raising her voice a trifle. "I
said
, when Leander's heir—"

"I heard you. My silence was an indication of surprise, not failing hearing."

"I know a half a dozen more but I really haven't time. So if you don't mind, I'd like to see him now."

"Wait. I will see what I can find."

NOT another round of questions, Rose thought, I
cannot bear it
. Her last inquisitor, an elderly man with a tired face and piercing eyes, had taken far too long to accept that she would give him nothing but her name. Now she followed him into an alehouse and down a tiny passageway, halfway between fury and despair. She wanted to rage at him, to insist that she be taken to the prince, yet she knew she was utterly dependent on his good will.

"Please," she said, "I have told you all I can and time presses."

"You shall have your audience," he said. He opened a door, stepped back, and with a stiff little bow gestured for her to enter.

The squalid little chamber was stifling and the stench of it made her empty stomach twist uncomfortably. It took her a moment to realize she was not alone. A clerk sat at a tiny writing table in the corner, quill scratching frantically. He looked up briefly when she entered, then lowered his head over his work.

She sat down on a stool, folded her hands, stiffened her spine, and lifted her chin.

After several minutes her neck began to ache and her stomach grumbled noisily. She cast a quick, embarrassed glance at the clerk, but he was oblivious to everything but his work.

You'd think a prince's clerk would have offered me at least a cup of water
, she thought with an inward sniff,
let alone a crust of bread
.

Standing, she paced the chamber. It only took a moment to go from end to end.

A single glance was enough to show her four bare walls of rough planks, a bare floor, and a straw mattress on a wooden frame. Her silent companion still wrote on.

He was youngish, perhaps a year or two older than her own twenty-four, dressed in sober black, light hair combed neatly back.

She sidled closer, peering sideways at the page he was writing. A black sleeve moved to block her view.

"Good day," he said, though he did not look up again and the quill did not so much as pause.

"And to you," she answered with a sigh, retreating to her seat again and fixing her eyes expectantly on the door.

Any moment now it would open and the Prince of Venya would stand before her in the flesh. Her heart gave a nervous lurch. He was the hero of a hundred songs and stories, the sorcerer pirate whose name struck terror into every captain on the nine seas. Bold and dashing, wily and clever, the Prince of Venya was as deadly to his foes as he was loyal to his followers. It was widely sung that a single smile had the power to melt a woman's bones within her flesh.

Not that Rose wanted her bones melted, if such a thing were even possible. All she wanted was one small favor. Surely that was not too much to ask of the Prince of Venya, the living embodiment of every chivalric ideal!

"Your Highness," she would say firmly, "you must help me."

No, that wouldn't do. She had a feeling that a pirate—let alone a prince—did not take orders well.

"Venya and Valinor were once allies. Now I offer you a new alliance, one that will work to your advantage."

She nibbled at her thumbnail. That sounded well. The only trouble was, it was a lie. The moment he asked
how
it would work to his advantage, all would be lost.

Perhaps something a bit more spirited would catch his interest.

"What ho, Your Highness, Rose of Valinor here. Damned if I'm not in a bit of a spot. Long story—uncle hates me—think he wants me dead. What say you play the hero and get me to Sorlain?"

She groaned, starting on another nail. Spirited, yes. But she doubted idiotic would appeal to him.