Daughter of Fire (40 page)

“Come meet your death!”

As if it understood, the beast turned and lowered its head.  Then, as the creature lunged for him, Rorke dropped down on one knee and swung the sword with all his strength at the beast’s underbelly. The creature took the broadsword deep, and staggered, entrails staining the snow.  This time, it’s lifeblood staining the snow about it, the beast thrashed and rolled, then lay still. With one last shudder, it lay lifeless on the floor of the clearing.

Rorke pushed to his feet. Certain that the beast was indeed dead, he turned and looked across the clearing where Vivian lay motionless in the bloodstained snow.

The coldness of her body stunned him. It seeped into him, closing around his heart. He turned her over, cradling her in his arms as he frantically searched through the thick folds of the torn mantle for the bloodied wounds.

A gasp escaped her lips. Her eyes slowly open,  the look in them dark like the eyes of the dead in the aftermath of battle. Her skin was pale, almost bloodless.

“Rorke?”

“Aye,” he whispered, the fierceness of the battle just fought and a new terror, painful at his throat.

“The creature...?”

“Dead,” he said, flinging the word away with a fierce sound that might have been the aftermath of battle, or the growing anguish that tightened deep inside him.

“I was afraid...”

He gentled his voice against her cheek, so cold beneath his own. “It is over,
little one
.”

The endearment was like a caress, taking away the pain as he held her close. 

“I must get you back, if you think you are strong enough to ride.” She nodded weakly as his hand came away bloodied beneath her.

Overhead, the falcon called frantically as nearby there was another movement in the trees, not the stalking of another beast on the hunt, but the barely discernible movement of one who moves powerfully, silently, at one with the wind as Tarek al Sharif emerged from the cover of the trees at the edge of the clearing, the deadly curved blade clutched in both hands and held before him. A sweeping glance took in the clearing, the wolf’s lifeless body, and his friend bending over the girl,

“Bring my horse!”  Rorke shouted to his friend.  Moments later, as sat astride the trembling warhorse, Tarek gently lifted Vivian up to him. She was pale, her slender body wrapped in the folds of the bloodied mantle.

A deadly wound opened at her side and another had been torn open at her shoulder. As a warrior, Tarek knew that even a single wound such as this one was could be deadly. He said nothing as, grim-faced, he tucked the edges of the mantle about her the air thick with the scent of blood and death.

“I will bring your weapons,” Tarek assured his friend as Rorke whirled the warhorse about and sent him plunging through the trees at the edge of the clearing toward the fortress.

Vivian’s gaze fixed one last time on the clearing. The stone portal was gone, vanished in the mist. Her blood and that of the wolf mingled in a stark pattern, staining the snow.

The creature was dead. She had seen it slain by Rorke’s sword, its body lying motionless.

Yet, as Vivian’s eyes closed and she turned her powers inward toward the weakness of her torn flesh, she sensed something more terrifying than the blinding pain.

The creature of Darkness still lived. It moved steadily through the forest, stalking them from behind each tree and rock and the cover of each thicket, even as a shout went out along the top of the wall as they approached the fortress.

The stallion slid to a bone-jarring halt, sending mud flying before its large hooves. Grim-faced, Rorke hooked a leg over the front of the saddle and slid to the ground, holding her close. His squire immediately appeared.

“Find the old woman and have her sent to me!” He moved past the stunned squire, who immediately ran to do as he was ordered.

Rorke quickly carried her through the front entrance to the royal compound, across the great hall and down the passage to his private chamber. He kicked it open and carried her inside, laying her gently on the bed.

“Where is the crone!” he shouted as his squire appeared in the doorway.

“I am here,” Meg informed him, pushing her way past them both to the side of the bed.

His voice was tight. “You have knowledge of healing,” It was more of a command than any appreciation of her skills.

“Aye,” she said, staring in the direction of his voice. “I taught the girl everything she knows of healing things. Her knowledge is mine. In most things.”

“Do you possess the same knowledge that mends broken bones and seals the flesh with the touch of a hand?” he demanded.

Though sightless, her gaze fastened on him with a new awareness. She had not realized until this moment that her mistress had revealed her very special gift to him. Yet, knowing of it, there was no ridicule or doubt in his voice, but an acceptance of what he had obviously seen with his own eyes.

“Sadly, milord, that gift is hers alone,” she admitted with heaviness of heart. “But I will do what I can.”

“You will do
all
you can, and more,” he ordered, his voice breaking. “She will not die!”

At the desperation in his voice, Meg looked toward him with new insight. Was it possible that this bold Norman warrior was the
one
told of in ancient legend?

“I will do what I can,” she repeated. “The rest is up to her.”

She approached the bed, bending over Vivian and
seeing
her with the sight of her fingers as she touched her mistress’ face, her arms, the bloodied shoulder, the gaping wound at her side where even now blood stained the linens where she lay.

A mournful sigh escaped her thin lips and her frail shoulders sagged as though what she found was almost more than she could bear.

“
Eist le, mo chroi
,” she whispered the ancient Celtic words as she stroked Vivian’s face, as though comforting a beloved child. Her voice trembled when she spoke again as though she reassured the girl who lay as if in a deep sleep where no one could reach her.

“I will do all that I can.”

Rorke issued orders to his squire. “I will have Mally sent to you,” he told Meg.

“No!” the old woman said sharply. “No one is to be allowed near her. I will do it. I have everything I need. Send the others away.”

She sensed the warrior’s fierce gaze on her, and in it the mistrust. She sensed something else as well—a powerful emotion as raw and anguished as any he had felt in battle.

Was it possible? she wondered again, that this Norman knight, a mortal man, might love her mistress?

She had heard the whisperings when he returned with her. A great battle had been fought in the forest. With only sword in hand, Rorke FitzWarren had faced a huge, fierce creature. Even now he had the smell of the creature’s death about him.

It was an evil smell, far different than the usual lingering odor after the hunt. She shivered again, sensing that in the clearing far more than merely a creature of the wood had been vanquished.

Was it possible? Meg continued to wonder, that this man who carried the creature rising from the flames on his shield, whose thoughts her mistress could not discern or bend to her own will as she could others, had a destiny as great as that of her mistress?

A creature born in fire and blood
that would spread its wings across the land, as her mistress had seen in her vision. War was already upon England then, with the duke of Normandy’s army at Hastings. With no clear meaning to the vision, her mistress had assumed the creature to be the creature of war and destruction. But what if the creature was a man—a warrior tested in the fire and blood of battle, whose purpose was not to destroy the kingdom, but to save it?

With this new insight, Meg said, gentling her voice, “When she slipped into this world, it was my hands that first held her. She is like my own. If you want her to live, you must leave her to me. It is the only way.”

On a harshly whispered oath, Rorke ordered everyone from the chamber. Then his gaze fastened on Vivian in the bed they had shared only scant hours earlier.

How was it possible? he wondered, that he had been the cause of so many countless deaths on the battlefield and never felt remorse. And yet at the possibility of this girl’s death he experienced such an intense anguish as if his own life ebbed and flowed with each fragile beat of her heart. For the first time in his life he was afraid.

Afraid that he might lose her light and laughter, that if he left that chamber, he might never see her in this world again.

“I give her over into your care, old woman,” he agreed. “But I will remain.” When she would have protested, he cut her off.

“Whatever you must do to save her, do it! But I will not leave her side.”

Meg heard the steel in his voice, like that of a warrior’s blade, uncompromising, lethal, certain unto death.

“Aye, warrior,” she said, “I sense that you are brave enough to confront any foe in battle, including death. But are you brave enough to confront the truth? No matter what that truth might be?”

With a finality, Rorke replied, “You already have my answer.”

“So be it, then,” Meg resigned herself that she could not change his mind. “I ask only one thing of you.”

“And that is?”

“That no matter what happens, no matter what you see, you must say and do nothing.”

He nodded.  “Agreed.”

“Then, bar the doors so that none may enter,” Meg instructed. “Once it has begun, there must be no distractions or interruptions. Build up the fire at the hearth and light every candle, placing several near the bed. I will do the rest.”

When everything was done as she asked, Meg approached the bed where her mistress lay.

She removed the torn mantle and the shift beneath. Rorke’s agonized hiss of breath close by told her of the severity of the wounds even before she touched them. He refused to be banished to some far corner of the chamber. She accepted it, because there was no time to argue and she knew he would not listen.

Within the folds of the mantle, she found the packet of ancient herbs, not seen for hundreds of years in this world—told her who had sent them.

Ah, Ninian, she thought, mother of this child who now lies so near death. Did you somehow sense the special potions you sent might be used to prevent her own death?

Meg longed for the world in the mist, left so many years ago with a tender babe in her arms, sent into the mortal world to escape the Darkness.

There was no answer to her silent questions, for she had not the power to send her thoughts into that other world. There were only the precious leaves that might work the magic she herself could not, if she could not summon the flame of life.

“Perhaps there is hope,” she whispered, pausing only once more as her fingers brushed torn flesh. She steeled herself and began crooning ancient words as she bathed her mistress with fragrant herbal water, cleansing away the blood from the torn flesh. Then she bound the wounds, using potions mixed from the ancient leaves, and covered her mistress with warm furs. Lastly, she removed the blue crystal that lay dull and dark, and almost colorless against Vivian’s pale skin as if it, too, lay dying.

Meg had heard the words countless times. Still, she was filled with doubt. The power was not with her as it was with her mistress. It never had been, for her destiny was that of those born from the union of a changeling and a mortal, with only the random chance of fate determining if she would be born with the gift of enchantment.

Her powers were meager and merely compensated for the sight she had lost. But this time it must be enough to summon the Light. Her voice trembled slightly, then grew stronger as she held the crystal before a candle and recited the ancient words.

“Element of fire, spirit of light, essence of life, awaken the night.

“Fire of the soul, flame of life, as light reveals truth, burn golden bright.”

There was only silence. She felt again the helplessness of her blindness that prevented her seeing the crystal as she held it before the candle’s flame, and began again.

 
“Element of fire, spirit of light, essence of life, awaken the night!”
Her voice caught on a sob.

“Fire of the soul, flame of life, as light reveals truth, burn golden bright!”

And as she had so many times, Meg moved the largest candle closer to the bed, it’s golden glow washing over her.  Then she took the blue crystal and laid it over Vivian’s heart, as ancient words whispered across the stone walls.

Vivian lay completely still.  No words whispered from her lips, no pulse beat at her heart. 

Rorke cursed the old woman.  “She’s dying!”

“You must do nothing!” Meg warned him back.  “Stand aside warrior. What must be done is not of your world.  If you interfere, her death will be on your hands!”

He stood at the edge of the bed, fists clenched in helpless rage, as those ancient words whispered once more across the stones, an incantation that the old woman whispered over and over as she took other stones from the pocket of her apron and laid them at the bed, each one placed at a specific place until they formed a five pointed star.

“
Element of fire, spirit of light, essence of life, awaken the night...
fire of the soul, flame of life, as light reveals truth, burn golden bright.”

Rorke watched as the ancient ceremony began; watched and said nothing, filled with pain as if a blade had been thrust deep inside him, watched and still said nothing even as he felt as if his own life blood seeped out of his body; then continued to watch in silent agony as if it was his own death until he was certain he could watch no more.

When he would have turned away, Meg refused to allow it.

“You are part of it now,” she whispered, for though she could not see, she could feel everything that happened.

“This is her truth. If you turn away now, you will be the cause of her death as surely as if you plunged a blade into her.”

He continued to watch until he was certain he might go mad. There was no logic in what he saw—none that existed in the real world. Then, he forced himself past the madness.