Dragon Witch Series - Dragon Witch Part 24

"Aye. She was murdered." Tempest closed her eyes, trying to erase the memory of Adrian standing over Miriam's body- of the blood staining her lifeless chest, of the sword hanging limply in his hand. She looked at Lysira, and the pain flooded over her.

"Sardon di Mercia killed her," she said flatly, "with Adrian's sword.

"You shed no tears for your friend?"

"Witches cannot cry."

"Everyone can cry if their pain is deep enough." Lysira lifted Tempest's chin with one gentle finger. "Even dragons cry at the loss of a loved one."

"Dragons are fearsome creatures. They have no feelings.

They cannot cry."

"Do you know this to be true?" Lysira looked at her intently as she spoke. "Have you met a dragon?"

"Aye, once I did meet a dragon. He was all gold and beautiful."

" And did you speak with this beast?"

"Aye."

"And was he a fearsome creature, with no feelings?"

"Nay, he was gentle, and he laughed. He made me feel safe."

"Then do not say they cannot cry." Lysira turned back to the chest, bringing out a cobalt blue surcoat, dark as dusk. She handed it to Tempest. "You must not judge any of The Mother's children, Tempest, until you have seen the truth with your own eyes."

Dragons. How did the subject of dragons come to be when they had been speaking of Miriam, she wondered.

Adrian's noisy entrance brought her back to the present, and she quickly donned the soft woolen surcoat. Lysira handed her a wide silver girdle, and she fastened it around her waist.

"I am hungry," Adrian announced as he sat at the table.

"And clean," he added with a big smile. "Even behind my ears."

"See, Tempest?" Lysira's eyes twinkled with merriment, all seriousness banished as though it had never been. "Did I not tell you he was a good boy?"

"You said I was a scoundrel," Adrian chided as he reached for a freshly baked loaf of heavy wheaten bread. He broke off a chunk from the loaf, stuffed it in his mouth and paid them no more attention as he chewed with great gusto.

The food was delicious, and Tempest ate her fill. As she looked at Adrian, she was amazed to see him still eating. Never in the short time she had known him had she seen him eat quite so much. Still he continued to eat.

"Adrian!" she exclaimed in disbelief. "You will surely burst if you eat more. We did not starve you at my father's manse, and it has not been..." Then she remembered how long he had been held in that dank, musty dungeon. "Did they not feed you in all the time you were imprisoned?"

"The guards were busy with other things," he answered around a mouth full of food.

"You had no food for days." Her voice was flat, barely containing her anger. "'Tis cruel beyond reason."

"'Tis of no import." He took a big gulp of ale. "I have gone much longer without food. I am no worse for skipping a few repasts."

"You were beaten and starved. 'Tis unjust treatment, no matter the crime."

"'Tis finished, little witch. Mother rubbed ointment on the wounds while you slept. 'Twas but a few paltry scratches. I am only hungry from that cold bath in the creek." He grinned at Lysira. "And the extra washing so I could finally eat."

"You had more than scratches." Tempest went to him to check his back. "I need to see for myself that you are well."

She touched the shiny black shirt he wore. The material was soft, slippery silk and black as the deepest night.

Adrian rose from the table to tower over her. "You wish me to remove my clothing?" he asked as he reached for the silver girdle surrounding his slim waist. A smile crossed his face, and she noticed a twinkle in his azure eyes. "I am always happy to do as a beautiful lady commands."

"Adrian," Lysira warned.

"They seem happy," the woman observed as she brushed a raven-dark curl from her face. "But I worry that L'sira will tell her the truth."

"She will not," the man answered as he reached for the heavy golden goblet of mead. "She will do what is in the best interests of that son of hers."

"They needs must return to the castle," mused the woman.

"Sardon needs to be dealt with, and they cannot do it if they are hiding in the woods." She too sipped at her sweet mead, nectar of the G.o.ds.

"I will allow them to stay there for a fortnight or so, then they shall return to the castle. They need a rest from what has pa.s.sed."

"Will she be a maiden still when they return, I wonder?"

She slyly glanced at him.

"Of course she will," he replied as he lounged in his chair.

"L'sira is not addled. She knows it is not yet time. See how she dissipates the heat that flows so quickly between them?"

The woman reached for his hand and drew soft circles in his palm with her long nails. Her brown eyes grew smoky as she gazed into his.

He swallowed visibly but did not withdraw his hand.

The crystal glowed, but they paid it no heed as heated looks pa.s.sed between them.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

A warm breeze ruffled Tempest's hair as she sat on the boulder. Perched high on a hillside, she could see most of the valley and the huge, ancient forest that covered it from end to end. A tiny ribbon of water sparkled with sunlight as it wound its way through the thick woods. She sighed. Adrian was probably bathing in the deep pool he had claimed as his own.

She reflected on his newfound love of the water since the weather had turned warm. She could not blame him-she too loved to bathe in the hidden pool. She wished that she had the courage to join him. He had asked.

She could picture his strong, male body as he swam. She had watched him once, when the weather had first turned warm.

It was a sight that would linger forever in her memory. The sun had glistened off his strong limbs as he cut smoothly through the sparkling blue water. His skin reflected the sun and turned a deep golden hue. His long blond hair, darkened by wetness, was a rich, burnished gold, the muscles in his arm were like powerful bands of steel as he cut so easily through the water; his laughter was joyful as he dove deep, then burst back into the bright light of day.

But she could not join him. She was betrothed to William Mirabelle. She had agreed to the betrothal, had made her vow, and she could not break it, no matter how she felt. No matter how much she loved her golden G.o.d, she could not offer him her promise, nor tell him of her love. She wished with all her heart that she could tell Adrian how she loved him. She wished she could tell him how her body burned whenever he touched her, how her heart ached to say the words. But she could not.

She was betrothed. She was promised.

She was miserable.

Tempest tucked her knees up under her chin and laid her head on her arms. How wonderful it would be to be able to shed tears-to cry, to sob, to wail away her misery-but she could not. Lysira said witches were just like everyone else.

She said they could cry, but Tempest knew better. She had not been able to cry for her beloved Miriam. She had not been able to cry when Tristan's mother, Sarah, had died screaming out her agony from the terrible disease that had eaten away at her insides. She had no tears and never had, not even as a child.

They were a blessing the G.o.ds had never bestowed upon her.

Lysira could see the dejection in the slump of the girl's body. Tempest should not be so sad. 'Twas a beautiful day and she knew the young woman was in love with Adrian. 'Twas plain to see whenever she looked at him. The love shown from her and made her glow with an inner beauty.

"Tempest?" Lysira laid her hand on Tempest's shoulder.

"Go away. Please. "Tempest's voice was m.u.f.fled. "I am not fit company."

"What is it, sweetling?" asked Lysira, worry evident in her words. "What can I do to help?"

"Nothing." She looked up, and Lysira took an involuntary step back. The pain in the girl's eyes tore at her heart.

Lysira sat beside her, and, putting an arm around her, she gently pulled Tempest's head to rest upon her shoulder. "Tell me," she said.

"It hurts," Tempest said dully. "I cannot stop the pain. I cannot cry. I have tried. There are no tears."

"There are tears," said Lysira calmly. "You have not been able to cry for a good reason. A witch's tears are a powerful magical tool. When those tears are needed, they will be there."

"But I need them now!"

"Nay, dearest. If you needed them now, they would be here."

Tempest was quiet in Lysira's arms for a long time.

"Lysira? It has all happened just like you read in the cards on my eighteenth birthday. The tower, the lovers. Is death coming soon for me?"

"Death comes when it is time, sweetling. There is no need to worry over it now." Lysira was silent, thinking how best to explain the card of death to this very young maiden. Finally she cleared her throat and spoke.

"Do you remember what the card of death looked like?"

"Aye," Tempest tried to swallow around the lump in her throat. "'Twas a figure in a hooded cape, carrying a b.l.o.o.d.y scythe. A skeleton lay at his feet. All around was death. 'Twas a horrible card!" Shudders wracked her slight body.

"Death is an end," Lysira explained. "But it can also be a beginning."

"How so? When you die, you are no more."

"Not always. Some die only to be reborn into a better life.

Sometimes a way of life dies to give way to something better, as old habits die to give way to new and better habits.

Sometimes the death card signifies the death of a loved one."

"Will Adrian die?" Tempest's eyes grew wide, her face pale as she visualized how desolate life would be without him.

She felt as if he had always been a part of her life. "I could not live if he were to die. I would not wish to."

"Adrian will live long yet." Lysira smiled tenderly at the glow of love on Tempest's face. "Why would you think he would die?"

"Because I love him more than life itself. And that is the problem. You see, I can never have him, for I am betrothed and cannot break my vow. I promised my father and I promised William. I can find no other way for us to be together."

"There is always another way, child."

"If only there were," said Tempest quietly. "If only there were."

Adrian stood beside the pool. He remembered how it had felt to be a dragon, how it felt to soar the skies on strong, leathery wings. He remembered the feel of power coursing through his body, how the fire had built deep within his belly, then spewed, white-hot and blazing, toward an enemy. He remembered...Oh, how he remembered!

He closed his eyes, trying to recapture those sensations.

He held his breath, trying to create the fire deep within. He raised his arms, visualizing dragon wings, long and powerful.

The pain began behind his eyes and radiated outward to encompa.s.s him. It grew intense. Lights flashed- cobalt, viridian, scarlet, gold. He gasped, clutched his throbbing head and fell to his knees, panting heavily. An involuntary sob escaped as he fell to Earth. He lay on his back and opened his eyes.

Lacy white clouds floated in a cerulean sky, birds sang from high treetops, the nearby stream bubbled merrily to its final home-and Adrian Westbrooke was still human.

He swore and threw his anger-like blazing bolts of lightning-to the heavens. He begged, he beseeched the G.o.ds to return him to his natural form, but there was no response.

The world was oblivious to his torment. Exhaustion and depression swept through him like a raging inferno and he slept.

Soft, feminine laughter floated around him as Adrian opened the door. Lysira and Tempest were busy at the table, various herbs and oils arrayed before them. Neither woman noticed his entrance, and he had a moment to study them. His mother was a beautiful woman, he realized. Her golden mane was pulled back from her face and anch.o.r.ed high on the back of her head. Several tendrils had escaped their confines to curl around her face and down to her shoulder. Her surcoat and tunic were sky-blue and matched her eyes; the gold girdle encircling her waist enhanced her still slim figure.