Chapter 21

Twenty-One

Precisely as Giles had predicted, Neasham proved to be a solid week's journey, and yet, so much as Rosalynde feared another meeting with her mother's disciples, she secretly reveled in every passing moment she spent warmed by Giles's embrace. Unlike that first day they'd traveled together—before her glamour spell faded—he held her jealously, and if no one spoke about what happened in the woodlot, everything between them had changed. She felt it in the way he dared to embrace her—every small gesture, like the hand he rested upon her waist, and the fingers he splayed across her belly. Sweet fates. Whenever he dared to touch her that way, she felt a stirring down so deep it stole away her breath.

She was not unlike a poppet, responding to every touch. And it was almost as though he pulled at invisible strings, not out there, in the aether, but inside her body, and every tug evoked incredible sensations, from her heart to her womb.

And now she understood what the bards meant by lovesick. It was a malady in every sense of the word. She felt fevered, achy, and all week long, her mouth remained parched. Her tongue felt too large for her mouth. And no amount of satiating her thirst made any of these symptoms go away. Moreover, her hands perspired, and she had to remember to unclench them every so oft to let them breathe. To her dismay, even despite the cold, she felt hot and bothered, and the feeling put her nerves on edge, until she felt as though she were one immense ball of emotion, unraveling into the aether, like yarn into a weaver's loom, spinning impossible dreams... dreams that revealed the two of them as consorts… and more.

And yet, if he made her body come alive, with scarcely his breath on her nape, he seemed completely unaffected.

So much as they'd slept arm in arm on his pallet, he never once offered Rosalynde more than his warmth. Only since that moment in the woods, he'd treated her with the utmost respect, put her on and off his horse with care, bundling her beneath his cloak, and refusing to allow her out of his sight, save for those moments when he must. And even then, he remained close, sword in hand, and Rosalynde daren't complain again, not after coming so close to death.

For his part, Wilhelm seemed confused by their sudden affinity, casting odd glances. But if he thought Rosalynde wanton for clinging so intimately to his lord brother, she couldn't bring herself to care. Giles made her feel safe, even despite the circumstances. And whether it was because of those feats he'd performed in the glade, or merely the solicitous manner in which he cared for her, it didn't matter. It was an unanticipated pleasure to be coddled, and the feel of his arms awakened something she'd never experienced in her life… desire... but desire for what?

Closeness? Companionship? Something more?

Confused and uncertain of her own desires, Rosalynde knew only one thing for sure: Only now that Giles was holding her so covetously did she have any sense of how famished she had been for affection. And nay, it wasn't the same as a chaste hug from her sisters. Somehow, Giles's arms felt so right, and if, in fact, it was wrong, she didn't want to know. For the first time in her life, she felt—perhaps not cherished, nor loved; it was too soon for such devotion—but very intimately connected to another human being not her blood.

As similar as it was to the bond she shared with her twin, it was nevertheless as different as night and day. Certainly, she missed Arwyn, though she had never once longed to be held by her sister—not like this.

Nor did her sister's nearness make her breath catch.

And even so, for all that she was experiencing this extraordinary awakening, the mood itself turned grim.

For the most part, little was said between the trio. They rode expediently, rested sparingly, and kept to the woodlands, taking care not to attract undue attention or take unnecessary risks.

Without further ado, Giles seemed to appreciate the import of Rosalynde's mission, and he shared her resolve to see the grimoire to safety.

For his part, Wilhelm remained quiet and brooding, and Rosalynde had the sense that he, like her, couldn't quite banish the image of the Shadow Beast from his head. So long as she lived, she would never forget that face… the way it had metamorphosed before her eyes… even now, the memory gave her a shiver, and she suspected that such a being was only conceivable through blood magik.

Only now, she understood the tales of those days before the fall of Avalon in a whole new light—of that boy the Witch Goddess pursued, first in the form of a greyhound, then as an otter, then a hawk, and finally, a hen. Even understanding what she did about her dewine heritage, she had always considered those tales to be fanciful versions of the truth, meant to be interpreted. But whatever Mordecai had been in that glade, it was not human, and only sacrificial magik could have produced such a creature.

Now she wondered: Perhaps in truth, the distant land of her kinsmen was swallowed by the sea… and perhaps the mists of Wales gave ingress to the Nether Realm.

At the moment, there wasn't much she wasn't prepared to believe—after all, Giles himself was a Paladin.

A Paladin.

A Huntsman for the Church.

A slayer of witches.

Oh, yeah, she'd heard of the inquisitions, and she'd understood there was a danger in revealing herself as a dewine, but after all, there was naught larger than life about a man with an axe. Executioners need not be huntsmen, and the employment of an entire company of highly trained assassins assigned to ferreting out and exterminating enemies to the Church had seemed… well, farfetched… until now. By the cauldron, how much her perception of the world had changed since leaving Llanthony, where her gravest concern had been to slip past Ersinius's guards, only to win herself a moment to forage in the woods. Only now, with all that had transpired, did she truly comprehend why her sister Elspeth had been so afraid. Rosalynde was afraid now too, and the simple fact that her escorts were so silent and brooding gave her every indication they were as troubled as she was.

Giles adjusted his arms about her, and Rosalynde sighed, burrowing into the safety of his embrace, wondering again about that bonding spell…

But if she doubted the words she'd heard, she must also doubt the council she'd been given in the glade… to bind that beast with words she'd never heard spoken in all her life.

It was as though the Goddess herself provided her the rites to bind the creature into solid form. Only then could Giles have had any chance to slay it. Because no matter how many times Wilhelm had swung his sword, it never once found purchase. And if she needed proof it was not all a dream, she had the reliquary tucked away with the grimoire in Giles's satchel. And if not, she but needed to look at Wilhelm, with his ravaged face, because even after seeing what she was capable of, he had refused to allow her to heal him, distrusting her magik, if not so much Rosalynde herself. His bloodstains were gone, but his once handsome face now bore the marks of the creature's talons, scars that were healing slowly on their own, but as dark as her own puncture wounds remained, despite her healing magik.

Alas, Mordecai was not her mother's only servant, only her most loyal, and, when he did not return, she would go searching for him, and if she came herself… Goddess help them.

"Do you think the creature is dead?" asked Wilhelm, perhaps sensing the dark turn of Rosalynde's thoughts.

Instinctively, Giles pulled her close when she stiffened over the question. "Aye," he said, and his breath was hot against the back of her neck as he whispered, "It's gone, Rose."

"It must be," she said. "But…"

She couldn't finish, even as a caveat, because it seemed too incredible. And still, she worried about the reliquary in Giles's satchel.

Could Mordecai's spirit have retreated into that unholy relic, waiting to be summoned again by her mother?

The feeling it had given her as she'd held it was… indescribable… like darkness and terror bound together. And then, when Wilhelm returned the trinket after she'd thrown it away, she'd had a sudden vision of her kindred—a hundred dewine souls—all cowering in the bowels of the earth, whilst outside the earthen bower… lurked an indefinable and present evil. The image made her shudder, and in response, Giles leaned close again, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Don't think of it," he commanded. "I will protect you."