Daughter of Fire (41 page)

The words whispered to her, wrapping around her, burning through her blood, as the fire from the candle gleamed in the depths of the blue crystal.  The light moved through her blood, burning away the pain, driving back the darkness of death.

The tapestry at the wall moved as if by some unseen hand.  Light from the candles and torches exploded.  At the bed, Vivian gasped as fire moved through her blood, wrapped around her heart, and burned at her fingertips.

Images flew at her—young Tom running through the village at Amesbury, crows swarming the battlefield at Hastings, the funeral fires of the dead, the empty faces of homeless women and children, the standing stone in the forest, a creature born in fire and blood, and the tender hand that closed over hers... and words that whispered through the darkness...

“Come back to me.  Come back,
ma chere
...”

~ ~ ~

He sat in the shadows beside the bed. He still wore the bloodstained leather breeches and tunic. His hand lay over hers, his other hand wrapped around the handle of his broadsword as if he would physically fight off death. 

His features were drawn. At his hand,  she felt his lifeblood pounding through his veins. It was rapid and fierce as though a battle had just been fought. And she sensed something more, an anguish so great that she could scarcely bear it, but in this new awareness she sensed far more, a joining far deeper than the physical joining of their bodies as they had made love.

He had risked his life for her and slain the beast, a creature of such Darkness he did not yet understand, and in that moment of death there had been a joining of far more than the flesh. There had been a joining of the soul. The mortal joined with the immortal. He was now part of her, and she was part of him.

He had seen such as few mortals ever see, and she knew that part of his anguish came from his struggle to understand. She saw it in his fierce gray gaze as he looked at her, the rest of his features concealed in the shadows.

She tried to sense his other thoughts, but the bond between them was still too new and fragile, and she found that she did not want to take hold of his thoughts as she could so easily do with others. For he was not like others. Whatever they shared, it must be because he willingly allowed it. Not something taken, but something given

She felt the muscles of his arm tense beneath her hand and for a moment she experienced a doubt so painful, she thought she could not bear it, that he might refuse to accept what he had seen.

That tiny fragment of doubt sliced through her as no pain she had ever experienced, not even the pain of death in the clearing. When she tried to pull away, his hand closed over hers with a fierce strength. She sensed his turmoil, the uncertainty that tore at him, and knew the silent battle he fought, not knowing what he might find beneath his touch after what he had seen.

“You are not burned?”

“Nay, milord.”

“And the wounds?”

“They are healed. You may see for yourself.”

But he did not wish to see for himself. Instead, his gaze remained fastened on hers.

“Are you real? Or are you some spirit that I may not touch?” As though only touching her would convince him, his fingers tightened over her hand in a desperate, fierce longing that would have been painful to anyone else.

At the far side of the chamber, she heard the latch set at the chamber door and knew they were alone.  She rose from the bed and moved toward him. “You may touch me, milord.”

As if he still was not convinced of it, he brushed the hair back from her cheek, longing for more, but still hesitating.

She took his hand in hers and pressed it against her cheek, letting his touch warm through her.  She pressed her lips against the calloused palm. 

“You taste of battle and tears, milord.”

He gently pulled her into his arms. He felt warm flesh and blood beneath his hands. He crushed her fiercely against him, hands sweeping  back through the fiery cascade of her hair, holding her as if he thought she might disappear. Then his mouth plunged down over hers in a kiss that was both tender and powerful, gentle and fierce with the need to banish any doubt that remained.

He invaded her senses, the heat of his mouth creating a new fire that joined with hers and burned bright.

“Aye,” he whispered with harsh and profound wonder. “You are very real.”

Twenty-one

“T
ell me,” Rorke said from the chair where he sat before the hearth.

His features were less harsh, etched now with the lingering traces of another sort of fierceness from their recent lovemaking.  It sheened his powerful body, glistening at the scars of old wounds, covering the hard angles and contours of him with a fine patina as though he were carved from stone that glistened with the first light of dawn.

In the days since her near brush with death, they had come together with an urgency and fire that threatened to consume them both, as if he would sooner perish in her flames than exist without her. And then, having assuaged the last traces of doubt, his loving of her had taken on a new tenderness, as he caressed and stroked every part of her body with a need to touch the places that had been torn and bleeding, and then lay once more whole and sleek beneath him.

And finally, he needed to understand, to be able to reconcile what he had seen that was not of this world, with the very real woman who lay with him, bringing him a passion that was very real, a passion that left him in awe of her ability to feel and experience every essence of their joining with a pleasure that was beyond anything he had known.

“Tell me all of it,” he said again as she turned and walked back from the table, with a goblet in one hand.

A pale, slender leg showed at the opening of the fur wrapped around her, unblemished by  even the smallest scar. The healing touch that had repaired William’s wounds and saved his life, had saved her life as well.

Her hair framed her face and spilled about her shoulders in a brilliant fire fall of color, while the fire at the hearth glowed golden behind her, seeming a part of her.

The doors were barred. The old woman was gone. It was midday, or perhaps it was midnight. It didn’t matter. Not even William of Normandy would have received an answer had he summoned his knight.

She handed him the goblet of wine, their fingers brushing in renewed discovery of the fiery warmth that leapt so easily between them. When she would have moved a distance away to sit in the other chair, his fingers closed over hers, tenderly forbidding it.

With a fluid, flame like grace that he now realized was so inherently a part of her, she knelt and then sat amid the thick furs at his feet, not touching except for the unbroken bond of their intertwined fingers.

What did he believe of ancient legends? She wondered. How much would he allow himself to believe?

“My mother’s name is Ninian. She was born in a place called Tintagel in the far west of the kingdom.”

He nodded. “I have heard of it.”

When he sipped his wine and said no more, Vivian continued. “She is known by some as the Lady of the Lake.”

The goblet stopped in midair and remained suspended for several moments. Then Rorke finally brought it to his lips and took another sip, silently contemplating her over the rim of the goblet as she went on.

“My father was born in north of Wales.” She took a deeper breath.  “He is called Merlin Aurelius.”

Rorke took a much deeper drink of wine. He set the goblet back to the arm of the chair. His other hand remained wrapped around hers. The expression at his face was intense, yet contemplative.

“Merlin.”

Finally, he said, “Go on.”

The fire burned low on the hearth. He built it high twice more, and again it burned almost to embers with the telling of the legend.

Vivian told him of the time of Merlin’s youth, his discovery of his very special powers—a gift from the keepers of the Light, of his guardianship of the young boy who would one day be king—Arthur, and of the forces of the Darkness that conspired against the forces of the Light for the kingdom.

She refilled his goblet and built the fire high once more, and told him of Arthur’s betrayal and death as the powers of Darkness swept through the kingdom, then of her father’s exile to the world between the worlds, where there is no time.

Then she told him of Ninian, the changeling born of a sorceress and a mortal, who found the lost sword Excalibur and braved the Darkness to take the sword to Merlin. She found him in his tomb and thought to lay the sword at his feet and leave. But Merlin was not dead. He slept deeply from the near-mortal wounds inflicted by the Darkness.

Ninian healed his wounds. But Merlin could not leave, so she remained with him.

“I have two sisters.” There was a sadness in her voice.  “We were each sent to live in the mortal world.”

“Do your sisters possess your same abilities?”

“I do not know.  For I have not seen them in a very long time.  We were very young when we were taken from our mother, to protect us.”

“The Jehara that Tarek believes in,” Rorke murmured thoughtfully, pulling her to him and holding her close, as though this magical creature who was born of fire and light might disappear.

“What of the old crone?” he asked, his lips grazing a bare shoulder. “Is she gifted as well?” He heard the sound of her breath, catching on something that might have been a sigh of pleasure or desire, or both, and need raced through his veins again.

“Meg was born to a changeling,” she explained, the top of her head nestling at the curve of his throat. “She has limited powers. But what she lacks she more than makes up for.” The warmth of her breath stirred the hair at his chest, recalling how her lips had pleasured him over the entire length of his body.

“It was Meg who cared for me when I was born,” she continued, “and then carried me across the whole of England until she found Poladouras.”

“How did she accomplish this great journey without your gift of sight, or even mortal sight to guide her?” he asked, frowning with a mixture of curiosity and the extreme effort of keeping his growing desire for her under control.

“She was guided by a silver falcon. The falcon provided her with food and led her through the forests and countryside to her destination. Only the falcon could be entrusted with the location, for she was pure of heart.”

“Aquila?”

“Aquila is a descendant of the falcon who guided us long ago. It is why she is so protective and a fine hunter.”

He nodded. “The falcon guided me to you,” his voice filled with unexpected emotion, “or I would not have found you in time.”

Then, he became thoughtful once more.

“What of the standing stone in the clearing?”

She had not realized that he had seen it before it disappeared. “It is a portal into the other world. It is possible for some to pass through the stone.”

“And fortress walls as well?”

She shrugged and gave him a small smile. “At the time it seemed the most expedient means to leave without being seen.”

With a growing huskiness of voice, he asked, “What other powers do you possess?” he asked.

She told him of the abilities she had slowly discovered and gradually learned to use, including the unusual healing power that had saved William’s life, and her own, the raw energy of life force that lived within her, and the power of fire.

“Fire is one of the elements of nature. My mother calls me her daughter of passion, daughter of fire. It is as if the fire burns within me.”

“Aye,” Rorke acknowledged, his gray gaze fixed on her, his voice once more low in his throat with remembered passion. “I have tasted your fire. It is, I think, the only way I should wish to die.”

“No!” she said passionately. “Not die, but live! Fire is the power of life within me. So, too, is it within you, now that we are joined. It happened in that moment when you battled the creature.”

“A fierce beast,” he remarked with a frown, his thoughts churning with everything she had told him. “I was not certain it would die.”

“It has not,” she answered gravely. Her gaze met his, a troubled expression at her lovely features. “The Darkness lives still.”

“Go on,” he urged, sensing her fear. “Tell me of it.”

“The Darkness takes many forms. For Arthur it came in the form of his friend’s betrayal that brought his downfall. I saw it in the form of a man who attempted to attack me as I passed through the portal. When I escaped, it became the wolf. I saw it in the beast’s eyes.”

“What form did it take with Merlin?”

“It was a battle of power. First it destroyed Arthur, for Arthur was like a brother to Merlin and possessed the true heart to be a powerful king who might have destroyed the Darkness once and for all. When the Darkness could not destroy Merlin, it imprisoned him, preventing him from returning to the mortal world and using his powers.”

“But the Darkness did not know that there were others with Merlin’s powers,” Rorke concluded. “His daughter.”

Rorke saw the logic of everything she had told him. It explained so much of what he knew of legend, myth, and fact. “Then the legend of Arthur and Merlin is true,” Rorke said with simple acceptance. He had seen too much not to believe it.

“Aye,” she said softly. “ ’Tis true.”

Then she told him of her power of inner sight, and of the visions that came to her, beginning with the vision at Amesbury, of a creature born in fire and blood, the phoenix rising from a bed of flames, and the warning of the prophecy,
“Beware the faith that has no heart, the sword that has no soul.”

He looked at her with a new understanding. “You knew William would be victorious at Hastings.”

She nodded. “I saw it, and other things.”

He touched her cheek. “What other visions have you seen?”

With all her powers, it was the power of
his
touch that had the ability to unnerve her as no other, sending shivers across her skin as he stroked a thumb across the curve of her lip, recalling in an instant the taste and textures of him.

“I have seen a weaver at a tapestry,” she said, her breath catching on a sigh of pleasure. “But it is not finished. I do not know what it means.”