Daughter of Fire (50 page)

“She has gone after him.” The young knight fought to return to his feet, but could not. He cursed at his weakness. “Give me a smaller blade and I will fight by your side. And when we have the traitor, I will gladly cut his throat.”

“You have done all that anyone could ask. William’s brother has betrayed him and he will feel the loss sorely. He will have need of his son. There is no need of more of your blood.”

With a look to Gavin, Rorke stood and approached the royal chamber, calling out to those within. Meg opened the door, peering at him through the narrow opening with those sightless eyes that still had the power to see truth.

“I feared you would not return, milord,” she said with trembling voice that spoke of a fear he had never known the old woman to possess.

“Where is the queen?”

Matilda called out from the bed and Meg stood aside to let him enter. The queen sat supported by thick pillows at her back. At the foot of the bed, positioned between her and any who might try to enter was the monk, a large silver crucifix, gleaming in his hand. The girl, Mally, cringed at the side of the bed.

“Milord,” Poladouras sighed with relief. “May God forgive me, I was not certain which end of this thing I might be forced to use. I would have run the black-hearted bastard through if he had come through the door.”

“Vivian?”

“She was lured to the catacombs to free the girl,” Meg informed him. “He knew she would follow.”

A coldness of rage filled him, closing around his heart. “How long ago?”

“Not long,” Meg replied, wringing her hands. “She made us swear that we would not leave the queen. The bishop’s power is useless against her spell.” She indicated the five-pointed star, then added in a painful whisper, “As long as she is alive.”

“He threatens women and children to feed his ambition,” Rorke said, eyes as cold as ice. “Now, let him deal with me.”

“Nay!” Meg cried out, grabbing at his arm. “You are mortal. You cannot stop him, for in truth tis not the bishop that has done this, but the Darkness that has claimed his soul.”

Whirling around, Rorke demanded, “What nonsense is this, old woman? Stephen of Valois spoke his name as traitor. His men manned the gates against us. It was the bishop’s men who attacked us in the north country, and sought to murder the king.”

“The body is that of the bishop, but the soul is not!” she repeated. “It is the Darkness and it seeks the power of the Light, for with her strength the Darkness will rule the kingdom and all will be lost, just as it was five hundred years ago.”

“ ’Tis true, my son.” Poladouras added his voice to the old woman’s. “Meg has said that you know the truth of Vivian’s powers. You know as well that she is a daughter of the Light, Merlin’s own true child. The bishop has embraced the Darkness in his quest for power, but it rules him for its own purposes—to destroy the keepers of the Light.”

 “There must be a way to stop it,” Rorke insisted. “I will not accept that she is lost to me.” He seized Meg by the shoulders. “By God, there must be a way!”

“There is only one who might know how you may free her from the Darkness,” Meg replied. “How great is your courage, warrior?” she then asked. “Is it enough to confront the power of the Light and challenge the Darkness for the love of a sorcerer’s daughter?”

Without hesitation, he said, “Tell me how it may be done.”

Meg nodded. “You must travel through the stone portal to the world between the worlds.”

~ ~ ~

It was almost dawn as Rorke stood in the forest clearing. Snow had fallen, blanketing the ground with a pristine whiteness beneath the gathering gray in those last moments before the sun rose.

“You have the means to enter into the other world,” Meg told him, her old hands clamped over his arm. “But do you have the faith? Do you believe strongly enough that it exists? For only if you truly believe, may you pass where few mortals have ever gone. If not, you will be lost.” As she spoke, the first golden rays of sunlight spilled into the clearing.

A strange mist slowly formed as sunlight warmed the cold snow, and in that shimmering light, if he looked very carefully, he saw the wavering image of a standing stone.

“The blue crystal.” Meg gestured to the stone that hung about his neck as it had since the day he’d left London. Vivian had given him the stone for protection and he felt a wrenching helplessness for she had known the dangers of the Darkness and yet she had given him the crystal.

“It possesses the flame of the Light,” she went on to explain. “So as it protects it may also guide you through the stone. But,” she cautioned, “only if you believe.”

“What is on the other side?” Rorke asked.

“Truth.”

“Will he be there?”

Meg nodded. “Aye, but he may refuse to let you enter.”

“He would refuse, knowing that I want only to save his daughter?”  Anger poured through him. He was a warrior, who saw everything in the context of battles fought and won. There was no acceptable loss. Especially this one.

“It is not enough to want it,” Meg cautioned. “You must prove that you are worthy of what you seek.” She looked past him to the stone.

“You must go now.” Even as she spoke the light grew brighter in the clearing. As soon as the sun climbed over the treetops and filled the clearing, the portal would be closed once more.

With his hand at the sword that hung by his side, Rorke stepped before the standing stone. Tarek was immediately beside him.

“Let me come with you,” he said fiercely. “Together we will fight this Darkness.”

Rorke shook his head. “Nay, I cannot ask that of you, my friend. You must remain here.” He laid a hand on Tarek’s shoulder.

“If I do not return, pledge your sword to Stephen. He will have need of your loyalty.”

Tarek nodded grimly. “Think only of the Jehara, for such a love is rare,” he told him, thinking fleetingly of the beautiful creature that had warned him of the attack and saved his life in the north country. If he found such a love as his friend had found, he would hold on to it with his dying breath.

Rorke nodded. “I will remember.”

Tarek smiled. “And I will wait for you here.”

“You must believe, warrior,” Meg cautioned as his other hand closed over the blue crystal, holding on to it as if he were holding on to Vivian. He closed his eyes and thought only of her as he stepped through the stone.

It was like being hurtled down a deep, dark hole. He felt himself tumbling and rolling, thrown against hard surfaces then a searing, tearing sensation as if he were being torn apart. An incredible coldness poured through him, invading his thoughts, breaking his concentration. He had no idea whether or not he still had his sword, or even if he still lived, there were only his memories of her moving through his thoughts, his senses, her touch, the softness of her body yielding to his, the whisper of her breath mingling with his, the flame in her eyes reaching out to him.

He seemed to be falling toward it, for it grew steadily larger, like an opening at the end of a tunnel. Then, in a sudden burst of pain and light, as if everything had exploded about him, Rorke was thrown free of the stone and into a grassy clearing.

His senses slowly cleared. He remembered stepping through the stone, yet there were no outward signs of the journey he’d just made, worse than any battle fought on a dozen battlefields. There was no blood, nor were his garments torn. He still clutched his sword in one hand, the other closed around the crystal,  as if he had casually stepped from one room into another.

The clearing was the same only now it was void of the cold and snow. A few feet away he could barely make out the shape of the stone.

“Stand and fight!” The challenge spun him around.

The man he faced was tall and broad-shouldered, with imposing strength in the hardened muscles at his arms as he clutched a sword before him. There was no mistake; he was a warrior. It was in his stance, the way he held his weapon and the fierce expression at his face.

He was not a young man, nor was he old, but in the prime of his years, and with a cunning that could be seen in the gaze leveled at Rorke. But it was his battle raiment that gave Rorke pause. He wore no chain mail, but a thick, gold breastplate reinforced with panels of polished metal. It was worn over a skirted garment that ended just above the knees, rather than breeches, and edged with gold braid trim. Armor-plated boots, glinted golden, and encased his heavily muscled legs. A mantle hung from his shoulders, held in place by twin gold medallions at the breastplate. On his head he wore a steel-domed helm with a magnificent plumage that had been dyed brilliant crimson to match the blood-red color of his mantle. By contrast, the battle sword he carried was remarkably void of adornment. This man was no common warrior, but a leader of warriors.

“Fight or die!” the warrior again challenged, lunging toward Rorke.

He met the blow and turned it aside. “I do not seek to battle with you. I come seeking the one called Merlin.” His answer was another blow of steel against steel.

The warrior was strong, a formidable opponent in any world. It took all of Rorke’s strength and cunning to parry each thrust and meet each blow, then turn it away. And all the while he was aware of time slipping away, precious time that might mean the difference between life and death for Vivian.

Where was Merlin? If he truly existed.

“Enough! I have no time for this!” he spat out furiously.

“You have time for nothing else, warrior,” his opponent taunted. Another blow rang out in the clearing.

He studied his opponent, turning his thoughts toward the outcome. He noticed each tiny flaw of movement, a momentary hesitation, the weakness of the warrior’s side left unprotected. Slowly, surely he began to turn the attack, driving with unrelenting blows, taking every advantage learned in countless battles.

There were no distractions, there was only the outcome, an outcome of which he was certain for he would accept no other than victory. He was relentless, until he felt his opponent waiver under each blow. Still, he attacked, driven by a bloodlust to see it ended.

You must prove yourself worthy.
Old Meg’s words whispered through the heat of the battle.
Tis not enough to want it. You must believe.

A surprise blow stunned him, his concentration momentarily broken. He fought back harder, relentlessly.

How must he prove himself? What test might a sorcerer ask of a mortal? With each blow, he struck back with two.

What might the true test of a warrior be?

He felt his opponent weaken, and as he faltered Rorke struck another blow, and another, until he had driven the warrior to his knees. Another blow drove the blade from his opponent’s hands, and he stood over him with sword raised.

Was there death in the immortal world?

He hesitated. Was anything real? Was this proud, fierce warrior real?

A test of worthiness. In the mortal world.

You must believe.

On a fierce war cry, Rorke flung his sword away. “I will not kill you!”

With those words he saw the gleam of satisfaction in the other warrior’s gaze. If he caused his own death by his choice, Rorke thought with an aching of regret—not for himself but for Vivian—then so be it.

The warrior rose to his feet, undaunted, still proud and undefeated. He grabbed a small blade from the sheath at his belt.

“Enough.”

He stepped from the cover of trees that surrounded the clearing and slowly walked toward them. 

He was older than the warrior, but tall and just as regal. His features were lean with a thoughtfulness about his mouth, the beard at his face lightly sprinkled with gray.  He wore a blue tunic over breeches and carried no weapon.  Nor had he need of one.  For as he came closer, his  gaze lifted and met Rorke’s, and the eyes that looked back at him were as blue as the heart of a flame. It was
her
eyes that looked back at him, measuring, watchful, as if they looked deep inside him.

Merlin.

The warrior greeted him, not as a servant to master, but as friend to friend that spoke of some deeply shared bond, not unlike the bond that Rorke shared with his own men..

“He fought well,” the warrior commented. “I thought myself beaten until he cast his blade aside.”

Merlin said nothing but continued to watch him carefully and Rorke sensed the keenness of mind that lay behind that gaze and the fierceness of power that still burned within the sorcerer, for he had seen that same fierce power that burned within the sorcerer’s daughter.

“Why did you throw your sword away?” Merlin asked, his eyes narrowing, watching, measuring. “It is your strength. With it you kill, vanquish your enemies, and conquer kingdoms. You might have been killed without it.”

Rorke sensed that scrutiny and realized that this was the test the old woman had spoken of. Merlin didn’t seek answers, he sought wisdom.

“Because,” Rorke speculated, “that is precisely what you expected of me.”

Merlin’s expression eased. “She said you were of true heart. I had to know if you also  possessed great wisdom. For only with wisdom is there any hope of accomplishing what you seek.” He looked to the warrior who stood beside Rorke.

“There may yet be hope.” A look passed between the two men and then the warrior stepped back. He bowed his head slightly. Then the warrior looked at Rorke. His fierce gaze seemed to burn through him as if he tried to see something more.

“We have waited five hundred years for the one who could carry the sword back to the mortal world.” He nodded and resheathed his own sword. Then before Rorke could question his strange meaning, the warrior disappeared as if he had never existed.

“Trickery and conjuring?” Rorke asked with sudden anger as he turned back to Merlin, whom he half expected to vaporize into the air as the warrior had.

“I did not come here for this. I have met your test. Now I want answers. How may I fight the Darkness?”

But Merlin’s only response was a contemplative look. “Walk with me.” Then he turned and climbed the footpath into the hills.

He hadn’t come for early morning strolls in the hills, he had come for answers. Rorke hesitated, angry and frustrated by what he could not understand and sorcerers who would not make themselves understood. All the while time was running out, and Vivian was in grave danger.