Authors: Susan Carroll
“You had better sit down and tell me everything.”
“I’m still rather wet.”
“That’s all right.” She flicked a nervous glance at him. “I don’t have any dry clothes to offer you, so I would just as soon you didn’t take anything else off.”
“I wasn’t going to. I am rather wary of exposing my more tender parts to a sorceress or her cat.” He attempted to smile, but met with no answering response.
As Simon drew a chair closer to the fire and sat down, Miri bustled over to her cupboard. Fetching two earthenware mugs, she tried to blot out the image of some unfortunate woman’s body broken on the rocks. Not by my hand, Simon had insisted. How desperately Miri wanted to believe him.
But his tale had jarred her, effectively reminding her of who and what he was—a witch-hunter. Perhaps that was just as well, considering how dangerously close she had come to forgetting it when she had attended to his wound, allowing herself to be pulled a little too deeply into the velvet darkness of his gaze.
Simon leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs across the hearth. When Miri approached, he drew them in to allow her access to the cauldron. His damp breeches and linen shirt clung to his frame, outlining the powerful contours of his body. The sight triggered in her a memory far different from the gentle sweetness of their first and only kiss. A memory of the time she had been alone with Simon in his bedchamber at the inn in Paris. He had prowled toward her, cornering her against the wall, leaning in so close, she could feel the heat of his breath. The hard barrier of his chest brushing up against the bodice of her gown, he had used his knife to ruthlessly claim a lock of hair, his voice a sensual purr, his gaze dark and predatory.
His intent had been to warn her to stay away from him, to alarm and intimidate her. He had certainly succeeded in that. But he had succeeded in something else as well, causing her blood to race with a longing that was lustier, earthier than anything she had ever experienced before. Her first taste of desire . . .
Her cheeks warmed with more than the heat from the fire. Miri fought to suppress the memory as she ladled the hot liquid into one of the mugs.
“Here,” she said, extending the cup to Simon, determinedly keeping her gaze from roving any lower than the strong cords of his neck.
“What is this?” Simon asked as he took the cup from her hands.
“An herbal tea that Ariane taught me to brew. Very restorative and good for fending off the chill.”
Simon held the mug beneath his nose and sniffed the rising steam with a wary look on his face.
“It is not poisoned, if that is what you are afraid of.”
Simon shrugged. “I wouldn’t much care if it was.”
“Don’t say such a dreadful thing.”
When he glanced up at her in surprise, she continued earnestly, “It is like spitting in the face of God and scorning all the good spirits of the earth to have so little regard for yourself. Life is a precious gift.”
“Even if one makes a miserable use of it?”
“It is never too late to change, Simon. Pursue a different path.”
He made no reply. Blowing on his tea to cool it, he took a cautious sip. But as Miri filled her own mug from the cauldron, he admitted, “About two years ago, I did try something different. Back when I still enjoyed the king’s favor, he gifted me with a small holding of land. I attempted to settle there, built a house and barn. I had some notion I might try breeding horses.”
Miri twisted her head to regard him with surprise. “What happened?”
Simon cradled his mug in his large hands, staring pensively into his tea. “I was too used to being alone and when you spend your life fighting darkness, it finally gets inside of you. I have walked in the shadows for so long, I don’t remember how to dwell in the light. I—I just didn’t seem to fit, to belong anywhere.”
Miri turned away quickly, his words striking in her a painful answering chord. Except for the part about the darkness, Simon might well have been speaking of her. She finished filling her mug and retreated to a seat near the table.
Simon took a swallow of his tea and continued, “Besides, it is hardly a propitious time for a witch-hunter to go into retirement when there is great evil abroad and I seem to be the only one aware of it.”
He leveled a searching look at Miri. “I take it you have heard nothing? Not one rumor of the existence of this new coven of witches?”
“As I have told you so many times in the past, I know nothing of any witches,” Miri replied, warming her hands with the heat pouring through her cup. “My only acquaintance is with wise women, other daughters of the earth.”
“These women are more like daughters of darkness. They call themselves the Sisterhood of the Silver Rose. They use that flower as their emblem.”
“Roses grow in many colors, Simon. Silver isn’t one of them.”
“These roses are like nothing you have ever seen. Leached of all color and scent, glittering as though encased in ice. If you ever find one, don’t touch it. They are permeated with some sort of poison. A farm lad in Dieppe came across one, presented it to his sweetheart. Both he and the poor girl were cursed to a slow, lingering death.”
Some of Miri’s skepticism must have shown on her face, for Simon scowled at her over the rim of his mug. “What? You don’t believe me?”
Miri delayed answering by sipping from her cup, the bitter and sweet of the brew mingling on her tongue. “The rose was likely blasted by frost and the farmer and his sweetheart merely taken ill. There are many contagious fevers and ailments that can strike suddenly, unfortunately beyond many an ignorant doctor’s ability to cure. As for all this talk of a coven . . . That’s what you used to call Ariane’s council meetings and they were nothing more than gatherings to promote friendship and share learning of the healing arts.”
“I may have been wrong about your sister,” Simon conceded tersely. “But I am not about the Sisterhood of the Silver Rose. These women are pure evil.”
“So what exactly do these sisters do? That is, when they are not cultivating poisonous roses and trying to kill you.”
“Spread fear and destruction. Recruit new members to her order.”
“Her?”
Simon waved one hand in an impatient gesture. “The Silver Rose. The sorceress. The leader of this sisterhood. I have never seen her or heard a whisper of what her true identity might be.
“In the beginning I suspected the Dark Queen might have something to do with this coven. She is certainly capable of wielding such destructive power. But from what I have gleaned from the Silver Rose’s followers, they consider Catherine de Medici as much of an enemy as they do me.”
Simon frowned and added, “What
little
I have gleaned. These witches will kill themselves before betraying any of the Rose’s secrets. They have this fixed belief that she can bring them back from the dead.”
He shot Miri a troubled look. “Is such a thing possible?”
“How would I know? I don’t practice black magic. Nor do any of my family,” Miri protested. After a pause, she added reluctantly, “I have heard tell that those skilled in necromancy can communicate with the dead, but to actually bring them back to life—no, that would be going against the will of God and the laws of nature.”
“And yet . . . I once saw your sister do just that. The time the Comte de Renard threw my old master in the pond and he drowned. The Lady of Faire Isle used her magic art to breathe life back into Monsieur Le Vis.” Simon’s voice was soft, but his eye pierced Miri with—with what? A faint trace of accusation?
She stiffened with a mingling of alarm and indignation. “Le Vis was not dead, only unconscious. Ariane merely revived him using her healing skills.” Miri smacked her cup back down on the table so hard, liquid sloshed over the rim. “Good lord, Simon Aristide. Never tell me you suspect my sister is this evil Silver Rose. Because if that is why you have come to me—”
“No! No, of course not.”
Miri would have been more reassured if Simon had sounded more convinced. She went on fiercely, “Ariane is the epitome of what a daughter of the earth should be, wise, healing, nurturing. She is not in the least mad, which is what any wise woman would have to be to try to bring someone back from the grave. It would be completely insane.”
“No more insane than some of the other hellish practices the Rose encourages among her followers.” Simon’s fingers tightened on his cup, his mouth grim. “Human sacrifice. Babes, some scarce hours old, abandoned to die of hunger and neglect. I have found four of them in the past year.”
“How—how terrible and sad,” Miri replied in a low voice. “But that is not necessarily a sign of any satanic sacrifice. If things are as bad as you say on the mainland, many families must be driven to the brink of desperation by the prospect of another mouth to feed or—” Her mind filled with the image of Carole Moreau’s tragic young face. “Or often young girls who conceive out of wedlock are cast off by their families, left with nowhere to turn, so they leave their babes on the doorsteps of abbeys or churches—”
“These infants weren’t left near any church,” Simon growled. “They were deserted where they would never be found until it was too late, on cliffs or remote hillsides, placed on the rocks like some pagan offering. No act of desperation, but the cold-blooded murder of helpless babes, and all of them male. Sons abandoned by their mothers on the orders of this infamous Silver Rose.”
“I cannot believe any mother would willingly—”
“Of course you can’t.” Simon blew out an exasperated breath and levered himself to his feet. “You have never been willing to concede that
wise women,
as you persist in calling them, could ever do anything wrong, never been able to see the evil that surrounds you.”
“And evil is all that you do see,” Miri retorted. “You’ve been a witch-hunter for far too long. What do you think, Simon? That this Silver Rose is trying to unleash some biblical plague against firstborn sons? Or maybe she just wants to destroy all the men in the world.”
“I don’t know, damn it.” Simon slapped his hands down on the mantel and braced his arms, bowing his head. “I don’t know,” he repeated in a wearier voice. “I have too many questions and no answers.”
He angled his head enough to give Miri a searching glance. “Are you not crediting anything that I tell you? Or do you just think that too much witch-hunting has addled my brain?”
“No, but perhaps it has overstimulated your imagination, causing you to turn the actions of a few evil or demented women into some sort of unbelievable conspiracy.”
“All right, then. Tell me if I have imagined this.” Simon thrust himself away from the mantel and strode over to where he had left his saddlebag. Yanking it open, he dove inside and drew out some object wrapped in a linen cloth.
He stalked back to Miri and plunked it down on the table before her. As he carefully undid the small bundle, she leaned forward, watching with a mingling of curiosity and apprehension.
The cloth fell away to reveal what at first glance looked like a slender knife, the stiletto-like blade fitted into a hilt carved with the emblem of a rose.
“This is the diabolical weapon the Silver Rose has devised. I call it a witch blade. Note her symbol etched here.” Simon traced one finger over the flower. “Part of the hilt is actually hollow, a place for storing poison. When you push it down—” Simon lifted the weapon to demonstrate. “It acts like a plunger, forcing the poison down through the blade itself, which is also hollow.”
But Miri scarce heeded his explanation, her eyes widening with awe as she recognized Simon’s witch blade for what it actually was.
“Great heavens,” she breathed. “It’s a syringe.”
“A what?”
“A
syringe,
” she repeated. “They have existed since the time of Galen.”
“Who was she? Some sorceress?”
“No,
he
was an ancient Greek physician, a very wise and learned man.”
As Miri reached for the syringe, Simon tensed and cautioned her. “Be careful. I have drained all the poison out and cleaned it, but the witch blade is still dangerous, the point quite sharp.”
Miri took it from him gingerly, testing the plunger, studying the thick needle with wonder and fascination. The syringe that Galen had devised and wise women still employed was crude by comparison. Only a barrel and plunger with a blunt tip. One always had to have a blade handy to cut an incision through the skin.
“Wherever could the Silver Rose have learned to make this?” Miri murmured. “To fashion a hollow needle and attach it to a basic syringe . . . it—it is so clever and would make it so much easier to—”
“To kill people?” Simon cut in icily.
“No, to administer medicine to some poor creature who was too weak to swallow. Or—or a person even. How quickly and efficiently one could get a healing potion into the blood—”
“That is not what the damned thing is being used for,” Simon snapped, snatching the syringe out of her grasp.
“Yes, but—” Miri halted when she saw the dark look on Simon’s face. She had to bite down upon her lip to stifle her frustration as he whisked the fascinating instrument from her sight. She longed to have a chance to properly study it. But she could tell that her interest was only irritating Simon and rendering him uneasy. She stifled a deep sigh as he packed the syringe away in his saddlebag.
“All right,” she said. “I concede that this mysterious Silver Rose of yours exists and that she is putting her knowledge to terrible use. But I don’t know what I can do to help you unmask her. As you can see, I live very much out of the way here. Even if I did pay more heed to what was going on in the wider world, I don’t possess enough power and influence among other daughters of the earth to help you track this woman down.”
Simon closed the flap on his saddlebag. He avoided looking at Miri as he replied, “No. But the Lady of Faire Isle does.”
A tingle of apprehension coursed through Miri. “W-what?”
“Your sister. Ariane.” Simon tried to sound casual but the tension in his face told Miri that he understood full well the enormity of what he was about to ask of her. “If you could just send her a message—”