more of the story yet.” The frustration at having him pull back flickered over her face. “Will you hear it, or not?”
“Fine.” He moved a shoulder. “Go ahead.”
She turned, clamped her hands on the stone balustrade, letthe thunder of the sea pound in her head. She stared down at that endless war of water and rock that fought at the base of the cliff.
“They loved each other, and pledged one to the other. But he was a warrior, and there were more battles to fight. Whenever he would leave her, she watched in the fire she made, saw him wheel his horse through smoke and death, lift his sword for freedom. And always he came back to her, riding over the hills on a fine black horse. She wove him a cloak out of dark gray wool, to match his eyes. And a charm she put on it, for protection in battle.”
“So you’re saying she was a witch?”
“A witch she was, yes, with the power and art that came down through the blood. And the vow she’d taken to her heart, as close as she’d taken the man she loved, to harm none. Her powers she used only to help and to heal. But not all with power are true. There was one who had chosen a different path. One who used his power for gain and found joy in wielding it like a bloody sword.”
She shuddered once, violently, then continued. “This man, Alasdair, lusted for her—for her body, her heart, her soul. For her power as well—for she was strong, was Bryna the Wise. He came into her dreams, creeping like a thief, trying to steal from her what belonged to another. Trying to take what she refused to give. He came into her home, but she would not have him. He was fair of face, his hair gold and his eyes black as the path he’d chosen. He thought to seduce her, but she spurned him.”
Her fingers tightened on the stone, and her heart began to trip. “His anger was huge, his vanity deep. He set to kill the man she loved, casting spells, weaving charms of the dark. But the cloak she had woven and the love she had given protected him from harm. But there are more devious ways to destroy. Alasdair used them. Again in dreams he planted seeds of doubt, hints of betrayal in Caelan’s sleeping mind. Alasdair gave him visions of Bryna with another, painted pictures of her wrapped in another man’s arms, filled with another man’s seed. And with these images tormenting hismind, Caelan rode his fine black horse over the hills to this place. And finding her he accused her.
“She was proud,” Bryna said after a moment. “She would not deny such lies. They argued bitterly, tempers ruling over hearts. It was then that he struck—Alasdair. He’d waited only for the moment, laughing in the shadows while the lovers hurled pain at each other. When Caelan tore off his cloak, hurled it to the ground at her feet, Alasdair struck him down so that his blood ran through the stones and into the ground.”
Tears glinted into her eyes, but went unshed as she faced Calin. “Her grief blinded her, but she cast the circle quickly, fighting to save the man she loved. His wound was mortal and there was no answer for him but death. She knew but refused to accept, and turned to meet Alasdair.”
She lifted her voice over the roar of the sea. It came stronger now, this story through her. “Then the walls of this place rang with fury, with magic loosed. She shielded her love and fought like a warrior gone wild. And the sky thundered, clouds dark and thick covered the full white moon and blotted out the stars. The sea thrashed like men pitched in battle and the ground trembled and heaved.
“In the circle, weak and dying, Caelan reached for his sword. But such weapons are useless against witchcraft, light and dark, unless wielded with strength. In his heart he called for her, understanding now his betrayal and his own foolish pride. Her name was on his lips as he died. And when he died, her heart split in two halves and left her defenseless.”
She sighed, closed her eyes briefly. “She was lost
“Fine.” He moved a shoulder. “Go ahead.”
She turned, clamped her hands on the stone balustrade, letthe thunder of the sea pound in her head. She stared down at that endless war of water and rock that fought at the base of the cliff.
“They loved each other, and pledged one to the other. But he was a warrior, and there were more battles to fight. Whenever he would leave her, she watched in the fire she made, saw him wheel his horse through smoke and death, lift his sword for freedom. And always he came back to her, riding over the hills on a fine black horse. She wove him a cloak out of dark gray wool, to match his eyes. And a charm she put on it, for protection in battle.”
“So you’re saying she was a witch?”
“A witch she was, yes, with the power and art that came down through the blood. And the vow she’d taken to her heart, as close as she’d taken the man she loved, to harm none. Her powers she used only to help and to heal. But not all with power are true. There was one who had chosen a different path. One who used his power for gain and found joy in wielding it like a bloody sword.”
She shuddered once, violently, then continued. “This man, Alasdair, lusted for her—for her body, her heart, her soul. For her power as well—for she was strong, was Bryna the Wise. He came into her dreams, creeping like a thief, trying to steal from her what belonged to another. Trying to take what she refused to give. He came into her home, but she would not have him. He was fair of face, his hair gold and his eyes black as the path he’d chosen. He thought to seduce her, but she spurned him.”
Her fingers tightened on the stone, and her heart began to trip. “His anger was huge, his vanity deep. He set to kill the man she loved, casting spells, weaving charms of the dark. But the cloak she had woven and the love she had given protected him from harm. But there are more devious ways to destroy. Alasdair used them. Again in dreams he planted seeds of doubt, hints of betrayal in Caelan’s sleeping mind. Alasdair gave him visions of Bryna with another, painted pictures of her wrapped in another man’s arms, filled with another man’s seed. And with these images tormenting hismind, Caelan rode his fine black horse over the hills to this place. And finding her he accused her.
“She was proud,” Bryna said after a moment. “She would not deny such lies. They argued bitterly, tempers ruling over hearts. It was then that he struck—Alasdair. He’d waited only for the moment, laughing in the shadows while the lovers hurled pain at each other. When Caelan tore off his cloak, hurled it to the ground at her feet, Alasdair struck him down so that his blood ran through the stones and into the ground.”
Tears glinted into her eyes, but went unshed as she faced Calin. “Her grief blinded her, but she cast the circle quickly, fighting to save the man she loved. His wound was mortal and there was no answer for him but death. She knew but refused to accept, and turned to meet Alasdair.”
She lifted her voice over the roar of the sea. It came stronger now, this story through her. “Then the walls of this place rang with fury, with magic loosed. She shielded her love and fought like a warrior gone wild. And the sky thundered, clouds dark and thick covered the full white moon and blotted out the stars. The sea thrashed like men pitched in battle and the ground trembled and heaved.
“In the circle, weak and dying, Caelan reached for his sword. But such weapons are useless against witchcraft, light and dark, unless wielded with strength. In his heart he called for her, understanding now his betrayal and his own foolish pride. Her name was on his lips as he died. And when he died, her heart split in two halves and left her defenseless.”
She sighed, closed her eyes briefly. “She was lost
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