The cauldron effect, p.9
The Cauldron Effect, page 9
Relaxing in the water, he reminisced about when, as a boy of nine, he’d run rampant through an old church in search of mischief. Instead, he’d tripped over a crumbled altar, fallen and struck his head. A vision had assailed him that day, urging him to follow the way of God. It showed him a special weapon that would help him conquer dark creatures that endangered mankind.
A thrilling life for an adventurous boy to dream of, a worthwhile goal for a restless adult to claim. The day Braden found Agamore, he had been sixteen years old. It had been winter. He’d been exploring a mausoleum on his land and spotted the rusted sword lying discarded, and half buried in the snowy ground. He pulled it free, wondering, could this be the weapon his vision promised so long ago?
He’d joined the church guards soon after, seeing it as a sign that it was time to commit to a new way of life. He swore his allegiance to protect all God’s creatures. His newly polished sword had proven to be a worthy tool in that endeavor. It was swifter than a bludgeon, stronger than a saber, and deadlier than a one-shot pistol. Yet, it was only since the fight in the London alleyway with those hellhounds, that the sword’s incredible power manifested. It was also the first time he’d prayed while holding the sword.
Now he knew its true value, he didn’t want to leave Agamore out in the open, unguarded. Carrying it to dinner would raise eyebrows, but where to hide it? His gaze was inevitably drawn to the portmanteau. He got out of the tub and quickly dried himself. Once suitably dressed, he brought the portmanteau to the bed and picked up Agamore.
He opened the case and extended the sword into it, hilt down. The luggage practically took the sheathed sword from his grip. In moments, the sword had vanished from sight.
Swallowing a nervous laugh, he held out his hand over the opening. “Agamore.”
The weapon jutted back out, hilt first.
Satisfied he could retrieve the sword when needed, he put Agamore back in and replaced the portmanteau in the wardrobe.
Feeling chipper, Braden strode downstairs. He couldn’t stop grinning. Before long, he was racing down the steps as if he were nine years old again.
Braden arrived at the doorway to the public room, mind in a whirl, not really seeing the crowd. The place seemed in bedlam, with voices calling for waiters, doors opening and closing everywhere, bells ringing. The hall was full of porters bringing in luggage.
The innkeeper rushed over. “Milord, your private parlor is this way.”
“Has Miss Pendraven retired for the evening?”
The innkeeper looked back into the public room and pointed. “She’s still there, milord.”
The young lady sat by a table placed beside a large hearth, finishing the dregs of her meal. She sat in a circle of quiet amidst the mayhem of the parlor. Everyone seemed to take care to avoid her, walking a good two feet around her table and chair.
“I shall dine with the lady,” Braden told the innkeeper.
The man gave him a startled look, and seemed about to protest. Braden raised his eyebrow in challenge, and the man re-thought his words and hurried away to arrange for his meal, muttering something about the “strange takes of the nobility.”
The crowd of travelers, hurrying waiters, and the heat generated by three hearth fires imbued the large parlor with a sense of life and bustle. The moment he approached Miss Pendraven, an ominous silence descended on the room.
“Good evening, Miss Pendraven.” Braden bowed. “We meet again. May I join you?”
She looked up, her aqua eyes not at all startled to see him. Could she have known he intended to follow her?
“My lord,” she said in her quiet cultured voice. She indicated an empty chair at her table.
He stepped forward and a cold frisson of energy shivered through his body. He winced and a collective gasp rose from the watching crowd.
He looked around but found nothing that could have caused that shock – no rug or cashmere shawl he might have accidentally brushed by. A look at his audience, and everyone quickly turned back to their own business.
He combed down his hair that suddenly felt dry and flyaway instead of still damp from his bath. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought he passed through one of Garth’s invisible barriers. Did witches use such barriers? They must.
Braden took his seat.
“The air in here is rather hot, is it not, my lord?” Miss Pendraven said with a bland expression. “I received a shock myself when the maid handed me my glass of wine.”
So, they were to lie to each other, were they? He wasn’t happy with that strategy. He liked it when she spoke directly, as she had during their impromptu theological discussion in the coach ride to Callington. That was the Merryn Pendraven he wanted to dine with.
“The young ladies in Callington will be frustrated you’ve left town, my lord. I’m sure word had spread that you intended to stay for a few weeks. Did you not say something about looking forward to attending dances?”
“As had you, and yet, here you are. Might I be so bold as to add, once again, sans chaperone?”
Her lips twitched. That slight movement mesmerized him. If not for the table separating them, he might have been tempted to lean over to kiss the telltale curl of her lips. To perdition with their audience!
The urge shocked him. Could Garth be right? Had Miss Pendraven bewitched him? Or did she have this sensual effect on all men?
He looked around the room. If her appeal was universal, why had none of the local lads crowding this parlor accosted her yet? Then he remembered her shield. Something more powerful than a chaperone protected this lady’s virtue.
Even alone, she was safe. Then another question arose. If those here suspected a witch was among them, why did no one raise a hue and cry?
The innkeeper, with a heavily laden tray, stood respectfully back. Miss Pendraven gave permission to approach. The innkeeper, too, jumped, rattling dishes as he crossed that invisible barrier. The man laid his burden on the table and retreated, bowing profusely.
If there was to be truth spoken tonight, Braden decided he might as well begin. “Why do these people not denounce you as a witch?”
Chapter 6
“There’s a messenger coming,” Nuriel said, and inside the hearth his flames quivered with excitement.
Spark, his curiosity lit, stretched his tiny candle flame as far up as he could to look over the top of the teapot and into the hearth. “Tst...tst...trouble?” He sputtered more than normal. It had been a tension-filled night.
“Very likely. Mind you, that’s everywhere tonight. Never thought I’d see the day a church guard and a witch sat down for dinner together. What do they talk about?”
“This and that. Lots of under-talk, I’m not sure I’m catching everything. Who’s the messenger here for?”
“The witch,” Nuriel said. “Sent by her aunt. Are these two forming an alliance?”
“They seem friendly.”
“How extraordinary. It’s a fire sprite, by the by, the messenger that’s coming.”
“Ooh, tst...tst...t’s serious then. Should we warn...?”
“No, best not disturb her ladyship until we know more. Appears as if this is strictly witch-guard business. I hear from the roof that the fight outside earlier was a little troublesome. Those fae snakes were swarming over the inn’s rooftop, so I built up my fire in case any tried to enter by the chimney. The guard and the witch fixed that troublesome situation.”
“Indeed?” Spark said.
“Yes. Can you not feel the land’s response? It’s fairly vibrating with strength beneath us.”
“I sensed a change, but wasn’t...tst...tst certain where it originated.”
“It was a blessing, Spark. Haven’t experienced one of those in a long while. Too long. Will be good for her.”
“Think she noticed...tst...tst?”
“I had not thought of that,” Nuriel said, excitement rising. “Keep your attention on the diners, Spark, in case they say anything of importance. For if this blessing awakens the lady of the inn, you can be certain we will be asked to report on it.”
THERE, HE’D CALLED her a witch to her face. Braden’s chest tightened as he held his breath, waiting for her response.
She looked startled but not offended. Then she nodded, as if accepting his lead toward frank conversation. “This is Cornwall, my lord. A land of magic and wonder. While Londoners remain closed to the possibility of enchanted matters, Cornishmen know how to show proper respect to this aspect of life. Little people and even practitioners of the craft receive the regard their status warrants.”
By practitioners of the craft, he assumed she meant herself and people like Garth. “Who are these ‘little people’? Lady Hancock mentioned ‘the Gentry.’ Are they the same?”
“Yes. It’s said they come from the lands of faerie that intersect ours along ley lines.”
About to spear a piece of meat, he snapped his head up. Garth often spoke of ley lines. Could such things truly exist?
Perhaps encouraged by his raised eyebrow, she elucidated. “Brownies, pixies, nymphs, dyads, sidhe, dwarfs. Shall I go on?”
“You believe in fairy tales, Miss Pendraven.” He spoke cautiously, for he recalled the barguest he’d fought in the alleyway in London. He’d first read of such a creature in a children’s folk tale. “Do you perhaps speak of hellhounds and snake demons and such? I do accept they are real.”
She gave him a long silent look, as if considering her response. “My lord, there are two types of fae, those that dwell in dark places and those that reside within realms of light. Be careful you do not mistake one for the other.”
An intriguing concept. In Church doctrine, there was man, made in the image of God, and there were those things spawned by the Devil that sought to corrupt man from the light of Truth. “You think there are shades within darkness?”
“There is light and dark and many shades between.”
He shifted, trying to fit her answer into his worldview, and found himself cramming a square peg into a round hole. It was the same dilemma he faced every time he tried to resolve the goodness he saw in Garth with his manservant’s practice of dark arts. Like that problem, he decided to shelve this one and switched to a subject he had a better hold on.
“You also mentioned practitioners of the craft. Are you admitting you are such a one?
“Will you admit you’re a Guard of the Green Cross?” Merryn countered.
Before he could respond, she raised her hand.
“No,” she said, “that cannot be true. Your servant is a magician. If you were truly a church guard, devoted to purging the world of those who deal with magic, why have you not condemned him to death?”
Braden’s eyes narrowed with disquiet. How did she know about Garth? Would her coven attempt to harm him if his servant probed too deep into their affairs? “To my knowledge, you’ve never been introduced to Garth.”
“Is that his name?” She wore her mysterious smile like a lady dons a fine hat.
“Garth is harmless. Hardly worthy of your notice.”
“You’re protective of him.” She sounded pleased by that discovery. Her shoulders dropped for the first time since he sat. “My aunt told me your manservant is a magician. In her assessment, he is clever and surprisingly talented and so, possibly dangerous. Yet, despite that, rather appealing.”
Her aunt had captured the very reasons why his annoying footman was fast growing into someone Braden considered more than a servant, and in fact, approaching nearer a friend. At her relative’s accurate assessment of Garth, quite absurdly considering the circumstances, he felt as if he’d left Garth among trusted friends. His tension unwound.
At the drop of his guard, hunger pangs prodded his empty stomach. He returned his attention to his meal while continuing the conversation. “Your aunt is Mrs. Morwena Dunstan?”
“The very same, my lord. She says your Garth seems quite courteous to witches despite keeping company with you.”
Braden looked up at that slight, but then shrugged it off as justified. In keeping with his intent to speak frankly with this captivating lady, he added, “Your aunt is the one you met by the wishing well?”
“Yes,” Miss Pendraven admitted with a look that dared him to even try to harm her relative.
He took a bite of roasted goose with gravy and applesauce to gain time to consider his next words. Slowly, he savored the rich taste. Even the potatoes and peas were mouthwateringly good. The mushrooms! These Cornishmen knew how to cook well.
A glance up showed her studying him with an indulgent look, as if she enjoyed watching him take pleasure in his meal. The look stirred a deeper yearning. “You’re not frightened of me, Miss Pendraven,” he said, finally. “Why not? You should be.”
She gave a start and then nodded. “Yes, I should be, but I find I’m not because I’ve come to a decision. You asked me in Callington if I would join you in finding young Trystan. I refused then but have since reconsidered. I will work with you on this matter, my lord.”
Braden choked on the delicious goose. It took him a moment to recover and order his clamoring thoughts. He took a sip of his drink and then asked, “Why the sudden change?”
“I cannot stop you following me. We are heading in the same direction, on the same purpose.”
His doubts quieted to a faint murmur. He nodded acceptance, trying to appear composed while squelching the happiness that rose at her acquiescence. He wanted to grin like a boy just given a dear present.
He hoped chewing the excellent food would keep his lips from betraying what a fool he seemed to have become since meeting this extraordinary witch.
He couldn’t identify why he felt so happy. Normally, he preferred to work alone, except for Garth. He rarely joined other church guards on their missions, preferring to be the one in control. Or as his father once complained, he didn’t play well with others.
Yet her assistance could potentially open whole new doors. Like Garth, she could see and do things to help ensure his mission’s success faster than if he worked alone – the original reason he’d asked for her help.
Still, none of that logic explained the swell of happiness that fought to burst out. He wanted to jump up, shake his arms in the air and roar in joy. However, he refused to allow any of that irrationality to show on the surface.
Considering his strong reaction to her news, doubt crept in. Were his emotions real or, as Garth had warned, had a bewitchment been placed on him? The thought acted like a damp cloth thrown over a raging cook fire – producing a lot of confusing smoke without smothering all the flames.
“If we are to work together,” he said in a grave voice that effectively hid his inner turmoil, “then I will begin by confessing that, Garth notwithstanding, I am a church guard. My primary purpose on this journey is to find the missing boy and take him to Snowdon.”
“So, my aunt was correct. The Church has made a covenant with warlocks.”
Made uncomfortable by her direct, accusatory glare, and his smarting conscience, Braden looked toward the flames leaping inside the hearth. “I merely carry out my orders.”
“Very well,” she said, though her tone cooled by several degrees. “We understand each other, and where this journey is likely to lead us to in the end.”
Alas, she had heard of his second order as well. Deep sadness sank into his midriff, transforming the remnants of his scrumptious meal into desert sand. “It would seem so, Miss Pendraven.”
She stared at him and he back at her. For a fleeting moment, despite their problems, he felt as if in that look, their worlds collided. Like two stars that exploded in heaven and then dropped back to earth, embers dissipating in the night air.
What could have been, would never be. Profound grief swept over him for the loss of those two stars.
“Since you have confided in me, my lord,” she murmured into the silence, “I shall return the favor. My role among my people is that of Protectress of all covens in the isles of Britain.”
The idea intrigued, sounding much like his calling. “Are you one of many who play this role? As we church guards protect the interests of the Church of England?”
“Only one in every generation is chosen and chooses to hold that position.”
“A wide field to cover alone.” He had to ask the next question, his life might one day depend on the answer. He hoped the question would not offend. She seemed too young to be given such a significant position. “Do your talents warrant the weighty responsibility, Miss Pendraven?”
She shrugged, then leaned forward to pour herself some tea. “My aunt has thus far refused to allow me to test the limits of my abilities. Still, I have dealt with warlocks, dark fae, and even a demon or two in my training. Now I can add a church guard to that list. I am sworn to protect with my life all who are under my care.”
He couldn’t help but be impressed, and then a little worried. “To the death?”
“To the death, my lord.”
“Then Garth will indeed be let down in his wish by the well,” Braden murmured, more to himself than her.
“He may at that,” she answered, surprising him.
“You knew we were there?”
She shook her head, giving a self-deprecating smile. “I only guessed after our conversation inside Saint Agatha’s church. I told my aunt. She found out about his concerns because he spoke them aloud.”
Braden wondered how her aunt could have known what was spoken between him and Garth if they had not been nearby. Then decided, like many of Garth’s magical tricks, this, too, he didn’t want to delve into.
“How did you manage to follow me to Laneast?” she asked.
“Garth. He’s an excellent tracker.”
“I’m surprised you weren’t bored, my lord. Why keep up the chase? I wasn’t doing anything of interest.”
He frowned at her. “You were a young lady out alone, in the dark, in the woods. What type of gentleman would leave you there unprotected?”
