Dark and Stormy Knight (35 page)

The pieces clattered to the ground.

As he turned his head to look at them, she shouted from his back, “Gwyn the Meek is no more!”

No sooner had she said the words than the Cup of Truth became whole again. When her arms encircled his neck, he snatched up the cup with his beak, spread his wings, and took flight. He soared over the cliffs and out across the sea, looking back every few minutes.

He had no doubt the royal archers would come after him and, if they got within range before he reached the borderlands, their chances weren’t good.

He flew on, still checking the rearview every few minutes. When they were less than halfway to Brocaliande, a soft tinkling reached his ears. The sound was akin to dozens of wind chimes ringing all at once.

Every nerve-ending prickled with alarm. He knew that sound. He’d heard it every year on Samhain when the whole colony rode out of Avalon. A backward glance confirmed his fears. The royal archers were in hot pursuit. Hundreds of them astride wave-trotting white ponies.

Brocaliande was still miles away, the horde of archers was gaining, and his strength was waning. His wings already ached so badly with fatigue it took everything he had to maintain his altitude. Still, he couldn’t give up. For the sake of Gwyneth and the bairn. Reaching deep for hidden reserves, he flapped his wings as hard as he could.

“Oh, my God.” Gwyneth’s cry was barely audible over the whistling wind. “Are those the archers?”

Lifting a foreleg, he plucked the cup from his beak with a talon. “Aye. They’re going to try and shoot me down.”

“Can they do that?”

“They can. But not until we’re in range.”

“Then fly faster.”

“I’m flying as fast as I can.” He didn’t have the heart to tell her his wings were trembling with exhaustion.

“How much farther is Brocaliande?”

“Farther than I’d like.”

He kept flapping, but his wings now felt leaden. Meanwhile, the archers had closed the distance with alarming rapidity. He pressed on, losing both speed and altitude. It was no use. Brocaliande had not yet appeared on the horizon and the archers were almost in range. If they let their arrows fly, they’d likely hit Gwyneth and he couldn’t let that happen. “Please tell me you can swim,” he said.

“Of course I can, but why?”

“I’m going to dive and, when I do, I want you to slip off my back into the sea.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“Lead them away from you.”

“Lead them away? To where?”

“Where they can’t hurt you.”

“No! I won’t let you. They’ll kill you.”

“Aye, probably,” he agreed with a pain in his chest. “But it’s the only way to keep you safe.”

* * * *

There was no time to waste arguing against Leith’s plan. As much as Gwyn resented being left behind, she could come up with no better suggestion. Even as she let go of his feathery neck, she clung to her fraying hope. Yes, their situation seemed dire, but she refused to allow doubt to creep in. Somehow, they would prevail, damn it. She couldn’t see how, but they had to. That was all there was to it.

Gwyn sucked in a breath and held it as icy water engulfed her. When the need to breathe overrode the need to hide, she surfaced with a gasp. The archers had passed over her and, according to plan, were following Leith across the sky in a northerly direction.

She treaded water with growing despair. Just as the weight of futility threatened to break her last thread of hope, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. The sight she beheld as she spun around replenished her optimism. Manannan mac Lir in his Wave Sweeper was heading right toward her. As the god sailed past, an unseen force hoisted her out of the sea and deposited her with a splat on the chariot’s deck.

Stunned witless, she sat there for a few minutes before clambering to her feet. Suddenly dizzy, she grabbed hold of the helm to steady herself. Up ahead, Leith was flying so low his back paws skipped over the waves. Meanwhile, his leonine haunches looked like Cupid’s pincushion.

“What are you going to do?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

In a blink, the Wave Sweeper overtook the archers, who didn’t seem to see them, either because they were too busy shooting at poor Leith or because they were actually invisible. When the chariot caught up with the flagging griffin, Manannan spun around, raised his arms, and called out in a booming voice: “I command thee waves to rise!”

The water beneath them began to churn, causing the chariot to pitch like one of those awful carnival rides. Only this Tilt-a-Whirl had no restraining bar. The motion knocked Gwyn about like a flag in a windstorm.

She did her best to hold on, but the force proved too strong. Her fingers slipped from the helm. The Wave Sweeper pitched before she could regain her hold. She landed hard on her hands and knees. Beneath her, the ocean was a churning cauldron of blue, green, and white.

She looked around for Manannan mac Lir. He was bent over Leith, now restored to his human form, with his back to her. She called out, but the roaring sea swallowed her voice. Just as she started to crawl toward them, the chariot listed hard to one side. Fear coiled in her gut as she began to slide toward the edge. If she went in, she’d drown for sure. She clawed at the deck, finding only slickness. A scream burst from her throat as she slipped from slippery deck into angry sea.

Down, down she went while all around her the ocean agitated like a washing machine. Her limbs flailed, her chest hurt, blood pounded in her ears. When she stopped sinking, she looked up. The surface was a long way away and her lungs already burned with the need to breathe.

She had to make it. Yes, it seemed impossible, but she hadn’t gotten this far to fail now, damn it. She would give the effort everything she had. For Leith and the baby, if not for herself.

With a hard scissor kick, she propelled herself upward. The sea was calmer now, but still swirling.

Something brushed against her legs. Her heart leaped into her throat. Holy crap. Icy electric eels swam through her veins. She couldn’t hold her breath much longer. Maybe she shouldn’t try. Maybe she should just give up. Drowning was supposed to be a peaceful death. Like going to sleep. Drowning she could handle. Being devoured by a water horse or some other unearthly creature, not so much.

The being, whatever it was, pressed against her back. The gesture felt friendly. A little too friendly, to be honest. Were those hands she felt on her hips? She could swear they were. Big, warm hands pushing her toward the surface. She made it just as her reflexes overrode her will. Gasping like a landed fish, she swallowed great gulps of damp, salty air.

Her rescuer’s arms were now locked around her midsection. She mopped the hair and water from her face. The Wave Sweeper floated in front of her. The sea god, still at the helm, looked back at her with a worried expression.

She ran her hands over the arms holding her. She knew those arms. “Leith?”

“Aye,” he said near her ear. “Who else?”

“But how? You were hurt.”

“It was naught but a wee scratch. And when I saw you’d gone over, I shifted and dove in after you.”

“Shifted? Into what?”

“A merman. What else?”

Just as Brocaliande came into view, Glorianna’s charm wore off. The curse returned with a vengeance. By the time they reached the beach, Gwyneth was slipping in and out of consciousness.

Scooping her into his arms, Leith exited the Wave Sweeper, bid the sea god farewell, and carried her up the beach. Resentment pulsed hot through his veins. It seemed so fucking unfair that, after all they’d been through to try and break his curse, she still might die. Then again, the fates had stolen everything good from him. His wife and son, his dignity, his ability to earn a living, and all hope of ever knowing love again. So, why should they not take his darling mouse from him, too?

The Lord of the Waves had given him a seal-leather loincloth to wear. Under the belt, he’d tucked the foot of the cup. At the crest of the dune, he saw Bran walking toward him. Leith bit his lip as gratitude and jealousy did battle inside him.

“Did you bring the cup?” Bran asked.

“We did,” Leith told him. “I just pray it’s in time.”

Bran’s expression turned grave as he noted Gwyneth’s condition. “Cathbad and the others are preparing the altar.”

Alarm pinged in Leith’s brain. “For what?”

“The blood ritual to break the curse.”

The ping strengthened to a clang. “How long will it take?”

“A few hours.”

The clang became a screaming siren. “A few hours? What if she doesn’t have that long?”

“As the gods will it, so shall it be.”

Fury smoldered in every cell. Had his hands been free, Leith would have beaten the druid out of his contentment. The only way he could be so blithe about her death was if he’d never been in love.

Och, well. Of course he hadn’t. Passion and piety were incompatible—the reason so many holy men were celibate. Druids weren’t, of course, but might as well be. Sex for them was ritualistic. Devoid of feeling, in other words. The way it’d been with Morgan. How anyone could call loveless sex sacred was beyond him. He’d rather die than go back to the way things were before Gwyneth dropped into his life.

Jaw clenched against his anger, Leith followed Bran through the trees to the base of a cliff. There, the druid pulled back a tangled curtain of vines to reveal the entrance to a cave. Inside, burning candles surrounded a pile of animal skins. He laid Gwyneth as gently as he could upon the pelts. She moved a little and made a soft moaning sound, but that was all. His heart clenched in unison with his gut. Clearly, she didn’t have long.

“Can’t you hurry these preparations of yours?”

“If we do, the counter-curse won’t work. And then she’ll have no chance.”

Bran took the cup and left, saying he’d be back for them around nightfall. Not knowing what else to do, Leith crawled in beside Gwyneth and gathered her into his arms. Nuzzling her hair, which smelled strongly of the sea, he whispered, “Just so you know, if you pull through this, we’re getting married.”

Sometime later, Leith jerked awake, his skin damp with sweat. Gwyneth! Shit, he must have dozed off. Guilt gored his heart and thickened his throat. He couldn’t bear the thought that he’d squandered one precious moment with her. She still breathed, thank God, but was paler and less responsive than before he’d stupidly shut his eyes.

A glance toward the cave’s entrance showed him the periwinkle light of early evening. The sun never set in the Thitherworld, but the moon did rise and the sky changed color when evening fell. At the moment, the heavens were a vivid shade of blue-violet and as luminous as the gloaming on the other side of the veil.

Someone stepped into the light, a featureless silhouette. “Come with me. It is time.”

In response to Bran’s summons, Leith climbed off the pile of pelts and bent
 
to scoop up Gwyn.

“No,” the druid said. “Only you.”

Objection blazed in Leith’s chest. He couldn’t abandon her the way he’d abandoned the others. If she perished while he was away, he’d never forgive himself.

“But—”

“Cathbad is waiting,” Bran told him. “We must make haste.”

Leith opened his mouth, ready to argue, but closed it again. Better to go along with the plan than waste time quarrelling.

As he followed the druid out of the cave, he threw a backward glance at his beloved wee mouse. Please let this not be the last time he saw her alive.

The prospect nearly split him in two. Whatever the druids planned had better work. That’s all there was to it. He couldn’t go on without her—or with himself if his weakness should cause another death. Losing her wouldn’t just break his heart, it would shatter his soul as well.

The druid led him down a path and through a barricade of trees, which opened onto a dell about the size of a football field. The full moon looked down on the clearing like a watchful father. At the center stood a stone altar made from stacked, chiseled boulders. Cathbad, wearing a hooded white robe, stood on the other side with eyes closed. A large, flat stone the size of a double bed lay in between.

Bran stopped and gestured toward the slab. “Sit. And when you are told to recline, do so flat on your back with your arms and legs extended.”

Leith gazed down at the stone. The rust of dried blood stained the grooves of the pentagram carved into the surface. Vestiges of previous offerings to the gods, no doubt.

He did as Bran instructed. He still wore nothing more than the loincloth given him by Manannan mac Lir, and the boulder felt cold and rough against the backs of his bare thighs.

As Bran continued toward the altar alone, dozens of other druids, also in hooded white robes, emerged from the trees. Each carried a burning white candle. They quickly formed a circle around the edge of the meadow.

Leith looked up at the blue-violet sky, ready to appeal to whichever deity would listen.

Please let this work.
If it fails, I don’t know what I will do.

In a few short weeks, Gwyneth had come to mean everything to him. He’d forgotten how love could creep up on a person. His attachment to her certainly had. To her peril.

He flung the thought away. He must be positive. Thoughts manifested. He couldn’t afford to jinx his one chance with doubts.

Sucking in a deep breath, he blew it out, along with his negative thoughts. This would work. It had to. Druids were powerful magicians. They knew what they were doing. They had the Cup of Truth. The gods smiled on their endeavor. Gwyneth had told him as much before she succumbed to the curse.

He squinted toward the altar, straining to make out the objects thereon. In the middle stood the Cup of Truth. Two unlit wax pillars flanked the chalice. Around these, a ceremonial dagger, what had to be a wand, a pierced-brass censer, and assorted bowls were purposefully arranged.

His mind showed him the
Five of Cups
he’d drawn in his earlier reading. He now understood its full meaning. The cup that cursed him could also save him, but he’d been too busy coping with the problem to see its solution.