THE MOON WITCH 

Jill Gregory 
To Ky Willman—
gentle hero, warrior prince, Braveheart. 

His courage, goodness, and strength stirred the admiration and touched the hearts of all who knew him.

Chapter 1 

“PRINCESS Gwynna, come quick!”

Else, the serving girl, burst into Gwynna’s bedchamber as luminous pink dawn broke over the rolling hills of Callemore. Tears streamed down her face and her voice was frantic with terror.

“It’s the queen,” the girl sobbed. “She’s . . . she’s . . .”

“What? What is wrong with my sister?” Gwynna popped up in bed, her rose velvet pillows scattering around her. She stared at the white-faced servant who was shaking from head to toe.

“Tell me!” Gwynna ordered. She sprang from the bed, her heart hammering with a terrible foreboding. She felt it now, the heaviness, the darkness. Fear crackled through her.

“What has happened?” she demanded again, even as she snatched her blue silk dressing gown from its hook and flung it over her bedgown. Else chased after her as Gwynna raced into the hall.

“Devils and demons are afoot, Princess. The queen . . . oh, it’s too terrible for words. What is to become of us?”

Even as she darted down the chilly hall toward her sister’s apartments Gwynna felt a piercing spear of dread. There had been no hint, no sign or premonition of this, of whatever had befallen Lise. Not even a quiver in the air, a chill upon her flesh.

What manner of evil had come—and how could it have struck so suddenly?

She ran faster, finally reaching the queen’s quarters. She burst into the bedchamber past the servants and guards who stood in frozen shock.

A figure lay in the high bed, Lise’s lovely high bed with its gold and white silk hangings and green-tasselled pillows. Gwynna’s steps faltered.

She approached slowly, the shadow of fear deepening in her eyes.

“Lise?” she whispered.

And then she saw.

It was a . . . thing. Not Lise, not her wise, beautiful, raven-haired sister with eyes like blue stars and creamy skin. The figure in the bed was a shriveled, ugly thing. Its strawlike hair and sunken colorless eyes stared blindly, its bones poked through the pale lavender gown her sister had worn to bed.

It was alive . . . but only just. The thing—her sister?—was breathing ever so slowly, each breath rattling in its spindly chest, and the wrinkled layers in its ancient crone’s neck fluttered with each labored gulp of air.

On the sticklike finger of the figure’s right hand shone the Royal Ring of Callemore, a half-moon of rubies surrounded by a circle of gold.

For a full moment Gwynna could do nothing but stare in horror at the grotesque figure on the bed, the figure in her sister’s clothes, wearing her sister’s ring.

She tried to breathe, to think, to understand, but finally she could only whisper, “Get me Antwa at once. She will know . . . what has happened to the queen.”

The chamber emptied and Gwynna knew the servants and guards were only too eager to escape the room where some great evil had come and still lurked.

She herself trembled as she turned slowly away from the figure in the bed and began to pace around the corners of the room, pausing at the window, staring at the heavy draperies.

Here. It had clung to the shadows here, she realized. Hiding, waiting for the castle to grow still. For the life and light and voices to fade.

Waiting for the night.

But what manner of creature had it been? What had it done to Lise? And why?

In answer to her silent questions, a rich soft voice behind her spoke.

“I know what has happened, Gwynna. I wish I did not. The legends tell of this, but I have seen it only once in my time here. I never wanted to see such a thing again.”

As the princess turned slowly to gaze at the elderly woman wrapped in a shawl the color of autumn leaves, Antwa shook her head sadly. “I particularly never wanted to see it happen to as fine a woman as your sister.”

A chill rushed through Gwynna. Antwa sounded so hopeless.

“Tell me what it is and how we can fix it. How do we bring Lise back to us?”

Antwa’s somber brown eyes rested upon her. “We cannot, my child. You do not understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” Gwynna snapped and was immediately shocked by her own tone. She had never spoken sharply to Antwa, not once. Antwa was her nurse, her teacher, her friend—the closest thing to a mother or a grandmother she’d had since her parents had passed.

She had learned so much from Antwa, for Antwa was wise, far wiser even than Lise. She knew of things that Gwynna, a seer since childhood, was only beginning to understand. Antwa could cast spells, concoct charms, use magic as easily as most women could spin upon a loom, and Gwynna shared many of the same gifts with her.

But she had nowhere near Antwa’s expertise and would not for many years, decades even, if ever. So why now did she feel this burning impatience and anger because Antwa told her there was nothing to be done?

Because my heart tells me otherwise, Gwynna thought in surprise. Even despite the expression of sorrow and sympathy she saw upon her mentor’s face.

She straightened her shoulders. “I will banish this evil, I will bring Lise back,” she said. “Once you tell me what this all means and how it came about I will find a way to fix it.”

Antwa shook her head and pity shone from her gentle eyes. “This is Ondrea’s doing,” she whispered in a hopeless tone.

Ondrea the Terrible? The legendary sorceress?

Gwynna had heard the name and she knew that some great evil was associated with it. Ondrea the Terrible was a name used to strike fear into common folk and children, but Gwynna had thought the sorceress’s time had long passed.

“What makes you think Ondrea did this to Lise?” she asked, flinging a glance over her shoulder at the shriveled thing in Lise’s bed.

“Because this is what Ondrea does. What it is whispered she has done since the days of Merlin and Arthyr. She has sent the elf demons who do her bidding to steal your sister’s beauty.”

“Steal her . . . beauty? But . . . how . . . and where is Lise?”

“Lise is there.” Antwa pointed solemnly at the motionless figure wearing the Royal Ring of Callemore. “She is somewhere within that poor creature, but she’s scarcely alive. Ondrea has taken everything—her youth, health, beauty and even her spirit. She feeds upon them to restore herself. Lise, as she lies there, will soon die. She will wither like a leaf in the waning days of autumn, and Ondrea will live for years on the beauty and youth that were once your sister’s.”

“She will not.” Gwynna clenched her fists, her amethyst eyes darkening. “I won’t let her.”

“Child, you don’t know the powers of Ondrea.” Antwa pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders, her mouth twisting sorrowfully. “For you, she is merely a name out of legend, but I have heard tales, tales told to me by the high-sorceress Mervana, who taught me in the ways of magic when I was even younger than you.”

Gwynna’s chin jutted out. “I don’t care who Ondrea is, or what powers she possesses. She will pay for what she’s done to Lise and she will return my sister to me—with every drop of her beauty, health and youth intact.”

“Listen, my child,” Antwa went on, shaking her head. “According to the legends, once every hundred years, Ondrea chooses a young woman of extrordinary beauty and strength—and sends her elf demons to steal them from her. She is a powerful sorceress, Gwynna, who long ago should have passed on from this earthly life, but she has preserved herself in this way, at the expense of others. She takes goodness and beauty and turns them into evil and ugliness. She is allied with all the demons that walk the earth and she takes delight in the pain of others.”

“Then it’s time she was stopped—and destroyed.”

“Do you know where legend says that Ondrea lives?” Antwa asked, her sad, gentle gaze fixed upon Gwynna’s pale, set face.

The princess shook her head, but the resolve in her slender frame seemed to tighten.

“She lives in the Valley of Org, beyond the Wild Sea. A land where your magical powers for good will not serve you.”

Antwa watched Gwynna’s eyes widen at the words and knew that the intense young princess whose fey powers were not yet entirely developed was shaken by the knowledge that Ondrea could live in such a place. The Valley of Org was the home of all evil creatures, the cruelest dragons and the most hideous demons. Ghosts and vampires prowled amidst outlaws of the most vile sort, and it was said that nothing good or beautiful could long survive in the foulness of that dark, fetid land, where even the moon was lost in the shadows.

“But . . . they say no one has ever returned alive from that place, except one man,” Gwynna whispered. Her heart had fallen into her stomach.

“Isn’t it true that Keir of Blackthorne went to Org and came out alive?”

“That is what some say.” Antwa shrugged her shoulders beneath the heavy wool shawl. “No one knows for certain if it is true, my child. And even if it were, the Duke of Blackthorne is unlikely to be of help to you. They say he has no use for anyone west of his own lands, and that since his brothers and father were killed he trusts no one—man or woman. And he particularly will have no love for a princess of Callemore,” she added. “If you remember, he offered for Lise’s hand when she held court and chose a husband. She rejected him in place of William, you recall.”

“She rejected everyone in place of William!” Gwynna burst out. Lise had fallen instantly in love with the golden-haired prince of Merfeld. For her, there had been no other man in the crowded hall once she had set eyes on William, once he had bowed over her hand, knelt upon one knee and gazed at her with those glorious brown eyes that were as warm and rich as tilled earth.

Now he was in the south of Dugland, negotiating a treaty with Prince Sebastian.

“William must be sent for,” she exclaimed suddenly. “I will order Reeg to send a messenger at once. Then I must pack for my journey.”

“Journey?” Alarmed, Antwa moved swiftly to block the young princess’s path as she started toward the hall.

“You cannot mean to go to Org! You know it will be fruitless. You are a moon witch, Gwynna, and the night and all its creatures are your domain, but you are not experienced enough, nor powerful enough to challenge Ondrea—especially in that evil place. If you go, you will die. And Lise will die, and there will be no one to rule Callemore.”

“I appoint you in my stead—until I find Ondrea and force her to return my sister to us.”

“It’s folly!” Antwa cried, true panic showing at last in her face. “You are too impetuous, Gwynna. I beg you to think. You cannot prevail. Many have tried to venture into Org, to right a wrong, to find a villain and impose penance, and all have failed. Even Keir, a warrior noted for his strength and valor, did not succeed in avenging his family’s deaths—”

“That may make him more likely to help me,” Gwynna interrupted her, an arrested expression in her eyes. “I will go to him first, learn all I can of the perils of Org, and enter its boundaries prepared for what may come.”

“You will never leave that place!” Antwa grabbed the girl’s shoulders and pulled her close, hugging her with tears in her eyes.

“Do not go!” she pleaded, love and fear rising like a tide within her. “You’re not ready, child, you are young . . . the demons will eat you alive . . . the ghosts will torment your soul! Lise will probably die before you even cross the Wild Sea—”

“Enough.” Gwynna jerked free of her teacher’s arms, her long midnight curls bouncing. Her impassioned face was tense, but full of determination. “I will bring my sister back or die trying. You, Antwa, must rule Callemore in her stead—and mine—until my return . . . our return,” she corrected herself doggedly.

“Appoint Leland or Royce,” Antwa said then, desperately. “I will go with you and give you what aid I may, child. I can’t bear to lose you. You have too much yet to learn, to give, to accomplish. You can do good in this world, Gwynna, if only you will turn from this hopeless cause and—”

“Say no more!” Gwynna cried, fury flashing in her eyes. “My cause is not hopeless. I will bring Lise back to us!”

And she charged from the room, her steps quick and light, fading down the hallway, overpowered by the grim roar of despair rising through the castle.

The news would spread quickly. Ondrea the Terrible had stolen the Queen of Callemore’s beauty—and her very life. And now, Lise’s sister was charging off to her death.

Antwa, who loved both women as if they were her own, wept as she stood at the window and stared out at the pink-gold sunrise.

She strove to find vision, knowledge, some inkling of the future. But the clouds told her nothing and her mind was empty, save for grief.

Even she was not powerful enough even to have seen the attack coming in the night. How could as tender an enchantress as Gwynna hope to prevail in an evil land, against a force so much greater than she was?

She is young, untested, but she is strong, Antwa told herself. She is driven by love, by devotion. Those are powerful forces.

And yet, there was a chill in her heart that came from a certain knowledge. One truth she could feel deep in her bones and it brought her no comfort, none at all: Gwynna as she was now would never return from Org. The girl preparing to ride out to rescue her sister would be no more.

Chapter 2 

THE halls of Blackthorne Keep were dark and silent that night. The mood was one of gloom and unease, for Duke Keir himself, the lord of the keep, sat alone in the Great Hall, eating and drinking in a mood as dark as any his soldiers and servants had seen.

In the flickering candlelight his lean face appeared harsher even than usual, his gray eyes glinted nearly black. Two years ago to the night, his brothers and father had been betrayed and massacred.

And he had failed to exact true vengeance for their deaths.

His mother had died a fortnight after her husband and sons, died of a broken heart, the village healer had proclaimed. Now, here he sat, all this time later, the last of all his kin, with memories of them swaying before him in the firelight, and their ghosts pricking his soul for his failure to have brought their murderess to justice.

He lifted his tankard and drank deeply within the shadowy darkness of the hall. He had eaten sparingly of the food set before him, but the ale had been greedily imbibed.

He sought to forget, to purge his soul for the sin of living when all who shared his blood were dead.

When the commotion reached his ears, he frowned with displeasure. Voices arguing in the bailey. They belonged to Ulf and Sanesh, and another he didn’t recognize, but it sounded like a boy.

“Silence,” he muttered, scowling into his tankard. “Doesn’t anyone have regard for the dead?”

He tried to return to his thoughts, to his anger and his grief and his memories, but the sounds of a skirmish disturbed him and then he heard a shout, a second yell, and suddenly pounding footsteps.

Keir glanced up from his contemplation of the tankard to see a boy dashing gracefully across the hall toward him, past the benches and the massive stone fireplace and the tapestries upon the walls. Ulf and Sanesh pursued the youth, their swords drawn.

As Ulf overtook the boy and raised his sword to smite him, Keir frowned.

“No—do not kill him,” he ordered idly. “Toss him out. But not until I’ve discovered how an urchin got past two of my staunchest knights and into my hall. No easy task I’m certain. Stand back!”

This command was addressed to his men, who skidded to a halt and reluctantly took two steps back, while the boy, wearing a thick gray cloak against the chill spring night, stayed where he was, staring up at the dais.

He’s oddly composed, Keir noticed, for a common intruder.

“My lord, we caught this boy trying to sneak across the bailey, and then the tricky little rat tried to dash straight toward the solar. He said he needed an audience with you. But when we tried to grab him, something happened . . .” Sanesh broke off, flushing, and shook his head.

“I couldn’t move for a moment,” Ulf spoke up. He glared balefully at the boy. “My arm just refused to . . . to grab him.”

“I tried, too, and I was running straight at him, but then . . . well, I fell down.” Sanesh scowled. “I didn’t trip over anything, my lord, but . . . my leg gave out . . . or something.”

He threw the boy a glance which, had it been a dagger, would have killed him.

“And it’s a good thing that they couldn’t prevent me from reaching you, my lord.” The boy stepped boldly forward out of the shadows, and for the first time, Keir saw his face. It was small, almost delicate. Delicate as a girl’s. Beneath his cap he had clear, wide-set eyes that blazed a brilliant purple-blue, and his cheeks were smooth and fair as moonlight.

The lad would never make a warrior, that was certain. But he was quite a resourceful messenger, Keir thought. He found himself staring at the boy. There was something not quite right about him, but Keir realized he’d imbibed too much ale in the past hour to be able to identify exactly what that was.

“I beg you for a private audience,” the boy continued in a strong tone for one so small. “I come on a matter of vital importance.” He had an odd, husky voice that sounded strangely commanding for one so commonly garbed.

“Do you now? And from where is it exactly that you come?” The Duke of Blackthorne’s indifferent gaze ran over the boy before he took another swig of his ale.

“From Callemore, my lord.”

Callemore. Slowly, Keir lowered the tankard, his mouth curled in disgust. Callemore.

He frowned at the pathetic little invader, who looked slight compared to Ulf and Sanesh, looming over him only an arm’s length behind.

He had no love of Callemore, whose queen had played a part in his family’s destruction. If Lise of Callemore had chosen differently for a husband, all of his kin might be alive today. He might have had an heir by now, a child peacefully asleep in a nursery. A reason to fight and rule and live.

But she had not.

“Callemore,” he growled thickly. He waved his hand in dismissal. “Take him,” he told the guards. “Set him outside of the gate and don’t let him back in. I have no interest in hearing any news from Callemore.”

“No—wait!” The boy spun about as the knights tried to grab him, and in his hand a dagger shone golden.

“One more step, and I’ll plunge this into your throat, whoever comes first,” the boy threatened.

But the knights had been humiliated enough for one night. And with their duke watching, they couldn’t let a mere boy cow them with a simple dagger. They swept their swords from their sheaths and grinned maliciously at the slight figure facing them.

“I don’t want him dead, just removed,” the duke rebuked them sharply, but even as he spoke, the cloaked youth swept his arm out in a flowing gesture and suddenly the knights’ swords flew from their hands. They clattered across the floor a dozen paces away and the boy whirled to face the tall, broad-shouldered man with the close-cropped dark hair who sat alone on the dais.

“Enough of this,” the boy said crisply. His voice sounded different—lighter, more musical, though still pleasantly husky.

“I demand an audience with you, Duke Keir of Blackthorne. I come on royal business.”

He swept the rough cap from his head and a waterfall of raven black curls tumbled down.

“I am Gwynna, Princess of Callemore, and I insist that you receive me.”

The Great Hall went silent, but it was as if lightning had sizzled through the room. The knights stood thunderstruck, frozen and shocked at the sight of the dark-haired beauty before them, and the Duke of Blackthorne sprang up from his chair.

“Leave us,” he ordered the knights grimly. “But don’t go far. You’ll be escorting the princess out momentarily.”

And as the knights obeyed, he leaped down from the dais and strode toward her with long, powerful strides.

Gwynna’s eyes widened as he bore down upon her. She hadn’t been afraid once since she’d stolen into the keep—until now.

Keir of Blackthorne was tall and imposing and he possessed such very broad shoulders. But it was not only his rugged strength which was apparent to her quick eyes, it was his air of impatience, anger—and command. He was an intimidating figure in his black tunic, unadorned but for the stripe of gold braid down the arms, and he was startlingly, devilishly handsome.

She’d always found her eye drawn to charming, fair-haired young men, yet this hard-eyed duke with the arrogant jaw took her breath away.

His nose was aggressive, his mouth hard. His eyes gleamed a dark and dangerous gray like the wolves that roamed the forests of Callemore. His features were handsome, but harsh, she thought, far too bitter for a man so young. He could not yet be thirty years of age.

“Princess of Callemore, eh?” he sneered. “Why would Queen Lise send her sister to Blackthorne and dressed like a farmer’s boy?”

Rough hands gripped her shoulders, their strength nearly buckling her knees. “Answer me, Princess.” He spoke mockingly, making it clear he doubted she was who she said. “Before I have you thrown into the moat,” he warned.

“Unhand me, Duke, before I turn you into a rat.” Gwynna’s amethyst eyes flashed at him, and for a moment that ferocious gray gaze met one of equally furious intensity.

She saw the question cross his mind: Could she indeed do as she threatened? And she saw that he doubted it. But he proved himself to be an intelligent man despite his temper. His hands dropped from her shoulders.

Just in case, she observed with triumph. He had obviously remembered what magic she’d worked against his knights.

“What brings you here, sneaking into my hall like a thief? And in disguise. I could hold you here and force your sister to pay a ransom for your return—if she’d even wish to have such a scrawny little thing back,” he added.

And yet, despite his words, his blood heated as he stared at her. How could I not have known, even for a moment, that she was a girl—no, a woman? he wondered. Her heart-shaped face was both delicate and passionate, with high cheekbones and eyes so dazzling it almost hurt to gaze into them. Her mouth was lovely, more generous than most, full and pink as a strawberry ripe for the plucking. And then there were those dark wild curls flowing to her waist.

He suddenly had the strongest urge to touch them. To clench those curls in his fist, to feel the raven strands slide through his fingers.

But he wanted even more intently to know what this supposed princess looked like beneath that bulky gray cloak.

Lise of Callemore had been a taller woman, lithe and graceful. And dark like this one. But she hadn’t possessed the wildness, the fire he saw in the petite beauty before him.

She might indeed be who she claims, he mused, and I could certainly hold her for ransom.

Why not? He did have a score to settle with Lise of Callemore.

“Now I know why my sister chose William instead of you.” She bit out the words and eyed him coldly. “You have no manners, no address, and no chivalry. I should have listened to those who warned me not to come.”

“Indeed you should have. Why didn’t you?”

“Because I love my sister.” Her face tightened with determination. “And I need your help to save her life. And by the stars and the moon, I will do anything necessary to accomplish that—even tolerate your presence until you’ve told me what I need to know.”

He looked mystified, but fascinated. And for a moment he forgot to tinge his voice with harshness. “And what exactly do you need to know?”

“How do I best make my way through the Valley of Org and come out alive?”

Keir of Blackthorne stared at her in amazement. Then he gave a hard, mirthless laugh. “You don’t.”

Her expression turned stormy, and anger gathered in her lovely face.

“Org is a land of death and despair, Princess. You wouldn’t survive there long enough to snap your pretty fingers. So whatever kind of joke this is, it’s a poor one.”

“This is no joke.” Gwynna lifted her chin, and suddenly looked more regal than even Lise had looked in her jewels and gold brocade gown the day she formally received a dozen suitors, a dozen offers of marriage in the candlelit Great Hall of Callemore Castle.

“If I don’t find Ondrea the Terrible—and soon—my sister will die.”

A muscle twitched in Keir’s jaw. Ondrea the Terrible.

Loathing swept through him.

“Explain,” he ordered tersely, then noticed that the girl before him was looking a bit pale.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“N-nothing.” In truth, she felt weak. Hunger and the exertion of riding three days straight from Callemore were taking their toll. The last hours of her journey she had traveled alone, for when she’d reached the borders of Blackthorne she had sent her escort back, not wishing to risk their lives by straying into the duke’s land without permission. There was no love lost between Callemore and Blackthorne, so she had continued alone through the dense forests and lonely hills and had foregone supper at the inn she’d passed so that she might reach the duke that much sooner.

“I am somewhat . . . hungry,” she explained, not bothering to mention the light-headedness that was beginning to plague her. “I have had no supper tonight—I came directly here to see you. If you would kindly answer the question I posed, I will leave you to your brooding and your drinking and find my supper at the inn.”

“A princess dining at the inn?” Skepticism glinted in his eyes.

“Why not? I will resume my disguise so as not to draw attention to myself,” she answered with dignity. “One way or the other, whether you help me or not, I shall be on my way to Org when morning comes.”

Her stomach rumbled then, most embarrassingly, and she grimaced. She could smell the food arrayed on the various platters lined up across the immense table. Roasted meat, potatoes, bread.

Her mouth watered. “Of course, if you wish to tell me the secrets of Org while we share your supper, I would not object,” she said and couldn’t resist a longing glance at the table laden with food.

“You’re mistaken if you think I will aid a princess of Callemore,” he said curtly. “Or share my table with one. Go on your way, dine at the inn and leave my land at first light.” He turned away from her, striding toward the dais. “If you are caught in Blackthorne after that—”

He got no further. He heard a sound, a soft thump, and turned. The Princess of Callemore had fainted, falling into a tumbled heap upon the floor.

Cursing, Keir scooped her up as if she weighed no more than a pebble. He scowled down at the petite bundle in his arms, at the closed eyes with their exotic fringe of black lashes, at the smooth, pale cheeks. Something tightened inside his chest.

“Ewen!” he called to his seneschal as he strode toward the staircase. “Bring food and drink to my quarters at once.”

He took the stairs two at a time with the girl in his arms and knew that he should have let Ulf and Sanesh throw her out in the first place. She very probably was who she claimed to be. She spoke, moved and behaved like a princess—a headstrong, impossible princess—but a princess just the same. And she was undoubtedly a witch to boot. He had no love of witches. One had brought death down upon his entire family.

Yet . . . there was a softness in her face now as she drooped in his arms, a beauty that pulled at his heart as no other woman ever had.

He reached his own chambers and hesitated, and then moved with quick steps to the bedchamber farther along the hall, the one that had been reserved for the ladies who attended his mother.

What was that the girl had said? You have no manners, no address and no chivalry. She was wrong about the latter, as well as about everything else she thought she knew.

It seemed a final ember of useless chivalry still burned within him, he realized bitterly as he bore her into the darkened room lit only by a sliver of moonlight and laid her down across the bed.

Chapter 3 

GWYNNA lay perfectly still, though the urge to open her eyes was nearly irresistible. Keir of Blackthorne hadn’t moved since he’d set her down upon the bed. She could feel that hard piercing glance boring into her and for an instant she wondered if he suspected her ruse.

It was all she could do to keep her breathing even, to keep her eyes closed tight and her entire body from twitching with suspense.

She forced herself to think of something else, such as how easily he had carried her up the staircase. Not once had his breathing become labored. He must be very strong, she decided, and most able on the battlefield from what she had seen of him. . . .

No, no—that line of thought would not do at all. Her heart was beginning to beat rapidly, surely he would see. . . .

Maybe it is time to wake up, she thought, and then she felt his hand touching her shoulder, moving slowly toward her throat.

A wave of heat shot through her. When he opened her cloak it was all she could do to remain still, for she felt his gaze boring into her skin.

He must now be seeing the tunic and breeches she’d donned as part of her disguise. She’d bound her breasts beneath the rough cloth, trying to hide them, but if he made one move to draw off her tunic she’d . . .

Suddenly a woman’s voice broke the silence in the room and the exquisite tension inside Gwynna faded.

“My lord duke,” a soft querulous voice said, “here is the food and wine you wished me to bring—”

“Excellent.” He cut her off abruptly. “Bring the wine here. Our guest is in a deep swoon. Ah, Roslyn, thank you.”

Gwynna prepared herself to have a goblet slipped to her lips, to take a sip and then awaken with a delicate fluttering of her eyelashes.

But his next words surprised her.

“I fear a sip won’t awaken her.” Keir’s tone had taken on a regretful note that caught her attention. “Her swoon has lasted too long. I must instead try something more drastic. Dashing the wine in her face ought to bring her out of the—”

“No!” Gwynna’s eyes flew open, and she bolted upright on the bed, glaring at him. Indeed, he was holding the goblet of wine directly above her head, and he was smiling at her with such mocking triumph that she had to fight the urge to knock the glass from his hand.

“Don’t you dare pour that wine on me. What kind of a man are you?”

“A cold-hearted one, who doesn’t like being deceived.”

There was a threatening edge to the words, and she flinched instinctively.

“Admit it,” he ordered. “That entire faint was a trick designed to win my sympathy. And to get yourself invited into my keep for the night.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“At first. But I am not a fool.”

“I didn’t think you were. A fool would never have found his way out of the Valley of Org alive. You have proved my faith in you. And if you’ll only share your knowledge of that place with me, I’ll leave at first light and never bother you again—”

“I thought you were hungry.”

Gwynna glanced over at the platter of food the serving woman had brought. The moonlight cast only a dim glow so Gwynna could not see what was there, but she could smell soup and roasted meat and hunger curled through her. The stoop-shouldered, moon-faced woman had set the food upon a low wood table, where she stood watching, waiting. Perhaps to see if Keir would order her to take it away, Gwynna thought.

“I am hungry,” she told him, sliding off the bed. “But I hunger more for knowledge than for food.”

He studied her a moment, his gaze settling first upon her face, then shifting to her tangled riot of curls, then traveling to the boy’s garments that encased her figure.

When his gaze lifted to her face once more, his unfathomable eyes gleamed like polished silver.

“Eat your fill, Gwynna of Callemore. You’ve earned that at least. I won’t deny you a meal or a bed for the night. But I won’t encourage you to ride to your death either. That is the only favor I will do for Callemore.”

He turned abruptly and strode from the room.

The woman, Roslyn, remained in the shadows. But as Gwynna turned toward her and met her eyes, she moved forward at last, offering a tentative smile.

“You come from Callemore, do you?” She shook her head. “ ’Tis a wonder he’s allowed you to remain under his roof.”

“Why?” Gwynna hurried toward the tray of food, no longer able to resist the tantalizing aromas. She pulled over a spindly chair and sat down, spooning hot broth to her lips.

“I know my sister rejected his offer of marriage,” she said between swallows, “but surely a man as handsome—I mean, as wealthy—as the Duke of Blackthorne would have little difficulty finding a woman willing to become his bride. And if it was his pride that suffered,” Gwynna added, tasting a bite of meat and swallowing rapidly, “that would be pure foolishness. Ten other men of nobility were turned away as well. My sister chose with her heart. William is her true love.”

“You don’t know then?” An expression of sadness showed in the woman’s large, pale-lashed eyes.

“Know what?”

“The duke’s entire world collapsed when the alliance he hoped to achieve with Callemore failed.” Roslyn began moving about the room, lighting candles in sconces and atop tables. “He had no way of knowing at the time,” she said softly, “but within months, his family would all be dead—and it might not have happened should Queen Lise have chosen him.”

Gwynna stopped eating and stared after the woman in shock. “No . . . that cannot be. I had heard of the deaths of the elder duke and his two sons, Keir’s brothers. But they were slaughtered by outlaws who waylaid them on the Fallen Plains. What had that to do with my sister’s choice of a husband?”

Roslyn moved toward her once again, her moon-shaped face pallid in the candlelight. “Those outlaws did not come upon the duke and his sons by accident. They were in truth murderers sent by King Leopold in the east.”

“What?” Gwynna’s heart skipped a beat. King Leopold was a warlock, the ruler of Cruve, a lawless kingdom to the east where all men were serfs, except those of warlock blood who ruled as nobles. Leopold had been systematically expanding his own lands and power by preying on kingdoms weaker than his own. Fortunately he had never turned his greedy eye west toward Callemore.

Yet.

“Are you certain of this?” Gwynna asked the woman quickly.

Roslyn met her gaze, grim honesty in her plain face. “I served Keir’s mother for all of her days. I know all that happened—the how and the why.”

Gwynna sensed the woman’s own pain and grief for the events she was describing. Slowly, she nodded at Roslyn.

“Then tell me why King Leopold sought to kill the old duke and his sons.”

“The old duke, Keir’s father, had refused an alliance with Leopold that would have enlisted Blackthorne’s army in plundering the Lowlands of Gell. Duke Karl was worried, though; he knew that his refusal would earn the warlock king’s enmity and that he would turn his eye on Blackthorne when his conquest of the Lowlands was complete.”

The woman’s eyes were shadowed with sorrow. “To prevent this, the old duke sought a powerful alliance with Callemore, and if Queen Lise had accepted and chosen Keir for her husband, they could have joined forces to attack Leopold from behind while he was busy conquering the Lowlands. In that way they would have taken him by surprise, caught him between two armies, and ended his reign. That would have eliminated the danger he poses to the greater world.”

Roslyn’s voice was low, so low Gwynna strained to hear. “But when Queen Lise chose another, she refused both the marriage bid and the alliance. Thus she made the decision to ignore King Leopold’s war with the Lowlands, a war that did not threaten her own people.”

“That was her right,” Gwynna pointed out indignantly, then stopped at the unspeakable sadness in Roslyn’s eyes.

“True,” the woman agreed. “And she could not have known where it would lead. That Leopold would choose to strike at Blackthorne not with open war, which would have cost the king himself dearly, but by sending soldiers—men, disguised as outlaws—to waylay and kill Duke Karl and his sons. He paid in sacks of gold to have them cut down like swine on the Fallen Plains.”

Gwynna’s blood chilled. The shadowed recesses of the room grew darker, deeper as she thought of the villainous attack.

How had she known nothing of this? Because she’d concerned herself not with matters of state or politics or commerce—only with her visions and her spells and her study of ancient texts.

Another reason why she must save Lise.

I am not equipped to deal with a kingdom, she thought guiltily.

She was a moon witch, and her heart and mind had always been engaged by matters of the senses and of nature, with the rythym of the stars and the flow of the moon, with the secrets of wild creatures, and the spells of the ancients. Not with men and their plots and treaties and borders.

She would make a pitiful queen. One more reason why she must save her sister. Not only because Lise was good and just, and because Gwynna loved her more than air, but for Callemore.

“If Leopold was responsible for the deaths of Duke Keir’s family, why did he not capitalize on their deaths and attack Blackthorne? Keir is duke now, with all of his family gone—why has the warlock not waged war against him?”

“Leopold’s battle in the Lowlands has not gone as smoothly as he hoped. He has not yet been able to focus his armies on Blackthorne as well. And besides, Duke Keir has gathered his people and strengthened the army. He is a strong leader and the warlock king would need all his forces to go up against our army now. Yet the threat remains. Leopold uses treachery even more than war to fight his battles. That is how—”

Roslyn broke off, shaking her head. “I speak too freely,” she said, casting a glance over her shoulder. “I have said more than I should. Excuse me, my lady, I will light a fire now before I go.”

As the fire came to life and Roslyn shuffled toward the door, a young serving girl entered with a basin of water for washing. In a large basket over her arm were several garments, including a rich gown of amber silk.

“From the duke, my lady,” she murmured. “He wishes you to join him in the receiving room upon the hour.” And laying the basket across the bed, she left as quickly as she’d come.

Gwynna walked to the bed and stared down at the silk gown. It was beautiful, and sumptuously made, with delicate gold embroidery upon the neckline and the sleeves.

What is he up to? she wondered, her brows drawing together. He had also sent a chemise and satin slippers with gold ribbons.

The Duke of Keir wants something from me. This kindness is not what I would expect from the scowling man I met in the hall. 

Well, I want something from him as well, she thought, her mind returning to the image of her sister, withering upon her bed in Castle Callemore.

There was more to do tonight than sleep and find herself tossed out of the keep come morning. She mustn’t waste any time.

Moments later, after washing her face and finger-combing her curls, she left the chamber, the amber gown flowing like moonlight around her. The duke was not expecting her yet. There was time to find out more—much more—about this man whose help she needed.

Her slippers whispered over the stone steps as she whisked downstairs and began prowling through various hallways and rooms. There were soldiers and servants alike roaming the keep, but she waved a hand slightly in the air as she passed and was hidden from their sight, and so she explored, her senses keen and alert as she sought the soul of this place and of the man who ruled it.

Instinct led her to a chamber at the opposite end of the kitchens. It was set along a narrow corridor apart from the Great Hall. A small fire crackled in the hearth but no candles were lit, so the small chamber was dim and full of shadows. The furnishings were spare: a desk, a chair, a bench. A lone tapestry upon one wall, a map tall as a man upon another. All flickered eerily in the golden firelight.

Gwynna approached the desk first and ran a finger along the weathered oak. Next she placed her hands on the back of the chair and closed her eyes as warm wood and another essence seeped into her.

Strength, warmth, solidity.

This was Keir’s chair, Keir’s room. Where he dealt with the business of the keep, she thought, opening her eyes, turning to scan the space once more. She lifted her arms slightly before her, palms up in open appeal and stared into the fire that glowed with golden tongues of flame.

A moment passed and there was nothing.

He was strong, his will resolute. Nothing of him came easily to her. But she was determined and patient and she murmured low words, ancient words, as the flames roared and danced.

And finally within them, the vision came. A vision of Keir of Blackthorne, seated in this room, in that chair, his head bent.

He was sobbing.

Death. 

She felt the chill of it, the emptiness. Her lips turned blue, and pain smote her heart so deeply a shudder wracked her shoulders.

Then the image shifted and she saw bodies strewn across a winter road. There was blood in the snow. She saw men leading horses, wiping swords, stealing from the dead.

An emerald ring glittered in the snow, then a man in rough garments dragged it from the finger of a corpse.

Smoke filled her vision and it changed again. A woman, laughing. Whispering. The woman had hair of fire and eyes of meadow-green.

Who was she whispering to?

Gwynna strained to see, swaying on her feet, her arms still outstretched.

Show me, she commanded, feeling the vision fading from her like mist in the morn. Show me, show me, show me . . .

A man’s face. He looked like Keir, but it was not him. This man was not as tall, his features not as sharp, his chin even more obstinate. This man . . . lay dead in the snow. This man was . . .

“His brother.” She breathed the words, even as the weakness overtook her and the vision vanished. Her knees buckling, Gwynna managed to turn and grasp the back of the chair for support.

“This isn’t the receiving room.” Keir spoke from the doorway. His voice sounded distant, low and tinny in her ears.

“What is it?” he added sharply. “You’re not going to pretend to swoon again, are you?”

But even as the words left his mouth, he saw that this was different from before. Her skin had gone as pale as parchment and she was trembling all over.

He saw her lose her grip upon the chair and begin to slide to the floor, and he sprang forward just in time. Scooping her up, he studied her face. Her gaze met his unseeingly.

A trance? he thought. She is a witch, after all. More reason why I should have had her tossed into the moat from the very first.

This night had been silent and full of grief until she’d come. It was the anniversary of his father’s and brothers’ deaths, and the precursor of his mother’s. It deserved his full attention, it was their due. Yet ever since this woman had burst into his keep, he’d been unable to focus his thoughts upon anything but her.

“Let me go . . . I am . . . fine.” But her voice was a ragged croak.

He eased her into the chair and scowled at her.

“Bring wine,” he called to a passing servant and then returned his attention to the dark-haired beauty in the amber gown who gazed up at him with such weary eyes.

“You’re ill?” he asked, his voice quieter, gentler than she had yet heard. The softened tone surprised her. She had sensed strength in him, and grief, and a great reserve, but not this . . . not any aura of gentleness.

“It is only . . . the visions. They come . . . with a price.”

“They drain you.”

“Yes. It doesn’t last long. A sip of wine—”

“It’s here now.” Keir took the tray of wine and goblets from the servant and set them on the desk, then poured the strong spiced wine for her. As he handed her the goblet their fingers touched and he felt a spark like flame singe him. It didn’t hurt.

It shocked him though.

She felt it, too. He saw amazement flash in her face, and then she raised the goblet to her lips and drank.

Color immediately returned to her cheeks, and her breathing slowed. As Keir watched, he saw her transform before his eyes back into the powerful young woman with the incredibly vibrant eyes and the lush sweep of midnight hair that begged to be touched.

He tried to stem the flood of desire that filled him when he looked at her. He’d known physical pleasure with many women and he had often used it to assuage his pain, but he had never known anyone who affected him the way this princess of Callemore did. She had only to look at him with those wondrous eyes and he felt desire surge through his blood. And something more. Something that tugged at more than blood and muscles and bone.

The gown he’d sent to her revealed only too well what he’d wanted to know. Her body was as lovely and full of beauty as her face.

“What were you doing here?” he demanded, forcing harshness into his tone. For all you know, she has cast a spell upon you, he thought darkly. Fight it. Do not surrender to the magic as your brother did . . .

“This place is where I work. It is not where I instructed you to find me.”

“But I did find you here. I needed a place where I could find . . . your spirit. Your soul. And here I felt it. You must spend a great deal of time here—and go deep into your thoughts.”

His mouth tightened. “Witch, you go too far. I granted you a room for the night, food from my table, and you have used magic against me—”

“Against you? No.” She rose from the chair with grace and sureness. She was steady now, strong. And lovely as a dark, summer flower. In her face he saw dignity—and something else. Willfulness. This was not a female who would be easily swayed.

“I used it for myself. To help me learn more about you, about how to reach you and persuade you to help me save my sister’s life!”

“You seek the impossible. Your sister is as dead as my brothers and my father. Ondrea is untouchable. She hides herself in a place where evil thrives and good is destroyed. I have seen it and I know.”

“You saw Ondrea?” She blinked at him.

“Once. A glimpse. I would have killed her if I’d been able, for it is she who—” He broke off. Bitterness twisted his lips. “She was far away . . . too far away. I allowed myself to be driven back and I failed.”

A profound silence shook the chamber.

Gwynna broke it, stepping toward him. “Ondrea had a hand in their deaths, didn’t she? The deaths of your father and your brothers. It was she I saw in the vision,” she realized slowly, her thoughts spinning. “You and I—we have the same enemy.” The realization stunned her.

Then her attention was captured by the expression on Keir’s face. That strong, stern gaze was filled with anger and despair—and something more: guilt.

“Why do you blame yourself for their deaths?” she asked. She placed her hand upon his arm and again felt that strange hot current run between them. “It was not your fault that Lise didn’t choose you and align with you against Leopold—”

“It was my fault that I failed to visit justice upon the witch responsible for my family’s deaths,” he said, shaking off her hand. Anger darkened his eyes. “I hunted her down and was close to reaching her, but not close enough, not strong enough—”

He spun away from her and stalked across the room, then back, glaring at her as a turbulent anger roiled through him.

Many men had quailed before Keir of Blackthorne’s rage—for often it was seen in battle and his enemies fell faster than summer rain. But Gwynna of Callemore stood her ground with no more fear or alarm than if she was facing a servant summoning her to supper.

“Tell me,” she said quietly when he could not finish once more.

“You don’t need me to tell you,” he snapped. He seized her arms suddenly, yanking her close. She felt his immense, overpowering strength, yet he did not hurt her. “You have magic in you. Your visions must have shown you what happened. You admitted as much.”

“My visions did not show me that. They showed me a woman with hair of flame and eyes brimming with seduction. They showed me blood and bodies in the snow. And a man . . . she was whispering to him. He resembled you. . . . Was he your brother?”

Pain shadowed his eyes. “Yes, he was my brother. Raul. He was wise in the ways of the world, a skilled soldier and a man of learning, and yet, he fell victim to the enchantress’s charms. He didn’t know who she was—or that she was plotting with Leopold. And certainly not that she and the warlock king were lovers,” he added bitterly.

As Gwynna’s eyes widened in surprise, Keir continued. “I learned later that she used a mind-blurring potion on him and a spell to blind him to the danger, to pry his secrets from him. And he told her, even as he bedded her, of the secret plans of my father the duke to journey to Cyr Tantiem with Raul and my brother Alden to seek an alliance against Leopold that would have defeated him swiftly.”

Keir’s voice was bitter. “Of course they never reached Cyr Tantiem. They were slain by Leopold’s hired murderers.”

His hands dropped to his sides. The depth of his grief seemed to creep into her bones. She felt it shadowing her heart. And in his eyes she saw something else.

“You killed them. Those murderers.”

He nodded. “I hunted them and then I rid the world of them.”

“But that isn’t all. You went to Org to kill Ondrea.”

“And failed.” He raked a hand through his hair and paced the room. “If I failed in all my rage and determination, what hope do you have?”

“I love my sister,” she said simply. “And I must bring her back to me, to her husband, to Callemore. Antwa, my teacher, tried to discourage me as well and if she could not, no one can. But you could help me if you choose.”

“The Valley of Org is a damp, fetid hell. Dark spirits inhabit it, evil breathes in the wind, rises from the bogs. It crushes the spirit, it torments the mind. Don’t you understand? Good cannot survive there.”

“You did. And you got out alive.”

In his silver eyes she saw the memories swirl. Agonizing memories. Her heart shivered.

“I got out—barely,” he said at last. “But it took me months to recover. Nightmares haunted me night and day and I very nearly went mad.”

She swallowed, suddenly realizing, as she had not realized before, how truly dangerous and difficult her mission would be. Antwa had warned her, but she’d chosen not to listen. Yet, listening to Keir of Blackthorne, a powerful man if she’d ever seen one, and seeing herself how deeply his journey to Org had affected him, she suddenly knew that the path before her was darker than she ever could have guessed.

Fear flickered through her. And with it, dread. But neither changed her resolve. And as she gazed into Keir’s hard, haunted eyes, as she felt the anguish in his soul, her heart opened to him. She suddenly sensed how painful her appearance in his keep and her stated quest must be for him. Without thinking, she reached up and laid a gentle hand against his face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I had no idea of what you’d lost, of what you’d gone through. I didn’t know that Ondrea and the Valley of Org was linked in any way to your family’s deaths.”

But instead of responding to her sympathy, he jerked back, suspicion hardening his features. “For all I know, you are working with Leopold, too, and this is another trick. Another trap.”

Her chin notched up. “I am not evil. I am not lying. Look into my eyes and trust yourself to see the truth.”

Keir did look into her eyes. They were beautiful beyond words. And so was she. A dark bewitching beauty whose brave spirit seemed to call to him.

But was it a siren’s call? Did a witch’s cunning heart lie beneath that alluring face and figure? Behind the shimmering amethyst eyes that seemed to contain the depth and mystery of the seas?

“I can’t trust what I see.” He turned away from her, stalking toward the door. “Raul trusted a witch and was deceived. It cost him his life and more. You have power. I’ve seen it—”

“Would I have shown it to you if I planned to use power against you? I would have hidden the fact that I have the sight, that I can use magical protection when I choose.”

“Perhaps.” He turned back toward her, and there was doubt in that strong, handsome face. He couldn’t trust her, and in this case, couldn’t trust himself. Men he could sum up in a glance, after a word or two. Women were more complex and this one was unlike any he had ever met.

“Perhaps you are the one not to be trusted,” she said as he continued to gaze at her as if at any moment she might turn into a crow and scratch his eyes out. “Why did you send me this gown and summon me? You could have sent me on my way in the morning without another glance.”

That was the same thing he’d been telling himself since he sent the damned gown. He wasn’t sure of the answer to her question himself.

“Perhaps I wanted to see if you would don it.” He shrugged. “And what kind of a woman you were beneath the boy’s garb.”

“Garments do not make a woman,” she retorted.

“Very true. But they can be useful in tempting them.”

She stared at him. “You mean as in buying favors? Jewels work better,” she said coolly. She understood now, and it was as she’d suspected when she’d first touched the gown. But she was disappointed that he had stooped to this. Why had she wanted to think better of him? He was as harsh and cold as his keep, his soul as sparse as the rooms here. Perhaps he had been tainted, changed by the Valley of Org.

“You wanted to see if I would don this gown and use it . . . and my woman’s wiles, to seduce you,” she said, her lip curling in revulsion. “You wondered if I would use my body to gain your help.”

“I wondered if you might try to make a bargain.” His gaze burned over her and she felt painfully naked beneath that raking glance. Anger flooded her, filling her cheeks with color, quickening the beating of her heart.

“You mean you wanted to see if I would sell myself to save my sister. You wished to prey upon my desperation but first you wanted to see the goods before you paid a price—”

She rushed at him, her hand raised to strike his face, but he calmly seized her wrist and held it firm.

“Can’t you find a woman to come to your bed who isn’t frantic to save her sister’s life?” she cried. “Are your charms so feeble that you must bribe a woman to open her body to you?”

“Enough.” His tone was a low growl as one powerful arm snaked around her waist and held her still, her body pressed helplessly against his.

“That is not the bargain I had in mind,” he said.

“Then what is?”

She struggled to free herself, but he was too strong and she had to bite her lip to keep from shouting a curse that would turn him into a toad.

“If you give up this quest of yours to die in the Valley of Org, I’ll make you my wife, the Duchess of Blackthorne.”

She couldn’t have been more shocked if he had shot her with an arrow. “Your . . . wife? What makes you think I want to be your wife?” She gaped at him in stunned disbelief. “Or that I’d give up on my sister’s life for that?”

The way she said it made him sound like such a loathe-some monster that Keir almost smiled. Every moment he spent with her, she surprised him—with her quick mind, her intensity, with a determination that went far deeper than he’d first expected. This sensuous enchantress from Callemore sparked his interest more than he would have thought possible. Since his fourteenth summer, when he’d grown tall and strapping for his age, many women had fallen enthusiastically into his bed and—Lise of Callemore notwithstanding—would have been eager to win the title of Duchess of Blackthorne.

This one implied it would be a fate worse than Org.

Why was he bothering with her? Merely to try to save her foolish life? If he had a whit of sense he’d send her packing right now.

But he had not felt this alive in a long while.

“I need a wife and why shouldn’t it be you?” he said bluntly, deciding to lay it out to her as plainly as possible.

“A truly charming proposal. My pet lizard could not have done better.”

She was right. It was an idiotic proposal and a stupid plan. Yet he couldn’t resist explaining it to her. On the off chance she would accept? he wondered ruefully.

“I am the last of my family and I want—I need—heirs. I have no interest in attending balls and feasts and fairs in search of an appropriate biddable bride. You have fallen into my lap, so to speak.”

“So you think!” she exclaimed, struggling with renewed zeal. But it was no use. Breathless, she gave up, glaring at him, her hair falling over her eyes.

“You are a beautiful and intelligent woman,” he remarked grimly. “You could give me strong, fine children, worthy of carrying on my family’s lineage. And besides,” he added as she opened her mouth in outraged protest, “if you accept my proposal it will save your life. It is the one decent thing I can do for you—save you, too, from becoming a victim of Ondrea’s evil magic.”

“Your kindness leaves me nearly speechless, but I must decline. I’ll choose my own husband when I wish to marry,” she said breathlessly. She had given up struggling, as it was both useless and undignified. But being this close to him had the effect of making her breath catch in her throat. He was so very strong, and male and handsome—and irksome—all in a way that combined to compel her attention and trigger a warm flame deep under her skin.

She didn’t understand the heady sensation his nearness created or why she wasn’t quite so furious with him any longer. A tingling warmth swept over her as they stood like this, locked together, his face only inches from hers, the leather and spice and man scent of him all around her.

If he kissed you right now, you might very well decide you are ready to marry, some mad voice inside of her whispered and she was appalled.

She’d once thought herself in love with a traveling minstrel, and at Lise and William’s wedding feast, she’d danced with a young knight who’d made her heart flutter crazily, especially when he’d kissed her later in the garden. But neither of them had ever affected her quite like this coolly handsome duke with the hard face and haunted gray eyes.

She fought to ignore the way her heart was tumbling in her chest. “My sister is all that matters. I’m afraid even such a romantic proposal as this,” she added with asperity, “cannot tempt me.”

For a moment there was silence. Then his eyes narrowed. “Fair enough. The women of Callemore have scorned me twice.” He spoke softly but there was a decided edge to the words. He released her so suddenly, Gwynna nearly stumbled. As he stepped back, she caught the sheen of ice in his eyes.

“If you wish to go to your death, it’s on your own head. I want you gone from my keep at first light.”

“Done.”

She swept past him, the gown rustling about her ankles. He made no move to stop her as she sailed into the hall and raced up the staircase to her chamber.

An odd emptiness filled her. She had failed. Failed to glean from Keir how he had managed to escape from the Valley of Org. “No matter,” she whispered to herself as she tore off the amber gown and dropped it to the floor. “I don’t need his advice, his marriage proposal or anything else the Duke of Blackthorne has to offer.”

Tugging back the scarlet silk coverlet she crawled into the bed, her face turned toward the high open window.

Tension pinched her shoulders, throbbed in her neck. I may not get out alive, but I will get Lise’s beauty and youth and life back into her body. My sister will live, she told herself desperately.

Beyond the window, a cloud passed over the moon.

And Gwynna tried not to think of the man who had offered her marriage. The tall, hard-faced man with the shadows haunting his soul.

But his warning words filled her mind as she struggled to sleep. So did the memory of his eyes and his touch.

Keir of Blackthorne was the most arrogant, lonely, infuriating man she’d ever met—and the most stimulating.

And she was never going to see him again.

Chapter 4 

THE Valley of Org was near.

Gwynna knew it, for the terrain had changed during the last hour of her trek and it grew steeper, more inhospitable and darker the farther she travelled, as she left behind the borders of Blackthorne, the rolling hills and level pastures, and made her way toward the unknown banks of the Wild Sea.

She had awakened before the roosters and donned her boy’s garments once again. Then she’d slipped out of Blackthorne Keep without a word to anyone. Keir had been nowhere about, neither had Roslyn or the serving girl who’d brought the amber gown to her chamber.

She’d gone immediately to the hut at the edge of the village where she’d left her horse and sack the day before.

But when the farmer’s boy had offered to fetch and saddle Aster for her, she’d shaken her head. “Thank you, but no. I won’t take her where I’m going. I’m sending her home.”

She’d fed Aster and stroked her neck, speaking silently in the manner she did with all creatures, asking her to return to Callemore. The boy stared in amazement as Gwynna stepped back and watched the chestnut mare gallop toward home.

“You’ve cared well for her and you shall be rewarded,” she told the boy as he led her into the hut. “Here, take this for my mare’s food and keep.”

The boy’s eyes grew round as she handed him two shimmering gold coins.

His mother, who’d been slicing fresh-baked bread, stared in wonder at the coin-giver, who was not much larger than her son. He was dressed humbly, but he spoke with the dignity and assurance of nobility.

“You are generous,” she murmured as she stared at the youth before her, wrapped in a plain gray cloak and cap. “But . . . where did a boy like you come to have such sums?”

Smiling, Gwynna extended her hand to the woman and in it glinted a third coin. “I have come by these coins honestly, and you are welcome to them. You have done a favor for the Princess of Callemore.”

“You serve the Princess of Callemore?” the woman asked in astonishment.

“No. I am the Princess of Callemore.” She tugged off her cap and her cloud of wild dark curls spilled out. Ignoring the gasps of the woman and her son, Gwynna drew from the sack her traveling gown and matching cloak of deep forest green.

Now, clad in her own garments, she strode through the rocky terrain that would lead to the Wild Sea. She was glad to have shed her boy’s garments; they had seen her through to Blackthorne well enough, but now their usefulness was done. Once she entered the Valley of Org, she would not be safe no matter how she was attired, so she may as well go in as a princess. If Ondrea or her spies saw her, so much the better.

It might speed her mission along if they knew that Queen Lise’s sister, the moon witch, Gwynna, was paying a call. Perhaps she’d be met by Ondrea’s underlings before she’d gone more than fifty paces inside the Valley of Org and be escorted to Ondrea’s fortress.

She reached the rise that overlooked the Wild Sea in late afternoon as the wind picked up and the towering waves swelled and roared beneath an increasingly leaden sky.

Even the velvet lining of her cloak didn’t stop the chill as she gazed down at the wharf in the distance and at the row of fishermen’s huts trailing down a rocky hillside to the shores of the sea.

The wharf appeared deserted when she finally reached it, the wind screaming in her ears. A lone ferryboat bobbed on the maddened water, tied with rope to the pier, and she eyed it warily.

It was widely known that wizards didn’t cross water well, and she suspected that witches wouldn’t fare much better.

Though she’d never traveled by sea before, the very sight of the roiling water, blue-black in the gloom and crested with foaming white, made her stomach surge and dip.

So engrossed was she in studying the sea that she didn’t sense someone approaching her from behind until a heavy hand clamped down upon her shoulder.

Startled, she spun around and gazed into the crafty eyes of a burly man. The ferrymaster.

He smelled of brine and the sea and his eyes were as pale and fierce as the cresting waves.

“How much to cross?” Gwynna shouted over the wind.

He shook his head.

“I must cross! What is the fee for passage?”

“You don’t want to cross tonight. Nor tomorrow night,” he yelled in a booming tone. “A month from now, she’ll calm a bit. No one crosses when she’s like this.”

“I can’t wait. I’ll pay you handsomely to take me now.”

“To Org? Or south to Alyngil?”

His eyes glinted. Whether it was with malice or greed or suspicion, she couldn’t say, but their expression sent a chill like an icicle scraping down her back.

“To Org. Now!” Gwynna shouted.

The ferrymaster smiled widely, showing broken teeth.

“Ten coins of gold and you’ll have me own boat for yourself,” he said, stretching out the open palm of a gnarled hand.

Peering over his shoulder, Gwynna saw a smaller boat tied to the planked wharf. It bobbed wildly on the water in a way that made her stomach jerk.

“I want payment first—you’ll drown before you reach the Valley of Org,” the ferrymaster said off-handedly. “Or you’ll be killed, a tender thing like you, before you even climb the rocks. There are Slegors in the water, and Rock Trolls at the other shore. So ten coins now and be off to yer death. Me, I’m ready for me supper.”

She gazed beyond him at the small mud hut, which looked like it would be washed away by the sea, if not blown apart by the wind. Wood smoke wisped from the chimney, only to be snatched across the sky.

“You won’t take me? I’ll offer twenty coins!”

His grin widened. She tried not to stare at those chipped and yellowed teeth.

“I want my supper and my ten coins. The Slegors will have me if I try to cross tonight. What’ll it be, miss?”

Gwynna hesitated. For a moment she wished herself back in the vast, sturdy confines of Blackthorne keep—even better, at her own beautiful Castle of Callemore, amidst the swans floating upon the placid lake, or the gardens where songbirds played amongst the branches of apricot trees.

But she had chosen this path and now she must follow it as quickly as may be. The longer the delay, the stronger chance that Lise would die. How long could she survive as an empty, decaying shell?

“I’ll have your boat. Here’s my ten coins and an extra one, as well, if you’ll give me a club or sword. I suspect I will need more than my dagger to fight off the . . . what did you call them?”

“Slegors.” He cocked an eyebrow, looking amused. “A little thing like you? Well, I’ve no sword, but you’ll have the oars for clubs, much good will they do you. And if you get to the other side, remember, the Rock Trolls lurk beneath. Not that even a sword would be worth spit against the likes of them.”

So much for encouragement, Gwynna thought. When she’d counted the coins into his broad, scarred hand, he set about untying the boat for her as she leaped down into it and grabbed the oars.

The pitching sea foamed around her as the ferrymaster released the last wet length of rope. The boat bucked like a wild horse and careened away from the wharf.

At first she tried to steer, rowing with the oars until the muscles in her arms and shoulders screamed with pain. But the sea had a mind of its own and it pulled her sideways, instead of across. A horrible sickness came over her, and Gwynna swallowed great gulps of salt air, trying to fight the convulsions of her stomach, even as she fought the waves and the lashing water and the cold.

Suddenly, a small, ferret-nosed creature lunged up from the water and tried to jump into the boat. Then another, and another, and a shrill shrieking pierced the air as they bared their teeth and smashed against the boat, trying to leap in, even as their snakelike tongues lashed out, dripping with venom.

“Get back!” Gwynna shouted, thrusting at them with an oar. She had lost all control of the boat, it bobbed with a mind of its own and she could no longer even see from which direction she’d come, nor determine which direction she was headed. She concentrated instead on fighting back the Slegors as they surrounded her, bobbing, hissing, springing toward her as she grew steadily more exhausted by the fight.

“Arameltor sumn purdonnte!” she gasped at last and saw a shield of smoke rise about the sides of the boat. The Slegors slammed against it and their fins dissolved.

One by one, they fell back, sinking into the sea in bits, their hissing disintegrating to a low and finally extinguished murmur.

But the boat still rocked violently, wrenching out of all control. Both oars were torn from her hands and she watched as they were carried away on the waves. Clinging to the sides of the boat, drenched and gasping, Gwynna used every ounce of her strength to keep from being flung from it.

But a moment later, as a gale swelled out of nowhere and the sea rose up in a fury, the boat smashed in two and she was flung with the wooden remnants into the sea.

She sank, pushed upward, kicking frantically, and then sank again. Waves washed over her, the sea sucked her down and she couldn’t find her way up . . . she was going to drown . . . the sea closed around her, a watery tomb, and the cold numbed her bones as she sank, struggled, sank in a desperate dance that could only end in death . . .

A hand grabbed her arm, wrenched. She was up, pain screaming in her lungs as the steely fingers of an unseen force hauled her up, up, up . . .

She lay numb and freezing, shivering violently on the floor of a vessel.

Gazing down at her was a dark hulking figure, blurry in the fog and damp.

But she recognized the voice that spoke above the roar of the sea.

His voice. Keir of Blackthorne.

“Damned idiot woman. I should have let you sink to the bottom and end up food for the Slegors. What kind of a foul spell have you put on me?”

Then she knew nothing but the cold hard kiss of darkness as the blackness rushed over her and swallowed her up.

Chapter 5 

“DRINK this. All of it. Don’t fight me now, just drink it!”

Gwynna twisted her head from side to side, but couldn’t escape the warm liquid Keir poured between her lips. She choked a little, gasped and swallowed. Wine. It warmed her throat and woke her up all in the same instant.

“You.”

She gazed in shock at Keir of Blackthorne as memory rushed back—the Slegors, the boat, the icy water . . .

“You’re here; it wasn’t a dream,” she muttered. “You saved my life.”

His grim expression only deepened. He was shivering nearly as much as she was, and she quickly realized that both of their garments were soaking wet.

“Where are we?” she said, sitting up. But that was a mistake. The world spun, colors and shapes swirling in confusion.

“Easy.” His hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her. “You’re far too reckless and impulsive, Princess, for your own good.”

“So Antwa is forever telling me.”

The cold bit like a whip, and Gwynna’s lips trembled so much she could barely speak. “Where . . . are we? What is this place?”

“We are where you wished to be.” He sounded disgusted. “In Org. And this place is a tunnel. I need to find my way out though, find some more wood or you’ll freeze to death—”

“Oh. Yes. We need fire.” Gwynna nodded, lifted an icy hand, and suddenly a tiny fire of twigs and sticks that glowed near the tunnel wall burst into a crackling bed of warmth and flame. The heat stretched out to them, seeping through wet clothes and chilled skin.

“That was quite useful of you,” Keir muttered. He released her then and Gwynna felt a sensation of loss. For a moment, with his big hands on her shoulders, she’d felt oddly comforted. It was strange, considering she’d nearly died and was about to venture into even greater danger, but Keir of Blackthorne’s presence was an unexpected gift, and his touch had felt oddly reassuring.

He saved your life, she told herself, glancing around her at the dank low walls of the tunnel. He scooped you from the sea. That is why.

Keir moved away to yank a thick wool blanket from a sack. He returned and draped it roughly around her.

“Get out of those clothes. They must dry by the fire before we go on. You can wrap yourself in this.”

“And you?”

He shrugged and began stripping off his sodden cloak, then his tunic and mail. He set his sword down, his muscles rippling in the firelight. Through the flickering glow, she tried not to stare at the broadness of his chest, dark with hair. From beneath her lashes, she noted the sinewy rope of muscles in his arms, and the white scar that cut in bright relief across his swarthy right shoulder.

Her gaze dipped lower and she saw that he was long-legged and lean, his body powerful beyond measure. He wore only his underhose, so much was revealed; certainly more than she had ever seen before of any man. She felt a purely feminine heat flood her cheeks, a heat that had nothing to do with the fire she had made. It came from a small fire that had caught flame inside of her.

Keir of Blackthorne came toward her. “Your turn.”

Her fingers fumbled at first, but she quickly recovered her composure, and when her cloak and gown and shift had been spread before the fire and she herself sat near it, wrapped in the blanket, she tried not to stare at the magnificent man sharing this tunnel and this fire with her.

But she may as well have tried not to breathe, for the rock-hard strength and masculinity emanating from him dominated the tunnel and filled her mind.

“We’ll hide here until morning, then go back. I forced the ferrymaster, under threat of death and mutilation, to swear he’d come for us tomorrow—”

“Come for us? I’m not going back. Not until I’ve found Ondrea.”

Those wolf-gray eyes narrowed on her. “How did I know you’d say that?” he bit out.

Seating himself beside her on the hard floor of the tunnel, he wasted no time commandeering some of the blanket. If he noticed her shock at sitting beneath the wool covering alongside him, both of them nearly naked, he didn’t give any sign of it.

“You want to die, don’t you?” he asked scornfully.

“Of course not. I want my sister to live.”

Keir was silent, staring into the fire. It showed him nothing, but it was better than staring into this temptresses’s face. With her midnight hair unbound, tumbling in damp curls down her back, her sensuous lips pink with life, and those exquisitely brilliant eyes a stark contrast to skin like fresh cream, she was everything lovely in a woman—and more. He was well aware of the lush curves of her body, of the sweet beauty of those breasts. But he told himself it was a spell that filled his mind with thoughts of her. A spell that had drawn him to leave his keep and fish her out of the sea, and to spend the night here back in Org, in a worm’s tunnel, waiting for any number of foul monsters to descend upon him—upon both of them.

“I suppose I should thank you for saving my life,” she said at last. “Why did you come after me?”

“You know damned well. But it’s wearing off. I won’t stay here with you once morning comes.”

“What are you talking about? What’s wearing off?”

“The spell. Tell the truth. You cast one before you left and it hit full power by midmorning. Don’t bother denying it.”

Her eyes widened. She shook her head, and those luxuriant curls flew about her face. “I cast no spell on you. I have no need of your help.”

“Yes, I could see that when you were sinking to the bottom of the sea.”

She burrowed her chin deeper into the blanket. “I don’t cross water well. And that sea was like nothing I’ve ever encountered before—”

“It’s only the beginning, Princess.” Keir turned toward her suddenly. Beneath the blanket she felt the shift of his body, and a spark seemed to jump through her veins.

“Worse will come,” he warned. “Much worse.”

She nodded at him, and moistened her lips with her tongue. “I know,” she whispered back. “Do you really think I don’t know?”

Keir sucked in his breath. She was afraid. He saw it in her eyes. The fear, the doubt, the cold dread that he too had known the first time he crossed into this evil land.

But she was persevering. As he had.

She doesn’t know what lies in wait . . . 

“There’s nothing I can say to convince you to turn back, is there?”

He saw the answer in her eyes even before she shook her head.

“You were kind to fish me out of the sea, as you’ve so charmingly put it,” Gwynna said. “But you don’t need to accompany me any farther.”

Her teeth weren’t chattering quite as much now, and the warmth emanating from his body along with the thick blanket and the fire was easing the chill. She had to resist the urge to lean into him, against him, for comfort and warmth. “If you’d only tell me how you got out alive last time I’ll never ask a single thing more—”

“Do you really want to know?”

His face had changed. And his voice. They were harsh now, tight and bitter. And in his eyes she saw something that made her breath hitch.

Shame.

“I do want to know,” she whispered, and impulsively, beneath the blanket, she touched his arm.

He recoiled as if she’d scratched him, and his head jerked sideways, his eyes searing into hers.

“I crawled.”

“What?” 

“You heard me, Princess. I crawled.” His lips twisted. “I’ve seen my share of dangers—I’ve faced a dozen armies on the battlefield, killed three soldiers at once with a single sweep of my sword, slain trolls and dragons from Weyre without a blink. But when I faced the evil assembled against me here in this cursed valley, I ran.”

Keir snorted. “Or tried to. It smote me, the darkness here, the utter blood-curdling evil. It seeped into me in ways you cannot yet imagine. And I crawled out on my belly, whimpering and blind, with soar-bats nipping at me, and Ondrea’s Black Knights mocking me. They let me go in the end,” he finished in a low tone. “Broken, vanquished. Knowing I’d failed. It was more painful by far than any death she could have concocted.”

His bleak eyes stared into hers and in their depths she saw pain, grief and the ravages of defeat.

“I swore to avenge my family, to make Ondrea pay for what she’d done, but instead I crawled out, a coward, too weak and lowly to withstand the power of this place, much less fight it.”

He turned and caught her shoulders beneath the blanket.

“If you don’t want to be broken in the same way, you’ll turn back now. You can’t succeed. No good can last here. The evil is too strong, don’t you see? Spare yourself the pain, the shame—”

“You have no cause for shame.” She was vibrantly aware of his strong hands on her shoulders, of their warmth and weight, and of his nearness. It seemed that they were cocooned somehow apart from the world, apart even from Org. All she felt beneath this blanket was the nearness of his body, the pain emanating from a beaten soul.

It must have been a dreadful manner of evil to bring down such a man, she knew, but even this knowledge didn’t shake her own resolve. It frightened her, it made her heart quicken and dread prickle her spine, but it did not alter her determination to do what she had come to Org to do.

Yet, gazing into Keir’s eyes, into that hard-planed, handsome face so tormented with shame and regret, another emotion flowed through her.

Wonder. Wonder that such a man—a warrior, a duke, powerful and angry—could be made to feel such a failure. Wonder that he had yet, even after all that had befallen him, ventured across the Wild Sea to save her, help her, warn her.

“Some evil is too strong for mortals to fight.” She spoke softly. “To escape its snare is victory enough.”

“It was no victory—not for me.” His voice was sharp. “And not for you.”

His hands still gripped her shoulders. He couldn’t seem to let her go.

He had known before that she was brave, when she’d stolen into his keep, defied his knights. When she’d set out alone for this wretched place. But now his admiration hitched a notch higher. She understood the danger and still, she would go on.

“Do you think your magic will save you? It won’t.”

“Perhaps not.” Her words were quiet. “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”

Her gaze on his remained steady, unwavering. At last Keir’s hands fell away. He had failed. Failed to visit justice upon the enchantress who had slain his family and failed to convince this beautiful young witch to escape while there was still time.

“Then you’d best sleep while you may,” he said curtly. “Take the blanket. I’ll stand guard.”

“Wake me in a while and I’ll change places with you. You need sleep, too.”

He made no answer, but moved away from her, to sit on the opposite side of the fire, facing the tunnel entrance. He refused to look at her as she wrapped the blanket tightly around her and curled up on the tunnel floor.

Yet, after slumber had overtaken her, when the warmth of the fire had brought color back into her face, and she lay peacefully asleep, the sweep of her dark lashes startling against her fair cheeks, he watched her.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that this Princess of Callemore, an admitted enchantress, had cast a spell on him. Otherwise, how could he explain why he’d told her all that he had? He’d never spoken of what had happened in Org, of how he’d crawled like a worm from the valley. He’d never told a living soul.

Yet he had told this girl, with her willful spirit and her brilliant eyes. And her stubborn, beautiful mouth.

Even as he sat guard, braced to fight whatever manner of creature might surface in this vile place, he wondered what it would be like to kiss that mouth, to taste those lips.

Strange, to be here in Org once again, and to think of something other than his hatred of this place and of Ondrea and Leopold, cursed be their names. To be thinking of this delicate enchantress with the midnight hair who had no idea what she was up against.

It is most certainly a spell, he told himself, his mouth tightening. Leave her be, he thought, as she sighed softly in her sleep. Get out of here come morning, while you still can.

But he knew it was a lost cause. He couldn’t leave her here to face the evil alone. He wanted to, wanted to believe that he wasn’t as foolish as she was, that he would put himself and his people above a futile attempt to save someone who refused to listen to reason.

But he was remembering how she’d touched his arm, told him he had no need for shame. Remembering how sensuous and regal she’d looked in that amber gown, and how deeply she loved her sister. Remembering that he had felt more alive since she’d swept off her cap in his hall than he had since he’d crawled out of Org.

And he knew he was doomed to stay by her side and guard her as well as he could until he could no longer stand, no longer see, no longer feel. He didn’t know why, only that this was how it must be.

So he let her sleep and didn’t awaken her, not until the first of the gnomes slipped into the crevices of the tunnel and charged at them in silent ferocity.

Chapter 6 

ANTWA gazed into the fire, her arms extended, her palms up, opening herself to the vision as she had learned to do as a young witch apprenticed to the high-sorceress Mervana.

But the vision didn’t come.

As midnight crept nearer, the cold night air seeped through the stone cracks of the castle, chilling her skin, even as the loss of both Lise and Gwynna chilled her heart.

At last her arms fell wearily to her sides and her narrow old shoulders sagged.

Gwynna was lost to her, lost forever. And so was Lise. She could not penetrate Org. It was too thickly hidden in the mists of evil. Even the light of Gwynna’s magic could not shine through the dank foul fog.

Another possibility presented itself, but Antwa pushed it away. No, no, Gywnna could not be dead—not yet. Surely she would sense it. She would know if Gwynna was gone from the world of the living.

But soon, very soon now, Lise would be gone . . .

She visited the silent, withered thing that had been the Queen of Callemore every day. She paced the castle and the village, listened to the fearful whispers and dismay of the servants, knights and peasants of Callemore.

They were panicked, looking for a ruler, someone to guard them now that Lise and Gwynna were both gone. Sir Roland had been appointed Acting Commander of Callemore in their stead, but it was Prince William they all waited for. The queen’s husband, who must even now be making his grief-stricken way to Callemore.

I feel so useless, Antwa thought, sinking down upon the intricate carpet that graced the floor of her small, serene chamber.

With all my power I can see nothing, do nothing. If I am helpless against this, how much more so is Gwynna? The child is brave as a lion but she is not fully trained. She is nowhere near ready for such a challenge. 

Why did I not prevent her from going? She wasn’t ready, she hasn’t a chance.

Her chin sank upon her chest and a great sorrow shuddered through her.

And then a voice of long ago whispered in her ear. It was faint, like the rustling of leaves, but clear as the distant ringing of a bell.

Despair is the sword of evil.

Antwa’s chin jerked up. Her sad eyes were now alert, wide beneath the broad sweep of forehead and delicate brows.

“Despair is the sword of evil,” she whispered to herself, an expression of wonder crossing her gentle face.

The voice she’d heard belonged to Mervana, her teacher of long ago. And so did the words.

She had learned the lesson in the third year of her apprenticeship. It was the final line in the ancient book of magical arts titled Battle Tricks and Weapons: How to Defeat Evil Incarnate.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the sorceress who had trained her so meticulously in the ways of the wise and good.

“I cast off this despair,” she announced aloud. As she spoke, a gust of wind swept through the room, cold and biting.

“Begone, shadow of Ondrea,” Antwa ordered and with the words the curtains flew aside, the shutters flapped back and the wind whooshed out into the star-laced night. Now in the chamber where melancholy had clung, a fine fairy dusting of hope glittered in the air, subtle and shining and nearly as invisible as moonbeams.

“Sisters of the Moon, Seekers of Wisdom and Good, hear me. A daughter of light needs our help.”

Antwa approached the fire, lifted her arms and turned her palms up in the ancient gesture of invitation and command.

“She fights for us all. Guide me.”

She heard nothing, felt nothing.

But Antwa stared unblinking into the fire.

She would not give up. She would wait, persist.

And believe.

“Guidance,” she ordered crisply, “come forth.”

Chapter 7 

“WATCH out,” Keir shouted as aàfour-foot-tall slime-green gnome sprang straight at Gwynna, its six-inch claws extended. Two more leaped toward him as the others hooted in glee and swarmed toward them.

Fear jolted through Gwynna as Keir’sàshout snatchedàher from sleepî Surging upward to a sitting position, she saw the creature flying toward her. Instinct and her training saved her.

“Halt,” she ordered, and her arm shot up just in time, her finger crooking at the gnome as it sailed down toward her. It froze, suspended seven feet off the tunnel floor, its red eyes hot with fury. “Back where you came from—augmentar vena-room!” she cried breathlessly.

The gnome in midair and the others swarming through the tunnel after him all screeched as if in agony.

And so did the two who had leaped toward Keir. His fist had knocked the first to the ground, and he dodged the second one’s grasping claws. A moment later he faced them both with his sword, and as they came at him again, lopped off their heads in one swift sideways thrust.

The heads rolled, even as a terrible din filled the tunnel. The remainder of the gnomes continued to scream in pain and fury as Gwynna’s spell repelled them back from their intended prey. They scurried away, unable to escape fast enough despite the fact that their blood-lust compelled them to stay.

The gnomes were gone in a twinkling, their screams fading through the rocks. The two gnomes Keir had slain turned into liquid pools of slimy green mold jiggling upon the tunnel floor.

“What were those creatures? I’ve never seen such things before.”

“Night gnomes. They come out in the last hour before dawn and each has ten times the strength of your garden-variety gnome. Poison rests beneath their claws—if they scratch you, you’re dead.”

“Lovely,” Gwynna murmured, frowning at the green slime on the ground.

He saw her tense, as if steeling herself.

“Are you all right?” Keir took a step toward her.

“Yes. Perfectly. Thanks to your quick warning.”

She smiled at him and he resisted the urge to smile back. It was too easy to smile at this woman, to easy to lose himself in the enjoyment of her company. She was like fresh, sunlit springtime melting the dark winter of his soul.

And she’d be dead soon. They both would.

He’d thought he was beyond futile quests, beyond the foolish tenets of chivalry.

And yet . . . he was here, accompanying her. To our doom, he thought, and scowled at his own folly.

“They, like all creatures in Org, serve Ondrea,” he said grimly. “We can now assume she knows we’re here.”

“That means she’ll send another welcoming party later in the day,” Gwynna said. “I must be prepared.”

Keir, she noticed, had donned his tunic and boots while she slept, as the fire had burned low, and she reached for her own garments, which had dried in the night.

“Perhaps you’d be good enough to stoke the fire while I dress?” She met his gaze, aware that he had watched with interest as she gathered her clothing. She was intensely aware that she was still clad only in a blanket.

His brows shot up. “If you’d accepted my offer of marriage there would be no need for such modesty.”

“But I didn’t accept it. And there’s no going back.”

“Isn’t there?” Keir snatched the clothing from her, ignoring her gasp. “We could leave Org now. It isn’t too late. I’ll uphold my end of the bargain if you return with me to Blackthorne now.”

“A bargain? Is that what you think a marriage is?”

“What else would it be?” He regarded her in amusement, as if she’d dropped down on a string from the moon. “You must have led a very sheltered life in Callemore, Princess.”

“I know that sometimes marriages are contracts, nothing more. But not always. And when I choose to marry, there will be more between my husband and me than a formal agreement drawn up by counsellors. When I marry, it will be for love.”

He snorted. “Love.”

The way he said it made it sound like something foolish, a child’s wish, without reality or substance.

“Love exists.” Her gaze held his and it was steady, direct. “I’ve seen it. Lise and William love each other more than anything in the world. I want that someday. Not . . . an arrangement. A bribe,” she added, thinking of what he had offered her.

He was thinking of it, too, and for the first time, anger twitched in his cheek. “A bribe to save your life.”

“What kind of a life is worth living without love?” Her voice was soft as she reached out, took her garments from his grasp, and met his eyes directly.

“If I were to abandon my sister, how could I ever give of my heart? I wouldn’t have anything worthwhile left in it to give.”

Keir drew in his breath. She might be naive, innocent and stubborn, but there was wisdom in her words. And a sense of hope that made him feel somehow ashamed.

He expected so little from the world. She expected so much.

But no less than she expected of herself.

Without a word, he turned away and stalked to the fire. He kicked at the dwindling pile of sticks with his boot, knowing that she dressed behind him in the firelit tunnel.

In his mind he watched her and was amazed at the intensity of his feelings as he pictured her lush body with its slender curves, the elegant column of her throat, and that glorious cloud of dusky curls. A shame to cover up such beauty with mere clothes. And it was tragic beyond words to think that such a beautiful, vibrant woman would be brought low by the likes of Ondrea and the demons who served her.

But short of dragging her back to Blackthorne by her hair, or trussed up like a pig, that would be her fate.

He scowled at the dying embers of the fire. When he turned around again, she was dressed—attired in her simple forest green gown and matching cloak. In the firelight that flashed and flickered golden upon the tunnel walls, her dark-lashed eyes glistened like pools of sapphire.

“Before we part company, is there any chance you’ve brought along food in that sack of yours?” she asked. “Or that you’d be willing to share it with a moon witch of Callemore?”

“I’ve both food and wine. But we must make it last. There is only enough for a short journey and nothing in Org is edible for humans. We still must travel two more days before reaching Ondrea’s fortress.”

“We?” She stared at him. “But I told you there’s no need for you to accompany me.”

“I know what you told me.”

Thoughtfully, she fastened her cloak. “Is this about vengeance then? Do you want to finally have your revenge upon Ondrea for betraying your brother?”

“My reasons don’t matter.” He strode over to his sack, drew out two apples and a hunk of cheese wrapped inside a square of thick cloth, and tossed one of the apples to her. She caught it.

“Eat quickly,” he said. His expression had become unfathomable. “The sooner we leave this place, the better. Ondrea might already have another welcoming party on its way to trap us here.”

So, she thought, studying him in confusion as he bit into his apple. He’s changing the subject. He won’t discuss his decision to travel with me, won’t acknowledge his own courage or chivalry in making a journey which he knows better than anyone is perilous beyond measure.

She knew vengeance must play a part in his decision, but . . . she sensed there was something more. When he handed her a wedge of the cheese, their fingers touched, and her pulse quickened. She turned away from him, facing the fire, suddenly wary of what he might see in her eyes.

They didn’t speak as they finished their small repast. Keir dipped a long branch into the dying fire and handed it to her, then lit his own torch. Gwynna’s attention was suddenly drawn to the center of the flames.

She thought she saw something there . . . a blur of colors, a shape trying to make itself known.

She stared intently into the heart of the fire, her mind focussing, but even as she did so the blurred shape vanished, and there was only the feeble glow of dying orange flames.

She blinked, looked again. Nothing.

“What is it?” Keir asked.

Slowly, she shook her head. “I thought I saw . . . something. . . . Never mind.”

Keir led the way along the tunnel and she could see he had come this way before. His steps were sure in the gloom lit only by their torches, and she followed quickly, wondering where this tunnel would lead.

They emerged eventually to hard dusty land, where nothing grew but some brown tangled vines which caught at their feet and some thick-trunked trees with twisted boughs devoid of leaves. A gray mist hung in the air, the same color as the sky, and there was no glimmer of sunlight or daylight, only the dull grayness of an endless winter and the silence of a deadened land.

“There are no birds, no rabbits, no creatures moving here,” Gwynna whispered, a chill creeping down her spine.

“There are creatures lurking but you can’t see them or smell them or hear them until they’re upon you,” he answered in a low tone. “Keep your dagger handy.”

Fear stalked her as they made their way across the strange sullen landscape. Gwynna began to long for the kiss of the sun, the aroma of rich earth and spring flowers, for the comfortable rustle of squirrels and foxes burrowing in brush, even for the refreshing iciness of snow. For anything but this colorless, dead land, brooding with silent evil and doom.

The feeling that someone was behind her, following her, kept plaguing Gwynna, but each time she glanced quickly over her shoulder, she could see nothing, no one. Instead, there was an endless sweep of empty land, dust and twisted trees where mist lingered like a great spider web among the boughs.

They walked for hours, and slowly, the mist faded and a dry cold darkness sank down upon them. It suffocated the spirit as it did the light and made them feel as if the air itself was unbreathable, too close, too thick . . .

“Is it night?” she asked, staring ahead, amazed that they had met no one, seen nothing alive during all this journey.

“It’s always night the closer you get to Ondrea’s fortress,” Keir said. “The moon never shines in Org. Its light, like the sun’s, and everything else that is healing to the spirit, is blotted out. The going will get rougher soon. We must try to find a place of shelter for the night—”

Harsh shouts and hoofbeats broke the silence then, reverberating like drums of thunder in the stillness. Two figures on horseback burst through the gloom straight at them.

Men, Gwynna saw, her heart thudding. Huge, bearded, savage looking men—wielding cudgels and swords, their mean little eyes red as rubies, gleaming with malice.

Keir’s sword sliced the air as the rider in front charged at him, but the rider swerved in time and circled back at him with a roar of glee, whipping his dun-colored mount. Gwynna lifted an arm, and pointed at the hefty man on the spotted gray horse who galloped at her.

“Halt!” she ordered. But to her horror the horse kept coming, the man astride him leaning forward with a wicked grin.

“Be still, move not!” she cried, but he closed on her, laughing, and she realized in terror that her magic didn’t work here. They had ventured too close to Ondrea’s domain, and now as she’d been warned, she was powerless.

She ducked aside as the man reached down to yank her up onto his saddle, but he wheeled the horse around and charged back. By then she had her dagger in hand.

To her left she heard a gutteral scream and a thud, and she spared one precious instant to glance over toward Keir. He was dragging the other man from his steed and as she watched the animal reared, hooves flailing the air. Then the second horse and rider was bearing down upon her and she dodged nimbly aside, but as she’d anticipated, the rider grabbed for her, snagging her cloak.

She struck out swiftly with her blade and stabbed him in the arm. He drew back, screaming a curse at her, and the next moment, he leaped, enraged, from his mount.

She struck at him again, but this time he moved quicker, seizing her arm, twisting the dagger away. He threw her to the ground and she found herself pinned beneath him, helpless, as he raised his cudgel above his head, blood streaming from the gash in his hairy arm.

Her gaze was fixed in terror on that furiously evil face, and she braced herself for the blow to come, but it never did.

Her attacker was seized and hurled aside like a sack of grain.

Keir stood over her, his face pale in the leaden light. “Are you hurt?” he asked urgently, his tone hoarse, and at her swift shake of her head, he let out his breath.

“Now stay out of the way,” he ordered curtly, and gripped his sword all the tighter as he advanced upon the bearded man groggily trying to rise from his knees.

Gwynna pushed herself to a sitting position and stared about her. The rider Keir had dragged from his horse lay face down near a charred tree stump in a pool of blood. His horse stood to the side, trembling.

Keir descended upon her attacker, who now stood with his feet planted wide, a sneer upon his face. She saw that he had the cudgel in one hand, a short sword in the other. Blood still streamed from the wound she’d inflicted on him, but it didn’t appear to have had any effect on his strength or his savage eagerness to fight.

Fear for Keir raced through her and she forced herself to her feet. She glanced desperately about for her dagger and scooped it up even as she heard Keir’s voice.

It had never sounded so deadly.

“You dared to lay a hand on this lady,” he said in a soft, lethal tone. The bearded man responded with a leering laugh. “I’ll lay more than me hand on her after I kills you,” he spat. “Then I’ll kills her, too. No one passes through the Valley of Org and lives to tell the tale.”

“No?” Keir edged closer, his sword glinting through the gloom.

“No,” the man hissed. “Only evil walks here. And you two don’t got the stench of evil about you. You’re doomed, both of you. Doomed.”

“Let’s see who’s doomed.” Keir lunged forward before he’d even finished speaking. Gwynna had never seen anyone wield a sword with such swiftness. He looked to have the strength of five men as he plunged the blade through the other man’s chest.

The bearded man’s mouth gaped open as his life’s blood spilled. Keir ripped out the sword and his enemy toppled forward. The only sound was a gurgling from the bearded man’s throat. Then the cudgel and short sword slipped from his lifeless fingers, thudding into the dirt.

Keir bent over him only long enough to make certain he was dead, then he sheathed his sword and spun back toward Gwynna. When he saw her standing near him, the dagger clasped in her hand, he grasped her arms.

“I told you to stay back.”

“I thought you might need help.” She was trembling. She’d never encountered evil before—or such brutal death—but since crossing into Org she’d seen more than she’d ever thought to see in a lifetime. And it shook her to her core.

“You were right, about this place. It is foul. Those men . . . they seem scarcely human.”

“They’re not. They’re demons in human form. Outlaws who have lived and hunted in Org so long that whatever humanity they might once have possessed has been poisoned by the demon air they’ve inhaled over the years.

“But we must find shelter and soon,” he said tightly. “At night the vampires walk this land and they’re stronger than men, stronger even than the demon-men. And they travel in packs, like werewolves and wild dogs.”

By the moon, it’s hopeless, Gwynna thought, despair clenching at her heart. There are too many enemies here, too much evil.

She saw the grim line of Keir’s mouth, the tension in his face. Now she understood. This place was indeed cursed. How would they survive the mist, the cold, the vampires who would walk the night?

Keir seemed to read her mind. “We have to reach the cliffs. There are caves; it’s our only chance. But they’re still a long distance to the north, nearer to Ondrea’s fortress. We’ll have to run to reach them before complete darkness takes the land.”

“Why run? We have horses—two of them.” She started toward the steeds ridden by the demon-men, but Keir yanked her back as the spotted gray horse reared high, the whites of his eyes showing, and the other kicked out warningly.

“They’re wild, Gwynna. And vicious. They carry outlaws and demons and won’t submit to you or me,” he warned.

Gwynna saw the signs; the horses indeed looked wild. And as if they’d like nothing better than to stomp her into the ground. But she saw also the scars upon their flanks, the burns and whipped flesh, and the wary angle at which they hung their heads.

“Wait here,” she told Keir softly. He reached for her arm to stop her as she started toward the dun-colored horse, but she turned back and met his gaze.

“They won’t hurt me,” she said quietly, and something in her face made him release her arm, though his chest felt tight with concern.

Slowly, despite the urgency that called for haste, she walked toward the dun-colored horse. “Parumosa bentien zarat,” she whispered, and the animal went still.

“You mustn’t be afraid. I am Gwynna of Callemore, friend to every creature that roams the earth. Men have whipped you, hurt you. My touch will heal you.”

The dun-colored horse trembled. Its eyes rolled warily. “I come to you in friendship. Never will I harm you, parumosa zarat.”

Keir held his breath. He was ready to spring forward instantly but as he watched, Gwynna reached out a hand and touched the horse’s neck. She stroked his mane, murmuring to him, and he quivered beneath her touch.

But even as she spoke to him again, more softly so that Keir could not hear the words, the horse lowered his head, and whickered softly, a sound that echoed with gentleness and longing in the dusky desolation of Org.

“My poor beauty,” Gwynna whispered, her heart aching for the animal, who edged closer to her, as if craving her touch.

It was the same with the second horse. In only a short time, they were both following at Gwynna’s heels, ears twitching, eyes alert and calm. They now seemed almost as tame as stalwart old ponies, and Gwynna spoke to them in a language he didn’t understand before turning to him with a smile.

“They’ll carry us to the caves now. I promised we would shelter them. They fear the vampires as much as we do.”

“How did you do that? Witchcraft doesn’t work here—”

“It isn’t witchcraft. It’s a gift.” She shrugged. “I understand the language of wild creatures. I know their yearnings, their feelings, those things others cannot begin to fathom. And they understand me. It has always been so. These poor beasts were mistreated all of their days. They knew only hate, fear, submission. For the first time when I spoke to them today, they heard love. In my voice, my words. And in my touch.” She smiled at him. “Every creature seeks love.”

“Not the vampires.” Keir grimaced. “Time to ride, Princess, or risk our blood.”

“You called me Gwynna before.” She searched his face. “It was the first time you ever spoke my name. It sounds much nicer than when you call me Princess.”

There was a softness and a longing in her tone that startled him. Something in that beautiful, weary face made him want to touch her, cradle her face between his hands, brush his mouth across those soft pink lips.

But darkness was stealing over Org. They were in the open, at their most vulnerable.

“Princess—” He saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes and stopped. “Gwynna,” he said, with a ghost of a smile, “we must find the caves. There’s no time to lose.”

She murmured to the horses again and they stood quietly while Keir and Gwynna mounted them. Heading westward at a gallop, Gwynna watched the land flying beneath the dun’s hooves, heard the whoosh of the wind in her ears. The darkness was growing denser, deeper; it was nearly purple now and there was no moonlight or starlight to brighten the sky.

Yet she thought she saw gray shapes gliding past the trees, lurking behind shrubs and pale stones.

“Ghosts,” Keir muttered as he rode up beside her and saw her glance following the floating forms. “Ghosts of those who lost their way and wandered in here, then couldn’t get out, and ghosts of souls who were carried here against their will and left to roam forever. Prisoners of Org.”

The last words lingered between them. Prisoners of Org. As we might be, if we cannot get out, if we fail, Gwynna thought as she clung to the dun horse that galloped with her through the night.

We won’t fail. We can’t fail, she thought, but a shiver ran through her, chilling her spine and her very blood.

Antwa had predicted failure, and so had Keir. And now that she was here and saw the wasteland that was Org, the evil that brewed here like broth in a blackened cauldron, how could she even hope to succeed?

Yet one spark of hope still held strong within her. Lise. She could save Lise. Even if she did not escape herself, she could get to Ondrea and force her to set Lise free.

But what of Keir? Her thoughts raced. It was one thing to risk her own life, but now she had led Keir into this danger, too. And suddenly, fear for him closed like a vise around her heart.

He had escaped Org once before, she told herself. He could do so again. But would he leave without her, even to save himself?

For all his protestations, he was the most courageous, most heroic man she had ever known. He wouldn’t abandon her. So if she were to fall, to become a prisoner of Org like those silent gliding ghosts, he would as well.

Tears welled in her eyes. Not Keir. He didn’t deserve it. He was so brave, so good, and he didn’t even realize it. He had only returned to this place because of her. He couldn’t die. But he would, she knew suddenly. They both would . . .

Grief stabbed her, and her shoulders sagged beneath the anvil-like burden that weighed on her—Keir’s life and Lise’s. As she rode on through the darkness and heard the roar of a dragon in the distance, saw a burst of fire in the sky and watched the gliding ghosts, she felt hopelessness descending upon her. There was too much evil here to fight. Too many enemies, seen and unseen.

And she had no magic left to employ against Ondrea—if she should even get that far. Why had she come? Why hadn’t she listened to Antwa and to Keir?

Her shoulders shook and silent sobs wracked her throughout the ride. They reached the mountains and rode along the ledges until they found the caves Keir remembered from his last journey. When Keir sprang from his horse and came to help her down, she turned her face away so that he wouldn’t see the tears.

They led the horses into a wide-mouthed cave that was even blacker than the night sky and Keir built up a small fire with dry twigs and sticks. It was only then that he suddenly heard a tiny sob.

Keir turned to Gwynna, fear rushing through him. “You are hurt. Where?”

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, the flames creating shadows across her face. “You don’t deserve to die. It’s my fault. I never should have let you—”

“It’s gotten to you, Gwynna. Don’t you see? This isn’t you speaking. It’s Ondrea. It’s Org.”

“No, I am realizing finally that what you said is true; we cannot win. There is no light here, nothing good can live, much less flourish. The evil is too strong.”

“Listen to yourself.” His tone was sharp, but he gripped her shoulders gently. “You’re losing hope, and all that makes you who you are. Gwynna, that’s what this place does to all who enter, especially those who draw near to Ondrea’s stronghold. But I can’t bear it if it happens to you.”

His gaze held hers, his eyes fierce and determined. Slowly his arms wrapped around her, holding her close. “Fight it, Gwynna. Fight for yourself, and I will fight for you. If anyone can reach Ondrea, challenge her, it is you, my love. You are Lise’s only hope, and now you are my hope, too.”

My love. He called me his love. She lifted her gaze to his in wonder. In the firelight his eyes had softened upon her. They were filled with understanding and with something else. Love?

“I thought my heart was closed forever,” Keir said and there was a different kind of desperation in his tone, not one born of despair, but of need. The need to make her understand. His hands slid up to cradle her face.

“Before you came, there was nothing I wanted, Gwynna, nothing. For nothing gave me pleasure. Until you stormed your way into my hall and laid seige to all my senses. To my mind, my conscience and my heart.” He took a deep breath and spoke simply. “They are yours now. I battle now, not for vengeance, but for you. For your life and for your love.”

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “I won’t let you suffer the fate that I did—hopelessness, despair, a gloom so complete that nothing in the world had meaning anymore. I swear to you, you will live and return to the goodness of the world. I will give my life for that. For you. So fight, Gwynna. Let your hope be the one thing that the Valley of Org cannot take from you, the one light that shines even through the darkness. Fight the darkness.”

Slowly, as she stared into his eyes, she began to see. To feel. Love. Love gleamed in his eyes, burned from his fingers into her flesh. Love leapt from his soul to hers as they stood together in the firelit cave.

He loved her.

And when had she come to love him—this harsh, handsome man who had entered the Valley of Org by her side despite all that would drive him away? At what moment had her feelings changed from gratitude and warmth and admiration, to this sweet rush of passion and love that made her soul ache and her eyes weep because he might die?

Love rose within her as she lifted her arms, clasped them around his neck. She gazed into those eyes which once had looked so cold. Now they shone with a fierce love and his mouth lowered swiftly to hers. He kissed her deeply, possessively, a fire leaping between them.

Keir had never known a kiss so sweet or so hot. The feel of Gwynna in his arms gave him the strength of a thousand men and he held her slender form against him, wishing he never had to let her go. His blood roared in his ears and need, desire, tenderness hammered through every muscle and bone of his body.

“I’ll not let Ondrea harm you, I swear,” he said hoarsely against her lips, and she clung to him all the tighter.

“I’ll not let her hurt you either,” she promised and in her eyes, those rich enchanting eyes, he saw a determination so strong it made him ache with love for her.

“That’s my girl. My obstinate, dedicated, unstoppable girl. Gwynna, enchantress of my heart.”

“Keir, lord of my heart,” she whispered back. She stood on tiptoe, touched her lips to his, drank in the scent and taste and warmth of him.

He fitted his mouth to hers and took the kiss deeper, drawing her into a swirling blur of heat and pleasure. Their tongues caressed, battled, stroked. Keir’s hands thrust through her hair, crushing the curls, even as he crushed Gwynna against him. Exquisite sensations rushed through her. Pressing closer, her body sang, tingled—feeling alive in a way it never had before. Joy dazzled her as she wrapped her arms tightly around him and the hungry kisses flew between them like sparks. He was so strong, so demanding and yet so tender. His touch sparked fire.

Gwynna wanted to kiss him forever. She wanted more, needed more.

More, and more, and more . . .

Then the horses screamed and reared up, and they broke apart in shock, turning to see a looming figure with a bloodless face and twisted features ducking into the mouth of the cave. Another bobbed behind the first, fangs bared and a burning hunger glittering in its soulless eyes. And yet another followed on its heels.

“Vampires.” Swift as fury, Keir thrust her behind him and swept out his sword.

Chapter 8 

AS the three vampires fanned out and began to advance upon Keir from different directions, Gwynna scooped up a stray stick lying alongside the fire and plunged it into the red-hot flames. Even as the torch burst into a blaze, she grabbed another stick and did the same. A moment later she was at his side, a burning torch in each hand.

“They don’t look so dangerous,” she murmured, but her heart was pounding. She had just found love and it had found her. She wasn’t going to lose it—or the one man in the world she would ever love—because of some undead creatures with a blood-lust from hell.

“Run—or die again,” she ordered them. The creatures’ grotesque laughter echoed through the cave.

Keir leaped forward, gripping his sword like a stake and driving it through the first vampire’s heart.

Gwynna sprang at the same instant and thrust the burning torch into the second vampire’s throat, eliciting a spew of purple bile that narrowly missed her cloak. But the third vampire dodged aside quicker than a blink. Before she could pivot, he was on her with a growl, pouncing low, knocking her backwards to the ground. Then she felt his hands, powerful as bear claws, holding her shoulders down. His bared fangs dropped toward her throat and she smelled the vile tang of fresh blood on his breath.

“Morafusken—get back, get off!” she cried desperately, hoping against hope some shred of the spell would take effect, but it did not. She was too deep in the Valley of Org, and her magic could not help her here.

The vampire merely laughed again, a sound like teeth grinding against bones. Its fangs sank against her throat, but just as they began to bite down, Keir hauled the creature back by its lank hair and sent it crashing into the cave wall. Before the vampire could spring up, Keir’s sword plunged clear through the vampire’s heart, the blade shoving up against the solid rock wall as it penetrated clear through the beast and protruded out its back.

Purple goo flew from the wound, spattering near the horses, who whinnied and pranced and huddled together.

Three vampires dead. How many more to come?

Keir spun toward the mouth of the cave.

No more vampires approaching—yet. He knelt beside Gwynna and helped her to her feet.

To his horror, there were scratches on her throat, but no blood. He’d reached her just in time.

“We need . . . a circle of protection,” she gasped, knowing there was not a moment to lose. “Help me . . . we must make a circle of fire that blocks off the mouth of the cave—quickly, before others arrive!”

Moments later, it was done. Keir had dashed outside and gathered more sticks. These they’d spread out in a wide circle, edging close to the mouth of the cave, blocking the entrance. Fire blazed around the circle, the flames dancing and swaying as Keir and Gwynna and the two horses huddled within the cave.

“You should rest. I’ll keep the fire going until morning.” Keir held her close as they sat within the protective circle of fire.

“How will we know when morning comes? There’s no light here in this terrible place.”

“The sky becomes less black, returns to gray. And the vampires, who hate even a tinge of dawn, will flee. Even though Ondrea’s fog of twilight and murk blots out the sun, stars and moon, they’re all still there, far above. We just can’t see them. But the vampires know when the sun shines, even if its brightness cannot reach this wretched place. They’ll be gone.”

There will be more enemies, more challenges ahead, Gwynna thought wearily. But she wouldn’t despair. Keir was with her and she’d find a way to protect him. And to save Lise.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

“Despair is the sword of evil.” The words tumbled from her lips. She had no idea why she’d spoken them.

Keir leaned back, staring down at her. “What was that?”

She blinked. Suddenly the words echoed in her head. Despair is the sword of evil.

“Antwa,” she breathed. She sat up, glancing around. It had been Antwa’s voice in her head, whispering those words. Antwa was here.

“How is it possible?” She turned in amazement to Keir. “My teacher is here. I heard her voice within my head. Or perhaps, within my heart. She told me those words. She’s with me—with us. Look!”

And in the low wall of flames farthest from the cave entrance, an image shone within the fire, a woman’s gentle face wavering within the blaze.

Gwynna, do not despair. I’ve found a way—a way to help you. 

“Tell me, Antwa!” She flew forward, crouching near the flames, gazing at the blurred image of her teacher.

I have called forth the powers of those from ages past. Antwa’s voice was a faint crackling murmur within the flickering circle of light.

The Sisters of the Moon, the Great Ones of ancient days join together with you, my brave Gwynna, to fight the Evil One. Your magic alone has no power in the Valley of Org. But what the Great Ones made is far stronger than the murk and darkness of Ondrea’s conjuring. Look, look, Gwynna, within the fire. A weapon of the ancients, a magic more powerful than any you or I have touched. A gift of goodness to pierce the evil. Take it, Gwynna, take it now. Now! 

Gwynna scrambled closer, peering into the heart of the flames.

Something glittered—there!

She reached into the fire. It glanced off her flesh and she felt no heat—only a cool smoothness as she gripped the glittering object and pulled it from the flames.

Antwa was gone and her voice was silent. Only the half-moon of magical silver carved with tiny runes remained in Gwynna’s hand.

“You could have been burned!” Keir spoke roughly beside her, grabbing her arm, yanking her away from the fire. But Gwynna never glanced up from the half-moon talisman resting across her palm.

She was staring at the talisman curiously, a thrilling, refreshing coolness racing through her.

“What in thunder is that?” Keir glanced from the talisman to Gwynna and stared in wonder at the expression of calm determination upon her face.

She looked different. Every bit as beautiful, but even more ethereal, as if she heard music no one else in the universe could hear.

“It’s a talisman from the ancients. Our weapon against darkness.” She smiled at him. Her eyes were brighter than the flowers of the highland meadows. “Our weapon against despair.”

“Do you know how it works? What it can do?”

She shook her head and slipped the glittering half-moon talisman into the pocket of her travel-stained gown.

“When the time comes, I’ll be shown.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“As sure as I am that I love you, Keir. And I won’t let Ondrea destroy our lives or Lise’s life. She’s the one who must be destroyed.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

He stood guard, seated within the circle of fire, as she lay before him, her head resting upon his lap. Through the night the flames danced in the darkness and vampires growled at the entrance to the cave, but eventually they retreated reluctantly into the shadows of night.

Then the grayness came and the fire turned to ash and it was day. Time to leave the cave and the circle of fire and face Ondrea in her fortress of death.

Chapter 9 

ONDREA’S stronghold was built of rough black stone that soared high into the sky, a fortress of towers and battlements and turrets overlooking the wasteland of Org in every direction.

Ondrea’s servants were many. Some were human captives, men and women whose spirit had been broken; they worked alongside dwarves and rat gnomes and took orders from the armored, helmeted outlaws Ondrea called her Black Knights.

And then there were the elf demons, who prowled the ends of the earth searching for whatever their mistress desired. Even those who possessed the spark of magic couldn’t detect their presence until they were long gone. They were as silent and mysterious as the night and they obeyed only one being in the world—the sorceress who knew the darkness of their souls and who could stop their breath with a whisper.

“And where is she now, my love?” Ondrea addressed the question to the tall, gaunt warlock king who was appreciatively sniffing the cauldron filled with snakes’ heads, bats’ wings, and rabbits’ blood that simmered over the hearth.

They were in Ondrea’s private chamber, high up in the black fortress. Tall windows opened onto the gray wasteland below, but within this room, a hundred candles glowed. Everything in the luxuriant chamber was black, gold or crimson—the same bright red as the blood bubbling in the cauldron.

“My gazing ball showed her at dawn in a cave near Doom’s Point.” Leopold turned from the cauldron and gave Ondrea a slow, anticipatory smile. He had a shrewd, intelligent face and flaxen hair that flowed to his shoulders.

“She and the human known as Keir of Blackthorne should be riding across the bridge over the bog at any moment.”

Ondrea smiled back at him from the golden couch where she reclined, stroking the head of Lipus, her pet rat.

“I think I will feed her to the vampires tonight,” she decided, as Lipus turned and licked her hand. “But Keir of Blackthorne, who has twice invaded my land, shall not live out the hour,” she proclaimed. “I mistakenly allowed him to leave the last time because it amused me to hear how he crawled, broken and lost and desperate, to the very edge of the Wild Sea. But I should have let my Black Knights kill him then.” She stretched languorously.

“They shall use him for target practice today and there shall be poison on the tips of their arrows.”

“Not so quickly, my beauty. You really ought to let me play with him a bit first,” the warlock reproached her with a wicked grin.

He left the cauldron to sprawl beside her, leaning back against the crimson velvet pillows and fondling her breast. The emerald ring upon his finger glittered in the candlelight.

“It was my killing of his blood kindred that brought him into Org in the first place,” he reminded her. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to finish off the Blackthorne royal line ever since.”

“Of course you have, my love.” Ondrea writhed closer to him, stroking his thigh, and fitting her body to his gaunt frame with a sensuous languor that made the warlock’s eyes shine. “That’s why I sent word for you to transport yourself here for the grand reception. I knew you’d want to watch Keir of Blackthorne die.”

“But I’d much prefer to have a hand in it myself.” He nibbled at her long, swanlike neck, which smelled intoxicatingly of poison-weed. “I’ll tell you what,” he said persuasively, his mouth dipping lower to the white exposed flesh above her shimmering gown. “You can have the moon witch all to yourself, but let me have my bit of fun with the duke.”

“Very well—if you wish.” She sighed, and the warlock leaned over in delight and kissed her pouting mouth.

“You did bring me that lock of Queen Lise’s hair that allowed me to do the spell,” she reflected reluctantly. “It was very clever of you to materialize in Callemore Castle while she slept and steal those strands. And it certainly made it easier for my little elf demons to find her since you so brilliantly paved the way.”

“I would do anything for you, my sweet.” Leopold touched her magnificent face with a hand nearly as white and slender as her own. His black eyes glittered. “I’d even dispose of Callemore’s princess for you and save you the bother.”

Ondrea pulled away from him and spoke sharply. “That is a pleasure I reserve for myself. Do not touch her, do you hear me?”

Leopold of Cruve laughed. “Don’t fret, my sweet. I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of such amusement. Don’t you know I am just as content to watch you mete out death to her as I would be doing it myself? Your creativity is almost as enticing as your beauty. But might I offer a suggestion?”

Lipus hopped onto Ondrea’s shoulder as she smoothed her flame-colored halo of hair. “Suggestions are welcome.”

“Before you decide to turn the pesky princess over to the vampires, you might wish to consider my little concoction over there.”

They both glanced over at the boiling cauldron set within the high stone hearth.

“It is a most painful poison—disintegrates skin and bone. Feeds on blood. In a very short, excruciating period of time, an enemy can be dissolved, completely disintegrated—just like that!” Cruve snapped his fingers and Ondrea smiled, intrigued.

“Really?” Her eyes shone green as river ice. “Now you’ve given me a dilemma,” she chided, but she held out her hand and allowed him to kiss each of her fingertips and then to press his lips against her palm.

“A delicious choice,” she murmured and stroked her fingers through his limp, biscuit-colored hair. “You’re so good to me, Leopold,” she murmured as he leaned closer and bent to kiss her lips.

They drew apart as a Black Knight appeared in the doorway of the chamber and cleared his throat.

“Pardon the intrusion, your Powerfulness, but the trespassers have crossed the bridge over the bog. Is it time for their capture?”

“It is time.” Ondrea stroked a loving hand along the warlock’s narrow jaw, then returned her gaze to the burly knight.

“Send the order—now.”

The knight crossed to the balcony doors and threw them wide open. At his signal, the raven perched on the stone parapet soared off, cawing across the sky.

“When your troops see the raven, they’ll close in upon the trespassers at once,” the knight assured Ondrea as he bowed his way out of the room.

No sooner had he disappeared than Ondrea turned back to the warlock who shifted to lie across her.

“Now where were we?” Ondrea murmured as she sank her teeth into Leopold’s neck and Lipus leaped away, skittering across the floor as his mistress and her lover rolled together upon the golden couch.

 

THERE was no warning, none at all.

One moment, the air was still, but for the sudden cawing of a raven—and the next, Gwynna and Keir found themselves surrounded, trapped by a dozen black-helmeted soldiers astride horses nearly twice the size of their own scarred and ragged mounts.

There was no time, no opportunity to fight before twelve spears were pointed at them, and they were quickly overpowered and bound hand and foot. The raven, Gwynna realized too late, had been cawing, “Now, now, now,” but she hadn’t recognized its language quickly enough.

Captured, helpless, she and Keir braced themselves as their horses were led off in defeat through the twilight fog. The gloom grew ever denser and the air more suffocating the closer they came to Ondrea’s fortress.

As the black towers of the fortress came at last into view, Gwynna’s heart began to pound. She feared for Keir, for Lise and for herself.

But she also felt a tingling of hope. She had reached Ondrea’s stronghold and now, unless she was much mistaken, she would face the sorceress queen herself.

She was closer to saving Lise than anyone back in Callemore ever could have dreamed. Close to the victory and success that would give her everything she wanted.

But also close to failure, a fearful voice inside of her whispered, as the great rusted iron gates loomed before her.

She blocked the voice, closed her eyes and pictured the green flowing lands of Callemore. She heard the songs of children, felt the flower-scented breeze of spring dancing down a hillside. And she relived the gentleness and passion of Keir’s kiss, which had banished the darkness Org had draped over her heart.

If despair was the sword of evil, then she must cling to the shield of goodness.

Hope. 

Chapter 10 

“THE prisoners, your Powerfulness!” The troop leader thrust Gwynna into the enchantress’s private chamber. His second-in-command shoved Keir after her.

“On your knees,” Ondrea commanded, her eyes locking with Gwynna’s.

Taut as a bowspring, Keir studied the tall woman standing before them, an icy smile curving her lips.

So this was Ondrea, the sorceress who had tricked and betrayed his brother—and who had brought death to his entire family.

Her beauty was staggering. Flame colored curls haloed a haughty, perfectly chiselled face. Her features were strong, yet delicate, the nose upturned just a bit, the eyes long, wide-set, their color a brilliant dazzling topaz.

Her body was tall, statuesque, that of a goddess, and the gown of shimmering silver she wore had golden circles embroidered across the skirt. Her gold necklace and armband shone with power and fire.

Yet her perfection was as chilling as the cruelty in those brilliant eyes, and she carried herself with a haughtiness that reeked of self-importance.

He ought to have felt hatred toward her—for she had planned the demise of his kin—but instead he felt revulsion and fear, not for himself, but for the woman at his side, the loveliest and bravest woman he’d ever known.

The sight of Gwynna, her face pale, framed by disheveled dark curls, her hands bound, her magic stoppered, leaving her helpless, filled him with desperation and a terrible dread. Vengeance no longer mattered. Only Gwynna filled his mind.

No one must lay a hand on her, Keir thought, as he assessed the gaunt man with pale hair and narrow shoulders seated on the couch with Ondrea. The guards were still behind them with their spears and swords.

He had to find a way to get Gwynna out of here alive.

“On your knees,” Ondrea repeated, rising from the couch. She stepped forward then and those magnificent eyes changed color, from topaz to purple—a deep, flashing, ominous purple.

Keir’s stomach knotted as Gwynna knelt. He chafed at his bonds in frustration, enraged that she was forced to kneel before this murdering witch. Then two of the soldiers grabbed him and forced him to his knees. He grunted as one jabbed him in the side with a fist and the other yanked his head back by the hair.

“Obey the Queen Sorceress when she gives you an order,” the soldier barked.

“Kill me if you will.” Keir spoke through clenched teeth. “I’d rather die than obey this hag.”

The soldier struck him with the hilt of his sword and Keir fell forward. He was then dragged back to his knees. But even the soldier who’d struck him stepped back a pace at the expression of fury upon Ondrea’s face.

“So. This is the gratitude I get for letting you crawl out of Org on your belly?” Her tone was silky and cool as new frost. “You”—she shot a glance at the troop—“may all leave. I’ll summon you when it’s time to collect the pieces of this scum after King Leopold and I are done with him.”

Leopold. At last, a stroke of luck, Keir thought, his gaze fastening upon the warlock’s smug face. From his knees, Keir stared at the creature who’d destroyed his family. The Cruvian had a weak chin and a cruel mouth. Atop his velvet-trimmed purple tunic, he wore a heavy gold brooch in the shape of a dragon.

And on his finger glinted the emerald ring Keir had last seen upon his own father’s hand.

“This day is fortunate for me,” Keir said softly. “But not for you. You die today.”

Leopold tossed back his head and laughed.

Through this all, Gwynna had remained silent. Keir glanced at her to see if she was afraid. No, she appeared calm and intent.

But she wasn’t intent upon her enemy—she was gazing fixedly at the rat crouched beside Ondrea’s slippered feet.

Its whiskers twitched as Gwynna continued to stare at it and Keir suddenly remembered her affinity with all wild creatures.

She was communicating with this rat!

And that’s why she knelt, he realized. Suddenly, he began to speak again, knowing it was crucial to keep Ondrea’s attention focused upon himself.

“You killed my family, hag,” he said loudly. “You and this cowardly, swaggering creature murdered them. Did you think I wouldn’t return and take my revenge?”

“I thought you’d have sense enough to keep your sniveling self away from me and my domain.” Ondrea shrugged, and a tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Apparently you seek death, so I’ll happily grant you your heart’s desire. This time you won’t get out of Org alive.”

“Or in one piece,” Leopold added in a silken tone, flashing Keir a maliciously crooked smile.

Keir had seen the rat scoot across the room, and now realized it had disappeared from sight.

What does Gwynna have in mind? he wondered, then suddenly felt something brush against his hands which were bound behind his back.

He felt a small tug—and then he knew.

Hope surged through him. The rat was gnawing at his bonds.

“I am Gwynna of Callemore,” Gwynna spoke up composedly. She ignored Leopold and gazed directly into the sorceress’s eyes. “I am here to take back everything you stole from my sister.”

Her words had the desired effect. They shifted Ondrea and Leopold’s attention away from Keir. Both now eyed Gwynna with keen interest.

It was Ondrea who spoke with a sneer. “I know who you are, Moon Witch. Do you think you need to tell me something so simple? Your silly powers didn’t even awaken you when my servants invaded your castle by the light of your moon and took what I wanted from your sister. You are pathetic. Feeble. And powerless before me. You cannot take back what I stole—it is now mine for a hundred years. You’d need to destroy me in order to get it back and that is no more likely than the moon ever shining in Org.”

Ondrea tilted her head to one side and tapped a finger against her cheek. “And for your affrontery in daring to enter my kingdom, you will now pay the price.”

“It is you who must pay a price.” Gwynna’s eyes burned into Ondrea’s, which changed from purple to angry storm-blue as Gwynna spoke. “You stole from my sister what you lack. Beauty. Life. Spirit. You are hundreds of years old, an ancient shriveled crone. And it’s time you were stripped of all that is not yours and sent to a resting place as dark and deep and cold as you are.”

Even as she spoke the words, Gwynna felt the rat’s feet resting on her wrist and knew that he was gnawing at her bonds. The poor creature had told her he was kept by Ondrea as a pet, but even he, a lowly rat, was revulsed by the evil rampant in the fortress. He had a family of his own, a family to return to—if ever he was released. And Gwynna had promised him that release in exchange for his help.

By now, Keir’s bonds were severed, and in a moment hers would be, too. Her heart pounded with tension. Everything depended on what she did in the next few moments. Lise’s life. Keir’s life. And hers.

She braced herself as Ondrea’s face darkened with anger and the sorceress’s hands clenched. Then Leopold touched a hand to Ondrea’s arm, and murmured, “Perhaps our guest is thirsty? I’m sure she would enjoy a cupful of what brews on the cauldron.”

Ondrea laughed then, sly pleasure replacing the anger on her face. “Why not? She has survived a long and arduous journey. We must be hospitable after all.”

The warlock crooked a finger at the enormous cauldron bubbling over the fire. It lifted from its hook and drifted through the air, making its way toward him.

“Isn’t that just like a warlock?” Keir managed a caustically mocking laugh, though fear for Gwynna punched through him. “I should have known you wouldn’t fight like a real man.”

Leopold held up a hand and the cauldron paused in midair. The warlock advanced on Keir.

“You talk too much, human. Your words vex me. I don’t need magic to quell the likes of you,” he growled and grabbed Keir by the hair, dragging him to his feet. As he pulled back an arm to strike the captured man, Keir suddenly whipped his arms from behind him and seized the warlock by the throat.

“You’re now done with words, warlock. And with spells. Forever.”

It all happened so quickly Leopold didn’t have time to mutter a spell or a curse. His hands latched onto Keir’s bulging arms and tried to break the grip on his throat, but Keir was far stronger, and his fingers bit like spikes into the Cruvian king’s flesh.

Ondrea lifted an arm, anger sputtering on her lips, but even as she tried to get the words out, Gwynna sprang at her, shoving her backwards onto the couch.

Gwynna whipped the half-moon talisman from her pocket and held it aloft before the sorceress could move or speak.

At the sight of it, Ondrea’s now black eyes widened, fear crossing her face.

“By the magic of all the Sisters of the Moon and Seekers of the Good, I command you to freeze!” Gwynna cried.

But to her dismay, her words had no effect. Instead Ondrea rose, swift and dangerous as a snake. “Your magic has no power here. Give that trifle to me.”

“This is no trifle and it does not belong to you, Evil One. It belongs to those who have pledged their lives to good.”

“Wexyll-domsor-parsnopurm!” Ondrea shouted, stretching forth her hand commandingly, but the half-moon stayed securely within Gwynna’s grasp. It tingled with power and Gwynna thought frantically what to do next.

The talisman didn’t work upon Ondrea—and Gwynna’s own magic was still useless. But the talisman hadn’t responded to Ondrea’s command. So it must have another purpose, another power all its own. What could it be? she wondered, her mind racing. What must I do?

She glanced over in time to see Keir release Leopold. The warlock sank to the ground, his face purple and still, his eyes staring blankly, and Keir wasted no time dragging the emerald ring from his finger and sliding it onto his own hand.

At the same instant, the cauldron thudded to the floor, released from its spell.

“Look out!” Keir shouted and she whirled back to see Ondrea advancing upon her, trying to snatch the talisman away.

But Gwynna jumped back out of reach and raced across the room to a round serving table, putting it between her and the sorceress.

“You will not touch this. It’s going to destroy you!” she warned. “And then all that you stole will be returned to my sister!”

“That trinket cannot destroy me. Nothing made by those dedicated to good can destroy me. But I’ll have it just the same. And then I’ll have your head on a platter and let the rats and the vampires feast on it!” Ondrea screamed.

She spun toward Keir as he advanced on her and made a swift pattern with her fingers in the air. Keir stopped dead, clutching his throat. He began to gasp and choke, his skin darkening as Leopold’s had.

“Keir! No!” But as she watched in horror he crashed to the floor, writhing and twitching upon the black and gold carpet—strangling to death before her eyes.

“Give it to me and I’ll release him,” Ondrea said as Gwynna rushed to him, kneeling at his side in anguish. She summoned her most powerful spell-breaking charm and muttered it rapidly, but it had no effect.

The agony upon his face ripped her heart out. Somehow he managed to gasp out several words. “Don’t . . . give it . . . to her. . . .”

“Stop—stop!” Gwynna cried. “Release him and I’ll consider!”

“Give it to me and then I’ll release him.” Ondrea’s eyes shone triumphantly as she noted the grief in Gwynna’s face, the need to save this man at any cost.

Suddenly the rat sprang onto Gwynna’s shoulder as she knelt beside Keir.

Its whiskers twitched as it spoke to her, telling her the secret, telling her what she must do.

“Silence, rat!” Ondrea screeched. “Is this the thanks I get for keeping you? What are you doing?” she cried as Gwynna suddenly raced to the balcony doors, the rat leaping from her shoulder to scurry under the table.

“Don’t—don’t!” Ondrea’s shout rang through the chamber as Gwynna flung the doors wide and burst onto the balcony high above the gray desolation of Org.

Even as Ondrea dashed out the doors after her, Gwynna drew back her arm and hurled the talisman high into the night as hard and as high as she could. Her heart filled her throat as she wondered if it would be high enough, powerful enough to do what must be done.

But the talisman took on a power of its own as it soared up. Like a comet it streaked, higher and higher, a brilliant glimmer, until suddenly it burst through, tearing a black hole in the thick gray sky, ripping it asunder.

As the black hole grew and grew, the grayness unraveled in tatters.

Ondrea screamed behind her, but Gwynna couldn’t tear her gaze from the spectacular sight of the grayness dissipating and darkness filling the sky. Darkness and something else . . . the rich pearly glow of the moon.

The moon shone upon her face, her midnight hair. It shone upon the desolation of Org and sent slender silver beams of light dancing across the sad and empty land, glittering like fairy dust.

Then Gwynna felt a surge of energy through her. Her fingertips and toes tingled.

Power. Magic.

It was all coming back.

Stars glittered like enormous jewels, spangling the velvet blackness, winking at the moon.

A shriek of tortured fury poured from Ondrea’s throat behind her and she whirled to face the sorceress.

“You’ve ruined everything, Moon Witch!’

As Ondrea charged toward her, Gwynna held up a hand, and this time, the sorceress was stopped dead in her tracks.

“Yoportmante,” Gwynna said coldly.

Ondrea flew backwards into the chamber, landing with a thump against the wall, then sinking to the floor, a dazed expression on her face. But Gwynna was no longer heeding her. She rushed to Keir, lying still as a stone now upon the floor.

For one heart-shattering moment she thought he was dead, but then she saw his chest rise ever so slightly and fall, and she knelt beside him.

Placing one of her hands upon his cheek, and the other upon his heart, she spoke the reversal spell Antwa had taught her.

Nothing happened and tears scalded her eyes. She repeated the spell, more urgently and commandingly, and as she finished, one tear slipped down her cheek.

It dropped upon Keir’s lips.

“Oh, my darling.” Her broken whisper shook with love. She touched her finger to the tear, pressed it against his lips. “Feel my grief. Feel my love. Do not leave me.”

As she whispered the words, Keir stirred. His eyes opened and he gazed up at her. A weak smile curved his lips.

“Gwynna. I won’t ever leave . . . you,” he croaked.

In that instant, she forgot everything else but that her love was alive. She bent and touched her lips to his, felt their warmth, and in them sensed the beating of his heart.

But suddenly, the cauldron Leopold had first summoned careened toward them.

Ondrea’s words rolled through her head. Nothing made by those dedicated to good can destroy me.

But something evil might, Gwynna thought. She snapped out a freezing spell and the cauldron stopped, hovering above the carpet. Gwynna sprang to her feet, concentrating fiercely on the cauldron as Ondrea faced her from across the chamber.

Slowly, Keir managed to raise himself to a sitting position. Ignoring the lingering pain from Ondrea’s spell, Keir watched a great battle begin.

Gwynna, her dark hair gleaming in the moonlight that flowed from the balcony, was silently directing the cauldron toward Ondrea. But every time it advanced, Ondrea lifted her hand, made a swift twisting pattern in the air and the cauldron halted—then began to glide slowly toward Gwynna once again.

Back and forth they went. Again . . . and again.

Keir could see the concentration pursing Gwynna’s lips, the whiteness of her cheeks as she willed the cauldron to obey with all the skill and power she possessed.

And suddenly, the cauldron swung toward Ondrea and this time it did not slow, did not shift direction.

Sweat glistened upon the sorceress’s perfect face. Her eyes bulged with concentration. And yet the cauldron sailed near . . . nearer . . .

Fear glazed Ondrea’s eyes, and they turned a dark frenzied shade of orange as she wove her hand frantically through the air.

As he looked toward Gwynna, Keir saw the opposite. Her face was calm, intense, but it shone with hope, and her eyes were bright and fixed upon her goal. Now it was Gwynna who looked as powerful and unstoppable as time and death and heaven.

The cauldron drifted steadily toward Ondrea, halting before her, hovering just out of her reach, teetering back and forth.

Back . . . and forth . . .

Suddenly Gwynna darted forward. With a cry, she seized the cauldron, snatching it from the realm of spells. Then she swung it up and tilted it, pouring the sticky boiled brew over Ondrea.

“Good cannot kill you, but evil will,” she cried as the foul red liquid streamed over the sorceress’s hair and garments and ran in rivulets down her face.

Ondrea shuddered violently, but couldn’t seem to move her arms or legs. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again and a silent scream exploded from her lips, which seemed to drip blood. The scream could not be heard, but it was felt by Gwynna and Keir—it rang through them, empty and hollow and cold as Ondrea’s heart.

Again and again she screamed, but no sound filled the chamber, and then, suddenly, black smoke burst from her mouth and eyes and enveloped her. The clouds of smoke were thicker than night and when they vanished an instant later, Ondrea, too, was gone.

All that remained was a small charred pile on the floor where she’d stood. A pile of gray ash.

“Lise. Come back . . . come back to us,” Gwynna muttered, half in hope, half in prayer as she swayed on her feet, struggling to stay upright. The contest with Ondrea had drained her far more than any of her visions ever had. She felt as though her blood had turned to water.

But even as she tried to turn toward Keir, to help him, he was already at her side, his arms sliding around her, holding her up.

“You did it, Gwynna. You destroyed Ondrea.”

“It almost cost me . . . you. Oh, Keir,” she gasped. “Her spell . . . nearly killed you. Are you all right?”

Keir wrapped his arms more tightly around her and drew her close. “I’ve never felt as all right as I do now.”

He scooped her up into his arms as her knees buckled and cradled her close.

“Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve freed the moon, the stars, the sun. The dark creatures that hid here under the protection of Ondrea’s evil spell will now be exposed to light, and they will hide and flee. The Valley of Org is no more as it was.”

“But her Black Knights. The vampires. The demons . . .”

“With any luck, they’ll lose their courage now that their protectress is gone—defeated by a moon witch of Callemore.”

“We must find a way out of here, out of Org. I have no strength now for a vision, but I must know about Lise—”

“You’ll know, Gwynna. We’ll make our way to Callemore and find your sister. And she’ll be well and strong and beautiful. Though not as beautiful as you are.”

But Gwynna didn’t hear these last words. She had already slipped into a swoon, filled with dreams of gnomes and rats and cauldrons—and of a great half-moon sailing through the sky, frosting the silver night with moonbeams and shadows.

Chapter 11 

SUNIGHT filled the garden at Callemore Castle the morning after the wedding.

Queen Lise strolled arm in arm with her husband among the sweet-smelling rose bushes and apricot trees, laughing and reminiscing in delight about the celebration.

“Did you not think Gwynna’s gown lovely, William? Such a pale elegant gold, soft as a cloud. Did you see how it shimmered in the torchlight? And the jewelled collar—Antwa fashioned it herself, you know, from diamonds and moonstones, rubies and faeries’ gold.”

“I didn’t know. But Gwynna always looks charming. She is nearly, very nearly, as lovely as her sister,” William said, his eyes twinkling as Lise shot him a laughing look.

“You are so politic, my lord,” she praised him.

“I am so married, my queen,” he replied, and pulled her into his arms amidst the flower beds and unicorn statuary.

“After what Gwynna did for you—for us,” William continued in a more sober tone, “I wish her every happiness—forever. And I’ll do anything in my power to assure that she knows only happiness,” he went on quietly, tenderly stroking his wife’s face.

“Then perhaps you should be guarding the bridal door,” Lise suggested, her mouth quivering with laughter. “From the way Gwynna and Keir were gazing at each other last night, I am quite certain they’d be extremely happy if no one disturbed them in their chamber for a fortnight. But I’m certain the servants will insist on bringing at least a tray of food before the sun goes down today.”

William chuckled. “I remember our wedding night,” he said softly, nibbling her ear, and Lise grinned as she pulled him down on a bench beside her.

“I only hope Gwynna, who risked so much, fought so hard and saved us both, will be half as happy as you and I.”

William kissed her on the mouth, a loving, lingering kiss that made Lise’s heart swell with the joy of being alive.

“Based on what I’ve seen and heard between Gwynna and her Duke of Blackthorne, I don’t think you need worry about your sister ever again,” he murmured. “Keir adores her. Almost as much, my darling, beautiful Lise, as I adore you.”

 

IN a separate part of the garden, Antwa leaned against an apple tree, listening to the song of birds in the branches and remembering how Gwynna had sung in her chamber as she prepared to don her bridal gown. She smiled to herself, pleasure filling her heart.

The premonition I felt the day Gwynna left for Org has indeed come true, she reflected with satisfaction. But it has not proved dire—it has proved instead a blessing.

For the Gwynna who had returned was not the same, but the changes that had come hadn’t been for the worse, they’d been for the better. Callemore’s princess hadn’t lost anything of her goodness or spirit or will; she had simply become more. More wise, more powerful, more good. More of a woman and more of a witch.

Antwa glanced toward the castle, where the girl she’d taught since childhood was now a woman in her husband’s arms.

“And so it shall be,” she murmured aloud, remembering the vision she’d had after the ceremony—of children and laughter and peace.

“The fruits of hope,” Antwa told the bird that perched on her shoulder, its feathers ruffling her ear. “Now she’ll reap only happiness. For all of her days.”

 

HIGH above the garden, in a wide, high-ceilinged chamber, the bride and bridegroom awoke in each other’s arms.

Gwynna was the first to awaken and to find herself curled naked beside Keir’s long, hard-muscled form. She smiled, stretched like a cat and cuddled against him again, recalling the wedding, and the wedding night and everything they had done and said to each other when they were alone at last by the light of the fire.

She pushed herself up on one elbow and studied his face, that hard-planed, devastatingly handsome face she had first thought so devoid of emotion.

This morning, he was handsomer than ever, but no more did he look formidable—not to her. In fact, he looked almost boyish, and so much younger, his dark hair falling over his brow, his eyelashes resting against his lean, tanned cheeks.

Love filled her, spilled from her. All for this man who had stayed by her side through unimaginable danger and brought her safely home.

Not only her, but the horses they’d rescued in Org, and the rat and his family who’d all sought refuge under her protection and who were now ensconced in a comfortable dirt hole within the bailey.

The entire group of them had raced straight back to Callemore, stopping only briefly at Blackthorne so that Gwynna and Keir could gather food, clothing and supplies. And when she’d finally galloped on the dun horse over the drawbridge of her own home and bolted up the stairs to Lise’s quarters to find her sister alive and perfectly restored after her ordeal, she’d nearly burst with joy.

But that joy was now matched once again—equal in every way—by the joy she felt here in this marriage bed with Keir, within the dark blue silk bed curtains, and beneath the rich gold coverlet and furs drawn across their waists.

She wriggled closer to brush her lips across Keir’s chest and traced a finger down the bulging muscles of his arm. And he opened his eyes.

“Good morning, my wife.”

“Good morning, my husband.”

They grinned at each other, and Keir reached for her, for this moon witch with her midnight hair and creamy skin, with breasts so beautiful he could have kissed them all night long, with eyes that burned sweet fire into his soul.

His mouth found hers, tasted, teased. One kiss led to another, and one touch to a thousand touches. Her hair fanned across the pillow like black lace as he leaned over her, kissed her.

And the lovemaking they shared this morning was as deep as the Wild Sea and as hot as summer’s sun.

And as they touched each other and told each other of all they felt in their hearts, as their bodied twined and their love soared and their souls shuddered to their very cores, all the emptiness and loneliness of a man who’d lost everything was forever erased by the love of a woman who gave everything and held nothing back.

In the days that followed Gwynna traveled with her husband to her new home at Blackthorne Keep. There she worked a different kind of magic—she transformed a bleak, drafty, joyless keep into a home of warmth, light and beauty. A place where first her son and then her daughter were born—into a world where sunlight gilded summer gardens and moonlight glimmered over winter snow. A world where goodness prospered, and old evils faded like mist.

Even in the once invincible Valley of Org the darkness dissipated and goodness seeped in, bringing with it people to populate the barren land, and grass and flowers to spring up where once there had been only dead trees and dust.

All of the dread creatures scattered and skulked to distant lands, and peace settled over the countryside.

And Gwynna and Keir loved each other all of their days—and all of their nights.

Their passion never faded, and neither did their love. It held through all their years together, bright and strong and brilliant as the sun, as magical and enduring as the glow of the moon.