The Penwyth Curse (Medieval Song 6)

Something moved deep inside him at her words, something that scared him witless. No, he wouldn’t think about it. “If I take your virginity, I won’t die.”

That got her attention. She reared up and stared at him. “My virginity?”

“Aye, we could just get that part over with. I wouldn’t be your husband yet. Am I safe from the curse?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, then shook and shuddered at what had come out of her mouth. He laughed. Why not? He was lying here, she was plastered against his side, and his sex was harder than the pebble that had worked its way into his boot. Why not? Suddenly, he felt something else tugging at him, tugging him away from her and her virginity. But wasn’t a virginity a wondrous sort of thing that a man shouldn’t ever be tugged away from? But now, somehow, he was. He didn’t understand it. Something was just there, nearly touching his face, or mayhap that something was inside him, and his brain went inward, toward it.

He heard his own voice say, “No, I won’t take your virginity. Go to sleep, Merryn, go to sleep.” Maybe he’d spoken those words for himself, because in just moments he fell into a sleep deeper than a sword thrust into a man’s belly.

Sometime Else

The prince followed Callas into the oak forest. On and on they walked, at least a mile into that deep, dark tangle of trees that swallowed the sound of their footfalls and hunkered over them, the leaves twitching and blowing, from no wind that he could feel. There were no shadows in this forest, no room for them. There were just scores upon scores of oak trees, like sentinels in place since the dawn of time, huddled so closely together that all vegetation falling to the earth soon became fetid and quickly rotted into nothingness.

Finally, after it seemed that eons had passed, they came to a large clearing. The prince saw that in the middle of the clearing was a rise. It wasn’t a natural rise, but one that looked as if men had piled mud and stones and straw there, high and higher yet, wanting this prominence, wanting it to dominate.

Or magic had made the prominence. Aye, magic was more likely. Why waste energy piling up muck when you could just roll your eyes and snap your fingers? He looked up to see the moon, still a thin sickle, but light was pouring off it, making the clearing nearly as bright as day. The heaven was filled with stars, so bright that they made the leaves on the oak trees shimmer and glow. A very interesting effect the witch had wrought.

“Callas.”

The old man turned. For an instant the prince saw a spasm of fear cross his face. It pleased him. Puking ancient priest, so knowledgeable about things that interested the prince not a whit. Fear became the old varmint. He wondered idly just how old the old relic really was.

“What is it you wish, prince?”

The fear was gone. Was there smugness in the old man’s voice now? Did he believe him cowed at the unnatural brightness pouring onto this clearing? The prince said, waving his hand, “What is this place?”

Callas cocked his head to one side, his filthy hair tangling down over his shoulder and arm. “You are blind, aren’t you, prince? I did wonder, you know, and now I am certain that your powers don’t extend into our magical forest.” He laughed. “You are in our stronghold now, prince. Even though you see no one, many are watching, wondering why you are here, ready to kill you if you so much as whisper a violent thought.”

The prince laughed, felt a hank of hair fall into his face, and pushed it back into the club at the back of his neck. He said very softly, “Let any of your kind come to me, Callas. Let us see how much harm they can do me. I will tell you true, I see nothing at all but this naked prominence your people built. Why did you build this place?”

Callas raised his kesha. The tip glowed madly, pulsing with power. He pointed it directly at the large mound of earth.

“What are you doing?”

Callas said nothing, merely continued to point the kesha. What was the old relic up to? The prince grabbed Callas’s arm, careful not to touch his priest’s stick. The old man was so startled, he would have fallen if Bishop hadn’t held him up. Bishop shook him. Suddenly, Callas seemed boneless, not real, a figure stuffed with feathers. Had he killed him so easily?

“You black-blooded bastard, leave him alone.”

It was Brecia. His heart nearly burst in his chest.

At last.

He was smiling so widely a ghost could have flown into his mouth when suddenly a wooden fortress appeared atop the prominence. Narrow wooden poles, at least eight feet high, were lashed together with ropes. The tops of the poles were whittled to sharp points. And behind that wall stood a wooden tower, at least forty feet high, mayhap higher.

A damned tower, a big one. Worthy of a witch, a very important witch. Where was Brecia?

The prince didn’t like this. He was used to controlling everything around him. He’d seen the man-made or witch-made prominence, nothing more. And now there was a large fortress atop it. He felt a jolt of raw fear all the way to his feet, something very rare for him.

Why hadn’t he seen the fortress? Was Callas right? Did he lose power here in her oak forest?

Where was that damned witch who’d called him a bastard? His damned witch.

He dropped Callas’s arm, watched the old man stagger. Suddenly there were a dozen, nay, two dozen faces, maybe more, close, all staring at him from the trees lining the clearing. He heard her yell again, “Don’t you dare kill him!”

The prince couldn’t stand this. Where had her voice come from? He whirled about, but the fortress looked inviolate. It could be an illusion conjured from a witch’s brain that wasn’t really there, that didn’t really exist. But it was here.

He drew a deep breath. This was nonsense. He was a wizard; nothing before had ever been closed to him. What was this?

The prince threw back his head and yelled, “Brecia! You damned witch, come here this instant or I will crush this foul old man.” Then he smiled. “Nay, I won’t do that. I will create a pond just for him, nice and deep and clean, and force him to bathe himself and his filthy clothes. Show yourself, or it is done.”