Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

Sarcasm rolled out of Nicholas's mouth as he rolled his eyes. "You know 'what is and what could be.' Ah, I wish to take lessons in magic speak."

Taranis's eyes whirled madly. The ground shook. "Per­haps first, you should learn to sing properly."

Rosalind said, "He is right, Taranis. Perhaps when this is over you can give us instruction. But now, what are we to do?"

Taranis landed beside them and the earth shook beneath his weight. He lowered his great head and sang, "Settle your­self between my magnificent scales and hold on tightly."

After Nicholas and Rosalind managed to climb upon his back, he sang, "That's right, hold yourselves steady." He lifted himself effortlessly into the night sky.

I am riding on a dragon's back, Rosalind thought. I am terrified and I wish to sing with the joy of it. Her soft white woolen skirts billowed, longer it seemed now, billowing be­hind her. She and Nicholas clung tightly to Taranis's shining scales. His wings moved rhythmically, and her hair tangled about her head in the wind.

Rosalind tightened her hands together around Nicholas's waist. "Look at all the snaking rivers and lakes. They appear, at least from up here, to bulge inside their boundaries, like a man's veins rising on his hands. Isn't that strange?"

The barren land below them was a vast plain that led to Mount Olyvan, its peaks jagged-toothed, bleak, and deso­late. On its highest summit stood the huge fortress of Blood Rock. It was like a Hieronymus Bosch painting—Nicholas could easily picture abundant sin and moral turmoil residing within that fortress, and endless suffering, and endless pain and wailing.

Taranis rose higher and they felt moisture on their faces as they passed through clouds the color of eggplant and as wispy as dreams before dawn.

Nicholas said, "Sarimund wrote that you, Taranis, were the Celtic thunder god. The Romans wrote that Taranis was the god to whom human sacrifices were made. Your name is Taranis. Are you indeed he?"

"It is all of a piece," Taranis sang. "All knits together in this realm and in most other realms as well. There is sin, there is worship, there is some good and more evil, and there is unity and devastation. The ancient Celts knew both, as do you in your modern day. As do we in the Pale. Ah, but the Romans, they were something else entirely."

Rosalind rolled her eyes at this and said to Nicholas, pointing, "There are so many animals running on the plain. Ah, there are Tiber below running in a herd, at least two dozen of them."

Taranis sang, "The Tiber believe the meat of the red Lasis will somehow elevate it above other creatures." There was a snort, then, his voice singing higher, sharper, "But the red Lasis is much too smart. You should see Bifrost throw the fire spears in the pits he builds. It is one of the few things that give him pleasure since the death of his mate."

But Bifrost has hooves, not hands, Rosalind thought, how could he ever build a pit or hurl a fire spear?

"Existing in your tedious, mind-numbing world has given you such limited imaginations," Taranis sang into the high wind that had just sprung up near Mount Olyvan. He glided straight up, right at the fortress of Blood Rock. "There, I have distracted you, made you forget what is to come. Endless worry can limit a wizard's powers, make his magic freeze. Now, however, it is time for you to focus and think and re­member. As Sarimund said, be cautious, believe nothing you see.

"Ah, I quite despair of all this, but Sarimund is so very confident. Even though I am a god, all is hidden behind a thick veil. Events are trapped in the folds of time, and since time is bounded by place, my vision is obscured."

In the next moment, Taranis came to a smooth landing on a wide flat expanse at the top of the black stone fortress that had frozen Sarimund's blood when he'd first seen it, and now froze theirs as well. They saw the streaks of blood snaking down the black rock, thin as the rivers cut in the land below. It looked fresh, a vivid red. It looked thick and heavy, the droplets rolled slowly, inexorably. Nicholas remembered Sarimund had written that the sight kept all crea­tures in the Pale away from the fortress because it terrified them. Nicholas suspected all were right to be terrified of this hideous pile of blooded black rock. The fortress rose high above them, impossibly high arches with sharp spikes com­ing downward a good six feet, towers that speared into the eggplant-colored clouds or passed through them, wide en­trances with huge iron portcullises poised halfway down, and so much ugly black stone covering everything. A mar­velous illusion, Nicholas thought, and fancied he would alter this damned illusion once he had the time to do it. He smiled. He turned when Taranis sang, his voice deep and smooth, "Go, my children. I shall return when the time is right. Don't forget that here, in the Pale, you are very power­ful, you are ancient magic." Then he raised his mighty head and trumpeted. It seemed the very fortress trembled and the streaks of blood on the black rocks spiderwebbed, creating new rivulets, a terrifying sight.

Nicholas and Rosalind carefully climbed off Taranis's back. Suddenly Rosalind cried out, "Oh, dear, I cut my fin­ger on one of the scales."

"Let me see," Nicholas said and took her finger. He didn't think, simply squeezed and more blood shot to the surface. Then he took her finger in his mouth and sucked the wound. He studied the prick for a moment, then looked closely at the drop of blood on the tip of Taranis's scales.

Taranis rose straight into the air. He hovered there, his great eyes on Rosalind. He sang so loudly Nicholas would swear all the beasts on the far plain could hear him. "I have mixed with your blood. A Dragon of the Sallas Pond mixed with a witch. Now, what will come of that? I wonder." And he g lided upward, wheeled to the right, and was away. They watched him fly back across the barren plain, where from their vantage point atop Mount Olyvan, the herds of crea­ tures below looked very tiny indeed.

"What did he mean mixing his blood with—" Rosalind got no further.

50

A young man stood directly in front of them, paying them no attention, as he shaded his eyes with his hand, watching Taranis fly away.

"He did not speak to me," the young man said as he turned to Nicholas and Rosalind. "Surely he did not see me, else he would have spoken to me. My lord, mistress, my name is Belenus. I am vastly important in your history, a god—of agriculture, the giver of the life force."

Rosalind eyed the brightest red hair she'd ever seen. Only his incredible blue eyes were brighter. She felt like a faded copy standing next to him. He had big, very white square teeth. She said, "The Romans called you Apollo Be­lenus and named the great May first festival after you, Beltane. In this modern age, we still celebrate Beltane. Did you know that?"

"Modern age? An ag

e is an age, nothing more."

Belenus hawed to Nicholas, deep and graceful. "I am re­lieved you are finally here. There is only a sliver of time, feel it; all do. We must open the door and step into the seam

that divides what Epona wished to happen from what actually will come to pass. You wonder how I know this. Taranis had no choice but to think it to me so I would not stand here like a dolt, questioning you but not understanding. I have no time to give you a nice cup of witmas tea." He grinned, show­ing every one of those big square teeth. "It is Epona's favorite drink. She tries to hide it from the other witches. Witmas changes its taste, you know. I prefer it when it tastes of the juice of the newly killed Tiber. Now, follow me."

Nicholas and Rosalind fell in behind the young man with his pale white skin, and his burning blue eyes, and that vio­lent red hair. It seemed even redder now. Nicholas felt the power in him, felt it drawing him, though he walked in front of them, saying nothing, simply walking.