Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Morgana watched in horror as Cadell pitched into the blackness and over the cliff. “No!” she cried, but her voice was drowned by the rush of the wind, and all too soon Ware, too, leapt to his death. “God in heaven.”

The men on horseback who surrounded the ridge did not see her hidden in the shadow of the forest. Tears streamed down her face, and she silently cursed the fates, cursed God, cursed Garrick, and cursed herself for the deaths of Ware and Cadell.

In misery she sat down on the forest floor and felt Luck’s hot breath against the back of her neck. The horse nudged her head and nibbled at her hair, but Morgana took no comfort from the stallion. Even Wolf, who lay beside her and placed his heavy head in her lap, could not lift the weight on her heart. “’Tis my fault,” she said brokenly. “My pride brought me to this. My belief in voices and visions and thinking I was something I’m not.”

With deep trepidation, she watched the soldiers mount and head south along the ridge above the sea. These were Strahan’s men, the very men who had killed kind Sir Bradford, and sent Cadell and Ware to their deaths. Sshe knew in her heart that Garrick had fallen into his cousin’s trap, too, by returning to Abergwynn. All because of her visions.

Garrick was probably dead, and she would never see him again. Bitter tears streamed down her face, and she fought the urge to break down and sob. Instead, she watched the soldiers through the shimmer of her tears.

Strahan’s murderous warriors soon gave up their search of the rocky bluff and remounted. They rode through the forest, and followed the western trail that wound away from her hiding place. Not that it mattered. There had been a time when all she’d wanted was her freedom, but now, after seeing Cadell’s death and Ware’s as well, she knew she would gladly marry Strahan if only her brother would live. She could bury her love for Garrick and accept her fate as Strahan’s bride if only she could see Cadell’s face again.

Throwing herself face down on the ground, she cried until she had no more tears in her. Only then did she allow the dry sobs to rock her body. She buried her fingers in the damp earth and dug until her nails bled. “Help me. Help us all,” she said, not even realizing that she was praying.

’Tis you who must help, Morgana, the voice, rolling softly over the sea, whispered into her ear.

“Go away!”

You have not yet completed your quest.

“And you are evil, aye, the voice of the very devil himself. No more will I trust in you!”

You must find the boy of Abergwynn.

Logan! Oh, Lord, where was the boy?

Trust your heart, Morgana of Wenlock.

“My heart has deceived me!” she screamed, stumbling to her feet. Blinded by tears she ran out of the woods and stood facing the sea and calling out to the dreadful voice. “You have deceived me! Cadell is dead! Ware is dead! Even now Garrick and Glyn and Clare might be dead! I have helped not!” She fell again to the earth and cried, great tears streaking her cheeks. The wind shifted, turning in the night, curling around her until the current flowed from the east, toward the sea. Morgana felt the change, the uplifting of the spirit that an easterly wind always brought. Yet she would not be swayed from her misery.

“The wind from the east is your friend,” her grandmother had once told her, when Enit could still walk in the gardens of Wenlock. “It brings with it new hope and life. It is a powerful wind that comes from the point where the sun and moon rise. The wind becomes strong, for the power from the east is great. Use it, child. Harness this great breath of goodwill.”

Morgana lifted her face to the east, letting the wind dry her tears. Slowly, as if pulled from above, she rose, and with the horse and wolf following her, she used the moonlight as her guide. The wind seemed to push her onward to the bluff, until her toes touched the edge and she stared over the rock precipice at the swirling black sea far below. White swells surrounded craggy rocks. No one could have survived the fall

, she realized, her throat hot and tight. The rocks below were deadly, and the sea was a thrashing, icy dragon that would surely swallow any poor soul who slipped into its frigid death.

“God be with you, Cadell,” she prayed. “Aye, and you, too, Ware. You were brave men and deserved not this. Forever will I do penance for your lost lives.” She plucked a wildflower from the grass and tossed it into the air. In the shaft of moonlight the flower feathered down to disappear into the blackness.

She turned inland again, and the darkness seemed to vanish. In the clear moonlight, mists appeared, and within the shifting fingers of steam she saw again the child Logan, weeping, his soft sobs causing his tiny shoulders to shake.

Reaching out, as if she could touch her vision and soothe the frightened boy, she called his name. “Logan…”

He is near, the voice told her as the vision disappeared. In its place were the ruins — the rubble of what was to have been the first Castle Abergwynn. Morgana’s throat turned to dust. In an instant she realized that Logan was there, captured by Strahan, moved about by a band of Strahan’s outlaws, and finally hidden close to Abergwynn as a horrid joke. Her feet began to move of their own accord, and she ran over the uneven ground, stumbling, catching herself, and feeling an inkling of joy return to her blackened soul. If she could save Garrick’s child, all would not be lost.

She was winded by the time she reached the crumbling walls. Moonlight caused shadows to play within the outer bailey and she picked her way carefully, listening but hearing nothing save her own breathing and the gentle pad of Wolf’s paws against old stone.

But the feeling was stronger, and she was certain that the boy was hidden nearby. Wolf stopped suddenly, and the hair on the back of his neck rose as he stiffened in fear. His lips curled, and he stared straight ahead to a dark opening in one of the half-standing walls. “Shh,” she hissed, entering what had once been a doorway to interior stairs. Slowly she descended, carefully placing each foot on the crumbling steps, holding her tongue as rats and mice and all manner of other creatures scuttled out of her path. She kept one hand on the wall and was comforted by Wolf’s presence behind her.

Blackness surrounded her as the stairs turned. Not even a hint of starlight pierced the interior. The stone walls felt damp, and the scent of the sea was strong. Somewhere deep in the bowels of this catacomb, she heard a soft whimper and saw a faint glow from a torch.

“Be quiet, ye brat,” a thick voice muttered, and Morgana nearly slipped. Her boot scraped on the steps, and her heart clenched as a pebble rolled down the stairs.

“Hey! Who’s there? Ivan, is that you?”

The boy wailed pitifully.

So Sir Ivan was a traitor as well! The light shifted and Morgana, holding her breath, scuttled backward up the stairs.

“Bloody rats,” the guard growled, and the light retreated.