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laugh aloud. If he could claim buggery as his only sin and be done with it, a
better man he'd be than the one he was.
He advanced a step, his laughter softening to menace in the stillness of the
hall. "You rutting whoreson. I
could eat thine balls to break mine fast and know nothing but the pleasure of
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having food in my belly."
"S-sodding bastard." Ragnor edged closer to the wall, hauling the maid and her
chains with him. The metal links jingled against the iron cresset and scraped
along the wall.
"You repeat yourself, lackwit," Dain said, following him. "If 'tis
name-calling we come to, I will need a mightier foe& but, for mortal combat,
we are a fair enough match. Be still, valorous knight, and I will reveal my
weapon." With a wave of his hand, the green bauble appeared in fingertips that
only a second before had been empty.
Ragnor flinched, pulling back as far as the girl's chains allowed. Torchlight
shot through the transparent ball no bigger than a small hen's egg, setting it
afire to burn hot and green in Dain's hand.
"Do you know of serpent's stones, dear fool?" Dain rolled the ball across his
fingers and down the back of his hand as if it floated on his skin, a droplet
of water going home to the sea, smoothly, without a ripple. He stopped the
green orb on his wrist and smiled at Ragnor. "Ah, yes. I see that you do." The
ball slipped into the vee between his index finger and his thumb, balanced for
the space of a breath, and dropped into his open palm.
"I give you Brochan's Great Charm!" he called out, lifting the orb high and
letting his voice rise to fill the hall. "Born of the froth of a thousand
serpents tangled in a frenzy beneath the stones of Domh-ringr, laced with
their venom and blood and hardened by their fiery breath!"
A gratifying gasp sounded around him. He leaned forward and extended the gift
on the tips of his fingers.
"Leave the maid, Ragnor, or take her and the stone. You may have both or
neither. These are the terms I
offer."
In answer, the knight drew a blade. A nervous tic jumped at the corner of his
right eye, causing the whole side of his face to twitch and jerk. "This is my
term, w-wizard. Take your cursed stone or I'll p-prick thy heart."
"Upon the peril of your soul, Sir Squint." Dain glided forward, his attention
focused on the dagger, and began chanting under his breath. "With this stone,
whether you take it or nay, I impose upon thee that thou mayst wander to and
fro through a land of faerie dreams. That small dwarf, whose power could steep
the king's host in deathlike sleep& "
The dark melody of the sorcerer's voice drew Ceridwen like a moth to flame,
entrancing her with a promise of sweet oblivion. Death it would be, she
thought, a faerie's death to escape the devil named
Ragnor, a faerie's death to put her forever beyond her accursed betrothed's
reach. A more fitting fate
Abbess Edith herself could not have foretold. Indeed, she had foretold
Ceridwen's fate as such: that a troublesome maid who delved too deeply into
the mysteries and heresies found in the discards of the ecclesiastical
scriptoria would no doubt, and most deservedly, come to her end by way of evil
enchantment.
What the pious lady had not known was that evil enchantment would appear as
the path of salvation compared to the damnable heresies and prophecies
Ceridwen had read in those discarded manuscripts.
Written upon timeworn parchment bound in red leather had been her name, and
below her name, her destiny, and below her destiny, her fate.
A shudder passed through her. She would not be led like a lamb to slaughter,
not by ancient prophecy.
She'd said as much, whispered in silence from her heart to God's ear, at every
office of every day, until she'd convinced herself the damning passages
referred not to her, but to the same-named goddess of the old religion. And
wasn't every word of the old stories heresy anyway? And what was heresy if not
the most despicable lies?
Then, not a fortnight past, the despicable lies had become truth. A princely
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summons had come to the abbey, betrothing her to the son of Carn Merioneth's
destroyer, returning her to the very place she had sworn to avoid at all
costs, for fear she was the wretched Ceridwen of the red book. She'd been torn
between despair, denial, and anger ever since.
A sob rose in her throat. Death it would be before moreofRagnor's degradation,
death before she accepted the eternal damnation of her proposed marriage.
"& and let it be known" the sorcerer's voice lured her back "that whosoever
tries to unbind the dire enchanting art of the spell, before the thousand
years are done, shall join thee in an everlasting hell& "
A thousand years of sleep and grace? Ceridwen thought. 'Twas more than she
could have dreamed for.
Thus emboldened, she lunged for the deadly serpent stone and caught it.
Instant warmth pulsed across her palm and up her fingers, bringing painful
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