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The Castle ofSecrets glimmered with the light of a thousand torches. Its walls glinted silver and speared up toward the moon. The stone floor of the great hall was smooth as marble. In the center of the charmed circle cast by the ancients, Bryna stood in a robe of white, her hair a fall of fire, her eyes the blue of heated steel.
Here she would make her stand.
“Do you call the thunder and whistle up the winds, Alasdair? Such showmanship.”
In a swirl of smoke, a sting of sulphur, he appeared before her. Solid now, his flesh as real as hers. He wore the robes of crimson, of blood and power. His golden looks were beautiful, an angel’s face but for the contrast of those dark, damning eyes.
“And an impressive, if overdone entrance,” Bryna said lightly, though her pulse shuddered.
“Your trouble, my darling, is that you fail to appreciate the true delights of power. Contenting yourself with your woman’s charms and potions when worlds are at your mercy.”
“I take my oath, and my gifts, to heart, Alasdair. Unlike you.”
“My only oath is to myself. You’ll belong to me, Bryna, body and soul. And you will give me what I want the most.” He flung up a hand so that the walls shook. “Where is the globe?”
“Beyond you, Alasdair, where it will remain. As I will.” She gestured sharply, shot a bolt of white light into the air to land and burn at his feet. A foolish gesture, she knew, but she needed to impress him.
He angled his head, smiled indulgently. “Pretty tricks. The moon is rising to midnight, Bryna. The time of waiting is ending. Your warrior has deserted you once again.”
He stepped closer, careful not to test the edge of the circle and his voice became soft, seductive. “Why not accept—even embrace—what I offer you? Lifetimes of power and pleasure. Riches beyond imagination. You have only to accept, to take my hand, and we will rule together.”
“I want no part of your kingdom, and I would rather be bedded by a snake than have your hands on me.”
Murky blue fire gleamed at his fingertips, his anger taking form. “You’ve felt them on you in your dreams. And you’ll feel them again. Gentle I can be, or punishing, but you’ll never feel another’s hand but mine. He’s lost to you, Bryna. And you are lost to me.”
“He’s safe from you.” She threw up her head. “So I have already won.” Lifting her hands, she loosed a whip of power, sent him flying back. “Be gone from this place.” Her voice filled the great hall, rang like bells. “Or face the death of mortals.”
He wiped a hand over his mouth, furious that she’d drawn first blood. “A battle, then.”
At his vicious cry, a shadow formed at his feet, and the shadow took the shape of a wolf, black-pelted, red-eyed, fangs bared. With a snarl, it sprang, leaping toward Bryna’s throat.
Cal pounded up the cliff, driving his mount furiously. The castle glowed brilliant with light, its walls tall and solid again, its turrets shafts of silver that nicked the cloud-chased moon. With a burst of knowledge, he thrust a hand inside the cloak and drew out the globe that waited there.
It swam red as blood, fire sparks of light piercing the clouds. He willed them to clear, willed himself to see as he thundered higher toward the crest of the cliff.
Visions came quickly, overlapping, rushing. Bryna weeping as she watched him sleep. The dark chamber with the globe held between them and her whispering her spell.
You will be safe, you will be free. There is nothing, my love, you cannot ask of me. Follow the stag whose pelt is white, if your heart is not open come not back in the night. This gift and this duty I trust unto you. The globe of hope and visions true. Live, and be well, and remember me not. What cannot be held is best forgot. What I do I do free. As I will, so mote it be.
And terror struck like a snake, its fangs plunging deep into the heart. For he knew what she meant to do.
She meant to die.
She wanted to live, and fought fiercely. She sliced the wolf, cleaving its head from its body with one stroke of will. And its blood was black.
She sent her lights blazing, the burning cold that would scorch the flesh and freeze the bone.
And knew she would lose when midnight rang.
Alasdair’s robes smoked from the violence of her power. And still he could not break the circle and claim her.
He sent the ground heaving under her feet, watched her sway, then fall to her knees. And his smile bloomed dark when her head fell weakly and that fiery curtain of hair rained over the shuddering stones.
“Will you ask for pain, Bryna?” He stepped closer, felt the hot licks when his soft boots skimmed the verge of the circle. Not yet, he warned himself, inching back. But soon. Her spell was waning. “Just take my hand, spare yourself. We will forget this battle and rule. Give me your hand, and give me the globe.”
Her breath was short and shallow. She whispered words in the old tongue, the secrets of magic, incantations that flickered weakly as her power slipped like water through her fingers.
“I will not yield.”