Once Upon a Castle - Jill Gregory [29]
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.”
“You will.” He inched closer again, pleased when he met with only faint resistance. “You have no choice. The charm was cast, the time has come. You belong to me now.”
He reached down, and her shoulder burned where his fingers brushed. “I belong to Calin.” She gripped the amulet, steeling herself, then flipped its poison chamber open with her thumb. She whipped her head up and, with a last show of defiance, smiled. “You will never have what is his.”
She brought the amulet to her lips, prepared to take the powder.
The horse and rider burst into the torchlight in a flurry of black, storm-gray, and bright steel.
“Would you rather die than trust me?” Cal demanded furiously.
The amulet slipped through her fingers, the powder sifted onto the stones. “Calin.”
“Touch her, Alasdair”—Cal controlled the restless horse as if he’d been born astride one—“and I’ll cut off your hands at the wrists.”
Though there was alarm, and there was shock, Alasdair straightened slowly. He would not lose now. The woman was already defeated, he calculated, and the man was, after all, only a foolish mortal. “You were a warrior a thousand years ago, Caelan of Farrell. You are no warrior tonight.”
Cal vaulted from the horse, and his sword sang as he pulled it from its scabbard. “Try me.”
Unexpected little flicks of fear twisted in Alasdair’s belly. But he circled his opponent, already plotting. “I will bring such fury raining down on your head…” He crossed his arms over his chest, then flung them to the side. Black balls of lightning shot out, hissing trails of snaking sparks.
Instinctively Cal raised the sword. Pain and power shot up his arm as the charges struck, careened away, and crashed smoking into stone.
“Do you think such pitiful weapons can defend against a power such as mine?” Arrogance and rage rang in Alasdair’s voice as he hurled arrows of flame. His cry echoed monstrously as the arrows struck Cal’s cloak and melted into water.
“Your power is nothing here.”
Bryna was on her feet again, her white robe swirling like foam. And her face so glowed with beauty that both men stared in wonder.
“I am the guardian of this place.” Her voice was deeper, fuller, as if a thousand voices joined it. “I am a witch whose power flows clean. I am a woman whose heart is bespoken. I am the keeper of all you will never own. Fear me, Alasdair. And fear the warrior who stands with me.”
“He will not stand with you. And what you guard, I will destroy.” With fists clenched,