The cauldron effect, p.10
The Cauldron Effect, page 10
She blinked as if the answer surprised her.
Good! Time she took proper measure of his character. He wasn’t all church guard out to destroy her world. Though why her high regard mattered, he didn’t examine too closely.
“Does your Church support your connection with a magician?”
He hesitated and then shrugged, deciding truthfulness could win the night after all. He’d won her agreement to help him. “It’s an experiment of sorts. The archbishop is a progressive churchman who is open to new methods of converting disbelievers toward Christian principles.”
“That’s assuming what Garth practices are the dark arts.”
“What else could magic be?”
The lady shook her head, smiling with indulgence. “I think the whys and wherefores of magic, my lord, can wait another day. Let’s instead discuss what we must face on the morrow. I am heading for...”
“Fishguard,” he finished, delighted at surprising her. “Your aunt’s houseguest, Miss Branwyn Morgan, was at the church when Trystan was taken. She left town the day he went missing. Another witch?”
The question remained suspended.
MERRYN TOOK A SIP OF her tea to gain time to think of a response and then cringed at the cold liquid in her teacup. She did not want to invite a servant into this intimate sphere surrounding her and Braden to refresh her pot. Gently, she slipped her hands around her cup and hoped Braden didn’t notice the steam suddenly rising up.
He did. His gaze rested on her cup, roamed over to his cup, and then swung back to hers.
Hiding her smile, she returned her cup to the table. Though he apparently knew much about her, if they were to join forces, she should share some knowledge. That might also take his mind off the self-heating tea.
“When the incident with young Trystan occurred, I had been called away to Fishguard,” Merryn said. “Under false pretenses, I now believe. In fact, I was attacked on the way home by a warlock’s familiar, which delayed my return by several days.”
Braden sat forward and took her hand. The touch sent melting warmth rolling over her like a waterfall.
His thumb gently rubbed her knuckles, sending energy shooting up her arm. “Were you hurt?”
Other than her aunt, no one had ever shown her such concern. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand before she was tempted to return the caress. “Merely inconvenienced. The distraction required me to walk farther than I had planned and then to settle for that coach ride from Exeter.”
His face relaxed and he sat back. “Then I cannot be completely unhappy, for it gave us a chance to become acquainted. But I’m confused, Miss Pendraven. I thought witches and warlocks did not consort. Yet, the Welsh witch and this warlock, who obviously set his familiar on you, sound as if they were colluding on this enterprise.”
“Yes, it is unusual for a warlock and witch to work together these days,” Merryn mused.
“These days?” Braden sounded intrigued. “Was there a time when witches and warlocks did not war?”
Discussing the Wyhcan lore with a human was forbidden, so Merryn prevaricated. “Witch-warlock unions are rare and thankfully so.”
His hooded look and long silence said, I understand there will continue to be secrets between us. He gave a firm nod as if agreeing to the rules being set down. Still, his next query swam uncomfortably close to the first. “Is a warlock very different from a witch?”
Merryn settled on generalities for her answer. “Warlocks are strange and contrary. It is in their nature to make use of others, even their own children. I’ve never understood such unnatural ambition, to always want to be in control of everyone and everything.”
“Most men lean in that direction,” Braden said with a little smile.
“Do you?”
“I like control of my life. Of my destiny.” He shrugged. “As such, I feel it is only fair to allow others the same liberty.”
“Unless their will conflicts with the Church’s teaching.”
“Unless they endanger the safety of those the Church is sworn to guard.”
Merryn narrowed her gaze. Did he speak the truth? No witch ever meant the Church harm, either to those it governed or any other innocent. His definition could allow leeway for witches to survive this upcoming conflict.
Her excitement built at the possibility. Can I trust you, my lord?
“What I find confounding is why Trystan’s parents do not work together to find their son,” Braden continued, breaking eye contact to spear a piece of apple. “If the parents are a witch and warlock, are they not more powerful together than apart? Or is there a core conflict between them that I’m unaware of?”
How to answer that? Perhaps the best response was to begin with what they both knew. “Their conflict was around the ceremony being conducted that day at the church. The boy was being baptized because his mother believed it would give Trystan the ultimate protection of the Maker.”
“Yes, through forgiveness of original sin.”
Merryn took a deep breath for courage and plunged past the boundaries her coven set for confiding in humans. If Braden were to be of any help, he needed to know the crux of the problem regarding Trystan. “For the offspring of a witch or a warlock, baptisms have an added benefit.”
He stopped eating and stared at her. “Is it to do with the water?”
She gave a twisted smile. “It’s not what you think. Water, even blessed, will not melt a witch.”
“That’s good to hear, for sanitary reasons.” A matching smile played along his full lips.
She looked away and spoke the truth. “A baptism can impede the placing of mind magic spells on children.”
“On all children?”
“All Wyhcan children.”
“Wyhcan?” he said. “What is that?”
“You are an Englishman. Witches and warlocks are Wyhcans.”
“So, baptisms are a protection against your powers?”
“Against mind spells, yes,” Merryn corrected. “It is the reason why warlocks oppose their children receiving baptisms.”
“But not witches?” He leaned forward, eyes intent. “Explain.”
“Warlocks use mind-magic spells. You would call them bewitchments.”
Braden’s eyes widened. “That is what Church history claims happened in Bedfordshire!” Then his thoughtful gaze narrowed. “Witches cannot bewitch the same way?”
“After Bedfordshire, the High Sage of Britain forbade witches under her jurisdiction to ever use mind magic on humans.”
“At what consequence?”
“Expulsion from the coven. The outcome for a witch is equal to excommunication for a Christian. As well, a permanent binding is placed on the witch preventing her from using magic again.”
“Forever?”
“Until she proves herself trustworthy to the high sage. The leader of Wyhcans in Britain.”
He looked stunned, and then so relieved that Merryn wondered what he was thinking.
“Getting back to baptisms, my lord, history has shown that if a warlock boy or witch girl is baptized, mind magic spells cannot penetrate that holy defense until they mature. Usually not until well after they turn fourteen or fifteen and are capable of defending themselves.”
Merryn glanced at her hands. She’d clutched her fingers as thoughts of her brother intruded. She forcefully released that tensed hold and her fingers came apart trembling.
The rattling of dishes drew their attention. The innkeeper had arrived with two waiters who carried custard, ratafia cakes and a bottle of wine and clean glasses.
Receiving permission, they laid their burden on the table, cleared away the used dishes and left in record time.
Braden filled the glasses with wine and handed Merryn hers. “Sounds as if the argument between the parents was about the baptism ceremony. That makes it more likely the father is responsible for Trystan’s disappearance. Yet, if so, why did he involve the Church in locating his boy? Unless the person he sent to retrieve his son did not deliver the goods. The witch from Fishguard?”
“I intend to ask her that.” Merryn picked up her glass of wine and noted how the hearth’s flames were perfectly steady. She checked the fire directly.
“Give your curtsies and make your goodbyes.”
A fire sprite summons. From her aunt?
Merryn hoped it wasn’t more bad news. She turned back to Braden, saddened at having to end their conversation. She was astounded to discover that, on reflection, tonight felt like the most enjoyable evening of her life. “It’s been a long day, my lord. I hope you will forgive me if I bid you good night?”
“Will you permit me to ride with you in the carriage on the morrow? It would allow us the opportunity to discuss this problem in depth.”
Though the idea delighted her, he must realize what a compromising situation that would place her in. So why make the request? Especially after posturing about her traveling without a chaperone? Then she recalled his earlier question about whether she was capable of upholding the title of Coven Protectress. Did he seek to test her talent, or her character?
A part of her was tempted to discover how she would measure up. “I shall sleep on the matter, my lord,” she said, capitulating instead to caution.
She stood.
He rose. “In either case, Miss Pendraven, I would like us to depart early. If you’re agreeable, we’ll leave at seven in the morning.”
His tone suggested the time was non-negotiable. Merryn nodded, and pulled her gloves back over her hands. She was unlikely to get a good sleep this night anyway, so why not get up early? She had wards to strengthen, protection spells to prepare, and a casting to lay that would show her the safest route to take to Fishguard.
She absently released the spell that had kept people at bay around the table. “Good night, Lord Braden.” She curtsied.
He kissed her hand, lips lingering on the back of her glove.
BRADEN WATCHED HER leave – her long blond braid swinging in line with the sway of her hips. He was dearly glad to have heard that witches were forbidden to practice mind bewitchments, for that meant his feelings for this extraordinary Coven Protectress were genuine. He had taken great pleasure in her company and conversation tonight, more than with any other woman. Ever.
In fact, he had discovered more about witches and warlocks on this night than he had in all his years of Church study. Suppressing his regret at the end this intriguing interlude, he went in search of the innkeeper. He had plans to make for the morrow.
Braden had barely stepped out of the public room when the man in question rushed forward with a missive. “My lord, a message has arrived for you.”
Braden took the note. He recognized the cross on the seal and the drawing of a dove beside it.
In his room, he lit a candle from the hearth and sat on the bed. He slit open the note from the Archbishop of Canterbury and read the latest news. With each dreaded word, his heart hammered with mounting worry and Garth’s favorite phrase echoed in his head. Knew no good would come from that accursed place.
MERRYN NEEDED A CLEAR space to work in her room. She pushed the large armchair toward the wall and then moved a table aside. Tall, unlit candles arranged in a wide circle on the floorboards soon set the stage. She moved into the center and with a snap of her fingers lit each candle ablaze.
The fire sprite watched her silently from inside the hearth fire. The only sign of movement was the licks of flames that shot from the tips of its ears now and then.
“Did my aunt say what the problem was?” she asked.
“Matters be worsening, you’d best be hastening.”
With a nod, she sat on the floor and sent out her call.
No response.
The little sprite watched her with the same stillness it had shown since she entered the room.
“It would help if you could give me some indication of what’s upset my aunt.”
“Not my place to judge, nor my role to trudge,” came the fire sprite’s implacable answer.
“Something’s upset her enough to send you here. Should I return to Callington?”
“Called to order, it’s unwise to saunter.”
“Right.”
The candles suddenly flickered, and Merryn breathed a sigh of relief.
“Blessed be, Aunt Morwena.”
Her aunt’s form appeared before her, also seated cross-legged. The high sage bowed. “Blessed be, Merryn Pendraven.”
Quickly, they finished the customary ritual of exchanging gifts upon meeting.
“You have news?” Merryn said.
“The church guards are on the move from London.”
“To Callington?”
“That is uncertain, but where else, considering Lord Braden’s charge is to destroy us? I believe these guards were sent to support him. With warlocks possibly influencing them, anything could happen. Though they cannot truly harm us, there are many innocents here who may perish in the battle. I’ve put out a call for all nearby witches to gather here to protect our friends and loved ones in Callington. There will not be another Bedfordshire incident. Not in my lifetime. You, too, must return, Merryn. As quickly as you can. This crisis takes precedence over finding young Trystan.”
“Of course,” Merryn agreed, her heart hammering in fear. “But aunt, Lord Braden followed me here and tonight I made a pact with him for us to travel to Fishguard together. If I suddenly beg out of that journey, he will become suspicious.”
“Why would you agree to such a foolish notion?”
Merryn explained about the human-headed snakes.
“They’re called pythos,” her aunt said. “Demon snakes. You obviously triumphed over them. Well done.”
“Something odd happened after the fight with the pythos. Braden struck his sword into the ground and blessed the land.”
“He is a man of God. Why would he not cast a blessing on land desecrated by darkness?”
“I’ve seen blessings laid before. This was nothing like the others. The very air quivered and a pure white light lit on the spot where his sword plunged into the ground.” She paused, holding Aunt Morwena’s gaze, to give emphasis to the next statement. “The land healed, Aunt!”
“What?” There was utter shock in Aunt Morwena’s voice. Not surprising, for the church guards they had dealt with in the past were all perfectly normal humans with no trace of magical talent.
“Afterwards, the land felt rich and healthy. Touching that soil affected me and I felt blessed as if I had knelt on holy ground. That was why I agreed to accept Braden’s help. He makes a safer friend than enemy.”
Merryn came back to the present to see tears in her aunt’s eyes.
“Aunt Morwena, what’s the matter?”
“This changes everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“If he is as powerful as you say, we cannot chance him following you back to Callington.”
Merryn wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in spite of the warmth of the room. “He wouldn’t harm us. He’s a good man.”
“He thinks we are evil.”
“I’m trying to change his views. I don’t think he will harm me. If I’m protecting you, we have a better chance of remaining safe. I’ll return home.”
Aunt Morwena shook her head. “You must continue with your mission.”
“You need my help!”
“The best help you can give us at this point is to keep your holy guard as far away from Callington as possible, Merryn Pendraven. Pray that there are not others like him coming to this town.”
“But...”
“You will need a chaperone. It cannot be anyone too powerful,” her aunt warned. “We will need all the best help in Callington. In essence, you will be on your own. Be wary, Merryn. Do not place your trust where it is unwarranted.”
Chapter 7
Tilda, the Horse and Hound Inn, was used to her guests expressing many different emotions while staying in her rooms. Those feelings normally played like stirring harp music that lulled her while she slept. Not tonight. A disturbing burst of energy had shaken Tilda awake.
Awake!
Having retreated into her dreams from an ever-troublesome world for over two centuries, the change to her environment had acted as an unwelcome wake-up alarm. Various sections of her inn slowly integrated back, each vibrating with a sense of supreme wellness.
She didn’t trust the healthy energy infusing her.
Being an elder who had witnessed centuries of evil, she wasn’t ready to lower her defenses and simply accept this effervescing feeling of good at face value. Such gifts always came with a price.
The change seemed to have begun outdoors, by the stables, then swept throughout the inn and across the surrounding grounds. She would check there first. She extended her awareness to the back of the stables, and something small crashed onto the middle of her rooftop.
The slight weight transformed into something bigger, heavier and rapidly slid down the slide of her roof.
“Roof,” she said, to that part of her she had yet to incorporate, “what has landed on us?”
“A wren, my lady,” the roof replied in an excited voice. “And then it became a witch. She’s heading toward the eaves.”
Tilda huffed in impatience. Since their unexpected arrival in Britain three centuries ago, witches and warlocks had been more trouble than people. Sensing her unexpected guest’s imminent and involuntary departure, Tilda enlarged and curved her roof slates until they stopped the witch from careening over the edge.
With her large bottom now cupped by the curved shelf, the elderly witch slowly turned about. “What an odd roof,” she murmured. "I don’t believe I was supposed to land here. Merryn won’t be happy about this.”
A quick inquiry to the front desk garnered the name “Merryn Pendraven,” inscribed on her guest register. The young witch had been assigned to the yellow bedchamber. When Tilda asked for more information, the hearth in there said a fire sprite had recently visited.
“Ah!” Tilda murmured, listening intently to the public parlor candle impart the rest of the tale about the church guard connection to the witch.
