Air: Merlin's Chalice (The Children of Avalon Book 1) (19 page)

My natural instincts kicked in and I raised my hand, sending a rush of wind to knock the bird off course. It faltered but started on its course of attack again, this time aiming straight for me.

“Scai, change into a bird and attack it!” Dylan shouted.

I considered this for the briefest second and then shouted back, “No! I don’t have as much strength as a bird as I do as a person.”

He didn’t have time to answer because the boar was about to attack—and now it seemed as if it had brought some friends.

Three wolves appeared from nowhere.

Bridget followed Dylan’s lead and pulled a branch from the forest to use as a weapon, only she set hers on fire.

“This was a trap!” she called out, swinging the burning branch in front of the wolves.

“Yes, but from whom and why?” Dylan answered. He was doing his best to stave off the boar.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said, while doing all I could to stop each of the hawk’s attempts to get close to me. Again and again it lunged, its talons coming closer each time.

One of the wolves began to yelp as Bridget’s stick set its fur on fire. But the other two only stopped their attack for a moment to glance at it.

Things almost seemed under control, with each of the three of us managing to stave off the attacks of each animal. But then the odds changed.

Two more hawks joined the fray, as well as another boar. Suddenly, we were badly outnumbered.

Dylan swung his branch at one boar, only to be attacked from overhead by another bird, its sharp talons digging deep into the back of his neck and shoulder.

I tried to help him, but one of the wolves had decided I was easier prey than Bridget and had leapt straight at me, grabbing onto my arm. I screamed in pain as it sank its teeth deep, pulling me down to the ground.

Spheres of fire came flying from Bridget, but they did relatively little harm. In fact, they seemed only to anger the wolf even more.

In excruciating pain, I was certain this was how I was going to die. My vision began to dull. The wolf let go of my arm. Baring its bloody fangs, it focused on my neck—when it was suddenly sent flying away from me.

An old man in priest’s robes appeared above me, and I realized all the noise in my ears wasn’t my imagination. Men surrounded us. Men of every description, wielding pitchforks, swords, and even a blacksmith’s hammer.

We were saved. Father Llewellyn had found me and saved us. With a sigh of relief, I let go of the battle and closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, the priest was kneeling next to Dylan, pressing a cloth to his wounded shoulder, and another man was tightly wrapping cloth around my own arm. Bridget just sat watching from a short distance away, not daring to do any magic in front of such a crowd.

Aside from the one tending to me, there must have been ten more men standing around, all waiting for direction from the priest. But as he turned back toward me, I realized he wasn’t Father Llewellyn at all. It must have just been a trick of my imagination—or wishful thinking.

No, this priest had much more hair than my beloved guardian, and he was older, more wizened. “Are you all right, child?” he asked.

I nodded. “Thank you, Father.” Turning to the man who was binding my arm and then to the others all standing around, I said, “Thank you all. I don’t know what we would have done…”

“We heard your screams,” one of the men said.

But I didn’t scream, I almost said aloud. I stopped myself, however, just before the words were out of my mouth. I exchanged a glance with Bridget, who was looking a little confused and very worried.

Did I scream
? I directed into Bridget’s mind.

She looked surprised for a moment but then shook her head, not saying a word. I wondered if perhaps she couldn’t speak telepathically as Dylan and I could. Perhaps not.

“You need more help than we can give you here. My name is Father du Lac. I am staying with Lord Lefevre at his home not far away. If you would fetch my carriage,” he said, turning to one of the men standing nearby. “I will take the young people there to be cared for.”

The man and two others went to do the priest’s bidding.

“That’s not necessary, Father,” Bridget said.

“Very kind of you, sir, but truly we can…” Dylan began.

“No, no, I insist. Lord Lefevre has a servant who is very skilled in the arts of healing. I will have her tend to you, and then if you do not care to stay for the night, I will see that you are driven back to the city. Of course”—he turned and smiled at me—“you are more than welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

I nodded, smiling at the old man. It was so good to be taken care of by someone familiar. Even if I didn’t know him, Father du Lac was a priest. I knew I could trust him.

Chapter Twenty Six

I
was just too tired. My legs were as heavy as rainclouds before a storm and my arm was hurting. I thought it had finally stopped bleeding, but I wasn’t certain. And frankly, I was too frightened to peel back the rough bandage to take a look.

I wished that this spritely old priest, Father du Lac, wouldn’t walk so fast. I was having the most difficult time keeping up as we followed him through Lord Lefevre’s castle.

After what seemed like an interminably long walk down the corridor, Father du Lac finally stopped at a door and opened it. He stood back so that Bridget, Dylan, and I could precede him into the room.

“Oh!” The word popped out of my mouth as soon as I had gone through the door.

I paused, taking in the room. It was beautiful. Certainly the loveliest room I had ever seen in my life.

I was acutely aware at how dirty and ragged I was as I looked at the pristine white cushions on the armchairs that basked in the light and warmth filtering in through the narrow window. My filthy toes curled in my shoes at the thought that they would never feel the beautiful carpet on the floor, which just begged for me to luxuriate in its softness. And then my eye was caught by the tapestry hanging on the wall at the far end of the room. More than anything else in the room, it truly bespoke of a wealth I had only heard of in stories. The room even smelled rich—clean and with the faintest scent of flowers. Only as an afterthought did I see a small, ordinary table that did not fit in with the rest of the room’s lush furnishings. It had a bowl of water and some clean linens on it, which made me think it must have been placed there just for us.

“Oh, honestly, sir, this room is entirely too beautiful for us to inhabit even for just the shortest time,” I protested, turning around to face Father du Lac, who was standing by the door.

“Indeed, Father, you are too kind,” Dylan said.

“Not at all, not at all. Make yourselves comfortable. I shall return shortly with the maid and her healing salves.” He closed the door behind him, but the sound that immediately followed made me turn around, perplexed.

Dylan took two steps toward the door and tried to pull on the handle. “Locked!”

“What?” Bridget tried it herself, then frantically shook the handle, before finally, pounding on the door with her fist. “Let us out!” she yelled through the door. But no one answered.

“I don’t understand. Why would he lock the door?” I asked, not liking the obvious answer that was clawing around inside my stomach.

Bridget turned around and started to give me a look, but she stopped, her eyes widening in horror instead.

I spun around, almost ready for another wild animal to attack, but what I saw blew everything else straight out of my mind. I fell back a step. “I don’t understand,” I managed to whisper. “Where did it go?”

There was nothing left in the room. Nothing but one small bare cot pushed up against the far, very empty, cold stone wall. Even the window had disappeared.

“It was a glamour.” Dylan’s voice reflected his tightly controlled anger.

“I’ve never seen an entire room with a glamour before,” Bridget said in quiet, terrified awe.

“This ‘priest’ must be an extremely powerful Vallen to have managed such a thing,” Dylan said.

As Bridget walked to where the window had been, I bumped into the table with the water bowl on it—that was still there. “It’s just incredible,” she said, running her hand along the now very solid wall.

“It’s a trap.” Dylan turned to me. “You led us into a trap.”

“But…but Father du Lac is a priest. He would never…”

“Why not? We don’t even know that he is a priest. The only thing we know is that he is a powerful Vallen,” Bridget said, turning to face me as well.

“Oh, God!” I dropped my head into my hands. I
had
led them into a trap. All of my muscles tensed and I held my breath, trying desperately not to cry.

“I can’t believe we just followed her,” Dylan said, his voice cracking in his anger.

“Oh, but
you’ve
done absolutely nothing wrong at all today, is that right?” Bridget said, her own anger flaring up. “Who was it who decided to meet
outside
the gate?”

Dylan didn’t answer her.

I managed to look up, although everything was blurry for a moment until I blinked the tears out of my eyes. “I still don’t understand why Father du Lac…” I couldn’t even finish my sentence. I felt like a leaf that had been blown around by a strong autumn wind, tumbling head over heels, leaf over stem, down the street. Around and around in my mind came the same refrain: “He’s a priest. He can’t be a Vallen. He would never harm us, or anyone. He’s a priest!”

Desperately, I turned back to Dylan. “He’ll be back. He said he would return shortly…” But my voice died off as both Dylan and Bridget turned angry faces towards me.

I could only look helplessly from one to the other.

“Why do you think that just because a man is a priest he’s trustworthy?” Dylan asked, fury radiating from his voice.

I opened my mouth, but there was no answer. It was just so obvious. Priests were good. There was no other possibility. How could there be a bad priest? It just didn’t make sense. It wasn’t right.

“He’s not a priest,” Bridget stated with an absolute certainty that did give me some small feeling of relief. “She made a mistake,” she continued, defending me to Dylan.

“A mistake? A mistake?” he repeated his voice becoming tight once again. “A mistake that is going to cost us our lives!” Dylan advanced on Bridget.

I took a step toward him. “What makes you so certain of that?”

“Well, if he doesn’t come back soon with this maid and her healing salves, I’m probably going to bleed to death,” he said viciously.

That stopped Bridget. Now that he’d said it, I noticed his shirt was becoming ever more soaked with blood. I had believed that, like me, he’d stopped bleeding. Bridget must have thought so, too, because she let out an exasperated sigh.

“Let me see.”

Dylan took a step back. “No. It’s all right. I’ll manage. I’ve been hurt before. Worse than this.”

“Yes, of course you have. Now sit down,” Bridget commanded.

“No, really…”

“Sit down!” Bridget snapped.

Dylan did so, dropping on to the little cot. Clearly, no one had any energy or patience left.

Bridget ripped open Dylan’s tunic a bit more so she could see his wound better. Then, without a word, she turned and stalked to the table holding the water. Dipping one of the pieces of linen into the water, she let it soak for a moment before taking it back to Dylan.

She worked silently for a moment, cleaning his wound. “There’s got to be a way out,” she said finally, but without looking up from her work.

“The only way is through that door,” Dylan said through gritted teeth. “And wishing for it isn’t going to make that window reappear, Scai.”

I jumped and turned toward him. I hadn’t even realized I was staring at the wall where the window had been. “No. But there’s got to be some way out—aside from the door. Or some way to get someone to open the door.” I paused and then asked quietly, “You really don’t think Father du Lac…”

“No,” Dylan said.

“Scai, please! Do you honestly think he’s going to just come back and let us out?” Bridget said, sarcasm burning through her words. She dropped the dirty linen into Dylan’s lap and placed both of her hands over his wound.

Dylan sucked in his breath between his teeth, but when Bridget took her hands away, his skin was whole again. Bright red, but whole.

“Thank you,” he said, rather reluctantly.

It was my turn next. Luckily, Bridget healed me more gently, although it still burned when she knitted my arm back together.

“So what are we going to do, just sit here and wait until this ‘priest’ comes back?” Bridget asked, pressing the cool damp cloth to my burning skin once more.

“We could. He’s got to come back for us,” I said. I was not going to lose faith. “Even if he is a Vallen dressed as a priest—not that I’m ready to believe that yet—he still brought us to this room for some reason. He wouldn’t just put us here and leave us.”

“I’m not entirely certain that him coming back is a good thing,” Bridget said, now nervously eyeing the door.

“Well, it is just a bar on the other side of the door,” I suggested.

“Magic doesn’t go through solid wood,” Dylan said, his voice turning ice cold once again.

Bridget began to pace the edges of the room, like a confined animal.

“There’s got to be some way…” I started. Bridget paused to give me a hard stare, but I wouldn’t give up. “Come on. We’re powerful Vallen. There’s got to be something…”

But my words were cut off at the sound of the bar being lifted.

The door opened and Father du Lac appeared. Immediately, he raised his hand toward Dylan. “I would not try that if I were you,” he said, his voice sounding much too threatening for a kindly old priest.

Dylan stopped in mid–stride, frozen in place. A moment later, he landed on his raised foot and nearly lost his balance. “Who are you? Why have you brought us here?”

The priest just smiled, looked from Dylan to Bridget and then finally to me. All of my muscles began to tense, and the air in the room somehow disappeared.

“Who do you think I am?” he asked, looking directly at me.