Claire Delacroix (3 page)

And when she turned to Niall, her smile was banished. A fearful light claimed her eyes and the tint of roses that had colored her cheeks faded to naught. There was no longer any merriment to be found in her hazel eyes.

“He does not mean to hear me,” she whispered, as though she could not believe it.

Niall could not lie to her in this moment. He shook his head heavily, wishing he could tell her otherwise. “Nay.”

“They said he would give me a final audience,” she said wildly. “They said I would have a chance to plea my case. They said...” Viviane’s eyes filled with helpless tears and she stared up at Niall, searching his visage for the truth.

He did not have the heart to keep it from her. He held her gaze and let her see the truth in his own.

“They lied to me,” she whispered hoarsely.

Niall looked to his toes, wishing he could tear the archbishop’s insignia from his back and run. ’Twas always thus, but usually the prisoners were either deserving of their fate or driven mad by their time in the dungeons. Niall cleared his throat, knowing that this time the archbishop had erred.

Not only was this woman no witch, but Viviane was too delightfully alive to die this day. Indeed, the sparkle of her company had briefly made Niall forget how his knee ached, how far his life had fallen from his own dreams.

Yet there was naught he could do about the matter. Niall hated the powerlessness of his situation, such marked contrast to what his life had been before. His task it was to fulfill his duty, no more than that.

Yet, against every rule he knew, against every pledge of loyalty he had sworn, Niall hesitated to lead the woman out into the screaming throng of people. ’Twould be an ugly confrontation, it always was, rotten fruit and vulgar language taking the air. ’Twas a humiliating way to die and one this woman far from deserved.

He liked her, regardless of the addled state of her convictions.

Viviane bit her lip and blinked back her tears, glancing once through the doorway before impaling Niall with a luminous glance. “Could I wish upon my father’s stone? Would it trouble you overmuch?” Her words faltered and she seemed suddenly very young. She did not stand so tall now that her optimism had deserted her. “I...I might never have the chance again.”

She most certainly would not. And Niall could not see what damage it would do to indulge her. ’Twould only take a heartbeat and the archbishop need never know.

But he could not risk untying her hands, lest someone unexpectedly appear. Without a word, Niall reached for her chain, noting how heavy his hands looked against the finely worked silver, against the flawless cream of her throat.

There was no time to seek a clasp, he simply took the chain within his hands and lifted it over her head. Her glossy hair caressed his hands like the finest silk, the faint scent of her reminding him of sunshine in dancing meadows of wildflowers. Niall slipped the gem into the waiting cradle of her slender fingers and his mouth went dry as their hands brushed in the transaction.

She took a deep breath and tipped her head back, squared her shoulders and squeezed her eyes closed. Her pose was a curious blend of vulnerability and strength that tore at Niall’s hardened heart and for an impetuous moment, he wished he might have had the opportunity to know more of this Viviane.

“I wish,” she said softly but with passion. “I wish that I were as far away from here as ever a person could be.”

And no one could have been more surprised than Sir Niall of Malloy when the lady shimmered right before his eyes, shimmered with the same strange blue light as was trapped in the gemstone. A flash blinded him and he heard a tinkle as he instinctively closed his eyes.

When Niall looked a mere heartbeat later, there was naught before him but a single moonstone, tangled in its silver chain, lying on the floor before him.

And the crowd beyond, baying for the spectacle of execution.

The knight spun but there was no one behind him, not a sound in the corridor. Niall bent to retrieve the glowing pendant, a shiver dancing over his flesh when he touched the fragile chain. The odd sensation made him draw his fingers briefly away, for ’twas unnatural beyond all else.

’Twas witchery.

Against all odds.

’Twas then Niall knew that he had been wrong. He cautiously picked up the pendant and considered anew its eerie light. There were such creatures as witches for he had just seen the truth of it. Niall had been not only in the company of one, but had been lulled into granting her the chance for freedom.

’Twas clear that he had made a grievous error in doubting his patron’s knowledge.

Niall lifted his head and surveyed the roaring crowd, inadvertently catching a glimpse of the archbishop’s impatient expression. The sight made his blood run cold, his hand closing instinctively over the wicked gem.

’Twas equally clear that this particular mistake would cost him dearly.

* * *

Chapter Two

Viviane cringed at the sudden blinding light that leapt from her moonstone. ’Twas silvery and blue and cold as death. She could not see anything, not even the stalwart knight directly beside her, not even her own hand. She reached for his solid strength as fear stole her pulse, but her fingers closed on emptiness.

And suddenly she felt as though her body was not her own, as though ’twas scattered to the four corners of the earth, spread thin and laid bare to the chill of an angry moon.

No sooner had Viviane formed that thought that she felt a sense of gathering. The far flung parts of her seemed to hasten together, though they did not fit as well as they did before. She felt disheveled and disoriented, dizzy and uncertain what had happened. The cool moonlight faded, the chill left her flesh as abruptly as it had descended.

Viviane cautiously opened her eyes, only to find herself on completely unfamiliar turf. She blinked and looked again, though the scene did not change. Then she gasped aloud, for clearly, she was not where she had been before.

Her father’s charm had worked! Oh, he must have loved her dearly to have left such a wondrous gift in trust for her. Viviane nearly hugged herself in delight.

But where
was
she?

Viviane was standing at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by wondrously tall pine trees and facing a marvelous span of sparkling blue water. The sky was perfectly clear, the air was warm and she could hear the birds calling. She spun in place just to be certain, but the archbishop and his palace was not to be seen.

Gone was the foul smell of the dungeons, the tang of smoke. Instead her nostrils filled with the smell of flowers, the tang of a salt sea. The air was warm, the breeze gentle, the countryside etched in glorious hues. Viviane took a deep breath and smiled.

This might have been paradise, but the great handsome knight with compassion shining in his green eyes was gone as well.

That realization made Viviane’s smile disappear. Oh, to be sure, he was gruff, but there was a heart of gold secreted beneath that man’s mail, Viviane knew it well. He was like one of the great knights in the tales she copied over and over again, a tawny lion, both bold and gentle, a knight worthy of serving at King Arthur’s own court.

Aye, Viviane could readily imagine him atop a stomping charger, his standard held aloft, while he departed in search of the Grail itself. He would ride with deft strength, she knew it well, he would lead with authority. She wondered how he would smile.

Slowly, to be sure, with a deliberation that would heat a woman’s blood.

Indeed, Viviane wished she might have had the chance to know more of this man. Aye, it could not be an easy labor her knight had in the archbishop’s dungeons, and he must have a good reason to take it on, for a woman could tell with a glance that he was a knight of fearsome ability.

Viviane sighed and glanced about herself one more time, just to be completely he had not been flung from that foul space along with her.

’Twas then she saw the orchard.

Off to one side of the road and continuing over the rolling land, ’twas filled with trees hanging with ruddy fruit. And this was no orchard such as those Viviane knew from home. Nay, these trees were young and vibrant, not twisted and old.

The fruit was larger than she knew possible, easily three or four times the size of the apples she regularly saw in the markets of Cantlecroft. It was redder than red and Viviane could nearly smell the sweetness of that fruit, even from this distance. She knew she had never seen trees so heavy with bounty.

And she knew that no earthly tree could bear as a single one of the dozens before her did.

Which could only mean they were enchanted.

Or unearthly.

Viviane looked to the blue water, the sky, took a breath of the perfumed air and suddenly guessed where she had come.

As far from the court as possible.

From earthly hell to unearthly paradise. Her gaze strayed to the apples one more time and the answer came to her with perfect clarity. Nay, ’twas not Paradise in the Christian sense.

This must be Avalon.

Viviane smiled and breathed the name in wonder. Avalon! The hidden island of the ancient Celtic gods, the refuge secreted in the mists to the west of Ireland, the home to all immortal beings weary of the world and its ways. Avalon, where all was possible; Avalon, as far from the false justice and worldly wealth of the archbishop’s court as anyone could ever hope to be.

Avalon, the isle of magical apples.

Viviane’s pulse quickened. Though she was no bold knight herself, ’twas clear that she had found herself an adventure fitting of a grand tale. She had fallen right into one of the old stories she so loved! Could anything be more perfect? Oh, Viviane had always wanted to visit foreign lands and exotic horizons, and Avalon was the most exotic of them all.

She was indeed a most fortunate woman! ’Twas just as she had told her knight - she was luckier than lucky and none could contest the truth of it.

Well, her mother had taught her to use her wits to make the best of what she was granted, and Viviane was not going to discard that good advice now. Indeed, she had grown adept at providing for herself these past two years since her mother’s death - she considered it to be a fitting tribute to her mother’s memory.

The rope her knight had knotted around Viviane’s wrists was not tight enough to hurt - there was a hint of his noble character! - and some sustained wriggling let her work one hand free. ’Twas easy then to free the other, a deed she managed just before a man appeared from the woods on one side.

He was garbed oddly and she had the impression that he was a minstrel, though she could not have identified why. Perhaps because there was a disreputable air about him. He had not troubled to scrape the dark stubble from his jaw, his hair hung lank and dark, his gaze was pixie-bright.

Viviane straightened, uncertain what language might fall from his lips and wondering who the first occupant of this blessed realm to cross her path might be. His face brightened at the sight of her, though, and he looked amiable enough. He quickly strode in her direction and waved.

He wore a strange manner of chausses wrought of a dark green cloth and cropped above the knees, and a chemise that looked like purple sheepskin with teeth lining its front. Beneath he wore another chemise of some fine cloth dyed a vivid yellow hue and inscribed with script that insisted “
Just do it.
”

This Viviane could not fathom. Do what? And why?

Or considered another way, what precisely did the Just do? Just deeds, she supposed, though that was hardly worthy of such acclamation.

But then, she could not be surprised to be greeted by mystery in Avalon. Wisdom was oft shrouded in riddles such as these. She knew this from the old tales.

’Twas another proof of where she was, no more than that.

“Hey, are you with that historical recreation group?” he called by way of welcome. “Cause if you are, you’re like
way
lost, honey. They’re on the other side of the island today.”

Island
! She was right! Avalon was an island as any fool knew. Viviane’s flush of victory was quickly followed by confusion. She supposed they spoke the same tongue, though his words and his accent made it difficult to be sure.

And what did he mean?

Was his query a test of her eligibility to remain? Viviane caught her breath. Aye, ’twas said that the immortals dearly loved to play games of wit and ’twas not uncommon for them to test those whom they might indulge.

But Viviane could not risk failure. Indeed, to be returned from whence she had come would only mean certain death. She squared her shoulders, determined to prove herself as clever as could be.

There was too much at stake to even consider the alternative.

“I do not understand,” Viviane said carefully.

The man grinned, revealing an array of remarkably white teeth, then cocked a finger at her. “Right, I get it, you’re like staying in character.” He nodded with what might have been appreciation. “Cool.”

Viviane perceived naught intemperate about the weather. The air here was, in fact, delightfully warm and the sun was lovely. ’Twas quite unlike the damp overcast days so typical of Cantlecroft.

Viviane eyed her companion and wondered whether she should question his conclusion. ’Twas important, she knew, to not let magical beings and sorcerors underestimate one’s wits.

But before she could decide, the man continued, his gaze as bright as a cat’s. “So, like where are you supposed to be from, anyhow?”

Honesty also was key, as any child knew, for the magical ones could see directly through the most artful lie. “I was raised in the midlands of England,” Viviane supplied, “and ’twas 1395 when last I was told the Lord’s date.”

“Really?” He pushed a hand through his hair and left it yet more disheveled. Viviane supposed ’twould be easy to lose track of the years when one was immortal and living in a timeless realm.

“I had no idea you people were, like, so
specific
.” He scanned Viviane from head to toe while she again tried to make sense of his words. Surely he knew that all mortals kept track of years from the Lord’s birth? Or knew from whence they came?