Heart of the Flame Read online

  The wound that had looked so grim in the dark outside was not improved with the benefit of firelight. Blood soaked the front of her bodice and much of the mantle that covered it. The wound was not new, but torn afresh, likely in the fall she had taken in the moments before Kenrick had reached her.

  He untied the ribbon that held her mantle together at her neck, then swept aside the ruined cloak. More blood marred the bodice of her simple gown. With a growl of distaste, Kenrick drew a dagger from his baldric and slipped the blade under the rough fabric. He rent it with one swift flick of his wrist, laying her bare so he could better see what he was dealing with.

  What he saw was not good.

  Old herbs and an oozing poultice spilled out from beneath a linen binding at her shoulder, the source of much of the woman's malodor. The cause of her fever was equally apparent, for what had been smooth, unmarred skin bore the thready purple marks of advancing infection.

  The festering had spread from under the bandage as far as the middle of her chest and down her upper arm. Kenrick swore an oath as he rocked back on his heels and looked at her slackened face.

  There was no movement in her, not even the vaguest flutter of her closed eyelids, their crescent fringe of dark brown lashes resting lightly against the rounded angle of her cheek.

  He should take her to the village, see if she had kin there, seek the care she needed among the people who might better know her and care for her. But there likely wasn't time for that. At near midnight, the village some miles inland, he could not hope to find help for her at so late an hour. God help her, he was all she had right now.

  He would need stronger light with which to work. He got up and retrieved a tallow candle from the table on the dais at the head of the hall, then brought it back and lit it from the brazier. Kenrick positioned himself at the woman's side and leaned over her to remove the putrid bandage. He cleaned her as best he could, clearing away the blood and dried herbs that clung to her injury. Carefully, he probed the inflamed seam of the cut, assessing the damage, testing the skin around it while she was too senseless to feel any pain.

  It was a knife wound, from the look of it. The puncture had not been terribly deep, but often it took only a scratch of tainted steel to kill a man on the battlefield. This woman, petite and lithe, stood no chance of weathering the infection if it worsened. As he continued to inspect the wound, something sharp scraped at his fingertip. Something metallic and jagged.

  He scowled, running the pad of his thumb over the spot again to make certain of what he felt. She stirred slightly, moaning an incoherent word as he probed the area where the hard bit of steel was embedded in her tender skin.

  He would need to work quickly, while the delirium of her fever held her deeply in its thrall. Kenrick's wineskin lay within arm's reach of him near the fire. He snagged its thin leather strap, pulled the vessel into his lap and uncorked it. The wine cleansed his dagger, spilling in a small pool on the floor as he poured an ample amount over the blade.

  "Forgive me," he told his unconscious charge as he prepared to extract the errant shard of metal from her wound.

  Using his dagger, he gingerly worked out what appeared to be the tip of a blade, broken off where it had presumably connected with the bone of her shoulder.

  He caught the triangular chip of metal in his palm--and in that same instant heard the woman draw a sudden, gasping intake of breath. Her eyes flew open, startlingly green, almost ablaze with intensity. Her hand flew out to him, latching onto the sleeve of his tunic.

  "It's not too late!" she hissed, her voice urgent, her gaze trained on his but unseeing and wild with fever. Her slender arm trembled with fatigue, yet her grip on him was surprisingly strong. Unrelenting. "You must...you must..."

  Kenrick stared down at her, perplexed. A cold knot of dread formed in his gut as her words trailed off. "You are safe now," he told her. Those fiery green eyes held him in thrall, sparkling like gemstones from within the wan, sullied face of a mudlark. "There is no danger here. Be still."

  "It's not too late," she cried, though less vehemently now. Her lids drooping heavily, her eyes began to roll back in her head. "You can..." Her grasp on his sleeve loosened, little by little, until her arm dropped back down to her side. She spoke again, slurring just above a whisper. "You can...save them...."

  "What are you saying?" he demanded of her. "Not too late to save whom?"

  She heard nothing, he realized. As quickly as she had revived, she was gone again, swept into the undertow of her continued feverish slumber. He waited, watching her closely as her features relaxed and her breathing returned to a shallow, steady pace.

  "Jesu Criste," Kenrick swore, his blood yet racing as he recovered from the strange outburst. His palm was pricked by the small wedge of steel he held in his tight fist. He uncurled his fingers and turned the dagger point over in his palm. It was bloodied and warm from the heat of her body, a triangle of dark metal that seemed to pulse in his hand.

  And there was something else peculiar about the errant bit of steel. Hastily, Kenrick held the queer object closer to the candle flame. The light glinted off the piece of blade in his palm. He peered at it, his gaze following a broken series of swirls and symbols etched into the small shard of metal.

  He had seen its like only once before, in France some months ago, not long after he had been held prisoner in Silas de Mortaine's lair.

  Behind him on the floor, the woman gave a soft, troubled moan. Had she been attacked by one of de Mortaine's hellborn minions?

  It's not too late.

  You can save them.

  God's blood, but did she speak of Rand and his family? Could she have been present at the keep the night of the raid--the sole witness to what transpired? Did her incoherent ramblings mean there might be hope amid the carnage that was visited on Greycliff Castle?

  Kenrick had to know. Her wound fever would likely not release her for some long hours--perhaps days. He could not tarry any longer in Cornwall now that de Mortaine might have another key to finding the Dragon Chalice. He had to make haste for Clairmont and attempt to begin reconstructing the information he had lost.

  Which brought him back to the woman....

  If she knew anything about the attack on Rand's home, or the secret that was missing from the cemetery marker, Kenrick needed to know. Whoever she was, if she had seen or heard anything that might prove useful at all, then despite his misgivings, he could ill afford to leave her behind.

  Chapter 4

  She came awake fighting.

  The instant consciousness returned, her eyes flew wide open, darting wildly. Every muscle in her body went taut with strain. Under the blanket that covered her body, her limbs bucked with a sudden burst of rage. She twisted violently, her back arching off the cushion of soft bedding that lay beneath her.

  "Easy now. 'Tis all right," a woman's soft voice cautioned her, the gentling words coming from directly beside the curtained bed. "Lie still. You are safe."

  Safe?

  Nay--hardly that, her senses warned. She could not possibly be safe when every muscle in her body ached, when her head was swimming with a sudden confusion of light and sound and scent. Abed in a chamber she did not recognize, feeling drained of all strength and wit, she could do little but attempt to shake off the disorientation and try to make sense of where she was.

  The room was small but lavish. Tapestries depicting serene forest scenes and pleasant meadows lent color to the dark gray stone of the chamber's walls. Thick furs draped the foot of the bed. Sunlight streamed in through the narrow opening of an adjacent window, its gold-bright brilliance searing her eyes.

  Near the edge of the large bed, the woman who tended her was wringing out a cloth over a bowl of water spiced with lavender oil and clove. The herbal liquid trickled softly into the basin, its perfume carrying on the afternoon breeze that sifted through the high tower room.

  "I am glad to see you awake at last." Fair-haired, with caring blue eyes, the young woman leaned o
ver the mattress and reached toward her. "This may be a bit cool at first," she said, then carefully swabbed the compress over her patient's brow and cheeks. Her touch was gentle, the soft woven cloth moist and soothing against her skin. "There...doesn't that feel good?"

  It felt wonderful, but she forced her thoughts away from the physical comfort, unable to dispel the very troubling notion that despite the attention being given her, she was in danger here. The urge to flee the place was strong, as though a snare were set and about to spring around her.

  Perhaps it already had.

  "Where am I?" Her voice was naught but a bare croak of sound, rusty with disuse.

  "You are in Devonshire, at Clairmont Castle."

  A dim flicker of recognition sparked, then dimmed just as quickly, registering nowhere in her groggy mind. "Where...?"

  "Don't try to move," her gentle caretaker advised when she shifted, meaning to rise up to confront this strange place in which she found herself. "You are yet too weak from your fever and the wound--"

  "Weak, mayhap, but she is awake. That's good enough for me."

  The curt interruption issued from a deep male voice on the other side of the chamber. A man had paused there, out of her line of vision at the threshold to the room. He stood at the door only for a moment, then entered on a long-legged stride, the solid thud of boot heels echoing in the sudden stillness of the place. He slowly came into view near the bed, wide-shouldered, golden-haired, his smoky blue eyes narrowed with the wary glint of suspicion. He looked vaguely familiar--the intensity of that sharp gaze a memory dancing just beyond reach.

  "Kenrick," said the lady as she replaced the cloth in the basin of water. "Have a care my brother, and pray lower your voice. This is a sickroom, not a gaol."

  He grunted, sober, thoughtful. Skeptical. "You were to call me when she roused, Ana."

  "Aye, and I would have," she replied, evidently unmoved by the formidable presence of her lordly kin. "It has been but a moment since she woke. She should not be taxed. What she needs now is peace."

  The piercing gaze never wavered. "And I need answers."

  He strode to the foot of the curtained bed and stood between the two soaring posts at its base. Arms crossed over his chest, his broad frame all but filled the space, just as his arrogance--and his coolly restrained anger--seemed to fill the whole of the room itself.

  He stared, studying her, breeding in her a bone-deep awareness that the danger she sensed in her fevered dreams was all the more real now that she was awake and facing it.

  Facing him.

  The urge to escape was as strong as it was spontaneous, worsening the longer she was subjected to the piercing, blue-eyed scrutiny of this man.

  Unnerved and apprehensive she turned her focus inward. It seemed so natural a response, an instinctual honing of her senses, summoning a well of strength she felt certain she possessed. She called to it in silence, searching with her mind for some clue as to who she was, where she was...anything that might shed light on this queer awakening.

  To her dismay, she found precious little to grasp.

  Everything seemed to dance just beyond her reach--even memory, which gaped dark and murky at the edges of her reasoning. All she felt sure of was that despite her caretaker's assurances, she was nowhere near safe, her present vulnerability tasting like a bitter potion at the back of her parched throat.

  She fought the sluggishness of her body, trying in vain to command her limbs. It was no use. The coverlet weighed her down as though fashioned of lead rather than the fur-trimmed warm wool that cocooned her in the bed.

  Neck constricted, a biting strain seeped into every tendon as she struggled to lift her head. Her shoulder ached with the effort, a piercing throb that she heeded with sudden caution. And surprise.

  "I am injured."

  "Yes," agreed the young woman at her side, "but your color is much improved today. Your fever has broken, Haven, and now you are well on the mend."

  "Haven?"

  "That is your name, is it not?" It might have been an innocent question, but the man at the foot of the bed made it seem an accusation. "Are you the woman called Haven?"

  "Haven," she repeated, slowly testing the name on her tongue and finding it more familiar than anything else she knew in that moment. She stared, trying to absorb all that she was hearing. She was uncertain what to make of him or her present circumstances. She nodded once, wary with this queer disorientation. It felt as though she were adrift in a thready fog, random patches of her world obscured by mist; others providing slim and fleeting clarity. "Yes," she said, certain of this one thing at least. "Yes, that is my name. I am Haven."

  He gave a curt nod, evidently satisfied with her answer. "I inquired after you in the village the day we left Cornwall. The folk there told me who you were, that you had some skill with herbs. They said you often visited Lady Greycliff with your potions."

  In her mind's eye, Haven caught the sudden flash of a brief image: a woman's face, pretty but pained, and pale against the chestnut brown of her hair. She was seated on the edge of a large bed, clutching her temples in her hands, scarcely able to speak for the pounding of her head. Haven remembered giving her a pouch of herbs, telling her how to brew them to treat her frequent bouts with the ailment. At once, the anguished lady's name came to her. "Elspeth," she whispered.

  "That's right." Her interrogator's gaze searched hers, probing for more facts. "You were acquainted with her, then."

  Haven nodded, a burdensome effort for her head felt heavy on the bolster. "I knew her, yes. She was...kind to me."

  "Do you know what happened to Elspeth and her family? Did you know her husband, Rand? Were you there that night--"

  "Kenrick," said his sister, cutting him off when he seemed intent to press further. "Hold your questions a while, I beg you. Can't you see Haven is exhausted? This is the first she's been lucid in the four days since she arrived here."

  "Four days I have been waiting for answers."

  "I shouldn't think another will make so much difference."

  "You know what is at stake here, Ariana."

  "Yes. Of course, I do. You know I do. But badgering this poor girl will not bring your friends back. Nor will it get you any closer to--" She broke off suddenly, as if catching herself before she said too much. She glanced at Haven. "Please do not let my brother upset you. I trust the pain in your shoulder has lessened?"

  "Yes," she murmured, her thoughts yet churning on the notion that she had been senseless--and completely at these strangers' mercy--for so long a duration. Four days. The lengthy span of time was so unexpected. It had passed by her in such a blur, and she could account for none of it. She frowned, confused by all she was hearing and seeing, yet unable to fully comprehend. "And you...have you been tending me all the while?"

  "I've done what I could, but I fear I have much to learn about the healing arts."

  "You saved me."

  The lady Ariana gave her a warm smile as she squeezed her hand. "Not I. That credit must go to Kenrick. If anyone spared your life, 'twas him."

  Impossible, Haven thought, looking in wary disbelief to his impassive face. His frost blue eyes watched her intensely, measuring her in some way, she was certain. From his strong brow, creased slightly from what must be years of practiced scrutiny, to the perfectly aligned nose and the firm mouth that seemed so wont to pass judgment on all he saw, Kenrick of Clairmont was a vision of rigid control.

  Stoic, silent as he gazed at her, it seemed difficult to imagine he might have saved her from death. Haven saw no mercy in that handsome, untrusting face; only cool logic.

  "You'd been stabbed," he told her grimly. "By the look of it, more than a sennight past when I found you wandering Greycliff in a state of delirium. The tip of your attacker's dagger had broken off inside your wound. It was poisoning your blood. If the blow itself didn't kill you, the infection from that bit of severed steel surely would have."

  She heard his words, and knew that what he said mus
t have been true. The aches of her body told her as much. The memory of searing pain flickered in the darkness of her mind, as did the vague notion of losing her footing on a night-black cliff, of waves roaring very close to where she lay before unconsciousness swallowed her up. She could almost feel strong arms catching her, lifting her up, holding her when she had not the strength to hold herself. "I remember so little...most of it is dim...out of my reach."

  "You were in a very bad way," Lady Ariana said. "Perhaps it is God's mercy at work that you do not recall much of what you endured."

  "Perhaps," Kenrick muttered. He held something in his hand, Haven realized, watching as he uncurled his fist to reveal a small triangle of tooled metal. "Tell me, do you recognize this?"

  "What is it?" Ariana asked, clearly surprised by this revelation. A note of wariness crept into her voice. "Kenrick, what do you have?"

  "Anon, Ana. I would have Haven's answer first," he replied, his voice as cool as his gaze.

  He came around the other side of the bed and held out his open hand. The broken bit of weaponry sat in the cradle of his large palm, a wedge of dark steel no bigger than his thumbnail. But scant as it was, the piece shone with peculiar allure. Light played off the intricate scrollwork that adorned it, dancing like a flame with every subtle movement of his hand.

  Haven peered at it for a long moment, uncertain and yet...

  Other images assailed her in that moment, unbidden images of darkness and violence. Of fire and smoke and brutal, slashing steel. Shattering screams and the metallic scent of spilling blood. She drew in her breath, quickly glancing away from the bewitching sparkle of the dagger's tip in Kenrick's hand.

  "You were there when Greycliff was attacked," he said, not a question at all but a statement of fact. "Tell me what you saw, Haven. You are the only living witness to the attack on Elspeth and her family. I must know what happened that night--everything. Who was there, what they did--anything you can recall, you must tell me."

  In silence, she stared out the window across from the bed. She heard the impatient hiss of breath Kenrick exhaled, but she could not heed it.