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He walked as quietly as he could toward the bed. He heard a moan, quiet, then a thin cry. He walked faster now, and it seemed the shadows thickened, somehow formed a barrier, and he was shoving and heaving to get through to the bed. He jerked back the velvet hangings not knowing what he expected to find, and afraid: he couldn’t help it. He froze. The bed was empty. His breath whooshed out. His heart wanted to leap out of his chest. How could the bed be empty? He’d seen something move, he’d swear to it, and he’d heard—something. The bed covers were tangled. He touched a blanket. It was warm to the touch. Someone had been here, maybe just minutes before he’d come in. He heard that moan again, this time it was only a sliver of sound and it came from behind him. He whirled around but saw nothing.
No, wait, the moan had come from above his head, that was it. There was another room above this one. There had to be stairs to the third level, they were simply hidden. Slowly, he walked to the door. He turned back to look once again at the bed. He saw nothing at all. It was so still he wanted to drive his fist against the door and pound until something happened, anything to end this deadening silence, to stop the madness. He was more angry now than he was afraid, everything in him was ready to fight, wanted to fight, to do something, anything, to end this absurd game. It is a game, the witch is playing with me.
There was nothing to see but deep shadows and darkness. He heard the soft moaning again, and something more—was that a voice? A woman’s voice? The moans hadn’t come from over his head, they’d come from the room opposite this one. He closed the door behind him and quickly crossed the corridor.
He listened a moment, then opened the door. There was watery light seeping from the window into the chamber, a hu
ge relief. He stepped into a living space. He saw the room was well used, the rug thick beneath his boots. The rug was brilliant blue and covered with strange black symbols that made his flesh ripple. It was large, covering most of the stone floor. Bound parchments were piled beside a large high-backed chair, a branch of unlit candles sat on a table beside the chair. There was a fireplace on the far wall, a small fire burning on the grate, nearly burned out now. But there was no air hole—no, now wasn’t the time to drive himself mad thinking about that. This is nothing but a witch’s game.
But his hand tightened around his sword handle. Damnation, where had the moans come from? Not this room, no, this room was as empty as the other. Surely he could believe what his eyes saw. Couldn’t he? He knew there was something, something just out of sight, something that was hiding, waiting—
He shook off the creeping fear, the questions with no answers. He realized it was cold even though the fire seemed to be burning brighter since he’d stepped into the room. Again, it was a witch’s trick, nothing more, and that meant she was close. But where? Think. Make sense of this.
He knew there was no one in this room save him, but there was, he knew it to his gut—the witch was here, hiding herself from him. Garron called out, sarcasm thick in his voice, “I know you’re here, witch. You’ve had a fine time playing your games with me, but it’s over. Come out from where you are hiding.”
“I am not hiding.” The soft whispered words seemed to come from all around him.
He nearly leapt into the air, but managed to hold his place. He ignored the rancid fear. “Where are you then?”
“Right behind you, Lord Garron.”
Garron turned slowly to stare at one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen in his life standing directly behind him. She was tall, nearly to the bridge of his nose, slender as a girl, her gown pure white, just as white as her soft flesh, and he thought, She is golden and white, just as the old woman said. How had she gotten behind him? He accepted her presence, he had no choice, and now he had to deal with her. Now his questions would be answered. No matter what she did, no matter what she said, he was ready. He felt deadly.
“I have been looking for you. Are you the witch I seek?” No fear leaked into his voice, and rage thrummed in his blood. He slowly raised his knife to her face.
She merely smiled at him. “Marianna said you would come, over and over, she said you would find her. I do not know how you managed it, but come you did. How did you find my sanctuary?”
He held the knife not an inch from her smooth cheek as he studied her face. “You cannot be Merry’s mother.”
“Do you not see the resemblance between us?”
He slowly shook his head. “Merry’s eyes are a dark blue, yours are as gray as old ice. You are nothing alike. You are not her mother. Who are you?”
She continued to smile. “Marianna said you were fine looking, Garron of Kersey, and I see she was right. She also said you were honorable, that there was strength in your center. Did she say you were valiant? I trust not, since ‘valiant’ is a silly word given to the heroes men invent to make them feel safe. Are you a hero, Garron of Kersey?”
“Aye,” he said, his voice strong, calm, “I am a hero. So is Merry.”
“What a strange thing for a man to say. How is she a hero?”
“Were I to explain, I still doubt you would understand. Now, where is my betrothed?”
“Do you see her? Come now, you have searched my entire tower.”
“Not the third floor. There were no stairs leading up to it.”
She laughed.
“Tell me where she is or I will kill you now.”
She slowly shook her head, but her smile never faltered. “Mayhap you are a strong warrior and those weaker can trust you to protect them, mayhap you are steady in your beliefs, ignorant and narrow though they be, but in my world, you are only a simple man whose fear of those things he cannot understand turns his heart to ashes. Tell me, Garron of Kersey, how did you find my tower?”
He touched the knife tip to her neck. “I snapped my fingers and found myself facing your ridiculous tower. A black tower, madam? How little imagination you have. And the sickle with the crooked lines slashing through it—what does that mean? Something you hope will frighten people who chance upon this place?” The knife pressed deeper. A drop of deep red blood pooled around the knife tip. “Now you will tell me where Merry is or I will cut your throat.”
She lightly raised a soft white hand to touch his cheek. “Aye, you are comely, Garron of Kersey, but there isn’t time for me to enjoy you. You are too late.”
Her fingers were soft, caressing his cheek now, pressing inward. He jerked his head back. He thought he smelled something sickly sweet but ignored it. He put his face close to hers. “Do not touch me again. What do you mean I am too late? Tell me where you have hidden Merry, or I will kill you right now.” And he pressed the knife tip in deeper. Another drop of blood welled up and slid down her white throat to paint a slash of red on her white bodice.
Still she didn’t move, still she smiled up at him. She touched his cheek again, then when the knife pressed deeper, she drew her hand back. “Things do not proceed as I had planned, but no matter. What will happen should amuse me. You must leave me now, Garron of Kersey.”
