The Silver Rose Page 8

  “And yet . . . I once saw your sister do just that. The time the Comte de Renard threw my old master in the pond and he drowned. The Lady of Faire Isle used her magic art to breathe life back into Monsieur Le Vis.” Simon’s voice was soft, but his eye pierced Miri with—with what? A faint trace of accusation?

  She stiffened with a mingling of alarm and indignation. “Le Vis was not dead, only unconscious. Ariane merely revived him using her healing skills.” Miri smacked her cup back down on the table so hard, liquid sloshed over the rim. “Good lord, Simon Aristide. Never tell me you suspect my sister is this evil Silver Rose. Because if that is why you have come to me—”

  “No! No, of course not.”

  Miri would have been more reassured if Simon had sounded more convinced. She went on fiercely, “Ariane is the epitome of what a daughter of the earth should be, wise, healing, nurturing. She is not in the least mad, which is what any wise woman would have to be to try to bring someone back from the grave. It would be completely insane.”

  “No more insane than some of the other hellish practices the Rose encourages among her followers.” Simon’s fingers tightened on his cup, his mouth grim. “Human sacrifice. Babes, some scarce hours old, abandoned to die of hunger and neglect. I have found four of them in the past year.”

  “How—how terrible and sad,” Miri replied in a low voice. “But that is not necessarily a sign of any satanic sacrifice. If things are as bad as you say on the mainland, many families must be driven to the brink of desperation by the prospect of another mouth to feed or—” Her mind filled with the image of Carole Moreau’s tragic young face. “Or often young girls who conceive out of wedlock are cast off by their families, left with nowhere to turn, so they leave their babes on the doorsteps of abbeys or churches—”

  “These infants weren’t left near any church,” Simon growled. “They were deserted where they would never be found until it was too late, on cliffs or remote hillsides, placed on the rocks like some pagan offering. No act of desperation, but the cold-blooded murder of helpless babes, and all of them male. Sons abandoned by their mothers on the orders of this infamous Silver Rose.”

  “I cannot believe any mother would willingly—”

  “Of course you can’t.” Simon blew out an exasperated breath and levered himself to his feet. “You have never been willing to concede that wise women, as you persist in calling them, could ever do anything wrong, never been able to see the evil that surrounds you.”

  “And evil is all that you do see,” Miri retorted. “You’ve been a witch-hunter for far too long. What do you think, Simon? That this Silver Rose is trying to unleash some biblical plague against firstborn sons? Or maybe she just wants to destroy all the men in the world.”

  “I don’t know, damn it.” Simon slapped his hands down on the mantel and braced his arms, bowing his head. “I don’t know,” he repeated in a wearier voice. “I have too many questions and no answers.”

  He angled his head enough to give Miri a searching glance. “Are you not crediting anything that I tell you? Or do you just think that too much witch-hunting has addled my brain?”

  “No, but perhaps it has overstimulated your imagination, causing you to turn the actions of a few evil or demented women into some sort of unbelievable conspiracy.”

  “All right, then. Tell me if I have imagined this.” Simon thrust himself away from the mantel and strode over to where he had left his saddlebag. Yanking it open, he dove inside and drew out some object wrapped in a linen cloth.

  He stalked back to Miri and plunked it down on the table before her. As he carefully undid the small bundle, she leaned forward, watching with a mingling of curiosity and apprehension.

  The cloth fell away to reveal what at first glance looked like a slender knife, the stiletto-like blade fitted into a hilt carved with the emblem of a rose.

  “This is the diabolical weapon the Silver Rose has devised. I call it a witch blade. Note her symbol etched here.” Simon traced one finger over the flower. “Part of the hilt is actually hollow, a place for storing poison. When you push it down—” Simon lifted the weapon to demonstrate. “It acts like a plunger, forcing the poison down through the blade itself, which is also hollow.”

  But Miri scarce heeded his explanation, her eyes widening with awe as she recognized Simon’s witch blade for what it actually was.

  “Great heavens,” she breathed. “It’s a syringe.”

  “A what?”

  “A syringe,” she repeated. “They have existed since the time of Galen.”

  “Who was she? Some sorceress?”

  “No, he was an ancient Greek physician, a very wise and learned man.”

  As Miri reached for the syringe, Simon tensed and cautioned her. “Be careful. I have drained all the poison out and cleaned it, but the witch blade is still dangerous, the point quite sharp.”

  Miri took it from him gingerly, testing the plunger, studying the thick needle with wonder and fascination. The syringe that Galen had devised and wise women still employed was crude by comparison. Only a barrel and plunger with a blunt tip. One always had to have a blade handy to cut an incision through the skin.

  “Wherever could the Silver Rose have learned to make this?” Miri murmured. “To fashion a hollow needle and attach it to a basic syringe . . . it—it is so clever and would make it so much easier to—”

  “To kill people?” Simon cut in icily.

  “No, to administer medicine to some poor creature who was too weak to swallow. Or—or a person even. How quickly and efficiently one could get a healing potion into the blood—”

  “That is not what the damned thing is being used for,” Simon snapped, snatching the syringe out of her grasp.

  “Yes, but—” Miri halted when she saw the dark look on Simon’s face. She had to bite down upon her lip to stifle her frustration as he whisked the fascinating instrument from her sight. She longed to have a chance to properly study it. But she could tell that her interest was only irritating Simon and rendering him uneasy. She stifled a deep sigh as he packed the syringe away in his saddlebag.

  “All right,” she said. “I concede that this mysterious Silver Rose of yours exists and that she is putting her knowledge to terrible use. But I don’t know what I can do to help you unmask her. As you can see, I live very much out of the way here. Even if I did pay more heed to what was going on in the wider world, I don’t possess enough power and influence among other daughters of the earth to help you track this woman down.”

  Simon closed the flap on his saddlebag. He avoided looking at Miri as he replied, “No. But the Lady of Faire Isle does.”

  A tingle of apprehension coursed through Miri. “W-what?”

  “Your sister. Ariane.” Simon tried to sound casual but the tension in his face told Miri that he understood full well the enormity of what he was about to ask of her. “If you could just send her a message—”

  But Miri was already on her feet, too alarmed, too outraged by his request to even speak. All she could do was vehemently shake her head.

  “Miri, I am certain that you have to know where she is. You and your sisters were so close. You would never remain out of touch with them for long. What is more, I also know how you communicate. With those birds you have bewitched to carry messages over long distances.”

  Miri found her voice enough to splutter. “Trained, blast you. My pigeons are trained to deliver messages.”

  “All right, all right.” Simon flung up his hands in a placating gesture. “Could you please get word to Ariane with one of these trained creatures? I won’t make any effort to follow the bird if that is what you are afraid of. I could hardly do so even if I tried.

  “I don’t even want to know where Ariane is, just to warn her about what is happening. Isn’t the Lady of Faire Isle supposed to be a guardian, keeping other wise women from doing harm as well as protecting them?”

  “Ariane always tried to do just that. But she is not the Lady anymore, thanks
to you. Maybe if you hadn’t driven Ariane away from Faire Isle, she would have found out about this Silver Rose and stopped her a long time ago. Did you ever think about that, Simon?”

  “Yes, I have. You have no idea how often of late, I have regretted—” He checked himself, dragging one hand wearily through his hair. “But I can’t undo the past, Miri. All I can do is try not to repeat it.”

  Stepping closer, he encircled her wrist, his fingers resting against the delicate skin above her pulse. “I need Ariane’s help, her connection with the community of witch—I mean wise women. No matter where she is, she is still the Lady of Faire Isle. Don’t you think she would want to know about this rising menace?”

  “I am certain she would and that is exactly why I have no intention of telling her.” Miri pulled free of Simon’s grasp and shrank back, uncertain which she found more dangerously seductive, his gentle touch or his pleading gaze.

  “If Ariane heard of this trouble, she would think it her duty to return to Faire Isle in spite of any risk to herself. And where Ariane goes, Renard would follow. Both of them lured back into any trap you might be setting. You already seem to half-suspect that Ariane might be your Silver Rose.”

  “I told you that I don’t. Your sister is fundamentally a good woman, although I confess I do find some of her skills and knowledge a bit, er, disconcerting. The thing I most fault her for is her choice in husbands. But if Ariane returns, I promise she will be safe from me.” Simon added grudgingly, “And Monsieur le Comte, too.”

  “You’ll have to pardon me if I don’t believe you. The last time you induced me to trust you, you nearly succeeded in destroying everyone and everything that I love.”

  Simon opened his mouth to retort, only to close it, a myriad of emotions chasing across his face: sorrow, shame, regret.

  “You are perfectly right. I have given you no reason to ever trust me again and every reason to go on hating me.”

  “And that is exactly the problem. I don’t want to hate you, Simon. It hurts too much. I am so afraid that if you betray me again, the next time I might actually be able to use that knife.”

  She paced away from him, rubbing her arms for comfort. “If the danger was only to me, I might be willing to take a chance on trusting you again. But to put Ariane and Renard at risk . . . I can’t do it. I won’t do it. My answer to your request must be no. So unless you mean to force me to tell you where Ariane is or—”

  “I would never do anything like that.”

  She peered at him over her shoulder, expecting to find him angry or wearing that cold, hardened expression. It was how he would have reacted in the past to her refusal to cooperate. But Simon merely looked defeated, his shoulders slumped like a man who had just seen his last hope burn and crumble to ash.

  “I am sorry,” Miri said in a softer tone.

  “Don’t be.” Simon’s mouth flickered in a sad semblance of a smile. “If anyone should be apologizing it is me. Given our past history, it was unreasonable for me to expect any different reply.”

  He fetched his jerkin from the line and shrugged back into it. Striding past her to the door, he sank down upon the stool, and reached for his boots.

  “What—what are you doing?” Miri faltered.

  “You kept your end of our bargain. You listened to what I had to say. Now I am keeping mine.” Simon worked his foot back into the damp, mud-spattered leather. “I promised you I would leave you in peace.”

  That would undoubtedly be the best thing. For both of them. So why then was she beset with this sharp pang? She drifted closer as he struggled with his second boot, resisting a strange urge to snatch it away from him.

  “It is still pouring rain and likely to continue for hours. You look exhausted. I—I have no bed to offer you, but if you would like to stretch out on my hearth and—”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea. Far better that I return to the lady who is accustomed to sharing my nights.”

  “Oh?” Miri was hard-pressed to conceal her dismay. Simon seemed so alone. It had never occurred to her he might have a woman waiting somewhere.

  Simon levered himself to his feet with a smile as though he guessed exactly what she was thinking. “I meant Elle. She is the only lady in my life. I am used to bedding down in the stable with her.”

  “Oh.” Miri was annoyed to feel herself blush. It was certainly no concern of hers if Simon had a woman or not. “That—that is good. Not that you have no other lady, but—but Elle . . . she will look out for you, warn you if danger approaches.”

  “So she has. More times than I can count.”

  Miri nodded. She and Simon stood only a foot apart, but already the distance seemed to yawn much greater. A long and awkward silence fell. All sounds of the storm had ceased, only the rain continuing to beat at the windows and roof of the cottage.

  Strange. Miri had always found the sound of rain soothing, but this time it struck her as rather haunting and melancholy. Perhaps because she was so acutely aware that this might well be the last time she and Simon met. So how did one go about saying good-bye to a man who had once been both cherished friend and hated enemy, first love and lasting heartbreak?

  Miri nervously entwined her fingers together. She wondered if she should offer him her hand or merely curtsy when Simon solved her dilemma by doing the last thing she would have expected.

  He seized her about the waist and hauled her so hard against him, she emitted a soft gasp. Startled, she looked up at him, his face a dark blur. Before she could protest, his mouth descended upon hers, taking her in an embrace that drove the remaining breath from her body.

  It was nothing like the gentle warmth of their first kiss. His beard abraded her skin as he devoured her with his lips, his embrace so fierce, it was as though he sought to claim a part of her very soul to carry away with him.

  Miri felt helpless before the onslaught, her hands trapped between them, braced against the unyielding wall of his chest. She could feel the heat of his skin through the damp fabric of his shirt, the wild thunder of his heart. It echoed inside her, her own heart racing as Simon plundered her mouth and stirred her blood with a kiss born of heat and despair, desire and loneliness.

  Simon’s emotions threatened to engulf her like a dark tide. Miri’s mind reeled, uncertain whether she wanted to fight or simply surrender, but once more Simon took the decision out of her hands.

  He thrust her away, ending the kiss as abruptly as he’d begun. His chest rising and falling, he stared at her as though seeking to imprint her image upon his mind. Then without another word, he flung open the door and disappeared beneath the curtain of driving rain.

  Chapter Four

  THE STAIRCASE WOUND UP AND UP INTO THE CLOUDS, THE risers twisting and turning at mad angles. Miri trudged step after step, seeking to avoid trampling the lizards that darted about her feet. Sleek, slippery, and cold, the salamanders brushed against her ankles. Just as she despaired of ever reaching the top of the stair, she emerged into a room laid out like a gigantic chessboard, the black and white tiles lined with massive chess pieces carved of stone.

  Miri froze as the black queen raised her scepter. She bellowed out a guttural command that sent her pawns marching forward. Miri cowered behind a white rook until she realized they were not charging at her, but the white knight astride his marble steed.

  She tried to shriek out a warning but her cry was lost in the roar of the pawns’ attack. Cudgels upraised, they rained blow after blow upon the knight, shattering his mount, reducing him to a broken heap of limbs and armor.

  Miri rushed to the knight, horrified to realize it was not a chess piece at all, but a man that lay there broken and bleeding. His black hair fell across his face, obscuring his visage . . .

  Miri’s eyes flew open. Gasping, she bolted upright from her pillow, dislodging Necromancer, who was curled up on her chest. Oblivious to the cat’s offended meow, she kicked aside the coverlet and shot out of bed, straightening so suddenly she nearly banged he
r head on the low ceiling of the loft.

  She reeled with one urgent thought. Simon. She needed to find him and warn him at once. Her heart hammering, Miri scrambled halfway down the ladder before she remembered.

  Simon was long gone. How many nights ago had it been—two? Or three since he had vanished into the rain, leaving her plagued with troubled dreams of abandoned babes and sinister women harvesting deadly roses. But of all her nightmares, this last, the attack upon the man had been by far the worst, too much like her old dreams, the ones that had haunted her girlhood, strange and inexplicable portents of things to come.

  She climbed the rest of the way down the ladder and clung to the lower rung, trembling. She had thought herself long past the age of her night terrors, something she had offered up thanks to God she had finally outgrown. It had been years since she had had such a dream, so strong and urgent; she still wanted to track Simon down and tell him.

  But tell him what exactly? Beware of salamanders? Avoid chessboards? That his life was in danger? That someone was out to destroy him? Scarcely anything that Simon didn’t already know.

  Sweeping her tangled hair out of her eyes, Miri stumbled out of the cottage, seeking the barrel she always left outside her door to gather the rain. Plunging her hands into the cold water, she splashed it over her face, welcoming its icy sting, hoping to shock away the last vestiges of her tormented sleep. She flung back her head and drew in a lungful of air, trying to breathe in the calm that blanketed the woods this morning.

  Dawn . . . her favorite part of the day, when the world was newly washed with dew, the vivid greens of the forest soft and misty in the early morning light. On such a peaceful morn as this, the violent storm that had hurled Simon back into her life seemed like something that had never happened.

  All traces of the man were gone, the net she had used to ensnare him removed from the tree, not a single one of his footprints or Elle’s tracks remaining. She could almost imagine that Simon’s visit had been no more than another dream except . . .