The Witch’s Kiss. Katharine Corr

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СКАЧАТЬ could I, until I had bettered myself?’ Gwydion knew he was shouting, but he didn’t care. ‘And how did this Aidan have time to come here and – and make love to you, yet not have time to rescue you from the Sorceress?’

      ‘He tried to. He nearly died.’

      ‘I wish with all my heart he had.’

      Edith snatched her hands away.

      ‘If I could spare you this pain I would, Gwydion. You have to believe me. I would do almost anything. But I will not marry you.’

      ‘But your father promised—’

      ‘I should not have done so,’ Wulfric interrupted. ‘Aside from Edith’s feelings, it is a good match. Edith has a responsibility to our people. We need allies, especially given the constant attacks of those Kentish thugs—’

      ‘Father!’ Edith shook her head, waving a hand to silence him. ‘Gwydion, I will always be in your debt. You saved my life. But that does not give you the right to decide how the rest of my life should be lived, or to tell me who to love. I am going to marry Aidan.’

      Gwydion stared at Edith; the sunlight from the high windows faded. The floor beneath him seemed to tilt, sending him sprawling against the wall. He covered his mouth with a shaking hand as his stomach churned.

      ‘Gwydion!’ Edith took a step towards him, but the king seized her wrist, holding her back.

      Years passed in a matter of seconds. Gwydion realised he was shivering; he was cold to the very core of his body. Slowly, he dragged himself to his feet. Something inside him was changed, suddenly and forever.

      ‘The Sorceress warned me, before I slit her throat. She told me you would betray me.’ Gwydion saw the guards draw their swords, but he ignored them. ‘I vowed to love you, Edith, to protect you forever. I swore it over my mother’s grave, sealed it by writing the runes in my blood, and the vow binds me. I cannot physically harm you. But your father, your—’ Gwydion’s mouth twisted as he spat out the word, ‘—lover, they are a different matter.’

      ‘Guards, seize him!’ Wulfric drew his own sword, but Gwydion waved a hand, drawing a complicated symbol, forming air into bright lines of fire that hung there for a moment before fading. The guards collapsed and the key turned in the door behind them.

      Gwydion advanced on the king. ‘Did you think I had merely been wandering the kingdom these past three years, wasting my time learning how to wield a sword or make songs about courtship? Did you think I could have defeated the Sorceress with nothing more than armour and courage?’ Gwydion drew another symbol in the air, and the king bellowed and threw his sword away as the metal glowed red-hot. ‘Fool. I have been using my time much more productively.’

      ‘Gwydion,’ began Wulfric, ‘you must—’

      ‘No. I don’t want to hear the word “must” from you. I don’t want to hear any more words from you.’ Another symbol: the king dropped to his knees, clawing at his throat, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

      Edith backed into the corner of the room, her eyes wide.

      ‘Gwydion, what have you done to yourself?’

      Gwydion didn’t answer, but moved forwards until he was only separated from Edith by a hairsbreadth. He tilted her chin upwards.

      ‘So beautiful. How was I to know that such a face could conceal such a heart? A heart just as black as the one now sealed in a jar next to your father’s throne.’

      ‘Are you—’ Gwydion saw Edith’s throat convulse as she swallowed hard, ‘are you going to kill me?’

      ‘I cannot. But I swear, that as you have snatched away everything I love, everything I hoped for, so I will take away what you love most.’ Gwydion drew out the small dagger he carried at his waist and slashed down across the palm of his hand. He pressed his hand to Edith’s chest, smearing the blood across her skin. ‘You will not know the form of your punishment, you will not know the day or the hour, but eventually my retribution will find you, Edith. And then you will suffer, just as I am suffering now. You will taste the bitterness of despair.’

      He ran to a smaller door that let out into the courtyard behind the hall. There were horses stabled there, as he remembered. The guards and stable hands presented no difficulties, and soon he was outside the walls of the keep.

      Gwydion rode without direction or thought for hours, without resting or trying to find food, hoping that bodily exhaustion would counteract the agony of his mind. When he finally realised that he needed some sort of plan, his initial instinct was to head south, to one of the coastal villages. From there he could make his way across the sea to the Kingdom of the Franks, or maybe to the Celtic tribal lands farther west. But as he rode away from the downs, the folds of the hills forced him east. A little before sunset he came to the marshes that formed the eastern border of the kingdom: a flat, treacherous landscape, carved by criss-crossing streams and dotted with stagnant swamps. On the edge of the marshes he dismounted. If he went any further this way, it would be easier to travel on foot.

      Gwydion tied his horse to a tree and sat on the ground, trying to force himself to make a decision. The whole plan of his life, for as long as he’d had a plan, had been built around the idea that Edith loved him, and that she would be his if only he could find a way to show he was more than just the son of a servant. And with Edith would come status, wealth, power. Now his plans had proved no more than a fantasy, what was he to do with himself? He could still turn south and try to reach to the coast. Or he could go on into the marshes, and return to the only possible home that now remained to him: the hidden hall of his master, Ranulf, an old and powerful wizard who had taught him his magic. Gwydion had left with Ranulf’s predictions of failure ringing in his ears, and without permission. It was possible Ranulf would try to kill him on sight.

      The last shreds of Gwydion’s pride pushed him to turn away and head for the sea. But the oath he had sworn to take vengeance on Edith – to fulfil that oath, he needed to complete his training.

      He let the horse go free, and stumbled forwards into the marshes.

      Gwydion reached the house just before dusk. It was a long, low building, built on stilts hammered into the boggy ground; Ranulf had placed a charm upon the wood to stop it rotting. Gwydion hesitated as he approached the door, but not for long; he had not eaten or drunk for nearly two days, and thirst drove him forwards. The door opened at his touch. He fell upon his knees.

      ‘Well, boy?’ Ranulf was standing in front of him, wheezing, even wider and more misshapen than Gwydion remembered. ‘So you have returned to me, like the filthy dog you are?’

      Gwydion risked looking up; if Ranulf had decided to kill him, he would not be bothering with questions. But there might be punishment. And that Gwydion would have to endure, if he wanted to learn the darkest of Ranulf’s arts. He braced himself, expecting pain.

      But to his surprise, Ranulf laughed.

      ‘That princess of yours did indeed treat you like a dog, did she not? A fitting punishment for a disobedient apprentice. You look like you have suffered enough; for now, at least. Come.’

      Ranulf led Gwydion into the house, set some wine and bread on the table and waved him to a chair.

      ‘So, boy, it is eight months since you left me, so full of your own plans and abilities. What do you have to say for yourself?’

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