A Passionate Magic Read online

  Cautiously, she moved toward the second chamber. There she found the remnants of a fire. A brown cloak and a leather sack lay at one side of the chamber, and she could tell by the makeshift spit that someone had been cooking.

  The sand was so churned-up by the new footprints that the entire original row of small prints, the signs that had frightened her on her earlier visit to the cave, were completely obliterated.

  Emma did not touch the cloak or the sack. They were the property of the person who was living in the cave. Feeling as if she was intruding into the home of a stranger, she decided to leave, and had just taken a step back toward the first chamber when she heard a rather pleasant masculine voice.

  “Agatha, I saw your basket outside. Have you come to pay a visit?” The man who was speaking appeared suddenly and stopped in surprise when he saw Emma. “I beg your pardon. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Do you know Agatha? Does she come here often?” Emma asked, hoping the stranger would say yes and the puzzle about who had made that first set of small footprints would thus be solved. She required only a glance at the stranger’s feet to know he was responsible for making all the other footprints.

  “Agatha told me about the cave and said I could stay here. She hasn’t come to see me since I moved in. I was hoping she would come; she bakes wonderful bread. I assume she is your friend, too,” the stranger said.

  He was staring hard at Emma, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. It was a perfectly natural reaction upon discovering an unexpected person in the cave he was inhabiting. She thought perhaps he was lonely, since he expressed an eagerness to meet Agatha again. Then she remembered her manners and decided introductions were in order.

  “I am Emma of Wroxley,” she said, “the wife of Dain, the baron of Penruan.”

  “Are you?” Abruptly, the stranger turned to stare into the fast-rushing water of the underground stream.

  Emma took the opportunity to look more closely at him, noting his untrimmed black hair and gray-streaked beard, and the way he held his withered right arm and hand close to his body, as if to protect the damaged limb. She thought she also detected a scar under the beard. His hair and clothes were clean, though the garments were well worn and patched.

  She was not at all afraid of him. Far from being menacing, the strange man impressed her as carrying a great weight of sadness. Emma wished she could see more of his face.

  “What shall I call you?” she asked.

  “Call me?” He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders before he faced her again. “Call me Hermit. It’s what I am. From now until the end of my life.”

  “If you are in trouble,” she said, and made a motion indicating his hand, “or if you are in pain, I will be glad to help you. I have some skill with healing herbs.”

  “No.” He swallowed hard, and it seemed to Emma that his eyes were suddenly very bright. “Thank you. It’s kind of you to offer. Agatha gave me salve for my hand.”

  “She knows a great deal more about healing than I do.” Emma began to feel awkward. “I apologize for venturing into your home without an invitation. I didn’t know anyone was living here.” She began to edge toward the outer chamber.

  “Do you come here often?” Hermit asked.

  “I’ve only been to this cave once before, when I was gathering herbs that grow in the cliffs,” she answered. “I promise I won’t disturb you, and I won’t come into your cave again.”

  “It’s not my cave.”

  She paused, held by a sense of concern for him that she could not explain to herself, and by a feeling that he was of two minds about letting her go. Again, she received the impression that he was lonely, which was an odd quality in a hermit, a man who had deliberately chosen to live alone.

  “Do you need food or clothing?” she asked.

  “I am used to fending for myself,” he said. “I want only to be left alone.”

  “Then, that is what I will do. If you should need help of any kind, just tell Agatha, and she’ll get word to me.”

  “Good-bye, my lady,” he said, in a way that made it clear he was dismissing her.

  She left the cave and the little cove promptly, not pausing to gather any herbs. She took only a bit of seaweed from the beach below Penruan before she began to climb the narrow cliff path. When she reached the castle again, she found Todd still on guard, and she mentioned the stranger to him.

  “So, you’ve seen the hermit, have you?” the man-at-arms said. “When I was in Trevanan yesterday, the local folk were talking about him. Some say he’s a holy man. Others think he’s a magician, because he first appeared in the village in company with Agatha.”

  “Which do you think he is?”

  “I don’t know,” Todd responded, shaking his head. “But I do know we ought not to tell Lady Richenda about him. She’ll have him dragged out of his cave and brought before Dain for questioning. If the stranger is a holy man, that would be a grave sacrilege. If he’s a magician, it could be a terrible, dangerous mistake.”

  ”I agree with you. I will say nothing about the man while Lady Richenda is within hearing distance.” Emma did not think the person who called himself Hermit was a magician. She had not sensed any magical power emanating from him. From what she had observed of him, she thought it was more likely that he was a holy man, driven to lonely wandering by some great sorrow. If he wanted to be left alone, she would respect his wishes.

  She did not even mention Hermit to Dain, although she was sure he knew about the stranger. It was the sort of thing that one of Dain’s men, or someone in Trevanan, would report to him as a matter of course, thinking Dain ought to be aware of any unknown people in the area. Apparently, Dain did not consider Hermit to be a danger and was not going to send him away from his cave.

  For some reason that she was unable to explain to herself, Emma was pleased to know Hermit was going to be living nearby.

  Hermit was almost asleep when he saw something in the darkness, a shape gliding along the wall of the cave. It was not the first time. On several occasions since his first night there he had sensed, or glimpsed, a movement at that particular spot.

  He sat up slowly, so as not to startle whoever it was. The indistinct shape stopped moving.

  “Who are you?” Hermit called softly. “Show yourself without fear. I won’t hurt you.”

  There followed an interminable time during which Hermit sat where he was, still partially rolled in his cloak, and the form in the shadows stayed where it was, too.

  “Come and sit by the fire where it’s warmer,” Hermit said when waiting became intolerable. “I have cheese and some fresh bread that a friend gave me late this afternoon. I’ll share it with you, if you are hungry.”

  The silence continued, though Hermit could detect an alteration in the quality of the stillness, as if whatever was just beyond his sight was listening intently to each word he uttered.

  “Do you know Agatha?” Hermit asked. “She gave me the bread and cheese, and medicine for my hand, too.” He held up his ruined right hand.

  There came a gasp from the shadows, followed by what sounded like a sob. Hermit continued to talk in hope of encouraging the unseen soul to come forward and reveal itself.

  “Do you know the people at Penruan? I met the baron’s wife today.” Hermit fell silent, unable to say more on that subject. Again he waited for a response.

  “Penruan.” It was a whisper caught between a sob and a moan.

  “Please join me. I’ll put another piece of driftwood on the fire.”

  Slowly a shape separated itself from the shadows along the rock wall and came forward. At first Hermit thought it was a ghost, until the figure drew nearer, and he saw it was a short, slender female dressed in loose white robes. A silver amulet set with a large turquoise hung about her neck on a silver chain. Hermit recognized the stone, for he had seen turquoise several times during his years of wandering.

  The woman stood hesitantly, looking from Hermit to
the fire and back to Hermit again, and he stayed where he was, making no movement at all, not wanting to frighten her away. Then she lowered herself gracefully to the sand and sat across the fire from him. As she did so, the white scarf covering her head slid off to reveal long waves of unbound auburn hair.

  “I call myself Hermit,” he said, and smiled in hope of putting her at ease. In the light from the fire he could see that she was truly neither ghost nor demon, but a pale woman some years past her youth, and her silver eyes held a sorrow far surpassing his own grief. Out of respect for her sadness he addressed her gently. “Have you a name, my lady? Will you tell it to me?”

  “You may not call me ‘my lady,’ ” she said, still whispering. “No one may call me ‘my lady’ anymore. It is forbidden. I am Exile.”

  He did not question her statement. As he did not want anyone to pry into his past life, so he refused to pry into anyone else’s.

  “Well then, Exile, will you share food with me?” he asked. “It’s in my sack, just over there.”

  Her eyes were still on his face, as if she was reading his soul, and he sat a little uncomfortably under her regard until she answered him.

  “Agatha’s bread? Agatha’s cheese?” she whispered.

  “Yes. Is she your friend, too?”

  “My only friend. I will eat with you. Thank you for the kindness.”

  Her manners were dainty. She broke off small pieces of bread, and accepted with her fingertips the wedge of cheese he cut and offered to her. She nibbled at the food as if she were a great lady at a royal banquet. Hermit’s curiosity was stirred by her obvious fine breeding, aroused to a point at which he decided to press her for just a little information.

  “Have you been living in this cave since before I came here?” he asked. “I’m sure I’ve seen you several times, usually just as I am falling asleep.”

  “I live in there.” She seemed oddly hesitant, and the place she indicated with a brief gesture of one hand was the solid rock wall of the cave.

  “I don’t understand,” Hermit said. “Is there a secret entrance?”

  “It is hidden.” Again she hesitated, her silvery eyes locked on his. “If Agatha sent you here, there can be little danger. She would not tell you about the cave unless she was sure you will not harm me.”

  “Indeed, I will not,” Hermit said. “My dearest wish is never again to cause harm to any person.”

  Still her eyes held his. Eventually, she appeared to make up her mind, for she nodded and rose to her feet. She walked to the cave wall, to the solid rock into which Hermit, when half asleep, had seen her wispy, indistinct shape vanish several times.

  “Watch,” she said, and walked right into the wall. Before Hermit could scramble to his feet, she reappeared. Seeing his baffled face, she smiled.

  “Magic,” Hermit said, understanding at last. “You are a sorceress.”

  “So I have been told.”

  “Aren’t you sure?” His nervous laugh rang out, echoing against the rocks.

  “If I were truly a sorceress, all that I want would come to me,” she said. “Instead, I am Exile. Alone. Bereft.”

  “I knew a sorceress once,” Hermit said, almost to himself. “She was wicked beyond all imagining. I don’t think you are wicked.”

  “I have been called wicked.” Her voice returned to its original sad whisper. “That is why I was banished.”

  “I find it hard to believe Agatha would befriend someone who is evil,” Hermit said.

  “Agatha has been my friend since I was a little girl. She showed me how to control my power and how to use the door that is not there. Several times, the door has saved my life, when searchers came here looking for me.”

  “Do you mean Agatha set up the magical door?” Hermit asked. Eagerly he searched the rock, but he was unable to detect any sign of the opening Exile had used. Still, it was there; he had just seen the proof.

  “I do not think even Agatha’s magic is strong enough for such a great achievement,” Exile said. “No, the door has existed in this cave for centuries. When Agatha was very little, her granny taught her how to use it, as Granny was taught by her granny, and so on, back into the mists of time, for as long as people have lived in Cornwall.”

  “Did Agatha ever tell you who first erected the door?” Hermit asked, intrigued despite his personal prejudice against magic. He reminded himself that not all magic was wicked. He had known a few good and honest magicians in his time.

  “There is a tale that long, long ago, the great magician, Merlin, came to this cave, lured here by the enchantress, Nimue. According to the story, Nimue misused Merlin’s love for her to convince him to teach her his magic. Once she had learned all she wanted from him, she imprisoned him behind a door that is not there.”

  “Behind that door?” Hermit asked, again staring at the rock into which Exile had disappeared and from which she had reappeared.

  “So the story says.” Exile gave him another sad smile. “I have never seen Merlin. I have explored much of the cave that lies behind the door, but not all of it. Perhaps he is hidden in a secret room.”

  “The door is certainly well concealed,” Hermit remarked. “No ordinary mortal could guess it exists.” It was all he could do to keep himself from asking the questions that crowded into his mind. He longed to know where Exile had been born, how she had found Agatha, and exactly what kind of magic she practiced. Most of all, he wanted to know who she really was.

  For just a moment he contemplated the possibility that Exile was in fact Nimue, but he quickly discarded the thought. If she were the enchantress who had bound Merlin into perpetual imprisonment, he did not think she would tell him about it in the way Exile had, as if it were a sad event. Besides, for all her talk of magic and legends, her ability to walk through a rock wall, and her appearance of being something other than an ordinary woman, Hermit knew in his heart that Exile was as human as he was.

  While he speculated about her possible origins and wondered what tragedy could have brought her to a cave where legends took on real life, Exile did something unexpected. She drew closer to him, lifted one delicate hand, and touched his temple.

  It was as though he was drenched in flowers, in beautiful fragrances and lovely colors and the caress of countless soft petals against his skin. He saw Exile’s face aglow with an inner light, and while her hand stayed where it was, just gently pressing against his head, all of his pain and grief disappeared, leaving him peaceful as he had not been for decades.

  Then she took her hand away and he was Hermit again, standing in a seaside cave because he had no other place to go, as much an exile as she was. She blinked, and he saw tears in her eyes and knew that after touching him she understood all there was to learn about his past and his motives.

  “Oh, what a pity,” she said in a mournful whisper. “But you are right to keep silent. No one knows better than I that your secret must never be revealed. Revelation will bring danger and possibly death, which I am sure you do not intend.”

  “I thought this was a safe place,” he said. “I hoped that here, I could avoid hurting others. Now I know better, and I am not certain what to do.”

  “Sometimes it is wiser to do nothing than to do the wrong thing,” Exile said. “Sometimes, it is best to wait until the fates have completed weaving the threads.”

  “Earlier, I thought of leaving,” he said. “But I am so weary. I have traveled so many years and for so great a distance, in hope of keeping my loved ones safe. And now this, when I least expected it, when I was unprepared.” He dropped to his knees, bowing his head, unable to bear the pain or the guilt of what he had once done.

  Exile knelt before him with tears running down her pale face. After a moment she touched him again, using both of her hands this time, one hand on either side of his head. Instead of the glorious profusion of flowers, what he sensed was a soft, welcoming mist, pale gray-blue and scented with lavender and rosemary.

  “Sleep,” Exile said, her gentle wh
isper blending with the mist and the fragrance. “Trust to Time, and to Fate.”

  He wondered if this was how Great Merlin had been lured to his imprisonment, and for a single, confused moment Hermit imagined himself in a secret, inner chamber of the cave, his arms bound with golden ropes, his body suffused with an indescribable feeling of peace and contentment. Hermit wondered if he would ever wake up again, if he would ever be free of Exile’s sweet spell.

  Out of his past he recalled another spell that had been anything but sweet, a spell that had all but destroyed his soul, and he struggled against what was happening. But he did not struggle for long. The weariness of spirit that had brought him to the cave and kept him there for days prevented him from opposing Exile’s magic. He could not fight her. He did not want to fight. His last conscious sensation was of her lips on his forehead.

  Chapter 10

  “Dain, did you leave this for me?” Emma held out her hand to show him the delicate pink seashell resting in her palm. “I found it on your pillow when I woke this morning.”

  They were in the lord’s chamber, and the day was still young. Emma was growing used to waking to find Dain gone. He often rose before the sun and went up onto the battlements with Sloan to hear the reports of the men who were coming off nighttime sentry duty. The times were perilous, and Dain kept Penruan in a state of readiness lest an enemy noble attack or the dispersed bands of outlaws reform into new groups and decide to destroy Trevanan more completely than on their previous foray. Though he never said so to her, Emma knew one of the hostile nobles he was guarding against was her own father. She knew the baron of Wroxley would never break the peace agreement, but Lady Richenda continually poured her hatred and suspicion of Gavin into Dain’s ears.

  On this summer day Dain returned to the room they shared just as Emma was finishing her morning meal of fruit and bread. Upon seeing him she decided the time was right to ask about the mysterious gifts. Dain had not made love to her since the night when he had been so angry. He kept to his own side of the bed and rebuffed any attempt she made to become closer. Yet when others were present he treated her politely, and on several occasions he had defended her against his mother. And there were the objects that occasionally appeared on the pillow next to her. Every one of those gifts held a personal meaning for Emma, and suggested remarkable familiarity with her character.