LadySmith Read online

  LadySmith

  By

  RHAVENSFYRE

  LadySmith (2nd Ed)

  Copyright © 2014 by Rhavensfyre

  Ladysmith is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  DEDICATION

  To the Goddess in all her forms.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To all of our wonderful readers, of course,

  and to our hard-working Beta Readers;

  Marion, Dava, Gail and Tammy.

  Thank you for all you do.

  When day and night meet

  at the forge of souls,

  the midnight sun will

  bring mixed blessings.

  The one who is two,

  shall lose and gain

  a crown.

  One will be given

  their hearts desire,

  while another

  shall be torn asunder.

  PROLOGUE

  “Bellaria, you have betrayed Faerie for the last time. Your greed and jealousy have led to unforgivable acts.”

  Cringing before the powerful voice, only one of the many who circled about her, the cowled woman hid her face deep within the dark shadows cast by the heavy brocade covering her head. While her posture outwardly spoke only of subservience and regret, inside she seethed with anger. She wanted to face her accusers openly, with all the hatred and defiance she held within her but now was not the time to be bold.

  To throw back her cowl and bare her teeth at the ones seeking to judge her would be certain death, so she wisely kept her face hidden, averting her eyes from the ones who towered above her. To stare at the ground when she deserved to stare down the stars chewed at her gut like a venomous serpent spewing its poison, but she took the pain and used it to focus on tonight’s goal—survival. Bellaria knew her fate was being decided in this moment, and she could only hope for leniency.

  A quick glimpse at the stony faces standing around her did not bode well, but with every avenue of escape blocked by cloaked figures and the circle of stones they sought to emulate rising up behind them, there was nothing she could do. The sacrifice stone beneath her feet grew cold with frost. Bellaria shivered and her eyes widened in fear when she realized she could see her breath gathering like a cold mist around her. She inhaled, preparing to try one last time to argue her case, and her lungs froze along with the power of speech. Her heart pounding in true fear now, Bellaria realized the extent of the danger she was in too late. She had underestimated her enemy, and she would now suffer the consequences.

  “What say you?” a disembodied voice intoned the question with all the power of rite and ritual behind it. Another voice spoke. “Oblivion.” Then another. That one word was a death sentence, and it echoed in the dark chambers of Bellaria’s heart. She was not to be given leniency then.

  There was no reason to hide anymore. She threw off her cowl and turned to face each of her accusers; defiance stretched her mouth into a feral grin. She watched as her jury faded into the mist. The bright light of the full moon gathered itself among the shadows of stone before even its solid light distorted and faded into the night. There was nothing left but the stones around and beneath her, their shapes quickly lost to the blackest of black as she fell into nothingness. She screamed but could not hear her own voice—it was swallowed as quickly as her body by the velvet darkness. She could think but could not feel, and without her senses she knew madness—true madness—would not be far behind.

  It was a cruel sentence, and for one silent moment she was truly impressed that her “betters” had been willing to do something so vile as to leave her in this timeless cell. It was something she would have done without thought or mercy.

  Still, her drive and desire kept her searching, her eyes open and seeking in the void around her until her muscles strained from the effort. She blinked; confusion lacing her thoughts even as her mind screamed for her to take note of the small light shining within the blackness. Desperately, she clawed at nothing to reach out towards the wavering glow. Touching it, she tasted it with her magic and spoke in wonder.

  “I thought they were all gone. Dead and gone with the war, and certainly since the veil closed,” she spoke aloud, then blinked in surprise. She was able to hear her words and sound did not carry within the void. Joy as black as her surroundings shot through her body, igniting nerves and inviting sensation back to lifeless fingers. The light was her salvation and a means to her revenge. Scrabbling and scraping her way into the light, she followed its siren call until she escaped from her prison…and emerged in a blizzard of pure white snow.

  “No!” Bellaria cried out, howling out her distress so realistically a wolf returned her call. Turning wildly, she took in the deep drifts of snow and the barren trees surrounding her, whipping the cold winter air into a dusted frenzy. She stood within a smaller version of the stone circle, and like the other, it held no warmth. Only here, there was no power to be felt in the dark grey forms. Scooping up a fistful of snow into her hand, she focused on her clenched fist. Fear welled up inside her at the prospect of failure. Before it could overwhelm her, she forced the unacceptable weakness deep down into the blackest parts of her soul, to be consumed by her ravenous anger. It never snowed in Faerie—ever. What she held within her hand now was proof that, even though she had escaped her prison, she was still far from home.

  She was back in the land of mortals, a land stripped of its magic when the veil closed eons ago, no longer able to feel the ebb and flow of currents that was the lifeblood and pulse of Faerie. Or had it? A taste of something sweet and powerful lingered on her tongue, past the cold taste of iron that everything here carried, living or dead.

  In defiance of the bitter cold, Bellaria pushed her hood back, revealing long red hair as bright as blood. Fury ignited within her like a hot coal. The desire for revenge burned so strong that she shook with the need to destroy. Looking down, she found steam rising from between her clenched fingers. She uncurled her fingers, then watched as a thin stream of water run hotly from the palm of her hand. Each drop of water landed with a distinct hiss onto the cold snow beneath her feet.

  So, she thought wickedly, they have not managed to take everything from me. She smiled, though it was more a baring of teeth than anything resembling joy, her eyes lit up with a different sort of fire. She plucked her long cloak out of the falling snow and left the stone circle with long, determined strides. She intended to do quite a bit of mischief here, but first, she would concentrate on finding herself somewhere a bit more comfortable and worthy of her status. A deposed queen was still a queen, and she had no intentions of living like a beggar in a world of lesser beings.

  ***

  Mrs. Lillian Gertrude Carr wasn’t sure what she was hearing at first, then she realized that the rhythmic thumping she thought was a loose board on the barn was actually someone knocking on her door. It was an easy mistake. Since her husband died, the barns were starting to look more than a little ragged, and with each winter were closer to falling down completely. She pulled back a faded yellow curtain and peered out the window, then shivered. Frantic flakes of snow beat wildly against the windowpanes, some managing to stick for a few brief seconds before the powerful wind regained control of them, blowing the fine powder back into th
e storm.

  “Who would be out in this weather?” she mumbled to herself as she shuffled to the front door. Not that it really mattered to her. In her opinion, no one should be out in this kind of storm. Not fit for man or beast, she thought, relishing the memories the old saying brought to her, a lifetime of winter storms kept at bay within the warmth of her family home. Nowadays, her memories had to serve her well, since she was the last Carr left alive who even remembered the old family homestead. She was sure there were nieces and nephews out there somewhere, spread across the country and with modern lives too busy to be interested in such a pastoral life as farming. Too busy by far to come visit me, she thought. Becoming a widow at the ripe old age of 54 had made her feel old before her time. Now, in her late seventies, her creaking bones had given up arguing with her widow status. Alone in the great house for almost twenty years with only her cat for company, it was no wonder she didn’t recognize a knock on the door, considering how few and far between those knocks had become.

  At least she hadn’t succumbed yet to the temptation of inviting one of those neat young men that went door to door passing out free pamphlets into her house during a lonely spell. Of course, she could talk the ins and outs of the Holy Bible around them just as well as the good Reverend Peavey at Holy Trinity. It might even be fun to do it once, just to see how long it would take before they tried escaping. Tonight she was sure it wasn’t them at the door, mostly because they had never bothered travelling down her long gravel driveway on their bicycles just to talk to one little old lady, not even on a nice summer day. An image came unbidden then, of the two young men she had passed on one of her rare trips into town, bouncing and sliding down the poorly tended drive, their ties flapping madly as they made their way painfully down her small country lane. Shaking her head in amusement, she was unable to keep a youthful sounding giggle from escaping her. Her eyes crinkled merrily within a face as worn and weathered as the bark on the ancient oak tree that grew in the back yard.

  “Foolish old woman, babbling to yourself while someone knocks on the door, begging to be let out of this weather?” She wondered if losing her manners was a sign of forgetfulness, of old age finally taking its toll on her mind.

  Grinning at her irrational happiness from having a visitor, even one blown in by a winter storm, she hurried to open the front door, her scuffed slippers whispering softly against the worn wooden floor.

  ***

  Bracing her frail body against the wind, Lillian squinted at the grey figure standing on her porch but was unable to make out any particular features. The snow swirled around them violently and she shivered in the frigid air; her favorite housecoat wasn’t designed to keep that kind of cold out.

  In her kindhearted way, she ushered the stranger inside without bothering to worry who it was first. Unfortunately for Lillian, her act of kindness would not be rewarded. As the tall stranger entered the foyer, she was sure her visitor was male due to the height, which was close to six feet. Her eyes widened in shock when the stranger turned and pulled back her hood, proving her assumption so very wrong.

  The woman before her was impossibly beautiful, regal looking and poised. Her studied gaze as she silently took in her surroundings was commanding, a queen surveying her realm.

  Lillian stood gaping at what the wind had literally blown in. Poetic descriptions from childhood books flowered within her mind. Freshly remembered and begging to be spoken aloud, they were held at bay by a fear colder than any storm she had weathered, and then were lost for all time. Hot tears flowed down her face. She was caught in the direct gaze of the tall woman before her—in steel grey eyes so pale they seemed carved from midwinter ice, while a small voice inside her screamed to look away, to save herself. She was dimly aware of her tears freezing painfully against her cheeks, caught in the wrinkles that time had carved into her face.

  Her body refused to obey her commands. Unable to move, she could still feel everything around her. She felt the storm outside gather its strength, howling in delight when it found its way into her home, then sighing almost blissfully while it stole the heat from inside her along with her frail life. The storm held no remorse for its victim. Its frigid winds gathered her tears and played with them, tossing the salty drops into the air and making them dance. Taken as souvenirs, they quickly became indistinguishable from the million other drops of snow and ice that whirled madly around the two women. Against a blinding sheet of white, it was the stranger’s unearthly eyes that followed her down into the darkness, her body crumpled to the wooden floor almost as an afterthought.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Maeve MacLeod joined her granddaughter on the small rocking bench tucked away on her back porch just in time for them to watch the sunset together. Over the last year, her visits had become more sporadic until they were so rare she worried that each visit would be the last time. Her son’s new wife didn’t appreciate her or her stories so she wasn’t keen on letting Rohanna visit, no matter how much the child begged to see her. Maeve was sure that if Belinda could have it her way, she wouldn’t be allowed to see the little girl at all.

  Rohanna was watching the horses with a rapt expression on her face that reflected the late afternoon glow. They moved about restlessly, crowding the worn and muddy area right outside the pasture gate. Muted noises, meant to reassure each other, sounded like a gaggle of old women grumbling about having to wait for dinner. Pricked ears flicked back and forth like antenna, nervously splitting their attention between the large bale of hay sitting on the other side of the gate and the wooded edge of the meadow behind them.

  The sun had given up the brightest of its light, deepening to a striking vermilion glow that cast reddish-purple shadows across the valley and darkened sorrel hides to a rich burgundy. Maeve laughed at their foolishness. It never did any good telling them that the shadows weren’t going to eat them. If it moved and they couldn’t identify it, then it was a horse eater and they expected their humans to protect them from the shadow monsters. The bravest of the bunch broke away from the herd and trotted a few feet towards the darkness, tossing its head and snorting before ambling back to the gate. Such a brave soul that one has, Maeve thought, smiling at the horses’ nightly antics.

  She cast an eye up at the cloudless sky. Soon she would have to open the gate and let them in for the night. They would run for the hay as if they’d been starved all day, despite the fact they had been eating rich grass the entire time, and she would chuckle and tease them about how plump they were becoming from all the clover. Until then, she was content to sit and tell stories to her granddaughter.

  “You will always have a special bond with horses, Rohanna, just like your mother,” Maeve said. The affection she held for her granddaughter filled her heart to the point it was almost painful, a sensation she would gladly feel her whole life...a fierce love that promised to protect and care for another without reserve or hesitation. Maeve pulled her granddaughter into a hug and smoothed the fine gold-blonde hair with her palm then placed a reverent kiss on her brow.

  Unable to stop herself, she ran her fingertips through her own hair. As thick and coarse as one of the horse’s manes, her own ruddy-blonde hair had paled with time and had lost the silken quality past suitors couldn’t resist caressing. It was now streaked with more white than she cared for, though not so heavily that it made her look truly old. She was blessed with her bloodline’s tendency to age gracefully and for that she would be eternally grateful. Her face was still unlined, pale as fresh cream despite hours spent out of doors and just as smooth, with cinnamon brows that made her emerald-green eyes all the more striking in contrast. She could still turn a few heads when she went into town. Maeve smiled, amused at the direction of her thoughts. The forgetfulness of busy people was a blessing. No one had bothered to count just how many years she had been making her monthly drives down the mountain for supplies.

  “I don’t remember Momma.”

  Anger rose in Maeve’s chest at the sadness in her granddaughter
’s voice. Memories of warmth, love, blonde hair, and sheltering arms were all the poor girl had left of her real mother. Her stepmother, Belinda, had removed everything that belonged to her mother from their home. Rohanna didn’t even have a picture to keep in her room.

  That was another reason her new daughter-in-law didn’t want Rohanna to come visit. In Maeve’s house, Rohanna was free to remember her mother; her photographs were not kept hidden and Rohanna could gaze on her mother’s face whenever she wished. Maeve had made sure of that. Erin MacLeod would not be forgotten by her own daughter.

  Maeve felt a deep sadness inside her, but the ache she felt in her heart was just a pale shadow of Ro’s tragic loss. Maeve had loved her son’s first wife as a daughter. Erin’s death two years ago was but the first blow—her son’s decision to marry Belinda Carr was the second. John’s decision to replace Ro’s mother so soon after Erin’s death filled Maeve’s heart with dread. It was so unlike him. Maeve couldn’t shake the feeling that he had somehow dishonored the memory of his first love by taking a second wife so quickly. She confronted him and he had given his mother what he thought was a good excuse. Ro needed a mother, and he felt inadequate to take care of a small girl by himself. This would have been believable if it had been any other woman than the one he had chosen to marry.

  Ro’s new stepmother was cold and imperious, and as unlikely a woman as she’d ever seen to be considered mothering. So unlike Ro’s mother as to set Maeve’s teeth on edge the minute she met her, the woman’s only gods were money and prestige. There was no warmth in her smile or compassion for an orphaned child in her heart and no matter how hard she tried, Maeve could not read Belinda. She kept her thoughts and feelings closed off from everyone, hidden from both the seen and unseen world, and it troubled Maeve to no end.