Dragon Witch Series - Dragon Witch Part 25

Tempest, in her forest green tunic, resembled a wood nymph, her red hair like a blazing sunset on a cool autumn day. It cascaded down to her waist in riotous abandon. He ached to run his fingers through it, to feel its silky softness, to feel its fire, to breathe deep of her own special scent of woman-child and violets. His heart beat faster and he felt a stirring in his loins, a yearning to bury himself deeply in her soft, warm body, to forget for a short while his misery. Tempest was a balm which could soothe his troubled spirit.

She was looking at him, emerald eyes full of

concern. "Adrian?" Her hand reached out as she circled the table to stand before him. "You are in pain."

"Nay," he answered. How is it she always knows when my spirit is sore? We are bonded but I do not know how. Humans and dragons do not bond. Except... He looked at Lysira. Father is human... Thought fled as Tempest's hand lightly caressed his cheek.

"Are you worried about what happened at the manse?"

"Your father will come for you."

"Aye. He will find us eventually."

"Will you go with him? Will you leave me?" He held his breath as he awaited her reply.

"I must return, Adrian. I am to wed William this spring."

"I will kill William," he said flatly. "Then you will be free to be my bride. I love you, Tempest. Does that mean nothing to you? Is my love so unimportant?"

"Your love means more to me than you will ever know,"

she whispered. "But I must wed William. I made a promise."

"Promises can be revoked!" he said angrily. "You love me.

I know you do. Can you not even tell me you love me?"

She lowered her hand and turned from him, looking at Lysira.

She could give him no answer. She could not tell him of her love.

"Adrian," said Lysira. "She has made her vow. She cannot break it."

"'Tis wrong, Mother." The words tore from his throat, agony rang in his voice. "'Tis horribly wrong." He stalked from the cottage.

The hard slam of the door echoed through Tempest's heart and she sank to a chair, head bowed in dejection.

"We must kill William Mirabelle," the woman stated angrily. "She loves A'dryan now. Get rid of the obstacles."

"William is a good man." The man looked deeply into her angry eyes. "Would you kill a good man just to make them happy?"

"Nay, 'twould be wrong." The woman was contrite. "Find William someone else to wed!" she offered, eyes aglow.

"And just where would we find another for him to wed?"

"I know not," she snapped. "You are the gamemaster. You find her."

"Well," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "there is Lady Agatha of Cantaleer."

"She is betrothed to Devon of Mackabee."

"I must think upon this," he said.

TWENTY-EIGHT.

"Tempest," said Lysira, "you must concentrate."

"I cannot." Tempest looked at Adrian sitting nearby, idly whittling a piece of wood. He had not spoken to her since their argument the night before. She felt the pain of his hurt and anger but knew there was nothing she could do to a.s.suage it.

She did not want to marry William. She held no love for him, but she had no choice. Promises had been made, the decision was out of her hands. But William was old. Maybe Adrian could be convinced to wait...

I will wait, said Adrian wordlessly.

"What?" He could not have spoken the words aloud. Could he now read her thoughts as well as her pain?

"I will wait for you to decide not to marry William Mirabelle," he continued. "I will wait for you to realize your love for me. But I will not wait forever, Tempest." The warning was clear in his eyes. He tossed the carving onto the woodpile and left the clearing in front of the cottage, tucking his knife securely into its sheath.

Curious, Tempest retrieved the carving from the huge pile of wood. 'Twas a perfect replica of herself. Every curl of her hair was lovingly rendered. The unclothed body was voluptuous, making her wonder if this was how he saw her.

She did not think her body so beautiful. He had carved her face with a soft smile, as if it were lit with an inner light, the way she wished she could look at him. 'Twas a token of love-and he had tossed it casually upon a woodpile.

She held the exquisite carving next to her aching heart and whispered, "I do love you, Adrian. More than life itself." With a sigh, she carefully settled the small figure deep inside her

pocket.

"If you let everything distract you, Tempest, you will never master your techniques." Lysira's voice brought her back to the task at hand.

"I am sorry." She tried to remember what lesson Lysira had been teaching. Lifting her hand, she pointed at a nearby tree and concentrated. A thin line of fire arced from the end of her finger. A tree branch began to smolder, then burst into flame.

"Very good," said Lysira. "Now put the fire out."

"I do not know how."

"Concentrate. Picture the element of water-soft, cool, soothing."

Tempest pictured water in her mind, a gently flowing stream, swirling around the branch, cooling it, dousing the fire.

The branch smoldered, and the fire died.

"Now heal it."

"Heal it?"

"Aye, heal the tree. 'Tis a living thing, and you have caused it injury. You must heal that injury." Lysira was patient. "The spirit within the tree is your friend, and you must cause it no harm lest that harm be returned to you."

"But how can that be?" asked Tempest. "We use firewood.

We kill animals to eat and grow plants to feed ourselves and for healing. Is that not harming them?"

"Trees are sacred to us, Tempest. We use only windfall branches for burning. If we needs must take from a living tree, we always ask the tree for permission and explain why we do what we do. The tree spirits are kind. They will aid us whenever possible. Go to the tree and touch it."

Tempest did as she was bid.

"Close your eyes," said Lysira. "Lean into the tree and empty your mind. Listen."

Tempest closed her eyes. A feeling of peace came over her.

Her knees grew weak as she felt her worries drift from her, but she stayed against the smooth bark of the willow, and listened.

A gentle breeze flowed around her. She felt the caress of the leaves as they brushed her face, felt the loving spirit of the

tree embrace her. A sweet voice wafted into her mind.

Learn, Child of Light. A loving mother's voice filled her heart. Listen well to the golden one for you will soon be tested.

"Who...what are you?" Tempest whispered.

I am the spirit of the tree. I am the guardian of the forest, the friend to all humanity, would they but know and listen. We will always be here for you, Child of Light. You must only touch us and we will bring you peace.

Tempest opened her eyes and looked at Lysira. "I spoke with her," she said, her voice filled with wonder. "I spoke with the tree spirit. She is so kind and so loving. I...I must heal the hurt I have caused her."

Closing her eyes, Tempest ran her hands along the tree's smooth bark. She opened her mind to the tree spirit once again.

She felt the love but, this time, she also felt its pain and sorrow at what she had done. "I am so sorry," she whispered, "I did not understand."

Tempest drew power from deep within her soul. She opened her green eyes, so like the moss growing on the branches of that gentle spirit. Slowly she let the power flow-gentle, loving, healing power.

As she watched, the wounded tree healed. The branches again became green and healthy. New leaves sprouted and grew to maturity, to her wonder and delight.

Thank you, Child of Light, for that is truly what you are.

"There are many more lessons to learn, Tempest, and we have not much time. Come. Let me teach you." Lysira held out her hand, and Tempest took it.

Violets. Tempest loved violets more than any other flower.

She always selected the sweet-smelling spring flowers for her own special scent. She cupped one tiny blossom in her hand.

"Sweet flower of love," she whispered, "may I pick you to make my perfume?"

She waited, then, deep in her heart, she knew she had permission. She also knew that she must take only a portion of these flowers and move on to others so they would be able to make more blooms next spring. She nibbled on a few blossoms

as she carefully picked them, enjoying their special flavor, knowing they would help keep spring colds at bay and maintain her vitality.

The past seven days had been busy. Lysira taught her something new every day, and it was exciting to see just how far she could extend her natural abilities.

The only blot on her happiness was Adrian. He had barely spoken to her, had not touched her nor teased her, though she had caught him watching her intently several times. He was waiting, she knew, but she could not yield. She was still betrothed to William and would not break that promise.

She wished, oh how she wished, that she could just magically fly away with Adrian and leave the world and its troubles behind.

But 'twas impossible. Witches could not really fly. Only birds and dragons flew and she was certainly neither- even if she had been called "Dragon Witch" by a few fearful servants and peasants.

A snort nearby. A horse. They had long since sent Tristan's horse home. There were no horses in the woods. She must hide.

But where? She picked up her basket and fled from the sound, scurrying for the safety of the forest. Why, oh why had she strayed so far from the cottage?

"Tempest." 'Twas William's voice. She ran faster, frantically searching for a way to escape, but suddenly there were horses all around her. She tried to dodge around a huge, piebald destrier but it would not let her by. She knew better than to touch a warhorse; they were extensions of the knights who rode them, and were trained to kill. She backed away slowly, her eyes filled with fear.

Her foot hit a stone, and her basket tumbled from her hands as she tried in vain to keep her balance. As she struck the ground, she felt a searing pain in her head, then knew nothing as darkness descended.

"Tempest!" Tristan vaulted from his horse. She was lying so still. He pushed steeds away, trying to reach her before she was trampled, but only caused more confusion as the men around him tried to control their mounts. He threw himself

over her inert body, to protect her.

"Is she hurt?" William asked as soon as the horses were under control. "Tristan?"

Tristan rose to his knees and looked at his little sister. She was lying on her back, eyes closed, her face pale and lifeless, but he could see she was still breathing. Crimson blood covered a rock near her head.

"Tempest?" He touched her face gently but there was no response. He checked her for broken bones but could find none, then turned her carefully to examine her head.

She had a large, nasty-looking gash on the back of her skull. He tore a large strip off his tunic and wound it around her head, then lifted her in his arms.

"If she dies, you will rue this day," he vowed, glaring at the man whose horse had routed her.

"Tristan," William interjected, "you cannot fault the man.

He had control of his steed. He is my knight. I stand for him."