The Sorcerers Mark Read online

  “Good morning,” he said. The edges of the cape swayed, brushing his walking stick, as he bowed slightly. “Am I correct in assuming you are the manageress, Ruby Morgan?” His voice sparkled as much as the drops of rain that clung on expansive shoulders.

  “Yes, that’s right.” The stranger blocked Olivia’s seeing her mother’s expression, but she supposed it was one of admiration by the tone of the breathy response.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” the man continued. “I am William Talbot. You have no doubt heard I have recently purchased the property which borders your home.”

  Olivia pressed her palm to her mouth to keep from squeaking aloud. Certainly not the hunched and withered old man she had, for some strange reason, predetermined him to be. His facial features remained obscured by his stance, but by the command in his voice and the stiff backbone that held a massive frame, he certainly did not carry sufficient years to need the aid of a cane except as a display of extravagance. Slowly she withdrew a book from the shelf to get a better view. As quiet as she was, he tipped his head slightly to where she continued to hide. She caught the round outline of a smooth olive jaw before he shifted back to his original position.

  “Yes,” Mother said, audibly clearing her throat. “We have heard. May I be the first to welcome you to Beacon’s Bay.”

  The black mane of hair twisted over his caped shoulder. The flexing arm denoted something subtler than a handshake. Olivia was shocked; he had reached to kiss Mother’s hand. “Thank you,” he said, his shoulders straightening. “The warmth of your greeting means a great deal to me. It is indeed an honor to meet you.”

  Olivia stifled a laugh. Who talked like this? Despite the humor behind the absurdity, she had the unsettling feeling that beneath the charm there could be nothing less than a sinister cesspool. Too good to be true, she told herself. Cynicism dampened her opinion. It did nothing, however, to dampen her interest.

  He sidestepped, the tips of the cape twirling to the sudden movement. The profile Olivia glimpsed was one of statuesque faultlessness, much like those she had studied in her art classes, exaggerated male splendor that caught the brush of talented painters or gifted sculptures. Never once did she believe such masculinity existed--most artists were paid to glorify their patrons with attributes that far surpassed true representation. Yet here was the ultimate model, raised above the pages of the history texts she had so keenly scrutinized. Personified idealism. And it was extremely unsettling.

  His chin lifted and stalled, as though he were balancing something light and fragile. From where she watched, Olivia saw one nostril flare to a deep breath and after muttering a soft sigh his voice rose so dramatically that she jumped. “I have many possessions and I fear the continuous noise past your home has been an unspeakable violation. Perhaps I can tender my best apology by offering you this gift--a small token of appreciation for your bountiful patience.”

  “Oh, my,” Mother said, accepting a pair of solid brass candle sticks, which he presented from a pocket within the flowing cape. “These are very lovely. Thank you so much, but there’s really no need to apologize. We think it’s wonderful that someone is fixing up the old place.” She placed the gift on the counter. “Do you have a family, Mr. Talbot?” Meant to be small talk, polite in presentation, but Olivia silently scowled. Mother was needling for information about the man’s availability.

  “No, Mrs. Morgan,” he answered. “I have no family.”

  Mother darted a quick glance to where Olivia hid. “Oh, I see,” she said absently.

  “I must bid you farewell then,” he said, an octave lower, almost a purr. “There is much that waits my attention.” He took her hand again, pressing it to his lips. The cane tapped the floorboards as he turned, and then he paused, as though remembering some urgent question he had neglected to ask. But no question was uttered.

  Olivia saw his face as he delayed what she expected would be a hasty departure to escape further personal questions. Hair pulled back from a high forehead, dark brows rose slightly as the brown orbs beneath drifted slowly to where she peeked from between the books. Locking her into a hypnotic stare, the air drummed in her ears. She wasn’t certain whether the eyes of a man or those of a predator had encased her being. Yet a stern sensuality promised that ecstasy awaited if she dared to seek the soul within. Full shapely lips parted and in slow motion he spoke, as if through a hazy dream, each syllable of her name. But the sound didn’t spring from his throat or tongue or lips--it vibrated inside her mind. “O-liv-i-a.” She swayed to the impossible sensation of being both pulled into the depths of the earth while floating higher than a summer’s cloud.

  A short smile touched the corner of his mouth and with a long stride the bell over the shop door jangled.

  Prevailing loss was almost too painful to bear. She was certain her chest would collapse with the sorrow of it--that her very spirit had been sucked from within with one long draw, refusing to return until he gave permission to release it. Left weakened and dazed, she wondered if an object of great mass had actually struck her.

  Outside she caught a glimpse of the cape as it vanished within a great swirl of fog. Sinking to the floor with a gasp she clasped her pounding heart. “He has come.” Change had been thrust upon her, but for better or worse, Olivia could not determine.

  * * * *

  Fingers sprawled, he clutched the material of his robe, pulling the veil over his head, sinking into the haze of invisibility. The spirit world shrunk from the suddenness of his presence. Bodiless voices gasped and evaporated, yet they had nothing to fear; Wyldelock the Sorcerer was not here to demand their reluctant services. He had stepped into their realm merely to watch without being seen, hear without being heard, and to touch the thoughts of the one mind he had successfully found, to caress the heart that beat for him. The cloak was the window from which he peered into her world, one of solid form, the place where she moved and breathed, the place of distinct sensation, where she would eventually succumb to his charms. He was the master of magic, yet to satisfy the flesh that hung from his bones she had to see him as her servant. He could not tamper with magic or wistful fantasy. She had to seek him with her own free will. Determination to follow the rules, regardless how he loathed the restriction, issued hesitation. Tread slowly and carefully, for she was one who frightened easily.

  She knew little of this borderless place where he crouched to wait, even though he sensed her untapped mystical ability. He could teach her much about bending the limit of what she called reality, to rejoice in the flush of preeminence, but she first had to give to him freely. Fear was the only threshold that could bar such lessons. If she were to deny him earthly pleasures, then he could never find release, never rid himself of the burn that crippled his flesh, never be able to share his wisdom. She alone held the key to his future existence. He could easily command the faceless ghosts that withered from him in this world, but he needed her promises so that he could survive within the world in which she lived. One without the other meant imminent demise.

  The scent of innocence followed his transformation. If she only knew the supremacy she already held over him! Humility was a part of such innocence. Only within his arms, only from the heat of physical union, only through the culmination of ecstasy could she understand his unfailing servitude. Until then, he had no choice but to woo her with extreme precision. Once he became her mate the exploration of unlimited demand could be a joy they shared. He could be king only if she were his queen. And bore his heir.

  Wyldelock lifted his all-seeing eyes. The edges of peripheral vision were blurred like flowing water, framing her image as she stepped from the building. He rose and followed, cloaked confidently within nothingness. She sensed him, he could tell, for she stopped and glanced over her shoulder, as she did the evening he watched her progress up the stone steps of the desolate ruins. He stood mere inches behind, time and space distorted. If he so willed, he could reach forth with minimum effort and touch the auburn silk locks that cur
led over her neck. Instead he remained obscured behind the cloak; she looked through him. He saw the color of her breath as she heaved a sigh. It was the color of betrayal and sadness and Wyldelock grew concerned.

  The urgency of knowing what she was thinking became tantamount.

  If he chose to do so, Wyldelock could take his formless consciousness and glide within her mind to view every memory, every secret, and every wish. Such potent eavesdropping would require summoning great magic on his part and leave him weakened. It might also disrupt her free will. There was also the threat he might damage one or more pieces of her thoughts, create fear within her heart; such an intrusion could become too perilous. It was an effective tool to search out the plans of an enemy, to find weakness or to plant seeds of doubt, but she was not his enemy. He could not risk damage despite the temptation to understand her every yearning. He had to be patient, be content with following her step, and gently coax her to willingly reveal the source of her pain. “Speak to me.” She had a habit, after all, of talking to herself when she believed she was alone. Her eyes told her she was alone.

  “William Talbot,” she said aloud. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and gathered haste along the street. “What is it about the Keep that brought you here?”

  Wyldelock floated behind, straining to capture every syllable she uttered. The sounds to him were the sweetest of songs. Each made him want to laugh and cry and dance. How he ached to hold and comfort her, tell her that only he could fulfill every desire. Patience was a virtue he found difficult to yield to.

  “What is it I could say or do to convince you to go away?”

  Leave? Why would she ask for such a reprehensible thing? He had taken great care in appearance before entering her mother’s shop. She had cowered behind the books, staring at him with awed pleasure. It delighted him so much to know she found him attractive, and he had chosen words with polite care. What was she so frightened of? “I could never harm you.”

  “I don’t know your motives,” she replied. She faltered, and shook to a quick shiver. Wyldelock drifted back and smiled. She spoke, answered him without understanding why. His hold on her was strengthening and she was completely innocent of the fact.

  “All men are a mystery to me,” she sighed aloud. “Cruel and heartless, looking for one thing and one alone. I shouldn’t doubt, Mr. Talbot, you are any different. You will not conquer me.”

  Ah! The rebuttal added to his growing desire. If she stood so firmly behind a wall of denunciation, how much greater would the pleasure be in breaking through! She would succumb, eventually. She must, for he would make certain to complete her every dream. She would be incapable of denying his affection.

  “Many rumors,” she muttered, shaking her head so that her hair shimmered in the dampness. “There must be a reason. Something has upset Gran. She wouldn’t be so anxious otherwise.”

  Wyldelock startled. He peered through his vast cloak, catching a glimpse of the windows to her abode. On the ground floor, candles flickered. A white glow filtered into the yard. He understood now why the dormant gift of spiritual wisdom coursed through her veins. The sense was inherited from the grandmother--the Old Mother who dabbled with herbs and flowers and scented oils. It was a frail magic compared to his. But the Old Mother was wise enough to see that influence followed Wyldelock’s path, even though she was incapable of throwing out any obstacle. He had much to thank her for, however. The old one was the reason Olivia’s scent had called him to this place. Through blood, she had passed the gift of enchantment to her granddaughter, creating the very innocence, the potential that he would soon claim. And together they would explore the heights of sorcery, combining their powers through a union that none could challenge. Such irony.

  He would deal with the Old Mother only if necessity dictated. Nothing was going to come between him and his chosen one, his jewel. Nothing! He had come too far to be foiled by the ridiculous chants of an ignorant witch.

  Even so, acknowledging the existence of divination other than his own had alarmed Wyldelock, and with reckless abandonment, he reached out to touch her.

  She shuddered and whirled around, frantically searching for the source of the feathered pat that had tickled her neck. He shrunk back, furious at his impetuous carelessness, and pulled the cloak tightly over his thoughts so she could sense nothing. She stood firmly, searching the fog, delicate features twisted with unease. He lifted his eyes from a deep bow and whispered, “You will want me as none other.”

  Then she was gone, hidden within her dwelling of stone and wood, as he was hidden within the swirling fog behind his cape.

  Featureless faces began to crawl closer to his presence, curious slanted eyes peering to him, attracted to his existence. He breathed; they did not. His heart pounded; theirs lay dormant. His mind functioned; they could merely react. All he had to do was lift one finger and they scattered again, high-pitched shrieks dropping through the mist like lumps of hardened rain. Except for one. One dark form did not falter to his raised finger. Rather, it grew larger, the blackness thickening, its head shrouded by a heavy mantle as though preparing for combat. How dare this spirit advance without permission! Wyldelock shivered in rage. He would not be challenged.

  Worse still it had the audacity to utter his name.

  “Wyldelock Talan De Croft.”

  “Present yourself, minion, before I smite you for such impertinence.”

  It laughed. Laughed! What brazenness was this? The haze melted and the figure stepped closer. “Not a minion. Think, Talon, think hard on my voice.”

  Wyldelock leaned, dizzied by the command, memory on the outer edges of knowing who belonged to a tone as rigorous as his own. He wavered to a slight sensation that his governance here was diluted. His fists curled, his chest swelled and his eyes widened to a sharp threatening glare. “Speak before I secure your demise.”

  “No, brother, you have it wrong. It is I who will secure yours.” The mantle flung aside.

  Horror struck Wyldelock’s heart, as sharp and painful as any sword. “Dietrick!” The full figure of his oldest and dearest friend stood before him, draped in the nobility they had once shared, centuries ago. “Dietrick.”

  Eyes of revenge slashed into Wyldelock, the hatred so true he could taste it. “The centuries have not ruined your memory. Good. Feed on my fury, Talan. Know that I am coming for you. Know that I found a way to follow.”

  A thin strand of panic gripped Wyldelock’s soul. This was madness. No other could command this place as he could, no other could share in its dominion--certainly not a mere mortal who relied on nothing more potent than charms for luck. Yet here he was, as tall and real as memory dictated. “How? How can this be?”

  The image began to fade. “The time is close at hand, Talan. Make your peace. I will come for you.”

  Wyldelock fell, crashing into the ground, humiliated, stunned. The robe twisted over one shoulder as he gathered his wits as quickly as possible and drew salt air into his lungs. Rasping several long breaths, he grabbed clumps of damp earth, hanging on to a world solid beneath his knees. His hair had fallen loose over his cheekbone, wet and cold. And he growled, concentrating on the vibration that rattled through his throat.

  A conscience was a warrior’s weakness and he had never taken notice in battle. The darkness that dwelled within his chest made certain his weapon would flash without regret, that victory would always be obtainable. Yet now, as he shivered to the haunting words of one who had been a comrade, a blood brother, Wyldelock watched to a review of distant transgressions that marched through his mind’s eye as any parading army might do, transgressions against his loyal companion.

  He had held no other man in such high esteem as he had done Dietrick Von Der Weilde. They rode decorated steeds together, hunted fowl and deer together, feasted at long bountiful tables together, drank fine wines together, and wielded swords of combat together. And as their friendship deepened, Wyldelock trusted him enough to share secrets known only to sorcerers.
So loyal a friendship, they shared blood--slashing each other’s palms and pressing them together to secure a bond that would hold them as brothers throughout their lives. A lifetime was short, however, and when Wyldelock’s magic grew deeper and more profound, he heard of rumors, a passage to evade death. He sought out and found the shadowy masters who ruled the Underworld, impressing himself within their close circle with his talents and his wit; they were amused by him and honored his request, directing him to the goddess they said would honor his dastardly request. Far from a gift, a price for eternity had to be sorely bought. The price she requested was love. He forfeited any ability to know love so that he could forever embrace youthful vigor. The physical appetite for women was worth sacrificing a useless emotion. The goddess took love from him and laughed, but he did not care. He retreated and bragged of the ultimate seduction of conquest.

  Dietrick had been repulsed by such an attitude, mortified by such shamelessness, and angered. How could their friendship continue when Dietrick’s only sister was already with child, Wyldelock’s child? Wyldelock had not only abandoned years of comradeship but also the woman who needed a husband. Hatred had folded over Dietrick’s eyes like a thick ominous cloud.

  But it was Sophia Von Der Weilde that Wyldelock remembered so well. He remembered her as though the conquest was only yesterday. Hair that flowed to her waist, ice blue eyes that floated in a sea of tranquility, curves that taunted beneath dresses of silk, a complexion like cream--and untouched. He met her on the night when he was welcomed as an honored guest, when wine flowed freely, when celebration was at its height. He met her as she reached the age of consent, and consent she gave! Barely able to control his passion he had crept to her bed, like a thief in the night, and ravished her as a starving man would ravish a full meal. She gave of herself to him again and again and he knew that as a result the union meant she would conceive. But when her belly began to swell and her breasts filled with nourishment, it was demanded of Wyldelock to take her as his bride, show honor to her family, provide the child with paternity. Worse, it was demanded he hinder craving other maidens, to be tethered, only to the woman who would bear his child. It was a promise he openly shirked. His lust was too great to be tempered by mere laws of morality. He had paid too great a price to dampen his cravings.