The Sorcerers Mark Read online

  “Oh, Ollie, don’t,” Mother cried. “Don’t jump to all these silly conclusions.”

  “How can I help but make conclusions when I don’t know what’s going on?” Olivia had grown impatient and anger filtered into her tone. “Are we in danger? Has this man come here to hurt us?”

  “Of course not! Do you think I’d encourage you to see him if I felt he meant any harm?”

  Olivia scrutinized her mother’s expression. She was hiding something. Her lips were pressed tightly together and she kept her eyes lowered. “What do you know? You must tell me or I won’t go tonight.”

  “I suspect that Mr. Talbot is a distant relative of Anna Von Der Weilde.”

  “Who?”

  “That was her maiden name but we know her as Anna Byrne. Her husband was Henry Byrne, the sea captain who started building the Keep. He met her in France, as the story goes, and rescued her from persecution as a witch.” Mother puffed a sardonic laugh. “He apparently didn’t believe she was anything more than a pretty young girl with an attitude but he soon found out differently.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Probably nothing more than what your Gran does--potions and herbs for medicinal purposes, or reading tea leaves--but there were rumors.” Mother rolled her eyes. “Rumors had it that her craft bordered on the dark side, that she had a room in the Keep where she meditated, spoke to spirits, conjuring those who had lost their souls. It was said she had the mark of a sorcerer, carried from her family line from Germany, and she was trying to find a way to break the curse that followed her across the ocean. And the spirits she conjured were those family members who had passed before her, those who also bore the ... I mean, those who also considered themselves cursed.”

  “Germanic,” Olivia whispered.

  “I am Germanic by birth....”

  “Well,” Mother continued. “I guess whatever she tried to do didn’t work because she died of a sudden fever on her fortieth birthday, leaving Henry with their only child, Horace, who eventually went on to finish building the Keep in honor of his mother.”

  “He’s the one who is supposed to haunt the cliff, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mother said, her mood lifting a little. “That’s because he died in such a freak accident.”

  Olivia remembered reading the ghost story in a book from mother’s shop. Horace Byrne, often mistakenly credited for being the original builder, had been swept into the sea and drowned by the rogue wave that appeared from nowhere on a peaceful summer day. No wonder the locals said he was often spotted still meandering over the cliff, his spirit as confused as everyone else at such a peculiar phenomenon of nature. “He was forty when that happened, though, right?”

  Mother nodded wearily. “But, haven’t you noticed that your grandmother is pushing eighty and I have passed that accursed age? Just barely, mind you.” She winked. “But I’m well and happy. So,” she announced getting to her feet, “if there was any substance to this so-called curse it hasn’t anything to do with us.”

  “What’s the sorcerer’s mark?”

  Mother’s smile dropped.

  “It was mentioned in the diary and you said Anna Von Der Weilde had it. Is it like a birthmark?”

  “Ollie, I have to get going. It’s past time I opened the shop.”

  “Mother, I have a mark, on my shoulder.” Olivia felt a sudden stab of dread, as though she had been kicked from the inside out. “Is it the same one? Do I have this mark?”

  “No, it is not! And no, you do not. What you have is a scar. I spent a long time in the delivery room with you young lady, and unfortunately you were left with a tiny souvenir.” Mother sat down again and patted Olivia’s arm. “Honey, please don’t go connecting dots that just aren’t there. Find a pretty dress and enjoy your evening with Mr. Talbot. If you think his intentions are less than honorable, I know you’ll put him in his place.” She gasped at her watch. “Mercy! I have to get going. Drop in later and show me what you’ve picked out.”

  Olivia waved as her mother dashed down the street to the storefront. No sooner had she swung wide the door than two tourists followed inside. Another week or so and the village would be a busy place, but this year no ghost hunter would be allowed to leave their prints in the earth around the Keep.

  * * * *

  Olivia plaited her hair, a solid braid, over one shoulder. The dress she had finally chosen was charcoal gray, one piece, narrow at the waist, gathered beneath her bosom. It hugged her form. The pleated skirt swung demurely mid length between her ankle and knee. Nothing fancy, it bordered on plain, but she had taken an instant liking to its modesty the minute she had tried it on. She had a pair of boots, the heels adding an inch to her height. And she had a red wool cape, one she saved for special occasions. Folding it over her lap, she sat on her bed and brushed the lint of disuse from the crushed material.

  A tickle in her stomach was growing more severe. She had no choice but to admit to herself she was looking forward to the evening in William Talbot’s company. Scrutinizing the building’s interior had dimmed in comparison to scrutinizing the man. To be honest it was a silly façade, casting a critical eye over décor when she was by far more interested in him--his history, his connection to the house, his sophisticated demeanor--and she often smiled at the erratic butterflies that continued to flutter about within her stomach.

  Olivia had just finished brushing her cape when Gran knocked gently on the bedroom door. She shuffled to the chair that was draped with sweaters and jeans, cleared a place and sat down, her bony fingers interlinked, continuously moving in concern.

  “Please don’t worry about me, Gran,” Olivia said, suspecting the reason for the visit. “I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself.” She was trying to ease her grandmother’s worry, frightened that worry would cause guilt in seeing the man that Gran believed to be dangerous. Her excitement had far outweighed the foresight of danger. By convincing Gran she would help to convince herself.

  “I’m not here to stop you, Olivia,” Gran said with a hint of melancholy. “You are as intelligent as you are beautiful. I know you will be careful.” She lowered her gaze to her fingers that continued to rub into each other.

  Olivia wasn’t certain what to say. Mother had forbidden her to bring up the perilous topic of curses even though the subject rested on her tongue, nearing escape. She kept the thought silent, waiting to find out the reason for Gran’s visit.

  After a few moments of fiddling, Gran reached into her pocket and pulled out a small hand stitched satchel. “Put this in your purse,” she said, handing it over to Olivia.

  “What is it?” Olivia asked gently, smiling thanks for the gift. The embroidery was a burgundy cross, faded with age. The contents dry, crackling with the slightest movement.

  “One of a few things that has been passed down in our family,” Gran answered. “It belonged to my great-great grandmother. She made it a long time ago and now I want you to have it.”

  “You mean Anna Von Der Weilde?”

  Gran’s eyes widened with surprise. “Yes, that’s right. She believed in the power of the Rune. The one stitched there is called Nyd. It represents ... destiny.” She bowed her head, as though in prayer, and Olivia was touched deeply by her reverence.

  “Gran,” Olivia whispered, kneeling in front of the frail woman, taking her hand. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she prodded, as cautiously as possible.

  “Nobility courses through your veins, Olivia. Don’t ever forget that. You are better than him. You always will be.”

  “Him? Are you talking about Mr. Talbot?”

  “Is that what he calls himself now?”

  Olivia felt her brow furrow with confusion. Gran squeezed her hand. “If you don’t want me to go, Gran, I won’t.” It hurt Olivia to even make the suggestion but she loved her grandmother dearly. The last thing she wanted was to cause the old woman such heartache.

  “You must go,” Gran said sternly. Olivia was surprised by the c
onviction in the tone. “You must go to him. Destiny has commanded it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Gran stroked Olivia’s cheek. “You will, sweet girl. You will.”

  “Who is he, if not William Talbot?”

  “He is whoever he wants to be,” Gran said, stiffening. “But you have a greatness he can never obtain. Just remember that. Don’t ever let him take anything from you that you’re not willing to give. Promise to be careful of him, Olivia. It’s all I ask.”

  “I promise.”

  With that Gran got up, smoothed down her skirt, and left the room.

  * * * *

  Twice Olivia stopped on the way to the Keep. The first was to gaze behind to her home, a place where she had always been comfortable and secure. The second was when she crossed the crest of the hill and saw the Keep, a place that had filled her imagination since childhood with awe and wonderment. So here she stood, in this peculiar purgatory between two worlds. The unknown was calling her forward almost as powerfully as the familiar was calling her back. The journey was innocent enough. Still, Olivia had the nagging sensation that completing this short walk meant transition. She was crossing a bridge from one way of life to another, all because of the silent call of a man who continued to be cloaked in mystery and intrigue. He was the source of some odd hold on destiny, and she was ignorant as to whether it would be favorable or fatal. Never one for tempting fate, now she seemed to be gambling. The need to know more about William Talbot far outweighed her need to run home again and hide within the arms of the assured. The fluttering butterflies inside her stomach prompted her voyage to continue.

  William Talbot. “Is that what he calls himself now?” A dormant memory teased her into believing she knew another identity, as though she had been told in a dream. Try as she might, however, she couldn’t bring that memory to the surface. It remained elusively out of reach.

  Olivia pulled her cape tightly around her chest even though the evening was far from cold. The shiver came from within. If he was not William Talbot then who was he? Why would he lie about his name?

  She stood for what seemed like hours staring at the Keep’s transformation. For so long it had been blackened by neglect and abuse, its rooms empty and its windows broken. This night it glowed, each restored pane of glass sparkling to a flickering gold light. Thin wisps of smoke floated from every chimney. Even the narrow slash in the turret winked illumination. Olivia had drawn closer without even realizing she had done so.

  The rose gardens had been manicured and the stone steps were free from weeds. The proprietor had been very busy. In such a short amount of time he had turned the loneliness of a forgotten estate into a home. The exterior was pleasantly welcoming. Her heart beat double time to the delights that waited within.

  “Nobility courses through your veins, Olivia. Don’t ever forget that. You are better than him.” Better at what? Nobility. The impression was an idealistic one even though she was skeptical of her grandmother’s claim. Perhaps if she traced the family tree back into the folds of history she would discover a lineage where wealth and fame dictated certain style, a duchess maybe or a count, but to suggest she was ‘better’ than William Talbot, well, that seemed absurd. If she was so much better why would she need protection from a charm, and why did she feel so humbled standing here in front of the front door?

  A brass doorknocker was the head of a lion, the ring clamped firmly in its fanged mouth. The artisan had captured the beast’s nobility. The eyes seemed filled with a hunger for the thrill of the chase. Olivia reached to clasp the ring and startled when the door swung wide, without the need to physically announce her arrival.

  Her host filled the doorway, the yellow light behind him silhouetting his figure. She quietly gasped, not only at the suddenness of the opened door, but at the image that filled her with a great sense of splendor. Snugly fitted around his barrel chest was a magnificent waistcoat, blue and copper chenille, the shoulders capped, the front laced, the embroidery an accented copper trim. Beneath it he wore a white satin shirt, the sleeves slightly puffed. Long black hair cascaded over each shoulder, framing shadowy features, until he smiled, a genuine delight emanating from the welcome. “Olivia,” he announced. “I am so pleased you have come.” He stepped to one side and waved an invitation to venture inside.

  She shrugged off her cape and he placed it on the coat rack, fully assembled, looking brand new. The small foyer glistened, even the vase revealed no hint it had once been ruined. If this was an indication of what the rest of the building would reveal, she was going to be thoroughly impressed. Sensory overload prevented her from uttering much, except an initial “thank you.”

  “You look beautiful,” he said, sweeping a gaze over her form.

  “So do you,” she returned. An odd compliment for a man, she knew, but it was true and hoped he would accept her assessment in the good humor in which it was meant. Needing to explain her choice of words she added, “Your vest, is it handmade?”

  “Yes. Doublets like these were often worn by nobility in years gone by. I admire the history of such pieces as much as the handiwork involved in creating them.”

  “Nobility courses through your veins. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “Please,” he issued gently with a wide smile. “Come inside.”

  “Oh my,” she whispered, taken aback by the grandiosity of the immense hallway. Dry leaves on the floor were replaced by Persian carpets, their dark woven colors reflected in the many tapestries that covered the stone walls. Thick candles were perched on iron stands while others flickered from their candelabras in strategic points outside every archway. The staircase at the far end was also dotted with light, an oil painting hung above the landing, a portrait of a woman dressed in a white flowing gown, a dark red love knot plaited through her waist long blonde hair. Her eyes seemed to follow Olivia, waiting as William did, for approval. “This is incredible,” Olivia said, breathless at the building’s transformation. She felt lightheaded with the delight of everything she saw and swung in a circle to drink it all in. “Absolutely amazing.”

  He watched her reaction intently, not interested in what she gazed upon, rather how she felt about his choice of décor. “It pleases you?” he asked with yearning.

  “Words fail me,” she said with truth. “Your taste is impeccable. I love the theme.”

  His brow rose. Beneath, his eyes searched her face for further explanation.

  “Medieval,” she answered. “It’s my favorite period. The woman in the portrait,” she went on. “Is she an ancestor of yours?”

  “No,” he said. “But long ago our families were united through friendship.”

  “She’s beautiful. Who is the artist?”

  “Unknown,” he answered hastily. “Please, allow me to show you the gallery.”

  Heat from his palm pooled on her shoulder as he guided her toward the archway. No longer did her footsteps echo from emptiness. She glided across the fringed rug and into the gallery. As impressed as she had been with the massive hallway, this room was one of unspeakable grandeur. All three fireplaces crackled with fires, uniting with numerous candles that filled the whole area with a soft yellow hue. Dark brown book shelves spanned from the floor to the ceiling, each stacked with leather bound editions--Dante, Chaucer, Malory--surely reproductions, unless of course he had transferred the whole of the British Museum’s library. A suit of armor stood guard, the glove holding a spear as though ready to challenge any hand that didn’t have permission to browse. The center fireplace was twice the size of the others at each end, above it hung several double-edged swords, their hilts adorned with jewels set within the woven steel. Not accustomed to appraising pieces of ancient weaponry, Olivia studied the design with fascination. “These look like originals,” she muttered, touching every inch of the lowest sword with her gaze.

  “Yes,” William said from behind her shoulder. “They are. I am a collector. I have always been intrigued by their virtue. The expense of such
pieces meant that only the elite could carry such exquisite instruments. Epics have justly conveyed their....” He paused with a dramatic flare. “Magical abilities.”

  Olivia had never heard of a killing instrument being spoken of with such reverence. “They must be priceless,” she said. “Everything in this room is priceless.”

  “Indeed,” he purred, fixating a suggestive stare on her, one that caused an eruption of fine hairs on her arm to flutter to attention despite her close proximity to the fire. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”

  “That would be lovely,” she said, considering the fact she was going to need one to settle her nerves. This whole evening was becoming extremely surreal. It was almost as though she had walked into a time-slip, catapulting her into the fifteenth century. “I thought you said you were restoring the house to its original glory,” she said with a slight challenge. “It was built in the eighteen hundreds, not the fourteen hundreds.”

  He poured dark wine from a decanter into two pewter goblets. “That is true,” he said with a wry grin. Passing her a goblet he added, “I believe the original mistress was, however, European. It is her taste to which I have remained true.”

  “So you do have a connection to this building,” Olivia stated coyly. “Your being here is not by chance.”

  “Yes, and no,” he said. His thumb stroked the pewter branch that cradled the cup of wine. He was lost in thought a moment before continuing. “As the symbolism in the goblet portrays, a family can branch in many directions. I am as familiar with those she left behind as I am yours. Research led me here.”

  “Really?” Olivia made her way to the couch that was positioned close to the center fireplace. “Tell me more.”

  “Conformity can be brutally ugly. It warps the imagination. Freedom of religion, especially for those who cling to the shadows, has always been a difficult road to follow. Those who dare break the web of traditionalism in the glare of persecution deserve respect. She broke free, Olivia. She came here to establish the glory we feast upon this night. I wanted to honor her memory, her strength.” His wide shoulders lifted to a heavy sigh as he glanced, with pride, around the gallery. “And I wanted to see if this strength, as well as her beauty, has been passed to her descendants.” He sat down on the couch and held the goblet to his lips before taking a sip. “I believe I have been successful in my quest.”