The Impaled Bride Page 6

  Defeated, I fall back on the bier.

  The appearance of an older, more powerful Ágota in my memory is mystifying and disquieting. If I did not know her fate, I would believe she had truly appeared to me. Perhaps it is my own desperate need to escape that is driving me toward madness. It is impossible that my sister is searching for me after Vlad’s heinous betrayal.

  Weeping, I lie on my bier and await the next torment Vlad will visit upon me.

  Chapter 6

  Time stagnates in the darkness. Hunger is a constant. Loneliness is my only companion. Slumber has become my only refuge, but it is not particularly kind to me either. My dreams are always nightmares.

  When I awaken, I find no relief for I am still here in this foul mausoleum.

  Sometimes I scream until my throat is raw and I am overwhelmed with despair.

  Of course, this is what he desires. He plays a cruel game, always anticipating the methods in which I may thwart him. Every small comfort I managed to wrestle from this cursed existence he has quashed.

  The most brutal of all his punishments is that I am no longer visited by his Brides. At one time, my greatest pleasure was derived from the Brides spending cherished hours at my side. I miss Ariana’s laughter, Elina’s dark humor, and Cneajna’s sweet touch. I do not know how long it has been since I last beheld the beauty of Cneajna’s face. I miss her profoundly, but Vlad will keep her far away to punish me.

  The red-haired Bride, Lady Glynis from England, only visited a few times. She was lovely, strong, and rebellious. When I gazed into her eyes, I predicted she would break Vlad if he attempted to recreate the love he once shared with me with her. Her hatred for him was far deeper and stronger than mine could ever be and he would misjudge her fury for passion. I would have adored her if she had survived him. It is a pity that he has once more destroyed a woman that dared to stand against him.

  It is because of Lady Glynis that I am utterly alone. He feared that she would divulge where he had hidden me to his enemies and cast a spell to move the mausoleum far from the castle. In all my years trapped in this place, this is the closest I have teetered to losing this battle of wits. I am surrendered to the truth that I am mostly mad and only experience bouts of sanity.

  It is raining again. The water seeping through the crack in the roof has left me sodden. Water trickles off the edges of the bier. The smell of mold and wet stone has finally driven out the reek of burning flesh. The torches are long extinguished and darkness enfolds me.

  For several nights I have not experienced the overwhelming tug to return to the past and been free of the excursions that venture deep into my memories. Instead, I have laid here imagining all sorts of vengeance on Vlad, for I must gird myself with anger to prevent myself from weakening when he does return. I am so desperate to escape this place that there are moments when I consider subjugating my will to his power so I can be liberated from this suffering. But I cannot. No matter how much I love him and how much I desire release from this wretched stake, I cannot allow myself to be his slave. It would be a betrayal of those I love and of my own dark soul.

  Yet, my misery tempts me to succumb to Vlad. I am famished. My flesh is shriveling upon my bones. My swollen tongue presses against my sharp teeth, yearning to lap up blood. Thunder cracks overhead. I pray to a God who does not hear me for some weary traveler to take refuge in my mausoleum so I might feed.

  Will I ever be free of this place?

  Will any of those who love me ever find me?

  The strange vision of Ágota being lifted away by the manifestation of Vlad’s ward bedevils me. It must be a creation of my imagination and I rebuff its false hope. I was witness to Ágota’s fate at Vlad’s hands and remember her last words to me. It is foolhardy to even entertain the thought of her reaching through the Veil to touch my thoughts. It has been a hundred years since I lost her.

  I am mad.

  Simply mad.

  “No, you are not. I am. Mama always said so,” Ágota answers.

  “You are not here,” I whisper, closing my eyes, hoping to evade yet another vision.

  Ignoring me, she continues, “You are the sensible one. The one destined for the life of a noblewoman.”

  A vast green field lined with thick woods emerges from the darkness behind my eyelids. The endless blue sky is clear and birds soar high on the wind currents. The mountain summits looming over us are a hazy deep blue. The breeze is cool against my heated flesh and ruffles the wildflowers around me. Insects dart about the meadow, buzzing loudly.

  Ágota strides through the sea of tall grass, the fingers on her right hand lightly skimming over the green blades that reach her waist. In her other hand is a black raven’s feather that she twirls about by the quill. It is spelled to reveal any dangers lurking nearby and I am glad to see it fluttering in the wind. Her long hair ripples about her shoulders like a cape, and for the first time, I can see shades of our mother’s beauty in her face. The heavy embroidered bag she claimed from our garden bounces against her hip as she walks. Along our journey, she’s traded the precious objects our mother had stored in the bag for food, ale, and heavy cloaks for us to wear. No matter what she adds to it, the bag never bulges.

  I trod along beside her, my fingers gripping a walking stick Ágota made for me. At the top is a knot in the wood that always faces in the direction of our destination no matter how many times I spin it around. I fancy it is some sort of magical eye and keep waiting for it to open. The black feather and the staff are the only magic Ágota’s permitted in Styria. The White Woman of the Wood allowed us to pay passage across her territory but forbade Ágota to cast spells. My sister agreed, much to my consternation.

  I do not like walking great distances.

  I would much rather fly.

  “If I am a noblewoman, will I have a carriage?”

  “Most certainly. Pulled by the most beautiful of horses.”

  “Will I live in a fine house?”

  “Oh, yes! And you will have servants to do your bidding!”

  I smile with delight at the thought of not having chores. “Will I have fine dresses?”

  Ágota hesitates, the feather stilling. Staring off into some far distant place, she says, “I see you in a beautiful crimson dress covered in gold embroidery. Around your throat is a gold necklace with sparkling rubies. Yes, I see you as a very fine noblewoman.”

  “I do like that!”

  “I thought you would. The closer we draw to the Kingdom of Hungary, the more vivid your future becomes. I do not see all of it, of course. Your choices may alter your path, but the future before you right now is very lovely.”

  “Will I like Hungary?” I ask.

  “Yes, I do believe so.” Ágota grins at me. “It will bring you great things.”

  “Truly?” The idea excites me. “Are we almost there? We’ve been traveling for such a long time.”

  “It’s been only a week, Erjy.” She playfully brushes the feather over my nose.

  Batting it away, I say, “Well, we would travel much faster if we did not have to deal with all the fair folk along the way.”

  Ágota widens her eyes and wags the feather in my face. “Respecting the fair folk is the proper way to live through life.”

  “Humans do not pay attention to them. They just do as they want.”

  “And see what that gets them? Famine. Wars. Plagues.”

  “Do the fair folk really do all that?”

  Ágota shrugs one shoulder. “Mama says that they can nudge events in certain directions. I would rather not get cursed by The White Woman of the Wood.”

  “Could you not undo it?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know for certain since I wield witch magic, not fey magic.”

  “Is it really different?” I give her a doubtful look. I cannot imagine my sister being thwarted now that she has our mother’s magic within her.

  “I assume it is,” Ágota replies. “I cannot be sure, so I will not risk it. Besides, Mama said to always re
spect the fair folk. If not for her dealings with The White Woman of the Wood, we would never have been able to enter Styria. So we best follow Mama’s example.”

  Frustrated, I trudge onward on sore feet. The sky is slowly darkening on the horizon, and I hope we can camp for the night soon. We still have a roasted rabbit and some bread we purchased in a village, and my stomach aches at the thought of food.

  The feather in Ágota’s fingers abruptly flattens and points to the west. I widen my eyes in understanding.

  Danger is nearby.

  “Hide, Erjy,” Ágota orders, sprawling onto the ground.

  I mimic her, flattening my body beside hers. The tall grass and wildflowers obscure us from view.

  “What is it?” I whisper.

  Ágota covers my mouth with her hand. As she shakes her head, I remember that she is as lost as I am without her magic. The pounding of horse hooves echoes around us. Deep voices steadily become louder. The tromp of many feet reveals the approach of a great number of men. Ágota pulls me close and wraps her arms around me. The grass closes over our heads, casting shifting shadows on my skin.

  I listen to the clop of hooves, the steady patter of footsteps, and horses whinnying. My body tenses, preparing to flee if they approach where we are hiding. I feel Ágota trembling behind my back. Is it from fear or anger? She cannot use her powers to better hide us since she has to defer to the fey. I frown at the thought, but do not dare to speak.

  To my dismay, instead of passing through the meadow, the men come to a stop in obedience to the barked order of their leader. I am fearful they are searching for us. Had they seen us from afar? The cacophony continues nearby. With a shudder, I realize they are setting up camp.

  Ágota lifts the black feather and it still points to the west, unwavering in its warning. The men are a danger to us, so we must remain hidden. The feather is never wrong. I have witnessed how men can be with women. My mother had her share of amorous suitors that refused to be rebuffed. If not for her magic, I dread to consider what they would have done to her. I recoil at the thought of what these men might try to do to Ágota, and perhaps even me.

  I roll onto my back and crane my head to gaze at my sister’s face. Her head is cocked, obviously listening. She sees my questioning look and pats my cheek soothingly. Laying her head down beside mine, she sighs, surrendering to our situation.

  Reluctantly, I curl into her body, accepting we are trapped until we can sneak away under the cover of night. Small insects swirl around our heads and the stalks scratch my skin as I struggle to remain absolutely still and not ruffle the grass. I am hungry, but I do not dare speak aloud. Instead, I lay next to my sister, listening to the noise of a camp being erected. I wish The White Woman of the Wood would come and punish the interlopers on her land. But the fey are fickle, so I soon lose hope.

  As the hours pass, I watch the sky slowly turn from blue to vibrant colors to finally black. The stench of fires, food cooking, urine, and unwashed bodies wafts on the night breeze. Laughter, arguments, and conversation blot out the natural sounds of the night. A few times, men wander close to where we lay. Ágota covers me protectively with her body, but the soldiers return to their camp without spotting us. It is terrible to feel so vulnerable.

  The night deepens as the stars blink to life in a great swath of glittering specks. The ripe moon appears over the trees as the breeze turns cold. Ágota covers me with her skirt, attempting to warm me. I wonder how much longer we must wait before we escape. I am hungry, tired, and thirsty.

  The men start singing rousing songs about battles and women. Their words slur together as they grow increasingly inebriated. Shivering with cold, I press against my sister’s chest, listening to her beating heart. Her arms hold me tight, her fingers stroking my hair. My thoughts drift to the night several men came to our cottage and forcibly kissed my mother. She had attempted to appeal to their decency, but in the end, she had been forced to defend herself. I will never forget their screams when she transformed them into wild boar and sent them scampering into the forest.

  Certainly, Ágota could do the same if any of these men attempted to accost us. But what The White Woman of the Wood would do if my sister used her magic to defend us? A terrible thought follows. Perhaps my sister is incapable of using her magic here since she made an agreement with the fey.

  My heart sinks into an even deeper despair.

  I am so tired, yet I do not dare sleep. I lift my eyes to the dark sky, hoping that the men will soon crawl into their beds. I cannot bear the suspense of awaiting our discovery or our moment of escape.

  When the first startled cry comes, I merely disregard it as part of the men’s revelry. But then another comes, and another. Shouted commands, the clash of blades, and screams of pain and terror swiftly follow. Ágota dares to rise to her knees, craning her head to attempt to see what has befallen the encampment. I start to follow, but she presses me down with one firm hand. Shaking her head , she signals for my silence.

  The noises emanating from the camp are violent. Grunts, curses, cries of pain, and the clank of metal assure me that a battle is underway. The horses snort and whinny provoking me to stifle sobs at the thought of them being killed. I am childishly relieved when I hear them thundering away at a gallop. Soon the reek of blood is carried on the wind. It mingles with other distasteful smells. I gag and cover my mouth with the collar of my blouse.

  Ágota pulls my cloak from the bag and then her own. Motioning for me to be careful, she stores the black feather away and pulls the hood over her head. My fingers are stiff from the cold, but I manage to fasten the cloak at my throat. Gesturing for me to keep low to the ground, Ágota slings the bag across her chest. Together, we slowly crawl through the meadow in the direction of the woods. The grass is coarse against my palms and slaps at my face as I bite back my tears and follow Ágota.

  The sounds of combat fades away, not because we are gaining distance from it, but because there is apparently a victor. In the aftermath, men call out in agony for their mothers, only to be silenced one by one. Perhaps my wish came true and The White Woman of the Wood has inflicted her vengeance on the men who dared violate her land.

  Ágota dares to climb to her feet, crouching over to stay out of view, and takes hold of my hand. Hurrying toward the trees, the urgency of our escape makes my heart flutter with fright.

  The silence that fills the night is more terrifying than the sound of the battle a few short minutes before. Ágota does not even bother to hunch over anymore as the trees loom closer. I cling to her hand, my legs pumping in the effort to match her swift pace. We are nearly to the trees when Ágota gasps, spins about and snatches me up in her arms. I do not see what frightened her so terribly, but I cling to her as she runs. Staring over her shoulder, I peer at the ruins of the camp. Firelight illuminates the torn bodies of men. Blood splashes the tents and covers the corpses. The victors are nowhere to be seen.

  My sister stumbles to a halt, her chest heaving against mine. Gasping for air, she spins about as though searching for something.

  “What is it?” I sob in fright.

  “Hold onto me. Do not let go,” Ágota replies.

  Struggling to run with me in her arms, she rushes through the meadow toward a slope the leads higher into the mountains. Boulders and trees offer a hiding places. We are almost to the base of the incline when something drops from the sky and lands on a large pile of rocks before us. I twist about in my sister’s grip to see what has followed us, hoping that perhaps it is The White Lady of the Wood coming to our rescue.

  Instead, I glimpse a tall blonde woman dressed as a soldier. Her black tunic is over a mail shirt and she holds a sword covered in blood. Her long hair is braided and coiled over one shoulder. In the moonlight, her eyes appear black as pitch and her bright red lips slide into a smile.

  “What have I found?” she asks in German, but with an accent.

  “Travelers,” Ágota blurts out.

  The blood dripping from the sword
stains the rocks the warrior woman stands upon. Staring at her face in the moonlight, I observe she is both beautiful and cruel.

  I am enthralled and afraid.

  “We beg your mercy,” Ágota says. “We are not your enemies. We were hiding from the men and mean no harm to you.”

  The dark eyes observe my sister thoughtfully but show no tenderness toward our situation. “Yet, you lie to me.”

  “No, I do not. I swear it,” Ágota replies. “We are travelers. We are passing through Styria on our way to our father’s home in Transylvania.”

  “Why so far from home, witch?”

  Flustered, Ágota is speechless.

  “Yes, I know what you are, Ágota. The White Lady of the Wood said she’d allowed a witch and her human servant, Erzsébet, to enter her domain.”

  “I am her sister! Not her servant!” I declare, lifting my chin.

  To my surprise, the woman smiles. “Oh, my mistake.”

  “I am not lying about our journey, but you must understand why I must keep my nature a secret,” Ágota exclaims in her defense.

  “You did not use your magic against the men, or to hide yourself. Or even against me. You sustained your vow to The White Woman of the Wood,” the stranger says, one arched eyebrow lifting. “Impressive for someone so young and so afraid.”

  “I made a promise to The White Lady of the Wood,” Ágota replies. “I keep my word.”

  “Do you know what I am?”

  “Yes.” Ágota tightens her hold on me, her fingers pressing hard into my skin. “And I beg for your mercy.”

  The woman wipes her red lips with her gloved hand. I shiver, realizing they were so vibrantly red in color from the blood coating them. My mother told me about the vampires who lurk in darkness and feast off humans. I stare in terror at the woman before us. I do not want her sharp teeth to rend my throat.

  “I am well fed. I have no need for your blood or your sister’s.”

  Ágota remains quiet, clearly uncertain of a proper response to this declaration.