"All of this is much too large, too vast," Nicholas whispered to her. "It is an illusion meant to impress us."
"Of course it is an illusion," she said matter-of-factly, "and it is well done." Rosalind called out, "Belenus, perhaps you have created too many rooms and corridors to impress us with your power. However, you said we must hurry. Why are you delaying us?"
Belenus stopped at the next chamber, one whose walls were painted vivid bright blue, the color of his eyes, Rosalind saw. There were velvet-covered benches against all the walls, a sultan's large jeweled pillows stacked everywhere, and on the walls were niches where statues of the Celtic gods stood. How he knew this, Nicholas didn't know, but he was sure.
Rosalind looked toward Nicholas, at his long thick black hair, clubbed now at the nape of his neck, and that hardness about his mouth, the promise of infinite violence and cruelty. She felt also the promise of wholeness, perhaps of a long-missing justice. He was now of the Pale, he was now of Blood Rock. This wizard was unfettered; he was at home.
She said to Belenus, her voice imperious, the air shimmering around her, hot and alive, her red hair a fiery nimbus around her head, "You will lead me to Epona right now. I know that I must proceed alone and that my lord must remain here. There is not much time left. What must be done must happen now or else times can overlap and there would be confusion even I cannot fix."
Rosalind felt incredible power flow through her. She embraced it, felt it grow stronger, felt herself one with it. She said to Nicholas, her voice calm, remote, "I am more powerful than the three blood moons. I could lift them out of the black sky and juggle them. Perhaps I could even sing to you as I juggled the moons."
In the next moment, Rosalind stood in the center of a vast stark white chamber. It was as blinding a white as she and Nicholas had experienced at Wyverly Chase-had that happened only the night before? Or a hundred eons ago? There were many windows with white gauzy curtains blowing into the chamber. The windows were not open.
On the far side of the room stood a narrow bed draped in white gauze hangings. The hangings, like the draperies, billowed over it.
She called out, her voice sharp, impatient, "Epona! Come here immediately. I want Prince Egan!" Time passed. "Epona!"
There was only the dead white and silence.
Rosalind wasn't alone. She was standing tall, smiling, atop a large flat platform. Beside her was a smooth flat stone, an altar. On top of it lay a man, his arms and legs chained down. He was naked, unconscious, and it was Nicholas.
His eyes flew open, dark, nearly black. He smiled. "I will kill you," he said. "I will kill you."
"No, you will not." She raised the knife in her hand and brought it down in a firm clean line, and stabbed it deep into his heart. She jerked out the knife, then cut away the flesh. She reached into his chest and cut out his still-beating heart. She raised her head to the heavens and chanted words that had no meaning to her, and then she flung the heart away from her. A great wind came up and blew her hair away from her face, plastered her flowing white gown against her.
She looked down at the man, dead by her hand. And she saw that it was indeed Nicholas. She had killed him just as Richard had seen her do in his dream. She sank to her knees, blind with hollowed pain. She felt her own life seeping out of her, and welcomed it.
Silence fell around her, into her, pain roared through her head. Then she felt something move inside her, and it was awareness, and it was knowledge.
And she knew.
She stood and yelled, "A lie, it was all a lie! You will not fool me again, Epona! Show yourself, you bloody witch!"
Epona seemed to fly in through one of the large windows, though it appeared to remain closed, and the white draperies flowed about her until she was standing directly in front of Rosalind. She was gowned all in white. The material welled up, then settled around her, leaving one very white shoulder bare. Her hair was black as a moonless sky. She looked very young and very beautiful, her mouth as red as the blood tracking down the fortress stones.
Epona looked her up and down, sneered. "You are too late, witch. I had told Belenus to delay you and so he did, because he, like all the others, fears me. Yes, it is too late and you have failed. Sarimund has failed."
"Of course I am not too late, you witless creature," Rosalind said. "That illusion-you plucked it right out of my head, didn't you? You also gave it to Richard Vail in a dream to terrify him."
Epona laughed.
Rosalind said, "Well, no matter now. At last I realized the truth and you will not fool me again. I heard you represented beauty, speed, and sexual vigor." "And bravery!"
"As you wish. Perhaps some of that could be true. However, you strongly resemble your mother. You look like a horse, albeit a beautiful horse, perhaps an Arabian."
Epona flew at her, her nails sharp as daggers. "You bitch! I am a beautiful woman, all say so."
Rosalind laughed as she held up her hand. Epona's nose smashed against her palm. Epona tried to draw back, but Rosalind's palm remained stuck to her nose. She laughed again. "Not only do you look like a horse, your power is pitiful. Where is Prince Egan?"
"Let me go or I will say nothing!"
"Ah, is that a neigh I heard? By all the gods, I pray Egan does not look like you, Epona." Rosalind drew back her hand from Epona's nose and wiped her palm on her cloak.
"Bring him to me now."
Epona cursed under her breath, a strange mixture of ancient Celtic and Latin words, all of them crude and graphic. Rosalind gave her a very cold smile. She felt viciousness sing through her blood. "I will not ask you again, Epona. I will reverse the spell of the witmas tea if you do not obey me. Ah, I wonder what you really look like?"
Epona vanished. Rosalind remained standing in the middle of the room. The air was silent and still. The curtains were no longer blowing inward from those closed windows. She heard a child's voice, coming closer. A boy child, and he was speaking. "Who am I to meet? There isn't anyone left that I have not met."
Rosalind listened, and waited. Suddenly he was in front of her, arms crossed over his chest, and he looked her up and down. He was perhaps eight, a finely knit boy, dark eyes, handsome. "Who are you, woman? What do you want with me? She said only that you were another stupid witch, not even from the Pale, and she would dig out your ugly eyes with her nails. She said she would drown you into eternity. She is very powerful. I would believe her."
"I am Isabella. You are Prince Egan, Sarimund's son?"
"Yes, who else would I be?"
She smiled down at the handsome little boy. "No, you are yourself, of course." Rosalind studied the boy. Did Nicholas look like him when he'd been a boy? They didn't look alike, precisely, but there were similarities, the olive tone of their skin, the dark, dark hair and eyes.
"I do not recognize you. Why do you wish to see me?"
I am in time to save him, to save Nicholas, and she wanted to shout with the relief of it. She whispered, "Nicholas."
51
"No, I am not this Nicholas. I am Egan. Why are you here, Isabella?"
"I am hare to save you from Epona."
"How can you possibly save me when I can outrun you, I can blight you into a white bug?"
Ah, the arrogance in his young voice. But it was Nicholas, she knew to her soul that it was, at least here in the Pale it was. She smiled. "Did Epona not tell you?" She could not bring herself to call the witch his mother, not when Epona wanted to murder him.