Entreat Me
“Even in the dead of winter, the brambles frothed with green leaves and flowers in full, ravenous bloom.Ballard’s bloodied palm slipped over the ice-sheathed woof of the casement. “Mercy, Isabeau,” he entreated. The plant stirred once more, every blossom turning its face toward the fortress gates and away from himHe looked to the gates and caught sight of a cloaked horseman emerging from the narrow barbican. A pack horse plodded behind him. Both paused, and the rider raised a hand in greetin...g. Ballard saluted him in return. Hauled back to Ketach Tor by the rising flux, Gavin had returned from his journey to the outside world. All of Ballard’s hopes rested on the day he might see his son depart Ketach Tor forever, finally freed from the prison of his inheritance.Shadows cast by torches trailed Ballard down the stairs that wound from the keep’s second floor to the great hall. He breathed in the fragrance of the rosemary and sage Magda used to scent the water she sprayed across the rushes. Gavin had finally given up wheedling her to abandon the practice and lay down the woven rugs he’d brought back from his many travels.Ketach Tor’s formidable cook and housekeeper met Ballard in the kitchen. She held a mortar in one hand and wielded a pestle like a club with the other. “What do you want?” Her gaze traveled over him, pausing at his cheek and hand before moving on to the glistening ribbons of blood that striped his leg and splotched his low boot. She motioned to him to sit at one of the benches near the hearth. “The witch’s familiar come to visit you again?”Ballard sat with a pained grunt and stretched out his bloodied leg. “Aye, and made sweet love to me.”“One of these days, someone’s going to hack that blasted weed to bits, and I want to be there to help.” Magda pointed a finger at him. “Stay put. I’m off to get bandages and honey.” She abandoned him for the larder, and he took the time to shuck his boots and carefully peel off his torn breeches.The wounds left by the thorns added to the mural of scars decorating his thigh and calf--souvenirs from long-ago battles when he’d fought men instead of demonic plants. These he could look upon and not have his stomach twist. The others he bore made him turn away. Wild magic, fueled by hatred hundreds of years old, had carved an illustrated testament of his failures into every part of his body.He jerked when a pile of bandages landed in his lap. Magda set a crock next to him and dropped to her knees for a better look at his injuries. She motioned to one of her maids hovering nearby. “Fill a bowl with hot water and bring towels.”Ballard held still as she poked and prodded first at his hand and then at the line of torn flesh gouged from calf to groin. He growled when she pressed on a particularly tender spot. “You’re about as gentle as a battering ram with those hands.”She sniffed. “You complain more than a babe with a wet nappy. Now be quiet and let me work.”The rustle of robes against the stone floor heralded Ambrose’s arrival. The sorcerer almost danced into the room. Ballard’s eyebrows rose. Gavin’s return trips to Ketach Tor were bittersweet for the remaining denizens of the keep—joy at his safe return, sadness that the flux drew him home. While Ambrose always celebrated Gavin’s homecoming as much as everyone else, he was practically jumping out of his skin with excitement this time. “Gavin’s returned,”MoreLess
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