“If I was so fortunate as to discover that you were my soulmate, and we exchanged brands as proof of our connection, I would vow to protect you with my life.” He leaned toward her, kissing the mound of her breast, then lifted to whisper against her lips. “If we were soulmates, you could not hide behind glamours or spells. I would know you the moment you walked into a room.”
She touched his brow, easing the tension she felt beneath her touch. She wished the words he spoke were real. They were not. His passionate speech was a result of the festival’s spells, and it saddened her more than she thought it would. Her love for him had not faltered over the years, it had grown.
She kissed him gently on the lips. “You are under the enchantments of Bealtaine, and what you feel for me will pass.”
“And if what we have is more than a result of spells? What if the legend is true?”
“If we are truly soulmates, then one of the times when we make love, the brands will manifest. Or it will manifest if we are…”
“Energetic in our lovemaking,” he suggested.
She laughed. “Well said.”
He pulled her into his arms. “A night filled with lovemaking so passionate that it results in shared brands? Whatever the outcome, it sounds like a worthwhile goal.”
Chapter Eight
Hours later, with Rowan sound asleep, Morgan was summoned to Caitlin’s quarters. As she followed the young female Wizard down the corridor, she rubbed the brand over her heart: Rowan’s Fire Wizard brand. Why, after all this time, had it appeared? True, they had been particularly… What was the word he’d used? Oh, yes,energetic, in their lovemaking. But she worried that the brand represented more, much more.
She closed her hand and forced it to her side. She would have to deal with that later. Right now, she sensed that something was wrong in the Wizard community. She could feel it. The unusual request worried her. The last time she spoke to Caitlin, they’d agreed not to have contact until the Wizardlings were safe.
Morgan sensed a shift in the air before she entered Caitlin’s rooms. It was heavy and soaked with moisture, like the moments before a storm. Her breath caught. Her hand clung to the door jamb, frozen in place, afraid to move farther and learn what she already suspected. There was only one reason she would be summoned to Caitlin’s quarters during Bealtaine. A female Wizard had died.
Caitlin’s rooms had been transformed into a Weeping Room that celebrated a loved one’s passing. There were at least a dozen female Wizards crowded into the compact space. Warm tears pooled in Morgan’s eyes. She grieved for whoever had died but knew in her heart that this much attention could only mean one thing. The leader of the female Wizards was dead.
Caitlin had embraced the old traditions and used meditation, subdued light and the gentle shades of rose pink, pale lavender, and spring blue to keep herself calm as she prepared for the grand expectations of Bealtaine.
Music that had caressed the atmosphere in the castle was blocked inside the room with a powerful ward. The closest ofthe female Wizards noticed Morgan and paused, grabbing the woman next to her and pointing toward Morgan. Caitlin’s death wasn’t their only concern. More women turned their wide-eyed gaze in Morgan’s direction, as though all were pulled by the same invisible cord.
Then, as though a dam had broken, women rushed toward her, offering comfort and condolence for a lost sister and confirming Morgan’s worst fear. Their thoughts were as gentle as the touches on her shoulders and their words a soothing balm. They all felt the loss deeply. Life was precious and all too short.
The tenuous grasp of strength Morgan had held onto crumbled. Her legs could no longer hold the weight of her grief. She had thought she would die before Caitlin. How could this have happened? Morgan slumped to the ground. She was the one who should die first, she repeated, not her friend. She, not Caitlin, was the one who’d lost hope. Caitlin was strong and confident.
Tears blurred Morgan’s vision. “How…?” was all she could manage.
“Her heart stopped,” said one.
“The Grey Council pronounced it death by natural cause,” said another. The tone in the woman’s voice was threaded with sorrow, and with something else.
Female Wizards had the ability to sense the day of their death. Therefore, Caitlin would have prepared and chosen her garments carefully. The garments and jewelry a female Wizard wore held great meaning to those who knew how to read the signs. The signs often were messages to loved ones or reflected anger or despair. Caitlin was not only a sister Wizard, but she was also their leader and had spoken openly about uniting female Wizards and demanding change. Their dreams diedwith her. What she chose to wear would have been of great significance.
Female Wizards died when they no longer had something to live for, or when the pain of losing their children was too great. Caitlin was not in that place of despair. What changed?
“Please. Take me to Caitlin.”
In silence Morgan was led to her friend’s body. Caitlin wore a hand-painted silk gown with the image of a cascading waterfall down the front panel and spring flowers entwined at the hem. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, and her hands were folded one on top of the other across her waist. Sacred symbols were painted on her arms in gold, and she wore diamond drop earrings and matching bracelets. Outwardly, Caitlin looked lovely, and her rich garments and jewelry chosen to reflect that she had been ready for death and that she had no regrets.
Looks were deceiving.
Caitlin did not look at peace. The lines around her mouth looked strained and pinched. When Morgan’s mother had passed on, it was with full acceptance of her death. In contrast, there was an element of anger and frustration surrounding Caitlin. Her expression was severe, not serene.
An easy explanation, some would caution, would be that her death might have been painful. But the jewels were an odd choice for someone who knew Caitlin well. Diamonds were not her birthstone. Actually, she did not like diamonds. Then there were the designs and the initials of her name, Caitlin Olivia Drumquin—after the river in Ireland where she was born—that she had painted in gold on her arms. Instead of the Celtic symbols representing the stages in a woman’s life being intertwined, they were separated and broken.
Whispers began, rising and swirling around the room, drawing Morgan away from her troubled thoughts. Someone asked if the festival should be canceled.
There were other whispers, darker, more ominous. Morgan was not the only one who had noticed the irregularities in how Caitlin had prepared for her death. Morgan concentrated on Caitlin, searching for guidance and answers. Then it registered why the symbols and lettering on her friend’s arms bothered her.
Caitlin had written the initials of her name, COD, numerous times. That could not have been an accident. Like Morgan, Caitlin rarely used her full name, preferring to use her title of leadership, Caitlin of the Waters. Then Morgan sucked in her breath slowly and whispered, “Caitlin, you were not writing your initials but what you wanted us to do. Brilliant! COD can also stand for Cause of Death.”
