“Aye. I sense evil here.”
She shivered and drew her cloak more tightly around her. “What kind of evil?”
“I know not.”
They rode onward, and the sense of evil grew stronger.
Darkfest reined his mount to a halt, and the mare drew up alongside. His gaze moved over the valley before them. At first, he saw nothing and then, gradually, a dull shimmer, like moonlight on water, rose up before him, changing, twisting, taking on solid form and shape, until a figure with wrinkled gray skin and white hair stood before him. She wore a long black robe decorated with skulls and exploding comets.
“Who dares to cross my valley?” she demanded, her voice dry and brittle, like old bones.
“I am Darkfest, crone. Let us pass.”
“Nay. Be gone!”
“I mean ye no harm,” he said quietly. “I seek the dragon Blackencrill.”
“Then ye are twice a fool,” she said, cackling. Her deep-set yellow eyes narrowed as her gaze shifted to Channa Leigh. “Leave the girl, and ye may cross my valley in peace.”
“Nay. The girl is mine.” And even as he spoke the words, he regretted they were only partly true. She was his for this year only, no more.
The witch lifted a skeletal hand. He heard her mumbling something under her breath, felt an increase in the energy arcing between them.
He reacted instinctively, his right hand tingling as he summoned his power. There was no time to invoke a spell. He flung his own energy out to block her incantation. Power flowed from deep within him, racing down his arm, shooting blue fire through the tips of his fingers. There was a sudden crackling, like ice breaking, as blue flame met the black lightning hurled by the crone. A sharp whoosh of air flattened the grass and bent the trees. The crone screamed, a high-pitched cry of outrage and pain, as blue fire engulfed her. And then, abruptly, there was silence.
“Darkfest? Darkfest!”
Channa Leigh’s frightened cry brought him back to himself. “I am here.” He stared at the blackened patch of ground where the crone had stood. A faint wisp of black smoke rose skyward. “The danger is past.”
They camped that night near a narrow stream bordered by slender willows. After supper, Channa Leigh sat beside the fire, staring broodingly into the flames. The fire’s light cast golden shadows on her fair skin. Desire stirred within him, a hunger for the touch of her hand, the taste of her lips.
She turned as he came up behind her. “My lord Darkfest, is that ye?”
“Aye.” He sat down beside her, his insides knotting. “Channa Leigh, would ye grant me a boon?”
“If I can, my lord. What is it ye wish of me?”
“A kiss,” he replied, chagrined at the unexpected quiver in his voice. “Would ye grant me a kiss?”
She hesitated a moment. Was she repulsed by his request? Or was it only maidenly modesty that made her delay before answering?
“And would ye grant me a boon in return?” she asked at last.
“If I can.”
“I should like to see yer face,” she said.
“Tis a bargain then. The wolf will come to ye later.” He drew his knife and placed it in her hand. “When he comes to ye, cut off a bit of his hair and place it in this pouch.”
“Will he let me?”
“Aye.”
“Will ye collect yer boon now?” she asked, her fingers closing around the small leather sack.
“Nay. On the morrow, when the sun is new, we shall look upon each other. For now, I bid ye goodnight.”
“Goodnight, my lord.”
