"Always," he whispered, holding her tightly and kissing the crown of her head. "Always will I care for you, Marisa."

Tempest felt like an intruder as she watched the love flow between them, but she had to try one more time. She was afraid for her brother. "Father will need you. He loves you."

"Does he?" His voice was flat. "Does he love me, Tempest?

He has not acknowledged me as his son and heir. He needs me not."

"He does!"

"Nay. We will speak of this no more."

"But I still must go alone," she said stubbornly.

"You cannot. 'Tis too dangerous." He released her, sat Marisa on the bench and went to saddle three horses, effectively

halting her protests.

"Tris? I love you," Tempest said softly.

"I know, sweetling," he responded, his voice choked with emotion. "I know, for 'tis no more than I love you."

"He cannot be dead." The raven-haired woman looked at her companion, surprise mirrored in her soft chestnut eyes.

"Her power is not that great."

"Witches have been known to destroy much more powerful creatures," he said thoughtfully, "but I agree with you, m'dear. She has not yet come into her full power. She must mate with the gold."

"Will you let the mother die?" she asked as she leaned her head to rest on the tall back of the golden chair. "Tempest is a gentle child, and I do not believe she wanted her mother dead. She simply wanted to escape that madness."

"The mother needs to be dead, else the witch will not go to A'dryan. The game must proceed at any cost." The golden- haired man sipped at his wine and stared off into s.p.a.ce.

"The witch has a name, dear." she reminded softly. "Her name is Tempest."

"I know the witch has a name," he answered, his hand tightening visibly on the golden stem of his goblet. "She is our queen after all."

THIRTY-THREE.

"You said you could find it," Tristan growled. "We have spent two days in the saddle, and I grow tired of it all."

"'Tis here," insisted Tempest. "I can feel it."

"All I feel is a sore a.r.s.e from sitting on this horse," grumbled Tristan as he squirmed around, trying to find a more comfortable position.

He glanced at Marisa. She reminded him of a wilting white rose and he was concerned for her. She had sobbed most of the first night of their journey and he had taken her onto his horse, afraid she would fall. Marisa had objected as he knew she would. He knew she was an excellent horsewoman but the shock of her father's death had drained all of the life from her.

The next day had been difficult for them all. Marisa was silent and withdrawn and had eaten very little. This journey must end soon; his sweet little flower was fading, and he did not know what to do for her.

"I think we should just give up and go in another direction.

'Tis obvious your friend has hidden her cottage with some kind of magick, for we certainly cannot find it," he said softly.

"Just a little farther. Please." Tempest was just as weary as her brother, and as concerned for Marisa's health, but she also knew that Lysira would be able to help them once they reached her. She knew Ravensnest was near. She could feel Adrian's presence. She closed her eyes and mentally searched for something, anything which would give her a stronger sense of Adrian and Lysira. "I know 'tis near. I can feel it."

"Methinks you left your powers back at Windhaven,"

snorted Tristan. "Else we would have reached it by now."

"You are being cruel." Tempest was hurt. Tristan had never belittled her before; he had always been kind and loving.

"Forgive me," he said, his voice weary and apologetic. "I

am hot and tired and hungry, but I should not have berated you for it."

He did not need to add that he was worried about Marisa; Tempest could see it in his eyes whenever he looked at the drooping girl.

He reined in his horse. "Let us just stop for the night. We all need to rest." He looked pointedly at Marisa.

"But 'tis early in the day yet. We must go on." Tempest was loathe to give up her search. She knew they had to find Lysira-and soon! "I know I can find it."

"Nay." Tristan was firm. "We will rest the horses here."

To forestall any further protests, he dismounted and hurried to help Marisa. She sighed and sagged wearily against him.

"Tris?" Tempest sat on the ground beneath an old oak tree and leaned back wearily. "If we cannot find the cottage...Where will we go? What will we do?"

"I have been thinking upon that. I think we should head toward the sea." He helped Marisa to a mossy patch under a nearby tree and removed his cloak so she could use it for a pillow. She was soon asleep, exhaustion making tiny lines around her sunken eyes.

"The sea?" Tempest spoke quietly so as not to awaken Marisa. She was surprised; Tristan had never ventured that far from Castle Windhaven. "Do you know the way? You have never been there, Tris. How do you know which way to travel?

What will we do when we get there? How will we live? What if they find us?"

"Stop asking so many questions." He put up his hands to ward off any more queries. "I know no more than you, little sister. I only know that if we do not find Adrian we must get as far away from Windhaven as we can."

"But..."

"We will manage."

"'Tis of no import anyway," she said, closing her eyes. "I cannot be without Adrian. He is my life." She opened her eyes and leaned toward him. "I love him, Tris. More than life itself.

He is near. I can feel him."

"I have waited a long time for your words, little witch,"

Adrian's deep voice rumbled from above her. "I was beginning to think 'twas something I would never hear."

"Adrian?" She looked around but could not see him.

"Where are you?"

"Here," he answered swinging to the ground from a branch high above.

"You were in a tree." She suddenly felt silly stating the obvious. "Why were you in a tree?" Suspicion hit. "Were you spying on us?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

"Nay." He raised his hands and took a step back. "I was but watching to make sure you were safe. 'Twas not spying, my love."

"Do not..."

"Adrian," Tristan interrupted before Tempest could say more and aggravate their guide. "We have been searching for you for days. How did you find us?"

"'Twas not difficult," he answered. "You have been blundering around like a lost dragon hatchling for hours.

Anyone with any hearing at all could have found you."

"Have you seen a dragon hatchling, Adrian?" Tempest leaned forward, her aches and pains forgotten as the subject of dragons came up. She had been interested in them since she was four years old and had overheard a serving maid talking about a dragon witch. It was only much later that she learned they had been discussing her. "I have always thought dragons were very civilized and highly intelligent. Where did you see a lost one? You did not hurt him, did you? I hope not.

Dragons are so..."

"Tempest!" Adrian reached out and touched the bruised eye gently. He raised his eyebrows in a question, but did not ask it aloud as he put his arms around her. "We will discuss dragons later. And bruises," he added. "Mother is expecting you. We must go now. And I earnestly hope to hear more of this great love you profess for me," he whispered softly into her ear.

It felt divine having his strong arms around her, holding her so closely. Tempest snuggled into his embrace, laid her head against his chest and sighed in contentment. She could

smell his own particular odor of sandalwood and cedar. She breathed deeply and sighed. I wish he would kiss me, she thought. She wanted to stay right where she was-forever. She had not realized just how much she had missed him.

"Well? Are you two going to stand there all day? I would like to put an end to this journey sometime soon." Tristan's words startled them and they reluctantly broke their embrace.

Tempest felt more at home in Lysira's cottage than she ever had at Windhaven. She watched Lysira bustle around, preparing a hot meal of venison, tiny new peas with baby onions, winter squash from the well-stocked root cellar, spicy applesauce, and freshly baked bread. The warmth from the hearth and the aromatic smells made her drowsy. Her head nodded, and she leaned back in the tall-backed oak chair. Its cushions eased her sore bottom and she dozed as the gentle atmosphere of the cottage relaxed her tired body.

"Tempest." Adrian's deep voice intruded on her sleep. "Supper is ready."

She opened her eyes, startled for a moment, wondering where she was, then remembered her mother lying 'midst the rushes on the floor of her sleeping room, cold and lifeless. She also remembered Sardon, still looking like William, lying close to Christiana. She had killed them both with her power. She was no longer a white witch. She had taken lives and entered into the darkness.

But she did not feel like an evil person. She had taken the life from Sardon because he threatened her. He attacked me, she thought. He would have forced me to be his slave. Besides, he killed William. He was a truly evil man and had deserved what had happened. But her reasoning did not a.s.suage her feelings of guilt. Christiana was not evil-just a selfish, jealous woman. True, she had attacked Tempest, but she had not deserved to die for it.

"Little witch?" Adrian called again.

"Aye, Adrian," she answered as she rose stiffly from the chair. "I am coming."

She had little appet.i.te. Her mother's face haunted her. Her

throat closed with emotion, and she could not swallow the tasty food in front of her. She rested her head in her hands and once again wished for the healing tears she so badly needed. Marisa had cried for William, and now she was able to join them and to eat heartily. But Tempest wished she could just crawl into bed and sleep until...

"Tempest." Lysira's soft voice drew her from her reveries. "Come with me."

"What?" She looked into Lysira's azure eyes. "I..."

"I need to show you something," Lysira interrupted, somewhat impatiently. "'Tis important, child. 'Tis something you need to see now. Come with me." She rose from the table, and Tempest obediently followed her.

Lysira raised the lid of her mahogany chest and carefully removed a small bundle wrapped in a sapphire blue cotton cloth entwined with golden threads. The gold threads wove a pattern in the cloth, but Tempest could not discern the details.

Lysira led her into a small alcove separated from the rest of the cottage by a heavy green curtain. When she let the curtain fall they were not enclosed by darkness as Tempest expected.

A soft muted glow emanated from the walls. It reminded her of the walls of the tent where Lysira had read her future from the tarot cards so long ago.

Lysira said nothing as she laid the bundle gently on the table in the heart of the tiny room. She unfolded the cloth, spreading it carefully across the table, smoothing it as she went.

She stepped to a chair, and Tempest finally saw what the bundle had contained.

On the table rested a glowing, azure crystal ball. It was centered in a golden pentagram, surrounded by a field of tiny stars that seemed to have a life of their own as they twinkled in the muted light.

Lysira pa.s.sed her hands slowly over the crystal and, each time they crossed, it grew brighter, throbbing with arcane life.

Tempest held her breath in awe as the crystal glowed more and more brightly. She was enthralled. Never before had she seen a thing of such beauty.

"Lysira," she began.

"Speak not. Only gaze into the orb and see."

Tempest's eyes moved over the crystal, watching it glow, watching it pulse with life. Her heart slowed and began to beat in time with the crystal. The room seemed to recede as she felt herself drawn into its depths.

She was at Castle Windhaven, in her sleeping room. Christiana lay in Tempest's bed, eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in deep slumber. Wendall sat by her side, head bowed, tenderly holding her slim hand. Tempest wanted to reach out, to touch her father, to offer him solace, but she could not move. She felt like an outsider. Pain rose in her chest as she heard her father's words.

"Christiana, please wake," he whispered brokenly. "I miss you so. I need to know where our daughter is. I am so frightened for her. William can tell me nothing except that you did something to anger her, and she left. I need to know, beloved.

Wake. Please wake." He sobbed quietly as he lifted Christiana's hand to his cheek.

A figure began to form behind Wendall. It grew from a smoky mist, then slowly took shape. Sardon. He was still alive!