Page 32 of Lady Tamsyn and the Pixie's Curse
Tamsyn gasped. She knew that voice. Gryff! Rowancourt whirled around to face him, taking herwithhim.
“Who are you?” the sorcererasked.
“Cardew.” Gryff met her gaze. “Let thegirlgo.”
“Cardew? But he sold—” Rowancourt’s grip on her tightened. “Ah, you are the younger? And you took possession of the land early.” He shook his head. “I would think you clever, had you any chance of benefitting fromthemove.”
“Let the girl go. Let her father go, as well. We’ll settle thisbetweenus.”
“Gryff!No!”
“Ah, like that is it?” Rowancourt laughed. The blade pressed closer and she felt a trickle of blood run down her neck. “Let me in there. Do it now or they willbothdie.”
“I’ll let you in, provided you do onething.”
The sorcerer snorted and rolled his eyes. “What is ityouwant?”
“Take me in there instead. Let thembothgo.”
He meant it, she knew. There was no image forming overhishead.
“Agreed,” Rowancourt saidatonce.
She also knew that the sorcerer did not mean to keep his word. “He’s lying,” she shouted. “He means to kill us all,” she said on a sob. “Tuft,too!”
“How do I make him keep his promise?” GryffaskedTuft.
“A blood vow,” the pixie answered. “He’ll have to fulfill hispromise.”
“Then we’ll do it. You’ll make a blood vow with me, or you’ll never get in there,” Gryff told thevillain.
Rowancourt sighed. “Agreed.” He thrust her away and she fell to her hands and knees in frontofhim.
“You can stop him,” Tuft whispered from his nearby cage. “Remember the power of thetruth.”
She didn’t understand. In despair, she looked up—and saw what the sorcererintended. “No!”
Gryff had bent to pull his knife from his boot, but Rowancourt held his at the ready. Before he could launch it, she lurched to her feet and fell on his arm, knocking them both to theground.
“Interfering she-devil!” the sorcerer spat. He rolled her over and held his blade just below her eye. And at last she felt a flicker of understanding. So close—and facing him—she realized what she had missed before. His rich cloak. It was held closed at the shoulder by a brooch—an intricately carved piece with a raised hawk’s head in themiddle.
“Say the words,” he shouted to Gryff. “Let me in or I will start carving and not let up untilyoudo!”
Gryff dove at him and they rolled away together. She scrambled to sit up, her mind racing. He was the same man. So many hundreds of years. The boy from the mine. The old man from the painting. The sorcerer tormenting them today. All thesameman!
“Truth has power,” Tuft shouted. “Recognize his truth and you can elevate or destroy! Who is he, Lady?Namehim!”
What was the name? The butler had spoken it. The brooch, the carving . . . a childnamed. . .
“Grindan!” she shouted. “Your name isGrindan!”
The sorcerer gasped and froze atop Gryff, his knifeheldhigh.
“Now, command him!” Tuftordered.
“You belong in that barrow, Grindan. You and no other! Now take your place . . . and gotohell!”
Rowancourt’s head dropped back. His mouth opened. A horrendous rumble came from out of him. The knife dropped. His fingers, where they reached toward the sky, turned black, then melted to ash. In an instant he was crumbling, from his finger downward—and the ash was rising up and riding a swirl into the barrow. When the last of it disappeared inside, a crash sounded like a gong—and at the same moment the iron cage disappeared—and she felt the last of the hold on her legsdrainaway.
