Enchantress Read online

  Enchantress

  Amy Sumida

  Copyright © 2013 Amy Sumida

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1492292737

  ISBN-13: 978-1492292739

  DEDICATION

  For You, you know who you are.

  More Books by Amy Sumida

  The Godhunter Series(in order)

  Godhunter

  Of Gods and Wolves

  Oathbreaker

  Marked by Death

  Green Tea and Black Death

  A Taste for Blood

  The Tainted Web

  Series Split:

  These books can be read together or separately

  Harvest of the Gods & A Fey Harvest

  Other Books

  The Magic of Fabric

  Feeding the Lwas: A Vodou Cookbook

  The Vampire-Werewolf Complex:

  How Paranormal Romance Can Improve Your Relationship

  Chapter One

  The Palace of Antioch, Syria; October 20, 1097

  “So beautiful,” he reached for her face and touched her cheek gently. Surprisingly, she didn't resist his disrespectful action.

  The stranger lay on a bed before her, his tall, muscular frame almost stretching the entire length of extra large mattress. He was massive and magnificent, ebony hair framing his face in silk and enhancing the bright emerald of his eyes. Although he was a light-skinned foreigner, his body still had a golden sheen. His face looked like one of the statues on her balcony, all angles and strength; with a long, narrow nose and a square jaw. He was unlike any man she'd ever seen.

  Suddenly, she became aware of the blood. It covered him from chest to feet. Her heart started beating faster in fright. She couldn’t tell if the blood was all his but he seemed to be weak, barely aware.

  “What’s your name?” He spoke in a foreign tongue but it was one of the many she knew.

  “Ayla,” she whispered to him. He smiled at her before he fainted and it was the most wonderful smile she'd ever seen.

  She felt a wet warmth encase her feet and looked down to see blood covering the floor. The room started to fill with it and terrible screams assailed her ears. She pulled back from the bed in terror and watched the red tide rise. A glance out the window showed bodies everywhere, Antioch was filled with death and the stench was overpowering. The blood kept coming. It rose around her knees, her hips, the bed was being consumed and his long, dark hair was floating on the glassy surface like leaves on a stream.

  “No,” she cried, as she started toward him. The blood was so thick she could barely move, she tripped and fell, the blood rising over her. She was drowning in blood. Her hands groped around her and touched something soft. Pulling at the blankets, she came awake suddenly and sat up in her bed, trying to free herself from the nightmare she’d been having every night for the last four weeks. With wide eyes she looked toward the open doors of her balcony.

  “He's here,” she whispered.

  Rannulf Auvray turned his horse suddenly and looked up at the high walls of Antioch. He thought he'd heard a woman’s voice in his ear. A shiver went down his spine but he shook his head at such foolishness. This strange land played tricks on a man’s mind.

  The sun began to rise as he made his way to the camp that was already being erected, near the Gate of St. Paul, one of Antioch’s many entrances. He distinguished Bohemund’s tent easily as it was the grandest among the camp. Rannulf smiled a little at his friend’s lavishness, it was in their blood after all. Normans were a curious lot, prone to war, greed, and the need for fine things. Bohemund was a prime example.

  Everyone thought they'd come for redemption, to free the Christians from Muslim repression and make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem possible again. Rannulf knew better. There were, of course, many men who had indeed come for those very reasons but Bohemund was not one of them. The eldest son of the Duke of Apulia, Bohemund wasn't satisfied with what he’d receive for an inheritance. The thought of carving out his own eastern principality was what drove him.

  Rannulf dismounted in front of Bohemund’s tent and handed the reins to a squire before entering. Bohemund was sitting at a camp table, along with Godfrey of Bouillon, Raymond IV of Toulouse, their men, and the Byzantine adviser Tartizius. They were arguing over what to do, now that they had finally arrived.

  “God is on our side,” Raymond vowed. “We should have faith in him and attack the city immediately!” Bohemund sighed and sat back further into his chair, as he rotated his head in an effort to stretch the kink out of his neck. It looked like Raymond’s piety was taking its toll on him.

  “I have faith that we will be victorious in the end,” Bohemund said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to blunder about like an ox, trampling over whatever enemy happens to lie down beneath my feet, without any kind of strategy.”

  “An ox!” Raymond was about to lunge across the table and trample Bohemund.

  “My lords,” Rannulf quickly interrupted. “What I think the Count is trying to say, is that now, more than ever, we must take pains to plan carefully. Our last siege ended before the fighting could even begin and although we defeated the Seljuks at Dorylaeum, we've long been on the march and it has been three months since that great battle. We're all longing for action and no one can fault you, my Lord of Toulouse, for your desire for battle. But Antioch is a jewel of a city, ‘Queen of the East’ they call her, and she is guarded as such.” He paused to look them all in the eye and caught Bohemund hiding a smile, this was not the first time Rannulf had smoothed ruffled feathers. “Those Turks believe they are immune to our attacks, hiding behind those huge walls. They may not even have the courage to come out and face us, when they could simply stay put, behind their barred gates. A siege may be the best course of action now.”

  “The city is great, as you say,” now Godfrey entered the conversation. “Even with all of our soldiers, we don’t have enough men to surround her walls. I’m of a mind to lay siege as well but will it have a chance at success with our number?”

  “My lords, if I may?” The Byzantine Emperor, Alexius had sent an army with them when they had first started their crusade. Little by little the army had left until all that remained was the General Tartizius. He'd stayed on as an adviser, and advise was just what he intended to do. “A direct attack will have little effect on a city the size of Antioch. Very simply, the only way to take her is by siege.”

  “Raymond?” Bohemund looked pointedly at the older man.

  “So be it.”

  Chapter Two

  “Where has your sight gone, Ayla?” Yaghi-Siyan, the Grand Vizier of Antioch approached her quietly but Ayla had been aware of his presence from the moment he approached her chambers. “You did not warn me of this.”

  He came up to stand next to her on her private balcony and surveyed the far-off scene. They could just make out the flurry of activity as the invaders set up camps, at three different sites, outside the walls of Antioch.

  “You had no need for my predictions,” she countered. “You already knew the foreigners were coming. Why else would you imprison John and exile the Greek and Armenians of his following?”

  Yaghi-Siyan raised an eyebrow as he looked over at the stunning, young sorceress. He should have realized he couldn’t keep secrets from her.

  “So you knew about John the Oxite and his people?” He watched Ayla nodd slightly. “I couldn’t allow them to stay, with their fellow infidels on the march. They would surely betray us. At least I didn't banish the Syrians.” He touched her sleeve lightly and she pulled away from him.

  Her silk kaftan; a long, outer robe with elaborate embroidery, blew open in the breeze. Yaghi-Siyan stared at the lush figure revealed beneath the thin fabric of her entari, her silk underdress. Ayla turned t
o look at her keeper and he returned his attention to her lovely face.

  “But why did you have to imprison John?” She had taken a liking to the jolly Orthodox Patriarch and hated to see him treated so poorly.

  “Call it extra security,” he smiled slowly. “The same reason I imprisoned you, Ayla.”

  “You imprisoned me for power, not security,” she said unemotionally.

  “One is very close to the other,” he stroked her shiny black hair once, then departed.

  Ayla wouldn’t find peace on her lovely balcony today, although normally she spent much of her days amid the thick foliage of the numerous potted plants. The balcony was wide and as long as her immense chamber but it seemed almost crowded with the greenery that rose up and spilled over the railings. Many of the plants were brought in at Ayla’s request, she needed them for her potions, but their fresh scent was relaxing as well.

  Unfortunately, it was all lost on her today.

  She walked back into the room and across her bedchamber, without even noticing the elaborate mosaic beneath her feet, the vaulted ceilings above her, or her opulent furnishings. Her mind was already on the complicated formulas she was working on. She opened the door of her alchemist’s laboratory and took in the site of the numerous jars and equipment there. This was where she felt at home, among her potions and tools. She felt closest to her father when she was here.

  The room was longer than it was wide and there was a heavy table running almost the entire length. Upon its scarred surface was a vast assortment of equipment. The intricately arranged equipment was both precious and necessary but her greatest treasure was housed in the magnificent shelves behind it. The shelves completely covered the wall and were guarded by wooden doors, carved intricately and inlaid with mother of pearl. The shelves were filled with beautifully scribed volumes containing information on everything from herbs to foreign languages. They were the only things she appreciated about her enslavement.

  She moved into the room and over to the altar against the wall on her left. It was decorated with statues of the Great Sky-God, Tanri; Yer-Sub, the Goddess of land and water; Umai, the heavenly wife of Tanri, protectoress of pregnant women and small children, and with representations of numerous animals for power. She reverently touched the statue of Umai and smiled. Her world was an odd mix of science and magic, many of her formulas had to be mixed specifically while she chanted words of power over them. It was a difficult art and she was proud to have mastered it.

  An old formulary her father had given her, caught her eye and her smile disappeared. It had been four years since she had seen his face, four years since Yaghi-Siyan had taken her from her tribe and brought her here, to work her magic for him alone. How ironic that her powers had become the catalyst for her enslavement.

  She missed her father so much. Her mother had died in childbirth and Faruk had to raise her alone. He'd never remarried, preferring the company of his daughter, who reminded him so much of her beautiful mother. Ayla was exposed to his magic out of necessity, because he would allow no one else to look after her, but he quickly noticed Ayla's talent and began her tutelage. His lessons in alchemy and magic had fascinated Ayla and Faruk had quickly found an apt pupil in his only child. Ayla could summon the winds by the time she was four and when she was ten, she was gifted with prophecy.

  Her tribe revered her for the magical prodigy she was and she was afforded great respect. She also enjoyed an unusual amount of freedom. She could ride a horse as well as any man and shoot an arrow even better. She escaped the trap of marriage because her father didn’t want to lose his student and the tribe didn’t want to anger either of them. Unfortunately, her fame had spread quickly and during her eighteenth year, Yaghi-Siyan had come to claim her.

  Although he was a Muslim, unlike her tribe that had stuck steadfastly to the old shamanistic ways, he still desired the power of her sorcery. The tribe couldn't deny the influential Vizier and Ayla wouldn't risk harm befalling her father. Even though her tribe was Seljuk, she knew the Vizier would have no qualms about hurting his own people to get her compliance. So she went with him, back to Antioch, and although she lived in splendor that she had never before believed possible, she still longed for the freedom of her nomadic family and the company of her father.

  At least she had this, her laboratory, to retreat to. It was much larger and grander than the one her father constructed in their tent. Being stationary had its advantages. It was much easier to distill her potions with stable equipment, especially since many of them were volatile.

  She opened one of the floor-to-ceiling doors that covered her bookshelves and pulled out a leather-bound volume. Quickly, she flipped through the worn pages till she found what she was looking for. She tried to concentrate on the intricate spell but the words kept blurring before her. All she could see was his beautiful eyes, a mixture of blue and green, like the Mediterranean on a sunny day. Who was this man who haunted her dreams?

  “Rannulf!”

  Rannulf turned in the direction of the voice.

  “Tancred,” he acknowledged happily. “There’s no one else I’d rather see.” He hugged the young man gruffly, slapping him on the back

  “How’s my Uncle?” Tancred asked.

  “Busy plotting as usual,” Rannulf said wearily. “Sometimes I wish he was obsessed with a woman instead of this city. She’d be a less demanding mistress and it would be far easier on the rest of us.”

  “Do the others know he wants Antioch for himself?” Tancred looked in the direction of his Uncle’s tent. Rannulf put up a cautious hand while he looked around, making sure no one was listening.

  “No, he hasn’t made his move yet but I’m sure they suspect. Let’s not confirm those suspicions.” He started toward Bohemund’s tent and Tancred followed.

  Once inside, they were partially released from the sun’s merciless torment. The tents were part of the provisions given to them by Emperor Alexius and they were built to withstand the climate. Bohemund was at the central table, bent over a map of the city. He looked up at their entrance.

  “Nephew!” His joy was genuine and that alone was a rarity. Tancred went quickly to embrace his Uncle. “You're well?”

  “I’m fine, Uncle,” Tancred laughed and took a seat at the table. Rannulf and Bohemund sat as well. “I’ve brought you reinforcements.”

  “You’re all the reinforcement I need, lad,” Bohemund sighed. “It is good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Uncle,” Tancred nodded. “I’m sick to death of Baldwin, may he rot in Edessa.”

  “Don’t let his brother hear you say that,” Bohemund laughed. “Although I’d wager Godfrey is secretly happy Baldwin’s off sacking a different city, as well.”

  “How are we on supplies?” Tancred asked.

  “Actually,” Rannulf finally entered the conversation. “I was just coming to inform your Uncle that a Genoese ship has been spotted entering St. Symeon. I’m hoping it’s full of provisions for us.”

  “Hmphf,” Bohemund sniffed. “Maybe Raymond was right about God being on our side.”

  Chapter Three

  “They’ll have to find more food soon,” Yaghi-Siyan smirked.

  He now insisted that Ayla attend all of his war councils. She was the wisest of his advisors, though he would never admit it aloud. Instead he declared that she needed to be near to lend her prophecy to their plans. Her presence also had the advantage of keeping his men honest. They were terrified of her, and believed she had the ability to see into a man’s soul.

  Ayla sat quietly to the side of the gathering, on the shorter end of the low, L-shaped couch. The men sat on the longer length, as far from her as possible. Ayla didn’t even notice the ostracism, she was looking out the window distractedly. Her mind flew out over the city, over the infidel camps, and she heard the empty rumblings of their hungry bellies. The Vizier was right, the provisions they'd received last month were dwindling fast and the crafty Armenians that brought in food, were selli
ng it for outrageous amounts. The Westerners wouldn't last the winter. Her heart ached for her beautiful dream man, even though he was technically her enemy. Maybe they would never even meet.

  “Ayla, do you hear me?” Yaghi-Siyan broke into her thoughts.

  “I was overtaken by visions, Your Excellence,” Ayla replied hollowly.

  “What did you see?” All looked anxiously at the woman.

  “I see hunger,” she said simply.

  “Ah, there,” Yaghi-Siyan waved his arm expressively towards the rest of the men seated before him. “They will leave in search of food and then we will attack the camps.” He thumped his fist in his hand as he paced before his advisors.

  “But why?” Ayla couldn't believe he would stoop to attacking starving men.

  “You dare to question me?’ Yaghi-Siyan walked over to her and made a great show of slapping her across the face. The slap echoed in the open room and the surprised men just stared in shock at the man courageous enough to strike a powerful sorceress. Ayla’s head turned with the force of the blow but she didn't keep her face down cast. Slowly she turned her head back to stare Yaghi-Siyan in the eye and raise a beautifully arched eyebrow at him.

  “They will not find food,” she continued as if nothing had happened and the look in her eye told him that she knew exactly why he'd slapped her. She clearly knew his need to look powerful before his men and he wondered if the rumors were true, if she really could see into his soul. “They will find only Duqaq’s army. He is, even now, on his way here to help us. Would it not be wiser to remain within Antioch and let them find their own fate?” The men whispered amongst themselves at her wisdom and the news that Duqaq of Damascus was approaching, but Yaghi-Siyan could not be outwitted by a woman.