Chapter Thirty-Five
Morgan found a vacant space beneath the umbrella of a maple tree and spread a blanket on the ground with a clear view of the stage. Other couples were doing the same as everyone vied for the best place to view the festival’s performances.
The day was pleasantly warm, and the sun shone over the water like sparklers on the Fourth of July. The lively notes of dueling flutes added a lightness to the air as the set props, platforms and a backdrop of live trees made to resemble a dense forest were arranged on the stage.
“Morgan, if you’re asking me to watch a play, you must know, plays are not my thing. I’m more the adrenaline-rush car-chase-movie kind of guy.”
“You also told me you preferred showers to baths. I’m hoping what you are about to see will change your mind.
Come sit beside me. This one is very special.
In ancient times, Trolls did not keep a written history.
They were a nomadic race and felt their records could easily be stolen or lost. Instead, they handed down their history in the form of plays.
This one recreates the cause of the rift between Wizards and Trolls.
It is always preformed at the annual Freedom Celebration.
” Something in Rowan’s expression gave away his unease.
She put her hand on his arm. “Do not give me that look. Just watch and learn.”
She knew bringing him here was a risk. It was a good sign that he and Renegade had spent so much time together without trying to kill each other.
She hoped bringing Rowan to the celebrations would also prove positive.
Many might not like that he was here, but it was a risk worth taking if what he learned today helped him shift into more tolerance and awareness.
Cymbals clashed, bringing a hush over the crowd.
When it was quiet, a young man and woman burst onto the stage through a wall of paper flowers.
The man was dressed in tan breeches, a white linen shirt and a green vest, mirroring the gypsy style of the clothing worn by the crowd.
In contrast, the woman wore a formfitting ankle-length black gown, decorated with crescent moons and silver stars.
The gown resembled those worn by female mage Wizards during the Middle Ages.
The woman cradled an infant baby doll wrapped in a blanket.
The couple, their expressions shadowed by fear, wove around the trees on the stage, pausing only long enough to glance over their shoulders.
Morgan rose to her knees to make sure she could see more clearly.
She knew the tale of these star-crossed lovers by heart, but each time she witnessed the story, her understanding of the power of love grew.
Originally the play was not scheduled until tomorrow night.
Morgan had asked Cassandra to have it performed today, before Rowan left, hoping he would reexamine more of his preconceived notions concerning the magical community and his place in it.
Another cymbal crashed over the crowd and silenced the last remnants of conversation.
A third actor appeared on the stage. The newest character was bare-chested and wore dark trousers.
Black tattoos of flames and Celtic swirls decorated his shoulders and right arm, marking him as a Fire Wizard.
He wielded a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other.
The tattooed warrior shouted for the couple to halt and for the Troll to lay down his weapons.
Then came the demand for the woman and child to return with him.
The woman turned slowly toward the Fire Wizard. Her chin raised, she pulled the child closer and entwined her fingers in her lover’s hand. Her wordless response was a powerful rebuke.
The Fire Wizard roared out his frustration and anger and lunged forward.
In a lightning-quick move, the male Troll drew his blade, pulled the woman behind him, and blocked the attack.
The Troll was protecting the woman he loved, no matter the odds, no matter the cost. Morgan stole a glance in Rowan’s direction.
Like all those in the crowd, he was straining to see the drama unfolding on stage, pulled into the primal struggle as old as time.
The actors’ swords clashed. Their weapons might be made from wood, but the intensity of the fight and the determination in their expressions vibrated through the hushed onlookers as though they were witness to a real battle.
The Fire Wizard drove the Troll backward toward the end of the stage made to resemble a cliff.
A collective gasp escaped from the crowd.
The death blow was only moments away.
The Fire Wizard’s sword swung in a wide arc over his head, its song slicing through the air in a deadly melody. When the sword made its descent, the woman jumped in front of her lover and into its path.
An expression of horror gripped the Fire Wizard on stage as he realized too late what he had done.
Clutching streamers of red ribbon in one hand and her child in the other, the woman collapsed to the ground, her breathing labored.
Enraged and fueled by the need to save his family, the Troll lunged toward the Fire Wizard.
Their combined war cries tore through the crowd and their battle increased in tempo and intensity as both raced toward their destiny.
Neither gave ground. Both believed they were on the side of right.
Blood red ribbons streamed from their weapons, marking the wounds each sustained.
The injured woman, using the last precious reserves of her strength, raised her arm, transferring her remaining strength to her lover.
He shouted a protest for her to take it back, not to give her life for his, but it was too late.
The power had been transferred. In a burst of speed, gained from his one true love and born from the depths of his despair and loss, the Troll struck the fatal blow to the Fire Wizard’s heart.
As the Troll stood over the dead Wizard, wavering on his feet, the weight of the wounds to both his heart and his body taking its toll, the victory was bittersweet. He stumbled toward the woman and child, letting the sword drop from his hand and clatter to the ground.
As he knelt beside her, she reached up to place a trembling hand on his face. Her words echoed his. “I will always love you.”
They bent toward each other and kissed with the tenderness of a final goodbye. Their words lingered like echoes as they died in each other’s arms.
Silence, whisper-soft and reverent, suspended over the crowd. Time suspended in the air, the fragments of the lovers’ last words on everyone’s lips.
Rowan cleared his throat. His voice was low as he cleared his throat again. “What about the baby?”
Tears pooled in her eyes and blurred her vision. That Rowan worried about the baby warmed her heart. The man surprised her at every turn. She brushed a tear away as she nodded toward the stage. “There is more,” she whispered.
His reaction was more than she could have ever hoped for. His first instinct was not to the perceived injustice of a female Wizard choosing a Troll for her mate, but the safety of their child. Her heart filled with a new kind of warmth she’d never thought possible.
A small version of a gypsy wagon was making its way slowly across the stage.
An old woman, bent with age and dressed in layers of bright clothes, gold bangles jingling from her wrists, walked beside it.
She paused for only a moment next to the fallen Wizard and gave him a silent blessing.
Turning to the lovers, she covered them with a single cloth of silk embroidered with images that captured the spirit of a spring rainbow.
With the crowd holding their breath in watchful anticipation, the old woman gathered the infant in her arms and disappeared inside the wagon.
Silence hung once more over the crowd before they stood and erupted into applause. One by one, both young and old stood to give honor to the performance. All smiled through their tears, clapping and yelling out their praise.
Rowan was on his feet. “What happened to the child? Is the story true?”
“What does your heart tell you?”
“But it isn’t possible. A Troll could never defeat a Fire Wizard, even with a female Wizard’s help.
Nor would a female Wizard mate with a Troll, let alone have a baby by him.
And if the impossible occurred, the Grey Council would never allow the child to live.
This story suggests the possibility a Troll with Wizard blood survived. ”
She slipped her hand in his, knowing his swirling question reflected only a small measure of what must be going on in his mind. “And if the tale was true?”
“It has to be some sort of myth.” He whispered the words as though trying to convince himself. His gaze lingered on the stage. “But if it were true and the child lived, those descended from the babe are more connected to us than we’ve been taught.”
Morgan placed a feather-soft kiss on his cheek, loving the way his heart was opening.
“Never underestimate the power of love. This is but one play dedicated to Troll and, yes, Wizard history. On the final day of the festival, there is a play that recounts how the Trolls rebelled against the Wizards and became a free people.”
Strolling minstrels, their ballads of loves lost and won, began to steal through the crowd.
Morgan nodded toward the bazaar. Booths decorated in brilliant colors displayed all manner of tempting goods, from clothes, jewelry, and pottery to toys for the children.
Exotic smells from the food booths whispered of faraway lands and childhood memories.
The sensuality created at the celebrations revealed the textures of emotions created at the Wizards’ week-long festival of Bealtaine, with one major difference—the laughter, freedom of expression, and lightness in everyone’s step was genuine.
Spells were not needed to assure pleasure and acceptance.
Morgan liked the way her hand fit inside Rowan’s. She stole a glance, wanting to know what he was thinking. She could attempt to read his mind and might succeed. This was not the time. He would share his thoughts when he was ready. She could only guess at the conflicts he faced.
A lull at one of the food booths encouraged her to guide him in its direction.
The vendor, his face as round and shiny as a brand-new plate, beckoned her with a chocolate ice cream cone, dipped in multicolored sprinkles.
“For you, milady, and…” His jolly smile cracked as his eyes widened to perfect moon-shaped orbs, their focus on Rowan.
“The…the…” he stammered, each time his voice rising an octave higher.
She was such a fool. Seduced by the music and the goodwill of Cassandra’s people, she had forgotten, or rather, had chosen to forget, the underlying currents of the Trolls’ distrust of Wizards.
Cassandra’s people might distrust all male Wizards, but Fire Wizards, as evidenced in the play, were hated and feared above all.
She turned to leave, an apology on her lips for disturbing the vendor. Rowan slipped his hand out of hers and approached the Troll.
“I don’t blame you for being startled. This experience is a little strange for me too. My name’s Rowan. And yes, I’m a Fire Wizard. For the first time in my life, I feel I should apologize for what and who I am.”
The vendor’s hand trembled as he handed a cone to Morgan and one to Rowan, his eyes never blinking as a cluster of squealing girls descended on the booth.
Rowan reached into the pocket of his jeans. “How much do I owe you?”
The vender’s head shook from side to side in jerky movement. “I read your thoughts. They are genuine and true and kind. No charge, Fire Wizard.” The ice cream vendor turned toward the group of young female Wizardlings.
Morgan placed her hand on his arm and moved Rowan a short distance away as she silently ate her ice cream cone. The exchange between Rowan and the vendor had surprised her, but one good encounter did not ensure another. “When you finish your cone, we should leave.”
The cluster of young female Wizards, their cones clutched in their hands, moved in concert away from the vendor and in the direction of Rowan and Morgan. One of them bumped into Rowan, smearing ice cream on his pant leg.
Morgan recognized the child at once. It was the young Wizardling Anne. In wide-eyed surprise, Anne looked at her empty cone, her mouth trembling over losing her ice cream. But when her gaze locked on Rowan’s, fear was reflected in her eyes.
Rowan’s mouth quirked in a smile. “Don’t worry, little one. I’ll get you another.”
Deidre came rushing over and tugged Anne’s arm, her gaze locking on Rowan. “Anne, you are a silly, clumsy goose,” she said in a forced whisper. “You bumped into a Fire Wizard. Say you’re sorry.”
But Anne didn’t budge. Her gaze was fixed on Rowan’s.
Rowan seemed oblivious as he paid the vendor for an ice cream cone and then handed her the new one. Anne took a lick of her cone. “Thank you. Deidre said you’re… Are you a Fire Wizard?”
“Yes, I am.”
Anne took another lick, wiping the excess on her sleeve. “You don’t seem so scary to me.”
“I’m trying hard to change.” Rowan laughed, the sound so open and genuine it startled Morgan and a gathering crowd.