Blood and Sorcery
Candace Wondrak
Copyright Candace Wondrak.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover is by Venkatesh at Killer Book Covers.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter One
Rivaini’s streets were quiet at night. It was why Bastian LeFuer timed his journeys well—he always arrived after dusk fell. There were fewer people on the streets, less eyes to notice the glimmering and shimmering of his chevalier armor beneath the black cloak he wore. His steed was tied in the stables just inside the towering stone walls, so his feet took him to the castle’s gate, walking him through the expansive, modern town. As he walked, he had one thing on his mind.
King Philip had to know of the Empress’s plans. There could be no war between Rivaini and Sumer, that much Bastian knew. So many innocent lives would be lost in the blood and destruction the war would bring. War did not discriminate between the innocent and the guilty, between the soldiers and the civilians.
The back of his neck itched, evidence of what Empress Namyra had planned. With warriors who were like him…it mattered not how many mages King Philip had at his disposal. Sumer would win, mages or not.
The royal guards, most of them, knew who he was. One was immediately off to notify the King.
As soon as Bastian stepped foot into the royal courtyard, the seneschal greeted him, though it was under a guise of tiredness. “Bastian,” Seneschal Henrik spoke, stifling a yawn that was most certainly faked. The man hadn’t been sleeping; he still wore his regal regalia—his velvet ensemble and jeweled rings on his fingers. “We’ve been waiting for you. The King has postponed his dinner so he may dine with you at your return.”
That was good to hear, for Bastian always had the bad habit of eating light on his journeys. He was not good at hunting or tracking. Fighting, now that was an entirely different story.
Henrik led Bastian to what would be his room, waiting in the hallway as he was instructed to change. Just as well, he knew. The fewer people who saw him wearing his chevalier armor, the better. The less likely word was to get back to Empress Namyra. Words had a way of finding the ears of those most interested; truly, it was a miracle Bastian’s stint as a double agent in the palace of Sumer had gone on for so long without incident.
But he would not complain. He had a purpose, and a good one at that. Bastian also had a little girl in Rivaini who depended on him for his stories and his visits. A little mage who, he would soon have to admit, was not so little anymore. Celena. He’d be certain to visit her tomorrow, first thing in the morning.
It wasn’t long before he sat at a table full of food, staring across at King Philip. They were not in the royal dining hall, but instead in the King’s private chambers. This way, no one would interrupt them or overhear their conversation. It was a large room with its own private balcony, draperies and other extravagant pieces lining the walls.
After Bastian had relayed the news, King Philip sat back in his chair, running his fingers across his beard. “Hmm. I did not expect such an advancement. Indeed, it reminds me of the old tales.”
Bastian knew exactly what old tales King Philip referred to: the ones where non-magical men and women had runes etched in their flesh. The runes were magic put to use, giving non-mages the abilities mages had, but the art had been lost for centuries…until now. Until the kingdom of Sumer was able to do something similar with its chevaliers, but also a bit different.
Instead of creating magic with runes on his flesh, Bastian could negate magic’s use entirely. A buffer against magic, in other words.
“And your Empress,” King Philip hissed out the word, “she plans on marching against us with these anti-magic zealots?”
They were chevaliers, not zealots, but Bastian knew he could not correct the man. “Respectfully, she is not my Empress. You are the only one I serve.” He blinked, wanting to say more, but his head grew full of haze, a dull ache rising in the back of his skull. Suddenly, he did not feel so very well.
“You’ve been useful to me, Bastian,” King Philip said, standing. He walked to the door to his chambers, throwing it open to reveal a pair of rough but sturdy-looking guards, wearing Rivaini’s golden, shining armor. “But I’m afraid our time together must be cut short.”
Bastian immediately stood as the guards swarmed him. His vision swayed; he could not concentrate. He must’ve ingested something, perhaps in the wine, as they were talking. He reached for his hip where his sword should be, where it would be, if he’d been in his chevalier armor—but he did not wear his armor, and his sword was in the room the seneschal had escorted him to.
“Why?” Bastian asked as the guards grabbed his hands, forcing him to his knees. His wrists were tied together tightly with rope, the scratchy threads irritating his skin. “I have done nothing but what you have asked of me.” Bastian would not beg. He was not a beggar, nor would he turn into one, if this was indeed to be his last moment.
He would, however, like to know why he was being betrayed.
“You’ve done everything you’ve set out to do, and now you must be discarded like any other tool,” King Philip spoke as another, smaller presence stood in the doorway. He raised his jeweled arm, gesturing to the boy.
Prince Cailan. A boy of fifteen summers, just a year or two older than Celena. He was nowhere near as plump as his father, and he appeared uncomfortable as he gazed at Bastian on his knees.
Philip rested a hand on his son’s shoulder, turning his eyes to Bastian. “You should know by now, Bastian LeFuer, that you should never trust royalty.” His attention returned to his son. “What do you think we should do with him, Cailan?”
In the young Prince’s eyes, there was no hint of sympathy. The uncomfortable expression he wore faded as he thought. “The carts. They’re taking out bodies by the load full. Dump him in with the rest.”
The King laughed, chortling as he said, “Very good, my boy. Very good.” A monster instructing his son to become one himself. To wear the crown of Rivaini, one had to be an evil, conniving monster. Or perhaps it was merely Bastian being dramatic.
A sharp pain erupted in his head as he was whacked with the hilt of a sword, consciousness fading. The next time he woke, he was on his back in a hole six feet under, a hole dug out for the bodies of the dead, those who were unfortunate enough to catch the plague that had spread through Rivaini like wildfire in the last year.
Bodies surrounded him—bodies covered in bruises and boils, black leaking out of their eyes and noses and the corners of their mouths. Some of their eyes were open, the whites a ghastly yellow. And the stench—it was enough to make Bastian want to vomit.
He tried to stand, but he couldn’t. A heavy layer of dirt encased his legs and his lower torso. Not enough to fill the deep hole, but enough to stop him from struggling. A new shovelful of dirt hit his face, and the guards standing above ground whistled as they buried him. Though he knew it would be a useless endeavor because these men belonged to the King, he was about to shout he was still alive, but a man stood over the deep grave at the earth’s edge, towering over him and blocking out the silver moonlight.
Seneschal Henrik.
The man gave him a cold smile, a smile that chilled him to his core. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure to put your chevalier armor to good use.�
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The sound of shovels hitting dirt. The feeling of the cold, wormy substance falling on his face. Bastian did not scream, did not shout. He would die with honor, as much honor as he could, given the way he was being so unceremoniously dispatched. He was as calm as he could possibly be, despite the fact he was being buried alive.
He breathed in his first lungful of dirt when his vision was blocked by it. He had to close his eyes far before. Of course, it was then Bastian realized he wasn’t going to last much longer. He’d suffocate and die with lungs full of dirt.
His last thoughts before he drew his final breath were of Celena, the little girl who had been like family to him. Truly, he’d grown up in an orphanage in Sumer—she was the only bit of family he had. The one he’d stumbled upon all those years ago, the one who could control flames so black they put even the night sky to shame. The little one whom he loved with all his heart.
And then, even though terror and dread filled his heart, and his mind was lost with thoughts of his little girl, Bastian died.
Alas, dead he did not remain. Fate had something else in store for the ex-chevalier.
Something pulled at him, tugging at his soul, yanking him back into a body he had long since left. Bastian could not say whether he had ever truly been at peace, if he’d been living the afterlife or was simply gone, but when he woke in a dark, dirt-encased world, he wanted to scream. But he couldn’t. Because he was buried, deep underground.
Panic set in his heart, his blood pumping faster as the fear set in. Bastian was not a man who was ever fearful, but after the King’s betrayal, after feeling the dirt swallow him up and eat him alive, he could not have been more afraid.
His eyes could not open. He could not breathe—and yet he was not dead. He was alive, somehow. Growing frantic, losing all sense of self in the hopes of getting out, Bastian knew one thing and one thing only: he had to get out. The skeletons around him started shaking with movement, and he felt the magic in the ground. Their movements dislodged the dirt, allowing him to move his arms.
So he dug.
He dug his way out, dug his way up. Was this his eternal nightmare? Was this his afterlife, due to the lies he had been a part of during his life? Being a double agent in the Empire, betraying Empress Namyra…perhaps he had done this to himself. He had no one else to blame. Royalty—those were people one could never trust.
The dirt was cold on his flesh, worms wiggling past his cheeks as he clawed out of his own grave. A force propelled him upward; he knew he was going the right way. The back of his neck itched, and Bastian knew this was magic. Magic so strong, so old even he could not deny it. Could not stop it.
If the magic got him out of the ground, why would he stop it?
He lost all sense as he pulled himself through the loose dirt. The skeletons and other corpses around him had already dug their way out. By the time Bastian’s hand first felt air around it, he had lost what little he had left of himself. He was as mindless and as crazed as one could be.
Something warm and soft grabbed his hand, pulling him, helping him up and out of the ground. He was pulled onto a wet, dirty robe of yellow. His eyes took time to adjust, and when he realized he laid on someone—a mage—he did not think, did not hesitate. His eyes saw red, and he brought his strong hands to the mage’s neck. Bastian saw no face, only a crown of magic on skin, pale flesh that gave way so easily as he squeezed.
Before he could finish the job, someone tore him off the mage. He rolled to his feet, breathing hard as he glared at the two men who’d stopped him. Why would they stop him? His mind did not care, and as his vision focused and the mark on the back of his neck tingled, he knew both men were mages, too.
One man was taller, his dark hair cut jaggedly. A thick scar lined the left side of his face, his black eyes shooting daggers at Bastian. The other was shorter but thicker, built like a warrior instead of the typical mage, muscled and strong. Power radiated behind the blueness of his eyes. Around both men, behind the mage they protected, dozens of corpses laid, some sizzling and others on fire. Rotting things, bodies that had no reason for movement.
Was Bastian the same? He glanced to his hands, wondering if he’d see holey, decaying flesh, maggots crawling beneath dried-up skin. No, he was whole, but in his head, he did not feel whole. Panic devoured him completely, leaving a man who did not know what he was doing.
A giant fireball flew in his direction, but Bastian merely frowned out a sneer, and the fireball dissipated. The magic the dark-haired one held retreated back into his arms, settling beneath his skin. Bastian ignored the words he spoke, turning his attention to the light-haired man, whose skin cackled with electricity. The stranger ran at him, backing up his fist with yellow sparks, but Bastian stopped him by gripping his incoming fist. The electricity dancing off the attacker’s skin faded, and he kicked the man back, landing his foot directly in the center of his chest.
Bastian could hear nothing. He took a step forward, seeking to finish this, but something stopped him. His feet halted, a ringing in his head. His eyes closed as he brought his hands to his ears, trying to block it out. The ringing gave way to the sounds of shoveled dirt, the feeling of helplessness.
This was…this was what he’d heard when he was buried alive. This was what he’d felt. The total desolation, utter hopelessness. The panic that coursed through every nerve in his body, his mind losing itself in the reality of the situation—he was dead. Or he should be. Why was he not dead? Why did he feel so…so broken? Bastian was not whole; he had left his sanity in his grave.
Somehow, he had fallen to his knees without realizing it. The ringing stopped, the feeling of dirt in his lungs ceasing the very instant a hoarse but feminine voice whispered his name: “Bastian.”
It was a voice strangely familiar to him, and when he opened his eyes, he dared not hope he would see and recognize the face before him. Bastian was on the ground, his fingers slowly sliding from the sides of his head as he gazed up, past the two men, at the woman in the mage’s robes he had tried to choke.
Her hair was almost wild, a beautiful light violet, her eyes a startling match. The magic that had blinded him, that had encased the woman in a crown of sorts, had faded. She was thin and different—older—but somehow, Bastian had enough of himself gathered to say, “Little one?”
Was the mage before him his Celena? Her face was less rounded, her cheekbones more pronounced. Her eyes, though a different color, held the same expression they wore anytime she looked upon him. Though her body was older, taller and curvier, he felt his heart start to ache when he knew. He knew it was her.
And he’d tried to kill her.
“Celena,” he whispered, his voice trembling as he realized he might have strangled her to death if the two men hadn’t been near, had not stopped him. Bastian almost killed the one person whom he cared for, the one person who never asked him to lie, the only person in all the kingdoms who he could ever simply be himself around.
She was slow, measured in moving past the two men—who must’ve deemed themselves her protectors, for they tried to stop her, urging sense into her, but she did not heed them. She only had eyes for Bastian. Once she stood before him, so close and yet so far, she said his name again, stronger this time, “Bastian.”
He gazed up at her. Bastian knelt before her, blinking back the powerful emotions that warred within him. He’d almost killed her…he had his hands around her neck and was squeezing without even seeing her face.
Watching as she lowered herself, Bastian closed his eyes when she reached out, gingerly touching his face, as if she wondered whether he was real. Odd, because he currently wondered the very same thing about her. He turned his face toward her hand, pressing his cheek and his nose against it. He lifted a hand, holding it against hers, her fingers so small in his grip. So soft and warm. She smelled like life.
Before Bastian knew what he was doing, he brought his other arm around her back, pulling her closer, hugging her to him. He dropped his face to her n
eck, unable to stop the emotions any longer. Tears pricked his vision. Was this real? Was Celena truly here, in his arms?
Her fingers ran through his hair, seeking to comfort him.
“I am so sorry,” Bastian whispered to her, “so very, truly sorry. I would never hurt you, little one. Never again.”
And he meant his words, meant them like a promise. He meant them more than he had ever meant anything in his entire life. Whatever this was—a second chance, a do-over, magic in its rawest, purest form—he would not waste it.
He would give everything to the woman in his arms.
His Celena.
Well. Wasn’t she just the worst? Lena huffed at herself as they walked through the woods a few miles away from Rivaini’s walls. Not only was she an accidental necromancer, but now she was one on purpose. Raising the dead purposefully was even worse than doing it without realizing it. And Bastian—she threw a look over her shoulder at him—she’d risen the one man she’d wanted to see again for so long, and a part of her was happy about it, but most of her felt guilty.
One did not raise the dead simply because one was sad. Sadness was a human emotion, something everyone had to deal with at one time or another. Sadness did not mean raise all of your deceased loved ones as soon as you possibly can.
Gods, she was so stupid. Absolutely and utterly stupid. Ingrid would have her head for this, if they ever made it back to the city. At the rate they were going, all bloody and angry and guilty, Lena wasn’t so certain they’d make it back. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.
But she had to. She had to tell the College what had transpired with Gregain, how he’d used blood magic to bind Kyler to him, used it to get them out of the city while its gates were down because of the undead. Gregain had been a necromancer, too. A necromancer who’d wanted to raise an old god of death—Zyssept.
First thing’s first, though. They had to find a safe place to regroup. Bastian needed clothes, and he deserved an explanation. As did Vale and Tamlen. She’d have to set them all down and tell them the truth, the whole truth. And, she knew, she’d have to tell them about how her blood had been black when Gregain cut her, how it sizzled and melted anything it came in contact with.
Blood and Sorcery: A Reverse Harem Fantasy (Unfortunate Magic Book 2) Page 1
