Quest of the Dreamwalker (The Corthan Legacy Book 1)

by Stacy Bennett

  “Time has told me,” she said. “Things don’t change.”

  Desperate, he changed tactics. “Please, I need to know. His name is Mason Khoury. Dark hair, blue eyes, and a wound here.” As Archer pointed to his temple, a look of recognition crossed her features.

  She has seen him, he thought.

  “The first sacrifice is tonight. I must go.” She turned abruptly.

  “Wait.” Archer tried to stall her, but she waved him off and hurried down the hall.

  DAUGHTER!” THE CALL echoed down the stairway from the highest tower.

  “I’m here!” she yelled, lifting her skirts to take the stairs two at a time. He was going to be furious that she’d forgotten to prepare the room. The candles and the scroll were still in the library.

  “Where have you been?” Father asked brusquely as she slid to a halt in the doorway. She’d kept him waiting, and his mood was as black as his robes.

  “I fell asleep. In the barn.” She was amazed how easily the lie slipped past her lips. The blood pounded in her head as he peered closely at her, his face skeptical.

  What am I thinking? He’s going to know it’s a lie.

  “You spend too much time with those beasts. They’re not pets.” He glared and then waved her out. “No time now. Go get the scroll.”

  Relieved, she rushed back down the twisting stairs, retrieved the items from the library, and hurried back up to the tower room. She carefully set the scroll on the pedestal, holding the brittle, yellowed paper open with the crystals. Then, she lit the candles and the braziers.

  The night’s sacrifice had already been brought up. Despite her fear of discovery, curiosity drew her eyes to the man on the ground. He was unkempt and foul-smelling but had a shock of dark hair. In the dim light, she couldn’t decipher the color of his eyes as they darted around the room. There was a scrape on his cheek, and she tried to remember exactly what the other man behind the pillar had looked like.

  “Take his feet.” Father’s curt request interrupted her thoughts.

  She hesitated, surprised by the request. “But you said…”

  “Hurry, girl. The spell is wearing off because you were late. Unless of course you prefer to take his place.”

  She shook her head and reached down to grab the man’s legs. Together, she and Father lifted him awkwardly to the altar, bumping him roughly against the stone. Then her fingers touched his bare skin where it peeked through his torn clothes. In that moment, her mind was awash in heart-pounding fear. Blinding in its intensity, the trembling terror weakened her arms. She leaned against the altar, her throat clenched with sudden tears, and shoved the man’s legs away.

  The fear dissipated somewhat, though an echo of it pulsed around her like a wave of cold air. Shaken, she stared at the man seeing him for the first time as something other than Father’s tool.

  The weight of Father’s scrutiny prickled along her neck, and she looked up to find him studying her. Guilty, she tried to hide her discomfort. She couldn’t trust her voice but managed to school her features into vapid serenity. Pinching her nose, she made a disgusted face as if she found the man’s odor offensive. Her father scowled at her childishness but went back to his preparations.

  Her chest felt strangely tight as Father affixed the manacles to the man’s ankles and wrists. The spell was beginning to wear off, and the man wheezed in panicked gasps. As soon as he could control his arms, he struggled, leaving fresh blood on the metal binders.

  “You can’t do this!” he shouted when he found his voice.

  Her nerves hummed with fear. No one yelled at Father.

  “Who’s going to stop me?” her father asked. “You? You’re nothing but scum.” He turned his back and went to the pedestal. She felt off-balance, and Father was irritable tonight. The wrongness in him pulsed with hunger.

  The sudden need to be sure this wasn’t the Northerner’s friend goaded her to step forward while Father wasn’t looking. She pretended to check the manacles and whispered, “Mason Khoury?”

  The man’s confused look told her that he wasn’t who she sought, and her sigh of relief surprised her. Ducking her head, she retreated and headed for the door.

  “Wait!” the man called after her, his eyes imploring. “My name is Carter, Reith Carter. Don’t leave. You must help me!”

  She averted her eyes but felt worse for knowing his name.

  “Please!” he screamed. “Please, help me.”

  His pleading pulled her gaze to his and when their eyes met, a fresh wave of fear washed over her. He knew he faced his death, and it terrified him. She pitied him, remembering how frightened she’d been as a young girl, knowing what was coming.

  Then, Father impatiently motioned for her to leave and she gratefully crossed the threshold, closing the door behind her. She could still hear Reith Carter’s pleading shouts as she leaned against the door, squeezing her eyes shut against the unfamiliar tears that threatened.

  What’s happening to me?

  She angrily wiped at her damp cheeks. Perhaps, it was just the unsettling wave of emotion that had caught her off guard and put this sickening weight in her stomach. She’d never given any thought to the men who spent the brief end of their lives in the Keep before. She understood Father’s rules now. That brief meeting of skin to skin, eye to eye, had shattered the glass cocoon she lived in. It had been easier to ignore the dust on the altar when she didn’t know they felt the same fear she did.

  If she was upset now, it was her own fault. First, she disobeyed Father by finding the red-haired man and now she was feeling sorry for the others.

  I shouldn’t feel bad, she reasoned. I can’t change his fate any more than my own.

  But the words of the Northerner haunted her. What if his companion really wasn’t ruled by fate? What if things actually could change? The world suddenly felt larger, her future unmoored from the certainties her life had rested on.

  Behind her, she heard Father begin the ritual. Not wanting to be caught up in the spell, she fled down the stairs.

  She didn’t return to her room. A strange urgency had taken root in her. She had to find the red-haired man’s friend now—before it was too late. Forcing her newfound guilt from her mind, she scurried back to the corridor of cells. This was her best chance to find the man who defied fate if she was going to.

  She slipped down the hall, peeking into each cell. Some prisoners lay despondent on the floor, some chattered dementedly. Some had gray hair, some brown, but none of them fit the description. Then, she noted constant movement ahead, a complicated repeating pattern. Behind the next set of bars, a lean, muscular man battled with thin air. He lunged and stabbed with a piece of wood, kind of a makeshift sword. His movements flowed in a steady mesmerizing cadence, like a dance. His black hair was damp with sweat and clung to his neck and cheeks. It took her a few moments to realize he was the one she sought; the scarred man from the great hall.

  She had forgotten the tracing of scars on his face until now, but again such roughness only enhanced his features. The last time she saw him he had been unconscious, now he was full of a power undimmed by his time here. Her father may have caged him, but he was far from caught.

  The man was so intent on his invisible adversary he hadn’t noticed her yet, and she was drawn in by the intricacy of his practice. She laid a small hand on the bars as an echo of the warmth she had felt the other night kissed her cheeks, making her feel flushed. He was dangerous. He was fascinating. He was a man strong enough to evade fate.

  Then his eyes fell upon her during a turn, and he closed the distance between them in two sharp strides. His calloused hand trapped hers against the iron bars. In that instant, her world tilted as a flood of emotions washed over her, like they had in the tower room. Only this time, it wasn’t fear but fury. Visions not her own tumbled through her mind: Battlefields drenched in blood and screams. Rage and pain and determination mixed with the jarring clang of swords.

  She yanked her hand away as if his touc
h burned. And as she looked up into his face, she noted a fleeting moment of shock before his expression closed.

  He felt it too, she thought, rubbing her hand where they had touched as if to scrub away the unsettling feelings. He glowered at her from beneath those dark brows, and she noted that the cut along his temple bore a dwindling scab, the bruise and swelling already faded. Her eyes met his and echoes of emotion shuddered through her again.

  “Who are you?” It was a command, not a question.

  “Are you Mason Khoury?”

  Surprise showed on his face. “How did you know…?” Then realization hit. “Archer sent you.” A hint of smile brightened his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “So he’s alive.”

  She looked away.

  “Ah, not for long I take it.”

  She bit her lip to stop its trembling as guilt nipped at her conscience.

  “Well, well. We’re both to die then,” he said almost jovially, apparently reading her mind. She didn’t expect him to be so at ease with the news, especially after Reith Carter’s frantic pleading. When she finally dared look at him, his face was quiet.

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “So, where is he?” The question was casual, almost flippant. The scarred man backed further into the cell, looking down at the makeshift sword and his hands.

  “He’s down the other hall.” She edged closer, curious now that his focus was elsewhere. The masculine planes of his face were hidden beneath a beard that was dark except for the few lines of pale scar that crossed it.

  “So you’ve escaped your cell,” he said.

  “No.”

  “Servant, then?”

  “What?”

  “Concubine.”

  “No. This is my home.” An unfamiliar indignation flared, buoyed by the wash of fury she’d felt when they touched.

  “You expect me to believe that?” His eyes flicked over her tattered robes with disdain.

  She pressed her lips together to forestall an angry retort.

  “You look far more like a slave than a member of the household,” he said.

  Her composure broke. “I’m not a slave! If you must know, I am the sorcerer’s daughter and these clothes are perfectly serviceable.”

  “Sorcerer? Really? That tired old man?” Khoury sat on the cot and wiped the sweat from his brow with the blanket.

  “He may be old, but he’s very powerful.” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to defend Father, but something about this man’s arrogance irritated her.

  “Of course he is. That’s why he’s hiding here.”

  “He’s not hiding.”

  The man lifted his eyebrow skeptically as he tossed the blanket to the cot.

  “He just chooses to live away from prying eyes,” she finished.

  “I doubt anyone’s watching.”

  “Oh, but they are. They want to steal his secrets.”

  “Secrets?”

  “Magic power they’ve never even dreamed of. Some of his scrolls are from as far away as the Eastern Lands.” Her face was almost to the bars. Without realizing it, she had pressed closer during the argument.

  “Eastern magic? What does that do?” His voice dripped derision.

  She opened her mouth to explain, and then snapped it shut. How had he prodded her into talking about Father’s magic?

  Ignoring her silence, Khoury shifted to his back on the cot, crossed his ankles and pillowed his head in his hands. “I suppose you want me to believe you’re a sorceress now.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what is it that you do here?”

  The question struck a nerve. “I…feed him.”

  That turned the man’s head. “Feed him?”

  She nodded.

  “Ah, you’re his cook.”

  “No, not like that.” She put her hands on the bars, leaning her forehead against the cold metal. She felt drained.

  “Then how?” His voice was soft in the dark cell. She suddenly wanted to tell him everything. She wanted to tell her story to someone, what little there was of it. But how could she? If she did, he’d hate her. She was even beginning to hate herself.

  “How do you feed him?” he asked, even softer.

  She was embarrassed how the words came out of their own accord. “He has a special scroll, very rare. With it, he uses me to recharge his magic.”

  “How?” Though the man hadn’t moved, the girl could sense his attention sharpening. She kept her eyes closed so she didn’t have to see his face.

  “He takes my energy. My soul maybe. I don’t know exactly.”

  “And that’s what we’re all here for?”

  She nodded, not wanting to elaborate.

  Just when the silence had settled back around her like a comforting blanket, he asked, “What’s it like?” His voice was barely a whisper.

  “Don’t worry, Mason Khoury. You’ll only see it once.”

  The futility of second-guessing fate walled her off from hope as even he paused in silence. Then, his anger washed through her like a hot wind and with a growl he said, “Tell him to bring plenty of help when he comes to get me.”

  “He won’t need help. A simple spell, and you’ll be useless.” Like me, she thought.

  The captain had no comment.

  “I’m going to Archer now. I promised to tell him if you were well.”

  At that, the warrior laughed out loud, the sudden noise startling. “I’m being held captive and slated for death. You have a strange definition of being well.”

  “I…” She flinched under his sarcasm, feeling foolish.

  He lifted his head, leaned on one elbow, and watched her. He seemed amused by her unease. Waving her away, he said, “Go on, girl. Tell him I’m still alive. At least it will ease his fears. And once you’ve told him of me, you will come back.” His soft words were neither an entreaty nor an order. But he seemed certain of her future, the way Father always was. She shivered at the similarity.

  She turned away from his cell and padded up the hall. In truth, it would be better never to see either man again, but she knew it was too late for that. Already things were different. She was different.

  THE NORTHERNER WAS lying on the cot, apparently asleep.

  “Archer,” she whispered through the iron bars.

  “So soon. Is he dead already?” His voice was flat, not like before.

  “No,” she said. Not yet.

  “He’s alive?” Archer jumped to his feet and came to the door.

  “I just said that, didn’t I?” It was nice to bring happy news, though she knew bad news was on its way.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Only that he’s…” She paused mid-sentence remembering the captain’s cutting remarks. “Actually no, he didn’t say anything. But he was glad to hear of you.”

  Archer smiled, and she saw relief in the set of his shoulders. “Thank you.”

  She bobbed her head but said nothing. She wasn’t sure what would happen next, but the constant wash of emotions was beginning to wear on her. She longed to go back to her rooms and bathe in the quiet.

  “By the way, I’ve a gift for you.” He smiled like a man with a secret.

  “A gift?” What could he have?

  “A name.”

  “I told you, I have—”

  “I know. But this is a real name.”

  “A real name?”

  “Like in a book. Sort of a reward for finding the captain.”

  Who could have guessed that a name, of all things, would be much of a reward? After all, there would be no one to call her by it when Archer was gone. But when he offered it, an eager excitement burned within her. She raised a questioning brow.

  “Cara,” he said with an official tone to his voice.

  “Cara,” she repeated, trying it on like a new cloak.

  “In the Northern tongue, it means ‘friend.’”

  Friend, she thought with a shy smile. I’ve never had a human
friend before. “It’s lovely, Archer. I’m flattered.”

  “And … are you?”

  “Flattered? Yes, I said that.”

  “No. Are you my friend?”

  “Of course.” The words fell easily from her lips before she realized what he would ask next.

  “But you’ll let me die.” His words dropped into the Keep’s silence, carrying the weight of a responsibility she wasn’t ready for. Understanding dawned with dreadful clarity. This gift wasn’t free. She needed to earn it.

  Couldn’t they see she was helpless, caught in a trap that, in its own way, was as strong as their iron bars?

  “I see your point, warrior. But I could no more stop Father from taking your life than a snowflake could stop the winter wind. It only rides the wind.” She danced her fingers through the air, imitating gentle snowfall. “It cannot fly where it wills. It simply falls and is done.”

  When she looked up at him, his face was stunned and sad. But the pity in his tawny eyes wasn’t for himself.

  “You don’t have to be a snowflake,” he said. “You could choose.”

  “No. I can’t.” Tears gathered on her lashes.

  “Then you choose to let your father take my life and the captain’s.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to think about the inevitable. “You don’t understand. We’re all snowflakes: You, me, your captain. All slaves to circumstance. Even Father thinks he chooses, but he doesn’t. He does what he must. As do we all.” The words she had always believed sounded cowardly. These were men of action, men who defied fate. She turned away, ashamed.

  Archer chuckled. “You don’t know the captain.”

  “If your captain can bargain with fate, then I hope he wins you your lives. But I cannot help you.” Without another word, she left to return to the sanctuary of her room.

  BUT CARA’S QUIET world had been shattered, broken perhaps beyond repair. Trapped in useless circles, her mind refused to let her sleep and so she wandered in the deep, silent night. Her steps took her to the library where she thought she could lose herself in a book. She started a small fire in the hearth and settled into a large chair inside the circle of its glow. But the flame’s cheery warmth didn’t chase away the chill inside her heart. Where was her detached calm?