Ifre sounded out the next word and considered its meaning. Light? Sun? Fire? It could be any one of the three, depending on the context. He slammed the pen down again and soothed his frustrations with another glass of wine. He’d sent men ranging far and wide to hunt for his old tutor as well as to search out the hiding place of another of the man’s most favored students.
The tutor was dead—another unfortunate accident, but not one of Ifre’s making. The other student had disappeared after sending word that death was preferable to spending one minute of time in Ifre’s service.
He smiled again up at his brother’s likeness. “I will find her. When I do, her death will be her last gift from me.”
As he took one last sip of wine, he choked, spewing the wine out onto the text and his notes. His throat contracted hard, as if a fist had him in its grasp, making it impossible to swallow or breathe. Pain exploded like acid in his veins, sending him pitching headfirst to the floor.
The thick rug did little to cushion his fall as his whole body shivered and shook. His feet drummed on the floor, and his arms flopped and flailed like a trout tossed out onto the grass drowning in the air.
Was he dying?
He tried to call for help but couldn’t shove enough air past the blockage in his throat to form the words. The noises he made were little better than the croaking of a frog, and a pitifully small one at that.
Even if he had managed a clear call for assistance, it was doubtful anyone would respond. Not after his demand to be left undisturbed. All he could do was ride through the pain and pray it would pass. For an eternity, his body jerked and twitched as his head pounded and thumped against the carpet. His teeth bit deeply into his tongue, and the coppery tang of his own blood clogged his throat.
Slowly, so slowly, control of his muscles returned. As the last few shudders faded away, all he could do was lie there on the floor, covered in sweat and too weak to lift even his hand. His first full breath finally convinced him that he would survive this attack.
For that was what it was. Someone somewhere had countered one of his spells, perverting Ifre’s own power and turning it into a weapon to be used against him. It had to be one of the coins, or maybe several of them, considering the strength of the attack. If his unknown foe had destroyed even one more of the ensorcelled gold pieces, Ifre had no doubt that Agathia would’ve been looking for a new duke to assume the throne by nightfall.
He pushed himself up to rest on his elbows briefly before gathering enough strength to sit upright. When he managed to hold that position for a few minutes, he scooted closer to the desk, needing its support to crawl back up into his chair.
Gradually, his eyes could focus again. At least he’d survived the experience without anyone knowing that he’d been susceptible to attack. Since the death of his more popular brother, he’d imposed his rule over Agathia with a brutal hand. The people were cowed by his power, which was how it should be. That he could be killed from a safe distance didn’t bear thinking about.
He needed to get to his secret chambers down below and see what he could learn about how the backlash had been triggered. If he could trace it back to its source, he would learn the whereabouts of another mage, one with a powerful gift in his or her blood.
The coins had been keyed to engender a killing rage in their bearer if he were to come in contact with dear, sweet Lavinia. Her refusal to serve his cause had shown more common sense on her part than he’d ever given her credit for.
No doubt she’d guessed he wanted her for more than her ability to decipher the old texts. With luck, soon he would know her location. He’d send another troop of his royal guard to search for her. Too bad Terrick wouldn’t be there to lead the expedition.
He spared a brief thought of regret at the loss of the captain of his guard. He had no doubt Terrick was dead, murdered by Fagan’s niece and her band of hired thugs. When on a mission, all of Ifre’s guards wore a pendant that tied their minds and souls to him. They also allowed him to drain their life force to fuel his magic. He’d felt the loss of nearly all the men he’d sent with Lord Fagan.
That bastard had failed to regain control of his family home from his niece, Lady Merewen, and no doubt died in the process. That had cost Ifre not only access to Fagan’s gold, but also the use of the fool’s niece. Looking back, he should’ve insisted on Fagan bringing Merewen to the city as soon as he’d realized her potential. It had been a calculated risk to trust Fagan to keep her pure and safe. However, if she’d spent time at court, she would’ve been missed once Ifre claimed her for his studies. Nobles tended to notice when their own kind disappeared.
Eventually, he would still sacrifice her on his altar. Granted, if she were no longer a virgin, the strength of the blood sacrifice would be greatly weakened when he slit her throat to feed the ever-greedy flames of his magic.
When he was sure he could trust his legs to support him, Ifre walked to the door and called for Lady Theda, his brother’s widow who now served as Ifre’s chatelaine. He’d order her to bring him food, taking pleasure in using her as a superior servant. Once he’d replenished his strength, the hunt for Lavinia would begin again.
* * *
Lavinia maintained her composure all the way to her office. She returned the steel box to its usual place on the shelf behind her desk. Taking comfort in the familiar surroundings, she found the quiet at the center of her being and savored a moment of peace.
It wouldn’t last long. Too many thoughts and emotions were at war inside her head, all vying for control. They started with the memory of Duncan’s kiss. She was no innocent; she’d left the outside world for reasons other than to serve the gods. Even so, her limited experience had left her unprepared for the overwhelming impact of this one man.
Who was he really? Certainly not the simple scribe he claimed to be. It was plain to see he’d spent far more of his life with a sword in his hand than he had holding a pen. She didn’t doubt his word that he could perform the duties of a scribe, but why would he want to?
Despite the powerful magic she sensed whenever she was in his presence, he was clearly uncomfortable when confronted with even a simple warding spell. A man of contradictions, that was Duncan.
She considered the matter of the coins she’d destroyed. Her wards had held strong, preventing the explosion of power from harming those within the abbey walls. It was unlikely that any except the most sensitive of the sisters had felt even a whisper of its power.
That didn’t mean the duke himself had remained unaffected by the destruction of the coins. He’d used someone else’s blood to tie the death magic to the gold, but he’d also poured some of his own essence into the spell. It would be nice to think that his fortress in the capital city was too far away and too well warded against outside attack for him to have felt even a ripple of energy.
Comforting, yes, but only a fool would cling to comfort instead of facing reality. The most she could truly hope for was that he sensed the destruction of the coins and that was all. Even that was nothing she could count on, not with other lives depending on her leadership to keep them safe.
She’d also sworn to protect the library at any cost from men like Ifre Keirthan. To be honest, she was surprised that he hadn’t already sent his men to attempt to steal the collection to add it to his own. If he was aware of its contents, he would crave the knowledge it would afford him. Selfish bastard that he was, he’d want it all for himself. Ifre was well aware that knowledge was power, especially when it came to all things magic. If he was the only one with the ability to wield it, then his position as duke was safe.
The position he’d stolen in the first place.
Someone had to break the people of Agathia free from the yoke of his tyranny. Fear tasted sour, but so familiar. She’d lived with it as her constant companion for far too long. Destroying Keirthan’s coins was the first direct action she’d taken, and even that was to save herself, no one else.
She turned to face her garden and the deep
green bowl that awaited her attention. Should she risk scrying? No doubt Duncan would make his way back to her office soon. If she started now, perhaps with luck, the gods would gift her with answers before he came knocking.
Outside, the warm breath of the sun teased her skin and the soft breeze was perfumed with the sweet scent of flowers. Both combined to soothe her agitation, increasing the likelihood of success when she uncovered the bowl. Feeling cleansed by the simple beauty of the day, she lifted a pitcher of water high over the bowl.
With a smile, she slowly tipped it until the water poured out in a silvery stream that sparkled in the bright light of the sun. When the bowl was full, she set the pitcher aside and sought out the calm that had eluded her for most of the morning.
It was there, hovering just out of reach. She closed her eyes and let the worries of the day slip away, leaving only the good things, the ones that reminded her that life was worth living. The beauty of the flowers that surrounded her; the friendship she shared with the other sisters here within the strength of the abbey walls.
Then another image pushed all the others right out of her head: Duncan. Being held in his arms, the kiss they’d shared, and remembering what it felt like to be a woman with a woman’s desires and dreams.
Perhaps not the best imagery to focus on when approaching the gods, but then they were the ones who’d warned her that his presence in her life would be significant. The thought made her smile as she stepped closer to grasp the edges of the bowl and willed the water to show her what it would.
Ripples upon ripples offering her no clarity. She let her hands drop back down to her side. The disturbance wasn’t coming from her this time, but from the intruder in the garden. Lavinia didn’t bother to look. She knew who it was.
“If you plan to stay, at least come closer so that you can see what the water reveals.”
“You scry?”
Duncan’s deep voice came from over her shoulder, as if he were leery of approaching the bowl directly.
“Sometimes,” she answered honestly. “More often than not, I get frustrated by my efforts and toss the water at the roses.”
He chuckled. “That explains how lush this garden is.”
His wry comment had her wanting to join in with his laughter. “Duncan,” she chided, “this is serious business, not something to be taken lightly.
“Believe me, I have good reason to never take speaking with the gods lightly, Lady Lavinia.”
She glanced back over her shoulder at him, wondering at the sudden change in his tone. His eyes, so pale in color, stared at her with such pain and a wisdom that was far older than he should’ve possessed at his age.
Then he blinked, breaking the connection. “Would you prefer that I leave you alone?”
“No, I want you to stay.”
Which was true, and preferably for far longer than a simple scrying.
* * *
Duncan decided it was cowardly to stand behind Lavinia rather than at her side. He should’ve realized that the bowl was not intended for birds to bathe in. Even now, the glass hummed softly with the magical vestiges of Lavinia’s prior scryings. How had he missed that earlier? Perhaps he was more aware of it now because he was so aware of her.
“What should I do?”
“Stand still and stay quiet. If you lean closer, you should be able to see whatever the gods choose to show me.”
He nodded and watched Lavinia prepare herself for another attempt to query her gods. It should bother him. None of the Damned trusted magic. But just as Gideon had accepted Lady Merewen’s gift as something pure and clean, Duncan had come to the same conclusion about Lavinia’s.
He could only hope that he was thinking with his brain and not letting his personal desires overrule his common sense.
As she softly chanted, her always lovely face took on an otherworldly glow, peaceful and stunning to behold. She took his hand in hers and grasped the edge of the bowl with her other one. She gave him a pointed look and then turned her gaze to the opposite side of the bowl. Following her unspoken directions, he twined his fingers with hers and then gingerly clasped the edge of the glass.
The quiet hum he’d been hearing increased in volume enough to give him gooseflesh on his arms. Determined to see this through, he ignored the slightly unpleasant sensation as he waited to see what came next.
The water splashed over the edge onto his fingers. He realized he was holding the glass with too much force. As he eased up on his grip, Lavinia arched an eyebrow and smiled at him, he hoped in approval. If calm was what was needed, that was what he would give her.
Abruptly, the water stilled, its dark surface resembling a miniature of the deep pool where the Damned slept as they waited until the gods needed them to defend their people again. He fought the urge to back away, hating the reminder. Days were steadily passing, one by one, ever shortening the time he had left before the water would once again steal away years of his life.
When next he awoke, Lavinia’s life would be only a dim memory, a woman long gone from the world. Rather than think about her death, he concentrated on this moment, taking comfort in the warmth of her fingers touching his.
Lavinia finished whispering her words of power, leaving the garden silent except for the beating of their hearts and the ebb and flow of air in their lungs. The tension continued to build as they waited to see if the gods would speak.
A small ripple at the center of the bowl slowly spread, leaving in its wake a picture of a room, one filled to the brim with books, manuscripts, and scrolls. It was as if he were seeing the room through the eyes of another, slowly turning to reveal more detail. A man was seated at the table beside the window, holding up a page to the sunlight streaming in through the rippled glass as if trying to get a clearer look at the writing on the page.
It wasn’t hard to recognize himself, even if he wasn’t used to seeing himself through another’s gaze. He was speaking, although the water didn’t share the sound of the words with Duncan and Lavinia. She stepped into sight, joining him at the table to look at the passage that held his attention. When her hand came to rest on his shoulder as they studied the page, Duncan could’ve sworn he felt the phantom weight of her palm as they stood there in the garden.
The picture dissolved, flashing to another scene, this one more familiar to him. Murdoch was walking in a hall that Duncan recognized from Lady Merewen’s keep. His friend was moving slowly, as if in great pain. Duncan frowned. By now, Murdoch’s injuries from the battle should’ve been long healed. Did the gods show a jumble of the future, the past, and the present?
It was a question to ask Lavinia when this was over.
Once again the water stirred. This time the chamber was unfamiliar to him, although it bore some superficial resemblance to the one where he and Lavinia had destroyed the coins that morning. He had no doubt he was looking into a mage’s lair. But whose?
After a few seconds, a man strode into sight. He stepped up to what had to be an altar, but one adorned with shackles. That alone was enough to send a shiver of cold dread racing up Duncan’s spine. Judging by the death grip she now had on his hand, Lavinia was no happier with this image.
She stared down at the water as if her worst nightmare were playing out before her. The man held a knife up, and his lips moved as he chanted a spell. Despite the silence of the scrying bowl, Duncan felt the darkness and evil intent in the mage’s words.
Without warning, the man slashed open the palm of his hand and then laid the blade of his knife across the gaping wound. Instead of the blood dripping down onto the altar, the bright silver of the steel turned crimson and pulsed with a heartbeat of its own.
Lavinia whimpered, her face now a frozen mask of horror.
Abruptly, the mage in the water jerked his head up to stare at the ceiling in his room—or possibly at Lavinia. Acting on instinct, Duncan yanked his hand free and used his arm to drag Lavinia back from the scrying bowl. Shoving her behind him, he grabbed the bowl and heaved it
s contents at the flowers.
Then they both stood in horrified silence while the water sizzled and steamed. As they watched, it blackened all of the plants it had touched, leaving a path of destruction in its wake as it dripped down onto the ground.
Chapter 12
“Drink this.”
Duncan shoved a full goblet of wine at Lavinia and then poured a second one for himself. Right now, he wasn’t sure there was enough wine in all of Agathia to numb the memory of what they’d just witnessed.
Lavinia sat on the bench in the garden, staring warily at her scrying bowl as if it would leap out and attack her at any second. At least the wine had put some color back in her cheeks. For a while there, Duncan had been afraid she was going to faint on him.
Granted, swooping in to catch her in his arms held a certain appeal, but he never wanted to see that look of utter terror in her eyes again. She hadn’t said a single word since they’d both watched the water smolder and burn its way down the wall, killing everything in its path. The terror of the experience had silenced her.
Duncan hated that his efforts to break the connection to the mage had left a mark in her garden, a visible reminder of the evil they had witnessed. He tried not to hover, but he wouldn’t leave her alone until he was sure that she was all right.
Later, he’d write a summary of all that had happened for Gideon. He hesitated to send Kiva so far from his side, but it was imperative for the captain to know what was going on. The separation would weaken Duncan’s ability to fight, but Kiva would be gone only two days, three at the most. It was a risk worth taking.
“How did you know?”
Duncan had been staring down into his wine as if the Lady of the River would reveal her truth to him. He’d settle for a brief glance of her purpose for placing him in Lavinia’s path. Drinking down the rest of the wine, he set the empty goblet aside. “How did I know what?”
Although he understood exactly what she was asking.
Her Knight's Quest: A Warriors of the Mist Novel Page 10
