Seduction of the Bear (Bear Kamp Book 1)

by Rachel Robins

  Frida looked down at her arms and saw that they were, indeed, also black, as though she had been burnt and only ashes remained. “What have you done to me?” she asked, aghast.

  “I thought you would know,” Brynarr said, smiling that sly little smile of his. “It is, after all, your spell—your magic.” He waved an arm out over their army. “All of this was your idea. I only managed this monstrosity, as you call it, because of you.”

  Frida shuddered, her fingers scrubbing at her skin. But the blackness would never disappear, and the ash quality of her skin was there for good. He was stealing her magic, shredding her soul in the process—since she was still paying the price for “using” her magic—and turning her into one of his soulless beings. Just like him.

  It was a relief when she fainted.

  Chapter 16

  Frida raised her head, trying to blink her eyes clear so that she could see her surroundings. She didn't know how long she'd been chained up to the pole in Brynarr's camp yet, but she could tell that there had been some change, something that she needed to be aware of.

  As she blinked, a dragon suddenly appeared before her. He ducked his large, black, scaly head down and looked at her with piercing blue eyes. Then, he snorted a puff of smoke that encircled her and set her off coughing.

  But when Frida blinked again, the dragon was gone. She almost sobbed with a feeling of loss. She took a deep, shuddery breath and let it out slowly.

  Brynarr had been messing with her head in all the days that she had been chained up there. He haunted her with memories of the past and falsehoods about the present. There was actually no way for him to make her into one of the ktherii—those monsters were born out of earth and magic. Her skin appeared ashen and nearly translucent—he had been stealing her magic, shredding her soul bit by bit in the process—but she wasn't about to become one of them.

  In all of this, she tried to cling to who she was. But when she was unable to even say if she was Frida or Eir, that became difficult.

  Of course, while she was trying to sort out where she was—and where that dragon had disappeared to—that was when Brynarr chose to make an appearance. He grinned down at her. “I'm surprised to see you awake,” he told her, his voice just as silken as always. She couldn't believe that once, she had loved him. That once, she had thought they would be the perfect pair. She could still remember that first night, though—and he hadn't been at all like this, back then.

  “The two of you would make a handsome pair,” Lord Varg said, reaching out to pour her more mead. He nodded towards his son. “Why don't you ask him to dance?”

  Eir giggled a little and glanced towards her sisters—but they were chatting with their love interests and had no time for her. Feeling a stab of jealousy that they were finding their places here in court and she was just as lonely as ever, she squared her shoulders and downed the mead that the lordling had poured for her. She then marched straight over to Brynarr and tapped him firmly on the shoulder.

  And Brynarr turned to face her, fixing those brilliant blue eyes on her. “What can I do for you, young one?” he asked, a small, amused smile at his lips.

  Eir bristled, putting her hands on her hips. “I'm not that young,” she protested hotly.

  “You're younger than me,” Brynarr had responded. “You probably don't dance as well either, do you?” Without another word, he had swept her off into a complicated dance, and she had followed laughingly along with him.

  But those charms were gone now. Instead, there was this brutish man who wanted to conquer the world—all for the sake of the sorcerers, sure, but that didn't change the amount of blood that had been spilled, lives that had been lost, knowledge that had been misused or forsaken. She felt sick knowing that she had ever gone along with him—both in this lifetime and the last.

  Then again, there wasn't much else she could have done in this time, given that she hadn't known he was putting a spell on her to force her to be besotted with him.

  “If you were anyone else, you'd probably be dead by now,” Brynarr told her, reaching down to lightly stroke her cheek. “As it is, I think you still have a few more draining sessions left in you.” He took out his knife and lifted Frida's arm, exposing her palm in the direction of the bright blade.

  Frida shivered, waiting for the slice. It hardly hurt anymore—the physical pain of being sliced had nothing on the pain of having her magic pulled out of her. But the blade never touched her, and Brynarr didn't get a chance to drain her again—because instead, Frida suddenly found herself flying through the air, moving up–up–up—until her chained hands slipped free over the top of the wooden post.

  For a long moment, she dangled there in the air, unable to see just what it was that had lifted her up. But when she craned her neck around, she could see enormous wings out to either side of her, beating the air and lifting them aloft. And suddenly she realized that the dragon from before hadn't been a figment of her imagination at all.

  She blinked at him, wondering where he had come from—but then she shook her head, certain that she was just imagining all of this. Of course, there was no escape from Brynarr, especially not given his magical prowess. She would open her eyes eventually and find that she was still chained to that post, still tied to his whimsy.

  Or perhaps this was what it felt like to finally float on into the next life. She could never tell for certain.

  The dragon moved his neck around so that she suddenly found herself on his back, clinging to the smooth scales there. But her exhausted bones were no match for the wind, and she found herself slipping free.

  A warm, calloused hand caught her shoulder and pulled her back to sit in a strange sort of saddle between the dragon's wings. The man, whoever he was, was saying something to her, but she couldn't focus on his words. The abyss was calling again, her lack of magic making it difficult to even keep her eyes open anymore or to keep herself upright.

  She succumbed to the abyss and drifted there in the darkness, wondering how long it would take for Brynarr to find her again.

  Chapter 17

  There were voices around Frida, drawing her out of her comfortable coma. She didn't want to open her eyes—even with her eyes closed, things were too bright and everything was so loud. She couldn't imagine the sort of sensory overload she would have to face the minute she opened her eyes.

  But they wouldn't stop talking around her. About her.

  “Relax,” someone said. “She has been through quite the ordeal—and healing a soul takes time. She has lost most of her magical energy over the course of weeks—you have to give her time.”

  “I know,” the second person said, sounding exasperated, as though he might pull out his hair at any second. She could hear his feet, pacing on the stone floor. “But there has been no change in her condition since she's been here, and–”

  “There's been plenty of change in her condition, it's just not anything that you can see,” the first person interrupted. “Now please, for the sake of my own sanity, sit down, Daegal, and quit your worrying.”

  Daegal… The name was familiar. If only she could place it…

  She blinked open her eyes as the realization hit her, and she tried to push herself up on her elbows to get a good look at the man, to see if he was the man that she remembered.

  Unfortunately, she couldn't push herself far—she didn't have the energy for that. But as soon as the men saw her moving, both faces swam into her field of vision. And sure enough…

  “Daegal,” she breathed, hardly daring to believe her eyes. She had met the man in Groenthjal, when she had been kidnapped by the raiders—and he had helped her escape and return to her life in Daelfjord. She couldn't believe, though, that he was somehow here, that he had–

  That he had shifted into his dragon form and rescued her from Brynarr's clutches.

  She swallowed hard, desperately hoping that this wasn't a dream.

  “Shh,” Daegal soothed, placing his hand over hers. “From what I hear, you've h
ad a very difficult month since you disappeared on me.” His tone was disapproving, but his expression belied his concern.

  Frida felt shame well up in her: she never should have left the man like that—without any warning or explanation. She had been so sure, though, that the path to overthrowing the sorcerers lay in heading south, in drumming up an army.

  She still wondered if perhaps that would have worked, if it hadn't been for Brynarr. But she also wondered if perhaps her conviction in the fact that it would work had to do with more sorcery on Brynarr's behalf.

  “Shh,” Daegal repeated, lightly stroking the back of her hand. “Don't worry about it, it's all forgotten. I'm just glad that we were able to rescue you before...” He trailed off, but Frida knew exactly what he was thinking.

  “You haven't rescued me—not really,” she said, her face twisting. She looked away from him, unable to meet his concerned gaze. “Brynarr has been stealing magic from me for… I don't even know how long, actually. But I do know that most of my soul is shredded and gone.”

  When she risked a look at Daegal, he looked almost confused. The other man—a healer, she realized, according to the uniform that he wore—was shaking his head. “I know this may come as some surprise to you, but we have figured out a way, in the north, to keep magic from shredding souls irreparably—and what's more, we have figured out a way to heal those souls that have been shredded with magic. Of course, this doesn't work with all souls—you still need to have pieces of a soul left for them to be healed—but all the same, it works in most cases. And it worked in yours.”

  Frida stared at him, wondering if he was truly saying what she thought he was saying. “You mean there's been no lasting damage?” she asked, trying again to push herself up into a sitting position. “You mean that Brynarr hasn't left a permanent mark on me?”

  The healer shook his head again, a gentle expression on his face, and he pushed her shoulder back down against the bed, halting her movements. “No, Frida—or Eir, whichever you prefer to be called now. There has been no lasting mark left on your soul by Brynarr.” He said the man's name like a curse.

  “Where are we?” Frida asked. She looked at Daegal, still trying to piece everything together. “How did you manage to find me?”

  “I found you when you were still in Daelfjord,” Daegal said, shrugging a little. “You weren't exactly trying to hide. But I saw you with Brynarr, and I figured it was best to let you… Well, destiny needed to take its course.”

  Frida frowned. “Destiny,” she spat, shaking her head. “But where are we?” she repeated. She couldn't see much from the bed that she was in—just a stone ceiling and crude stone walls.

  “Not far from Brynarr's camp,” Daegal said, a grim look on his face. “We didn't want to move you too far, in the condition that you were in. But we're safe here. Brynarr doesn't know these caves exist.”

  “But he must be able to sense you,” Frida said. “He must be able to see your energy.”

  “Oh no,” Daegal said, shaking his head. “These caves—there's something special about the rocks that they're made up of. You can't sense energies through here. Haven't you noticed?”

  Frida sighed and closed her eyes. “I wasn't able to sense energies for a while even after I had unlocked my magic again,” she admitted. “I wasn't sure if maybe I was just back to not being able to see energies again.” She shifted a little, realizing that she was very close to drifting off to sleep again. “I'm afraid I'm still not...”

  “Rest,” the healer said. “I'll make sure that Daegal quits bothering you.”

  Frida laughed a little, blinking open one eye to peer up at them. “I appreciate the concern,” she said truthfully. She managed to turn her hand over and squeeze Daegal's, where it still rested against hers. “I will be all right,” she promised.

  Daegal leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Sweet dreams, Frida,” he said quietly.

  Frida's deep sleep breathing was the only response.

  Chapter 18

  When Frida finally awoke again, she felt much better—well enough, in fact, that she was up out of the bed and on her feet when the healer came in. He stared at her for a moment, clearly shocked, and then shook his head. “Oh no, no, no,” he said in admonishment. “Get back in that bed and–”

  “There's a war to be fought,” Frida protested weakly. “Brynarr–”

  “You can't do anything about Brynarr until you get your strength back,” Daegal said from behind her, and she jolted around, realizing that he had been asleep in the chair beside her bed the whole time and that she somehow hadn't noticed him.

  Daegal yawned and stretched a little, and Frida couldn't shake the way her eyes were drawn across his form. They had been lovers once, before Brynarr had returned to the scene and put a spell on her. She wondered how she could have forgotten him so easily—but undoubtedly that had to do with everything that Brynarr had done to her.

  She sat slowly back on the end of the bed, realizing that she was shaking a little already with exertion—and all she'd done so far was stand up and walk a few steps. It would be ages before she was able to hold a sword again or–

  “Don't worry,” the healer said, as though reading her mind. “I've been spoon-feeding you potions while you've been out. You'll be ready to go again in no time.”

  Frida sighed. “Thank you,” she said gratefully. “I only wish it was soon enough. Brynarr's armies–”

  “He's not going anywhere just yet,” Daegal interrupted. “He's still enraged over losing you—and I think trying to figure out what to do now that he can't finish the spell he had begun. He needs your blood in order to put the finishing touches on it, but he doesn't know the first place to start looking for you.”

  “What spell was he working on?” Frida asked curiously.

  “I don't know,” Daegal answered. “I can draw you pictures of some of the key elements, if you think you might know it. I only saw it from the air—he has a whole circle laid out, with–”

  “He's trying to summon wraiths from the Otherworld,” Frida interrupted, a sickening feeling in her stomach.

  “You've foreseen this?” Daegal asked, sounding aghast.

  “No,” Frida said, shaking her head grimly. “But I know Brynarr better than I know myself. And he doesn't need casting circles for everyday magic—he needs them as a portal.”

  There was silence following her declaration. Suddenly, Frida shook her head, pushing herself back to her feet. “I have to stop him,” she said.

  The healer pushed her back down into bed—and Frida was embarrassed at how easily she collapsed back. The medic had hardly used any strength, and yet, here she was, flat on her back again. “You are not going to stop him,” the healer told her, shaking his head. “He needs your blood—yours, and no one else's.”

  “Why mine?” Frida asked. “Surely he could use the blood of any sorcerer out there. For all we know, he could be putting the finishing touches on the spell as we speak.”

  “Not possible,” Daegal said, shaking his head. He ogled Frida a little. “You do realize you're one of the most powerful sorcerers who has ever existed, don't you? You have a very specific type of blood that gives Brynarr access to anything he might ever dream of accomplishing. That's why he's been so–”

  “No,” Frida interrupted, covering her ears with her hands before she could hear him finish that thought.

  Daegal shrugged a little. “Just, he's not going to find what he needs from just anyone else. He needs you. And that means that until this is over, you aren't going anywhere near him.”

  “How do you plan on finishing this, then?” Frida snapped. “His magic is no match for any of you—even you in dragon form, Daegal. And–”

  “Relax,” the healer said, resting a hand on her shoulder again. “Or else I'm going to give you something to knock you out again. This isn't healthy for you. You need to rest, and you need to relax—and when you're better, we'll work out a strategy for overthrowing Brynarr. It's enough th
at for now, he isn't up to anything—because he's too busy looking for you. You have time to rest up, and that's what you'll do.”

  Frida reluctantly sat back against the pillows, looking over at Daegal. “Did you make it to the north?” she asked.

  Daegal raised an eyebrow at her. “Where do you think Calder—your favorite healer at the moment—came from?” he asked.

  Frida blinked at the healer—Calder, she supposed. “You're from the north?” she asked.

  Of course, that was something that the man had already told her, when he told her that he was able to repair the damage that had been done to her soul. What was it? “I know this may come as some surprise to you, but we have figured out a way, in the north, to keep magic from shredding souls irreparably—and what's more, we have figured out a way to heal those souls that have been shredded with magic.”

  “Are there... more of you here?” she asked, hardly daring to hope. If they had an army of sorcerers that they could raise against Brynarr–

  “We aren't going to fight Brynarr,” Calder said, shaking his head. “We vowed long ago, after the first wars, that we weren't going to get involved in such things anymore.”

  “But Brynarr intends to go after you as well,” Frida pressed. “He already has Kjota, and he plans to take Derithan next—but then he plans to come north and take back the ice caves and–”

  “Frida,” Daegal said softly, and she looked over at him, surprised by his tone. “It's up to you to defeat Brynarr,” he said. “It always has been.”

  Frida felt tears well up in her eyes at that, but she knew the truth of that statement more surely than she had ever known anything in her life. She shook her head, staring down at her hands as she twisted them together. “I'm not sure that I can...”

  “I believe that you can,” Daegal said, giving her an encouraging smile. “We'll need to strategize—come up with a plan. Once you're healthy, of course. But there must be a way.”