Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2)

by Coreene Callahan

  Oh gods. She’d been hit.

  Panic punched through. Horror spread like the plague, infecting her with fear as she reached out and grasped the arrow shaft with her good hand. The slight jostle made her cry out. Her skin tore as she jerked in pain. More blood welled, wetting her tunic, coating the back of her arm as reality dragged the truth to the forefront. She was in serious trouble. The kind she couldn’t afford. Not right now. Not when she sat so close to success. But even as she tried to deny it, the searing sensation wouldn’t let her. God, it stung. But worse? She was weakening. Could feel her body draining, the awful trickle as blood pooled in her elbow joint. Bile rolled up her throat. Cosmina swallowed the burn and shifted on her knees. She must hold the line. Was just seconds away. Mere moments from achieving her goal, so . . .

  No panicking allowed. Duty demanded she stay the course.

  Supporting her injured arm, she shuffled toward the narrow opening. Patience. Almost there. But gods, she wished the door would open faster. Slower than molasses in winter, the slab retreated to one side, old gears working hard to pull the heavy stone across the floor. Heart beating so hard it hurt to breathe, Cosmina counted the seconds. She bumped the arrow tip by mistake. Pain ripped through her. Clinging to her goal, she watched the door slide open another inch. With a gasp, she grabbed the stone edge and pulled, lending her strength to the slow glide, but . . .

  It didn’t help.

  She had no strength left to give and . . . oh gods. Her arm hurt. And her strength? Nothing but a distant memory. Cosmina groaned as she raised her injured arm and, smearing blood across the wall, pushed at the door again. Her vision dimmed. Combating the blur, Cosmina shook her head. No quitting allowed. No matter how desperate the situation, she refused to give in to the weakness. ’Twould be all right. She would be all right. The wound might look bad, but despite the blood loss, it was actually the best kind: a through and through, a clean strike that would no doubt respond to proper tending and—

  “Goddamn it,” Henrik growled from beside the high altar. The concern in his voice carried, making her want to turn toward him instead of away. A weak reaction, one propelled by foolishness. No matter his willingness to protect her, she must rely on herself, not him. “Cosmina, move to your left.”

  Nay. No way. She couldn’t do as he asked. Moving left would put her out of range—too far away from the door opening. Even so, she wanted to listen. To let Henrik lead while she followed. She quelled the urge and, forcing her limbs into compliance, slid toward the Chamber of Whispers.

  The movement gouged at her muscles.

  Ignoring the anguish, Cosmina bit down on a groan and glanced toward the pictographs. Her gaze found the key still embedded in the wall. Reaching up, she wrenched it from its mooring and looped the necklace over her head. The key bounced against her breastbone. The arrow caught in her cloak, twisting the shaft. Anguish bit. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she didn’t stop. Tucking her elbow against her side, Cosmina wedged her knee against the door edge and, setting her good shoulder against the jamb, tried to squeeze through the opening. The second it opened wide enough—the moment she could slip through—she’d slam the key home on the other side and, with a quick twist, close it behind her.

  Ensure the Druinguari stayed out. Keep the faith while doing her duty. Block Henrik so he couldn’t—

  Heat exploded behind her.

  Cosmina sucked in a quick breath. Surprise made her glance over her shoulder. Fear kept her staring as the door widened another inch. Heaven help her—fire. An inferno of blue flame streaked across the floor near the top of the steps. Screams of agony echoed against the high dome. The stench of burning flesh rolled into the open air. She gagged. The slab continued to slide. She followed suit, angling her shoulders, breathing through the pain, pushing through the narrow space and . . . dry heaved again.

  Movement flashed to her left.

  Halfway through the opening, Cosmina flinched. Distress tightened its grip, snaking around her rib cage. Her heart hopped hard, thumping the inside of her breastbone. Blood dripped from her fingertips, landing beside her on the mosaic tile. Baring her teeth, she reached down with her good arm. Her knife. She needed it in her hand before the enemy arrived on her blindside. Her middle finger brushed the leather-wrapped grip. She stretched harder, twisting in a bid to grab her weapon, but . . . gods. She kept missing the hilt. Couldn’t secure a good enough grip to pull the blade free.

  Henrik slid to a stop beside her. Hazel-gold eyes met hers. With a quick flick, he sheathed one of his swords and reached for her.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said, wincing as pain knifed through her upper arm. “D-do not—”

  “Easy.”

  “Get back. Stay away.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot do that, iubita.”

  Stupid endearment. And heaven help her . . . his tone. So soft. Too low. Completely apologetic, as though he felt her pain and would take it away if he could. His obvious regret did her in. Tears rolled over her bottom lashes. Drat the man. He’d bullied her earlier, using his voice and the endearment to get a rise out of her. To pull her off-balance. To taunt and tease while he gauged her reaction and gained the upper hand. Now, though, he sounded concerned . . . and looked the part too. She saw the worry in his eyes, heard the sincerity in his voice and . . . blast and damn.

  There she went again, wanting to believe in him.

  Under normal circumstances, Cosmina would never have considered it. Strangers were dangerous creatures. Self-serving. Untrustworthy. More harmful than helpful. The past had taught her that well enough. But as she held Henrik at bay, Cosmina recognized futility when she saw it. Resisting wasn’t the smartest move. She needed help and had very little time left. The ritual wouldn’t wait, so like it or nay, Henrik had just become her only hope . . . the only way to achieve her goal and end up inside the Chamber of Whispers.

  Which meant asking for his help. Before the moon reached its apex and time ran out.

  “Henrik, I need to get inside.” Elbow still pressed to her side, Cosmina twisted a little. The arrowhead banged against the jamb. Air left her lungs, escaping her throat on a low whimper. “Help me. Please help me inside. I have to—”

  He yelled at his comrades, then turned back to her. The inferno blazed into a wall of flame. Heat blasted through the rotunda as Henrik settled next to her. He raised his hands. She tried not to flinch. Avoiding the arrow and her injury, he grabbed the edges of her leather tunic. His fingers curled inward, pressing against her shoulders. He jostled her a bit, seeking a better grip. Another round of pain streaked down her arm. She moaned. He cursed, but didn’t apologize. Cosmina didn’t expect him to. All she wanted was for him to lift her clear and shove her through.

  “On the count of three, all right?”

  She nodded.

  He started to count. “One.”

  “Two,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Three.”

  With a grunt, he heaved her upward. Her feet touched down with a thud, but her legs refused to hold her. As her knees buckled, Henrik held on, keeping her upright, and set his shoulder against the stone edge. With a snarl—and more strength than any man ought to have—he pushed the door open another foot. His comrades appeared over his shoulder, blurring into one as Cosmina’s vision wavered. Tightening his grip, Henrik lifted and sidestepped, moving them through the half-open door and . . .

  She was through the opening. And one step closer to fulfilling her promise to the goddess.

  Half-dead on her feet, she clung to Henrik as his friends followed him over the threshold. Fire hissed from beyond the chamber. Heart pounding behind her breastbone, Cosmina clutched the key and tugged on the chain. The silver clasp resisted the effort, refusing to release against the nape of her neck.

  “Blast.” Out of strength, she sagged against Henrik.

  “Tell me.”

  “Take the key. Lock the door.” Her stomach pitched. Bile splashed against the back of her thr
oat. Cosmina swallowed and stayed on task. “One full crank to the left, and it will close again.”

  “The locking mechanism?”

  “Right-hand side. Eye level.”

  Grabbing the key, he lifted the necklace over her head. A quick shift, and he tossed it to one of his comrades. “Shay.”

  The warrior caught it mid-volley and spun toward the door. “On it.”

  Shivering hard, Cosmina glanced toward the center of the chamber. Thank the gods, it was just as she remembered. Round room. Huge megaliths forming a circle around the perimeter. Cut from the Carpathian Mountains, rising twenty feet toward the ancient dome, the stone uprights gleamed in the low light. The Chamber of Whispers. The most holy of places. Birthplace of the Goddess of All Things on earth.

  Finally. At last. She’d made it.

  Gears ground into motion. Stone scraped across tile as the wall closed, shutting out the glow of blue flame, along with the enemy. Shay locked the door, then turned away from the entrance. His eyes narrowed on Cosmina, he pulled the key from the stone lock. “’Tis done, H.”

  “Good,” Henrik said, his focus steady on Cosmina. “Look for another way out.”

  As his friends moved to obey, Cosmina switched tack. Safe from the Druinguari, yet only halfway to her goal. Forcing herself to refocus, she stared at the space between two megaliths. Not long now. Ten—mayhap twenty steps at most—and she’d be standing where she needed to be: on the raised stone platform inside the stone henge. Setting her courage, she braced for the pain and shifted toward the dais.

  Henrik held on, refusing to let her go.

  “Unhand me.”

  “I do and you’ll fall on your face.” Leather creaked as his grip on her tunic tightened. “The arrow needs to come out, Cosmina. Now. Before—”

  “Later,” she whispered, her tone a soft plea for understanding. “Please, Henrik, let me go. My injury can wait, but the rite cannot. It must be done now.”

  His gaze narrowed a fraction. “What rite?”

  She shook her head.

  “Christ. Mica vrăjitoare . . . stubborn to a fault,” he growled. Swaying in his hold, Cosmina huffed. She shouldn’t find it funny but for some reason she did. Whether he intended it or not, the statement sounded more like praise than insult. “Where do you need to go?”

  “Inside the circle.” Her hand shook as she pointed past the megaliths. “Center of the dais.”

  With another curse, he shifted to her good side and picked her up. She gritted her teeth, smothering a grimace. The gods be swift and merciful, what a tangle. Injured. Weak. Reliant on a man. The trio of faults were not her usual fare. She prided herself on keen eyes, steady hands, never-say-die fortitude, and in her ability to rely on all three. Tonight, though, she’d missed the mark. Now fate forced her to admit that Henrik was all she had . . . here, now, in this moment. And as he cradled her close and strode into the sacred circle, she decided that sometimes asking for a little help went a long way.

  “Here?” he asked, stopping at the edge of the dais.

  “Here’s good.”

  Pulling his forearm from beneath her knees, he swung her feet to the floor. Her arm squawked. Cosmina winced and smothered a groan. Muscled arms flexing around her, Henrik murmured her name. His tone said it all. He wanted her to be reasonable. Sensible. Rational. Call it whatever the situation warranted, but—

  Cosmina shook her head, refusing to acknowledge his plea. Or the underlying current at play between them. No matter how necessary, her reliance on him unsettled her. She didn’t like it any more than the motive behind his agenda. She knew what he wanted—for her to acquiesce while he tended her injury. Why he cared, she couldn’t understand. He didn’t know her. She wasn’t his concern. But as her arm throbbed and she started to tremble, temptation circled, urging her to lean on him. To become his responsibility. To allow him to take her pain away.

  ’Twould be so easy to do.

  But she refused to go that way. Forget here and now, ’twas the future that worried her. The precedent must be set. Naught good would come from relying on him. Or making him believe she needed him.

  Meeting his gaze, she pressed her palm to his chest and pushed. Henrik didn’t budge. She shoved again. As his arms slid from around her, she sank to her knees in the middle of the platform. “Back away. Give me some room.”

  “Cosmina, let me—”

  “Please, Henrik,” she whispered. He growled something obscene, and Cosmina started to pray. She needed him off the dais. Couldn’t afford the distraction, never mind the time spent arguing with him. “Just . . . please.”

  Her please did him in. With a snarl, he stepped back, leaving her alone on the dais.

  And Cosmina didn’t hesitate.

  Elbows tucked to her side, she drew a deep breath, held it a moment, then exhaled long and smooth. Another lungful. In. Out. Inhale and release. The rise and fall of her chest helped center her. Time to focus. Time to embrace her past and do what needed to be done. Closing her eyes, Cosmina bowed her head, settled into the cradle of her mind, and forced herself to concentrate.

  The words—the words—she must remember each one.

  Recall flashed. Deep-rooted memory rose, serving up the ancient rite.

  “Great goddess of the moon, of shadow and light, hear me now. I come to you in this . . . most sacred of places, on a Sabbath blessed by a winter moon. Guide me with your power. Imbue me with your light. Grant me grace so that I may . . . may . . .”

  As Cosmina paused, searching for the next phrase, a familiar vibration buzzed in her veins. The hum expanded beneath her skin, pushing the pain aside. Knowledge stepped into the breach, then gained speed, rushing the rest of the incantation along in the goddess’ native tongue. Cosmina sighed, her relief instantaneous. Gods, it had been too long. So many months. So many years. Far too long since she’d heard the language of the gods—the one always spoken inside High Temple. Tipping her head back, she became a channel, allowing the divine words to flow off her tongue and meld with musical notes, marrying intent with a melodic chant.

  Singing.

  She was singing again.

  After five years of near silence. After overcoming every hardship. After all the heartache. Here she knelt, serving the goddess inside White Temple—righting a wrong, resurrecting her family honor, following in her mother’s footsteps. The thought made her voice stronger. Clear as a bell, beautiful as birdsong, she hit each note as her childhood came back to embrace her. Happy years sped past, then turned ugly, reminding her of dark days. Cosmina shoved the memories aside. All faded in the face of renewal and return. Here, now, in this place . . .

  She belonged.

  Ylenia, the late High Priestess of Orm, couldn’t hurt her anymore. And despite her mother’s passing, Cosmina knew the goddess was right. All things happened for a reason: all the pain and desolation, every one of her mother’s attempts to shield her from Ylenia’s savagery, even her mother’s death at the hands of the High Priestess. Terrible in every way. Now, though, Cosmina could see the connection. The strife—all the heartache—had served its purpose, preparing her for this moment, helping her understand her gift better and why Ylenia had coveted it.

  A powerful oracle was a matchless weapon. Foreknowledge equaled mastery, the kind skilled manipulators wielded without mercy. In the right hands, it shaped countries, shifted the balance of power, and built strong alliances. In the wrong ones, it caused horrific tragedy.

  War. Strife. Famine. Once powerful empires reduced to complete ruin.

  History told the tale.

  Inside the Chamber of Whispers, however, her gift meant something more. Something better. Something pure and full of hope, so Cosmina lifted her voice high, singing the incantation with timeless rhythm. But as the song crested and the spell formed, the air grew thin, warping against the vaulted ceiling. The ancient symbols carved into the megalith’s faces started to glow. Bright light exploded above the dais, then rushed toward the floor in a cascade of i
llumination. Magic engulfed Cosmina in a sickening wave, making her stomach churn as sensation crawled over her skin.

  Panic sent her sideways. She must get off the dais. Needed to stop singing before—

  Powerful magic bore down—pinning her knees to stone, holding her immobile, forcing the spell from her throat. She fought the mental slide. The pressure increased, tightening its grip inside her mind. Oh gods . . . nay. Not now. Her gift needed to stay locked away. The instant she allowed her Seer’s eye to open—and the magic to merge with her own—it would be over. Overload would suck her into a vortex of pain. But even as Cosmina struggled to keep her gift contained, she knew her loss of control was what the spell wanted . . . was what it needed to complete itself.

  She cried out in dismay. The goddess expected too much. Giving in would cost her too much. Cosmina understood her power all too well. If she gave it free reign, the magic would steal her sight. It had happened once before, leaving her blind and helpless for days. Resistance, however, didn’t help. Despite her best effort, the cosmic pressure continued to build and the terrible cascade began.

  Sharp and insistent, the beast banged on her mental gates.

  Cosmina clenched her teeth and pushed back. Another round of denial spilled through her. Magic snarled and, raising a powerful fist, broke through the barricades she defended. Multiple visions streamed into her head. The steady rush of imagery stretched her mind, pulling at psychological seams.

  The song died in her throat.

  Henrik cursed from somewhere nearby.

  The spell chased its tail inside her head. Burning bright, magical mist rose, shrieking as it revolved in a ring around her. Imprisoned by the ethereal glow, Cosmina’s lungs closed. Unable to breath, she watched the strange smoke separate into seven rings. The bands thinned into discs, each spinning just inches above the next—smooth as glass, edges sharp as steel, an impenetrable cage fueled by her life force.

  And so it began . . .

  The magic was siphoning her strength, slowing her heartbeat, taking her life one breath at a time. Overload blurred her vision. Tears pooled in her eyes and the glow pulsed—once, twice, a third time—showing no mercy, stealing her power as it sent the goddess’ message out in a blinding burst of light.