Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2)

by Coreene Callahan

  The explosion rocked the chamber.

  The megaliths swayed. Stone dust flew into the air as pain ripped through her.

  Recall the Blessed to White Temple. The future rests with you.

  Aye . . . there it was. Words to live and die by, ones Cosmina now understood. But it was too late. Too late to stop the goddess’ signal from being sent. Too late to protect those trapped inside the Chamber of Whispers with her. Too late to prevent the cosmic slide into physical blindness as sorcery tightened its grip and death reached out to touch her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Each pulse a rhythmic chant, magic throbbed through the chamber. Henrik recoiled, fighting the onslaught. Almost impossible to do. The cold ate at him and frost slithered over stone, coating the walls and megaliths, forcing its way down his throat, stealing his ability to breathe. The temperature dropped another notch, dipping into bitterness. His throat closed, and he coughed as pressure banded around his rib cage. Christ. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t force himself to move, never mind think straight.

  Henrik sucked in a desperate breath. And then another.

  The influx of air didn’t help. He was in trouble. Serious goddamned trouble in a place he’d never wanted to return . . . the Chamber of Whispers. But it was too late. He hadn’t remembered in time. Now he was trapped inside the sacred chamber with one of the Blessed—lost to memory and the brutal lash of childhood abuse. Like ghouls from the pit of hell, the past rose to taunt him. Cruel images and savage experience collided, forcing him to remember. God, he despised those rings. Didn’t want to be anywhere near the pulsing glow. The awful light leached into everything—the walls, the megaliths, his bloodstream—making him burn from the inside out.

  Bile splashed up his throat, bleeding onto the back of his tongue. Boots rooted to the floor, gaze fixed on Cosmina, Henrik swallowed hard. Nay. Not this time. He wouldn’t allow himself to throw up. He’d come too far to be dragged back into the past. Wasn’t seven years old anymore, but . . . Christ help him. He was losing it, allowing the magic to elevate his pulse and destroy his control.

  Henrik snarled. The sound did nothing to steady him.

  Horror locked him down instead, feeding him a steady stream of memories. The need to vomit grabbed him by the balls. Henrik shook his head. So much for being stronger. Wiser too. Age didn’t matter. Neither did experience or the passing of years, ’cause—Jesus—he’d always thrown up, emptying his belly on the mosaic tiles. Had never been able to handle watching Ylenia—his mother, former High Priestess of Orm—perform the sacred rite. Or abide her voice while she worked the spell and—

  The recollection made him gag.

  Sweat dripped into his eyes. With a vicious swipe, Henrik wiped the droplets away and, chest pumping, took a step back. He needed to get out. Out of the chamber. Out of his own head. Away from the circle of stones and Cosmina. But even as his feet moved, his mind remained stuck in the past. Goddamn recall. ’Twas a bitch of a thing, resurrecting his pain, forcing him to remember what he worked every day to forget. All the beatings. The anger in Ylenia’s eyes. The harshness of her tone. The revulsion on her face every time she looked at him. Born in a place that honored women and abhorred men. Unwanted by the Order of Orm. Unloved by his own mother.

  Twisted in so many ways.

  The unfairness of it sickened him. Cosmina’s song did the rest, making his skin crawl and his heart shrivel. Not enough air. There wasn’t enough air in the room. Struggling for breath, he took another step backward. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. Henrik followed the trickle down his spine, distracting himself while he continued to retreat. Boot soles brushing over the marble floor, he widened the distance until . . . the swords on his back bumped the megalith behind him. Arse pressed against the solid upright, he doubled over. Both palms planted on his knees, he hung his head, tried to catch his breath and hang on, but . . .

  Cosmina’s voice rose in a melodic wave. So pure. So beautiful. A total goddamned tragedy. She sang like an angel, each note perfection as she performed the ancient rite.

  His stomach clenched again.

  Sweet Christ, he wasn’t going to make it. Was about to—

  A tremor rumbled through the chamber, cutting Cosmina’s song short.

  “Jesu,” Shay said from somewhere to his right. “H, grab her. She’s—”

  “Merde!” Andrei shifted behind the megalith holding Henrik upright. “Move it, Henrik. Get out of—”

  Boom. Boom . . . crack!

  A sonic blast exploded from around the dais. The violent wind gust hammered him. Henrik cursed as his feet left the floor. His head whiplashed. The magic-driven burst spun him around, then let go, hurling him across the chamber. Wind whistled in his ears. His vision blurred. He heard his comrades shout in alarm. Stone columns whirled past, speeding into streaks. He stopped going up and started to come down. Henrik sighted the ground and—

  Oh shit. The landing wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  Shoulders leading the way, he hit the floor with a thud. His swords clanged, digging twin furrows into his back. With a grunt, Henrik tucked his arms and, working with velocity instead of against it, spun into the skid. Using his boot heels for traction, he dug in and rotated full circle. Mosaic tiles sped past, sliding underneath him. The wall rose to meet him. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his forearms into the floor. Skin squealed against stone, burning twin tracks up his arms. Agony seared him. He barely noticed. Legs poised to absorb the brunt, he slammed feetfirst into the wall.

  His knees rebounded, hammering him in the chest. Air left his lungs in a rush. He wheezed, but stayed still and—legs spread, arms splayed wide, senses throbbing—stared up at the vaulted ceiling. Clumps of plaster fell, the fine grains sprinkling him like fairy dust as he struggled to catch his breath. After a moment of extreme concentration, his rib cage unlocked and his chest expanded.

  Thank Christ. Good God. What the hell had just happened?

  Twin groans echoed across the chamber.

  With a grumble of his own, Henrik flipped over. His shoulder squawked in protest as his stomach touched cold tile. Ignoring the chill, his gazed lit on Andrei. Lying belly down, his friend cursed and, pressing his hand to the floor, pushed himself upright. Half-standing, half-bent-over, he wobbled a second, then gave in and fell backward, ass-planting himself on the floor. Head bowed, angry-sounding French peppering the air, Andrei cupped the sides of his head, and Henrik switched tack. Bruised but all right. His friend would survive, but . . . where the hell was Shay?

  A nasty curse turned his attention.

  Henrik’s focus snapped left and . . . well, hell. Talk about bad luck and—he grimaced—an unfortunate position. Shay was tangled up with a statue. Pinned down by stone, his apprentice yanked on his leg, struggling to free himself from the marble clampdown. Which meant . . . two down, one to go. He couldn’t see Cosmina. Or the dais. Not from his vantage point behind the megaliths.

  Alarm hammered him, making his heart thump harder.

  It was too quiet. So still, silence reigned, making concern rise and dread follow. A boatload of self-recrimination whispered through him. He was an idiot for listening to her. For allowing Cosmina to sway him. For respecting her wishes when she’d asked him to back away. God help him. She’d been at the center of the blast. Smack-dab in the kill zone with nowhere to hide. Now she was probably hurt . . .

  Or worse.

  The thought made Henrik pop to his feet. His brain went sideways, sloshing inside his skull. Off-balance, he stumbled and . . . goddamn it. He should’ve realized. The slam-bang of the blast—along with the magic—had messed with his equilibrium. Now he struggled to walk a straight line. Not that it mattered. He didn’t have time to fool around. Forget the discomfort. Discard the pain—the ringing in his ears too. Cosmina needed him and, despite his aversion to her kind, he wanted to protect her. Give her his all. Become her shield. Do whatever was necessary to get her on her feet again.

  The sentiment smacked
of serious attachment. Of deep-seated feeling and the sort of sappiness he avoided at all costs. Henrik didn’t care. He knew without examining it too closely that she was different. Somehow. Some way. For some reason. Mayhap ’twas her history with White Temple. Mayhap ’twas her skill with a blade and the spunk she showed him. Mayhap ’twas the fact he enjoyed the look of her. Henrik huffed. She surpassed beautiful with her red hair and razor-sharp wit. The reasons for his interest in her didn’t matter. Not right now. And as he limped toward the megalith closest to him, Henrik prayed she was all right. That her status as a member of the Blessed had protected her somehow. That despite the force of the shock wave, she’d come through unscathed.

  “Cosmina,” he said, voice ringing in the silence.

  No answer. Not even a rustle of movement from beyond the great stones.

  Trepidation swept in, then ricocheted as he tallied the likelihood of her survival. Twenty to one. Mayhap more. The odds weren’t good. She was no doubt dead, lying lifeless on the dais: body broken, blood flowing, and spirit crushed. Henrik upped the pace anyway. So witless to hope. So ridiculous to want. More foolish to pray. Even so, Henrik sent a word heavenward, allowing faith to lead the way even as his fear for her burned a hole in the center of his chest.

  The magic loosened its grip one brutal talon at a time. As the band of pressure downgraded, allowing her lungs to expand, Cosmina fell into a sideways slump. Her shoulder touched down on the stone. The chill kicked up, slipped over her skin, then delved deep to reach muscle and bone. Squeezing her eyes closed, she shivered in the quiet and tucked her legs in tight, desperate to hold on to her body heat.

  The curl-up-and-stay-quiet routine didn’t help.

  Not this time.

  Usually the position calmed her after suffering an attack. But luck wasn’t with her tonight. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t slow the escalation of sensation—the throb kicking against her temples—never mind get her bearings. She knew she was somewhere inside the Chamber of Whispers, but . . . Cosmina frowned. Was she still on the dais? Blown halfway across the room? Stuck atop one of the megaliths? Her breath rasped on a painful wheeze. Blast it all, she didn’t know. With reality blurring into the mist of aftermath, her mind remained foggy and her thoughts jumbled. Now her head not only hurt, but hope drained away, leaving her with one certainty . . .

  The blindness had returned.

  Cosmina swallowed a sob. So much for the power of her gift. Per usual, it worked against her, leaving her to take the brunt alone. In the black hole of premonitory overload. Tears welled behind her eyes. Refusing to give in, she refused to let them fall. Crying wouldn’t help. And the pain? Well, she was accustomed to it—almost immune to the terrible headaches that always accompanied her visions. And yet, even as she reminded herself of the facts, desolation crept in.

  Gods, how she hated the darkness.

  Releasing a shaky breath, Cosmina cracked her eyes open. Denying the truth never served a person well. No matter how adverse to the blindness, she must assess the extent of the damage and determine the best course of action. Mayhap this time she would get lucky. Mayhap the magic had only taken her peripheral vision. Mayhap some light would seep through. Clinging to hope, she raised her lashes. A whimper escaped her. No luck. Not a sliver of illumination either. The darkness was absolute, so overwhelming she saw nothing but a black void, unending isolation, powerlessness its bitter sidekick.

  With a panicked cry, she tucked her knees in tighter. Her arm squawked. Agony ripped over her shoulder, then reached down to squeeze her heart. “Goddess help me, I hate this. I hate this. I—”

  “Cosmina!”

  The shout made her flinch. Self-preservation made her turn toward it. “Henrik?”

  The rush of footfalls echoed, coming closer by the second. Relief struck like a mailed fist. Praise the goddess. She wasn’t alone. For the first time in a long while, she had help—a lifeline in the dark and someone to guide her through. Henrik’s voice told the truth. He would aid her if she let him. Not that she enjoyed the idea. Stronger than most, she always looked after herself. Self-reliance. Independence. Zero trust in men. All three served her well, ensuring she stayed out of trouble. Well, under normal circumstances anyway. But tonight didn’t qualify as ordinary. Which meant she needed to let go of her pride. At least, for the time being. She required protection and a way out.

  Henrik had just become both.

  “Henrik,” she whispered.

  “Here. Right here.” A callused hand cupped her face. Awareness sparked, thrumming to life as a strange current rose. The contact prickled over her skin, easing her aches, dimming the pain, chasing her chill away. She sighed in gratitude. So good. He felt so good, like sinking into the soothing water of the hot spring not far from her home. Turning toward him instead of away, she pressed her cheek into his palm. “Don’t move, Cosmina. Lay still. I need to check you. Your arm—”

  “I’m cold,” she said, her voice whisper thin.

  “Understandable. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” With a gentle touch, he examined the gash on the side of her head. “You need stitches. The arrow needs to come out too. Andrei, bring the kit.”

  Cosmina blinked, a slow up and down. The arrow? “What arrow?”

  “The one in your arm.”

  “I don’t feel it.”

  “You’re in shock, iubita. Hold still. It’ll be out soon.”

  Uh-huh. All right. He would see to it. Wonderful. Especially since she was now floating, adrift in a stream of soft sensation—no pain to speak of, just the gentle rush of his hands on her skin.

  Footfalls sounded beside her. The chill in the room stirred, brushing over her temple. Cosmina twitched, reacting to the unexpected rush of cold air.

  “’Tis only Andrei, Cosmina,” Henrik murmured, reassuring her. “Shay is right behind you.”

  “Your men?” she asked.

  “His brothers,” the man behind her said, his tone touched by the shades of youth.

  Something flapped open. A satchel, mayhap?

  “Tiens, Henrik. Hold this.” Andrei settled beside her, brushing her boot. “The witch hazel tonic?”

  Senses attuned to him, she perceived Henrik’s nod. “The wound needs to be cleaned.”

  Cosmina grimaced. Witch hazel tonic. Gods, that was going to sting. But as Henrik helped her curl onto her side, she didn’t resist. He was right. If the wound went untreated, infection would set in. And honestly, more pain was the last thing she needed. So instead of arguing, she followed Henrik’s instructions to the letter—refusing to complain, gritting her teeth, and cursing under her breath when he examined her arm and the arrow shaft.

  The sound of a knife leaving its sheath broke through the quiet.

  Years of mistrust reared, pushing panic to the surface. Unable to fight it, Cosmina squirmed beneath Henrik’s hold. She wanted to escape the warriors and return to what she knew. To the familiar stone cottage sheltered inside the Limwoods, the forest not far from White Temple. Safe. Secure. Untouched by the outside world.

  Her home for the last five years.

  The image settled her, helping her stay still as Henrik’s grip tightened. Tone soft, he talked to her, asking her to trust him. Trust. It seemed like an abstract term, one that felt unfamiliar. She sank into it anyway, and exhaling long and slow, surrendered to the moment and the certainty Henrik would keep his word.

  Steel cracked against wood.

  Her arms jerked. The fletched end of the arrow flew up, feathered edges flicking at her cheek. Cosmina bit down on a scream. A soft cry escaped in its place, expanding through the quiet. Henrik cursed, but didn’t relent. Grip firm, he held her down as Andrei grabbed the arrowhead. Someone whispered an apology. Henrik? Andrei? Shay? She didn’t know. Didn’t care much either. Not while the pain increased and—

  “Forgive me,” Henrik said, voice edged with regret. “Now, Andrei.”

  With a smooth draw, the Frenchman pulled on the arrow. Wood dragged through
muscle, past bone, tearing her skin. The excruciating slide arched her spine. Clenching her teeth, Cosmina struggled, whimpers clogging the back of her throat. A cacophony of curses rose in the wake of her outburst. She barely noticed. Didn’t care about the trio’s remorse either. Fighting the lockdown, she scrambled in full retreat, holding tears at bay.

  Don’t cry. Do not cry.

  She couldn’t stomach the vulnerability. Her reaction was silly. It shouldn’t matter if she wept. But somehow standing strong, proving her toughness in the face of adversity, had taken precedence over circumstance. And as her arm throbbed and pain clawed over her shoulder, pride stepped into the void. She needed to save face. To prove to herself that she could handle anything.

  Tough as nails.

  She’d always been that way. But even as she clenched her teeth and told herself to hold the line, tears escaped. The droplets rolled over her temples. And in the moment, she knew it was over. She’d failed. Fallen hard. Lost track of herself along with the magic. Now she was more than just vulnerable, she was weak. Something she couldn’t abide. Something a man never respected. Which left her more than helpless. It left her alone in a place where Henrik possessed all the power and she held none.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  With a muttered curse, Henrik watched the blood well on Cosmina’s pale skin. Flowing unchecked now, it soaked her shirt, running down to pool in the V of her elbow joint. The sight tightened his chest. His heart went overboard, splashed down, and hit hard. Sympathy spilled through the cracks in his ultra-thick guard. His eyes on her face, he talked to her, his voice soft, his tone even and sure. The soothing words didn’t help. She was too far gone, deep in shock now, shaking so hard her teeth chattered and . . .

  He couldn’t stand it. Hated to see her suffer, never mind watch her cry.