The Star Witch
The Fyne Witches, Book Three
Linda Winstead Jones
Contents
The Fyne Curse
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Prince of Magic
About the Author
Also by Linda Winstead Jones
Copyright © 2006, 2016 by Linda Winstead Jones
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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The Fyne Curse
In a land where magic is accepted, if sometimes feared, and prophecies are made and fulfilled with regularity, and the impossible is always possible, it is both wondrous and dangerous to be a witch. With power comes responsibility and envy, and even heartache.
For three hundred years, a wizard’s curse robbed the Fyne witches of a chance at true love, taking their husbands and lovers before their thirtieth birthdays if they were young men, and causing the older men to see something in the women they had once loved so that they were driven away in horror.
But three strong and loving sisters were born, and they dared to defy the curse. Isadora, the eldest, wed, and was forced to bury her beloved Willym when they’d been married a mere two years. Punished for dismissing the curse as insignificant, she became determined that neither she nor her sisters would fall into the trap of love again. The Fyne bloodline would die with them.
But as is often the way with life, such plans did not hold fast and true. Sophie, the youngest, fell in love with the rebel Kane Varden, gave him a daughter, married him, and became pregnant once again. Kane has not yet turned thirty, and while Sophie continues to attempt to end the curse, she has not been successful. She has come to realize that she needs her sisters with her if there is to be any chance of bringing the family curse to an end.
Juliet found love with an Anwyn shape-shifter and discovered during their journey to The City high in the mountains that she herself is Anwyn. Not only that, she is a rare Anwyn female, and is therefore Queen. A gifted psychic, she knows the curse will one day be ended, and she believes that it will not take her husband from her. But there are still many questions to be answered, and as always what is to come is fluid. Undecided. As long as the curse survives, she cannot rest easy.
In Arthes, the capital city of Columbyana, the emperor and his empress anticipate the birth of the long-awaited heir, as they watch for the rebels who wish to take the palace and the throne from them. Isadora, through circumstances over which she has no control, finds herself on Level One, caring for the empress and her unborn children while her weakened powers grow strong once again.
She has loved and lost once before and cannot imagine suffering that pain again. The curse will not affect her. It cannot touch her because she has locked love out of her heart.
But love is coming for Isadora, whether she wants it or not.
Prologue
Tryfyn, ninety-seven years after the fall of the Circle of Bacwyr
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Lucan tried not to tremble, but Zebulyn, the grand wizard of the Circle of Bacwyr, was imposing. The old man had long white hair and a craggy face and wrinkled hands with long fingers that looked like bones with a bit of skin stretched across them. His purple robe, a sign of his high station, hung on a thin but somehow strong frame.
The meeting, which had come as a surprise to Lucan, was held in the deepest reaches of the cavern that was an important wing of the home of the Circle. Many buildings had been constructed in the hills beyond, but the wizards lived and worked their magic here, deep in the hillside. Firelight flickered off the cold walls, and an unnatural light tinged with purple filled the stone-walled room. Wizard’s light. Lucan had been in the cavern before, but never this deep...and never alone. No one else was present for this meeting but for him and the wizard. No one! Not a warrior or a minor wizard or another student.
Lucan himself had not yet celebrated his tenth birthday, so as the wizard spoke he kept his eyes downcast.
“The Circle of Bacwyr was broken by betrayal from within,” the wizard said, the tremble in his voice one of anger, not fright. “Today we build anew, with young men like you. Tomorrow we will be stronger than ever before. We will be smarter, this time.”
The betrayal Zebulyn spoke of had happened so long ago, Lucan could not understand why the wizard’s anger remained so strong. The fall had taken place long before Lucan had been born, even before his father had been born. Perhaps his grandfather, who was almost as ancient as the wizard, remembered when the Circle had been powerful, but then again...perhaps not.
There had been a time when the Circle of Bacwyr had ruled Tryfyn from border to border. Circle warriors had served the King; Circle wizards had counseled the King and the warriors. No man had dared to stand up against such strength. But it had been a very long time since the Circle knew such power, and the Kings of Tryfyn were no more than a memory. For as long as Lucan could remember, for as long as his parents and grandparents could remember, Tryfyn had been a country of warring clans without a King to unite them.
The Circle had gone underground after the betrayal and the battle that had seen the slaughter of so many warriors and wizards, but it had never entirely disappeared. Those few who had survived met and trained in secret, and they rebuilt their ranks with the most extraordinary young men they could recruit, waiting for the day when they were powerful enough to once again rule. Boys of every clan were taken from their homes at a young age and raised to be warriors or wizards, depending on their strengths. They grew stronger with every passing year, but did not even approach their former glory.
Lucan had been living amidst the Circle for three years now, learning the ways of the warrior. He did not have the blood of the wizard, which was required of those who mastered the magical ways, but he was strong and fast and cunning—or so his instructors told him.
“It was a woman of the Circle who caused our downfall,” Zebulyn said in a lowered and trembling voice.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lucan peeked up at the old man. “There were once women here?” The only females he had seen in the Circle ranks in the past three years had been those the age of his grandmother, and older. They cooked and cleaned and mended, and they served the warriors and students. They were not a part of the fellowship. He had heard that younger, prettier women sometimes came at night to visit the warriors, but when he’d asked why, the older boys had laughed at Lucan and told him that such women would be wasted on a child such as he.
“Witches,” Zebulyn said, spitting the word as if it had gone sour in his mouth. “It was a mistake to allow them access to our ranks, but we saw through their witchery too late.”
Lucan closed his eyes tightly and called upon all his strength. Warriors of the Circle of Bacwyr did not tremble at the mere mention of the things that frighte
ned them, but...witches! True, the wizards of the Circle used magic, but they were honorable men who served only good. Witches were spiteful creatures who would cast a spell on a boy simply for looking at them in the wrong way. That is what he had heard. He was very glad they were no longer allowed in the Circle.
“Now is not the time to teach you aspects of the past. You must look to the future,” Zebulyn said, his voice growing stronger. “It is time to look to tomorrow. You are destined to be Prince of Swords, boy,” the wizard said. He was no longer angry, but he did not sound pleased at the prospect, either.
Lucan lifted his head slowly. “Prince of Swords?” His heart skipped a beat as his eyes met those of the aging wizard. When the Circle had been in power, the Prince of Swords had commanded not only the warriors of the Circle but the clans of Tryfyn, as well. Second only to the King in power, it was the Prince who wielded true control over the armies of this country. There had not been a Prince of Swords since the fall of the Circle.
“Prince.” Zebulyn said the word as if it were bitter. “In my meditations I have seen that you will travel to the emperor’s palace in Columbyana, and there you will find and collect the Star of Bacwyr. It is destined to be yours, and without it, you cannot command.”
“What is the Star of Bacwyr?”
The old man scoffed. “You will know the Star when you see it, if you are truly meant to be Prince of Swords.”
“But you said I was—”
“No one aspect of the future is so set in stone it cannot be changed. If you succeed you will become Prince of Swords, and you will be the man to lead this country into a time of strength. If you succeed, the true King will come to us, and with you at his side all will be as it once was. However, if you fail in the task that has been set for you, Tryfyn will remain a country of strife and disharmony.” He scowled. “There will be danger in the palace. I have already seen with great clarity that you must beware the witch.”
Lucan rose slowly. The wizard was never wrong in his prophecies. If he was truly meant to be Prince, he should not kneel and cower before an old man. He could not be afraid of any witch. Forcing his knees to stop shaking, Lucan lifted his chin and stared at the wizard.
“When do I leave for Columbyana?”
For a moment it seemed that the old man was going to smile, but perhaps that was an illusion. “In twenty-seven years.”
“Twenty-seven years!” Lucan took a small step forward. “You said tomorrow.”
The old man sighed and waved a dismissive hand. “I meant tomorrow in the larger sense. You must learn not to take each word so literally.”
“In twenty-seven years I’ll be an old man. I’ll be as old as you!”
“Hardly,” the wizard said beneath his breath.
Lucan’s shoulders slumped. Twenty-seven years was a lifetime. “How old are you?” he asked bravely. The Prince of Swords, after all, could not be afraid of a wizard. Not even this one.
“I am older than the dirt beneath the hut where you were born,” Zebulyn said in a gruff and rumbling voice. “Older than the star on which you made a wish last night, when you were carrying in the firewood.”
Again, Lucan was afraid. How did this man know so much about him? He understood swordplay and stamina and taking orders and making decisions. He did not understand the magic that the wizards practiced, while young, would-be soldiers trained and served their masters.
“What am I to do while I wait?” Lucan asked.
This time there was no mistake. The wizard smiled. His lips were thin, his teeth were yellowed. He pointed with one of his bony fingers. “You will learn.”
“What am I to learn?” Lucan asked.
The wizard leaned forward, until it seemed he would place his long, hooked nose directly on Lucan’s. It took all the courage of a young man to stand his ground and not step back or drop down.
“Everything,” the old man answered. “You will continue to learn the ways of the warrior, and you will also be instructed in the ways of the wizard, so that when the time comes no one can stop you from taking the Star that will make you Prince.”
Lucan did not trust what he had seen of the wizards, because he did not understand their magic. He preferred the blade, which was real and true and reliable. “I was not born to magic.”
“No, but there are some things that can be learned.” Lucan’s first thought was that his days had just become longer. This would require more lessons, on top of the ones he was already taking.
“Why is the Star so important?” he asked. Why couldn’t he be Prince of Swords now! The older boys would not order him around or laugh at him, if he were Prince. He would not be made to shine his instructors’ boots or fetch firewood, if he were Prince.
“Power, that is why the Star is so important,” Zebulyn said with only a trace of amusement in his old eyes. “Until you understand power, you cannot hope to wield it.”
“Who will teach me such things?”
The old man sighed tiredly and muttered a word Lucan did not know. He did not know the word, but he definitely understood that it was a curse of some kind. He had heard the older instructors curse, and the expression and tone of voice was much the same. “I will be your teacher, Lucan Hern.”
Even without the addition of the curse word, Zebulyn didn’t sound happy about the idea. Maybe the wizard thought he was being saddled with a child who would be reluctant to learn all he had to teach. Maybe he thought the boy who stood before him was not worthy of the time it would take to teach such important matters.
With the dignity of a future Prince and the arrogance of a nine-year-old boy who had just that day bested an older and taller boy with a dull wooden practice sword as his weapon, Lucan straightened his spine and lifted his chin. His knees no longer trembled.
“I am ready to begin.”
Chapter One
Twenty-seven years later
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Living high in the imperial palace, Isadora had barely felt the passing of winter. Thick walls, well-fed fireplaces, and luxurious clothing and blankets kept the residents of Level One quite comfortable—even the witch whose duty it was to care for the Empress Liane and her unborn child.
Unborn children, to be precise. Twin boys, though no one knew that but Isadora and the empress herself. The Emperor Sebestyen would be furious when he found out that his wife was carrying two sons, rather than one. It would muddy the imperial bloodline to have two heirs born at almost the precise same moment.
Spring was coming. On occasion Isadora would open the window of her small room and breathe in the warming air as if it fed her soul. She was tired of this damned palace. Tired of the people and the chores and even the luxury.
But until she was strong again and could find her sisters, this was her place. Liane needed her. She had pledged to protect the empress and her children, but once the babies arrived, there would be no reason to stay.
The strength of her magic had begun to return slowly, but with a certainty she felt to the depths of her soul. The destruction of the past several months had depleted her powers; it was only through protection that the magic grew strong again. On his final visit to her, the spirit of her late husband had told her that she must choose. Dark or light. Goodness or evil. For a long time she had danced on the edge of both, but one could not live forever in that gray domain.
There were times when she believed that destruction came to her more naturally than protection, but in order for that power to grow she would need to embrace it fully. Over the years her sisters—and her beloved Will, before and after his death—had kept the protective side of Isadora’s nature alive and thriving. They were not here now.
She could not believe that Juliet was dead, as Bors had reported before his death at the emperor’s hand. Sophie might be safe in the company of her husband, but still, she would need her sisters again. Juliet had said as much on the night the soldiers had kidnapped them and burned the cabin that had stood for more than three hundred years. Where her
sisters were concerned, Juliet was rarely wrong. Rarely, not never.
Isadora knew she could not remain in this place. With the coming of spring, the return of her magical strengths, and the birth of Emperor Sebestyen’s heirs, would also come the time for Isadora Fyne to leave this dreadful place.
Standing at the window of her quarters on Level One, Isadora closed her eyes and took in a deep breath of the air. It was the first truly warm day of spring, and she longed to be out of this palace, away from the crowded city of Arthes, away from all these people who were not her own.
She longed to be on Fyne Mountain, surrounded by the land she loved and close to her sisters. They would rebuild the cabin Emperor Sebestyen’s soldiers had burned to the ground, and things would be as they had once been. Sophie would cook and sing and smile and embrace the world around her. Juliet would tend the gardens and treat those women who were brave enough to seek out a healer who was also a witch. And Isadora would protect her sisters with every ounce of power she possessed.
On Fyne Mountain she could care for her sisters, live in isolation, and mourn the husband who had been gone so long.
Will’s spirit had not visited her in months. She expected him to be true to his promise and never visit her again, which meant he was finally truly gone. In the past few months, Isadora had been thrown into a new type of mourning. She’d buried Will’s body years ago; now she had to bury his spirit just as deeply.
It was harder than she had imagined anything could ever be.
“Isadora.” The breathless voice came with the opening of the door to the tiny room she now called home.
Recognizing the voice, Isadora turned slowly and glared at the intruder. Mahri’s eyes widened. She backed into the hallway, closed the door solidly, and knocked.
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