The Star Witch

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “What you asked...what you ordered me to do, my lord.”

  He felt a potent rise of anger within him. “I told you to make yourself available to our guest in whatever way he chose, not to show him the secret passageways of the palace.” She herself should not know of the passageways. Only Liane could’ve instructed her. More secrets shared between the two women. “To give a visiting dignitary a tour of those secret hallways is considered treason, and is certainly cause for severe punishment.” Death. Level Thirteen. Imprisonment.

  Isadora’s cheeks paled. “My lord, you asked me not only to lie with Captain Hern, but to earn his trust and to listen. Was I mistaken?”

  “No.”

  “I cannot earn his trust merely by going to his bed as if I were no better than the concubine you have asked me to be.” Isadora had courage, which could be a very dangerous trait here on Level One. And yet, he did admire her bravery—foolish as it was.

  “What have you learned thus far?”

  Again, she took a moment to consider her answer. “The opportunity for making inquiries which might be of use to you has not arisen. I must gain his trust before I am so bold.”

  “Surely you can offer me some information that makes your continued existence worthwhile.” Isadora Fyne was not like other women. She did not wear her emotions on her face, as many females did. She was stoic, and it bothered Sebestyen that he could not read her innermost thoughts simply by looking at her face. Fear, treachery, happiness, truth. He saw none of these telling expressions.

  “I can tell you what I know of his character, my lord,” Isadora said. “Captain Hern is an unfailingly honest man. He seems unacquainted with intrigue and deception, preferring the brutal truth of a blade to politics. He strikes me as being a man of his word. If he makes a promise to you, he will not break it.”

  The report she gave was insufficient, but perhaps all she had to offer, for now.

  Isadora still smelled faintly of sex, and Sebestyen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The scent was so arousing, if he were willing to be unfaithful to Liane he’d have Isadora here and now—if he were foolish enough to touch a witch in that way.

  He wasn’t. And besides, he was faithful. It was an unexpected turn of events, to fall so deeply and completely in love with one’s wife.

  Apparently Isadora was doing as he had commanded, so he didn’t have an excuse to kill her just yet. If Hern was besotted, she might even prove to be useful. “Anything you need in order to accomplish your duties, you need only ask, and it is yours.”

  Isadora lifted her chin. “Captain Hern wishes to teach me swordplay.”

  Sebestyen smiled. “Good. That means you have awakened his masculine protective instincts. Perhaps he will even wish to take you with him when he leaves.”

  “And what would you say if he asked for such permission?”

  “I would say no, of course. You’re mine, Isadora Fyne, and until I am finished with you, you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Well, you needn’t worry.” Her voice was firm, but there was worry in her eyes. “This affair with Captain Hern is not a love match, as you well know. It’s a political arrangement. It’s loveless sex in exchange for the information you desire.”

  Sebestyen leaned in closer and closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply once again. “For all your protests, you liked it, didn’t you?”

  “That’s none of your business,” she answered crisply. “My lord,” she added belatedly.

  Her courage was quickly passing over into impertinent territory. He could not allow this witch, this slave, to speak to him as if she were his equal. “Watch your step, Isadora. If the man finds out what you are, he’ll kill you in an instant. You’ve heard him speak of witches. He cares little for your kind.”

  “I am aware,” she whispered.

  He lifted her right hand and studied the ring there. It was a simple piece, but the stone was large. “You wear this all the time now. Do you like it so much?”

  “No,” she said sharply. “It’s stuck on my finger.”

  He held her hand and studied the ring. “I believe this belongs with the rest of the imperial jewels.”

  “Liane gave it to me,” the witch protested.

  “It was not Liane’s to give,” Sebestyen said as he rubbed his thumb over the stone. “This ring, and the other pieces that match it, once belonged to Iola, the favored concubine of the emperor. My great-grandfather had the jewels set for her, because the blue matched her eyes. Iola always wore this ring. It didn’t come off her finger until she died.” Sebestyen leaned closer to the witch and lowered his voice. “The emperor had her killed when he discovered that she had betrayed him. His love for her was so great that he could not bear to do the deed himself, but after she was dead he took this ring from her finger and packed it away, along with the necklace and bracelet, and no one wore them for a very long time. My mother had a liking for blue and did not care about the sordid history of the jewels, so she wore them on occasion.” He cocked his head. “What makes you think you could ever deserve the jewels that once adorned the emperor’s favorite concubine...and my mother?”

  “I will return the ring to you before I leave the palace, of course.”

  He smiled at Isadora. Poor, gullible girl, she still thought she might one day leave this place. “Of course you will,” he said as he dropped her hand.

  Until she’d run into Emperor Sebestyen this morning, Isadora had been feeling very strong. Stronger than she’d felt in a long time. It was as if the light at her center had grown ten times brighter overnight. Her confrontation with the emperor had sapped that power, but as she sat in the tub of warm water, some of the power began to return. Slowly but certainly, her magic grew.

  Isadora soaped her hands well and tried to remove the ring the emperor insisted belonged to him. She had no idea if the tale he’d told her about poor Iola and yet another mad emperor was true or not. She did not sense pain or blood or betrayal in the ring. In fact, it seemed to hold only positive energy. Still, one could never tell. For all she knew, Emperor Sebestyen had spun the sordid story for her benefit, to scare the ring off her finger.

  What did Liane see in that terrible man? It was more than power, more than sex. The emperor and empress loved one another, without fail. Love was a strange emotion that didn’t always make sense, and it had ruined many a life— including her own.

  Even when her hands were wet and soapy, the ring would not budge. It was almost as if...she held her hand out and studied her fingers and the ring...as if magic of some sort held the ring in place. It was not too tight, it did not bind or squeeze her finger. Since her own magic was growing stronger, she concentrated on the ring until she saw nothing else. She took deep breaths and caught in her mind’s eye the light and the brightness of her magic. And then she whispered, “Release.”

  Nothing happened, so she repeated the word in the ancient tongue of the wizards, a language that was almost lost to the world. “Avar.”

  The single word spoken, she was able to remove the ring with ease. It slipped so easily off her finger, it was hard to imagine that just moments ago it had refused to budge.

  She placed the ring in the palm of her hand. Now what? The emperor wanted the ring returned to him, and Lucan had expressed an interest in the piece. His interest had been perhaps too strong, now that she thought back on it. The ring wasn’t special in any way that she could see. It was pretty, but the stone was not spectacular, and the setting was relatively plain. What did they see in this ring that made them want it?

  It was old, that was true, and perhaps there was a history to the piece, but the stone was far from precious. Liane wore more valuable stones each and every day, even when confined to her bed.

  The safest place for the ring was likely on her own finger, so she returned it there. Sure enough, it slipped on easily, and then once again refused to slide off.

  A year ago she had been living a different life, and she had been a different person. Sophie had giv
en birth to Ariana in the spring a year ago, and the baby’s father had been thought gone forever. Juliet had been safe and happy, caring for her sisters and those women who chose to seek her herbal assistance and advice about the future.

  And Isadora had lived one day to the next, not at all concerned that those days did not change. She worked on Fyne Mountain, she protected her sisters, she provided common sense when they could not see for themselves what was best. And she’d mourned. Will’s spirit had visited her on occasion, then, and on many nights—cold or not—she had walked away from the cabin to seek his ghostly visitation.

  Now Will was gone completely and forever, Juliet and Sophie were far away, their fates unknown to her and to one another, and Isadora was offering protection for the empress and her children, and not only sleeping in another man’s bed but reveling in the physical attentions he offered her. Just a year ago, she would have thought all those things impossible.

  One thing had not changed. She could not, would not, fall in love with Lucan Hern or anyone else. The Fyne Curse had killed Will before his time. If she were to fall in love with Lucan—which she would not, she insisted to herself, not for the first time—he would not die. He was well past thirty. No, he would not die. Instead he would come to despise her. He would walk away from her and break her heart...not that she had much of a heart left for breaking.

  Isadora pushed the men in her life, past and present, out of her mind, and sitting in the tub of quickly cooling water, she closed her eyes and found the spark of magic at her center. Yes, it had certainly grown. The spark was now a flame that burned steady and strong. She was spiraling toward her fate—destruction or protection, she still was not sure which called to her. But it did call, and as she sat in the tub she allowed the strength to grow and claim her, as it always had.

  Love and the complications that arose from it were for mortals who did not know magic. Never again would she sacrifice who and what she was, who she was meant to become, for a man and the feelings he aroused. She would grow strong; she would embrace her magic once again.

  Soon she would be powerful enough to make her way out of this palace, and no one would be able to stop her. No one.

  Lucan ignored the four guards who had accompanied Isadora to the courtyard. They were alert, well-armed, and vigilant. Was the emperor so concerned that something terrible might happen to his wife’s cousin? Why else would Isadora rate four of the emperor’s best sentinels?

  Franco sat on a stool at the edge of the courtyard, looking bored. His sword was nearby, and if it came to a fight he’d be ready. Franco was always ready for a fight. The sentinels thought him to be a valet and paid him little mind.

  Lucan gave Isadora his full attention, smiling at her as she acquainted herself with the sword he had chosen for her. It was short-bladed and light but sharp, and every bit as deadly as his long sword. She hefted it this way and that and studied the swing of the blade as it cut the air before her.

  For the exercise she had dressed plainly, and in blue. He liked her in blue, and he liked her hair in that long, simple braid that made her look like an ordinary woman, not an imperial cousin. She seemed more real this way, more attainable, more his, without the trappings of finery that were necessary for someone of her station.

  He was a man accustomed to going long periods of time without sex, and yet even after last night and this morning, he wanted Isadora again. She was like a drug that had worked its way into his blood, and he craved her. Maybe Franco could lead the sentinels on a chase, leaving him and Isadora alone in the courtyard so that he could make love to her beneath be sun. He wanted to see her naked in the sunlight, he wanted to watch her face as she shuddered and cried out in fulfillment. Yes, she was like a drug, and he yearned for her. He did not yearn for anything, ever, and yet—

  “Why are you smiling, Captain?” Isadora asked as she lowered her sword. “Did I do something to amuse you?”

  “Am I smiling?”

  “Yes,” she answered with a wide smile of her own.

  “I was just thinking,” he said honestly.

  “Of swords and lessons?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Her dark eyes flashed. She knew exactly where his mind had taken him. She understood him too well, considering be short amount of time they had known one another.

  He showed her how to grasp the grip, how to swing the sword with control, how to protect herself with the blade and the angle of her body. They started casually, but before long he was teaching her in earnest. The idea of Isadora being confronted in such a way that she needed these lessons angered him, and she began to listen to his instructions with sobriety; as if she, too, was wondering what it would be like to be called to fight.

  Isadora learned quickly, and before long she was moving with grace and ease. The weight of the sword was not too much for her, and she was not afraid of the power of life and death that she wielded. There was some trepidation. She asked for instructions on how and where to make nonlethal blows that would stop an opponent without taking his life.

  Women like Isadora should not have cause to fight, but war was coming to Arthes, and she needed to know. Lucan did not like the idea of Isadora coming face-to-face with a soldier. As the lesson continued and she grew quicker and more graceful, he could not wipe the thought from his mind. If rebels stormed the palace, one woman with one sword—no matter how well wielded—could not stop them. Especially if she refused to kill.

  In that instant, he made his decision. The Circle would side with Sebestyen in this war. He and his men would keep rebels out of the palace and away from his woman.

  He had never thought of a woman as his before, and the notion stopped him cold. Isadora was not the reason for his presence here, and his alliance with her would not bring peace to Tryfyn. He was simply infatuated with her because she was unlike the other women he had known. If he were not meant to be Prince of Swords he would pursue her with the same determination with which he had always fought and led and learned.

  But of course, that was not to be.

  “Enough for today,” he said. The simple exercises had made Isadora sweat, and her breath came hard. Even though she took to the sword well, she was unaccustomed to hefting such a heavy object in her delicate hands.

  She was made for finer things than this.

  He sent Franco ahead to prepare his bath, and then he and Isadora walked into the palace. The sentinels followed. Three of them went to the lift. The other remained, guarding the entrance to the courtyard. There was a larger, more well-armed guard at the other entrance to the building, but this sentinel remained at the courtyard door. His eyes flitted to Isadora more than once.

  The truth hit Lucan like a thunderbolt. The emperor’s sentinels weren’t keeping Isadora safe; they were making sure she didn’t run away.

  “We will take the stairs,” he said, grabbing Isadora’s hand and heading for the stairwell that wound up the full ten floors. Not one of the sentinels followed, confirming his suspicions. Isadora wasn’t under protection, she was under guard.

  Lucan walked quickly; Isadora had to run to keep up. When they reached the landing at Level Seven, she tugged on his hand and breathlessly asked him to stop. He turned to find her leaning against the stone wall, her breath coming hard.

  “We could have taken the lift,” she said as he moved in to hover over her, their bodies so close he could feel the heat radiating off of her.

  “I do not like the lift,” he responded.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I do not fully understand how it operates.”

  “A large, noisy machine on Level Eleven powers it. Is that not enough of an explanation for you?”

  “No.”

  “Just let me catch my breath.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her cheeks were pink, her hair mussed, her lips full and wide, and so it made perfect sense to kiss her.

  His attraction to her was as puzzling as the emperor’s lift. Both were new to him and not easy to de
fine. He didn’t like that which he could not fully explain. Sexual need was one matter; needing one specific woman to distraction was another entirely.

  Lucan pressed his hand to Isadora’s heart and felt the even, quick thud against his palm. The swordplay, the run up the stairs, and the kissing made her heart beat fast. His fingers brushed against her breast, and he felt the hardening of her nipple against his fingers. She did not wear the undergarment he despised today. There was very little between his body and hers. Very little.

  For a while the kissing was enough, but as was always the case with Isadora, it soon was not. He needed her in a way he had never needed anything but air to breathe and water to drink. She had become quickly and annoyingly necessary.

  “Who resides on this Level?” he asked as he slowly lifted her skirt.

  “The emperor’s witch, Gadhra, and her apprentices,” Isadora answered. Her arms were draped around his neck, and she kissed his throat as he lifted her skirt higher. “They do not wander the palace at will, so it is extremely unlikely that any one of them will walk into the stairway and disturb us.”

  Lucan glanced at the door behind him, a door that would open onto witchcraft. His distaste for witches was both instinctive and learned, and so it went deep and complete within him.

  “It is unlikely, in fact, that anyone will come this way at this time of the day.” Isadora took his face in her hands and kissed him again, and he forgot what sort of witchery and deception might be lurking behind that door as he touched her intimately.

  She brushed fingers along the length of his arousal as he caressed her and said, “And yet, we should not linger, Lucan.”

  At last she called him Lucan instead of Captain. He did not make verbal note of the fact, since he did not want Isadora to stop what she was doing to take it back or argue about her slip of the tongue.

  Her mouth pressed against the pulse at his throat, and she rose up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “We should not waste time.” Her fingers began to fumble with the fastenings of his trousers. “Hurry, Lucan,” she whispered. “I need you now.”