The Star Witch

by Linda Winstead Jones

  A moment later, the young warrior did as his captain asked. A flaming torch dropped into the darkness, and Lucan caught it with his free hand.

  Darkness in this place was best. The death and despair he saw in the torchlight was sickening. Still, he saw no sign of Isadora. “Find a rope,” he called, not even glancing up at Franco. “A rope ladder, if possible. Kill the sentinel if he doesn’t tell you where to find what you need.” A few of the prisoners cackled at that command. “We’re going to get these men out of here, as soon as I find Isadora.”

  “You don’t see her?”

  Lucan glanced in the direction the prisoners had indicated. Beyond the light of the torch, all remained dark. “No. Not yet.” He took a step, and then another. Before him, the body of a man lying on the floor was illuminated. Eyes wide open, skin sagging over bones, he appeared to be dead.

  And then the body twitched, and the eyes cut toward Lucan. The man squinted against the light, and scurried into the shadows.

  Emperor Sebestyen would die for putting Isadora in this place, Lucan vowed as he continued to move deeper into the gloom of Level Thirteen. He turned a corner, entered a narrowing passageway of sorts, and left the small bit of light from the open hatch behind.

  It took longer than Isadora thought it should to reach the unprotected section of Level Thirteen. She did not remember making this long trip after Thayne had rescued her from Nelyk, but then she did not remember much after the emperor had shoved the Panwyr up her nose. Had Thayne carried her all this way? He was old, and living down here had sapped his strength. Maybe he had dragged her to safety.

  Along the way she spotted more than one Isen Demon swirling along the lower edge of the cavern wall. Or was it the same one, following their path? Sad souls, trapped here the way the emperor had planned to trap her, preferred the darkness, so they did not linger long in the wizard’s light. Rikka had whispered once that the demon fed on the souls of the dead, and that with each feeding it grew larger and stronger. And yet it did no more than hide in corners and peek at the living, as it awaited its next meal.

  Isadora did her best to put the sad Isen Demon put of her mind. She was bursting to see Lucan. She needed and wanted to see him almost as much as she wanted out of this cursed place. Nothing else was in her mind, nothing but looking at his face and throwing her arms around him and holding on. She’d been alone for so long, with no one but her sisters for companionship and affection. Having Lucan in her life in such a way was unexpected, but it was also a gift, as important as her powers and her calling for protection and her very life.

  Just beyond a curve in the natural stone corridor, she saw a new light. Not Thayne’s purple light, but the warm illumination of a fire. She grasped the back of the wizard’s tattered robe, in barely contained excitement.

  “He came here for me?” she whispered.

  “Yes, he did, dear,” Thayne answered.

  To willingly come into such a place...he must care for her, at least a little. There had to be something more than the lust they shared to compel him into Level Thirteen. If he knew she was a witch, would he still bother to rescue her? Or would he walk away and leave her here?

  They reached the opening, and she could see the magical seal that Thayne had put in place to keep the rat-men at bay. It shimmered, purple like his light. And beyond the shimmering seal, she saw Lucan approaching. He held a sword in one hand and a torch in the other, and he moved forward cautiously. For the first time in many days, Isadora smiled.

  “Lucan!” she shouted.

  “He cannot see or hear beyond the—” Thayne began, and then Lucan’s eyes snapped directly at her and he moved quickly forward. “Interesting,” the wizard whispered, as he lifted his hand and said the words that broke the seal.

  Once the seal fell, Isadora ran past Thayne and all but threw herself at Lucan. “You’re here.”

  The hand that held a short-bladed sword circled around her, and Lucan lifted her slightly off the ground. “Of course I am here,” he said. “Did you think I would leave you?”

  She backed away from Lucan and looked up into his face, which was illuminated by firelight from the torch he carried. In all her life, she had never seen anyone or anything that was so beautiful; she had never known a man existed who could touch her heart and her soul so deeply. She would gladly give up all she held dear—her magic, her place on Fyne Mountain, even the simple life she had enjoyed with her sisters—to be with this man, even for a short while. He had known the truth long before she had. Hadn’t he asked her to leave Arthes with him? Hadn’t she seen the power she felt in her heart in his eyes?

  “I can’t wait to see Tryfyn in the spring,” she said softly. Lucan smiled at her, and the two of them assisted the other protected prisoners along the way to the main part of Level Thirteen. They turned a corner and saw the light from the hatch above. A rope ladder had been dropped, and prisoners were scrambling up the escape route and disappearing.

  Isadora’s heart leaped. “Nelyk,” she whispered. “Oh, no. Has he already escaped?”

  Lucan looked down at her. “Who’s Nelyk?”

  “A priest,” she answered. “He’s...” He knows who I am, he means to kill me, he is an evil man... “He’s one of the prisoners I would not like to see go free.”

  “No one deserves this,” Lucan said.

  “No, but...”

  Maybe he heard the concern in her voice, because he asked in a sharp voice. “What does he look like?”

  “He’s...” She realized, as the words froze in her throat, that at the moment Nelyk looked like all the others. Bearded, thin, desperate. A few of the prisoners in Level Thirteen had once been in positions of power, so Nelyk was not even the only one who wore a crimson robe.

  “I don’t imagine any of the prisoners will remain in the palace a moment longer than they have to,” Lucan said in a comforting voice. “Don’t be afraid, Isadora. I will stay at your side, today and always.”

  “Always is a long time.” And if he found out she was a witch, always would end in a heartbeat.

  Thayne and Lucan held the remaining prisoners at bay while the empresses climbed the rope ladder to safety. They tried to get Isadora to follow the other women, but she refused. She remained beside Lucan, determined to see the others out of the pit before she herself climbed from Level Thirteen.

  The men Thayne had saved climbed, many of them struggling since their strength was not as it should be, and now and then another filthy rat-man would run to the ladder and shove someone else aside so he could make his way up. They even scurried like rats, darting from the darkness. No one tried to stop them. Isadora watched for Nelyk, but she did not see him. Given his selfish nature, he had likely escaped up that ladder first, shoving all others aside.

  Would Nelyk run from the palace like the others, or would he run straight for the emperor?

  Finally, there were only three of them left: Thayne, Lucan, and Isadora. Thayne looked at Isadora and nodded.

  “You first,” she said. The old man was weaker than she, and besides, she was not ready to leave Lucan. She wanted to know that he was right behind her.

  Thayne only protested minimally and then he began to climb. He moved slowly, his grip on the rope tenuous. When he reached the top, there were others—Franco and some of the prisoners he had protected—to assist him.

  When that was done, Lucan sheathed his sword. “Your turn,” he said, smiling down at Isadora. For the first time since she’d seen this place, all was quiet. There was no labored breathing, no mutters or cackles or whispers from the darkness.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  She went up on her tiptoes to give him a kiss, but before her lips touched his, a shadow rushed out of the darkness, and a bony hand gripping a sharp rock swung into the light of the torch and bashed against Lucan’s temple. He crumpled to the ground, dropping the torch as he fell. The flame illuminated the face of the attacker as it dropped.

  Nelyk grabbed Isadora by the throat.
From above, many voices shouted, and she heard the rattle of a sword as Franco started down the rope ladder.

  Was Lucan dead? She had seen the blood bloom as the blow landed, and he had dropped to the ground with such force.

  “You won’t get away with this,” she whispered.

  “I already have.” Nelyk grabbed Lucan’s sword and held the tip against his chest. That chest still moved, Isadora noted with relief. Lucan was not dead. Nelyk held up a much-too-familiar vial of brown powder before her nose. “Use your magic on me, and I’ll drive this blade through his heart.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve been saving this for you.” He waggled the small vial of Panwyr before her nose. “I killed two men to take it for myself, hoping that you and I would have another moment together before this life ended.”

  Another dose of Panwyr would likely kill her. According to Thayne and Rikka, she would surely be addicted. And if she died...would she become a part of the Isen Demon, the sad entity she had pitied moments earlier?

  Franco reached the halfway point on the ladder and then dropped the rest of the way. Nelyk gave the man a swift glance. “This does not concern you, boy.”

  “You hold a blade on my captain. It very much does concern me,” Franco insisted. “Cease now, and I will allow you to escape with the others.”

  “I will cease when Isadora takes her medicine like a good girl.” He handed the Panwyr to her and placed both hands on the hilt of the sword that he held to Lucan. “Take it, and I will let him live. Refuse, and I’ll run him through.”

  “Fine.” She uncapped the Panwyr. Her initial addiction had not entirely gone away, and her heart sped up in anticipation. She knew that taking this drug into her body would be the end of her, and at the same time...a part of her craved it. A part of her remembered the colors and the euphoria that came with the Panwyr that would tingle as it traveled up her nose.

  A deep and dark part of her, the Level Thirteen of her soul, wanted the Panwyr.

  “Isadora, don’t,” Franco said softly. “I can take care of him.”

  “Not before he kills Lucan.” She looked squarely at the young warrior. “Once I take this drug I won’t be of much use for a while. If this man so much as scratches Lucan, I want you to kill him.”

  Franco nodded.

  Isadora closed her eyes and lifted the vial to her nose.

  Sophie sat back against the log near last night’s cold campfire, studied her stomach, and frowned. It was not time for this baby to be born, not yet, and still, something within her was changing. She’d had no labor pains, thank goodness, but unless she was mistaken, the baby had turned.

  It was too soon. She knew the baby was well and healthy, but it was much too soon. Not only would the child be small and weak if she came this early, her birth would sap Sophie’s powers.

  Sophie’s magic was always much greater when she had a baby growing inside her, and she needed all her magic in order to break the curse.

  She had tried to break the curse. For months, she had tried everything. And yet, the knowledge that it still threatened Kane weighed heavily on her heart. She needed Isadora to end this curse. Juliet, too, if that was possible. But time was running out. Even if this daughter came late rather than early, there was no guarantee that she would find her sisters by then.

  She heard men coming long before the rebels around her became alert and readied themselves with their swords, just in case those arriving were not who they should be. As expected, it was Myls and Kane who approached.

  Not as expected, they were not alone.

  A fair-haired man dressed as an emperor’s sentinel walked between Kane and Myls, moving slowly and favoring one side. Sophie rose clumsily to her feet; a nearby rebel moved quickly to assist her with a steady hand.

  “Who is this?” she asked, moving forward before any of the rebels dared to do so.

  “My spy,” Myls said with a grimace. “Former spy,” he added sourly. “Apparently Ferghus is no longer welcomed in the palace.”

  His head hurt. First there was the knowledge of pain. Then voices came to Lucan, then light through barely opened eyelids. Shadows danced above and around him, and in an instant he cleared his fogged mind and evaluated the situation.

  “Hurry up,” the ragged prisoner commanded.

  Isadora stood above him, eyes closed and an object held to her nose. A drug, he could tell, and she was about to put it into her body because this ragged man held Lucan’s own blade to his chest.

  Lucan’s arms snapped up and he caught the flat of the blade between his palms. The prisoner, who had been watching Isadora closely, was surprised by the move, and his astonishment caused a deadly hesitation. Lucan whipped the sword from the prisoner’s grasp, burst to his feet, flipped the sword in the air and caught it by the handle, and thrust the blade into the heart of the man who had dared to hold Lucan’s own sword on him. The prisoner looked almost surprised as he dropped to the ground, crumpling to the dirt floor.

  What happened next caused Lucan to start in surprise. A dark shadow that hovered low to the ground darted from the stone wall and enveloped the prisoner’s body. In an instant, the body was pulled into the darkness by the dark cloud.

  Isadora had not moved. She still stood there with the vial poised at one nostril. One sniff, and the powder in that vial would travel up her nose and into her system. Even when the prisoner was well and truly dead, gone from their sight and no longer a threat to anyone, she did not drop her hand.

  Lucan laid his hand over hers and drew it down, away from her nose. “Did you ingest any of the drug?”

  She shook her head, very slowly.

  “Good.” He took the vial from her and threw it into the darkness, where it belonged.

  Isadora slipped an arm around his waist. “That was Nelyk, the man I asked about. He was a priest.” Dazed wonder made her voice sound almost childlike.

  “Something took him,” Lucan said softly. He knew much of magic; he had seen it at work many times. And yet whatever had taken Nelyk’s body away was a truly bad magic—he felt it to his very core.

  “Isen Demon,” Isadora said as she glanced into the darkness. She quickly cut her eyes to him. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Yes, I know.” He scowled and touched a hand to his temple.

  She laid her hand over his and rested it there.

  “Excuse me?” Franco said in a testy tone of voice. “Can we please get out of this awful pit? Women and wounded men first,” he added, gesturing to the rope ladder in a gentlemanly fashion.

  Isadora gladly climbed the ladder, and Lucan was right behind her. He could not wait to get her out of this place.

  In the hallway of Level Twelve, only the prisoners who had been with the wizard remained. The others had run. The sentinel Lucan had wounded lay on the floor, eyes closed, his chest barely moving. Isadora glanced down at the soldier.

  The wizard apparently saw the direction of her eyes. “The guard was wounded before we arrived, and many of the prisoners felt compelled to deliver a kick or a punch before they made their escape. He did not fare their attentions well.”

  The soldier was in much worse shape than he had been when Lucan had left him—perhaps near death.

  “You could have protected him,” Isadora accused.

  “He was not innocent,” the wizard answered without emotion.

  Franco climbed out of the hole in the floor, and Isadora once again slipped her arm around Lucan’s waist. It felt good to have her close again, to know she was safe.

  With Isadora caught up against his side, Lucan turned to the wizard. “We have not met, yet I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude that will not be easy to repay. I am Lucan Hern, First Captain of the Circle of Bacwyr.”

  Bedraggled and dirty, wrinkled and weakened, the hair on his head and his face growing wildly in all directions, the wizard gave a shaky bow that might’ve once been courtly. “Sinnoch Fiers Camalan Thayne, former wizard to the Emperor of Columbyana.�
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  Isadora tightened her hold on his waist, and then she wobbled and leaned toward the old man. “Sinnoch?” she all but shouted. “Are you...” And then she backed away, her hold on his waist remaining firm. “No. It’s just a coincidence,” she said in a softer voice.

  The wizard’s old eyes sparkled, but the set of his mouth remained firm. “Isadora, my dear, nothing in life is a coincidence. All that happens is carefully planned in a way that makes sense only to the powers of the universe that we do not dare to understand. To answer the question you are afraid to ask...yes, I am your father.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  When the ragged prisoners of Level Thirteen had made their way to Level Ten, they’d met the resistance of the sentinels. Many of the escapees had been killed, but quite a few had slipped past the guards and into Arthes, just as darkness of night fell. The sentinels had divided their ranks; some headed up to protect the emperor, as well as the ministers and the priests, while other soldiers chased the escapees beyond the palace walls.

  For this reason Lucan and Franco, who led the way for Thayne’s group, met little resistance as they escorted their party out of the palace, into Arthes, and beyond the city limits. Many times, Isadora wanted to stop Lucan and tell him that she had to go back. What had happened to Liane and the babies? What of Mahri? She could not run away and leave them all behind.

  But she continued on with the party, away from the city and into a countryside of gentle hills and thick stands of trees, with a softly shining moon to light their way.

  Since she could not yet return to save Liane and the babies—or baby, if only the firstborn had survived—she allowed her mind to wander to other important and startling matters. Thayne was her father. After all these years of wondering and ultimately dismissing the man who had sired her, he had been dropped into her life. Well, she had been dropped into his, more literally. She looked at the old wizard who walked with a slight limp to mark his age, and tried to see the man he had been more than thirty years ago, when her mother had chosen him to be her first daughter’s father. Perhaps he had been handsome then, more sturdily built and more apt to smile. His years in Level Thirteen had aged him, and even though wizards lived unusually long lives, his had been shortened by his time beneath the palace.