The Star Witch

by Linda Winstead Jones

  Lucan hovered above her and blocked the sun, but passion kept her warm. He guided himself into her, and in that instant she forgot everything that kept what they had from perfection. Her body and his were perfectly mated, and nothing else mattered.

  He pushed hard and fast and she began to soar. Together their bodies reached a new height and completion washed over them with such force Isadora’s breath was literally stolen away as her body lurched. Ribbons of fulfillment most pleasurable fluttered and snapped at the core of her being, and a new heat spread throughout her with an amazing quickness. Lucan growled low in his throat and she felt his seed bursting forth deep into her body where it would be cradled and nurtured.

  The world slowed, and cooled, and Lucan drifted down to rest his head on her shoulder. Their hearts beat together, fast and hard, and each breath was a struggle. “By all that is holy, Isadora Fyne, marry me!”

  She threaded her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. How could she be expected to be logical at a moment like this? “If we make it out of the palace alive, and you still want me...ask again and I will give you the answer you wish to hear.”

  Lucan lifted his head and looked her in the eye. “Do you mean it?”

  “Yes.” It was not exactly the yes he was looking for, but it was all she could give at the moment.

  Sebestyen paced in the ballroom, his footsteps sounding hollow against the stone floor. He was alone in the massive room, as he had been for days. He no longer trusted anyone to counsel him.

  Arik and the damned rebels were getting closer. He felt their coming in a way he could not explain. With the coming of the rebels came his downfall. After all these months, the prophecy was coming true.

  He had not seen Liane in days. She was overly sentimental, and her tears distressed him. Perhaps he should tell her that both her children were alive and well, but the witch Gadhra was always nearby, and he did not trust the crone. If the old hag heard his confession she would know about Alix, and she would know too much about what was in her emperor’s heart. He did not trust anyone, most especially with such things as his sons and his small, hard heart.

  Sebestyen pressed a splayed hand against his chest. Perhaps he was ill. Perhaps his heart would give out before Arik and his rebels ever reached Arthes. There was a dull, throbbing ache in his heart and that ache grew greater with every passing day. When he thought of Liane, the pain grew to a burning intensity.

  And so it was best that he did not visit her in her Level Three prison.

  When the door to the ballroom opened, Sebestyen dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. A sleep-deprived sentinel warily stuck his head into the room. “The witch Gadhra insists upon seeing you, my lord.”

  He should order her killed for insisting upon anything...but it was possible she had news of Liane, so he waved his hand in indication that she should be admitted.

  The old woman slunk through the partially opened doorway. The sentinel tried to follow, but Sebestyen ordered him from the room. He did not know what Gadhra wanted to say, but it was possible the news of Liane was for his ears alone. The pain in his heart increased at the very thought.

  “You have not been eating,” the witch said in a soft, grating voice.

  “I have not been hungry. What do you want?”

  The witch cocked her head and studied him insolently. Like the others, she knew too much. Eventually, he’d have to get rid of her, but at the moment he needed her assistance. “You have not visited your wife in many days, my lord.”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Like you, she does not eat.”

  “Force food down her throat, if you must. I won’t allow her to starve herself to get even with me.”

  “She grieves for her children.”

  He glared at the old woman. “Is that what you came here to tell me? Have you come to ask me to forgive her?”

  “No. The girl lied to you; she betrayed you. She would have sent away the rightful heir.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  The old woman shrugged rounded shoulders. “She is well-healed from the birth, and her milk has dried. If you wish to make use of her as she was intended to be used, or if you wish to offer her to another, she is able.” Her eyebrows danced. “I would suggest, however, that you leave her constrained. She is angry and would do you harm if you allowed her hands or her teeth to come too close.”

  “You make her sound like an animal.”

  “She is very much an animal, my lord. One who has been forcibly separated from her children. There is no more dangerous beast than a grieving mother.” She cocked her head. “Shall I have her prepared for you?”

  “No.”

  “Shall I have her prepared for another? I can slip a bit of stimulating potion into the food I cram down her throat, if you’d prefer her to be willing for whatever man makes use of her.”

  He suppressed a shudder. In his anger he had sworn to make Liane return to her old station, as concubine available for any man who wanted her. But the idea of putting such a plan into action sickened him. She was empress, mother to his sons, and though he would not say so aloud, she deserved better. “No.”

  Gadhra took one step back, toward the closed door. “You did not tell me how you disposed of the second-born child.”

  “No, I did not.”

  “It is difficult, I know, to do what must be done for the good of the country.”

  “Many aspects of my position are difficult,” Sebestyen said in a biting voice. “Ridding myself of an overly curious old witch who does not know her place would not be one of them.”

  Gadhra bowed her head, nodded gently, and turned to exit the ballroom and leave Sebestyen alone once again.

  And in the vast and cold and solitary room, the emperor once again placed a thin hand over his oddly aching heart.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It must be a trick of the moon. Isadora sat up slowly, so as not to disturb a sleeping Lucan who lay so close. At the top of the hill, at the edge of the line of trees that hid the road from them—and them from the road—a figure stood in shadow. Two figures. She blinked. Was what she saw real? And if so, were the figures animal or human? It was impossible to tell.

  And then one of the shapes moved. Not much, but enough for her to be sure the watchers were human.

  She reached out and rested a hand on Lucan’s arm. Immediately he awoke, though he did not jump up in alarm. His hand crept toward the hilt of the sword that lay at his side. His entire body tensed as long fingers closed over the grip.

  They had been found, apparently. Luckily, it would be impossible for those at the top of the hill to descend safely. The hillside was too steep and rocky. They would have to go the long way around, and by then, with any luck, Isadora and Lucan would be long gone.

  Lucan would likely prefer to fight, but Isadora was certain they needed to save their fighting for another day. If there was no other choice, she would use the sword as Lucan had taught her, but if they could make a quiet escape...

  Impossibly, the two figures at the top of the hill began to move downward, their footwork more sure than it should have been on the steep slope covered in loose rock. Away from the shadows of the trees the moonlight illuminated two wild-haired creatures, both barely dressed. As they came closer, she recognized the one in the lead as the beast who had kidnapped Juliet.

  Isadora rolled away from Lucan and gripped her own sword. She had seen the strength and speed of this creature once before, and she would not be taken by surprise this time. She would use what Lucan had taught her to bring the beast down without killing him, so he could tell her where Juliet was. Her heart thudded. She wanted to believe that Juliet was alive, but she had not seen her sister in so long, believing became more and more difficult with every passing day.

  She and Lucan both rolled smoothly to their feet, swords in hand, and faced the intruders. Isadora’s eyes were on the face of the beast who had taken Juliet. In moonlight all was not clear, but the l
ong blond hair and the massive size and the near-nakedness of the creature were much the same as before. She struck a fighting stance as the beast moved closer, and then the second figure reached out a stilling hand that fell gently on a massive arm.

  “Isadora, wait. Put down the sword. It’s just us. It’s me. I have been searching for you.”

  That voice. Isadora let her sword drop slightly, but Lucan did not. The smaller creature, who had been mostly hidden behind the larger of the intruders, stepped around him, and there was just enough moonlight for her to see a mass of red, curling hair, a familiar face with oddly lightened eyes, and a belly much too rounded with child, considering how long it had been since she’d last seen her sister.

  “Juliet?” She was not yet positive this was her sister. Magic might’ve transformed the creature before her into the one person she most wanted to see, but in this case the magic was flawed. Those were not Juliet’s eyes, and her sister could not possibly be so massively pregnant, and prim Juliet would never dare to dress in such a scanty garment.

  And yet she so wanted this to be her sister.

  The larger creature spoke. “Please put down your weapons. I cannot stop the soldiers from defending their Queen, and at the moment it appears that she very much needs defending.”

  Queen? A rustle to her right drew Isadora’s eyes from the couple who had scurried down the hill. Men as large as the one who had spoken, many of them, had surrounded the camp. They carried long, sharp spears and looked ready to make use of those weapons.

  “You should have allowed me to cast a protection spell over the camp,” Isadora muttered as she set her sword on the ground.

  Lucan did not discard his sword, but he did lower it slightly. “Even for protection, I wish for no magic, love.”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Stubborn man.

  When the woman who looked so much like Juliet—the Queen, apparently—smiled, the last of Isadora’s uncertainties vanished. No shapeshifter could duplicate that smile.

  “This man who calls you love is not your captor, I assume.”

  “No.” Isadora took a step toward Juliet. How could so many changes have taken place in such a short period of time? Just a few months had passed since she’d seen Juliet carried into the cold mountains by the barbarian who now called her his Queen. She wished for sunlight to see more clearly.

  “When we first came upon the camp it was impossible to tell, and though my powers have grown, I still cannot discern everything where you are concerned. I do see more now, much more, but not all.”

  Isadora could not bear to remain in the dark, not when there was so much to be seen, so she lifted her hand and whispered a few powerful words. Light appeared as a rosy orb, and after the light took form it grew, spreading around her and Juliet. She made sure the unnatural light did not touch Lucan.

  The illumination she created was similar to the wizard’s light, but it was pink rather than purple, and it was not strong enough to last as the wizard’s had. It was a soft glow that confirmed everything she had seen to this point. This woman before her was Juliet. Much changed, but still her sister. The odd eyes were gold, rather than the brown she remembered. The red hair was not neatly and tightly constrained, but hung wild and free. She was also very, very pregnant.

  The light died as Isadora threw her arms around Juliet’s neck. The large belly impeded her progress, and still she was able to hang on. “Bors said you were dead, but I didn’t believe it. I never believed it. But I did not know how I would find you.”

  A gentle hand settled in Isadora’s hair. “I found you,” Juliet said sweetly. “Just in time, I believe.”

  There was a censuring tone to Juliet’s voice, and a confidence in that censure that was as new as the eyes. Isadora pulled back to look into those eyes. “Why just in time?”

  “You cannot go back into the palace.”

  “I have to—”

  Juliet lifted a silencing finger. “Not yet. And not alone.”

  “She was not going into that place alone,” Lucan said sharply.

  There had been a time when Juliet would have cowered at such a firm tone of voice from a male, but no longer. Juliet looked Lucan in the eye. “You will need an army to take what you need from the emperor.” She smiled and lifted a hand to indicate the spear-toting soldiers who continued to stand guard. “You now have such an army.”

  Lucan was accustomed to leading sword-bearing, uniformed warriors into battle, not half-dressed, spear-toting wild men, many of whom stood a head or more taller than he. Still, when it came to taking on Emperor Sebestyen, he’d take what he could get.

  There would be no more sleep on this night. He’d built a fire to illuminate the camp, though Isadora’s sister and the man who was her new husband did not come too close. They should be cool, dressed as they were, but apparently they did not want or need the heat of the flame. The explanation came soon enough, at Isadora’s insistence.

  Anwyn. He had believed the shape-shifters to be legend, not fact. In all the prophecies the wizards had spoken, he had never been told that he would one day lead an Anwyn army. And yet here he was, surrounded by them. Even Juliet was Anwyn, which accounted for the speed of the progression of her pregnancy.

  As he listened to Isadora and Juliet exchange tales of their past eventful months, he realized that Juliet was not only a witch, a Queen, and Anwyn, she was a seer. A powerful one, from what he heard. As dawn approached, and the sisters’ tales were done, Lucan leaned toward the red-haired, gold-eyed seer.

  “Perhaps if you inform your sister that she is meant to be my wife, she will believe you. She needs a bit of a push.”

  Juliet answered with a smile. “Over the years I have learned to push Isadora as infrequently and as gently as possible.”

  “But if you see what’s meant to be, isn’t it only right to share that which is inescapable?”

  The Anwyn Queen was a beautiful woman, but her eyes were so odd they spooked him a little. The gold was an unnatural color, and those eyes were powerful and enthralling. They were ancient eyes that saw much, that shared much. There was humor and love and intelligence and strength in those gold eyes. Lucan made himself remember the long-ago warning about the witch. Juliet was many things, and a witch was one of them.

  “I do not often see clearly that which is meant for those I love. Since becoming Queen I see much more than I ever thought possible, and still, there are some things that are not shown to me.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I used to worry about what I did not know, but I have learned to accept what I am given and dismiss the rest. If I am meant to see, the knowing will come.”

  It was a roundabout, insufficient response that helped him not at all. “Then inform Isadora that she will be the mother of my son.”

  Juliet just smiled.

  “You are as stubborn as your sister,” he said, before standing sharply and taking his leave of the gathering by the dying fire in order to wash his face and gather his composure by the pond.

  Lucan Hern had always embraced the control his situation offered him. His control, his command. All he had planned, all he wanted, was spinning out of control. He would take back his authority, he decided as he wiped his wet face.

  When he returned to the camp, he felt somewhat better. Isadora would say yes to his marriage proposal, once they accomplished what they had to do. She would be the mother of his son. He was First Captain of the Circle of Bacwyr, soon to be Prince of Swords, and he would not be agitated by the ramblings of a woman. A witch.

  As he approached the fire he said in his most commanding voice, “We will march toward the palace today, and attack tomorrow morning at dawn.”

  Juliet lifted her head and once again cast him that serene, condescending smile. Her golden eyes caught and held his. “No. It is too soon.”

  “I will not be directed in battle by a woman,” he insisted. Juliet’s husband, the oft-silent Ryn, seemed to growl. A few of the soldiers stepped closer. Already Lucan was calculating his battle
plan. That one first...he looked fiercest. That one next, and then—

  “Lucan!” Isadora stood and touched his arm almost protectively. “You must listen to Juliet. She can tell us when the chance of success is greatest.”

  He looked down at Isadora, and the truth of his animosity came to him. “I do not wish to be guided in battle by magic.”

  “The Circle makes use of wizards,” she argued.

  “Yes, but in warfare it is warriors who formulate the battle plans, not wizards or witches.” Besides, how accurate could Juliet be? She did not even see that Isadora would be his wife.

  “You would risk your own life to discard my advice,” Juliet said in a gentle, unconcerned voice. “Would you also risk my sister’s life? Have you considered that perhaps the reason I do not see what you wish me to see is that you must first get past this test...and survive?”

  He looked down at Juliet and tried to set aside his emotions to see what he could of her. The wizards had taught him well, though he had not always been the best student. He shut out everything but Juliet, and he stared into her eyes.

  Juliet was incredibly powerful, and deeply kind, and unfailingly devoted to those she loved. And she was right.

  “Fine,” he snapped, not entirely happy at the revelation. “We will wait.”

  Festivals made the people below happy, and so he indulged them. The priests had insisted the residents of the city needed to see the child who would be their next emperor, and the Spring Festival was the perfect opportunity to present the babe Jahn to the subjects who would one day be his.

  They made a pretty picture standing on the Level Six balcony, Sebestyen imagined. Liane’s hair had been styled, and she wore a plain crimson gown with long sleeves, which disguised the fact that her hands were tightly bound. Her face was pale, but a touch of rouge disguised that fact as well.

  He himself held his firstborn child, Jahn, and when he lifted the baby high, the crowd below cheered. The crowd was smaller than it had been at the Winter Festival, which had been smaller still than the Autumn Festival. The city was shrinking. Sebestyen suspected throngs were deserting the city to join the rebels, and one day they would all turn on him, as he had always known they would.