Published by Tanglewood Publishing, Inc., October 2013
Text © Laurisa White Reyes 2013
All rights reserved. Neither this book nor any part may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilming, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover art by Tristan Elwell & interior art by Kathleen Everts
Design by Amy Alick Perich
Tanglewood Publishing, Inc.
4400 Hulman Street
Terre Haute, IN 47803
www.tanglewoodbooks.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN-13 978-1-933718-97-2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Reyes, Laurisa White.
The last enchanter / Laurisa White Reyes.
pages cm. -- (The Celestine chronicles ; book 2)
Summary: With the help of his old friends Clovis and Bryn, joined by new friend Lael, a feisty girl in search of her mother, Marcus uncovers a powerful secret that will change the course of his life forever.
[1. Magic--Fiction. 2. Fantasy.] I. Title.
PZ7.R3303Las 2013
[Fic]--dc23
2013022263
For my daughters
Carissa & Brennah
Contents
Prologue
AN UNWELCOME JOURNEY
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
A GUARDED SECRET
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
THE LAST ENCHANTER
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Acknowledgements
Author Bio
Prologue
Fredric, ruler of Dokur, stared out his window toward the sea. The sounds of the cutting and hammering of wood and of men shouting came to him on a crisp salty breeze. Below in the bay, Dokur’s navy was busy rebuilding its ships. Eight months earlier, Fredric’s own son had led their enemies to these very shores, and Dokur had nearly fallen by their swords. But soon these ships would set sail for the mainland and take revenge on the Hestorians.
Fredric heard the door open behind him. The gentle clinking of crystal against silver was the only introduction the visitor needed.
“Is it time already?” Fredric asked without turning. “I would like a little wine to soothe my nerves before bed.”
Arnot filled a goblet and handed it to his king with a slight bow. Fredric downed the contents and returned the empty goblet.
“I fear I have grown too old for battle,” said Fredric, crossing the room to his bed. “These eyes have witnessed too much bloodshed, too much suffering.”
Fredric held out his arms while the attendant removed his royal robe and replaced it with a linen nightshirt. Once Fredric was dressed, Arnot went to the bed and pulled back the covers. “Your bed is prepared, Your Majesty.”
Fredric rested his hands on the edge of the mattress. “My stomach,” he said. “It bothers me so.”
“Perhaps you should rest, Sire,” replied Arnot.
Fredric rubbed his stomach and then raised his hand to his forehead, where beads of sweat had formed. “I am not well tonight,” he continued, sighing. “But such is to be expected at my age.”
Suddenly, Fredric clenched his teeth, and his hands balled into fists against the mattress. He groaned as his entire body began to shake. Fredric grabbed the quilt in both fists and pulled with such force, the fabric tore. A moment later he dropped to his knees, gasping for air.
“I am in pain,” he cried. “Fetch my doctor!”
Arnot remained where he stood and stared at Fredric with cold eyes.
“Arnot,” called Fredric, reaching for the attendant with both hands. “Please help me!”
A faint smile appeared on Arnot’s lips—so faint Fredric wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him. When the attendant finally crossed the room to the door, Fredric felt relieved that help would be found. He lay down on the floor, too weak now to lift himself into the bed.
“Tell my doctor to hurry,” he whispered. “Tell him I am very ill.”
Arnot looked back at Fredric. The smile on his lips was now unmistakable, and there was a look of pleasure in his face.
“You are not ill,” he said coolly. “You have been poisoned.”
Then Arnot slipped through the door, shutting it quietly and securely behind him.
AN
UNWELCOME
JOURNEY
One
The air was unusually cold when Marcus stepped out of his cottage near the village of Quendel. He cupped his hands around his mouth to warm them, and wisps of white escaped through his fingers. At the well, he lowered his bucket, listening for the crunch of wood breaking through the thin sheet of ice below.
After filling the animal trough with water, Marcus dropped the bucket into the well once more and left it on the hearth inside the cottage. Back outside, he untied Agnes’s tether and led her toward the fields to graze. Agnes, his master’s goat, bleated in protest. Marcus tugged at her lead.
“C’mon, you lazy animal, don’t make me drag you,” he said. “I’ve got
better things to do than babysit a scrawny old maid like you. You aren’t fit to be a goat, have I told you that lately?”
They trudged across the field until they reached a patch of grass. The morning frost was just beginning to thaw on the small, green shoots, but Agnes was impatient. She snatched the first crispy bunch between her teeth and yanked it clear out of the ground, roots and all.
“Take it easy there, girl,” said Marcus, letting go of Agnes’s lead. “Leave some for the other goats, why don’t you?”
It had been eight months since Marcus had returned from his quest. He and five other boys from the village had gone in search of the Rock of Ivanore, a medallion made of Celestine crystal that had once belonged to Lady Ivanore, daughter of Fredric, ruler of Dokur. Years ago she broke the seal into two pieces and gave one to her husband Jayson (whom she also called her rock), when her father exiled him. The other half was divided into two smaller pieces, one for each of their two sons, Marcus and Kelvin.
Marcus considered the discovery that he was of royal blood, something he had thought a lot about since his return. Sometimes he could hardly believe it was true. Now Kelvin was in Dokur learning the ways of court with Fredric, and Jayson was on the far side of the Isle of Imaness in the marshlands of Taktani preparing the Agoran people to return to their homelands, a promise Fredric had made as a reward for their bravery during the battle with the Hestorian invaders.
“And here I am with you,” said Marcus, tossing a dandelion to Agnes. “So much for having royal blood. I’m nothing more than the king of goats.”
Marcus reached for another dandelion, when something stung his neck.
“Ow!” he said, rubbing the spot with his hand.
A second later, a small pebble pelted him in the back of the head. Marcus spun around to see someone running across the field, an empty sling in hand. Marcus took out after the culprit.
“Come back here!” he shouted. “Come back, you coward!”
Marcus soon caught up. He grabbed anything he could reach—belt, hand, hair, leg—and both of their bodies toppled to the ground. Marcus had his attacker pinned in an instant.
“Thought you could get away with it, eh?” said Marcus, his chest heaving for breath.
The girl struggled to break free, but to no avail. She was Marcus’s age, fourteen, and just as tall. She wore a simple tunic and trousers, and her long, yellow hair was kept in a tight braid.
“You’re a pest, Lael,” Marcus said. “You should be home playing with dolls.”
“I prefer weapons to dolls,” snapped Lael.
“And what does your papa say to that?” asked Marcus, a wry grin on his face.
Lael frowned, her face turning red. “My father is a farmer,” she said. “What does he know of weapons?”
“More than you, most likely,” Marcus said, laughing. “You’ll hurt yourself with that thing.”
“I could have hurt you, Marcus Frye, if I’d wanted to.”
Marcus snatched the sling from Lael.
Her arms now free, she jumped up, furious. “Give that back!”
“How does this work again?” teased Marcus. “You put a stone here . . .”
He picked up a rock from the ground and placed it in the small leather hammock. Then he began to spin the four long, leather straps in a circle over his head.
“And you swing it around like this . . .”
“Marcus, don’t!” shouted Lael.
Marcus released two of the straps, but instead of sending the rock flying, it snapped back, hitting him square in the forehead. He dropped to the ground as still as the stone that had struck him.
Two
Marcus!” shouted Lael. “Are you all right?”
Marcus blinked. For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was, but as he gazed up into the face that stared down at him, he realized he was lying on the ground.
“Let me help you up,” offered Lael, holding out her hand.
Ignoring her, Marcus struggled to his feet. He felt a little dizzy and lightheaded. “I’m fine,” he said gruffly. He touched the tender spot on his forehead and found a swollen lump there.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Lael.
Marcus took up Agnes’s lead. “I’m going home,” he said. He didn’t get far, however, before he felt a twinge of guilt. Lael had only been teasing him, after all. He had been the stupid one, using a weapon on which he was untrained. And then when she tried to help him, he’d been rude to her.
Marcus stopped. He could see a plume of smoke rising from the chimney of his cottage, which meant Zyll was awake and preparing breakfast. If Marcus hurried, he might reach home while the food was still hot.
He glanced over his shoulder at Lael walking slowly toward the village. By the slump in her shoulder, he knew he had hurt her feelings. He would have to go back and apologize.
He called to her. “Lael, hold on!”
At hearing her name, Lael turned around.
Marcus patted Agnes’s rump. “Go on home, girl,” he told her. The goat obeyed and scampered off in the direction of the cottage, while Marcus started back across the field.
The pain struck without warning, an invisible fist thrust into his chest. As he fell, he saw Lael running toward him. A moment later he was on the ground, no longer aware of anything beyond his own suffering. His body shook, his fingers clutching at the soft soil. He wanted to scream, but no sound escaped through his clenched teeth.
At the very moment that Marcus was sure he would die, a strange warmth filled his body. It rose up from the earth and rained down from the sky. His muscles relaxed, and his arms fell limp beside him. He opened his eyes and saw a woman with golden hair and skin as bright as the sun.
He knew this woman. He had seen her before in his dreams and thought she was an angel, but now he knew her true identity. She was Ivanore, his mother.
Ivanore held out her hand toward Marcus as though she wished to grasp his hand in hers. Her lips moved, but Marcus heard no sound. Then, with despair in her eyes, Ivanore’s image began to fade. Marcus wanted to reach for her, to feel his mother’s touch for the first time, but his arms were like lead, lying useless beside him on the ground.
Ivanore vanished, leaving a dark void behind. The blackness swirled above Marcus, threatening to pull him in. Again he clutched at the soil, but the force was too strong. He felt his body lifting from the earth. Marcus opened his jaw and screamed.
Three
There now, you are in good hands.”
A familiar voice broke through the blackness. Marcus slowly opened his eyes. He lay on his own cot, a damp rag across his forehead and a blanket pulled up to his chin. He tried to sit up, but a stabbing pain forced him back to his pillow. Master Zyll leaned over him, examining him through a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles.
“Better now?” he asked, removing the rag and dipping it into a bowl of water on the floor beside him. He wrung out the rag and replaced it on Marcus’s forehead. Marcus felt its soothing coolness against his skin.
“The pain hit so suddenly,” he said, “I couldn’t scream.”
“Oh, you screamed all right,” remarked Zyll with a chuckle. “Half the village heard you and came running. And as you can see,” he added, “some of them are still here.”
Marcus looked toward the doorway and saw two boys standing there. Both were about his age, though one was short and rather plump, while the other was a good head taller and very thin.
“Clovis, Tristan,” said Marcus. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too,” replied Clovis, the plump one. “We didn’t know who had screamed until we reached the field.”
Tristan reached over his shoulder for a scratch. “Thought it was a girl,” he said, chuckling.
Clovis jabbed Tristan in the side with his elbow. “Well, naturally, we would think that, wouldn’t we—when we saw Lael,” he said. “That is, until she told us you were hurt.”
“Lael?” asked Marcus.
“That’s ri
ght,” said Tristan. “She led us to you. The three of us carried you home.”
Marcus glanced around the room. “Where is she?”
“She left once she saw you were safe,” explained Zyll. “She seemed upset, though. Said something about a sling?”
Marcus touched his forehead. The lump was still there. He groaned.
“I was fooling around with her sling and hit myself on the head with it,” said Marcus. “She probably feels responsible.”
Clovis fidgeted with the crossbow. He had surprised himself and everyone else with his skill during the battle with the Hestorians. Now he carried it with him wherever he went. “We had better get back, Tristan,” he said. “My father will be wondering where I am.”
Tristan nodded. “And I was supposed to be at work an hour ago.”
“That’s right,” replied Marcus, cracking a smile. “You two have responsibilities now. Clovis Dungham, the bow maker and Tristan Tether the cow slayer. So how are things at the tanner’s?”
“Fine, just fine,” answered Tristan.
“Can’t you tell by the smell?” added Clovis.
Tristan glared at Clovis and then sniffed at his sleeve.
“Don’t make me laugh,” Marcus said. “It hurts!”
Marcus said goodbye to his friends, though he longed to go with them. As they turned to leave, Marcus heard Tristan ask, “Smell’s not that bad, is it?”
Four
Once Tristan and Clovis had gone, Marcus carefully rolled onto his side and adjusted the pillow beneath his neck. Even that small amount of effort caused him pain, and he moaned.
Zyll stroked the white stubble on his chin. “The pain still persists?”
Marcus nodded. “The stab wound I got from Arik healed months ago. But just when I’m feeling strong again, the pain comes back.”
“Your wound has healed,” said Zyll. He rose from the stool at Marcus’s bedside and reached for Xerxes, his walking stick carved with an eagle’s head. Crossing the cottage to the hearth where a pot of broth was warming, he lifted the ladle to his lips and tasted it.
Marcus adjusted himself on his cot again, trying not to worsen the pain. “I haven’t healed,” he told Zyll. “I hurt more now than I did when that traitor stuck a dagger in my back.”
As Zyll leaned on his walking stick, its wooden face moved. Eyelids flickered open, and Xerxes yawned.
The Last Enchanter Page 1
