Also by Roberta Trahan:
Aftershock
The Dream Stewards series:
The Well of Tears
The Keys to the Realms
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2014 by Roberta Trahan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
ISBN-13: 9781477849958
ISBN-10: 1477849955
Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2013946477
Cover Designed by Mark Winters
For AJ and Morgan
CONTENTS
THE PROPHECY
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
LEXICON OF THE STEWARDRY
HIERARCHY OF THE STEWARDRY
THE LEGACIES
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
HISTORICAL NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BIBLIOGRAPHY
THE PROPHECY
Even before the seeds of the first civilizations were scattered, sorcerers walked this world. For a time they trod in the formidable footfall of the Gods, serving the fledgling societies as the arbiters of faith and fate. With their guidance, humankind flourished. But with prosperity came avarice, and with avarice came ambition. Before long, the world knew unrest.
Dark and terrible times followed. Chaos descended upon the land, and for a thousand years her peoples suffered at the hands of tyrants and marauders. Yet, somehow, the seeds of salvation survived.
In the province Ystrad Tywi of the Kingdom of Seisyllwg, a handful of those devoted to the old ways found refuge in the abandoned sanctuaries of their ancestors. Hidden deep within the mystical woods of Coedwig Gwyn, nestled near the tiny village of Pwll, stood one such ancient and sacred place—the all but forgotten temple called Fane Gramarye.
Cloistered within an enchantment that hid the temple from the eyes of the world, the last remaining mages to serve the Order of the Stewardry at Fane Gramarye endured to fulfill a single sacred vow—to protect the king who would one day unite the peoples of Cymru in a long and lasting peace. An age-old prophecy foretold that a son descended from a line of noble rulers would rise to rule a new era, and that by his hand the ancient beliefs would be resurrected and the sorcerers returned to reverence. And so it was that for nine generations the Stewards served in silence, awaiting an omen in the birth of a boy.
In the year 880 AD, it came to pass that the first begotten son of Cadell, King of Seisyllwg, was delivered unto the world and anointed by the Gods. Soon after reaching manhood, the child called Hywel would begin the journey to his destiny, and the ancient prophecy would finally be fulfilled. The Stewards of Fane Gramarye would be called to raise the first sorcerers’ council to serve a high king in more than a millennium.
But it was also foreseen that there were those among men and mage who would stop at nothing to usurp such a powerful alliance. As the age of peace approached, the Sovereign of the Ninth Order moved to protect the prophecy, secretly naming four sorceresses of uncommon power to the sacred council. He then sent the sorceresses into hiding, scattering them to the four corners of the known world so that even if one were discovered, the others might survive.
For more than twenty years they lived in waiting, until the summons to return finally came. But their homecoming was overshadowed by sorrow. The ravages of time and unrelenting conflict had decimated the lands and disheartened the people. The Stewardry at Fane Gramarye had faded even further into obscurity, and insurrection had weakened the Order. And when the first of the sorceresses arrived, the enemy was waiting.
While dark forces besieged the Stewardry, dark times befell the rising king. The unexpected death of his father reawakened a generations-old dispute over land and title, forcing Hywel to defend his claims against family, friend, and foe alike. Determined to seize the destiny he had been promised and unite the disparate kingdoms as one nation under his rule, Hywel declared a bloody and ruthless campaign against all those who dared stand in his way. But his rivals were just as determined to resist him, and the battles raged, unrelenting, until Hywel’s only hope of victory lay in the fulfillment of the prophecy. While he fought to hold his ground, his last refuge was Fane Gramarye, and his only allies the mages of the Stewardry.
ONE
Wintertide in the White Woods, 906 AD
Evil slithered through the low-lying mist along a dark and rarely traveled route. With cunning intent and deadly speed, it approached its unsuspecting prey unhindered. The victim, wounded and weary, paused to rest before reaching refuge. In the distance, a solitary sentry recognized the danger and cried out, but the warning came too late.
Glain clawed at the edges of the vision, frantic to escape the malevolence in her subconscious and return to the safety of wakefulness. But the dream would not let her go. The layered haze that shrouded her senses was dense and cloying, like cloth soaked through with tar.
Still, the deep sleep had not overtaken the whole of her mind. Over time, Glain had learned how to hold a piece of her consciousness apart from the sensations created by her visions. In this way she could maintain a thread of awareness—a necessary defense against the vulnerability of the dream state. She felt the warning now. A separate danger threatened, nearer and more urgent. Glain struggled harder.
At last she broke through the trance, startling herself awake with a gasp and a prayer. “Gods help me!”
The young Steward was almost surprised to find herself alone in her chamber. The nearness of something other had made such a strong impression that she half expected to find it standing next to her bed. But nothing was there.
Glain focused on the late-night stillness, straining to hear or feel unrest in Fane Gramarye. Her rampant heartbeat and shallow breathing were like a deafening roar in the dead hush, but no other sound pierced the quiet. When a few moments of wary anticipation still failed to reveal a threat, Glain cursed her over-anxious nature and snapped her fingers at the bedside candle stand.
“Alight.”
At her command, the tallow wick-end on the pricket sputtered to life. Its pale glow beat back the shadows in her room but did not hold the power to banish the dark images that dwelled in her mind. Nor did the silence quell her misgivings. Evil was lurking, here in the waking world. She was sure of it.
If only to appease the relentless niggling of her intuition, Glain tied back her ginger-brown locks, retrieved her house shoes, and pulled the white robe of the acolyte over her n
ightdress. Leaving nothing to chance, she snatched the indigo velvet sheath that protected her wand from the wall hook and fastened it securely at her waist. And for good measure, she took the bone-handled dagger from the ritual altar next to her hearth.
Practiced stealth and well-oiled hinges allowed Glain to leave her chamber without alerting the other acolytes housed on the hall, but as soon as she stepped outside her room, she reconsidered the wisdom of venturing on alone. Her intuition flared and foreboding rippled along her spine.
Thank the Ancients for the apprentice who had remembered his duty and lit the lamps in the halls. Still, the smoldering flicker of liquid tallow cast more shadow than light. And the dark silence beyond her door was not empty. Before she’d taken half a dozen steps down the hall toward the entrance to the Sovereign’s quarters and the third-floor landing that separated the east annex from the west, Glain sensed an unearthly presence. A sickly sweet odor lingered on the air, as though something rancid had passed only moments before.
Ahead, a door latch slid from its brace, and Ynyr stepped cautiously into the corridor. Glain nearly collapsed with relief. Ynyr, the eldest and the leader of the acolytes, seemed only mildly surprised to see Glain already on the prowl, and he motioned for her to join him. She had to run to catch up—he was already striding down the passageway as though he knew where to go.
“Did you see anything?” he whispered.
“No. What woke you?” Glain asked. Ynyr was not a seer.
Ynyr’s nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of the rank air. “I heard a rustle, but it passed so quickly I almost dismissed it. I heard voices earlier in the king’s chamber and assumed it was just another of his late-night distractions making her way back to her own room.”
If Hywel had indeed returned to the temple, this was a more than likely explanation. Much as it galled Glain to know it, the king was rarely without “distractions” in his quarters. “But now you think it was something else?”
He paused to squint at her as if the question were rhetorical, reaching reflexively for something at his waist. It was only then that she realized Ynyr was armed with more than his wand. “Don’t you?”
“Yes,” she confessed. “I am sure of it.”
“Stay close, then.” Ynyr tipped his chin ahead, toward the shadows. “Aside from mine, his are the only rooms occupied in the west annex. Assuming, of course, that he is here at all.”
“I thought you said you heard voices in his rooms.”
“Yes, but that was hours ago. For all I know, Hywel has already gone.”
“How is it possible that you would not know whether he is on the grounds?” Glain was perplexed, and a little annoyed. “You are his personal attendant.”
Ynyr cast a quick, sidelong scowl in her direction, keeping his focus in front of him. “I know what Hywel decides I should know, and that tends to be very little.”
A muffled thump silenced them both. Glain heard what she believed to be a stifled shout, and then Ynyr bolted for the king’s chambers with her on his heels. Together they threw open the door and charged into the dimly lit rooms.
Hywel had engaged the first of two shadowy figures near the hearth in hand-battle, a fierce grappling struggle against a disembodied force. The second infiltrator had overtaken a naked form, a woman Glain could not recognize through the shadows. She appeared to be completely overcome and unable to resist.
“Ynyr!” Glain shouted, suddenly recognizing the danger for what it was. She had never seen such demons, but they were such a deadly threat that all Stewards were taught how to fend them off. “Cythraul!”
Ynyr lunged over the bed to aid Hywel’s companion. He would realize, as she had, that his physical strength would be used against him. The only defense against such a demon was to dispel its form.
Hywel, however, did not understand this. He fought hard against his attacker and was quickly faltering under the smothering of the Cythraul’s darkling shroud. Death would come swiftly.
“Cease your struggle, Sire.” Glain unsheathed her wand and positioned herself as near to the wraith as she dared. “You only make it stronger.”
Hywel growled with fury and frustration, but he did as she bade him. He let his arms fall to his sides and dropped to his knees. Submission would slow the effects, but not stave off the end for long. Glain hoped there was time.
Grasping her wand at mid-staff, Glain held it at arm’s length, leveled on the horizontal plane. She focused her every thought on the Cythraul before her and called the command to disperse. “Ymadael!”
The shadowy wraith shimmered and thinned slightly before regaining its mass. It was more resistant than she’d expected. The sorcerer that had brought this spirit from the netherworld into this one was accomplished and wickedly powerful. The wraith had been shielded against ordinary magic, and she knew of nothing else to do.
“Stand fast, Glain.” Ynyr was managing to hold the second wraith at bay using the same wand spell. He was no more successful that she at destroying it, but Ynyr had weakened the demon enough to allow its captive an opportunity to escape. “Ariane! Don’t just stand there, you vapid girl. Give aid or go for help!”
Ariane did neither, apparently frozen in place by her own fear. The only effort she made was a lame attempt to cover her nakedness with her robe, but even the white wool of the acolyte’s mantle could not hide her shame. How had Ariane come to be here like this? There was only one reasonable answer, and Glain’s dismay nearly shattered her concentration. But she dared not falter.
Prevented from reclaiming Ariane by Ynyr’s strength and unrelenting resistance, the wraith turned its menace on the king as well. Ynyr immediately brought his spell to Glain’s aid, but it still was not enough. Hywel was fading, and it felt to Glain as if the Cythraul were trying to pull her power away from her through the wand—but that was impossible. A Steward’s wand was cured in her own blood. None but she could wield it. But then, she had never confronted dark magic before.
For the first time since the Hellion had stormed the Fane, Glain was afraid. Perhaps she had been wrong to think she was mage enough to overcome this threat. Even with Ynyr’s help.
She dropped the dagger she carried to clutch her wand with both hands, and felt the hornbeam bark warm from the force of her magic. “Ymadael nawr!”
One of the Cythraul shuddered, as if it were wounded. Glain sensed weakness. She took two steps toward the demons, focusing her thoughts on the entity she had affected.
“What are you doing?” Ynyr shouted. “You’re too close.”
Glain had no idea what she was doing or why she was defying her own terror. A sorceress with good sense would have backed away, but Glain let her instincts guide her. She could not destroy the Cythraul, but she could draw it away from Hywel.
“Glain!” Ynyr realized what she had in mind. “If you get any closer you’ll be caught in the shroud.”
She knew he was right, but her idea was working. Glain had engaged the wraith. It was turning away from Hywel and toward her. If she could keep it distracted and drain enough of its strength, Hywel might break free. Glain backed away slowly, suddenly realizing that she could only lead it away for so long before being swallowed up herself.
All at once, another presence joined theirs, tripling the strength of her spell. Nerys, the last of the four acolytes, appeared beside her, lending her magic to theirs. The wraiths were not shielded enough to withstand sorcery thrice made. At last they retreated, disappearing in a cloud of black mist. Hywel was released from the darkling at last, shaken and winded, but apparently unharmed.
The king recovered so quickly one might think he faced demon assassins every night. His chest heaved from the effort of his deadly struggle but he stood tall and true, leveling upon Glain a gaze iced with dark rage.
“Tell Alwen I wish to see her. Now.”
Glain left Ynyr to see to the king and ushered
Nerys and Ariane out of the bedchamber. “Take Ariane back to her room and see that she stays there.”
Nerys gave Glain a glare of resentment, but she did not protest. Nerys was particularly critical of the awkward and less accomplished Ariane, and Glain had always been quick to reproach Nerys for her unkindness. This time, however, Glain felt as Nerys did. Ariane had embarrassed them all.
“Before you go,” Glain asked in afterthought. “How did you know?”
Nerys frowned at Ariane, who appeared to be far more troubled with tying the sash of her robe than she was by her own humiliation. “I heard voices in the hall and came to see what was wrong.”
“Well,” Glain said awkwardly. There had never been warmth between them and it was uncomfortable to find herself obliged to express it now. “I am glad you did.”
Glain turned and raced back along the length of the corridor as if there were white-hot coals beneath her feet. Hywel would not be far behind, and Alwen deserved fair warning. It had taken less than the turn of three moons for tales of his rages to reach legendary proportion, outstripped in infamy only by the rumors of his womanizing.
Glain reached the door to the Sovereign’s chambers at a dead run and threw it open, only to find Alwen already dressed and seated on the small dais in the receptory that centered her chambers.
“Breathe easy, dear girl.” Alwen waved her into the room. “When you’ve recovered, find fresh cups and pour.”
“Cythraul—in the Fane.” Glain forced the words out between panting gasps. “Hywel is coming.”
“Yes, I know.” Alwen, serene and gracious, gestured toward the hearth. “The aleberry, Glain.”
Glain obliged, wondering whether the mulled spirits were meant to calm Hywel or to fortify Alwen, and how it was that Alwen was not at all surprised. Glain poured first for her mistress. “It was over nearly as quickly as it began, and I came to you straight away.”
“Just now I awoke knowing that a threat had been thwarted.” Alwen accepted the cup with a nod of thanks and a pensive frown. “Tell me what happened.”
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