“Then he covered a great deal of magic training in a very short time. What you speak of are lessons that seem deceptively easy at first, but in reality take a long time to master, and yet you do it as naturally as breathing.”
“I’ve always been quick to pick up new skills.”
“I am told Ashayna is a quick learner as well, but she distrusts magic to an extent it’s doubtful she’d ever do what you did to save my son. How did you have the knowledge to save my son’s life?”
“My Larnkin. Where else would I have gained it?”
Darkmoon paced a half circle around her, bowing his head low, he turned and took several strides in the opposite direction. Finally, he planted all four hooves firmly on the ground and watched her with guarded intensity. “It was not a remembered skill?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t think about it. I just did what felt right. Why do you ask?”
“Because what I and the others here witnessed was not the haphazard magic of instinct or luck. It was a power of the highest working.”
“Up until two moon spans ago, I knew nothing about magic. Not really. I was aware I possessed a gift, or more likely a curse if the Acolytes ever sniffed me out. But beyond that, I knew nothing, not its origins, its purpose, not even how to control it,” Sorsha said, truly confused about the direction of the conversation. “Because of magic, I almost died. More than once, in fact. I know so little about magic I don’t even know what you’re accusing me of.” Sorsha started laughing. It struck her so funny she couldn’t stop. Tears started down her cheeks. She wiped at them and looked back to Darkmoon. “Please, enlighten me. Maybe than I can answer your question?”
Darkmoon arched his neck. Nostrils flaring, he stretched his head toward her. After a snort and quick shake of his head he answered her. “I smell no deception upon you. You truly don’t know what you did.” He paused and eyed her with new interest. “I believe you’re one of the Twelve, even though neither you nor my son wears the Mark.”
“Twelve of what?” Sorsha snapped, her reply made sharper by the nagging sensation she should be pursuing Shadowdancer, not mincing words with his sire. “What Mark?”
“The Mark is an intricate knot symbol borne over the hearts of the Twelve.”
Tired of his evasions and riddles, Sorsha rubbed at her eyes and believed she was beginning to understand why Ashayna hated magic. “Not helping.”
Darkmoon snorted and shook his mane in humor. “I’m sorry. There is just so much you don’t know. Let me explain. There are twelve great magical talismans in our world, gifts from the gods to the Elemental races. Each talisman has a wielder. During times of war and great strife, the flesh and blood Twelve are born into the world and seek out their talismans. When the Circle unites with all Twelve Talismans and their Wielders, they become a power to match even the gods. The circle’s members are Light’s champions—Godsent to destroy whatever evil walks the land.”
“Why would you believe I’m that? Wouldn’t I know if I was some great power?”
“Normally, yes. But I have an idea about that, too. There are a set of paintings deep in the heart of Grey Spires, which only members of the Elemental Council are ever allowed to lay eyes upon. Those panels showed the Twelve Talismans and their Wielders. But these dark paintings depicted the atrocities of war in vivid color. During the last great battle between good and evil, an army of light and an army of shadows met across the field of battle. The army of light was led by the Circle of Twelve. Opposite them, was Dakdamon, god of chaos and destruction.” A visible shudder crawled down Darkmoon’s body. “Those pictures were enough to give me nightmares. The third painting in the series showed what I’d always thought was impossible. The Judge, Leader of the Twelve, was captured and his talisman, a staff crowned with the likeness of a falcon, lay broken beneath the Dark One’s clawed feet.
The next panel in the series showed the Judge chained upon a slab of rock in a cavern of stone; the place where Dakdamon made the leader his creature. In the following panels, the newly remade Leader of the Twelve returned, now leading the army of darkness. He came to claim his bondmate for his new master. If the Destroyer had become the pawn of her bondmate, we would live in a very different world today.
But she didn’t surrender to the dark temptation her bondmate offered. In that final panel, a horror I hope to never witness in my life took place. The Destroyer took the life of her own bondmate, breaking the most forbidden rule. By that act, she destroyed herself body and soul. And saved our world, for if she’d been seduced by his darkness, she would have been remade like him. Her final act destroyed them both, utterly. Or so we thought. Now I am not so sure.
I think Ashayna and Sorntar are the Judge and Destroyer born again. If they are, I would wager you and Shadowdancer are also members of the Twelve. But that long ago interference by Dakdamon did something; changed some fine balance and neither you nor my son were born with the Mark of the Twelve or the knowledge about your roles. And now you must prove yourselves—find a way to heal your Larnkins and complete the Twelve.”
It felt like her stomach had fallen down to her toes. “You’re just guessing.”
“I wish I was. But all the clues lead to that dire truth.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Sorntar has enslaved Ashayna and fled the city. No one knows where they are. He took my daughter and her mate with them.”
“Ashayna is missing? And Winter’s Frost and Summer Flame, too? How could this happen?”
“Sorntar has turned against his people.”
“No, not possible. Sorntar is the gentlest soul I know. Besides, even I could see he was utterly devoted to Ash, much to her dismay. It must be the Dead King that Shadowdancer told me of…or Trensler and his Acolytes. Some of them might have invaded the city and captured my sister and her bondmate. If that’s so, then they are in terrible danger.”
“I’m sorry little one. While I don’t know what role Trensler plays in all this, I know he hasn’t invaded the city and he didn’t have a direct hand in Ashayna’s capture. There were witnesses to Sorntar’s betrayal.”
“Then Sorntar must have done it to protect Ash from the Dead King,” Sorsha said even as she shook her head in denial.
“The Dead King is the city’s protector. He must have sensed something of darkness within Sorntar, and captured Lamarra to protect her. He would have brought you all to his underground kingdom for your protection. Reports have reached my ears explaining Trensler’s interference, but I don’t know what he is or if it was something he did that changed Sorntar. All I know is that my son is crippled and my daughter is missing.”
Sorsha was filled with confusion; though she was uncertain what shocked her more, the horrifying possibility that Lamarra and Ashayna were both being held captive, or the harsh tale of the shattering of the Twelve, when in a time of death and betrayal, a long ago Ashayna might have murdered her bondmate to prevent a greater evil. Only, it must not have killed the evil if Sorntar had kidnapped Ashayna.
“Fate is moving its greatest warriors across the field of battle. And I want those with power to help me save my family. I believe you are one of those powers. Know I will aid you in whatever way I can. But for now I must return to my mate, as she awaits me in Grey Spires with the rest of the Council. We will convene and make plans. Don’t let my son do anything foolhardy while I’m away. As soon as I know anything of Ashayna’s or Lamarra’s fates, I will let you know.
Until I return, my Herd Mistress Neveyah, will teach you what history she knows. Whatever comes, you and my son must be prepared.”
Sorsha stood back and frowned at the older stallion. Was he really turning to leave, just like that?
Yes, he was.
He galloped away in a shower of dust and churned grass. She watched him until he vanished around another of the pavilions and she decided he was clearly a defining influence behind a few of Shadowdancer’s more arrogant personality traits. Thinking of her friend caused worry to
renew its worming in her middle. If she was to help Ashayna and Lamarra, she would need allies. And her heart told her that Shadowdancer was the ally she needed most. Perhaps Darkmoon was correct and she and Shadowdancer were members of the Twelve. But what good did that do them? They were both damaged.
An idea manifested out of desperation. Shadowdancer knew about magic and the history of the Magic Wielders. Perhaps something he knew would help them remember who they were and how to restore their power. If they truly were godsent, as Darkmoon claimed, there must be a way to heal their Larnkins. Otherwise, what other possible purpose could they serve?
Sorsha’s hands slowly closed into fists. Together they would rescue their missing family members. It didn’t matter if she had to face the Dead King or something dark that was once Sorntar, she’d battle them both for the chance to free her family. And then they would turn their attention to what her gut told her was the real danger—Lord Master Trensler.
“Death to any creature foolish enough to cross a Stonemantle and think it can get away with it,” she whispered.
Chapter Sixteen
If Shadowdancer took one more step away from her, Sorsha would start screaming insults at his retreating back. Damn the prideful fool; she’d trailed after him for half the morning. Only sheer Stonemantle stubbornness kept her going long after her legs wanted to call a stop. She didn’t care if he didn’t want to speak with her. They were going to talk and he was going to listen.
Presently, he was a good two hundred paces off, facing away from her as he stared into the distance. The river Shadowdancer had been doggedly ‘exploring’ all morning finally offered Sorsha a service. The twisting waters coiled back upon itself. Unless Shadowdancer planned to go swimming to get away from her, she had him hemmed in.
“You’re such a coward.” She commented as she came alongside.
He glanced in her direction then looked away. A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he held his ground.
“Coward,” she said just to see if he’d try bolting again. He didn’t, but his posture wasn’t exactly welcoming. He huffed out an annoyed sounding sigh.
“We’re going to talk.”
Shadowdancer turned to her with one eyebrow raised.
“Fine. You can’t talk. But you’ll listen.”
He flared his nostrils in a very horse-like fashion. His lips compressed into a pale line.
“We have some very important things that need discussing. If you hadn’t made me chase you half the morning, we’d already be closer to rescuing our families.”
He turned fully toward her and took three steps in her direction. Towering over her like that, he was imposing. But she didn’t back down and took another half step closer. Her boots brushed his toes. His bare feet were dusty and she’d bet her next meal he’d cut his feet to ribbons.
“You’re being an idiot. I can’t believe I fell in love with an idiot. Perhaps I’m the greater fool.”
Shadowdancer rocked back on his heals like she’d slapped him. She continued while he was off balance.
“We would have been bondmates, and I plan on honoring that bond. And even if we weren’t fated bondmates, I’d have still chosen you as my Stallion Mage. But we have greater concerns beyond our personal issues or our damaged Larnkins—if your father is correct, we are also members of the Twelve. You must have a better idea what that means than I do. And somehow I doubt our duty to the Twelve is negated by having crippled Larnkins. I plan on fulfilling that duty. You’re welcome to help if you want.” Sorsha spun away and started back toward camp.
She didn’t look back or slow her determined pace, but she listened. And when she was a hundred paces away, she heard the sound of running feet. Shadowdancer circled in front of her and put himself dead in her path. She kept walking—straight at him, not turning her course in the least. She was within a pace of walking into his chest when he started backpedaling so fast he almost landed on his rump. He recovered and continued backing up with more grace. He gestured at her. Pointing at her chest, and then slapping a hand over his own. When that did not earn him a response, he began gesturing wildly.
“I know we don’t have the Marks. Darkmoon said that because of what happened in the past between the Leaders, all the Twelve have been weakened. He thinks we must prove ourselves, find a way to heal our Larnkins and take up the fight. I believe him.” She paused and reached out to lay a hand against Shadowdancer’s chest, over his heart where it pounded a steady rhythm against her hand. It was the only part of him to show signs of life—otherwise, he held himself so rigid, she might have been touching bedrock. “You were there. You saw what Trensler and his men can do. He’s evil. I think he serves the evil that has caused the Twelve to be reborn. I don’t begin to pretend to understand all that Darkmoon said, but in my gut I know Trensler is the reason we’re here. We have to find Ashayna and Sorntar and then together we need to face the Dead King, get Lamarra, and ultimately find a way to stop Trensler. If we don’t stop him from harvesting magic, none of us will be safe.”
Shadowdancer snapped out of his shock and placed one hand on her right shoulder. The other found its way under her chin, and tilted her head up. When she drew breath to continue, she suddenly found a finger pressed against her lips, effectively forcing her to a halt. His eyes searched her face, questioning, and yet there wasn’t the amount of doubt she’d expected.
He tapped a finger against his own lips, and then released her.
“Now you want to talk.” She smiled as she said it to take the sting out of her words, and then leaned forward to press her lips against his. His were warm and firm. A surprised grunt escaped him. He held himself immobile. For the second time in less than a day, shame colored her cheeks. Sorsha started to pull away only to have him mold his lips to hers. Hungry, desperate, his fierceness sent a shiver down her spine.
His hands trembled upon her shoulders, and it wasn’t until that moment she realized he needed her as much as she did him. They were a part of each other—soulmates, even if they couldn’t be bondmates. She broke away, gasping for breath. He let her take a couple breaths before his mouth descended upon hers again. By the gods, it felt so good.
She allowed herself to touch him, her hands trailing down his bare chest to settle low on his hips. Her thumbs hooked into the top of his pants and she dragged him closer. She broke the kiss a second time, needing air and to taste his skin. Pressing open mouthed kisses along his neck, she savored the salty male flavor of him. His skin quivered under her light touch. Unable to resist, she nipped at his shoulder playfully.
Shadowdancer laughed. Slowly, with a patient caution, as if he was afraid she’d break or bolt if he was too aggressive, he rained the gentlest of kisses upon her brow, eyelids, lips and jaw. He lazily explored on down the length of her neck. Where the curve of her neck joined her shoulder, he buried his nose and sighed contentedly. His nuzzling continued for a few more moments before he finally straightened.
He opened his mouth to say something, his lips shaping her name, but he closed his mouth again. Frustration made clear by his narrowed eyes and tight jaw.
She ran her thumb along his lower lip. “Now will you let the Herd Mistress give you the gift of speech? Darkmoon told me you were being stubborn earlier, and wouldn’t allow anyone near you. Now, you wouldn’t do that, would you?” she asked sweetly.
Swifter then she could avoid, a sharp sting burned along her rump where he’d swatted her. Sorsha shouted in mock anger. After a moment of laughter, she admitted she deserved it.
“I won’t mock your male pride anymore.”
He glowered at her.
“Sorry.” Her mumbled apology sounded weak to her own ears. Reaching behind her, she caught his hand in hers. “Come on, let’s go home.”
Back in the tent where she’d first awakened at dawn, Sorsha surveyed Herd Mistress Neveyah and Shadowdancer where they sat cross-legged on a thick carpet. They faced each other over a low, knee high table piled with the Herd Mistress’s supplies. While
her own Larnkin still wasn’t able to summon much more than a spark of power after Shadowdancer’s healing, Sorsha could feel what Neveyah did. She found it fascinating that one person could give another person an entire language with just a touch of magic and what appeared to be a strange mix of herbs ground down into a powder and blended with pigments to make a crude kind of paint.
The Herd Mistress had already done the transfer and was questioning Shadowdancer in firm tones.
“Well, say something then,” Herd Mistress Neveyah demanded. Though, she didn’t look up as she carefully returned the remainder of her unused pigments and herbs to their marked jars.
Ignoring the Herd Mistress, or perhaps honestly wanting to get rid of the smears of paint covering his forehead and throat, Shadowdancer reached across the table and dragged a bowl of water closer and started to dab at his paint encrusted skin with a damp rag. Even after all traces of paint were gone from his skin, Shadowdancer hesitated, and Sorsha remembered back to the night he’d come to her rooms back in River’s Divide. She thought she understood his hesitation. He must still feel embarrassed over that incident. Her heart did a strange little lurch and she stood. He watched her, eyes hooded, his face a blank mask, likely trying to hide what was really going on in his mind. Sorsha wasn’t fooled. She’d seen the glimpse of uncertainty. Rocking forward on her toes, she wiped her hands on her trousers and squared her shoulders before walking to his side with a determined step. She reached for him, wiggling her fingers with impatience when he didn’t immediately respond.
“Give me your hand.”
He did, and she tightened her fingers around his and tugged him up to his feet.
“Say something.”
“Sorsha,” he said as he met her gaze, and then quickly glanced back down, as if to study the wood grain of the table.
Herd Mistress (In Deception's Shadow Book 2) Page 13
