by Inez Kelley
The moon was soaring before he settled to his haunches, gazing into the mound of herbs and roots. His fist tightened around the bit of lavender. Part of him acknowledged that if he managed this task, that was half his answer. He almost hoped he’d fail. Choking back his fear, he fought off the headache and called fire with his mind. Sparks crackled. The pile smoldered then whooshed.
“Blood to blood, I call to thee.
Part the veil and cross to me.
I call through death. I call through time.
Heed the plea in my rhyme.”
He tossed the lavender into the flames.
“I call Tarsha Kimon Narut Segur.
Grandmother, mother, wife and queen.
Show yourself and to my eyes be seen.”
The dark night filled with glitter in every shade of purple. A circle formed, a single willowy figure at its center. It grew brighter and the figure more solid. So much power pulsed from the sphere. He suddenly felt small and weak.
Long golden hair fluttered in an unfelt wind and her eyes held censure as well as love. Her portrait didn’t do her justice. “Hello, Grandmother.”
The late Queen Tarsha’s spirit placed a slender hand on her heart, dipping her chin in greeting.
“You know why I called you.”
She nodded as sorrow filled her gaze.
“I’m a channeler, aren’t I?” Her silence was his answer and he barked a bitter laugh. “I should have seen it. Channelers are the most powerful sorcerers but the most unstable. You and Mama—the two most potent women ever known—both your blood’s in my veins. I’m a walking fireball ready to explode. Every channeler recorded has gone insane. My magic is tearing my mind apart!”
Clasped to her chest, her glowing hands were gripped tight. Night wind snaked beneath his mantle neck. “Tell me, Grandmother, can I fight it?”
Tarsha shrugged her slim shoulders and held out her hands. Those graceful fingers tightened into fists. One word floated across his mind.
Fight.
He couldn’t hold the sob and it broke from his chest. “When I don’t remember, I’m hurting them, aren’t I? My brother? Feena?”
One teardrop slid over her cheek. Her eyes closed without answer.
“Why? I don’t want the crown. I don’t want him to die.”
Her mouth worked but he could hear no words. Tarsha raked her hands through her hair. She mimicked eating quickly with both hands, a fat stomach then eating more.
“A channeler craves power, craves anything he can’t have. The corrupted magic doesn’t want anyone to have it.” His knees nearly buckled in helplessness. “How do I stop it?”
One finger pointed at his chest, the other fist pressed to her heart.
“Kya? Kya can help me?”
A sharp wind carried her warning. Save her.
“Save her? From what? I’m a monster! I need to save her from me!”
Tarsha shook her head, lilac-lit hair rippling across her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging tight, then motioned to his chest.
Warric understood. “I’ll keep her safe. I’m frightened, Grandmother. I’ve killed with magic. What if I black out and do it again?”
Those small fists appeared once more, urging him to stay strong. It wasn’t a promise, or even aid. Just an entreaty to battle something he couldn’t control. Weariness fell like a wet blanket and his eyelids drooped. Her glow started to dim. Frantically, he pulled more magic to keep her longer. He had to know.
“Grandmother, you’ve kept your power on the other side of life. What about channelers? Do they take their evil with them as well?”
Evergreen eyes held firmly with his and unspoken knowledge washed in. He gaped. “None of them are there? Where do they go?”
Even without her sadness, he knew. The other side of life held two realms. One filled with family and love, joy and reunion. The other side, the Abyss, was spoken of in hushed words as if giving voice to the terror would call it forth. Tales of unending torture, eternal flames, perpetual misery turned his stomach to water.
“If I can’t control it, can I avoid that end?”
Her thin brows slanted with thought. Her eyes shifted to the side, a brewing glimmer turning them luminescent. Her head snapped up, her face bright with excitement. She knelt, one finger scratching in the packed snow.
She drew a bear claw.
“Darach? How can he help?”
Black shrank the circle, his strength weakening under the immense strain of calling across the veil. Tarsha pushed back, giving his magic a small boost from her own. The circle lightened again. Not for long, just long enough for her to clasp her hands in prayer. She kissed her fingertips and blew the kiss to him. It landed on his cheek with a gentle weight.
Love you, son of my son.
Purple faded and she was gone. Warric fell to his knees. His future rested on a thin blade, and one misstep could slice the entire country in an unforgiving cut. His hand clamped tight to his brow. Kya. He had to get to Kya. With her, the pain was bearable. If he could just stay with her until he learned how to control this rippling surge of magic, he could stop the nightmare from happening.
Kya.
The pommel of his saddle was icy cold and seared his hand. He swung his leg high, fisting the reins. Agony stabbed at his mind. Ice crunched as he toppled from the horse in an unconscious heap.
Chapter Eight
Myrtlewood Castle bloomed from the snow like a calla lily from a garden. Tall and sleek with sharply pitched roofs, the turrets seemed like arms stretching to the heavens. Jana announced herself at the gate, stating her name but not identifying the double guards hooded at her back. She was admitted at once, with so little consideration it stunned her. In minutes, Myrtlewood’s soldiers escorted her into a warm and cheery greeting room.
An elderly man descended the stairs with a lively energy that belied his whitened hair and time-lined face. He greeted her with outstretched hands and a hearty laugh.
“Lady Jana! It’s been far too long since I’ve beheld your smile.”
Her smile faltered. She’d never met this gregarious man. She tried to tug her hands from his grip but he held fast, a secretive glow to his face.
“Come, you must be tired from your journey. Let’s sit by the fire and speak, shall we?”
He clapped his hands and sent servants and guards alike scattering with orders. When only one guard remained, he waved him away with a calculating look then led them to a library with a roaring fire. Once the door closed, he faced her.
“Now, we can speak. I’m Paron, Lord of Myrtlewood since long before your time. I received a message, a short one, wrapped around the leg of a very fat pigeon. It simply stated you were bringing a secret gift from Thistlemount and asked that I keep great care of it.”
Jana sighed with relief. She should have guessed a message had been sent ahead by the only means possible. Batu stepped forward and lowered his mantle hood. Paron’s eyes flew wide. “Your Highness!”
“Good morrow, Lord Myrtlewood. You’re my father’s most trusted elder. I seek sanctuary here. My face is known to few who don’t frequent court.”
“I’m honored.” Hints of a lost handsomeness peeked from beneath deep wrinkles as the lord fairly glowed with pride.
Batu lowered into a chair near the fire with a relieved groan. “In secret, milord. No one must know I’m here. There have been several attempts on my life.”
Concern zigged across the old man’s face as he took in the bandaged leg, the sling-wrapped arm, the fresh blood scratches and bruises on exposed skin. “Of course. Shall we just leave it that you’re travelers who’ve been accosted by ruffians?”
“Fine.” Batu nodded to Darach. “This is my captain, Darach, and Lady Jana is my personal advisor.”
Jana blinked. Batu gave her a high station for a woman, even in pretense. The crown hadn’t used personal advisors since the first Council of Elders was assembled, though the position was still listed on the royal
ledgers.
Hot food appeared, served by silent servants who disappeared without a whisper. Her empty belly growled and she and Batu both ate quickly. Paron glanced at Darach, who refused one bite, but said nothing. Instead, he entertained while they ate, telling tales of court long ago, when King Taric was first crowned and before. The tales were no different than any elderly man might regale a younger crowd with but, underneath, Jana sensed a great deal of pride from the old man. He’d been the first to kneel before the new king, the first to offer his support.
The lord made a great deal of noise to his guards over the robbers, doubling the watch without revealing Batu’s royal bloodline.
It was done so smoothly, Darach’s gaze narrowed. “You lie well.”
Paron laughed. “You spend over fifty summers in politics and you learn. The secret is in knowing who to tell the truth. Truth is always more dangerous than a lie.”
“Is the bird still here?” Batu asked, pushing his empty plate away. “I’d like to get a message to my father.”
Paron produced a scrap of parchment, quill and ink. Batu grimaced, freeing his left hand from his sling. His fingers didn’t seem to close properly around the quill point. Though Batu had weapons-training using both hands, he only wrote with the left. Had the arrow done permanent damage to his arm?
Jana slipped the feather from his loose grasp and dipped it into the well. He acquiesced with a grateful sigh and dictated, “King’s bishop five. Knight to pawn two. Fork escape. No sacrifice. Center clear.”
His coded message took minimal space, perfect for a slender note attached to a fragile leg. Paron pocketed the paper. “You all look worn to the bone. Come, I’ve had rooms prepared and the healer summoned. Tomorrow we can talk more.”
They were taken to rooms in the east wing, beside one another, rather than Paron giving Batu his chambers as was royal custom. It was assumed Darach would stay with Batu and so his room boasted two beds, great mammoth things with thick swags, crammed tight in the space. Darach followed Jana into her smaller chamber. Paron never blinked.
Borrowed clothing appeared and a tub of heated water called to her. She glanced longingly at the bath then turned to Darach. “Darach, sometimes a woman simply needs some time alone. Go, please. Stay with Batu.”
His eyes dropped to her necklace but he gave her no argument, turning to purple vapor and fading into the stone wall. Peeling her clothes into a damp heap, she slid into the bathwater, biting back a groan as tingles shot through her still-frozen feet. She washed and rinsed and sat basking in the lingering warmth. When no heat remained, she pulled her stiffened body out of the tub. The borrowed nightclothes were soft and thick, and she wrapped the too-large gown around her as she sat to dry her hair before the fire.
A maid entered with steaming cider and a hot brick. She turned the coverlets on the bed back and placed the cotton-wrapped brick beneath them as two stout menservants removed the tub. Jana shivered and the maid hurried to wrap an extra coverlet around her.
“Your blood is thin, milady. A few winters here and you’ll not shiver until February when even the snowmen turn blue.”
“I don’t think I’ll thaw until August.”
“If you’re truly chilled, we’ve a sauna bath in the lower levels I’m certain Lord Paron would be pleased you use. It stands empty most times until late winter unless his joints are aching.”
Jana thanked her, then sipped the hot drink as the heavy door closed behind the servants. Lilac mist funneled through the stone wall and formed, Darach looking down at her with shaded eyes.
“Batu has been seen by the healer and is now resting. Do you require her services as well?”
She’d given barely a thought to her shoulder scratch other than to wash it well. “I think I’m all right. I’d rather dance again.”
“You’re weary.”
“And the threat’s still out there. I’m fine.”
A tiny quirk along the side of his mouth showed grudging admiration. “You’re not weak, my charge. If anything, your strength amazes me. We’ll try.”
She climbed into the high bed and burrowed under the blankets. The heated stone felt wonderful to her stinging toes, and she stifled her moan. The stiffened bloody cloth in Darach’s hand brought reality back with a whip snap. She had the rest of her life to be warm. She needed to focus on her dance and on Darach.
“This shall be our trail.” Dried brown blood spread along the white cloth he looped around her hand, knotting it firmly. The touch of royal blood against her skin set her nerves twanging.
He paced, rolling his shoulders, loosening his body. Watching him move was breathtaking. Brawny arms flexed and thick thighs bunched with every step but subdued magic roiled into his frame. A drumline chorus vibrated her ribs as the magic swelled. His eyes snapped open.
He approached with a feral grace, more animal than man. Kneeling beside the bed, he gave her that sweet breath of charmed sleep that began their voyage. Her wrapped hand found his, clinging tight.
On impulse, Jana surged up and caught his mouth, taking his kiss with his exhale. For one fragile moment, she basked in the wet slide of tongue on tongue. Then minty breath erased everything.
Black.
An endless ocean of black. Sickening dread balled her belly but she reached out. “Darach?”
“Call to me, nayeli, bring me into your dreams. Let me guide you.”
“I call Darach, my tracker. Come and lead me on my journey.”
His hand slid against hers in the darkness. She summoned the light and she saw nothing but Darach, her guide, her strength, her steadying point.
“Hold fast to me, my charge.”
“I don’t hear anything. Where are the voices?”
“We’re not dancing along your bloodline now. You must make the leap. Use your spellsongs and call the voices to you. Time bends to your demand. Use it now to find our way.”
Jana placed a hand along her shivering stomach and tried to recall every calling charm she’d been forced to learn. She knew she could do this. This was her realm, the darkness.
“Voices of the crown, ages past,
Speak to me and hurry fast.
Time, bring to me that which I need
To see the heartmates bond as a seed.”
Thunderous noise, words in tones from hundreds of lips, bombarded her ears. Jana cringed at the volume, straining to hear one over the other. Darach tilted his head back, a deep inhale filling his chest. His head turned. “There. The most ancient tainted blood lies there. Concentrate on that direction.”
She closed her eyes, willing every voice to still but the one she needed. A man’s voice boomed. “I hear one.”
Darach led her toward the voice. They moved fluidly, in perfect accord, to a music their ears couldn’t hear. The light grew brighter the closer they danced. Slowly, every facet of the room came into focus. Light sparkled from several torches around the walls, casting off a rainy gray day and glittering off a throne. It wasn’t the throne she was used to seeing, but a heavier one with more carving and less-intricate detail work.
It was Thistlemount. Although the audience room was different, with different murals painted along the back wall and a glossed oak floor rather than marble tile, she knew it. Beside the throne, a lean man wore the outdated but ornate purple robes of an advisor. The rich color played off his long snowy hair and shaded his eyes to black. Despite the white hair, his face was unlined, ageless and filled with wisdom.
He turned his head and looked directly at Jana. She gasped. “He can see us!”
“No, Jana, he can’t,” Darach said. “No human can see us, for we’re not here in body.”
The advisor turned back, facing out and Jana shook off the eerie feeling.
Seated in the throne, an older man, thick-waisted with iron-gray hair, glowered at the young woman in front of him. She stood before the dais with her chin held high and defiance blazing across her cheeks.
The man—a king, Jana realized, though he
wore no crown—carried authority in his voice. “The contract is signed and sealed.”
“You sold me?”
The king’s face softened. “Rycca, please. You know this is how things are done. Your own dear mother and I had never met until our wedding. You’ll be the next Queen of all Eldwyn. You must marry within the nobility. Mergot is the only man of proper lineage available.”
A transparent veil of ivory covered her dark hair. Her skin was as pale with shock. “Mergot isn’t married because he prefers young men over women.”
“He’ll learn to like you, love you even.” The king sighed. “It makes no difference. He’s a good man with a good lineage.”
“You made me a brood mare to a horse that prefers stallions?”
“Men can set aside preferences when it comes to offspring.” He shrugged. “There’s no one else.”
Jana cringed. The coldness in his tone was not unfeeling, simply a statement of fact. Such traditions had thankfully died out as the Land of Eldwyn matured and learned. Marriages were meant to be love matches, or, at the very least, a mating of ideals. There were no forcible marital actions left on the law books.
Rycca narrowed her eyes, a bit of color infusing her face. “There are hundreds of men, thousands, if you’d only open your eyes.”
The king’s neck turned an angry shade of crimson. “And mingle noble blood with peasant stock? Hand the crown to an outsider? I will not! Nor will you, daughter. The decision is made.”
Rycca whirled to the white-haired advisor. “Please, Ranier. Can’t you make him see how foolish this is? The nobility has intermarried over and over and over. We grow weaker with each generation, our children more frail and sickly. This needs to stop.”
Ranier gripped his elbows, the wide sleeves of his gown hiding his arms. The look he settled on her was indulgent. “I have debated your concerns with His Majesty and he is aware of your opinions. His mind is set.”
