Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1)

by Bridgett Powers

  Keeper Of Shadows

  Light-Wielder Chronicles, Book 1

  Bridgett Powers

  Contents

  Light-Wielder Prophecy

  1. Shadow’s Oath

  2. Fallen Star

  3. The Phantom Foe

  4. Shattered Light

  5. Sinking

  6. Close Encounters

  7. The Nature of the Beast

  8. Westerfield

  9. Diornian

  10. The Weapons of Our Warfare

  11. The Shaman of the Wood

  12. Wisps of Darkness and Light

  13. Beyond the Shadows

  14. Avery Hall

  15. Revelation

  16. Perception

  17. Refraction

  18. Reflection

  19. Orders

  20. Passage

  21. The Path Unseen

  22. Of Dogs, Doves, and Snow Men

  23. The Messenger

  24. Serpent’s Truth

  25. Fealty

  26. Sanctuary

  27. Stone’s Cry

  28. The Mouths of Babes

  29. Shadow’s Teeth

  30. Raven’s Flight

  31. Reckoning

  32. Choice

  33. The Watcher

  Free Prequel

  Maps

  Cast of Characters

  Share the Journey

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Bridgett Powers

  Preview: Dark Prism

  Prologue

  Light-Wielder Prophecy

  Child of Light

  Of Heaven born,

  Trapped within

  Her mortal form,

  Through Mist of doubt

  And Shadow rise,

  And bring release

  To a land that cries.

  One hidden gift

  To dispel the night,

  Destroy the Darkness

  And bring forth the Light.

  No common pow’r

  This strength she wields,

  When to the King

  Her weakness yields.

  Aislin, Seer of the F.A.E.

  1

  Shadow’s Oath

  Spring, year 1121 After the Dawning

  The watcher clamped his beak tight, as needle-laden branches parted to allow him passage through the mountainside thicket. His lifelong quest had come to this, playing spy—and now carrier pigeon—for a sorceress with an overblown desire for vengeance. Still, if he succeeded their bargain would be struck. Nothing, not his strength, his dignity, or even his life, was more important.

  He broke free of the treetops, startling a flock of common ravens into flight. Though his likeness in every outward fashion, they fled in his wake. Ah, but ’twas not he they should fear.

  A dark mist seeped from the trees at the base of the mountain, his would-be liege lady’s favored weapon, loosed so it might reveal the origin of the force blocking her power. A force she required his eyes to perceive.

  He followed the Shadow Mist down into the valley. It slithered over the tips of the grass without benefit of breeze, boiling with a black life of its own. Sorcery! His talons curled around empty air. After so long compelled to stalk the skies, how had he sunk this low? Perhaps he no longer deserved to see his quest fulfilled.

  A shiver ran beneath his feathers, and he snapped his gaze to the Mist. One plume curled higher, as if reaching for him. Uttering a caw, he shot upward. He must not become ensnared.

  His ebony wings assaulted the air, propelling him beyond the Mist and over the balding head of a farmer, who hummed as he trudged behind a hand plow. The man’s toe caught on a stone, pitching him forward and forcing his plow deep into the soil. With a single grunt, he tugged at the handles. His attempts to wrest the blade free gave the Mist ample time to reach him.

  The watcher circled as tendrils of black fog snaked around the farmer’s legs. The man’s only reaction was to pull harder at the plow. One of the handle rods snapped, and the blade broke free of the soil with a jolt, forcing him to stumble backward. The Mist clung to his trousers, wisps curling up his body. His face contorted into a grimace, and he slammed the plow down so hard it bounced on its wheel. He lifted it again, angled the blade, and slashed at the neat furrow he’d created. Clouds of dirt mingled with the Mist as he kicked, banged, and gouged, mangling wheel, blade, and soil alike.

  As his rage grew, so thickened the Mist, but the farmer’s gaze slid past it, unseeing.

  The watcher flew lower. So, the sorceress had spoken true in this; mere human eyes could not perceive the Mist’s presence.

  Spewing forth a string of venomous words, the farmer flailed the splintered wood from which his blade now dangled. His eyes widened in a crazed gleam, as his mad motions slashed blade and wood across his arms and torso. He flung the remnant of the plow from him then stalked off, wisps of Mist slithering over the blood trail in his wake.

  When the man neared the edge of the field, the Mist clinging to him halted as if it had slammed against an invisible barrier. He staggered on a few more paces, leaving the Mist behind, then stopped to shake himself. Frowning, he glanced down at the blood dripping from his sleeve and torso, confusion replacing the mad gleam in his eyes. Pressing a wad of torn tunic to the worst of his wounds, he turned back to the wreckage of his plow and field, and he swayed.

  The watcher spun midair to stare at the Mist. It surged toward the farmer, molding against its unseen barrier as if to a domed shield. The Mist pressed harder, and the barrier shimmered into prismatic light—at once containing all the colors of the rainbow, yet pure and clear as glass.

  At last! Now to find the source of this light that so weakened his lady’s power. The watcher sharpened his avian gaze, as any raven might to trace the iridescent leavings of distant prey. The barrier, an intricate weaving of fine filaments of light, curved upward and stretched out over the small village ahead. As the farmer staggered toward his house, the watcher fixed his gaze on a single thread of light and followed it.

  Golden earth and emerald slopes blurred beneath him as he sped over the tidy rows of cottages peppering the small valley. He shot toward the heart of Cloistervale, the shimmering thread he stalked growing brighter. Its source must be near, but where? The watcher angled his wings to swoop lower, as his strand of light converged with others and formed a carriage wheel pattern, centered…there!

  From a chandler’s shop window in the market square, a glow spilled forth like water bursting a dam. A radiance that had nothing to do with candle or lamp.

  The watcher settled on a rooftop across the square, just as a petite peasant maid exited the shop. As if she’d cloaked herself in every flame the chandler’s wares might someday produce, the glow exited with her. She hoisted the handle of her basket higher on one arm then tugged a lock of copper-streaked hair free of a snag. With a swing of her head, her unbound curls flowed around her shoulders like those of a child rather than a girl of marriageable age.

  She wove between milling townsfolk, the crowd swallowing her tiny form. Ah, but they could not conceal her light from the watcher’s view, though everyone surrounding her remained heedless of its multihued brilliance. He clacked his beak. The toll that light had taken on his lady’s power, and on her ability to grant what he sought, would soon be remedied. He launched into the air to better stalk his prey.

  Above the din of creaking carts, neighing horses, chatter, and general market bustle, several children’s voices rose in a sudden shout. Four small bodies broke away from a knot of women and hurled themselves at the
peasant maid, staggering her backward several steps. The children hugged her waist and tugged at her homespun skirts.

  Two of them, twins in appearance, cried out in unison, “Tell us a story, Lady Lyssanne!”

  Lady? Ha! Sorceress, perhaps. The watcher suppressed a shiver. Two magic-wielders in close proximity? He would fulfill his part in this sordid bargain and leave them to their war.

  “Children!” a woman shouted nearby. “Let Lyssanne pass Marketday in peace. She just spent an entire week telling you stories. You’ll see your teacher again soon enough.”

  Lyssanne squinted, fixing her gaze a bit to the woman’s left. “’Tis no bother, Madam Blythe.”

  The older woman’s mouth drew into a thin line. “Madam Murrough…dear.”

  Flushing, Lyssanne ducked her head. “Oh, of course. Your pardon.”

  Circling overhead, the watcher narrowed his eyes. Was the girl daft? How else could she fail to recognize a neighbor in so small a village? A daft sorceress, a danger these people would be well rid of.

  “No harm done,” the other woman said. “If you’re certain you don’t mind, I shall send Elward to collect the little ones when he finishes unloading flour at the bakery.”

  Lyssanne nodded and led the children to the scribe’s shop across the square from the bakery. She sat upon the steps and leaned against the door, the children gathering around her like fledglings to a mother sparrow. The smallest, a fair-haired girl, climbed into her lap.

  The watcher flew to one of the eaves above the teacher, his will bent on his single remaining task; procure an object of value from his would-be liege lady’s enemy. He peered into Lyssanne’s basket. Nothing of use there. The object must not only be dear to her but also have prolonged contact with her person. What was he to do, swoop down and snag a lock of her hair? A stunt like that could get a bird shot in this crowd.

  “For you, Mistress Lyssanne,” said the child in her lap, handing her a flower.

  “Thank you, Elaiza.” Lyssanne held the bloom near her nose, but instead of sniffing it, she peered at it as if inspecting its petals for insects. “Oh, a rowan blossom? My favorite.” The shimmer pulsed brighter around her as she threaded the stem into her hair.

  The watcher sharpened his gaze. What in the Seven Lands was the meaning of this? Before he could consider it further, Lyssanne launched into her tale, her lilting voice ensnaring even his thoughts. His mission half-forgotten, he permitted his mind to wander through far-off lands and fanciful quests, until a lanky youth rushed up to the teacher and her rapt audience.

  “Madam Murrough asked me to collect Elaiza and the twins,” the youth said. “C’mon.” He plucked the little girl off Lyssanne’s lap and hoisted her onto his shoulders, then turned to the other children. “Gavan, your father’s waiting for ya at the bakery.”

  “No, Jarad!” Elaiza said, tugging at the youth’s ear. “I wanna wait for Elward.”

  “Your brother’s too busy being useful,” Jarad grumbled.

  Elaiza pouted. “I wanna be useful.”

  “As do we all,” Lyssanne murmured, rising from the steps. “But you’ve brought me great joy. A most useful task. Now, we must let Jarad fulfill his.”

  The watcher dug his talons into the eave. Oh, what his kin would give for such petty concerns. If, to free them, he must consign these peasants to the Shadow Mist, so be it.

  “Wait,” Elaiza said, tugging at Jarad’s ear again, “what happened to the princess?”

  “Well,” Lyssanne said, smiling, “the tiny flame from that single candle banished fear from her realm. You see, light not only dispels darkness, but reveals each shadow for what it truly is.” As she bent to embrace the children, the blossom fell from her hair. Heedless, she strode off along the street.

  The watcher sprang into the air. At the height of his ascent, he flipped, tucked his talons beneath him, folded his wings at his sides, and plummeted beak-first toward the flower. Just in time, he snapped his wings open, arched his back, and snatched up the blossom. His belly skimmed the ground, stirring the loose dirt just before he angled upward.

  He clamped his beak tighter on his prize. If this flower sufficed, Lyssanne’s shield of light would soon shatter, no more a hindrance to his path than had been the mountainside trees.

  Cradling a large piquantine fruit in the crook of one arm, Lyssanne opened her cottage door and squinted at the familiar figure silhouetted against the waning sunlight. Tall, slender, a red-gold glow outlining her fair hair. “Aderyn?” Lyssanne asked.

  “Lyss, thank the King! I need to…” Aderyn drew a shaky breath and sniffled. “Oh, there I’ve gone and interrupted your work!” She gestured at the fruit. “I shall go.”

  “Nonsense.” Lyssanne stepped aside. “I was just set to brew a pot of flyl, but this will make more than I could drink. Come, help me see it doesn't go to waste.” She closed the door behind Aderyn. “What’s amiss? I thought you were to dine with your brother’s family tonight.”

  “I was…I did,” Aderyn said, flailing her hands as if searching for words. “But he…it…”

  “Oh, Aderyn.” Lyssanne wrapped her free arm about Aderyn’s waist, her own throat tightening. “Has something befallen Adalbin or the boys?”

  Aderyn shook her head. “Nothing like that. ’Tis Father and Willem and…”

  Lyssanne backed away, one brow raised. “Willem? The builder’s son? What has he to do with your distress?”

  “Everything!” Sobbing, Aderyn crossed the sitting room in three long strides and sank onto a kitchen chair.

  Frowning, Lyssanne followed her into the alcove that served as kitchen and dining area. She placed the fruit in a large bowl then handed her friend a cloth.

  Aderyn dabbed at her eyes and slumped, her long, slender body folding in on itself. “Father says the daughter of a councilman must choose wisely whom she weds.”

  Keeping her gaze fixed on Aderyn, Lyssanne feathered her fingertips over the cutlery and crockery littering her scrubbed-wood countertop. “Surely everyone should take care in such a choice.” At the touch of cold, smooth porcelain, she slid the bowl containing her fruit forward.

  “Yes, well,” Aderyn said, “I think Father lets his position go to his head. After all, it isn’t as if I’m a lady, or even a merchant’s daughter.”

  Lyssanne’s lips twitched as she pressed the tip of a knife to the fruit’s orange hull. The hull resisted. “I’m certain he merely wishes you well-settled. He loves you.”

  Aderyn sighed. “Yes, but he can be so…so fierce with it! You know what I mean.”

  “I can imagine it, somewhat,” Lyssanne said, angling her knife and pressing harder.

  “Oh, Lyss, I’m sorry. I sometimes forget…but surely your mother was just as irritating?”

  “She could be protective,” Lyssanne said, careful not to squeeze the fruit as she worked her knife, “but she was more likely to push me out the door than shelter me.” She smiled as the stiletto blade finally pierced the hull. “Good thing, too, as it turned out.”

  “Well and I suppose she wanted to be sure you could survive on your own. Losing your father the way she did, so young.” Aderyn let out a shaky breath. “What am I to do, Lyss?”

  “Do?”

  “About Father, and Willem, and…everything!”

  Lyssanne set her knife aside, brushed a fingertip over the hull to locate the puncture she’d made, then guided it over her bowl. “What has Willem done?” she asked, squeezing the fruit.

  “Adalbin says he plans to speak to Father. Of me.”

  Lyssanne dropped the fruit. “Willem told your brother he intends to offer for you?”

  “Yes, tomorrow, after Father concludes the Kingsday celebration.” Aderyn sighed. “I think Father favors him.”

  Lyssanne rescued the fruit from the bowl of juice. “Do you favor him?” she asked, pouring the juice into a copper kettle, which she then hung on its hook over her fire.

  “I like him well enough, but…I don’t know! What would
you do?”

  Choosing her words with care, Lyssanne began snapping honcin sticks and dropping the spicy twigs into a mortar. “I shall only marry for love,” she said at last.

  Aderyn huffed. “Love like in your books doesn’t exist.”

  “No…” Lyssanne said, drawing out the word as she worked the pestle. She pressed with all her strength, chasing as often as crushing the rolling honcin.

  “Here, let me grind the rest of that,” Aderyn said. “Give my hands something to do.”

  Lyssanne passed her the mortar then gathered the juiced piquantine, knife, and bowl and sat next to her. “I wouldn’t settle for simple storybook love, even should it exist,” she said, sliding the tip of her knife along the smooth hull until the blade slipped into her original puncture. “I desire a love like that of my parents. Not untroubled, but undying. Love that defies time and circumstance.”

  “Even should you find such…” Aderyn groaned. “Oh, what does it matter? ’Tis not Willem I love.”

  “Ah,” Lyssanne said, “but there is someone?”

  Aderyn’s voice thickened. “Kevan.”

  “Truly? He’s a good man.” Lyssanne smiled and continued turning her fruit, slicing through to its spherical core. “And he seems a more even-tempered sort. I’m certain your father would not disapprove.”

  “But Willem is his family’s sole heir,” Aderyn said. “Kevan’s only a grain farmer’s son, and with two elder brothers, he’ll inherit but a small parcel. Father says, since Kevan will have so little to tend, he should find another trade, lest he be tempted to idleness.”