Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1)

by Bridgett Powers

  Another strand of hair fell to Lyssanne's brow. As he tucked it behind her ear, her pulse jumped beneath the skin at her temple. She stiffened and gasped.

  "What was that?” he asked.

  “You felt it?” she whispered, a mere breath on the wind.

  “Yes.”

  "Don't know."

  It struck again, and her eyes clenched. A hard ridge ran beneath his fingertips where the twitch had occurred.

  “The pain increases? Here?”

  She nodded, a motion imperceptible except to his fingertips resting against her head.

  His gentle explorations revealed ridges running in intricate patterns all along the surface of her scalp. At times, pulses ran through them. Never had he known such small vessels to swell and harden thus. Each time one of the ridges jumped, she stiffened or gasped. Not in all his watching, had he been aware of this aspect of the curse.

  Jarad hovered nearby until Brennus commanded him to sleep, pledging he would keep watch. No lad of Jarad’s age should have dark circles ringing his eyes. Besides, riding for so many nights in succession had left Brennus wakeful at odd hours.

  Perhaps this would afford Brennus the chance to discover the information Venefica sought…and the answers to a few questions of his own. Why, for instance, did Lyssanne not call upon her magic to aid her? Perhaps a sorceress couldn’t counter spells directed at herself. He could not, alas, voice such theories.

  As he continued his delicate massage, the muscles of Lyssanne’s shoulders and back loosened, until she lay in a boneless heap. When he began to knead her brow, she turned toward him. He traced a pattern up to her hairline and found the area swollen and spongy. She groaned.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered, reducing his fingers’ pressure to a feather's brush.

  A ridge rose along her brow, and a twitch ran across it. Lyssanne's lids tightened, and her jaw clenched. A sudden impulse seized Brennus to press that ridge away, as one might smooth out a wrinkle in parchment. As he did so, she let out a long breath, tension ebbing from her brow.

  Her breathing evened out, and her entire body relaxed into his arms. He stared down into her face, so open and vulnerable. She sighed, and her eyes drifted open. She gazed up at him with a look of such surrender, his chest constricted. For that stolen bit of time, she trusted him.

  She turned away again, and he began kneading the steely chords of her neck muscles. His fingers stretched along the sides of her throat, a slim column they could span with room to spare.

  The opportunity could not be more perfect. If he rid Venefica of her enemy, she could have no further excuse to delay fulfilling their bargain. He could make it swift. Already in such pain, Lyssanne would never feel a thing. He’d be granting her a mercy, ending her curse.

  As if sensing her vulnerability, she looked up at him, fear again shadowing her eyes.

  He couldn’t do it. She wasn’t his enemy, though his oath to Venefica had set him as hers. He longed to see trust again in her eyes, that look of surrender on her face. Was such not, after all, his current mission?

  “You're safe,” he whispered. “I shall see that you come to no harm.”

  She only blinked up at him.

  “I give you my word.”

  With a soundless sigh, she allowed her eyes to drift shut—the fear fading from them as if expelled along with her breath. Could his mere word hold such sway over her?

  He cradled her thus throughout the night. He’d offered to keep watch; he may as well make himself useful. The trust and gratitude in Lyssanne’s eyes each time she opened them had no bearing on his actions. None whatsoever.

  Bursts of increased pain continued to drive sleep from Lyssanne every time it dared approach. Despite this, she uttered no complaint. Far into the night, she began to shiver.

  He draped his mantle over her, to no avail. “Have you more blankets?” he asked.

  “Not cold,” she whispered. “Just tired.”

  At length, she dozed in fitful intervals. Brennus stared into the distant woods, reflecting on the series of events that had led them each to this moment. All this time, he’d lamented his fate at the hands of a generational curse, but his woes were nothing to hers. How could anyone, especially one so small, so fragile, withstand that kind of pain?

  She whimpered in her sleep, drawing his eye. He ran a knuckle along her pale cheek, barely touching her, lest he disturb what rest she’d found. His breath hitched, and he drew back as if from a nest of vipers.

  No!

  With careful haste, he eased Lyssanne and her makeshift pillow to the ground, then sprang to his feet. He could almost hear a fissure creaking open in his carefully constructed walls. Through that hairline crack, lay a path he could not, dared not, tread. Time to move on, before that path beckoned further. Besides, dawn couldn’t be far off.

  As Brennus circled the camp, Jarad stirred, then rose with admirable stealth to join him. In silence, they walked to the opposite side of the camp from Lyssanne's resting place.

  “I shall ride to Edgemond and arrange a room for Lyssanne at an inn,” Brennus said in hushed tones. At what point during the long night had he decided upon this course? Regardless, he would see it through. “She mustn’t remain in the wild. Her illness will worsen. However, she lacks the strength to travel. She would be incapable of keeping her seat even on Reina's back.”

  “What can we do?” Jarad looked at him as if his world’s fate rested in Brennus’s hands.

  “I shall return once I've made provision at the inn. She can ride with me.” They reached his stallion, and Brennus took up the reins. “Until my return, do not leave her unattended longer than absolutely necessary.”

  Jarad’s effusive gratitude prompted an odd churning in Brennus’s stomach. He mounted his steed with all haste, wheeled about, and thundered through the woods.

  14

  Avery Hall

  Sir Brennus returned after sunset, as Jarad had predicted. He offered scant greetings before lifting Lyssanne into his arms and carrying her past Jarad’s gelding to his stallion. Necessary though such attentions were, she hid flaming cheeks against the folds of his tunic.

  “I cannot mount with you in my arms,” he said. “Can you sit for a moment unaided?”

  “I shall try,” she whispered.

  He set her atop the saddle, her feet dangling to one side. With a speed and grace she could only envy, he swung up behind her. She clutched the saddle horn with what strength she possessed until he grasped her waist and adjusted her to fit more securely before him.

  He took up the reins and motioned for Jarad and Reina to follow. Lyssanne struggled to hold herself upright. Weakness, the heaviness of her head, and her fuzzy awareness made the task all but impossible.

  “Rest against me,” he said. “It may prevent our travels from jarring you overmuch.”

  “I thank you for your kindness, sir,” she said, “but I shouldn't wish to impose.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Your pallor rivals Reina's. How could I watch a lady wage such a battle, when I am equipped to assist?” He sighed, pressing a hand to her shoulder. “Lyssanne, allow me to aid you.”

  She hadn’t the energy to protest. They rode thus for several hours, the circle of his arms holding her steady. As the night deepened, her entire body grew lax. Had she gone daft? As if this were the safest place in the Seven Lands, she rested helpless in the arms of a man she barely knew. A man of vast strength and skill—a man who had twice threatened her life.

  Yet, serenity engulfed her, a safety she hadn’t thought ever to find after her banishment.

  She must have surrendered to slumber soon thereafter, for she woke with a start, choking on shadows.

  “Easy. You'll unseat us both,” Sir Brennus said. “What's amiss?”

  “Dreams,” she whispered, unable to stop trembling.

  He tightened his arms about her. “Unpleasant ones, I daresay.”

  “Yes.” After slumbering free of such
night terrors ever since she'd met Mr. Fescue, she'd dared hope she'd left them behind in the western forests of Lastarra. Alas, they had found her.

  Sir Brennus transferred the reins into his right hand and brushed back her hair with his left. “You've nothing to fear here,” he said. “You're safe.”

  But who will keep me safe from you?

  “I will,” he said.

  She stiffened. She’d spoken her thoughts aloud?

  His next words chilled her despite their gentleness. “There exists no other who can.”

  She shuddered. Sir Brennus pulled his mantle around them both.

  His solicitous manner continued when they reached the inn. He dismounted and lifted her from the saddle. Instead of releasing her as she expected, he carried her into the building, up the stairs, and to the room the innkeeper showed them. After Jarad pulled back the blankets, Sir Brennus settled her upon the bed, holding her a moment longer than necessary.

  “Take your ease,” he said, staring into her eyes. “I must see to business.”

  He arranged the blankets over her and motioned Jarad to follow him to the door.

  “I shall return in two days to see how she fares,” Sir Brennus said in hushed tones. “I’ve left instructions with the innkeeper to deliver meals for you both here. Should you lack sufficient coin to cover the costs, I shall make good the difference. I advise you not to leave Lyssanne unattended. One cannot be certain what sort of ruffians might be lingering about.”

  When Lyssanne awoke the next morning, she nearly wept. The pain was gone, at last. She spent the greater part of that day and the next in bed, recovering what strength she could. The severity and length of this latest attack had left her fuzzy-minded and weak-limbed.

  She and Jarad had just finished their evening meal, when a knock sounded. Sir Brennus stood in the doorway. “I’ve concluded my business and shall soon depart Edgemond.”

  “We, too, must leave on the morrow,” she said. Their bag of coins was all but spent.

  “Jarad tells me you’ve recovered enough to ride,” Sir Brennus said, “but I think it imprudent to venture far without proper shelter. I have friends residing less than a day’s journey from here and am certain they would afford you temporary lodging. Duncan Avery is lord of this region and would also know of any employment to be found in the area.”

  At his insistence, they set out within the hour, to take advantage of nighttime’s diminished activity along the road. Lyssanne found deferring to his wishes less taxing than trying to determine whether this was the best course to take. Surely there could be no harm in sheltering in the home of his friends.

  Midnight had come and gone when they rounded a bend, and the trees fell away, revealing a spot of gleaming white on the horizon. As they drew nearer, the whiteness resolved into a roughly triangular structure projecting above the landscape, then into a multilevel fortification, the likes of which Lyssanne had only imagined.

  A high wall, flanked by rounded towers, with square turrets at intervals along its sides, stretched wider and wider as they approached. Flickering lights, which Lyssanne assumed to be sentry torches, were spaced along its top. Behind the wall, the roofs of taller structures rose like white spikes in the moonlight. Sir Brennus slowed his stallion, and Reina followed suit.

  Then, a second row of torches came into view. Lyssanne leaned forward, straining her eyes to determine whether soldiers held the flames at the wall’s base or they were pole lights stuck into the ground. As she rode forward, the fresh scent of water washed over her. Only then did the truth become clear. The wall wasn’t as high as she’d thought. A third of it, along with that lower row of torches, was actually a reflection in a dark moat surrounding the outer defenses of the castle.

  Remaining a half-stride behind Sir Brennus, Reina and Jarad’s mount clopped onto the planks of a bridge spanning the moat. Though the boards were wide enough to support wagons or several armed knights riding abreast, Lyssanne was grateful Reina kept to the middle.

  Sir Brennus pulled to a halt and hailed the inhabitants of the castle.

  “Who goes there?” a man shouted from atop the barbican.

  “Brennus Xavier. I have business with your lord, Duncan.”

  The gatekeeper vanished from the crenelated battlement. Shouts echoed behind the imposing curtain wall. Lyssanne sat frozen, eyeing the black depths of the water sloshing beneath the bridge. Sir Brennus claimed these people were his friends, but minutes stretched on with no sound in reply to his request, save the lapping of the moat.

  Lyssanne could just make out several figures atop the outer wall. Were those bows they held? Whatever devices they brandished appeared pointed in her party’s direction.

  A sudden groaning and clanking shook the ground. The drawbridge descended, its planks falling into place with a deafening bang. The portcullis then creaked upward.

  Sir Brennus spurred his mount forward. Holding Reina’s mane, Lyssanne rode beside Jarad in his wake. She looked up as they passed beneath the still-rising iron grate. Spikes along its bottom warned of what could befall those who lost favor with its handlers.

  They emerged from beneath the gatehouse into an outer court teeming with armed men. Sir Brennus halted midway across the packed dirt. Before him, stood a stocky man in fine armor.

  “Well, well. The Raven Prince returns at last,” the man said, his accent akin to Mr. DeLivre’s, yet his Starransi was flawless. “I was beginning to think you dead.” He laughed. “Come, my friend! Oh, but ’tis good to see you!”

  “And you, Duncan,” said Sir Brennus, dismounting. He embraced the shorter man, as a groom led his stallion away. “Expecting trouble?” he asked, releasing his friend and glancing around the be-knighted courtyard.

  “Not especially, why do you…? Oh!” The man laughed, a hearty sound that bounced off the stone walls enclosing them. “Just a bit of nighttime training for the newer recruits. What they teach these lads when they squire these days, I have to wonder! I told them, you can’t expect a battle to await the convenience of daylight.”

  “Duncan, you sound remarkably like your sire,” said Sir Brennus.

  “Quick, draw your sword,” his friend said, a hand flying to his chest. “Save me from my fate!” He laughed again, scratching his beard. “But the old man did know his business.” He clapped Sir Brennus on the back and led him away, sparing but a glance for Lyssanne and Jarad. “Steward!” he shouted. “Prepare the forest chamber for our noble guest and instruct the cook that we’re to hold a feast in his honor.”

  “At once, Lord Avery,” a man shouted.

  Unsure what was expected of her, Lyssanne remained on Reina’s back. Since she’d not been introduced, she dared not ask if she should follow.

  Another groom scurried up to Jarad. “You can take yer mare and gelding to the lower stable. A maid’ll show ya the servants’ quarters.”

  Jarad dismounted and asked Lyssanne to hand him her cloak. When she moved to dismount, he rested a hand on her skirt and whispered, “Not yet. Give me a moment.”

  Reina bobbed her head as if in agreement with that odd request. Mystified, Lyssanne waited as Jarad ran after Sir Brennus and his friend.

  “Lord Avery!”

  The two men halted, and Lord Avery turned.

  “Forgive my impertinence, milord," Jarad said, "but where shall I take my lady’s things?”

  “Your lady?”

  “Yes, milord. Lady Lyssanne.” Jared gestured with his cloak-draped arm.

  Cold sweat beaded on Lyssanne's brow. Calling her a lady in jest was one thing, but to pass her as such to a real nobleman? That could get one killed, or at least imprisoned.

  “And, please pardon my boldness,” Jarad said, “but might I request an end stall for the lady’s mare? She's a bit of a solitary creature.”

  Lord Avery studied Lyssanne and Reina for a moment then strode back toward them. “Brennus, you cur. You didn't introduce your lady!” When he reached Lyssanne, he grasped her hand, bowing over it. �
��I beg your forgiveness, Milady Lyssanne. I fear I mistook you for a servant. My only excuse is the excitement of seeing an old friend.” A grin broke out across his merry, round face. “Still, I’ve been gravely remiss as your host. I shall do all in my power to remedy the offense. Please, allow me to assist you.” He held her hand as if to help her dismount.

  Blushing, she accepted. “Truly, my lord, there’s been no offense. I am not really—”

  “At her best at present,” Jarad said in a rush. “Lady Lyssanne’s too wise to undertake a harsh journey in finery.”

  “Indeed,” said Lord Avery. “Still, I should have noticed at once. For, no servant would travel upon so fine a steed as this.” He turned and ordered an attendant to prepare a lady’s chambers and take Lyssanne’s belongings thither. He commanded his groom to lead Reina away, but Jarad insisted on doing so himself.

  “You are bold for a lad.”

  “It would be best to heed the boy on that matter, at least,” Sir Brennus said, remaining where Lord Avery had left him. “This particular mare is not fond of strangers.”

  “As you will,” said Lord Avery, waving the matter, and Jarad, away. “Welcome to Avery Hall, Lady Lyssanne.” He looped her arm through his and led her toward the inner wall and onward to the courtyard within.

  How could she reveal the truth of her identity, now, with preparations being made for her in the style of a noblewoman, not to mention her separation from Jarad? To contradict Jarad’s words would doubtless mean a terrible fate for him, and perhaps even worse for herself.

  Sir Brennus had resumed his aloof manner, his solicitous treatment of her vanishing. Would he keep his silence or dispute Jarad’s claims?

  Might a castle this size have a dungeon? If so, what were the chances of surviving it?

  Dungeon or no, the sight that greeted Lyssanne as she entered the inner court stole her breath. Ahead, stood a building at least thrice as long as Cloistervale’s meeting hall and as high as Mr. Fescue's tower. Three rounded turrets graced the center of the manor, the tallest in the middle. Each end of the building was also rounded, though an even height with its wings. Off to one side, stood a narrow building with a conical roof. The outer walls of both that and the manor house shone like new-fallen snow, even whiter than the protective, surrounding walls.