Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1)

by Bridgett Powers

  Lyssanne nodded, tensing for his next words. Lord Duncan must think her a sorceress.

  “Duncan might have attributed the entire business to a stroke of good fortune,” Prince Brennus said, “but he couldn’t deny the evidence of his eyes, nor of mine. After we’d spoken, he went to MeMe and Noel and asked, sounding more like a nervous squire than the lord of his own hall, how he might introduce himself to this King you so adore—and offer his fealty.”

  Lyssanne gasped. “Fealty? Lady MeMe must be overjoyed!”

  “I left them, then,” he said. “I had questions of my own. You’d just sent word that you wouldn’t join us for dinner, so I sought Reina out instead.”

  “They aren’t angry?” She had to be certain. “They don’t think me a, a sorceress?”

  “Angry? Hardly.” He leaned back in his chair. “MeMe has decided you should stay here. For as long as you wish.” He took the empty glass from her numbed fingers. “Duncan agrees.”

  Warmth swelled in her chest for an instant, then deflated into a hard kernel and dropped into the pit of her stomach. “They think me something I am not.”

  She looked away, unable to face him in this, the conversation they’d so often skirted since their arrival. Would this destroy the fragile peace so newly forged between them?

  “Fear not,” he said, his tone flat as Gian Plain. “I shall say nothing of your true station.”

  “You haven’t told them? Still?” She cleared her throat and blinked away moisture. “I am grateful, for I know it cost you.” She could no longer hold back her tears. “But if I stay, they must know the truth. I despise deceiving them.”

  “Why is it you weep?” He asked, his words soft as the handkerchief he held out to her.

  “I am just so frightened.” In the face of his candor, she could hold nothing back. “I know I must tell them, but what will become of us when I do?”

  “After what you did for Noel, they would care not if they discovered you to be a thief.”

  “It isn’t so much for myself that I fear, but for Jarad.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I will not say such concerns are unfounded. However—”

  “We shall leave,” she said, latching onto the only possible course. “If you will allow me this night to rest, Jarad and I will set out at first light.”

  “Autumn is upon us and winter not far behind.” He crooked a finger beneath her chin, forcing her to face him. “In the farmland and villages beyond this hall, you will find no shelter but that for which you must pay, and you haven’t the coin to last a week.” He rested a hand atop hers. “The nights already grow chill, Lyssanne, you would not survive.”

  “Jarad could,” she said. “I’ll send him to another town. He can start a new life, be safe.”

  “He won't leave your side.”

  “No,” she whispered then raised beseeching eyes to meet his. “What must I do?” She shivered again. “Only tell me, and I shall do it.”

  He rose and walked to the window where he stood for an age, head bowed, thumbs looped in his belt. At length, he said, “Do not put your fate in my hands.”

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I shouldn’t trouble you so with my concerns. I, I thank you for your silence. I shan’t ask it of you any longer.” She swung her feet over the side of the settee to stand. “I must ask you to excuse me. For, I need to gather my things. On the morrow I shall—”

  “Rest,’ he said, spinning to face her. “On the morrow, you will rest.”

  “But—”

  “I shall speak with Duncan on Jarad’s behalf,” he said, striding to the door, “but only after you recover your strength. Truth and choices will wait a few days more.”

  The next morning, Lady MeMe paid Lyssanne a visit. They spoke of Noel’s returned vigor and of the goodness of the King.

  “Duncan wishes to reward you for what you’ve done,” Lady MeMe said.

  “I did nothing but pray,” Lyssanne said. “As anyone might.”

  “If that were so, Noel would have long since recovered.” MeMe clasped Lyssanne’s hands. “You have a rare connection to the King, or some understanding of His ways others lack.”

  Lyssanne shook her head.

  “Whatever the case, we wish you to accept our hospitality, at least through the winter. Brennus told us, my friend, that you fight your own battles with health.” She chuckled. “Why, last night, he fair frightened the head of our staff into seeing to your every need. He insists you must have rest, and I agree. Oh, Lyssanne, I do hope you will consider it.”

  “There is something I must tell you,” Lyssanne said. “Once I have, you may wish to rescind your offer.”

  “Nonsense. What could be so grave?”

  “I wanted to tell you from the first.” Lyssanne closed her eyes. “’Twas the need to protect a child in my care that prevented me. As a mother, you will understand, I trust.”

  “A child—Jarad? Is he in some sort of trouble? Is that why you’ve left Lastarra?”

  “Please, may I have your word to help me protect him, once I’ve told you everything? I know I have no right to ask, but Jarad is dear to me as a brother.”

  “Of course, you have it. I don’t know what this involves, but I shall do what I can to see him safe. He has conducted himself admirably while here.”

  “I fear Jarad has deceived your husband…from the moment we arrived. And I failed to prevent him or call an end to it.”

  “In what way?” MeMe asked.

  “He introduced me as a lady.” The truth flooded out in a rush. “I am no daughter of a noble house, but of a blacksmith.”

  Lady MeMe laughed. “Is that all?”

  Lyssanne’s lips parted, but closed without sound.

  “Lyssanne, I’ve suspected almost since we met,” MeMe said. “I became certain the first time we had brunch together.”

  “My clothes?” Lyssanne asked.

  “No. You could have been in disguise, fleeing an undesirable marriage or tyrannical relative, or hiding your station in case of bandits. It was your manner that alerted me.”

  Lyssanne flushed. Had she been so uncouth?

  “There is no false modesty in you,” Lady MeMe said, “and your face reveals your every emotion. I learned early how to play the detestable games of court and how to recognize the players. You, my friend, are not one of them. Since Brennus said nothing, I thought no harm could come of it. Besides, your company is refreshing.”

  “Will Jarad be in danger when your husband learns the truth? Misguided as his actions were, he only did so believing I would be safer if everyone thought me a lady.”

  “He wasn’t far wrong,” MeMe said. “In some places, a title might be your only protection.” She sighed. “I can’t speak for Duncan. He enforces all law here, his own and that of the crown, but you did us a kindness we can never repay. Duncan will honor that.”

  A late autumn breeze rippled Venefica’s image in the secluded pool beside which Brennus knelt. Crushing her powder packet in his fist, he glanced about, but only the family and exclusive guests were permitted in MeMe’s walled gardens. His privacy was assured.

  “Do you not think me beautiful?” Venefica asked.

  He smirked. “Any man with eyes would.” That beauty, after all, had overthrown even his loathing of magic. Her lustrous hair, regal grace, and tall, confident bearing had painted a portrait of how life could be once his curse was removed.

  Now, she wanted him to make her his queen?

  “I am nobly born,” she said, “and know how to rule.”

  Her arguments held merit, but the thought of spending a lifetime with her…

  “You hesitate,” she said. “Had I done so when I found you, near death, on that road—”

  “It was no altruism that moved you to save me.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “My father taught me never to discard anything that might be turned to my use. You are fortunate I saw the man within the raven. And forget not, you sought me out.”

  He incl
ined his head. “True.”

  Still, ’twas plain what she sought. Power. An entire kingdom under the dominion of the Shadow Mist—she would be unstoppable. With his hereditary right to rule Navvar, their union would grant her the irreversible authority to inflict her dark magic upon his subjects.

  They, like the people of Cloistervale, would sink into black despair, rage, and self-neglect—violence erupting daily in the streets, villagers and livestock falling ill from poorly tended foodstuffs or disease.

  What Venefica did to Cloistervale, or even to the kingdom of Lastarra, was no concern to Brennus. Those fools in that backwater village had brought this upon their own heads, their Council continuing to blame Lyssanne’s slothful ways, as control slipped from their grasp. But Navvar was his land. He hadn’t fought so long to free it from tyranny only to enslave it through marriage to her. Still, he couldn’t tell her that. Yet.

  “Well,” Venefica said, stilling his thoughts. “Is not my proposition to your taste?”

  “That wasn’t part of our bargain.”

  “I speak of a new bargain,” she said. “You will need powerful allies to reclaim your kingdom. I will soon have that power. Make me your queen, and I shall ensure your victory.”

  He schooled his face to an expressionless mask. “I shall think on it.”

  “Very well. For now, remain where you are. Inform me of the slightest change.”

  “As you will.”

  Venefica’s image faded, and light returned to the pool. Brennus’s reflection stared back at him unchanged, though he hardly recognized the man within. He rose, feeling as if he’d just fought a battle in a rainstorm, soiled and weary. He needed privacy of a different sort. The tower.

  Why was Venefica so certain he would require her aid to reclaim his throne? Could his suspicions be true, that she was somehow betraying him? The shadow transformation she’d wrought upon him was, as the hermit had said, a curse all its own.

  His purposeful strides faltered. Had she known she couldn’t restore him when she’d attempted that spell? Would she be capable of lifting his curse, even once her power was secure?

  He swept into the manor, grabbed a torch, and mounted the winding stair to the tower. Then, he froze. Only three torches had stood inside the doorway. Where was the fourth?

  When he reached the battlement, a lighted torch already waited in the wall bracket. He nearly dropped the one in his hand when he espied the figure standing at the parapet. “What are you doing here?” he snapped.

  Lyssanne turned, hugging her old cloak tighter about her.

  His jaw clenched as he looked into her wide eyes. Here! Must she, of all people, be here in his place, when all he wished was privacy to ponder options for his future?

  “I am sorry,” she murmured. “You said I might come here if I wished. I'll go.”

  “No need. This part of the castle is open to all.” He certainly couldn’t tell her his reasons for wishing the tower to himself. “Still, should you not be resting? After so recent a bout with your…ailment, you shouldn’t chance catching a chill. This wind can be fierce.”

  “This place is so peaceful,” she said. “I came here to pray.”

  “An odd place for prayer, a battlement.”

  He extinguished his torch then stepped to the railing, casting a surreptitious glance down at her. For once, her eyes were free of circles. Fear hadn’t shadowed her countenance in weeks. Duncan’s hospitality had doubtless saved her life.

  Brennus rested his forearms on the parapet, his sleeve brushing her cloak. She didn’t pull away. Her decreased wariness and occasional laughter in his presence pleased him more than it should. The honesty they’d shared after Noel’s recovery had opened the door to things best left buried, for both their sakes.

  “I feel close to the King, so high up here,” she said. “The lights below call Him to mind.”

  “Why?”

  “They make me think of His gifts, His goodness, shining through the darkest times.”

  Brennus forced his jaw apart to stop his teeth grinding. That gift had brought Venefica’s wrath down upon her. “How can you love a king who would give you so much pain?” he said, straightening. “I've witnessed your ailment. That is no gift of joy.”

  “Illness doesn’t come from the King of All Lands.”

  “He has not ended it.”

  “He lessened it,” she said. “’Twas far worse, before.”

  “You’ve served Him most of your life, I suspect,” he said, an accusation.

  She nodded.

  “Then, how could this king of yours allow his faithful one to be cast from her home?” She gasped, but he plunged ahead. “Don't try to deny it, Lyssanne. You are in exile.”

  “Did Jarad—?”

  “The boy said nothing, but I am no fool.”

  She turned away. “It was the will of the Council that I leave, not—”

  “Again, not this king's doing? Then, answer me this,” he said, thumping a hand onto the railing next to hers, crowding her space. “Your Council, they serve Him, as well?”

  “Of…course.”

  “Whose good was he seeing to when he let them banish you?” For months, this question had burned within him. “By what capricious whim does he choose between his servants?”

  “He’d do nothing so cruel.” She looked up at Brennus, so earnest he wanted to shake her. “The King gives us the freedom to follow His path or not. If our choices harm ourselves or others, well…we can only seek His guidance in remedying that.” She touched his hand; a feather’s brush, there and gone. “We are but His servants, Highness. Far from perfect, we cannot boast His virtues. We imitate His goodness as best we can.”

  “What, then, has He done to aid you?” Brennus asked, softening his tone. She was not the cause of his bitterness. “I've seen no evidence of His protection or gifts. You travel in poverty and have yet to find a home, unless it is here. And that is a gift from Duncan, not this king.”

  “He sent me help along my journey, friends to save me from danger. He sent Jarad, saw that we had food to eat.” Lyssanne stepped away and looked out over the castle yards. Her face flushing, she whispered, “He sent you, and I am thankful.”

  Brennus expelled a huff.

  She swung back around, one brow raised. “Is it your role in my survival you question, or my gratitude?” She flushed again, as if surprised she’d spoken thus.

  “Your king had no part in…” Brennus clamped his jaw shut.

  “He did,” she whispered. “You’ve been a refuge and shield to me, yet I sense the storm within you permits no shelter.” She rested a hand atop his and held it. “What tortures you so?”

  Brennus stood frozen. Oh, he was tempted to end this charade, to tell her…everything.

  “Can you not trust me, as I have trusted you?” she asked, her eyes misting. “The King’s Light is strong enough to banish whatever haunts you.”

  He wanted her to know him, truly know him. But, if she learned what he was, what he’d done…He shook his head. “You would flee to the farthest reaches of the realm if I spoke of it.”

  Her fingers flexed, squeezing his hand for an instant. “I do not fear your shadows.”

  “You should,” he said, staring into her serene eyes. Fear was the least of her dangers. His unmasking would force Venefica’s hand, his hand. Then, life would end…for one of them.

  “It isn’t in this one either,” said Jarad. Groaning, he shoved another book of legends across the polished table, nearly toppling a tower of tomes.

  Lyssanne sighed. The creature Mr. Fescue described wasn't to be found in the collection of children’s tales she’d perused. The Avery library had again yielded nothing but sore backs and aching eyes. “How many more are there?” she asked.

  “Three, from that wall of shelves.”

  “Do you have the time to search them now?”

  Jarad stood, stretched his arms above his head, and walked to the giant hourglass in its gilded stand. “I can do
a few more before I report to Captain Gunther.”

  “Jarad, you needn’t stay. I can—”

  “No, Lady Lyssanne,” he said, strolling back to her. “I don’t have any duties until after dinner. I’ve been granted the honor of nighttime training with Prince Brennus.” He laughed. “Besides, you’d miss all the silly ways I say the names of the creatures I do find.”

  “Well,” she said, “there is one other volume with text I can read. Let’s be about it, so we can sooner savor our dinner.” She smiled. “You enjoy training with the squires, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, even more than you’re enjoying the new wardrobe Lady MeMe made you accept, I’d wager.” He flipped another book open. “I thought Prince Brennus was jesting when he insisted they let me train.” He deepened his voice, imitating the prince. “As his lady’s sole companion, the boy has need of such skills.”

  Laughing, Lyssanne resumed her quest for the key to the talisman peddler’s riddle. With all she’d learned of mists and sorceresses, and her own past, she ached to discover what message the King had hidden for her.

  Besides scouring every book of legend or myth, collection of tales, and bestiary for the creature, she and Jarad had already searched tomes on the topography of the Seven Lands for any reference to the granite tree mentioned in the riddle.

  “Will you share stories with the castle children again tomorrow?” Jarad asked, flipping pages in another book. “Captain Gunther’s niece was pestering me to find out.”

  “Yes, but in the Hall this week. The weather has grown too chill for the gardens.”

  “Thought so,” Jarad said. “The servant’s children have been everywhere, asking anybody they see for extra work they might do. Trying to earn their story time, I suspect.”

  Lyssanne laughed. “I daresay Lady Noel had no notion what she was beginning when she rushed up to me in the gardens that afternoon and requested the favor of a tale.”

  “Showing off her new friend to Captain Gunther’s niece, I heard,” Jarad said. “Shocked everyone, though, when you invited the servants’ children to listen and made it a weekly affair.”

  “Well, the King’s love is for everyone,” Lyssanne said, “and so are my stories. Besides, it affords me one small way to repay the kindness Noel’s parents have shown us.”