Light and Darkness: The Complete Series: Epic Fantasy Romance

by Jayne Castel

  Dain was smiling now. He carried two steaming wooden cups. Behind him, at the southern edge of the square, a woman was ladling out spiced wine. The perfume of cloves and stewed plums drifted through the dank air.

  Lilia smiled back. “We finished later than usual.”

  Dain stopped before her and handed Lilia a cup of wine. Their fingers brushed, and Lilia felt a familiar frisson of heat. It surprised her, for she’d heard that the attraction between couples usually waned once the initial excitement passed. Yet ever since returning home, the passion between them had grown. Perhaps it was because they were no longer focused on survival, or because they’d both grown and changed in their time away—whatever the reason, Lilia had never been happier. The best part of her day was each evening, when Dain walked in the door.

  She raised the cup to her lips, but the wine was scalding hot so she refrained from taking a sip. “Good day?”

  He nodded and linked his arm through hers. Together, they began a slow circuit around the edge of Port Square. “A new company of lads just arrived from Waybrook and Green Vale, so I’ve started hand-to-hand combat training with them.”

  Lilia glanced at him. “Does the Guard need more men?”

  “No, but King Nathan has sent a request for Orin to join him against Anthor … it appears the Prefect and Elder Council have agreed. They’re going to send a company to Rithmar in the spring.”

  Lilia’s belly twisted at this news—it was proof that you couldn’t hide from trouble. Even here upon this misty, green isle, the outside world intruded. She stopped, her gaze meeting Dain’s. “Will you join them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you want to?”

  Dain glanced away, raking his hand through his hair. “I’m not sure I do.” He looked back at her, smiling. “Once, I would have jumped at the chance, but now that I’ve seen war, I’m in no hurry to put my hand up.” His smile faded. “However, if it comes to it, I will have to fight … you realize that, don’t you, Lily?”

  She nodded, her throat closing as she fought a welling sense of panic. “If you leave here, I’m coming with you.”

  He shook his head, and opened his mouth to disagree, but she cut him off. “Don’t even try telling me I’ll be safer here. I won’t stay behind.”

  Dain’s gaze narrowed, before his mouth quirked. “Stubborn wench.”

  Lilia bit back a smile of her own. “It’s what you love about me, isn’t it?”

  “One of the many things,” he replied, his voice taking on a husky edge. His gaze widened then, his mood shifting. “I almost forgot. A goshawk brought this for you this afternoon.” He reached inside his leather jerkin and withdrew a slender scroll, fastened with wax.

  “Really?” Lilia passed him her cup of wine and took the scroll, peering down at it. The seal hadn’t been broken, and her name was written in tiny letters. “Who’s it from?”

  “The wax bears the Rithmar royal seal, so it must be from the capital.”

  “From Ryana or Asher?”

  “Open it and see.”

  They moved to stand under one of the lanterns burning around the perimeter. The lantern cast a warm, orange hue over them—bright enough to read by. Lilia broke the wax seal and unfurled the parchment, peering at the tiny writing inside. A smile broke over her face. “It’s from Ryana.”

  “What does she say?”

  Lilia held the parchment close, narrowing her gaze so she could view it properly. Then she began to read the letter aloud:

  Dear Lilia,

  I hope this letter finds you and Dain both well. I received your last message over two weeks ago and only just now find the time to respond. I fear the situation here is worsening with each passing month.

  There are times I wish that I’d returned to Orin with you. Folk are afraid of the unrest to the south and fear that Anthor will soon attack. The king is working to rebuild his armies. The capital has never been so busy.

  Asher has disappeared, sent off on a mission by Irana (who, I’m sure I mentioned in my last letter, now leads the Order). No one knows where he’s gone exactly, and whenever I question Irana she tells me he’s “gone off to find new apprentices”.

  I don’t believe her.

  For myself, I’m keeping busy training the new apprentices we have already—my mind is best kept occupied.

  I miss you and our conversations, and hope you’ve managed to settle back into your old life. It can sometimes be difficult going home.

  Love to you and Dain both.

  Ryana.

  Lilia lowered the parchment, her eyes misting over. “I miss her,” she murmured, glancing up at Dain. “Do you think she’s happy?”

  Dain smiled. “Ryana’s too fierce, complex, and troubled to find contentment easily.”

  He passed Lilia back her cup of wine. It had cooled so she was able to drink it without burning her tongue. She took a sip, sighing as the hot liquid slid down her throat and warmed her belly. Then, she tucked the parchment away in her cloak and linked her arm around Dain’s once more.

  They continued their circuit around Port Square, each lost in their own thoughts.

  A short while later it was Dain who broke the silence between them. “Do you ever wish you could make one moment last forever?”

  Lilia inclined her head to him and saw that his expression was wistful, his gaze clouded. It was unusual to see him so pensive. “Sometimes,” she replied. “Why?”

  “If I could, I’d freeze this moment.”

  They stopped and Dain turned to her, reaching out to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand. “You look so beautiful this eve, wrapped in fur, your hair tumbling over your shoulders, your cheeks flushed with cold.”

  She grinned at him. “And wine—”

  “I’m being serious, Lily.” His fingers slid down her jaw, and he cupped her chin before leaning in for a kiss. The snow fluttered down, cloaking them. When Lilia pulled back from his embrace, her pulse was racing and her lips tingled. If they’d been alone, she would have thrown herself at him, but since they stood outdoors she restrained herself.

  “I’m a happy man at this moment,” he murmured, still staring into her eyes, “and that’s how I wish to keep it.”

  Lilia’s vision blurred. She didn’t want him to talk of the future, for they lived in an uncertain world. Like him, she wished their life to remain as it was, for their happiness to last. “I love you, Dain,” she whispered back. She took hold of his hand and squeezed it, drawing him with her as she turned them toward the edge of the square, toward home. She met his eye and smiled. “Come with me … and I’ll show you just how much.”

  The End

  The Lost Swallow

  An Epic Fantasy Romance

  Light and Darkness

  Book Two

  JAYNE CASTEL

  All her life she's trusted her instincts—but now she must follow her heart.

  Mira belongs to The Swallow Guard—an elite all-female bodyguard who protect the royal family. She resents her role and has been planning her escape for years. But when her city comes under attack she finds herself on the run and the unlikely protector of a spoiled and wilful princess. Despite her desire to look after herself, she finds she can't abandon the girl.

  Meanwhile, far to the north, an enchanter receives a chilling mission.

  Asher belongs to the Order of Light and Darkness and spends his days healing the sick and injured. Yet when the head of his order commands him to track down the last survivor of a slaughtered royal family—and kill the girl and the woman protecting her—he finds himself in the role of assassin.

  In an epic journey through the heart of occupied territory, Mira struggles between her instinct to flee, her urge to protect the gifted young woman who has come to depend on her—and her attraction to an enigmatic stranger who says he's been sent to help them. Asher must also make a choice. Does he trust his instincts, follow his heart, and bring wrath down upon him … or does he follow orders and risk losing h
is soul.

  Maps

  Not until we are lost do we begin to find ourselves.

  — Henry David Thoreau

  Prologue

  The Mudlark

  Veldoras

  The Kingdom of Thûn

  MIRA dug HER hand into the mud, her fingers fastening around a small, round object. The slimy river silt gave up its treasures reluctantly and made an obscene sucking sound as she pulled her find free.

  Mira straightened up, her bare feet sinking into the cold mud. She held the caked object aloft, squinting at it in the bright noon light. Disappointment pricked at her when she wiped away the grime to find a smooth, pale-pink surface underneath. It was a seashell, a pretty conch, but not something that would earn her a meal.

  The shell wouldn’t even buy her a crumb of bread.

  Mira’s stomach growled, reminding her that she needed to find something she could sell or barter for food—enough to take the edge off the hunger that clawed at her belly and made her legs tremble underneath her.

  Inhaling deeply, she stuffed the shell into the pocket of her filthy leather vest and looked about her. She stood up to her ankles in sludge, around five feet from the edge of the Brinewater Canal. The sun was glinting on the dark river flats. A hump-backed bridge made of pitted grey stone reared to her left. The Bridge of the North Wind was a good spot for mudlarking, for this was one of the richer areas of the city—and wealthy folk crossing the bridge might accidently drop something valuable into the mud.

  Mira glanced about her; she wasn’t alone here. A scattering of other mudlarks—youngsters who combed the riverbed at low-tide looking for treasures—picked through the mud around her. Like her, they were a scrawny, filthy bunch, clad in rags with eyes too big for their thin faces. Some were very young, no older than five or six winters, while others were on the cusp of adulthood. Mira was one of these—having just passed her fourteenth winter.

  Mira sighed. Standing here feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t buy her a hot meal. She was about to bend down once more when she spied the roof of a gilded carriage as it rumbled onto the Bridge of the North Wind.

  She watched its passage, her gaze tracking it across the bridge’s arch—and when the carriage stopped half-way, a smile stretched across Mira’s face.

  A nobleman had come for some easy entertainment.

  She watched two individuals—a young man and woman—climb out of the carriage. They made a fine couple. He was tall with long black hair, a dashing cape hanging from his broad shoulders; and she was slender with hair the color of gold, wearing a becoming jade dress.

  Mira stared at the woman, transfixed; she looked like a princess from one of the stories her mother had told her. It seemed like a lifetime ago, those nights when Mira’s mother would sit next to her by the fire and tell her tales of ladies and lords, warriors and enchanters, and great adventures. Both Mira’s parents were dead, taken by the Grey Ravage six years earlier. Since then Mira had survived by scavenging a living on the streets and waterways of Veldoras.

  The man sauntered to the edge of the bridge and cast a smirk over his shoulder at his companion, beckoning her to him.

  Smiling coyly, the young woman approached the walled side of the bridge. She looked down, her gaze sweeping over the collection of urchins picking through the mud below, and her pretty nose wrinkled. The stench of the canal at low-tide—the eye-watering odor of rotting weed and refuse—was a smell that offended many of the citizens of ‘The City of Tides’ as Veldoras was known. However, Mira had lived amongst the stench for so long now that she barely noticed it.

  The man dug into the pocket of his jerkin and pulled something forth, before leaning out over the edge of the bridge. “Children,” he cried out, grinning. “Come, give us some sport!”

  And with that he flicked the object he held high into the air and watched it plummet toward the muddy flats below.

  Mira watched it too and caught the glimmer of yellow that told her he had just thrown a gold talent. Her empty belly contracted.

  A gold talent was a fortune, enough to buy her food for a month.

  Time slowed. Desperation soared within Mira when she realized that she was not standing where the coin would fall. Rowan, a weedy boy of her own age who had been scavenging directly under the bridge, would catch it. Realizing his good fortune, Rowan let out a whoop and reached out his thin arms toward the coin, his face screwing up in concentration.

  Mira dove for him.

  Rowan caught the talent an instant before Mira collided with him. The two of them went down in a tangle of limbs.

  “No!” Rowan wailed. “It’s mine!”

  But Mira ignored him—so deep was her desperation that all she could think about was the hot soup, the fresh bread, and the wedges of salty cheese that gold talent could buy her. She didn’t care about Rowan or the other mudlarks.

  No one needed that money as much as she did.

  Rowan fought her, his limbs flailing, but one vicious, bony knee to the belly brought him down. The boy’s breath rushed out of him as he sank into the mud. Then Mira pried the coin out of his hand.

  A moment later she was on her feet and running as fast as her trembling legs could carry her. The sucking mud slowed her down, but a few strides took her to the banks of the canal and the row of mildewed stone steps that led up to the embankment above.

  Her foot hit the first step, and she heard a howl behind her followed by a string of curses.

  Rowan was coming after her.

  Mira wasn’t afraid—yet she knew Rowan would not be outrun easily. She bounded up the steps and dove across the road beyond, narrowly avoiding being crushed under the wheels of a passing carriage.

  “Idiot girl!” the driver bellowed at her, but Mira paid him no heed. She clutched the precious gold talent tight in her palm and bolted into the tangle of streets beyond.

  Getting lost in the backstreets was her only chance of ridding herself of Rowan.

  Away from the clatter and rumble of carts and wagons on cobblestones, the streets of Veldoras were much quieter. This area was known as The Pashad, a wealthy merchant quarter filled with elegant stone buildings and gated entrances.

  The slap of bare feet on cobbles behind her warned Mira that Rowan was still in pursuit—and gaining on her.

  Gritting her teeth, Mira forced herself to run faster. She cursed her puny body; it had been a lean last few days and the lack of food had weakened her. Already she felt light-headed, and her ears were starting to ring. Despair surged within her. He would catch her.

  Tears of fury pricked her eyes as she pushed herself further still. She wouldn’t give up, not yet. Up ahead, the narrow street she traveled opened out, and Mira spied crowds of well-dressed men and women.

  A market. A chance to lose him.

  A sob rose in Mira’s chest, and she dove out of the street and into a colorful sea of summer gowns, baskets, and tittering laughter. Another world, one of privilege and finery. One she’d never inhabit.

  She’d run four paces when Rowan tackled her from behind.

  They crashed to the ground. Mira’s knees collided with the hard cobbles. Her chin hit stone, and she bit into her tongue, blood filling her mouth.

  Rowan’s fist slammed into the back of her head, knocking her chin against the cobbles once more.

  “Give it to me!” he screamed, incensed now. “It’s mine!”

  Yet Mira was not beaten, and she wouldn’t give it up—not unless he knocked her senseless. She twisted like an eel under him and flipped round, so that they were facing each other. Then she curled up and head-butted him in the mouth.

  Rowan reared back, blood streaming from his cut lip. With her free hand Mira lashed out and punched him in the eye. She scrambled back to find Rowan sitting on his haunches, clutching at his injured eye with one hand and his bleeding mouth with the other. His face was ashen, and he was shaking. He looked near to tears.

  “Thief!’ he choked. “I caught it fair, and you stole it.”


  Mira spat blood onto the cobbles. “Quit whining,” she snarled. She then scrambled back from him, readying herself to bolt once more. “It belongs to whoever’s got the guts to fight for it.”

  She leaped nimbly to her feet—her pulse thundering in her ears—and pivoted, running straight into a wall of hard muscle and leather.

  It was a woman, bigger and stronger than any Mira had ever seen. Built like a warrior, she wasn’t dressed like the others in this market square. Instead of flowing skirts she was cloaked and leather-clad, with braided dark hair and long boots.

  Mira bounced off her and would have fled, but the woman grabbed her.

  Large hands gripped her by the shoulders and shook her like a dog. “Is this true?” a cold voice demanded. “Did you steal from this lad?”

  Mira didn’t answer her. Instead, she twisted, kicked, and punched, doing her best to break free of her captor’s iron grip.

  Mocking laughter filled her ears, making her fight all the harder, even as her vision speckled and the blood roared in her ears; she was close to fainting.

  “Fights like a canal-cat,” drawled another woman. “She’ll do herself an injury.”

  “Still yourself, girl.”

  Another female voice cut through the warm air—and unlike the earlier two, this one made Mira take heed. There was a sharpness, an air of superiority that warned her someone of importance was addressing her.

  Panting, Mira stopped struggling and looked up through a curtain of dark stringy hair at the female who’d just spoken.

  Her breathing hitched.

  A tall, slender woman dressed in a fine pale yellow gown, her thick brown hair coiled high upon the crown of her head, stood before her.

  Mira looked then, really looked, at the female warrior who’d caught her—noting for the first time that the black cloak hanging from her shoulders was forked at the bottom, and that a silver clasp, shaped as a bird, fastened the cloak at the throat.