by Jayne Castel
Mira heaved in a deep breath. She wanted to be angry, yet she couldn’t dredge up the emotion. He was right. They could leave here tomorrow and hide themselves away in some forgotten corner of the kingdom—but trouble would find them eventually.
“So what would you have me do?” she asked finally. “Join The King’s Guard?”
He glanced back at her and shook his head. “I’d have you by my side. I want you to train the enchanters in physical combat, to teach them how to use their fists, throw knives, and wield a sword.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Enchantment will only get them so far in battle. They need to know how to fight without it.”
Mira watched him a moment, before her head inclined. “You’re serious?”
He nodded. “Will you do it?”
They locked gazes a moment. Then Mira rose to her feet and crossed to Asher, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Aye,” she murmured against the hollow of his neck. “If it means I’m near you, I will.”
They stood together in silence for a while, their bodies pressed together. The warmth and strength of him seeped into Mira’s body, releasing the lingering tension within her. She felt his steady pulse against her cheek.
“I’ve always felt so lost,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I blamed circumstance, the fact that life’s given me so few choices. I thought The Swallow Keep my cage, yet all these years it’s been me … I’ve kept myself prisoner … I just never realized it. You’ve changed me.”
He went still against her, and then she felt him kiss the crown of her head. “I had little to do with it. You had a journey to make, that’s all. And you’re not done yet—only you’re not alone anymore.”
She glanced up, meeting his gaze. “I love you, Asher.” The words sounded clumsy upon her tongue, and she felt her cheeks warm as she made the admission. Even now, showing him what lay in her heart was hard. She’d never found raw emotion easy to voice; and yet, seeing the joy light in his eyes, she was glad she had.
“Don’t look so pained,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’ll be our secret. No one else needs to know.”
Mira laughed. It burst out of her like music—a sound she’d rarely heard herself make, but one that she liked.
Asher caught her hand and drew her away from the fire, toward the sleeping pallet. “Come on, my lost swallow,” he said, still smiling. “It’s time for bed.”
Epilogue
Disappointing News
ELIAS OF ANTHOR rode into Veldoras under a mantle of low cloud, and in an even blacker mood. Heavy rain stippled the pools of water either side of the high causeway leading into The City of Tides. Elias led his men across the glittering marshland astride Bolt, his heavy destrier. He could feel the sluggishness in the stallion’s stride. Like his rider, the warhorse was weary.
However, it wasn’t just exhaustion that dragged at Elias as he neared the solid granite wall ringing Veldoras, but a growing sense of dread.
Elias’s gaze shifted from the wall to the jumble of peaked roofs rising up over the edge, with the silhouette of The Swallow Keep perched high upon a rocky outcrop in the center.
His father waited there, and he would be expecting good news.
Elias clenched his jaw and urged Bolt into a canter. To the west, he could see the Gulf of Veldoras—resembling a sheet of beaten iron in this stormy weather—while the city itself rose up from reclaimed swampland to the east. The air smelled of decay, as marshes often did. It was an overcooked cabbage smell.
They clattered into the city, thundering through the gates past sentries in black and red Anthor livery. The Great Square, a wide space lined by high stone buildings, loomed beyond. They took the Spiral Way to the heart of the city. True to its name, the wide street wound its way like an unfurling fern toward the towering keep in its center, crossing a series of stone bridges along the way. It was busy this afternoon; wagons, carts, and foot traffic thronged the thoroughfare. Black and red uniforms were everywhere.
Noise assaulted him from every direction, jarring after the silence of the swampland. The cry of vendors selling fried sprats and spiced breads, the clatter of heavy wheels over cobbles, the chatter of conversation, and the squall of a baby’s wail all vied for dominance.
Yet for all the busyness, Elias felt an undercurrent of tension in the air—Veldoras was an occupied city after all. Many of the faces he observed were strained and dull-eyed. A young woman with tangled brown hair watched him and his men pass, her face twisted in hate.
Reoul of Anthor had conquered this city, but he had not broken it.
As Bolt clip-clopped across one of the bridges, Elias glanced over the edge of the balustrade. The tide was in, and he inhaled the tang of seawater. It reminded him of home. Mirrar Rock perched on the edge of the glittering Sapphire Sea; he hadn’t been back for years now.
Eventually, they rode over the East Bridge into The Swallow Keep. Soldiers filled the inner-bailey, their gazes curious as they watched the Captain of Anthor ride in. Elias ignored them, heading straight to the stables.
Swinging down from the saddle, Elias threw the reins to Santino—his second in command. “See to Bolt.”
The soldier nodded; he was a lean man with a neatly-trimmed, black beard and keen eyes. “Are you going to see the king?”
“Aye, I’d rather get this over with.”
Santino said nothing more—he didn’t need to. They both knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant.
Elias left the stables and entered The Swallow Keep. Inside, he climbed the steep central stairwell. It was a lofty, elegant space with many windows that let in what little daylight there was. Outside, the rain still fell, and Elias left a trail of water behind him as he climbed the stairs. He hadn’t had time to change either; he was still wearing travel-stained leathers that stank of horse and stale sweat, a sodden woolen travel cloak, and mud-caked boots.
He climbed to the fifth level, where his father’s apartments were housed, and made his way to his father’s solar.
Before the entrance he paused, hesitating as he raised his hand to knock on the heavy door.
Funny really—here he was, thirty-four years old and nervous about facing his old man.
Shoving aside the thought, Elias knocked.
“Enter.”
Of course, his father would already have received word of his arrival.
Elias pushed open the door, entering what had once been King Aron of Thûn’s solar. These days, it was Reoul of Anthor’s domain. The space suited him: sparsely but tastefully furnished with a vast rug covering the stone floor and a great hearth burning at one end.
His father was there, sprawled upon a chaise longue by the window. A few feet away was a large rectangular table, where a great map of The Four Kingdoms of Serran lay spread out with a number of markers upon it.
At fifty-five winters, his long dark hair threaded with silver, his hawkish features vulpine, the King of Anthor dominated any space he occupied. Upon seeing his son enter, Reoul rose to his feet with boneless grace.
“Elias.” Reoul of Anthor strode forward and embraced him. However, he quickly drew back from his son, his mouth compressed. “You reek.”
Elias snorted. “So would you if you’d been on the road for days.
His father shrugged. “So … what word from the north?”
Elias didn’t answer. Yet the heaviness that had settled in his gut upon riding into Veldoras grew. “I found Princess Ninia, father.”
“You did … and is she dead?”
“No.”
The king’s dark gaze sharpened. “I’m listening.”
Elias inhaled deeply once more and then began his tale. He told it simply, not shying away from any detail. During it all, his father’s expression did not change—except for when Elias described the Dim Hold, and what had taken place there. When Reoul discovered that Princess Ninia of Thûn could wield the Light and Dark, his mouth compressed,
and his features tightened.
At the end of the story, silence fell between them.
“So the girl spared your life?” Reoul said finally, moving over to the window and looking out at the grey skyline of towers and peaked roofs. “That was merciful of her.”
Elias didn’t reply. He knew his father didn’t expect an answer.
Reoul turned from the window. “This is all disappointing news.”
Elias swallowed before nodding. His father’s displeasure was nothing compared to Elias’s rage at his own incompetence. He’d ridden back from the forest edge consumed by it.
“It worries me that the shadow creatures have amassed like this,” Reoul said after a lengthy pause.
“I’ve never seen fortress like the Dim Hold,” Elias replied. “They told me it has stood ever since the reign of the Shadow King.”
His father moved from the window and crossed to the table, where he gazed down at the map. Reoul then glanced up and favored his son with a wintry smile. “I wasn’t planning on taking Rithmar quite yet … but thanks to you, Nathan may think I’m about to.”
Elias resisted the urge to drop his gaze. He’d tried to contradict Ninia back in the Dim Hold—but Darg had prevented him. He now wished he’d managed to speak up before leaving.
“Two sons,” the king said softly, in a tone that made the fine hair on the back of Elias’s neck prickle, “but both useless. That piece of The King Breaker would have been valuable to me now … a deterrent to Nathan should he think of attacking us … and while Ninia lives so does the hope of her people. Now we learn she’s also capable of destroying us all.”
Once again, Elias didn’t answer. He couldn’t deny the fact they’d failed their father. No one had heard from Saul in many months—and since The King Breaker had now been destroyed, Elias assumed his brother was dead.
Silence stretched out between them, and when Reoul spoke his voice was expressionless. “I set you a task, and I need you to finish it … Ninia of Thûn must die.”
Elias shifted uncomfortably. “But she now resides in The Royal City.”
Reoul picked up a marker and placed it at the center of the map—the heart of the Kingdom of Rithmar. “Then you will ride there.” His sharp gaze snapped up. “You will go to Nathan and negotiate peace between our kingdoms.”
Elias stared at the king. For a moment, he thought he’d misheard. Had the old man gone mad? “Father,” he began cautiously. “Nathan won’t believe we want peace.”
Reoul favored him with a wolf’s smile. “He doesn’t have to … you need to waste his time long enough to get close to Ninia. Then at the first opportunity I want you to kill the princess.”
Elias blinked. “She’ll be well protected … by enchanters and the King’s Guard,” he replied, a rasp to his voice. “One of them will cut me down, the moment I strike.”
His father merely smiled back. “Just make sure the girl dies first.”
The End
Path of the Dark
An Epic Fantasy Romance
Light and Darkness
Book Three
JAYNE CASTEL
He’s been sent to assassinate a princess … but a beautiful sorceress threatens to ruin his plans.
Elias of Anthor failed to kill the last surviving member of an overthrown royal family when he had the chance. Now his father wants him to finish the job. Traveling north under the guise of peace, Elias’s task is straightforward: start negotiations, get close to the princess, and end her life.
It’s straightforward until he meets a woman who will challenge him on every level.
Ryana is an enchanter who prefers singing in crowded taverns to following the rules of the Order she’s sworn to. A woman with a dark past, she’s trying to keep out of trouble when she meets Elias. He’s the son of a dictator, sent to negotiate peace with her king, and she distrusts him from the first—but she can’t deny the pull between them.
The Anthor prince represents everything she’s sworn to avoid. He’s dangerous, yet she can’t keep away from him.
Time is running out for Elias. But when it comes time to kill the princess, he finds himself faced with the most difficult decision of his life. Does he do his duty, listen to his conscience, or follow his heart?
Map
“Vadaras, Onoras, Leadalas.
Valor, Honor, Loyalty.”
—Anthor military motto
Prologue
Take Me With You
The Royal City
The Kingdom of Rithmar
RYANA’S FINGERS CURLED around the small iron box.
Pitted with age and ice-cold to the touch, it was a plain-looking object. Yet, as she withdrew the box from its alcove, Ryana’s heart started to race. It might not have looked like much, but this casing contained something ancient, something powerful.
Gripping her prize, she straightened up. Her head spun, and a wave of nausea hit her then, causing her to sweat. She raised a hand, bracing herself against the rough stone wall of the Vault.
She needed to get out of here, before she collapsed.
Sliding the iron box into the collar of her robe, Ryana glanced around. She usually felt comfortable surrounded by shadows, for as an Enchanter of the Dark they were her allies, but the dark recesses of this passageway put her on edge.
Retracing her steps along the passage, she halted before a sprawled body.
Agnek.
The young enchanter lay upon his back, sightless eyes staring up at the low shadowed ceiling. Dressed in smoke-grey robes, his right hand splayed out on the floor, he wore a stunned expression. Blood leaked from his cracked skull onto the damp stone floor, glistening darkly in the light of the pitch torches hanging from the walls.
Ryana swallowed, her throat suddenly dry and tight. She glanced down, turning her right hand over so she could look at her palm. The eight-pointed star upon it still pulsed from gathering the Dark.
Murderer.
Ryana swallowed bile. She hadn’t meant to kill him, but Agnek had gotten in the way.
I need to tell the High Enchanter what I’ve done.
“Bring me the stone, Ryana.” The voice—low, male, and commanding—whispered in her ear. “You made me a promise.”
Ryana started, swiveling on her heel and expecting to find Gael standing behind her. Yet the narrow corridor, lined with crudely hewn alcoves, was empty.
Her panic receded, and the sense of purpose that had made her steal in here returned. Determination filled her, driving out the horror.
Ryana drew in a ragged breath. Her mind suddenly felt foggy, as it had for most of the past day. It was as if she’d binged on strong wine. At that moment she could think of nothing but Gael. She had to reach him.
“Take me with you.”
Ryana lay on her side upon the cold wooden floor, wrists and ankles bound.
Across the room a tall dark-haired man was packing a leather satchel. Gael glanced up, his handsome face expressionless in the burnished light of the single oil-lamp burning on the table next to him.
They were in his lodgings above the tavern where he worked as a harpist. Ryana had spent the happiest moments of her life in this sparsely furnished room—long nights in the narrow bed behind her. There, Gael had shown her a different kind of enchantment to the one she’d devoted her life to: the enchantment of the flesh, of the soul.
“I don’t think so, Ryana,” he replied, his gaze meeting hers. “You’ve served your purpose.”
Ryana frowned. Her thoughts were muddled, confused, although the warm cocoon about her was sloughing away. She shivered. It suddenly felt freezing in this room. His words didn’t make sense. What happened to the man who teased her, made her laugh?
“What do you mean?” Was that her trembling voice? Since when had she been so pathetic?
Gael smiled. Only, it wasn’t a pleasant expression but a wolfish one. “We had fun,” he said, the smile turning into a smirk. “But the time has come for us to part ways.”
; He picked the small iron casing off the table beside him before placing it into the satchel.
“Why do you want The King Breaker?” Ryana croaked. She felt as if she was floating, cast adrift on an icy sea. Nothing made sense, yet through it all she knew she’d been betrayed. She wanted to feel angry about that, but something still muzzled her. She couldn’t reach her emotions; it was as if they lay behind a wall she was trying desperately to scale.
Gael glanced back at her as he reached for his cloak and shrugged it on. “Did you really think I was a romantic harpist from Anthor, traveling The Four Kingdoms looking for the right woman?”
The scorn in his voice cut like a razor, and despite that she was having trouble focusing, Ryana flinched. “Aye,” she rasped. “I thought you loved me.”
His mouth twisted, and he turned, hiding his face from her while he did up the satchel and slung it across his front.
“I’m an enchanter, like you,” he said finally, turning back. He held up his right hand, revealing a dark-inked eight-pointed star.
Ice washed over Ryana. “How?”
He shrugged. “A cloaking charm.”
She stared at him. He spoke as if such things were easy. Enchanters of the Dark had the ability to cast charms, but the Star of Darkness wasn’t a mark easily hidden.
“Why?” she whispered, the sound so broken that she hated herself.
“The Order didn’t suit me, so I found other folk who did,” he replied, his tone casual. “The Shade Brotherhood has been looking for the missing pieces of The King Breaker for centuries … and I’m about to deliver them a prize.”
