Light and Darkness: The Complete Series: Epic Fantasy Romance

by Jayne Castel

  Ryana swallowed hard, keeping her gaze fixed upon Gael. “You’d help them free The Shadow King?”

  He favored her with another smile, this one roguish. “If it gets me what I want … aye.”

  Gael moved toward the door, in long cat-footed strides.

  “Wait,” Ryana gasped. Her vision blurred; it took all her will not to start pleading.

  Reaching for the door handle, he cast her a cool glance over his shoulder and raised a questioning eye brow.

  “What is it you want?” she demanded.

  Their gazes fused, and this time he didn’t smile. When Gael answered, his voice was low, barely above a whisper, and yet it seemed to reverberate off the wood paneled walls. “Everything.”

  Eleven years later …

  1

  Messenger of Peace

  The Royal City

  The Kingdom of Rithmar

  THANK THE SHADOWS that’s done.

  Ryana stepped through the heavy oaken door. It swung shut with a dull thud, and a weary breath gusted out of her. After an afternoon in the Hall of Charms, doling out assistance to desperate folk, her temples ached and her temper felt frayed.

  She really didn’t have the patience for such tasks. She much preferred her training sessions with Ninia; it was exciting to see how fast the girl was improving. However, she only trained Ninia in the mornings. Other, unavoidable, duties took up the afternoons.

  Drawing in another breath, Ryana willed for the day’s tension to seep out of her. Irritation and a familiar restlessness churned through her—as it often did after hours spent inside the House.

  Some things never changed, it seemed.

  She’d spent years away from the Order and had missed many things about her life as an enchanter. But she couldn’t change the fact that this life sometimes felt oppressive.

  There were times when she needed a break from it.

  Ryana turned her face up to the sun. The afternoon was fine, the air balmy. The wet and windy spring had stripped the trees of the last of their blossom, but the warmth had returned. The willows lining the riverbank below the city now wore their bright green summer dresses.

  She stood upon a wide cobbled expanse before the House of Light and Darkness: a square, dun-colored building—so different from most of the elegant edifices within the upper town. Two annexes flanked the House, where the Halls of Charms and Healing sat. A massive oaken door with a stag’s head knocker was the only feature of an otherwise austere façade.

  I need an ale.

  Ryana knew she should join Asher and the new apprentices in the library, but she needed to have a few hours away from the House. The messy chaos of The Black Boar Inn, one of her favorite establishments in the lower town, beckoned. She didn’t want to sit in the shadowy library and answer earnest questions. Instead, she longed to breathe in the pungent aroma of pipe-smoke and sawdust, to relax to the sound of a harp, and to listen to the rumble of men’s voices arguing over games of dice.

  She didn’t really have time to skive off. The palace was holding a ball that evening, to celebrate Queen Eldia’s birthday, and she still hadn’t picked out a suitable gown.

  However, The Black Boar and a tankard of local ale beckoned.

  Ryana turned left and descended The King’s Way, a wide thoroughfare that corkscrewed its way down through The Royal City’s upper town.

  As she walked, she hummed a tune. It was ‘The Sailor and the selkie’, a song she’d been thinking about since waking that day. It was a pity the ball was taking place tonight, for she was in the mood for singing.

  Ryana’s mouth curved, thinking nostalgically back to the decade she’d spent living as a wandering scop upon the Isle of Orin. She’d lived a hand to mouth existence during those years, often sleeping rough when her purse emptied, yet life had been simpler then. These days, she had returned to the Order of Light and Darkness and taken up the role of Head of the Dark. She should have been happy, for she’d dreamed for years of receiving a pardon.

  But there were times, like today, when she longed to be elsewhere.

  Continuing down the hill, Ryana noted how busy The Royal City was these days. Men garbed in leather armor thronged the streets and lounged in doorways: fighting men who’d come from all over Rithmar. The clang of weapons being forged echoed down the hillside, from the plethora of forges that had sprung up all over the city.

  A king’s army needed swords and spears. With a dictator sitting over the border, King Nathan of Rithmar was wise to prepare himself for war. Sooner or later, Reoul of Anthor would likely strike.

  Ryana had nearly reached the great square before the gates leading into the lower town, when the thunder of shod hooves approaching up The King’s Way made her pause. A moment later a company of riders rounded the corner.

  Four members of the King’s Guard—resplendent in iron helms and mail shirts, and sitting upon heavy destriers—led the way. That wasn’t unusual, for the king often sent out patrols to secure the kingdom’s borders.

  Yet there was something about this company that made Ryana pause. She looked closer.

  A group of riders followed the King’s Guard on warhorses of their own. But these men didn’t wear the silver and pine-green of Rithmar. Instead, dark leather encased their bodies and blood-red cloaks rippled from their shoulders.

  Ryana stared.

  Men of Anthor … here?

  The company approached, the clatter of hooves echoing off the surrounding stone buildings.

  Ryana surveyed the knot of Anthor riders, her gaze alighting upon one of the men. Tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair cropped short in military fashion, he looked straight ahead as he rode. Golden epaulets fastened his cloak to a glittering black mail shirt that looked as if it had been fashioned out of obsidian.

  The soldier didn’t look her way, didn’t appear to notice his surroundings at all. Instead, he stared straight ahead: gaze hard, expression inscrutable.

  Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the riders were past, thundering up the cobbled thoroughfare that led to the palace.

  Ryana forgot her need for distraction then. Instead, unease feathered across her nape as she watched them go.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Aye … the jewel of The Four Kingdoms.”

  Elias and Santino rode, side-by-side, up The King’s Way. A gleaming white city surrounded them, almost blinding in the noon light. Its turreted Tower of the North loomed before them, piercing a cloudless blue sky. The warm spring sun bathed their faces as they rode up the road that led toward the glittering palace, their horses’ hooves clattering over the cobbles.

  “Still.” Santino continued, a sour edge to his voice. “I prefer Mirrar Rock … I don’t like being this far from the sea.”

  Elias glanced right at where Santino rode a lathered black gelding. His second-in-command’s bearded face was pinched, his gaze fixed on the spiraling way ahead.

  “Aye.” Elias drew in a lungful of air. It was fresh here, in the heart of the Rithmar Highlands. The scent of pine from the surrounding wooded slopes mingled with the dewy mist created by the many waterfalls coursing down the hillsides flanking the city. “There won’t be any fried squid for supper in this city.”

  Santino made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. “No … it’ll be some kind of gamey stew, no doubt.”

  A tight smile stretched Elias’s mouth. Food was something men of Anthor often discussed. Namely, how foul the northern fare was compared to the garlic-laced delicacies of home.

  Home.

  Elias hadn’t seen it for a long while. And thanks to his father, he might never set eyes on the gleaming black obsidian bulk of Mirrar Rock’s palace again.

  The rest of their party—men loyal to Elias—rode close behind. Like Elias and Santino, they carried no weapons. Rithmar soldiers flanked them on all sides.

  Elias’s party had encountered a royal patrol four days earlier, just half a day north of the border, and had surrendered withou
t a struggle before handing over their weapons. It had galled Elias to allow himself to be captured and led north. But it was necessary. Only the fact he was the Prince of Anthor prevented the soldiers dragging him here in chains—that and the message of peace he carried.

  Elias’s destrier, Bolt, snorted then. The muscles on the stallion’s back flexed from the steep climb. The warhorse had been with him for years—a companion through endless campaigns. He felt closer to the beast than to members of his own family; it had certainly caused him less trouble.

  Leaning forward, Elias slapped the stallion on the neck. “Not much longer, lad,” he murmured. “Almost there.”

  They brought him before the king immediately.

  Elias led his party, Santino and the others following in single file behind him. Rithmar soldiers surrounded the Anthor prince. Even unarmed they didn’t trust him.

  Elias bit back a wry smile. Wise.

  They entered the throne room, a vast space with a domed roof and a forest of giant pale stone pillars. Faded frescoes covered the ceiling, remnants of a forgotten time, when the people of Serran had worshipped the God of the Sky and his kin; a time before Valgarth the Shadow King, a time before folk turned to the shadows.

  A man waited for Elias. He sat upon a throne made out of white, blue-veined marble, his dark gaze riveted upon the visitor.

  King Nathan of Rithmar looked to be around Elias’s own age—mid-thirties—with a military bearing and short dark hair. Sitting back, body relaxed yet watchful, the king exuded strength. Around his shoulders he wore a thick, fawn-colored mink cloak. It was a military commander’s cloak; he looked as if he was about to stride out onto the battlefield.

  Watching him, Elias was struck by how different Nathan appeared to his own king.

  Apart from his magnificent cloak, Nathan appeared to care little for the luxuries his rank afforded him. In contrast, Reoul dressed himself in the finest fabrics and jewels his gold could buy.

  Four men flanked Nathan, hard-faced soldiers with sharp gazes—his personal guard. Elias neared the dais, his boots whispering on polished stone. He noted that the floor was beautiful: dark red marble, veined with white and pink strands.

  His escort stopped around eight yards from the throne. They stepped aside so Elias and the king faced each other.

  Elias nodded a silent greeting. He wasn’t going to bow or mouth honorifics—and he certainly wasn’t going to kneel before Nathan. He too was royalty. He didn’t even get down on one knee before his own father.

  Nathan’s mouth curved, although his dark eyes remained sharp. “Elias of Anthor.” His voice was a low, deep rumble. “This is a surprise.”

  The corners of Elias’s mouth lifted. “I thought it would be.”

  “This must be important … if Reoul sends his son.”

  “It is,” Elias replied. He wouldn’t waste time on greetings—best to get straight to the point. “My father wishes for an alliance between us.”

  Nathan of Rithmar snorted. He then leaned forward, elbows resting upon his muscular thighs. His gaze gleamed. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  This comment drew laughter from the men surrounding the king. The sound echoed high into the domed roof of the throne room.

  The jeering didn’t bother Elias in the slightest.

  Let them have their fun.

  He waited till the laughter died, before he spoke once more. “It’s the truth.”

  Nathan’s mouth twitched. “Excuse me, if I’m skeptical.”

  “Our goal was to take Thûn,” Elias replied, ignoring the king’s mirth. “Lands that once belonged to Anthor. We have no wish to expand our territory any farther.”

  “That’s not what I heard. Word is that you plan to attack us late spring.”

  It was now Elias’s turn to snort. He’d been expecting this. “Whatever rumors you’ve heard … they’re wrong.”

  “I trust my sources.”

  “And I’m here to put you right.”

  The response was arrogant, and for a moment Elias wondered if he’d gone too far. He wasn’t used to meetings like these. He’d never had to make compromises with anyone except his father.

  Nathan’s gaze hardened. “Reoul’s had a taste of real power. He’ll not stop with Thûn.”

  Elias shook his head. The urge to cross swords with Nathan of Rithmar reared up; he was a soldier after all, not a diplomat. Elias wanted to bite back—the words were on the tip of his tongue—and yet he reined them in. Angering Nathan wasn’t going to help him. “What we need now are allies … not enemies,” he replied after a pause. “We wish to draw up a treaty between us, one that will benefit both Rithmar and Anthor.”

  Nathan leaned back in his cold, white throne, his gaze never leaving Elias. His mouth twisted. “I find that hard to believe.”

  2

  The Girl Will Be There

  ELIAS OF ANTHOR unfastened his leather vest as he gazed out of his bed chamber window.

  A smile stretched across his face and, for the first time in hours, his shoulders relaxed. It was hard not to feel smug.

  That went surprisingly well.

  If he was honest, Elias hadn’t thought he’d make it this far. His sharp tongue and arrogance had nearly bested him this afternoon. He’d promised himself he’d be humble, but had broken his vow as soon as he’d opened his mouth. For a few moments back in the throne room, he’d thought Nathan would reject his overtures of peace. He’d readied himself to be thrown into the dungeons.

  But, instead of imprisoning him, Nathan had given him fine lodgings. Elias’s men—all five of them—shared a larger, simpler chamber at the end of the hall.

  Elias’s self-satisfied smile faded.

  That didn’t mean the King of Rithmar trusted him. He’d laughed and bantered, but suspicion had gleamed in his eyes the entire time. He’d also stationed guards outside Elias’s door.

  The room was a large, luxurious space, dominated by a four-poster bed. It held a sweeping view of the Rith Vale. A dark carpet of conifers covered the slopes of the surrounding mountains and the velvet patchwork of the river valley below. The setting sun gilded the forests, highlighting every detail.

  It was a lovely view, yet Elias shared Santino’s opinion of this city.

  For all its beauty, he found it cold.

  Elias loosed a breath and let his vest fall to the floor. The King’s Guard had relieved him and his men of their weapons—yet they hadn’t discovered the slender blade hidden in Elias’s boot. The boots had been artfully made, with silver fluting at the back; only, one of those decorations was the handle of a long dagger made of Anthor steel.

  Elias needed a weapon on him at all times if he was to complete his task.

  Shedding the rest of his clothes, Elias walked over to where an iron tub—filled with steaming water—sat at the foot of his bed, and stepped into it.

  Lowering himself into the tub, he let out a long sigh as the hot water seeped into his travel-sore muscles. He leaned back against the rim of the bath and closed his eyes. For a few moments he just enjoyed the heat of the water soaking into his limbs.

  The girl will be there. Elias’s eyes snapped open. Santino’s whispered voice returned to him then, interrupting his reverie. The pair had shared a few words in the hallway before parting ways earlier. This could be your chance.

  The king was holding a ball this evening, in honor of his wife’s birthday, and he’d invited Elias to attend. It seemed an opportunity too good to miss.

  “We’ll see,” Elias had murmured back. “I’d prefer to kill her without an audience.”

  He could whip out his knife and slash the girl’s throat in the middle of the throne room, but that would be the end of Elias of Anthor. There was only one way in or out of that hall—he’d observed earlier—and The King’s Guard would be covering the exit.

  Elias frowned. His father might want otherwise, but he intended to live through this. One day he’d return home to see the dark silhouette of Mirrar Rock Palace to
wering overhead, outlined against a hard blue sky. One day he’d be free of all of this.

  But not until he finished the job.

  Elias had let Princess Ninia of Thûn slip through his fingers. After losing her in The Forest of the Fallen, he’d returned to Veldoras—where his father currently resided—empty-handed, and with news that the girl was a powerful, if untrained, enchanter.

  But Reoul of Anthor wasn’t a man to accept failure.

  The peace negotiations were a ruse, a way to engender trust while Elias maneuvered himself into position.

  Until he managed to kill the heiress to the Thûn throne.

  Ryana climbed the marble steps to the palace, cursing the yards of heavy fabric that kept catching around her legs. She hadn’t worn a dress in years.

  “Shadows take this gown,” she muttered. “It keeps trying to trip me up.”

  The ball gown, made of lilac damask, rustled as she moved. The tight corset around her torso made it hard to breathe. A low fitted bodice showed off her full cleavage, and the dress had a nipped-in waist, with layers of skirts beneath.

  “Gowns have a habit of doing that,” Mira replied from next to her, casting Ryana a wry grin. “You have to walk differently. You can’t stride out like you usually do … instead take small, mincing steps.”

  Ryana glanced over at her friend. Mira didn’t look as if she was struggling with her attire at all. A long black gown hugged her curvaceous form as she mounted the steps with ease. High-necked and slinky, Mira’s gown fell straight to the ground without all the layers of material that Ryana was struggling with. Mira’s thick black hair, which she usually wore loose, was piled on top of her head.

  “You talk as if that’s easy,” Ryana grumbled. She wasn’t usually beset with envy for other women, yet she was now. Mira—who was Asher’s consort, and these days trained the apprentice enchanters in combat—looked an exotic beauty in that gown. Usually dressed in black hunting leathers, it was a dramatic change for her.