by Jayne Castel
His touch brought her over the edge again, and she cried out, her body shaking from the pleasure that pulsed through her. Ryana sagged back against him—but he wasn’t done yet either. Shifting her forward so she could brace herself against the wall, he pulled her hips back and began to take her in slow deep thrusts.
Ryana gasped. The feel of his strength, thrusting into her, consumed her. She pushed back against him, her legs trembling. Coupling had never been like this for her, not even at its best. She’d never felt so vulnerable, so wild, so free.
When he reached his own peak, his body shuddering from the force of it, she sobbed his name.
Afterward they collapsed upon the room’s sleeping pallet and lay together, limbs tangled.
Ryana rested against his chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart. Her wits felt completely scattered in the aftermath—as if she’d been torn apart and put together again.
Tracing her fingers over his broad chest, she noticed a tattoo—an inked line of cursive writing upon his ribs.
“Vadaras, Onoras, Leadalas,” Ryana murmured, reading the words aloud without understanding them.”
“In the common tongue it means ‘Valor, Honor, Loyalty’,” Elias replied. “It’s the Anthor military motto.” He paused here, and glancing up, Ryana saw the edges of his mouth lift. “I got it when I was sixteen … after a night on the ale.”
Ryana smiled. “Do I detect a note of regret there?”
He snorted. “Not really … only, at that age life is simpler. For years, I lived by those words.”
“And now?”
A pause stretched out, before Elias replied. “Now … I don’t think that a man’s purpose in life can be summed up by a motto.”
He fell silent then, and Ryana didn’t speak either. Instead, she buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder and breathed him in, content to let the conversation lapse.
As he lay there, Elias gently stroked her hair, his fingers sliding through the heavy waves. Outdoors, voices filtered up from the street below. A couple was arguing. She was in tears, and he was belligerent.
Ryana listened to it, a little of her contentment ebbing.
Happiness was a rare thing. She knew her friends had found it—Lilia and Dain, and Mira and Asher—but she didn’t think she ever would.
For one thing, she had a habit of giving her heart to the wrong men.
Releasing a soft sigh, she traced the patterns of hair on Elias’s chest. She didn’t want this moment to end, yet already reality was seeping in, like the dawn light filtering through the cracks in the shutters.
Sadness rose within her, casting a shadow over the room.
All her worst decisions in life had been the result of reckless impulse. She’d wanted Elias, had burned for him. At the end of their dicing game, the thought of not lying to him had filled her with despair.
But, in the aftermath, she realized it was a mistake.
She could pretend otherwise, but the fact was that she’d given more than her body to him. The Shadows curse her, she actually cared about the man.
Ryana’s throat constricted as the realization settled in a cold blanket.
The reality was that they came from different worlds and were about as ill-suited as two people could be. Soon Elias would finish his peace negotiations and ride from this city without a backward glance.
It had been lust for him. He’d been honest about that.
The specter of loneliness rose then, constricting her ribs.
Like it or not, she’d soon be back where she started: alone and restless, with a void within her that she had no idea how to fill.
16
Dark Intent
A GRIN SPREAD across Gael’s face.
Bending close to the parchment, he reread the line he’d just translated. He needed to make sure he’d got the details right. There they were, the words scrawled in a sloping style that made them hard to read, the ink faded with age.
Excitement pounded through Gael. Reaching out, he traced the words before him with a fingertip.
The words that spoke of Stynix.
Valgarth, The Shadow King, hadn’t needed to use it, for as a wielder of both the Light and the Dark, he was powerful enough. However, he’d studied at length for a way to create an invincible enchanter bodyguard. Stynix had long been known for its ability to enhance an enchanter’s powers. Unfortunately though, the mineral, mined deep in the Black Mountains to the north of Rithmar, was dangerous. You only had to take it a couple of times and you’d start bleeding from the nose. If you kept taking it, you usually choked to death on your own blood.
“Finally,” Gael whispered to Shade, his voice catching. The grey rat sat upon his shoulder, her long tail tickling his neck. “Weeks and weeks of searching … I was beginning to think Irana lied to me.”
I told you she hadn’t, the rat whispered in his head.
“Aye, and you were right,” Gael admitted. “However, her death was a major setback.”
Last winter Gael had approached Rithmar’s new High Enchanter. He’d heard she was frustrated by the weakening of the Order and sensed he’d found an ally. He’d been right. Ambitious and ruthless, Irana had been eager to join him. Together, they’d lift the Order of Light and Darkness to greatness.
Unlike Gael, Irana had been fluent in the old tongue and had agreed to translate the parchments he’d found. After a few weeks she’d sent word to him in Dûn Maras, letting him know she’d discovered how to utilize Stynix effectively and that she would explain all when they next met.
It was a pity she lost the Stynix she’d collected for us, Shade continued, her voice soft and sibilant. I wonder what King Nathan did with it?
Gael frowned. Indeed, Irana had made a special trip up to the northern city of Errad to procure the mineral. It had been forbidden to mine Stynix for the past decades, but she’d managed to get hold of some. On the way back to The Royal City, other enchanters of the Order attacked her on the road and killed her.
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied, a sour edge to his voice. “As long as he doesn’t suspect I was working with Irana.”
Gael had already been in The Royal City, awaiting Irana’s return, when he’d heard of her death. He’d acted swiftly, cloaking himself in shadow and stealing into Irana’s study, to take back his parchments. He’d been bitterly disappointed to see that she’d left no written translation. Not only that, but he’d been forced to go into the mines of the Black Mountains to obtain a sack of Stynix for himself. The whole mess had put him back months.
So what does it say? Shade pressed, her whiskers twitching. How did Valgarth manage to utilize the mineral without killing all his enchanters?
“He discovered that mixing Stynix with equal parts of Thrace would neutralize the dangerous side-effects of the mineral without reducing its enhancement,” Gael replied, scratching his chin.
Thrace … that shouldn’t be difficult to find.
Gael leaned back in his chair and thought hard. If he remembered correctly, the mineral—mined in the Shadefells—was most commonly used in paint. Shade was right; it wasn’t rare. “Aye,” he murmured. “There’s sure to be a mineral merchant in Veldoras who stocks it. I’ll go out this afternoon and pick some up.”
Tucking the parchments back into their box and locking it tightly, Gael lifted Shade off his shoulder and placed her on the desk. Rising to his feet, he shrugged out his shoulders, which were knotted after sitting hunched over for hours.
Another wide smile stretched Gael’s face. His physical discomfort no longer bothered him, not when he’d found the answers he’d been seeking.
“It’s done.” He glanced down, meeting Shade’s crimson gaze. Then he reached out a hand so that the rat ran up his arm. “Come … a find this great needs to be shared.”
Saskia was leading the enchanters of the Light through their paces when Gael emerged into the courtyard. Some of them possessed surprising speed or flair.
Casting a glance across to whe
re those of the Dark stood nearby, watching the drills, Gael noted that their expressions were no longer mutinous.
The first few days of training had nearly driven him mad, but yesterday they’d had a breakthrough. He’d thought about what these people really wanted—what he could give them. They respected their High Enchanter, but they grew increasingly frustrated with the hate and distrust heaped upon them by the citizens of Veldoras. If anything, the Anthor occupation had turned the populace even further against them, as if they were somehow to blame. It had made many of the Order bitter.
They owed the folk of this city nothing.
Gael had shown them the promise of a different future. He spoke of Reoul of Anthor’s plans for the Order. Under Gael’s tutelage they could become great again. Those who spat at them in the street would be punished. When they were ready, they would be invited to sit on the king’s council. They would have a say in the future of this kingdom.
They were audacious, yet empty promises—Reoul had said nothing of such things—but Gael knew he had to be bold. He had to give these enchanters something to work toward. They cared nothing for the glory of Anthor, only their own future.
It was understandable. Most folk were like that.
Even Marik and Tena wore smiles on their faces this morning as they watched a column of fire roar into the sky. One of the enchanters had just gathered the Light from a lantern that hung under the portico.
The men and women looking on cheered at the impressive display.
Gael didn’t join them. Once these enchanters got a taste of Stynix, this show would look pathetic. Those of the Light would be able to set a city alight, would be able to turn the very air into fire.
They were coming to the end of the practice session, and so Gael waited, watching as Saskia sent the enchanters on their way.
A few of them shot Gael curious looks. Shade fascinated them. Few enchanters in Veldoras over the past years had been powerful enough to draw a familiar to them.
When Saskia was finally alone, Gael strolled over to her.
The Anthor enchanter turned to him. As ever, her gaze was shuttered. Unlike the enchanters of this House, Saskia hadn’t warmed to him at all. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “Weren’t you supposed to be training those of the Dark?”
Gael ignored her hostile greeting and smiled. “We train at first light when the shadows are still deep. I’ve spent the rest of the morning studying.”
She scowled. “You’re secretive about those parchments from Dûn Maras. I’m beginning to think it’s all a ruse … that you don’t have anything of worth to share with us.”
Tell her, Shade urged. Prove your worth.
Gael stepped close to Saskia, taking hold of her arm and steering her toward the eastern side of the courtyard, where ivy climbed up a damp wall. “You’re wrong,” he told her, still smiling. “I have discovered Valgarth’s secret … I know how he made the enchanters who followed him almost as powerful as him.”
Saskia extricated her arm from his grip. She didn’t look impressed. “I thought you’d already learned that?”
“Aye … but there were a few details I had to be sure of,” he replied smoothly. “Do you want to hear this, or not?”
“I’m all ears,” she drawled.
“He used Stynix.”
Saskia stiffened, her gaze hardening. “You know it’s a poison?”
“I’ve discovered how to use it so that no enchanter will come to any harm.”
“How?”
Gael cocked his head. “I think I’ll keep those details to myself … for now.”
Saskia scowled once more. “And those parchments you found contain such information?” Distrust emanated from her now.
“Aye … it’s written in Valgarth’s own hand. Stynix will transform even the least able enchanter into something to be feared. We will give Reoul a legion of enchanters with the ability to crush those of Rithmar.”
A beat of silence passed between them. When Saskia replied, her voice was harsh. “You do realize its use is forbidden?”
Gael grinned. “Reoul can bend the rules for us.”
“The king doesn’t want to invade the north yet. We need to strengthen our hold on Thûn first.”
Put her right, came Shade’s indignant whisper. Put the woman in her place.
“He’s only cautious because he lacks enchanters to rival those of Rithmar,” Gael countered. “Once we give him a demonstration, he’ll be willing to proceed.”
Saskia didn’t answer. Gael sensed she resented him and was angry that Reoul had agreed to all of this. Until he turned up, she’d been his advisor for everything regarding enchantment. “And what of the girl?” she snapped. “Have you forgotten Ninia of Thûn?”
“The king’s son has been sent to dispatch her, has he not?”
Saskia’s full mouth twisted. “Aye … but no word of her death has reached us. Maybe Prince Elias has failed?”
“It doesn’t matter if he has,” Gael countered, irritation rising. One young woman wouldn’t thwart him. “The girl is still largely untrained,” he pointed out. “She’ll be no match for the combined might of the Houses of Mirrar Rock and Veldoras. All the more reason to move quickly.”
Behind the ivy-covered wall, Mysandra, High Enchanter of Veldoras’s House of Light and Darkness, listened to the conversation. Gael and Saskia’s voices were low, yet they were incautious. Neither of them realized that her small walled garden sat behind the main courtyard.
She’d heard every word of their exchange.
Waiting until Gael and Saskia ended their conversation and moved away, Mysandra let out a long, measured breath.
Hands clenching by her sides, she attempted to rein in the alarm that pulsed through her. She’d suspected Gael was up to something from the moment he’d first entered her study, and he’d just confirmed her fears. She hadn’t believed him when he’d told her those old parchments in his room were training texts. She’d been planning on breaking into his chamber and having a look for herself, but he’d just saved her the trouble.
Although she wished he’d revealed exactly how he was planning to neutralize the dangerous side-effects of Stynix.
Turning on her heel, Mysandra swept from her garden, in between rows of lavender and daisies. Indoors, she retrieved her cloak. In her haste, her hands fumbled as she tied it around her throat. Made of light wool and dyed a dull-grey, it made her blend in with the other middle-aged ladies of The City of Tides. Her white robes drew unwelcome attention, especially in times like these.
Some folk believed the enchanters of Veldoras to be in league with the enemy.
Mysandra’s belly clenched at the thought. If she didn’t do something, they soon would be.
Bowing her head, she hurried up the squalid alleyway, away from the House of Light and Darkness.
Noon was approaching and warm light filtered down onto the cobbled streets of Veldoras. Mysandra had been enjoying the feel of the sun on her face in her garden earlier before overhearing Gael and Saskia. However, all thoughts of relaxing in the warmth fled now.
She had an urgent task to complete.
Leaving the slums behind, she crossed the humpbacked Bridge of the North Wind. The tide was out and mudlarks—small children who combed the river bed for coins—were up to their knees in river silt. There were more of them these days, orphans whose parents had died during the siege.
Anthor soldiers patrolled the bridge, their black armor and steel blades gleaming. One or two of the soldiers cast her a curious glance as she passed. Mysandra didn’t acknowledge them. As far as she was aware, the High Enchanter was still allowed to walk the streets of the city without an escort, plus, she’d hidden her robes in a deliberate attempt to blend in.
“Hey you!”
Mysandra’s heart leaped, and she skidded to a halt. Dread clamped down on her throat as she glanced back over her shoulder. However, the soldier who’d called out wasn’t looking in her direction. He was striding towar
d a young man on The Spiral Way who was making an obscene gesture at him.
The youth ran off, and the soldier broke into a sprint, giving chase.
Mysandra’s breath gusted out of her. Pulse racing, she turned and continued on her way. Her nerves were getting the better of her now. Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades underneath her heavy robes. She wished the day wasn’t so warm.
A short while later she reached a wide street overhung with awnings. By this stage, Mysandra was out of breath, both from panic and exertion. She’d put on a lot of weight over the last few years and didn’t usually take brisk walks.
A crowd thronged the thoroughfare, and the chatter of voices echoed off the stone walls of the surrounding buildings. This was the Street of Iron, Silk, and Oak—where many of the city’s artisans resided. Mysandra passed a row of shopfronts, where carpenters, smiths, and tailors all worked. But she wasn’t looking for one of them. She didn’t halt until she reached the end of the street, where a goshawk scribe plied his trade.
He was a tall, angular man hunched over a rickety wooden table. Behind him perched a row of goshawks. They were small birds of prey, with mackerel patterns on their necks and breasts, and grey or brown wings. Each wore a tiny collar.
Mysandra stopped before the scribe and struggled to recover her breath.
“How much to send an urgent message to The Royal City of Rithmar?” she panted. “With your swiftest bird.”
He inclined his head, keen gaze narrowing. Mysandra tensed and fought the urge to adjust her cloak. Hopefully, it hid her white robes. “One gold talent,” he eventually drawled.
It was extortionate, yet Mysandra didn’t have time to haggle. Perhaps the war had raised the price. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t delay. Gael was planning on using Stynix-enhanced enchanters to wage war against Rithmar, and Reoul of Anthor’s son had been sent to kill the Thûn heiress.
Gael didn’t know anything of Mysandra’s history. Although she’d spent the past twenty years in Veldoras, she hailed from The Royal City.
