The Rogue Trilogy

by Elizabeth Carlton

  “Do not worry about that. Just keep Patchi informed like you have, and tell no one of my return.”

  She nodded as he pulled away, her hands sliding from his chest to hang limp at her sides. “Is there anything more I can do?”

  Jaycent turned and glanced down the hall that led to the front of the throne room. “Aye. Lock that closet door, will you? I’d rather its contents stay put.”

  Neena gave a resolute nod and Jaycent turned to leave.

  “You remind me more of your father every day,” she stated softly. The prince froze, his ears flicking back to face her. He turned once to offer a subtle smile, and then he disappeared into a back corridor where the narrow entrance to the throne’s dais stood.

  * * * * *

  Inside the throne room, Shadow lounged upon the throne, the general bowing at his feet. Rayhan glared up at him through swollen eyes, his kneel forced by two heavily armed guards pressing hard against his weary shoulders.

  Hours of torture had worn him down to this, though the illusionist knew his prisoner was merely waiting for his captors to make one mistake. It was a spirit Shadow desired to have on his side, but Rayhan Mendeley would never relent to such a thing.

  A pity, but not a serious loss. Shadow held Diego’s horn against the torchlight as he admired its ebon shine. The magical conduit was worth more than ten generals in his eyes.

  “Black as my soul,” the illusionist mused.

  Kotu, who stood at his right hand, bowed his head in respect. “A fitting trophy for a worthy wielder.”

  Rayhan grunted in blatant disagreement, to which Shadow arched an amused brow. “You do not share his sentiment, General?”

  “You stole Diego’s power with all the disgusting shame of a coward. You are as far from worthy as one can be.”

  Kotu bristled, his fingers flexed with the yearning to strike his hated superior. “King Shadow, if it pleases you, I’d like to persuade him to have a change of heart.” He slid his palm over the pommel of his sword.

  “As entertaining as that would be, Kotu, our prisoner has made it clear his fealty to the kingdom’s former prince is unshakable. Not by death, nor torture, nor any level of threat.” Shadow ran his fingers across the smooth horn in his hands, feeling its strength hum beneath his fingertips. “And I am growing weary of your remarks, General.”

  “Yet you request them all the same,” Rayhan winced as the soldiers shoved him into a deeper bow that left him kneeling awkwardly with his nose barely a foot off the floor.

  From that angle, he noticed a shadow behind the dais. Within the narrow archway that hid a door to the throne poked the tip of a leather boot. A spark of hope struck him as he remembered Shadow’s informants had mentioned the gypsies had stolen prisoners from the dungeons below. If they had come to retrieve Diego’s horn, he would do everything in his power to distract the enemy and give them a chance to strike.

  Rayhan lifted his head in another sweep of defiance. “And you, Kotu,” the general egged, “you dishonor yourself by licking this twisted creature’s boots and calling him your king.”

  Kotu unsheathed his blade with every intention of cleaving Rayhan in two, but Shadow threw his arm out, forcing the soldier to stop. He rose from the throne and bent down before the general where he curled his fist around the rahee’s tunic. Jerking him to his feet, the two met eyes.

  “Twisted though I may be, rahee, it does not discredit my cunning. Throughout the years, my agents have gained your trust, killed your king and queen, and formed an army right under your nose. So for all the hot air you spout, all we see is a bitter loser unable to accept a clever mind triumphed over your puny, chivalric ideals.”

  “Triumph? A rather premature declaration, don’t you think?” Rayhan spat. “Gypsies are still sending your army in circles as they liberate prisoners and cause chaos within the streets. That hardly sounds like a victory.”

  “A final attempt to fight an enemy too mighty to purge from their streets,” the illusionist countered. “The rahee’s hopes are fading, General Mendeley. Its essence is extinguished with every brutal punishment we serve in retaliation for their resistance. Not even your prince dares to return.”

  “Is that so?” Rayhan’s ears rose in shock at the sound of Jaycent’s voice. Two soldiers charged with axe and spear raised toward the prince only to come flying back as two blue orbs crashed into their chests and sent them skidding across the marble floor.

  “Kotu,” Shadow roared.

  Heeding his master’s call, Kotu spun on his heels, his eyes widening in surprise as Jaycent drew Lumiere, its edges limed in the same bright blue light as the magical orbs.

  The prince closed the distance between them, his blade leading with a diagonal slash that set the traitor back on his heels. They danced together, their blades clashing in vicious, ringing combat.

  Kotu was decent with a sword, his technical prowess balanced with a quickness that kept his opponents on their guard. But Jaycent had grown up under Rayhan’s private tutelage since he was old enough to wield a sword.

  The prince swept his opponent’s thrusts harmlessly wide and pressed forward with a relentless series of cuts and jabs that forced Kotu’s heels onto the lip of the dais. The soldier teetered back, losing his balance, and Jaycent finished the fight with a clean stab into the side of the traitor’s knee, severing tendons.

  Kotu fell onto his back, his sword sliding out of reach as he lay howling with pain. The prince kicked him onto his stomach and tore the soldier’s Achilles tendon, wanting him to suffer.

  Then his searing blue eyes fixed on Shadow who watched him from ten feet away, the tip of Diego’s horn pointed against the hollow of Rayhan’s neck. Soldiers that stood guard along the columns now guarded all the entryways while six others closed in around the former prince and their new master.

  “So you found the courage to return,” Shadow smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. “I’m glad. You are just in time to say goodbye to your precious general.”

  “Let him go,” the prince demanded. Lumiere flared with anger, and Rayhan watched as Jaycent’s veins took on a subtle glow as licks of magic gathered in his free palm.

  “My, my, such high demands for someone who is outnumbered and surrounded,” Shadow mused.

  “You are not the only one with allies in hidden places, Shadow,” Jaycent bluffed.

  The illusionist’s eyes narrowed and Jaycent could feel his magic trying to pry though the mental barrier Filly had helped him create. On a clever whim, the prince loosened the wall just enough to let Shadow in on fake images of gypsies slipping through castle corridors. He followed them up with the memory of Zefeer out cold inside closet in hopes to seal the ruse. Then he pushed Shadow’s prying consciousness from his mind and took a step back, shaking his head. “Enough with your old tricks.”

  Jaycent saw the fury cloud Shadow’s expression as he contemplated the warning he had seen inside His Highness’ head. The fatal threat stirred the beast inside the illusionist’s black heart.

  He placed his hand over Rayhan’s eyes and began to mutter under his breath until the general squirmed and roared against the veil of nightmares he had placed over the rahee’s consciousness.

  “No!” Jaycent started toward the illusionist, ready to attack.

  Shadow pulled Rayhan’s head back, Diego’s horn poised like a stake over his neck. Jaycent’s boots turned to stone, his momentum frozen as he watched his sworn enemy tear into his cousin’s throat. He then let his prisoner go, watching with smug satisfaction as he collapsed onto his knees, his hand cupping his neck as his lifeblood spilled through his fingers.

  A haze clouded Rayhan’s eyes as weakness drew him down on one hand, and a terrible gurgle spouted from his lips. Time slowed for Jaycent, that terrible scene seared into his memory.

  He charged with reckless abandon and Shadow grinned, holding Diego’s horn in front of him with both hands as he blocked against the prince’s strike. Lumiere exploding into a bright flare of light as it col
lided against Diego’s horn.

  The illusionist stumbled back, his eyes blinking against the blindness brought on by Lumiere’s flash. Yanking his sword from his hip, he held it in a defensive cross with Diego’s horn.

  Jaycent came upon him, his blade a frenzy of short, quick cuts that forced the illusionist to work both horn and blade independently in a series of efficient parries. The prince’s footwork was impressive, his one-handed style swift and graceful as it sought every potential gap in Shadow’s defense.

  But where Jaycent’s technique was clouded with vengeance, Shadow’s mind was clear and focused. He drew Jaycent around the thick columns, calling upon his innate powers to conjure false images of himself behind or in front of the prince each time he circled out of sight.

  It was the same style he had used against Jaycent’s ancestor centuries ago. The prince dove into a forward roll just as two identical blades cut the air where his neck once stood.

  One of the traitors rushed to attack the prince before he could get his feet back under him, incurring Shadow’s fury. Calling upon the element bound to his blue blade, he turned the floor beneath the soldier to water, dropping him into the levels below with a cry.

  “Do not interfere in this fight!” the illusionist warned as he pursued the prince’s desperate retreat.

  Jaycent was back on his feet and turned to meet his enemy just as Shadow drew upon him, flanked by two replicas of himself. He could feel Lumiere’s excitement surging through his veins, its sentience urging him to drive his blade into the marble floor.

  The prince didn’t stop to contemplate, his hand already flipping the hilt as his free palm joined its grip. Muttering words he’d never heard before beneath his breath, the prince dropped to his knees and thrusted Lumiere’s tip into the floor.

  The tile shattered beneath the sword’s touch and a field of magic extended beyond it, engulfing the floor in which Shadow stood. Immediately, his illusions dissipated, leaving only the real foe standing before him. Jaycent yanked his sword from the ground, ducking just in time to miss the illusionist’s double slice.

  With a swift push of his heel, Jaycent dove into Shadow, forcing him to the ground. Knee on his chest, Jaycent slammed the butt of his hilt into Shadow’s left wrist, loosening the blue sword from his grip. The prince then used Lumiere to swat the blade out of reach and used his free hand to strike Shadow in the jaw.

  The illusionist used all of his weight to roll hard to the left, his right arm hooking around the prince and pushing him onto his back. The pale blue of Jaycent’s eyes met the hollow depths of Shadow’s black gaze and he realized with utter horror his mistake.

  With both arms pinned beneath Shadow’s knees, all Jaycent had was his magic. As his lips muttered a desperate cast, he saw Diego’s horn, still dripping with the blood of his cousin, rise up over his chest, and he knew the spell wouldn’t leave his mouth quick enough.

  He cried out in pain as Diego’s horn dug into his chest, its deadly tip driving through muscle and tissue as it tore through his shoulder. Though he fought to hold it tight, he could sense Lumiere slip out of his fingers.

  The last he heard was Shadow’s voice, but even it seemed muffled as the world around him faded.

  * * * * *

  Patchi slammed his fist against the stone panel above his head, feeling it crack and shift as years of dirt and grime that had worked between its cracks loosened. Using his legs for leverage, he pushed the tile free, sliding it aside as he vaulted out of the tunnel.

  A quick glance around told him he was inside a tack room within the royal stables. He slid the tile back into place and shouldered up next to the door where he peered between the wooden boards to survey the interior.

  Horses stood restless inside their stalls. Their ears were pressed back and many stomped their hooves and pawed their doors. Levee’s call had reached them. The gypsy could feel it.

  Although his re’shahna half suppressed the urge, he could feel Levee’s equine message in his bones. The horses knew danger was afoot. The image of the one with the dark hair and empty eyes had been planted into their minds as the enemy who had brought the night mares to this place and killed their companions.

  “Well done, Melah,” Patchi congratulated. The gypsy would not have to rally the horses’ aid. They were already chomping at the bit to fight.

  He pushed through the door and walked swiftly down the line of stalls, sliding back the latches that held them inside. The horses shoved through their doors and watched eagerly as the gypsy released their brethren one by one.

  Neighs pierced the air, the horses impatient for the gypsy to open the stable’s main doors.

  “Patience,” he called to them in the old tongue. His eyes fell upon the dividing door that separated the royal steeds from the rest. He tugged at its latch, noting it was locked, and crouched to get a better look.

  A single bolt lock, simple enough for his expertise. Digging into his pouch, the gypsy pulled out a pick which he poked inside the keyhole. Touch guided him through the mechanism until he popped the latch, and with a flick of his hand the door slid open.

  Inside, two faces poked out from a pair of large stalls, their intelligent gaze resting upon the gypsy.

  “I know I am not the face you wanted to see,” the gypsy opened both doors and watched with respect as Siabra and Diego stepped out into the open, their tails flicking with agitation. “Your companions are inside the palace. I am here to help you help them, but I ask you to work alongside me this once.”

  Siabra stomped one of her cloven hooves, sending a subtle tremor through the earth, and nodded. Patchi knew the strength of a unicorn’s bond. They would give everything they had to protect the rahee connected to them.

  “And you, Diego,” the gypsy swept a hand across the mighty stallion’s silk black neck, feeling the muscles twitching beneath his palm. “There is something of yours we must retrieve.”

  Patchi stepped forward, the two unicorns at his side. “Come with me,” he bid. “Let us take back what is ours.”

  They marched together to the entrance of the stable, the other horses falling in step behind them. Patchi placed his hands on the wooden bar, pausing for a moment as he steeled his focus.

  It had been a long time since he’d embraced his four-legged form. Long before Tobi, Patchi had chosen the tough and often lonely responsibility of being an immortal guardian. Now it was time he embraced the gift Skalabur had given him, and rescue the prince their people needed. He lifted the bar with a grunt and shoved the doors open.

  Then Patchi leapt from two feet onto four as his body shifted into the form of a pinto unicorn stallion. The sound of hoof beats became deafening as the herd spilled out like water behind him. Together, they stampeded through the castle grounds.

  Patchi whinnied a rallying cry that was echoed by his hooved allies. The cry alarmed the soldiers nearby and they dove out of the way just in time to avoid being trampled. As one, the herd raged through the palace gates and up the steps, Siabra’s hooves sending tremors that cracked solid stone.

  Diego, mute to the common tongue but still bristling with strength, called the war stallions to him with a mighty neigh and they drove their hooves into the doors of the palace.

  Down it came with a splintering crash, its pieces crumbling beneath hundreds of thundering hooves. Maids, soldiers, and mimics scrambled for safety, their screams blending with the neighs echoing through the corridors.

  The horses’ battle cries didn’t go unrequited. Hungry for blood, the night mares gladly answered. Forays broke out as they rushed out of the courtyard and into the northern halls to engage the horses.

  Many broke off from the stampede where they were forced to fight, but others kept galloping on, led by a pinto whose deep brown eyes were fixed on the throne room ahead. His breath came out in short, loud snorts, a golden kunah thumping against his muscular breast.

  He skidded around the corner through the open doors, his hooves sliding against the slick floor. The
y scuffed the marble as Patchi skidded to a stop, his attention falling upon the black robed illusionist bowing over a wounded rahee.

  Shadow looked up, and a familiar grin wrapped around his lips when he saw the brown patch over the horse’s left eye. He began to mutter a spell under his breath when the stallion charged, colliding into him. Patchi’s sharp hooves rained down upon the illusionist, beating him time and time again, but their strikes appeared to do little damage.

  Stone skin. It was one of the oldest war spells in the book. Still, Patchi’s kicks kept Shadow pinned while Siabra bound past them and scooped Diego’s horn up in her teeth.

  The gypsy couldn’t kill the illusionist. Not as long as unicorn blood ran through his veins. But Lumiere could, and he would do everything in his power to keep Shadow away from the deadly sword.

  He nipped and kicked at the illusionist until Diego could drag the prince away. Siabra worked with the black stallion, using her neck to help drape Jaycent across his companion’s back. Then Diego made for the door where he followed an open route formed by the battling horses.

  Wheeling away from Shadow, the gypsy desperately scanned the room in search of Lumiere when a voice pierced his ears.

  “Not so fast, Patchi Thunderhoof,” Shadow climbed to his feet and a jolt of magic shot into the pinto’s withers. His whinny melded into a painful cry as Patchi shifted back into his re’shahna form. Hooves morphed into hands and feet that scratched against the floor as his body was pulled toward the powerful illusionist.

  “Haven’t you learned?” Shadow cackled. “You saw Bresan T’ahnya fall. Did you not understand the same would happen here? Or did you think through the centuries you had somehow found a way to best me?

  The illusionist continued to mock the gypsy as he dragged him closer, thinking to dispose of him just as easily as he had Nevaharday’s prince. Patchi sputtered as he was pulled through a pool of blood, then over the lifeless body of Rayhan Mendeley.

  Yet through the awful drag, the gypsy kept his wits about him, and when the pearlescent gleam of Lumiere caught his eye, he angled his body toward the weapon with a flailing roll. Sleight of hand had the gypsy tucking the blade under his breast, feigning greater pain than he felt as he writhed into a ball over the blunt side of the blade.