Resurrection (The Raven Bringer Saga Book 1)

by C. A. McHugh

  “A summoning.” He squeezed his eyes shut, his lips moving in silence. It could’ve been a prayer to a deity or a counter spell, but it didn’t stop Ceryst from partially drawing his sword as a precaution. He knew what needed to be done if Raimel couldn’t stay in control.

  His friend’s fingers arched into claws and pressed against his scalp. His lips moved even faster than the ragged breaths he drew. The air around them crackled with energy, both good and evil.

  Ceryst drew his sword out a few more inches, preparing to knock Raimel out before he revealed his darker nature. But by some small miracle of the goddess, his friend’s lips stopped moving, and he drew in a calm breath. When he opened his eyes, they remained the same warm brown they usually were.

  “Relax, Ceryst. I have it under control.” He stood, his knees wobbling at first, and wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand. “That was a new one.”

  He let his sword slide back into the scabbard. “Meaning?”

  “It wasn’t you know who, if that’s what you want to know. It was a woman.” Raimel stumbled to the end of the staircase to peer out into the crowds. “At least, that’s what it sounded like. She was powerful, but there was something very familiar about her.”

  “Are you going to talk in riddles, or are you going to give me a straight answer?”

  His brows knitted together like he was trying to make sense of everything that had just happened. “She was new, and yet her spell seemed to pulsate with the same aura as his.”

  Ceryst gritted his teeth, not liking where this was going. “An apprentice?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  Another curse fell from his lips. “Is it just me, or do you attract trouble?”

  “Hey, if it wasn’t for me—”

  “I would’ve died a long time ago. I know.” He pulled his hood down low to cover his face. “The procession is leaving. Let’s get to the palace before the king sends out his guard to find us.”

  Raimel darted ahead of him and stopped him. “Whoa! Wait a minute. Are you seriously thinking about going there?”

  “You said it yourself. A royal summons.”

  “I was only joking.” He ran his hand over his hair and looked around everywhere but at Ceryst. “How are you planning to get in there?”

  “I was going to suggest you, but—”

  “Don’t you dare suggest it. I’m done for the day.”

  “If you’d let me finish, I was about to say that I know another way.”

  Raimel took a step back, blinking in surprise. “You do?”

  Ceryst nodded once and grabbed a fistful of Raimel’s threadbare cloak. Even though he wanted to yank on it hard enough to shut up the stream of endless questions, the condition of the garment tempered his irritability and reminded him of all that they’d suffered through together. If they could clear their names, then maybe Aerrin would at least thank them with new clothes. He released the cloak so he wouldn’t risk tearing it. “Follow me.”

  Instead of following the flood of people out the main doors, Ceryst led Raimel to a side chapel protected by an iron gate adorned with the royal crest.

  Raimel balked. “The king’s chapel? You have some balls coming here.”

  “Maybe, but I also have a key.” He removed the signet ring he’d worn since the day he swore an oath to protect the royal family. After they’d arrested him, he’d hidden it under his shirt on a leather cord that hung from his neck, waiting for the moment when he could use it again.

  “That’s a ring, not a key,” Raimel said with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

  “Define key.” As the Knight Protector, he’d had unlimited access to the royal family. The signet ring given to him could unlock doors that were sealed for others. He slid it on his finger and held his breath, praying to Mariliel the magic still worked after all these years. The subtle click of the lock answered him, and he exhaled.

  “What the—?”

  Ceryst silenced his friend by pushing him into the chapel and locking the gate behind him. If anyone saw them enter, he wanted to make sure they’d have a hard time retrieving them. “Keep moving.”

  Raimel fell into step behind him. In blissful silence, at that. Maybe the goddess had heard his prayers.

  Ceryst stuck to the deep shadows and moved toward the hidden door behind the gilded statue of the goddess. For centuries, only members of the royal family were permitted to worship here. But, if there was a siege or an attack on the temple, they needed to have an emergency exit. He ran his hand along the pink marble panels that lined the back wall of the chapel, searching for the golden lion. When he found it, he pressed his ring to it and was rewarded by another faint click.

  Raimel arched a bow. “How many doors can you open with that thing?”

  “Just the important ones.” He grabbed a votive from the altar and waved Raimel into the dark staircase that would take them under the streets and into the ancient labyrinth of tunnels under the city.

  “Wait a minute.” Raimel dug in his heels at the bottom of the staircase. “We both know what kind of trouble we’re risking if we go down here.”

  “And we both know what kind of trouble we’re in if we don’t do as the king commands.”

  “I’m not worried about Aerrin. I’m worried about the other king.”

  The tunnels were once abandoned mine shafts, but over the centuries, they’d become the home of the thieves, criminals, and ne’er-do-wells of the city. The man who ruled them all was known simply as the King of Thieves. No one knew his real name, or if they did, they didn’t speak of it. The current king had somehow defied the odds and reigned for the last twenty years—a feat none of his predecessors had achieved thanks to the constant uprisings and assassinations that plagued the group.

  Thankfully, Raimel knew enough about the underworld to steer them away from trouble. Or at least, talk their way out of it. He nudged Ceryst forward and whispered, “Fine. Keep your mouth shut, and with any luck, we can pass through without having to pay tribute to him.”

  As they made their way to the palace, Raimel was more silent than the rats that roamed the passages. The dim light from the small candle provided just enough light to decipher the directional markings etched on the stone walls. It had been years since he’d taken the path to the palace, but once he got started, the directions revived like an old memory. Left at the busty wench. Right at the ship with full sails. Another right at the lion’s head. He navigated the twists and turns until he came to an iron door with a heavy coat of rust.

  Just as he’d suspected. The secret entrance to the palace had been forgotten long ago.

  Raimel inched toward him, his movements tight as though he expected a hoard of thieves to jump out of the shadows at any moment. “Dead end?”

  “Scared?” He poked his friend and was rewarded with a yelp.

  “Damn it, Ceryst!”

  He laughed, the sound strange to his ears and rough from little use. “I think they’d be more afraid of you.”

  Raimel responded with a wry half-smile. “So if we’re attacked?”

  “Don’t hold anything back.” Ceryst pressed his ring to the lock on the door. The mechanisms inside groaned in protest, but at last, surrendered. “Help me with this door.”

  It took the two of them nearly a minute of tugging on the door before they got it to move an inch. But once the rust was broken, the door resisted them less.

  Note to self: grab some oil for the hinges on the way out.

  They opened it far enough to slip into a new set of tunnels and stairs. Ceryst pulled the door closed and locked it. The goddess help the kingdom if the thieves found their way into the palace.

  Raimel ran his hand over the smooth bricks that lined the staircase. “Where are we?”

  Ceryst grinned and lit a torch with the dying candle. “Welcome to the palace, Raimel.”

  ***

  Aerrin’s foul mood lingered all the way to the palace. His first royal ceremony, and it had been ruined. Betw
een the Knight Protector and the Captain of the Guard, he’d been asked nearly a dozen times what had happened. But one look of warning from Master Binnius sealed his lips. For some reason, the old man wanted him to remain silent about the assassination attempt, the demon, and the two strange men inside the inner sanctuary.

  I’ll have answers soon, one way or another.

  The only thing that calmed the fear drumming through his veins was the fact that Master Binnius seemed to know the men, whoever they were. More importantly, he trusted them. Why else would he have been so calm when everything turned to chaos?

  And I trust Master Binnius, as frustrating as he can be at times.

  Once they were inside the palace gates, Altos came alongside him. “Are you alright?”

  “Fine, fine. Just embarrassed.”

  His uncle’s lips twitched. “Why? That was probably one of the most dramatic cauldron lightings in decades. You’ll have a hard time topping it next year.”

  “Ha-ha,” he replied without an ounce of humor.

  “So what happened?”

  Aerrin cast a glance at the old mage, who responded with a subtle shake of his head. Time to come up with a good lie. “One of Master Binnius’s spells misfired.”

  There. If anyone would take the fall for the odd events of the day, let it be the one shrouded in secrets.

  Altos chuckled and went over to Binnius. “Got to be careful where you sling that magic, old man.”

  The master mage gave him a thin smile. “Yes, age has dulled my reflexes.”

  He banged his staff against the stone courtyard, and a spell sparked from his staff.

  Altos jumped back, his face a shade paler.

  “So sorry about that, Your Highness. You know how we old mages are. Losing control of all our processes.”

  Aerrin covered his mouth as he laughed. Binnius may have been old, but his wits were as sharp as ever, not to mention his power as a mage. Only a fool would take him on.

  Binnius bowed his head. “I believe you wished to speak to me in private, Your Majesty?”

  He squared his shoulders and adopted an authoritative air to his voice. “Yes, Master Binnius. This way.”

  Most of the guests headed toward the Great Hall for the feast that had been laid out by the palace staff, but Aerrin veered off to the west wing that housed his private quarters. Once they were safely inside the confines of his study, he unfastened the top two buttons of his tunic and said, “Time for the answers you promised me.”

  “Did I promise you answers, Your Majesty?” Binnius cocked a brow in defiance. “I believe I said we’d have a revealing conversation, but I never implicitly promised you anything.”

  Aerrin dug his fingers into his palms to keep from losing his temper. He may have been the king, but the mage was treating him like a child. “Need I remind you that we are not within the walls of the Academy?”

  “Such is the pity.” Binnius crossed the room to the decanter of fortified wine sitting on a tray. He lifted the crystal stopper and sniffed. “When did they stop watering down your sherry?”

  “Since I became a man who could stomach it at full strength.” He crossed his arms and dropped into his chair. “Now stop avoiding my questions.”

  “But you haven’t asked me any questions.” Binnius poured some sherry into the tiny glass and raised it in a toast. “To your first cauldron lighting.”

  “I grow weary of your games, old man.”

  “Who said I’m playing games?” But the smile on his face told Aerrin that he was enjoying the fact that he knew more about what happened than he was willing to share.

  The sound of stone scraping on stone interrupted them. Aerrin jumped and reached for his sword, but Master Binnius took an unhurried sip of his sherry.

  “So glad you could join us,” the mage said without looking in the direction of the noise. “You should try some of the sherry.”

  A section of the wooden bookshelves swung out into the room, and the two men from the temple appeared from behind it. “Thanks for the offer,” the one with the scar running along his scruffy cheek replied, “but I’ll have to pass.”

  “But I’ll gladly take a glass.” The younger man with long, straight brown hair bounded over to the decanter and poured a glass. Instead of sipping it, as polite society would dictate, he drained it all in one gulp. “Very nice. I might need to have seconds.”

  They were mocking him. Aerrin’s jaw tightened, and his frustration boiled over into anger. “Enough of this. I demand to know who these two men are, what they were doing inside the inner sanctuary, and why a demon was involved in all this.”

  The three men exchanged glances, and Master Binnius heaved a heavy sigh. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pendant he’d retrieved from the demon’s ashes. “Do you recognize this symbol?”

  Aerrin took the object from the mage and turned it over. Smudges of ash dulled the shiny black metal, but the engraving was still clear.

  A raven plucking the eyes out of a skull.

  His blood chilled, and he dropped the pendant as though it would burn him. “The Raven Bringer?”

  “So you have taught him a few important things,” the younger one quipped, his flippant tone contrasting with the seriousness on his face.

  “But he’s dead.” Aerrin jumped out of his chair and closed the space between him and Master Binnius. “Rythis destroyed him.”

  “That is what we were led to believe. After all, there was nothing left but scorch marks after their battle. But it seems we were wrong.” Binnius finished his sherry and returned his glass to the tray.

  Aerrin turned his attention to the man who’d knocked him down. He was dressed head to toe in black, and his dark hair was threaded with gray. He had to be at least a decade older than Altos, but his eyes appeared even more ancient than that. There was a weariness to him, like a man who’d witnessed too much in his lifetime. “Who are you?”

  The man looked to Binnius, but didn’t answer.

  “Answer me.”

  The man drew in a deep breath, his gaze never wavering from Aerrin’s. “I am Ceryst of Klone.”

  And for the second time in a matter of minutes, his world was upended. He backed away and drew his sword, but the blade trembled in his hand. “You killed my parents.”

  “No, it was the Raven Bringer who killed your parents,” the younger man replied. “Ceryst just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “You lie.” Aerrin stiffened his muscles, and his sword grew still. “He is the Raven Bringer.”

  Despite the accusations being hurled at him, Ceryst remained as still as an archer waiting for the command to fire. He may not have moved a muscle, but the underlying tension in his body made him appear ready to strike at any time.

  Binnius moved between them and knocked Aerrin’s sword aside with his staff. “Will you sit down and listen just this once, Your Majesty?” He turned back to Ceryst and added, “I never had this much trouble with his father.”

  “Don’t lie, Master Binnius.” The corner of Ceryst’s mouth rose into half smile, but his eyes remained mournful. “Brendon was just as hot-headed and stubborn.”

  Aerrin’s heart pounded, and he backed away until his thighs collided with his chair. They were all in this together. The goddess help me, they’re all working together to kill me.

  But as soon as the thought entered his mind, a wave of logic upended it. If they wanted him dead, they could’ve easily killed him behind the closed doors of the inner sanctuary. His suspicions waned, and his pulse returned to normal. “Tell me what’s going on, and please, don’t leave anything out.”

  Master Binnius nodded his head in approval. “That’s more like it.” He shuffled toward an overstuffed chair and pointed his staff at it. “May I sit, Your Majesty?”

  “You may.” But when the the old man didn’t sink into the chair, Aerrin remembered court protocol and cursed. No one could sit until the king did. He plopped down in his chair and nodded
to Binnius.

  “Thank you.” Binnius lowered himself into the chair and let out a sigh. “Much better.”

  “You may sit as well,” Aerrin said to the other two men, but neither one of them moved toward a chair. Ceryst remained where he’d stood since arriving, and the younger man helped himself to another glass of sherry.

  Aerrin stared at him and said, “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  “Raimel.”

  “Of?”

  “Just Raimel.” He gulped down the second glass much like the first and wiped his hand over his lips when he finished. “No family name to brag about, and no village to claim me.”

  How very strange. But then, one look at him might explain why. His worn clothes hung loosely on his thin frame, and his hair was unfashionably long, almost reaching his waist. He appeared to be the sort of guy who would trip over his gangly limbs, but when he pulled a chair near Binnius and sat, there was a surprising grace to his movements.

  “So gentlemen,” Master Binnius said, glancing at Ceryst and Raimel, “where should we begin?”

  Raimel leaned back and stretched his legs out in front of him. “How about clearing Ceryst’s name so the king will stop looking as though he wants to run him though?”

  “I suppose that would be in order.” Binnius leveled his gaze at Aerrin. “Your Majesty, do you trust me?”

  “That’s a loaded question, especially in light of today’s events.”

  The mage chuckled. “Yes, I suppose so. Then let me reassure you that all three of us have come face to face with the Raven Bringer, and that Ceryst is most certainly not him.”

  “Then why was he accused of that?”

  “It was as Raimel said.” A hint of a growl laced Ceryst’s reply. “The night the Raven Bringer attacked, your parents sent me to retrieve you so they could get you safely out of the palace. When I returned, they were dead, and the Raven Bringer vanished before I could strike him.”

  “And the guards broke down the door to find him holding you and staring at your parents’ bodies,” Binnius finished. “They assumed the worst, despite my objections, and arrested him.”