“You’re rather young to have such strong opinions, aren’t you?” Lysandra asked, a bit amused by his vehemence. “You can’t have been more than—what, four or five?—when King Osaze died.”
“Six I was,” the shepherd replied, just a little indignant. “But I got ears, ‘aven’t I? And eyes? I ’ear people talk. I see what’s what around me. You’d ‘ave to be a blind fool—“
The shepherd stopped, embarrassed. “I… um… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—“ he quickly stammered an apology.
“It’s all right,” Lysandra gently assured him. “My blindness is a fact I long ago accepted. And it’s true… I am isolated here. I have little interest in who is on the throne or what is happening away from this forest.”
That said, Lysandra turned her full attention back to the ewe. Still no Sight had come, nor had her tactile examination revealed anything to cause the ewe’s symptoms. Yet the animal’s distress was quite real. Confused, frustrated, and more than a little frightened that her Sight should so completely abandon her, Lysandra made a bold decision. There was one final thing she could try; it was difficult and something she attempted only in rare cases, but the truth was she did not know what else to do.
Lysandra closed her eyes and drew one more deep breath. Then, as she slowly exhaled, she forced every fear and feeling of failure aside, opening herself to the ewe and its pain, willing herself to be one with the animal and to take its distress into herself.
But, though Lysandra was willing, though the gates of her mind were open and her instinct for self-protection suppressed by her commitment to healing, she could not create the necessary bridge. Her inability to help the ewe made her want to weep.
She knew she needed to be alone. The sudden possibility that she might now face a future in true and complete blindness was too frightening to imagine and too real to be ignored. She needed solitude to think.
And, perhaps, to find a new path through the threatening darkness.
With a deep sigh, she sat back and lifted her hands from the ewe’s body. “I can find nothing physically wrong,” she told the shepherd. “I would guess that something is stalking your herd and has frightened her badly. Sheep will manifest their fright in illness sometimes. They can even be frightened to death. I suggest you keep her close to you for these next few days. Touch her, carry her, let her feel the constant safety of your nearness—and keep more vigilant watch than usual. It’s the time of year when many predators are giving birth and have new, hungry mouths to feed. If she’s not better in a few days, bring her back and I’ll look at her again.”
“Right,” the shepherd said, gathering the ewe up into his arms. “I’ve brought you a pot of cheese and some bread. Is that enough?”
“More than enough,” Lysandra said. “I don’t deserve any of it. I didn’t do anything.”
“You deserve your pay, same as the rest of us,” he replied firmly. “But you’d best pray a new King gets settled quick-like, and that ’e’s better than the last, before the tax collectors find you, too. Though ‘ow they’d tax bread and cheese, I don’t know. But sure as sunrise, they’d find a way.”
When the shepherd left, taking with him all the energetic convictions of his youth, stillness settled again in Lysandra’s garden. But her mind was filled with the shepherd’s news and with the emotions they set to whirl within her.
The King was dead, the throne empty again… well, what had that to do with her? With her Sight gone—for how long or if permanently, she did not know—she now had problems of her own.
Yet, even as that thought came, she knew it was why the dream was calling her.
Chapter Two
Many miles away in Aghamore’s Third Province of Kilgarriff, Baron Giraldus DeMarcoe stalked the battlements of his fortress. Impatience marked every line of his body and pounded through his restless footsteps. He was not a man who liked waiting, as those who dared to try his patience soon found out.
The woman behind him was another matter. She was a study in stillness. Only her eyes moved as they followed his pacing. The dark blue gown, the color she habitually wore, draped around her without a ruffle of movement; her dark hair fell straight and unbound, making her look like a pillar of shadow.
This was Aurya, Giraldus’s lover, advisor—and sorceress.
Aurya carried the name Treasigh, but that was her mother’s name. Her father’s identity was unknown by the world. Some said that even Aurya did not know; others claimed she was the spawn of none less than the devil himself. Her past was shrouded in dark and mystery and Aurya kept it that way—even from Giraldus.
“Where is he?” Giraldus demanded, turning toward her suddenly.
“It is not yet even noon,” Aurya replied. “You only make the hours longer with your pacing. Patience, Giraldus.”
“Patience be damned,” he countered curtly. “I’m risking everything on this venture—more than you, more than Elon. If we lose, it will mean not only the crown, but this province as well. Unlike the late King, I have a large family, and there are plenty of others just waiting for the Barony to be passed. I still say a clean win on the field of battle is the better way to claim the throne than whatever it is Elon’s message said he was bringing.”
“Do you truly think Elon would be bringing it, were he not convinced of its importance?” she asked. “We’ve taken a long time to cultivate this partnership. You’ve played every turn just right. Don’t let your impatience get in the way now.”
Aurya watched as Giraldus tried to make up his mind whether to preen at her compliment or be annoyed by her admonition.
“I still don’t like all this waiting,” he said finally, “all these plots and counterplots. I’m a man of action, Aurya—as you well know. I have to do something, not wait around for the next bit of information like a lapdog waiting for a morsel of food to drop from his master’s hand. I’ve paid the bishop a small fortune in gold for his… services… and I’ll not be treated with such disdain.”
A sharp burst of breath escaped Aurya. She was not impatient with waiting, but she did sometimes become impatient with Giraldus’s impatience.
“Elon will be here. Today. When, I don’t know—but he always keeps his word, especially for the amount of money and the promises you’ve given him. You might not be High King yet, but you are ruler of this province. If you’re so anxious to be busy, go… rule… something. Just quit pacing.”
Aurya watched the flush creep into Giraldus’s cheeks. No one else would have dared speak to him in such a manner. But she did not care what others dared; her rules were her own, and even Giraldus had to play by them if he wanted what she offered.
And he did; he always did. Since the moment they met at the Summer Faire here in Adaraith, Kilgarriff’s capital city, almost nine years ago, Aurya had known that Giraldus wanted her. She had made certain that he did. Although she was barely eighteen and not long on her own, she already knew her powers and how to use them to her advantage. Even joining the Faire by erecting a small booth and passing herself off as a fortune-teller had not been for the few meager coins she had earned. It had been a trick to get her where—and who—she wanted.
But it was not magic she had used on Giraldus, except the magic of being young, beautiful, and intelligent. She had used that intelligence to make certain her beauty was seen just enough to weave its own brand of ensorcellment. When the young and vigorous Baron Giraldus, then twenty-five, opened the Faire, she had been in the forefront of the crowd. Quickly disappearing after she was certain he had seen her, she carefully planned her days so she was close enough to be often glimpsed, but never near enough for more. She counted on Giraldus’s curiosity and his hunter’s instinct to do the rest.
By the fifth day of the weeklong Faire, she received an invitation to the Baron’s fortress. By the end of the summer, when she was quite certain he had fallen in love with her, she finally let herself be wooed into his bed. Since then, they had been rarely separated.
Her beauty had ensnare
d him, but it was Aurya’s intelligence and fire that kept him. From her low beginnings as the daughter of a woman she still thought of as a contemptible fool—so meek and compliant, unwilling to stand up and name her child’s father so that he might share her disgrace, always at church, on her knees and begging for forgiveness—Aurya had found her own way in life.
And now she was the Baron’s consort. Giraldus had hesitated only once in their relationship and then only briefly—when he had discovered her hatred of the Church and her use of magic. She had left him then, the first and only time. It had been less than a week before he was after her, unable to stand their separation. When she returned to his side, she convinced him that her magic was a tool she could use in his favor.
They had been together less than a year when an assassin managed to enter their bedchamber. He had made it past Giraldus’s guards, but he could not sneak past her magic. Caught in the web of protection she habitually set over them each night, the assassin had raised an arm to strike—and found himself unable to move.
Giraldus would have turned the man over to his guards and had information tortured out of him, but Aurya considered torture clumsy and unreliable; too often the subject died before everything could be gleaned. Instead, she asked Giraldus to give the assassin to her. An hour later, she knew everything the man’s mind had held—and he was by then a mindless, helpless threat to no one.
The assassin had been sent by Giraldus’s cousin, Tyrele, who was next in line for the Barony, should Giraldus have no children. Aurya’s revenge on Tyrele had been as slow and deliberate as her action against his ill-fated tool had been swift. She could have killed him with any number of spells, but that would have been too easy. She wanted him to suffer, and she wanted others to realize what could happen to anyone she considered a threat… and she wanted Giraldus to see her powers at work.
Tyrele died a slow, agonizing death of the plague, his swollen and disfigured body covered with unburst pustules and twisted in fever and pain.
After that, Giraldus made certain Aurya was part of every occasion, whether he was negotiating a trade agreement within his own province, settling disputes over lands and borders, or simply hearing the petitions brought to him by the townsfolk. Most often, her presence was enough to ensure that events went the way Giraldus intended; it was rare anymore that she had to take a more… active… role.
Throughout the nine years they had been together, she and Giraldus had many an argument—in the privacy of their own bedchamber. But they had only one true disagreement; it was ongoing—and its subject was marriage. Even after all this time, he refused to accept that she hated the entire notion.
She stayed with Giraldus because she had chosen him as the means to the end she meant to have. She had come to his bed shortly after Anri came to the throne, and for the ensuing years she had been content to be the Baron’s consort, using her magic to prevent conceiving a child. She would bear no man’s name, be no man’s possession, nor be bound by any ties other than her own purposes.
Now that the throne was empty again, Aurya had set her sights higher—for both of them. How long after that she would be able to keep both her freedom and her childless state, she did not know. But she intended to try.
Now, on the battlements, they stared at one another, close to an argument again. Such a look from Giraldus would have had his courtiers and advisors stammering to apologize and his servants scrambling in fear.
Aurya did not flinch.
It was Giraldus who finally looked away. He raised one eyebrow and gave her the slightest of bows. “I’ll leave you then,” he said, his voice now filled with sardonic humor, “and do my pacing where I will. But if Elon is not here by nightfall, I’ll have his hide—and yours.”
Aurya knew he did not like to be bested by anyone—even her. But as he strode away, she nearly laughed at the emptiness of his threat. Competent leader, fierce warrior—and acceptable, even accomplished, lover—Giraldus might be. But he did not have the ability to stand against the powers she could summon. She knew it… and so did he.
Once Giraldus had departed, taking his frenetic energy with him, Aurya closed her eyes and let the welcome silence envelop her. She did not need her powers to know that Elon would be here within the hour. She could have said as much to Giraldus, but he needed to learn how to wait, how and when to let things come to him. In all their years together, it was one thing she had never been able to teach him.
But Elon—he was a different matter. Bishop of Kilgarriff, sometime Suffragan to the Archbishop and of the College of Bishops for all of Aghamore, Elon was a man with a powerful presence. He, she was certain, knew both how to wait and when to act. His greed was outshone only by his ambition, and Aurya had but to wait in stillness to sense him.
They were of a kind, she and Elon. Both accepted whatever life had to offer—and forced from it whatever it dared to withhold. They had recognized this in each other the first time they met, as if they were somehow related.
Elon could well have been her father, Aurya had often thought. Silver now frosted his hair, but Aurya could see that it had once been as dark as her own, and his eyes were just as blue. But then—she told herself just as often—dark hair was common enough in Aghamore, and her mother’s eyes had been blue.
Yet this feeling of kinship with Elon remained. Although the identity of her father was a secret Aurya’s mother had taken to her grave, Elon did not strike Aurya as a man who would let an inconvenient vow of chastity bar him from something he wanted.
Blood relation or not, he was a useful man to have on one’s side. And I intend to make certain he stays on our side, Aurya thought as she walked slowly toward the edge of the battlements to look calmly toward the direction from which Elon would come.
It had been her idea to initiate contact with the bishop; without her guidance, Giraldus would not have had the patience for the subtle games they had played during those early months, each wondering if the other could be trusted. Now, over a half a year later and with Elon considerably richer, that delicate balance of trust had been established. Giraldus wanted the crown, Elon wanted the Archbishop’s mitre—and she was the connecting force between the two.
It was with an eye to both prizes that, when the bishop sent his message saying he was bringing something they must see, Aurya carefully concocted a plausible reason for his visit, one that could be seen and approved by even their harshest critics. She was not such a fool as to think she was without enemies among the people of Kilgarriff. But what she planned would silence many a disapproving tongue—and give Elon an excuse for any other such visits he might, of necessity, make.
As long as he does his part, I’ll protect his reputation, Aurya’s thoughts confirmed, knowing that such careful preservation was even more a hold over Elon than was the gold he had already received. He’ll wear the Archbishop’s mitre soon enough—as long as when Giraldus makes his move for the throne, there are no surprises from within the College of Bishops.
As she stood at the edge of the battlements, a slight breeze ruffled her gown until sunlight caught the silver threads woven into the midnight blue cloth, giving each movement a whisper of brightness. It was cloth that was made only for her and she rarely wore anything else. Its dark richness made her skin look like cream, deepened her eyes from mere blue to sapphire, and brought out the blue-black highlights in her raven hair.
She closed her eyes again and waited. Soon her mind, already disciplined to quiet receptiveness, grew even more still. Here was the place where power abided; here was the inner realm from which magic could be called forth.
Aurya waited until she could clearly sense the presence of he who was coming. It was like a pale blue light shining in the darkness, hidden from the naked and untrained eye but plain to those who knew how to look.
Then she withdrew her mind from these inner realms, back into the common world, with all its light and noise. She felt the power within her recede. Then, allowing herself a small smile of satisfa
ction, she turned to descend the stairs. It was time to alert Giraldus and walk out to the courtyard. She wanted to be there when Elon rode through the gates.
As usual, Aurya’s timing was perfect. She and Giraldus had just taken their places on the great arched porch when Elon rode under the portcullis. His purple robes—the bishop’s cassock, cincture, and mozzetta, and the amethyst-encrusted pectoral cross he habitually wore— were overlaid by a black fur-trimmed cloak that billowed out behind him like a dark specter riding his tail.
His horse, lathered from the long, hard ride, responded eagerly to Elon’s tug upon its rein. It stood with sides heaving while Elon dismounted and threw the reins in the direction of a stableboy.
Aurya, standing immovable at Giraldus’s side, met the bishop’s gaze. Again there was the feeling of affinity. She gave him a small nod of greeting, which he returned with a nod and a smile just as slight.
Giraldus, however, was not a man for such subtleties. He stepped forward, voice booming.
“Welcome, my lord Bishop, welcome. We have been awaiting your arrival most eagerly.”
“No doubt,” Elon replied dryly.
Giraldus knelt to kiss the bishop’s ring, either not hearing or choosing to ignore the sarcasm in Elon’s voice. But Aurya heard it and understood. Her lips twitched a little in a self-congratulatory way that was too brief to be a smile as she, too, took a step forward, ready to turn Giraldus’s loud gruffness to their advantage.
It was as chatelaine of the fortress she greeted the bishop, but she made no move to kiss his ring. She had never hidden who and what she was, and to the Church those who practiced magic were declared anathema. They were cut off from the sacraments—including Holy Matrimony, Aurya was pleased to think—until such time as they renounced their powers and did suitable penance for their disobedience.
Aurya had no intention of doing either. She did not repent of her powers; she gloried in them—and she had no more liking for the Church than its representatives had for her. Except Elon. He possessed a power all his own: the power of deception.
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