Shadow Magic

by Karen Whiddon

  PROLOGUE

  Where another man might have felt pride at this, his own King-Making, Prince Egann of Rune knew only regret. That, and the disquieting feeling that he had somehow already departed, that only his richly clothed body stood rigid on the ceremonial stage and bravely faced the assembled mass of his people. His spirit had long ago fled.

  If not for the lump in his throat and the too-loud pounding of his heart, he might have convinced himself that what he meant to do was necessary and right. As it was, he could only keep his shoulders back, his head high, and pray that his people would one day understand.

  Yet how could they, when he did not understand himself?

  If only Banan had lived. Though a younger son, all knew that his brother had been destined to be King.

  Fiallan The Wise stepped forward, the silver-chained Amulet of Gwymyrr dangling heavy in his hand.

  How the jewels sparkled and glittered, even though the morning light seemed dim, and the ever-present silver mist covered the sun like a thin layer of faded cloth.

  “Long has Rune waited for this day.” Fiallan lifted the amulet, holding it high so that the people of Rune might see.

  The collective silence held as Fiallan began to say the primeval words of the spell that would bind it to Egann forever.

  Now Egann must interrupt. For if he did not, he would be robbing his people of much more than merely a King. The power of Rune, contained in the amulet, would go with him. “Hold.” His voice rang out, strong and loud and unshakable, despite his inner quaking. “Do not say the words of binding. I cannot accept the Amulet of Gwymyrr, for I cannot sit upon the throne of Rune.”

  The crowd’s silence broke as shock rippled through them. Of them all, only Fiallan did not appear startled.

  “You were born to wear the medallion—“

  “Nay,” Egann said, low-voiced so that no other might hear. “`Tis what you wanted, not I. Well you know that Banan should have been King.”

  At the mention of Banan, Fiallan swayed. “Do not dare speak of your brother. Not now, not today.”

  “How can I not, when sorrow at his loss is one of the very reasons I must leave?” Egann raised his voice, knowing that each new word would strike at his people like a blow.

  When he had chosen this course, he had known then that he would break his teacher’s heart, and the heart of his people as well.

  “I will not rule Rune,” he said, his voice cracking yet still carrying out over the now-restless crowd. “I will leave it to you to find another King. Your new King should rightly wear the Amulet of Gwymyrr.”

  How he had planned this speech, laboring over every word, so that on this coronation day that was not to be, he might strive to make his people understand.

  But the clever words and pretty phrases had vanished now and he found that he could remember none of them.

  The crowd erupted, surging forward to rush the platform. With a simple gesture, Fiallan halted them. The amulet, glittering and twirling, still hung from his hand.

  “Listen,” Fiallan ordered. Instantly the people quieted, for the amulet had begun to sing.

  The sound began low, a melodic hum that built in intensity until it became both lament and hymn. How could any that heard it fail to be beguiled, especially one such as Egann, for whom the spell of binding had nearly been said?

  Though it felt uncomfortably like retreat, Egann took a step backwards.

  Fiallan lifted the amulet higher, as though despite Egann’s wishes he still meant to drape the talisman around Egann’s neck.

  “You cannot so easily evade your destiny,” the wise one said.

  The amulet continued to sing, softly and mournfully. `Twas a powerful lure that Egann knew he must resist.

  He took another step back. “You know what can happen to one who attempts to wear the amulet for the wrong reasons.”

  “Aye.” Mysterious and full of secrets, Fiallan’s smile gave away nothing. “All who touch its magic see what the amulet wants them to see.”

  Beyond them, unable to hear, the crowd grew agitated.

  “Leave us,” Fiallan ordered, his normally quiet voice a bellow.

  As one the people obeyed, vanishing with the blink of an eye, leaving Egann alone with the man who had guided him all of his life.

  “You speak your heart, I see.” Fiallan’s gray eyes darkened with emotion. “You mean to abandon your people, and the future for which you were born.”

  Egann opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. He had no ready answer. Cloaked in pretty word or no, it all meant the same.

  He would not be King. Could not be King. One who could not even save his own brother could not possibly protect a nation. His people deserved better.

  “Will you guard it then?” Words carrying the weight of his disappointment, Fiallan held out the silver pendant, which fell silent as though it waited to hear Egann’s answer.

  How its magic enthralled him. Keeping his gaze fixed on it, Egann shook his head. “I cannot.”

  “`Tis but a small request I make.” The wise one stepped forward, dangling the amulet before him like a lure. “I but ask you to keep the amulet with you, until another steps forward to accept the throne.”

  Suspicious, Egann studied the man who had been like a father to him, his confident and tutor and closest friend. “Put it back in the Hall of Legends.”

  “The stone door is sealed. I was able only to retrieve the amulet, nothing more.”

  “Perhaps it will open again, now that the amulet has been refused.”

  With a sad smile, Fiallan said nothing.

  Egann glanced once more at the sparkling amulet. Silent now, it seemed but a pretty bauble, nothing more.

  “It does not compel…”

  “Nay,” Fiallan replied, letting Egann know that he had spoken his thought out loud. “Though it contains potent magic, it cannot act of its own accord.”

  A fierce longing seized Egann. To wear the ancient amulet, to feel its power pulse with each beat of his heart.

  Longing mingled with guilt and sorrow, and anger as well, for he sensed that he could not escape this final obligation.

  “How long would you have me guard it?”

  “Until one that would be King claims the throne.”

  Not long then, for how difficult could such a task be?

  “I will take it,” Egann said gruffly, holding out his hand and bracing himself for the swell of power.

  Fiallan’s serene expression told Egann that the wise man had known all along that Egann would do as he asked.

  Stepping forward, Fiallan placed the heavy silver chain around Egann’s neck. The metal felt both cool and warm as the amulet came to rest against Egann’s heart.

  Immediately, the landscape changed.

  Flash – A harvest moon, ripe and heavy with the season.

  Flash – A woman danced, her long, black hair flowing gracefully as she swayed and spun.

  A sensation of longing seized him, coupled with a sense of dread. He felt great danger lurking, and an impression of betrayal, an awareness of need.

  Fiallan’s voice, coming as if from a great distance, sounded alarmed, though the words were unintelligible. Egann tried to focus on his face, but Fiallan seemed to spin and his image to waver. Then he – and Rune - vanished and Egann knew nothing more.

  467 AD

  The rocky cliffs at Carn Vellan

  CHAPTER ONE

  Long had the dreams come, always unchanging, now so customary that Deirdre of the Shadows welcomed them as one might a familiar friend. He walked there always, never in the shadows, for he was the golden one, beloved and as bright as the forbidden sun.

  Though such a man might not exist, except in her dreams, she embraced him gladly as soon as sleep clai
med her.

  Far too long had she walked alone, untouchable.

  Far too long hand she loved only dreams.

  Of late the dreams had been more frequent, more vivid and strong. Since her magic was small, Deirdre knew not what this might mean – did such man truly walk the earth and if so, did he seek only her?

  As the time for the full moon and the ritual of the dance drew near, Deirdre prepared as she always did. And wondered.

  The haunting cry of an owl awakened him, echoing off the stone cliffs nearby, an eerie sound that both haunted and warned. Egann came awake slowly, reluctantly, fighting for awareness. This was unusual for him, since he had been well trained as a warrior and was usually more vigilant and instantly alert.

  When he finally bolted up, heart pounding as if from a battle just fought, he knew immediately that he was no longer in Rune. And worse – that the amulet was gone. He felt its loss like a sharp sorrow, knew it by a subtle weakening of his strength and an instant of stunned disbelief.

  Gone. The talisman had been taken from him while he slumbered, stolen by some shadowy thief so skilled that he hadn't sensed any presence but his own. Instead, in the deepest part of the night, he had dreamt - startlingly vivid dreams of a mortal woman with ivory skin and long dark hair. And Fiallan had appeared, speaking a warning – though Egann had not been able to make out the words.

  Had the wise man’s dream appearance been a warning against this woman? Most likely it was she who had beguiled him into such depths of slumber that he, even with his strong magic, had not sensed her.

  A beautiful thief with magic of her own. Who now had the Amulet of Gwymyrr.

  He had worn it only briefly, the powerful gemstone that was the symbol of his peoples' legacy, an ageless repository of magic.

  Once around his neck, he had felt the awesome pulse and power of it, until the beat of the thing became one with his own heart, and he no longer noticed its presence.

  The owl cried again, though this time the timbre of the sound had changed. More feral than plaintive, it was the cry of a hunter about to triumph over its prey.

  Egann smiled grimly. The sound seemed fitting, since now he must go on a hunt of his own. He had no choice. More than his honor was at stake. Having refused the throne of Rune, he could not rid himself of the nagging guilt that he had failed them somehow. The loss of the Amulet of Gwymyrr would only compound and confirm it. Nay, he must search this world of mortals, search both here and in the magical realm of Faerie, if necessary. Whether by magic or brute force, he would reclaim the amulet and when he did, beautiful woman or not, the thief would pay.

  * * *

  The moon hung heavy and ripe, as close to the vivid orange and gold of the sun as she would ever see. Strolling out into the night, Deirdre closed her eyes and lifted her arms, imagining the cool moonlight as something different, even as she felt the siren song of the harvest moon begin to build within her. Conscious of nothing else, she swayed, taking the first sinuous steps that would begin the seductive motions of her Shadow Dance.

  Her people came slowly at first, pulled by her unvoiced music, watching in silence as she invoked three of the elements - earth, wind, and water - and the dizzying current of magic began to build. She called to each of them and none of them, to something essential within and something wild without, and when the man with the golden hair rode slowly into the clearing on a huge horse so white it seemed to glow, none of them were surprised.

  Such things had been known to happen when a truly powerful Shadow Dancer danced.

  Unknowing and uncaring, Deirdre continued the dance, enthralled by the slow swelling up of power that never failed to take her with it. She joined with her people, used with their consent their life-energy to help her as she tamed the magic.

  The people's withdrawal came like a cold dash of sea water, making her steps falter, causing the spell to waver.

  The golden one.

  When she opened her eyes to see him, her first reaction was terror, that she'd stayed in the spell of the dance too long and failed to hide from the morning. Her second was a strange lurch of her heart, then an all-encompassing relief that he had come at last.

  The golden man who haunted her dreams.

  "Give it to me," he ordered, his voice rough like cliff-stone, and the tone more authoritative than any usually dared to use with her.

  She smiled, knowing he did not understand who or what she was, or that he had come here because her dance had called him. "Give what to you?"

  "That which you stole, under cover of darkness." Dismounting easily, he strode to her and stood, towering over her in a way that both threatened and thrilled.

  The people, seeing that she did not evince fear or distress, melted away, back into their cliff caves to wait or to listen to the music of the pounding surf below, leaving her alone with the golden stranger. If she wanted them, she need only to think it, and they would return, ready to defend their Shadow Dancer - if necessary with their lives.

  But, though she sensed his anger, the stranger did not frighten her. After all, she knew him, had met with him daily in her dreams. His next statement only confirmed her thoughts.

  "I recognize you." He ran a restless hand through his long, golden hair. "And I want back what you took from me."

  His dreams must have been different than hers. Perplexed, she tilted her head and looked up at him, wondering how it would feel to have him take her in his arms in reality rather than fantasy.

  "I have taken nothing but that which you gave to me freely." Her face heated, thinking of all the things they'd done in her dreams, things no other man would have dared to do to a High Priestess of the Shadows. She was glad the golden-haired one had been so bold, but she longed to experience his embrace in reality.

  "I would like you to kiss me now." She spoke softly, startling herself with her own bluntness. Still, daydreams were short, and if this warrior had stepped out of one of hers, she had no idea how long she would have him.

  His eyes, the color of a moonlit ocean on a stormy night, darkened. Still, instead of reaching for her, he crossed his massive arms and frowned.

  "No tricks, woman. I have come for one thing and one thing only. You, I know, have it. Give me that which belongs to me."

  Give me that which belongs to me. Words of ancient legend, of prophetic song. She had dreamt of him saying such a thing to her, but the manner of his speaking had been different. Passionate instead of furious, fire instead of ice.

  In her dreams, she had been that which belonged to him. And he'd known it then, as surely as she knew now that it could still be truth.

  "Surely you have not come so far to settle for less than is yours by right."

  "You have taken that which is rightfully mine." Though he did not raise his voice in anger, she sensed this cold rage of his could be infinitely more dangerous.

  "I have taken nothing," she said. "And I speak only truth. Unless you talk of what has occurred between us in the world of dreams, and then I took only that which you gave to me of your own free will."

  For the first time since he'd arrived, hesitation flickered across his hard countenance. "You utter riddles and lies." His tone harsh, he accused her. "Be warned that I do not suffer thieves lightly. Return my amulet and you have my vow that you shall not be punished."

  Had her people heard his words, they would have laughed. Everyone knew that a Shadow Dancer had no interest in thieving petty baubles. In fact, usually a Shadow Dancer had no interest in anything but her dance.

  In this, Deirdre was not a normal Shadow Dancer.

  "It is plain you do not know who I am, or what I am." She spoke with quiet dignity. "If you knew me you would also know that I have no need of trinkets. I did not take your amulet."

  He took a step closer, putting them chest to chest. Her blood thickened, the slow, aching heat that pooled within her bringing awareness of the sensual pleasures she had shared with this man for many weeks in her dreams while she slept.

 
A gentle breeze turned the night air cool, causing her to shiver.

  Seeing this, one corner of his mouth tugged up in a reluctant smile. "I do not want you to think I would hurt you."

  For a moment she could not catch her breath, still reeling from the unexpected beauty of that smile. Instead of responding, she took a measured step back, away from the compelling heat of his body.

  His smile vanished.

  "I have said I will not hurt you. I merely seek my amulet. Tell me where it is."

  She gave a slow shake of her head, forcing a smile to show that she was not afraid. The breeze pulled at her hair, making the long, straight length of it dance teasingly around her ankles.

  "You could never hurt me," she told him, again speaking only truth. "And you'd best look elsewhere for your amulet. I do not have it, nor do I know where it might be."

  While he stared at her with narrowed eyes, a cloud scuttled across the face of the moon, obscuring it and dimming the light. Though Deirdre was not dancing at that moment, still the omen was not a welcome one, and she shivered again.

  One by one, she could sense her people creeping back to the clearing. It struck her how rare this was, that such a combination came together. The full moon, the time of her dancing, and the golden stranger, he of her sleeping dreams, he of the sun and daylight.

  He was everything she was not, she realized, and perfect counterpoint to her darkness. And, though he did not seem to remember it, they completed each other, if only in her dreams.

  A perfect circle, like the dances she performed.

  "My people gather, " she said, hoping he would understand. "It is time for the Shadow Dance, before the harvest moon sinks beneath the weight of her fullness. Will you stay and watch, or must you continue on in search of this amulet?"

  "I go nowhere." His voice seemed to boom out in the small clearing. "Until you return the amulet to its rightful owner. "

  With an effort of will, she shrugged. The wind blew the clouds skittishly; they had cleared off the heavy moon, and the pale, amber light compelled her to begin the dance again.

  Lifting her head, she scented the air and sighed. "Then you'd best step away from the clearing, and go hold your horse's head."