The Golden Key Legacy

by AJ Nuest

  He rolled his shoulders and blew a slow steady breath, counting to ten. Then again, he’d never loved anyone like he did Faedrah, and nothing twisted his nuts more than the gut-fisting dread of becoming just like his father. The combination of his two worst fears, of being unable to protect her all while being the architect of her horror, was enough to make what little god damn grip he had left on reality take a long hike off a short pier.

  Heavy keys clinked and jangled overhead, and he shoved away from the wall as the trap door creaked open. Lifting a hand, he winced into a beam of light that burned straight into his corneas like a laser beam. Oh, shit. What were they doing?

  A rope ladder tumbled down the wall, bouncing and swaying, and he frowned, crossing his arms against the impulse to grab hold and get the hell out of this fucking crater. For Christ’s sake, had they lost their damn minds? Letting him out was about as smart as tossing gas on a fire.

  His shoulders fell. Or maybe Faedrah was up there, thinking she’d help him escape. God dammit, the woman needed to stay as far away from him as possible!

  “Son of Gaelleod, climb.”

  Wait, that sounded like Fandorn. Rhys scowled into the light. What the hell? “Nah, I’m good. I could use some food, though.” And a fifth of vodka. “Maybe something to drink.”

  The air behind him grew thick, and he was shoved forward a step. “We have not the time to banter about your insecurities. I have you well in hand. Or do you not suffer the burden of my restrictive spell?”

  Ah. So that’s why it seemed like he breathed water. Rhys gripped the wooden rung at eye level, steadying the one near the bottom with his bare foot, then hesitated. As much as he wanted out, he wasn’t about to make that dream a self-fulfilling prophecy. “You sure about this?”

  “Quite.”

  A musty draft crawled up his legs and back, and his eyes flew wide as he was lifted off the ground. Holy shit. Fine, fine, message received.

  The muscles in his arms and legs ached as he scaled to the top, all thanks to being crammed up the earth’s ass for so long, but whether he’d been down there an hour or a week, he had not one fucking clue. He curled his fingers around the square metal frame encasing the hole, and his spine popped as he pushed up and out onto the floor of a barred cell.

  A group of armed soldiers stood behind the hairy wizard, the entire crew eying him like a rotten dog turd. The one wearing the most disgusted scowl, Faedrah’s adoptive brother, Vaighn.

  “Well, I’m out.” Rhys shoved to his feet, dusting off his hands. He propped them on the satin blanket tied around his hips and cocked a brow. “So? Whaddaya want?”

  Vaighn lurched forward with a growl, but Fandorn smacked the back of his hand against the dude’s chest. Sizing Rhys up from neck to knees, the wizard sighed and shook his head. “Have you slept?”

  If he could call huddling in a ball while he watched his entire life circle the crapper “sleep,” then sure. “A little.”

  Using two fingers, Fandorn waved a couple of the guards forward. “Take him to the lower keep and lock him in one of the royal guard’s vacant chambers. Bring him food, a tub of warm water and…” his beard twitched as he sniffed, “a cake of our strongest soap. Once he’s bathed and eaten, have him dress and deliver him to my laboratory.”

  Wait… what? No, no, that was the dumbest thing they could’ve done. Jesus H. Christ, what if someone got it in their head to take him down and he ended up killing them? They’d execute him on the spot. Then where would Faedrah be?

  Rhys narrowed his eyes. “And if I decide not to go?”

  “No one gave you permission to speak, ya filthy grubber.” The end of a sharp spear nicked his side and Rhys swiveled his head, glaring at the guard. Armor clanked and shoulders bumped as the man stumbled back.

  “Make it so.” Fandorn turned for the iron door, the end of his robes snagging on the stone floor as he crossed the cell, but then paused before leaving. “I surmise ʼtis not necessary to remind you, anything less than absolute obedience will land you back inside that pit.”

  Well thank God for small favors. Rhys grunted. “I’m counting on it.”

  A small smile quirked one side of the wizard’s mouth before he disappeared down the dingy hall.

  * * *

  “Okay, you’re gonna have to give me that again.” Rhys propped his elbow on the table and dragged his thumb and index finger over his closed eyelids. Fuck, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this tired. In fact, he hadn’t just hit the wall of exhaustion, his entire body had slammed into it so hard, his mind had decided a few hallucinations were in order.

  Faedrah’s horror-struck face popped into his head and he balled his hand, dragging the front of his curled index finger down his nose and lips before dropping his fist to the table.

  Christ, the constant visions were driving him bat-shit crazy. Sure, a good chance existed they were just a residual offshoot of that iconic nightmare, but it wasn’t like the source mattered.

  Regardless of how hard he tried to concentrate, he just couldn’t ditch the needling suspicion something was wrong with her. That she was in trouble, somehow. So much, the second he’d entered Fandorn’s laboratory for this midnight class in Wizardry 101, he insisted one of the guards go check she was safe and sound in bed. “Just start from the top. My power is what?”

  “Kinetic, my boy. Objective.” Fandorn stopped pacing the worn track in front of a long wall filled with multi-colored corked-topped bottles, tinted vials and a bunch of other preserved oddities Rhys preferred not to identify. Shit, Ripley’s had nothing on the weirdness Fandorn kept in stock.

  “’Tis revealed in the way you are able to manipulate the objects around you.” He aimed a finger at the ceiling. “Allowing the magic to flow from your body and influence your specified target.”

  Huh. The dude was talking about telekinesis. Well, wasn’t that a kick in the ass. “Is that how you were able to control the air density in the pit?”

  “No, no, that is not even remotely similar.” The sleeves of his robes flapped around as Fandorn waved his arms like a goose shedding water.

  Rhys raked a hand through his damp hair and clamped down hard on the tension at the back of his neck. Even though he’d guessed wrong, at least he had one thing to be thankful for. No one had made him dress like a monk or given him grief about his wardrobe.

  The low rise black leather pants the guards had handed him—fine. He’d been known to rock a pair of leathers in his day. The black, knee-high pirate boots—not great, but better than walking around barefoot on the fucking ice-cold floor. The lace-trimmed puffy-sleeved shirt was where he’d drawn the line. No way in hell was he wearing that thing and, when he’d pitched the doily into the fireplace in his cubicle-sized room, none of the guards who’d been ordered to watch him had argued.

  Deciding to just leave his arms bare, he’d shrugged into the leather vest, flipped the sides closed over his stomach, buckled the leather belt and tugged the bottom edge near his cock to flatten the wrinkles.

  “My abilities are elemental.” Fandorn strode to an overstuffed bookshelf and lowered a thick leather-bound encyclopedia into his arms.

  Rhys fell back in the chair, shaking his head. No fucking way. If Fandorn expected him to sit here and memorize that thing, the hairy dust rag was about to be disappointed. An image of Faedrah’s white hair, the silky strands tangled in a dirty fist, screamed into his head, and Rhys gritted his teeth against the urge to fly out the door and go search every god damned nook and cranny in the castle for her, himself.

  Strolling across the room, Fandorn flipped through the pages and dropped the open book on the table. “Every wizard has within himself the ability to hone in on the aspects in which his natural instincts are most prevalent.” He spun the book around and tapped the page, and Rhys leaned in to skim the ink-smeared symbols and flowery text. Yeah, so? Looked like Greek to him.

  “Mine center around the four elements. Earth, water, fire…” Fandorn clapped hi
s hands and Rhys tipped to the side as a small ball of blue flames popped up out of nowhere to float above the wizard’s palm. He lifted his focus to Fandorn’s face. Okay…? What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

  “And…?” Wagging his bushy brows, Fandorn nodded as if he expected Rhys to finish his sentence.

  “Air?”

  “Precisely!” A flip of Fandorn’s wrist and the fireball crackled, the air around it sucked like a vacuum and the flames were shrink-wrapped back to wherever they’d come from. “’Tis not through the ability to control one’s deeds, I am able to hold a body in place. Rather, ʼtis the influence I’m allowed over the air surrounding them which does the trick.”

  Right. That made sense, based on what had happened in the pit, but what the hell did all this talk of the four elements have to do with him? An echo of Faedrah’s scream whispered in his ear and Rhys sat forward in the chair, glancing toward the door. Where the fuck was that guard? Jesus Christ, he’d been waiting over an hour.

  A nervous sweat broke along his forehead. Numbing prickles flooded his fingers, the first since he’d blocked Vaighn’s sword before he could hack off Rhys’ arm. He shook his head, his heel tapping an anxious rhythm on the floor.

  God dammit, it was happening again. A weird, multi-colored light spread around his hands and he shoved them beneath the table. His power was building, and it was anyone’s guess what would happen if he blew his gasket in this room lined with chemicals, potions and spells. “So, what you’re saying is, since I’m a kinetic, I should be able to control people’s bodies? I can somehow keep everyone away?”

  “No, no, my boy, you are not listening.” Fandorn sighed and plopped into a chair at the end of the table. “No wizard should attempt such a thing. The human form is too complex a being. If an effort is made to influence it in any way, the results could be disastrous.”

  Grady’s smiling face bobbed to the surface of his memories and the tingling intensified. Rhys jammed his clasped hands between his thighs. “But some do?”

  “Indeed.” Fandorn whispered, his watery, gray gaze shifting to the wall. “Quite certainly, and much to the goddesses’ dismay.” He tipped his head, squinting, and Rhys got the sneaking suspicion the dude had just taken a trip into la-la land. A second or two later, he refocused on Rhys. “As a kinetic, you must remember your gifts flow through an object, much like water through a sieve. They stem from an energy which is part and parcel of a larger force, the cosmos and all it contains. Tapping into such vast potential is not to be taken lightly, and also why ʼtis paramount the expulsion of power remain consistent. To do elsewise could harm not only the item which you choose to manipulate, but also you, as the divining source.”

  Bingo! He’d just nailed exactly what had happened at Leo’s, the way Rhys had been nearly catatonic following his balls-to-the-wall meltdown. He nodded. “Already been there. After I blew out the windows in my father’s study.”

  “Ahhh…” Fandorn lifted a finger. “Glass. Another clue to the tendencies of your gift.” He shoved to his feet, muttering incoherently, grabbed another book off the shelf and carried it back to the table. “From what I’ve observed thus far, the proclivities of your magic are mineral in nature. The silver in Vaighn’s sword, for example, the sand in the glass, the iron used in making ink, etcetera, etcetera.”

  Rhys collapsed in his chair a second time. And that also included his portraits of Faedrah. Son of a bitch. There were any number of minerals in the pigments of oil-based paint.

  Heat surged through his body and he shot to his feet, pacing the length of the long wooden table. Minerals were in food, water… the god dammed ground and pretty much every living thing. His heart raced like a jackhammer. The hair on his neck stood at attention, and he stumbled to a stop. Jesus H. Christ, the little fuckers were everywhere. What the hell? “So what, exactly, does that mean?”

  “Hmmm?” Fandorn used his finger to hold his spot on the page and peered at Rhys from under his hairy brows. “What it means, my boy, is that you are a wizard of extraordinary resources.” The binding crackled with age as he slowly flipped the book closed. “However, in order to manage such immense abilities, we must first determine the impetus behind their release. The…” he waved a hand in the air. “Flint to the kindling, if you will.”

  A grunt bounced through Rhys’ chest. With his luck, his impetus, or whatever the hell Fandorn had called it, was most likely his asshole of a dad. Nothing came close to the hatred he had for that man.

  Faedrah’s tear-stained cheeks surged to the front of his brain and Rhys closed his eyes, pressing two fingers to the pulsing spot between his brows. That is… nothing except his connection with a certain white-haired woman who had shown up and flipped everything he’d ever known on its head.

  He envisioned her smile, her deep brown eyes and the sexy curve of her full bottom lip. The prickling in his hands condensed, trickling into the ends of his fingers. The way she arched an eyebrow in challenge, that goofy striped helmet he bought her and the heat of her thighs when she straddled his hips on his bike. The fist of anxiety in his chest shrank. He filled his lungs, letting the magic flow smooth and easy through his veins.

  Dropping his hand, he smirked. Hell, even the stubborn way she jutted her chin drove him crazy.

  A warm chuckle pressed against his breast bone, and he shook his head. How the hell could he have been so stupid? His impetus? The spark to his fire? His light, his love and the only reason his life was worth living? Hell, that was a no-brainer.

  Blinking, he nodded at Fandorn. “That would be Faedrah.”

  Chapter 4

  Rhys flipped to the sparring mat with a back-stinging smack. Applause rained against the stone ceiling, mixed with jeering and laughing, and he pounded his fists on the floor to either side of his hips.

  God dammit. He could thread a bead of mercury through the eye of a needle, but he couldn’t flatten this skinny, sixteen-year-old kid?

  Frustration growled up the lining of his throat. Fandorn had royally screwed him over. No physical contact, his ass. But the real icing on the cake? Rhys had willingly volunteered to take part in his own spanking humiliation.

  Sitting up, he tapped two fingers against his forehead in a mock salute, but the smiles and nods around the crowded perimeter of the room didn’t fool him. Not for a second. These men were loving every smack, jab and punch Rhys’ pimply-faced opponent swung home.

  The kid rocked forward on his toes, the end of his wooden lance planted between his bare feet, satisfaction glinting in his eyes and a smug smile in place. Perfect. Based on the ruddy enthusiasm in the red head’s cheeks, this little victory jerked him off better than a wet dream.

  The door swung open and two more soldiers entered, chatting each other up, faces filled with anticipation and glee. Rhys sighed. Fucking awesome. Evidently, word the son of Gaelleod was in the sparring room, getting his head beat in by a teenager with a wooden stick was all the incentive they’d needed. More guards than Rhys cared to count had lined up to watch him get his ass kicked. Or maybe they’d come hoping for their own chance to dole out some payback in exchange for all the shit his father had put them through.

  Either way, once this was over, he and Fandorn were gonna sit down and have a nice, long “come to Jesus.” The scraggly old coot had purposely set him up to fail.

  Rhys shoved to his feet and shook out his hands, tipping his head back and forth, bouncing on the balls of his feet to rework the kinks in his spine. The whole thing made zero sense. What in the hell had Fandorn been thinking? Or maybe, the more obvious choice, the hairy fleabag hadn’t been thinking at all.

  If taking the rap for dear old dad was supposed to earn him some respect, then fine. Rhys would happily stand here and get wacked upside the head all damn day. But letting some skinny kid smack the shit out of him didn’t prove anything, especially after the phenomenal progress they’d made over the past three days.

  Not only had Fandorn taught him how to hone in on th
e characteristics of his power, Rhys could now control it—summon or shut it down at will. Not only that, by exercising his gift, by allowing some of the magic to leave his body at regular intervals, the constant needling in his hands had cooled to a comfortable heat. Thanks to Fandorn, Rhys could lift a boulder with his mind if he wanted or melt a sword simply by concentrating on the silver forged in the steel.

  So when Fandorn had suggested some hand to hand combat might be in order, Rhys had readily agreed. Testing his abilities against a real life challenger had seemed like the next logical step.

  What he hadn’t counted on was the sly old stink bomb warning the guards they should leave all metal objects at the door. Asshole. Rhys fisted his fingers and shot the wizard a dark scowl. He’d started to believe they were friends but, evidently, the joke was on him. By ensuring no minerals entered the room, Fandorn had basically tied his wrists and tossed him into a tank of shark-infested water.

  Rhys’ scrawny opponent crouched low, holding his long wooden staff diagonally across his body, prepped and ready for however Rhys might attack.

  A cynical laugh cinched the muscles in his stomach, and Rhys cleared his throat to keep his amusement in check. Fuck, in any other situation, this little boxing match would have lasted five minutes, tops. He would’ve easily sent the kid running home to his mommy with a fat lip.

  The little asshole squinted, almost as if he’d read Rhys’ mind, and jabbed Rhys’ bare stomach with the pointed end of his stick. Shit. He batted the pole to the right and the kid stumbled sideways; some general grumbling rippled down the ranks. This was stupid. If Fandorn would just let him use his fists, then maybe he could finally teach the kid a lesson and move on to someone less green, someone he wouldn’t have to worry so much about hurting.