Daughter of Light (Follower of the Word Book 1)

by Morgan L. Busse

  The couple before him removed their crowns. Lady Astrea lifted from her head the silver circlet that was the symbol of her status as lady of the White City, then handed it to her betrothed. Prince Evander did the same with his crown. The exchange was a symbol of the joining of the two countries, and each would keep the other’s crown until the day of their bonding.

  Lord Gaynor stepped forward and spoke over the couple, and then it was over.

  The room filled with noise. The crowd discussed both the treaty and the future bonding of Prince Evander and Lady Astrea.

  Lore moved along the wall and up the platform to Lord Gaynor’s side. Lord Gaynor whispered to his daughter. Lady Astrea nodded, then turned back to Prince Evander. Rowen and Lady Astrea had already been alerted to the change in travel plans. Lord Gaynor would be leaving within the hour for the White City. And Lady Astrea would stay here in Avonai, for her own protection.

  “Come, Lore, let us finish up and head out,” Lord Gaynor said, moving toward the side door. Justus, Lord Gaynor’s other varor, joined them as they left the audience chamber. Aren would stay behind and help Rowen guard Lady Astrea.

  They followed the side hall toward the guest quarters. Lore rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel his body already protesting the thought of a long night’s ride. And at the edge of his senses, he could feel a storm brewing out at sea, not close enough to mess with his emotions, but enough to warn him it was coming.

  Once they reached Lord Gaynor’s rooms, Justus walked in first and performed a quick sweep of the sitting room. Lore went to join him when Lord Gaynor stopped him just outside the doorway.

  “Lore, a moment, please.”

  Lore turned back, puzzled. “Of course, milord.”

  “Watching my daughter tonight and signing that treaty made me realize how much has happened over the last few years. We are at war now, fighting for our lives. And Astrea—” a soft smile spread across Lord Gaynor’s face— “my little star, has grown up.” Then he frowned. “And having to learn the sacrifices of being a leader.” Lord Gaynor grew quiet.

  Lore waited.

  “Anyway, all that is to say,” Lord Gaynor looked back at Lore, “that you have been a constant in my life ever since your father passed away sixteen years ago. I can count on you, Lore, unlike any other man I know. You are a man of integrity and trust. I don’t know what we’re going to face when we return to the White City. Or what’s going to happen. But I wanted to let you know that I appreciate your service to my family and me. No ruler could ask for a better captain. Thank you, Lore.”

  Lore nodded, deeply touched. “It has ever been my pleasure to serve you, milord.”

  “Now we should get going.”

  “Yes, milord. Let me finish checking your room.”

  Lore entered the guest quarters. He passed by the nearest door and saw Justus checking the bedroom. He moved across the sitting room, giving the room another look. The fire in the fireplace had burned down to glowing embers. The chairs and table were untouched. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lord Gaynor enter the room. Lore headed toward the balcony. He pushed open the glass doors and stepped outside.

  Darkness filled the night sky. Stars twinkled high above. A pale moon peeked just above the sea, barely shedding light on the balcony. Lore searched around, but found nothing.

  He took a moment and leaned over the balcony’s edge. Waves lapped the rocks and sand below, their crests white in the moonlight. Toward the north, he could feel the storm gathering. Lore rubbed his chest, feeling his blood already moving with the tempest. It was a big one. Hopefully they would stay ahead of it.

  He dropped his hand and turned. A shadow moved out of the corner of his eye—

  Excruciating pain filled his middle. He felt something twist just above his hip. Lore gasped and caught himself on the outer wall. A man stepped around him.

  Lore slid to the balcony, barely able to breathe. He reached with his hand and felt his side. Warm, sticky blood flowed freely from his wound, just below his jerkin. Lore sucked in a painful breath and looked up. He saw the back of the assassin. Then metal flashed as something sailed toward Lord Gaynor, who was standing near the fireplace.

  No! Lore choked. Another wave of agony tore through his body. His eyes misted over. Blinking, he saw Lord Gaynor step back, the dagger quivering from his throat. The high lord clawed at his neck, tugging weakly at the blade.

  Justus came racing out from the far room. Lord Gaynor collapsed onto the floor and lay still.

  Justus drew his sword and engaged the assassin. The assassin pulled another knife from the sheath at his side.

  All Lore could do was watch. The attacker was dressed all in black with dark hair and olive-toned skin. One word slammed into Lore’s mind: Temanin.

  Justus swung his sword. The assassin evaded the blow with lightning agility. Lore had never seen a person move like that. Each move fluidic and fast. Like a dancer. A deadly dancer.

  Lore dragged himself across the floor. The movement jolted his side. He cringed, feeling as though his insides were falling out. He reached the glass doors and pulled himself up with one arm. His other arm cradled his bleeding side.

  Inside, the assassin stumbled over the small table that lay between the two chairs, giving Justus a chance to strike. Justus swung his sword in a tight, controlled arc.

  The assassin was too quick. He rolled to the side just as Justus’s blade came down. The table cracked under Justus’s blade.

  The assassin came up from a tucked roll nearby.

  Lore saw the glint of metal before it went flying. With sickening knowledge, he knew the assassin had struck again.

  Justus twisted away, the edge of the assassin’s blade quivering just above his collarbone, then fell to the floor with a thud.

  In that moment, something snapped inside Lore. He knew he was injured, could feel the pain radiating throughout his entire body. But the sensation dimmed under a new kind of hurt: grief. With a roar of anguish, Lore drew his sword and rushed toward the assassin.

  The assassin looked up in surprise.

  Lore swung his sword with all his might at the assassin, all skill and finesse gone. His hands were now guided by rage and guilt.

  The assassin scrambled to the side and shoved a chair in Lore’s direction.

  Lore sidestepped the obstacle and kept advancing toward the man. For the first time in his life he felt such rage that he could kill a man with no remorse and had every intention to this evening.

  With another swing of his sword, Lore grazed the assassin across the chest.

  The man grunted in pain and dove to the side and rolled a couple feet. Lore followed him.

  The assassin hurled himself across the table in a feat of acrobatics, his legs arcing over his head as his hands touched down on the table. The table groaned beneath the man’s weight.

  Lore began to go around the table when he felt his strength finally leave him. He could no longer keep up the fight.

  Sensing that as well, the assassin sprinted past Lore, dodging his final swing, and escaped out the balcony doors.

  Lore tried to turn, but fell to the floor instead. He had lost too much blood. And now the murderer of his lord had escaped.

  Lore lay where he had fallen, each breath a painful reminder that he was still alive. Ahead of him he could see Lord Gaynor, a pool of blood beneath his head and a look of shock still etched across his face. Lore closed his eyes to the vision, but it continued to dance behind his eyelids, taunting him of his failure.

  Lore grunted and slowly twisted his body, trying to get away from the view. He fell back onto the floor with another groan.

  Oh, Word, why? He cried out in his mind. Why did you let this happen?

  The silence around him gave him no answer. Lore lay his head down on the floor, the feeling of guilt overwhelming him. It was his fault. He should have seen the assassin hiding in the shadows.

  Lore closed his eyes. He could feel his body slowly slipping toward uncon
sciousness. Perhaps he would die. He welcomed that thought. Then he could atone for his failure.

  Just as the darkness closed in, Lore heard a voice call his name. Opening one eye, he saw Aren rush toward him.

  “Captain, you’re alive!”

  Lore tried to say something, but found his mouth would not work. Ignoring the gesture, Aren pulled him to his feet.

  Fresh waves of pain rushed through his body. Lore cried out, clutching his side with his free hand.

  “We’ve got to get you out of here, Captain.” Aren gently placed Lore’s arm over his shoulder and started toward the door.

  Lore merely nodded his head, the darkness coming back.

  • • •

  Caleb sucked in another painful gasp and scrambled down the rope that hung from the balcony. That was too close. A few more inches and he would have been lying up there alongside Lord Gaynor.

  He jumped from the rope and landed on the white sand. The beach was clear, except for the massive boulders scattered across the shore. Dark waves lapped the sand a couple feet away. The moon lit up the beach with pale light.

  Caleb glanced down. His shirt was torn and a long gash spread across his chest. Luckily it was only a flesh wound, but it hurt like a hot poker pressed against his skin.

  He grabbed the pack he had stowed between two large boulders near the base of the cliffs and took off at a run toward the port side of Avonai. He stayed near the water’s edge so the incoming waves could wash away his footprints.

  Other than this minor setback, the mission had been a success. He wondered how the others had fared. Had his men been able to get King Alaric?

  Caleb dodged another scattering of rocks along the beach, each of them big enough to look as if a giant had tossed them up from the sea. Ahead, he could see the twinkle of lights from the waterfront. Slowing down, he took more careful steps. No use being caught now. There was still much to be done.

  He used the shadows to conceal his movement and made his way to the docks. Caleb ducked behind a couple of large wooden crates and changed out of his black clothes and into his sailor’s outfit. He stuffed the dark clothing back into his pack, then sauntered out onto the wooden walkway, looking like a newly landed seadog.

  No one paid any attention to him. It seemed that no one really paid attention to anyone here on the pier. Making his way across the waterfront, Caleb kept his pace slow and even, throwing in a few awkward steps now and then to give the appearance of being slightly inebriated. Once he reached the other side of the waterfront, he did a quick glance either way then slipped through the bushes back up the hill. The moon lit his path.

  Caleb reached the top and bypassed where his team had made camp and went farther in, toward a small field where their horses waited, hidden from view by the abundance of ferns and brush that grew along the coast. He grabbed the gear stored away under the brush and began saddling the horses. As soon as the other men arrived, they would leave.

  Caleb cinched the last pack on. Satisfied, he quietly made his way back toward the short cliff to watch. An uneasy feeling began to settle in his middle. The other men should have been here by now. He dropped to his belly and looked over the edge. There was something going on down on the pier.

  Suddenly someone scrambled up beside him. “Lord Tala?” Daleth whispered.

  “Right here,” Caleb said, his voice barely audible.

  “We’ve been followed.”

  Avonain guards scurried across the boardwalk. Caleb thought he saw one of his men being dragged away toward the city. Two guards were talking to a woman near the crates. She pointed up the hill toward where he and Daleth lay hidden. About five guards started making their way through the thick brush and up the hill.

  Caleb cursed under his breath. Time to go.

  “What should we do?” Daleth whispered.

  “We leave.” Caleb began to back away from the cliff.

  Daleth looked at him and balked. “We’re leaving the others behind?”

  “They knew the risks.” Caleb stood. “If you want to live, follow me.”

  Daleth hesitated. Caleb left him behind, ducking beneath tree branches and dodging the low-lying brush. If Daleth wanted to stay behind and die with his friends, so be it. As for himself, Caleb desired to live another day.

  He reached the field and went for the closest horse. He grabbed the saddle and heaved himself up. The wound across his chest shifted. He winced and gritted his teeth. Caleb glanced back toward the hill to find Daleth racing toward one of the other mounts.

  “Come on,” Caleb said angrily. Daleth scrambled over the brush. He turned and grabbed the reins. Every moment that ticked by brought the Avonain guards closer.

  Daleth leaped onto the horse and brought it about. Unwilling to wait any longer, Caleb gave his horse a kick and went galloping into the trees. Shouts filled the air behind him.

  Suddenly a scream sounded behind him. Caleb turned. Daleth toppled off his horse with long thin rod sticking through his body. Caleb urged his horse to go faster, his heart thudding to the beat of the horse’s hooves.

  Shadows whipped by overhead. He tried to see into the dark forest. An arrow flew by, filling his mouth with the bitter taste of fear.

  Caleb pressed his body down close to the horse. He could still hear the Avonain guards shouting behind him, but the sound grew dim as he raced beneath trees and moonlight. An arrow grazed his upper arm. Caleb clenched his teeth and rode on.

  Minutes later, all he could hear was the pounding of his own horse’s hooves across dirt, moss, and leaves. Caleb twisted his head and looked back. Nothing but shadows. He let out his breath in one long sigh. He had escaped.

  Caleb rode hard for a couple more minutes, then slowed his horse and let it pick its way between the trees. The dark forest swayed and moaned with the wind. Pale patches of moonlight poked through the branches. The air grew chillier by the minute.

  Caleb reached around to his pack and felt inside for a blanket. He pulled it out and wrapped it around his body. He watched the branches move and felt unease spread across his body.

  Only he had escaped.

  Not my fault, Caleb countered.

  But deep inside, he knew the truth. The next time he slept, Daleth and the other men he had left behind would visit him in his dreams.

  There, they would haunt him.

  And make sure he never forgot that he’d considered his life above their own.

  19

  Pound, pound.

  Rowen turned to Lady Astrea. “Are you expecting someone?”

  Lady Astrea sat in one of the two chairs near the fireplace in her guest room, a book in her hand. A large, ornate bed with green curtains stood against the other wall with a white wardrobe next to it. She looked up. “No.”

  “You didn’t ring for a servant? Are you expecting a message?”

  “No.”

  Rowen placed her hand on her sword and approached the door. “Who is it?” she called out.

  “Aren,” came the muffled reply.

  It sounded like Aren. But Rowen wasn’t going to take any chances. She drew her sword. “Get back,” she said to Lady Astrea, motioning behind her.

  Lady Astrea stood and moved to the far side of the bed.

  The door rattled again. Rowen unlocked the door and opened it a crack.

  Aren stood in the hallway, a worried look across his face.

  “Aren,” Rowen said, opening the door wider, “I thought you were going to—”

  “We need to get Lady Astrea out of here!”

  Rowen stepped back and let Aren in. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way out.” There was a frantic look on his face. “We need to go now.”

  Another figure stepped into the doorway. Rowen spun around and focused her blade on the man. “Who are you and what are you doing—”

  “Traver?” Aren said behind her. “What are you doing here?”

  “Assassins have infiltrated the castle,”
Traver said. “Dressed as our guards. Prince Evander sent me to see Lady Astrea safely away from the city.”

  “What?” Rowen took a step back, but kept her blade trained on the tall Avonain. He started to move through the doorway. “Not one more step,” she said.

  A hand settled across her arm. “It’s all right, Rowen,” Aren said. “Traver is on our side.”

  “You sure?” Rowen quickly glanced at Aren.

  “Yes.”

  Rowen hesitated, then lowered her blade.

  Traver walked in. “My lady,” he said, looking past Rowen, “Prince Evander sent me to escort you away from Avonai—”

  “I know.” Lady Astrea came to stand beside Rowen. “I heard you.”

  “Then you know the danger you are in and that we need to leave immediately.”

  “Yes. But what about my father?”

  “I’m heading to his room right now,” Aren said. “I’ll make sure Lord Gaynor and the others make it out.”

  “We’re heading out the back way.” Traver looked at Aren. “There is a small exit inside the storeroom I showed you. We’ll watch for you on the beach.”

  Aren nodded and left.

  Lady Astrea snatched her cloak from the wardrobe. There was no time to change. Rowen did the same with her own cloak. Her stomach coiling inside her. She had saved Lady Astrea once. Could she do it again?

  Lady Astrea stepped up beside Traver. “Lead the way.”

  Traver nodded.

  “I’ll take the rear,” Rowen said. She saw her pack slumped in the corner and grabbed it too.

  Traver turned and walked out the door, Lady Astrea and Rowen following.

  Cheery candles flickered in silver sconces, a direct contrast to the deathly quiet that filled the empty hallway. Their boots slapped the marble floor, breaking up the silence. Rowen stayed close to Lady Astrea. Traver led them down the corridor and a set of stairs.

  As they turned a corner, Traver halted. Rowen heard Lady Astrea suck in her breath. Peering around the two, she saw bodies littering the hall, their blood pooling across the marble floor. Rowen clenched her sword and felt sick. How could someone do this? These men had families, children, wives who were now bereft of a loved one. And for what? War. A war she did not understand.