Rogue's Call

by C. A. Szarek

  Charis gestured for silence and turned away. He concentrated, sniffed the air, and closed his eyes, sending his magical senses out wide.

  A marker he’d left had been tripped.

  He’d left pockets of magic everywhere they’d been. The markers could be anything, a rock, a tree, and were undetectable to most mages. He’d left them tuned to elemental magic specifically. If any elemental powers were used within range, he’d sense it.

  Like he had now.

  Problem was, they were too far away from this particular marker for him to tap in to it. To see exactly what had caused the surge. Or know exactly when it’d been tripped. The magical signal could’ve taken a day or two to get to him from where they were in Terraquist, even though they weren’t far from the Greenwald border.

  Simple concentration told him exactly where this marker was.

  Greenwald.

  Charis smiled and brandished a fist. “Elemental magic. One of my markers was tripped.”

  “Where?” Bracken demanded.

  “Greenwald.”

  Nason whistled. “’Tis as if you have the gift of foresight.”

  Charis laughed. “I wish, my friend. It’d make our task much easier. This was just my gut…and a little luck.”

  * * * *

  Not hide, nor hair. Charis made a fist and cursed. Savagely.

  Drayton was on his arse, too. He should’ve never told the old mage about the marker being tripped. Excitement had lit the old man’s usually cloudy eyes. Now, the magical check-ins were bordering on obsessive and Charis had nothing to share.

  The damn ancient fool knew a spell that could show him where they were at all times. If there was a flat surface around, his face would appear, and they could see each other. Hear each other. Talk to each other.

  Damn trick was as good as tracking magic, and Charis hated it. He didn’t need a supervisor.

  He had bigger problems than his annoying employer.

  His magic was failing him. For the first time in his life.

  He was going to have to tell the old codger he had no idea where the elemental was. He’d not sensed her—if she was the cause of the magic—anywhere near where his marker had been set off.

  Somehow, his leeriness of Drayton had increased tenfold since he’d seen the water mage’s brittle remains and suspected what the old mage had planned for the coveted elemental lass.

  Charis was worried even more about being the bearer of bad news. The old man was powerful, and not to be trifled with. His wrath lay in wait, highlighted by Drayton’s black-ringed aura.

  “Nothin’?” Bracken’s harsh face settled into even more terrifying lines at Charis’ headshake.

  “Are we fooked?” Nason wanted to know. He sported soot on both cheeks from the fire he was minding.

  Charis frowned. “Not if I can help it.”

  “Aye, that’s worked well so far.” Bracken snorted.

  He glared. If he wasn’t so desperate for a magical solution, he’d cross the distance between them and put his fist in the big man’s face. Maybe he could improve the bastard’s many-times-broken nose. They hadn’t had a good fight in months. It’d probably make them both feel better.

  Charis and his lads had only been in Greenwald two nights, southeast of where they’d been on the border of Terraquist. He wasn’t looking forward to the trek back to Drayton’s cave if they decided to give up and report in. He wasn’t ready to call it quits just yet.

  The marker had revealed the remnants of a magic-induced thunderstorm a few days ago at best guess—but when he’d tried to track it, he got a big fat nothing to latch on to—with tracking spells or good-old-fashioned mercenary skills.

  There was nothing in the area he suspected the storm had been. The signal was concentrated in a wooded area right off the main road, as if it’d had no purpose. As if the mage had lost control.

  The trace was slight too, with most of the power fading at the end of the short burst of magic—that told him it’d been a short-lived storm.

  Charis’ marker had recorded a seriously powerful elemental. Since it was a thunderstorm, he could only assume he or she was a water mage, but the magic was much more powerful than the mage they’d brought Drayton from the Terraquist market. Thicker, inferring there might be more than just water magic there.

  But was it Drayton’s mage?

  If so, what the hell happened to her?

  The magic had just poofed. There was no trail to follow.

  That just didn’t happen to Charis. His tracking magic was the best. He was no egotist to ponder on his powers, either. All his elfin teachers had boasted on what he could do. Before he’d left Aramour for bigger and better things—more gold, of course—he’d been sought out by all the clans when a tracker was needed for a difficult task.

  Like he’d told Drayton, if he couldn’t find her, she was dead.

  Or…covered in more powerful magic than his own.

  But there’s no such thing as undetectable protection magic, is there?

  Magic wasn’t working, so they’d gone back to the holding of the first lass Drayton had charged them with checking for identity. The site had been stripped of magic and bodies, evidence.

  Charis and his men had kept their distance because knights wearing Greenwald armor had been all over the place.

  His ears made him memorable. There weren’t that many half-elves running around the Provinces, so it was imperative he hide his heritage as best he could. He’d stick out even more in a Province where the duke happened to be half-elfin like him, too.

  They had to blend in. He and his lads were just three men traveling. They always had a cover story in case they were stopped. This time, they were on their way home to Aramour. All three of their far Northern accents were authentic. It was best to stick to simple truths and build on them.

  “We need ta move on.” Bracken’s gravelly voice broke into his desperate musings.

  “Nay.” He shook his head. Instinct warred with good sense. Or maybe it was denial that his magic was failing him. Either way, Charis always listened to his gut. “We need to stay here.”

  “Why? We’ve got nothin’, according ta you.”

  “I can’t explain it.” He stood to his full height and squared his shoulders. Maybe he’d get that fight after all, if the expression on the big man’s face was any indication.

  “Try.” Bracken’s meaty hands were tight at his sides, as if he was restraining himself.

  Charis narrowed his eyes. “Watch your tone.”

  Since when does Bracken command me?

  His companion was getting too big for his breeches.

  Bracken strode forward, closing the distance between them. “I don’t have a problem wit’ your leadin’. I have a problem wit’ wastin’ time and coin. And that’s all we’re doin’.”

  “Nay. We’re doing what needs to be done. Sorry you can’t understand the hows.”

  Growling again, this time deeper in his throat, Bracken towered over Charis. “You should watch your tone wit’ me.”

  Nason said nothing. Just watched them, pitched on the edge of his log seat, fists clenched in front of him. He’d abandoned his fire-tending. The embers crackled as if protesting. The little blond man was never one to step between them anyway. Charis and Bracken both outweighed and outmuscled him.

  “My gut says we stay in Greenwald. So we stay.”

  “Your gut or your magic?”

  “Both.” Charis pushed the word out with more confidence than he felt. He straightened and sucked in a breath.

  Bracken’s huge shoulders finally loosened, but his expression didn’t soften one iota. “Get tha shite worked out so we can find the lass.”

  “I’m working on it. I don’t like to be thwarted any more than you. Something’s not right here. My magic doesn’t fail.” Both his lads knew that from their turns together.

  That seemed to relax the oversized oaf even more. After a few paces back and forth of their campsite, Bracken grunted and s
at on a wide log Nason had dragged over from the woods when they’d stopped for the night.

  Charis released the air he’d trapped in his lungs as silently as possible. He hated the idea of weakness. Holding his breath to see what Bracken would do? Unheard of. He didn’t fear the big man.

  Maybe his powers had abandoned him for being a coward. He fought a shudder and planted his arse on a log next to Nason.

  “What’s next then?” Nason asked.

  “Greenwald Main. First thing in the morning.”

  Bracken arched a dark brow. “Why?”

  “Something’s telling me we need to go to market.” Charis didn’t dare question the urge now.

  “Another mage for Drayton?” Nason asked.

  “The mage, I hope.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Confusion and misery were her constant companions as the next few days passed. Too bad they had little to do with her purpose in Greenwald; meeting her suitors.

  To make Sir-Alasdair-matters worse, Elissa felt an irrational abandonment since the king and queen had departed. Especially since the goodbye with her cousin had been teary-eyed. She’d never seen Queen Morghyn cry. Of course she’d lost control of her own emotions then, too, squeezing her cousin in a tight hug when the queen had reached for her.

  “Be happy,” Queen Morghyn had whispered in her ear.

  Elissa’s eyes had darted to a visibly uncomfortable Sir Alasdair. Pain had really taken a bite out of her then, and not because the only family she had was leaving Greenwald.

  The knight still wouldn’t look her in the eye.

  She’d called herself a fool—then and now—and forced her attention on King Nathal and Sir Murdoch when both men wished her farewell. It was hard to see the man she’d considered father go, and even more so when the king enclosed her in a hug.

  Her unsaid anger had dissipated, but she hadn’t forgiven him for keeping her past from her—not by a long shot. She couldn’t hold on to her anger right then. Desperation and loneliness had threatened to swallow her whole.

  Elissa wasn’t alone. She shouldn’t feel as if she was, but a part of her did. Somehow, even though she’d made friends with the ladies of Greenwald, including the very shy newlywed, Mistress Avril, the fact things were not right with Sir Alasdair made her feel worse.

  She’d cried herself to sleep after the argument in the corridor. After that horrid dinner, when he’d refused to talk to her about their kiss.

  Elissa had woken up after dark, her torso sore from the rust gown’s tight bodice, combined with the position she’d been lying in. She’d scrambled to her feet, dressed for bed, and tried to forget about him.

  Reading one of her favorite books by the light from Sir Lucan’s glowing orbs had only made her feel worse; the story was a romance. A handsome knight pursued his true love, tearing her away from an unwanted arranged marriage.

  Of course.

  For some reason, she’d always loved that story. Now she couldn’t even look at it. Buried the small leather-bound volume at the bottom of her trunk.

  She’d crushed her eyes shut afterward, praying to the Blessed Spirit for sleep. And Peace.

  Unfortunately, she’d dreamt of him; his kiss, his taste. His arms around her.

  She’d fantasized that things had gone further when he’d had her back against the wall in the room that had once belonged to her parents. Her knight had taken her breeches down and touched her where only her own hands had been, and only during a bath.

  Elissa had even imagined he’d come back to her in the guest suite that night. In the dream, Sir Alasdair had stood by her bed, softly calling her name and reaching for her.

  She’d woken with a start—to a very empty bedroom and an aching chest.

  Sleep had eluded her the rest of the night.

  Which only made the next morning even tougher. Elissa had met the next of her suitors, the lord from a large holding in the south of Tarvis, Lord Audon Croly.

  She supposed he was nice, but he hadn’t stayed at the castle very long. He’d said all the right things, and he was certainly handsome with cropped sandy hair and light brown eyes, but they’d only shared two meals and a walk in the gardens—a location that was becoming tiresome, truth be told.

  Lord Audon hadn’t asked anything about her magic like Lord Avery had. He’d mentioned that he didn’t have any magic of his own to speak of. He’d seemed indifferent about—well, everything.

  How was one supposed to decide the suitability of a marriage partner from one afternoon and evening?

  Perhaps he didn’t like her? Had Lord Audon run from her? He’d said he had to take care of some urgent business in Greenwald Main for his father, and he’d come back if she wished.

  Elissa didn’t know what she wished.

  He’d even assured her that he wouldn’t be far, but Lord Audon hadn’t expressed that he’d wanted to see her again. To be fair, she hadn’t responded when he’d told her he could come back to spend more time with her.

  Had he been expecting her to say aye?

  Sir Alasdair had hovered, glowering the whole time, anyway. His presence had made her feel awkward with Lord Audon, something she hadn’t felt with Lord Avery.

  She was so confused when she looked at her knight. Hurt. Longing. It’d all hit her at once, swirling in her head and heart, then she’d remind herself it didn’t matter.

  He’s not one of my suitors had become her mantra, but it didn’t relieve the tightness in her chest.

  Lady Aimil’s cousin, Lord Lakyn, was next to arrive at Castle Aldern. He’d been the handsomest of her suitors thus far, flashing charming dimples when he smiled. As was typical for people from Ascova, Lord Lakyn had ebony hair and deep brown eyes, as well as an olive complexion that enhanced his looks. His hair was cropped short, which made him even more appealing.

  He was almost as tall as Sir Roduch—who stood at about six and a half feet—and just as broad, but his personality made him a gentle giant. Lord Lakyn made Elissa feel elfin, but it wasn’t as bad—comical—as seeing him next to his cousin. Lady Aimil was exactly five feet tall.

  She’d thrown herself into her cousin’s arms when he’d arrived. That’d been quite a sight, too, but all the surrounding witnesses, Lord Jorrin and Lady Cera included, had worn silly grins.

  Lord Lakyn had spent three days with her in Greenwald and Elissa had quickly grown fond of his jovial personality. She did worry that she would have to stand on a step stool to kiss him, but thinking of kissing had just made her obsess about her knight, so she’d shut down that trail of thought.

  Unfortunately, as lovely as Lord Lakyn was, the man had talked of little else than horse breeding. She’d had to swallow yawn after yawn. Smiling and nodding had made her head spin and her mouth hurt.

  She’d tried not to watch her chaperone, but of course her uncooperative gaze wandered, as if drawn to him. Even Sir Alasdair seemed to have trouble not being bored by Lord Lakyn’s one-track-conversations.

  Her gentle-giant-suitor had asked after her knight’s red roan mare. The man had insisted on seeing Contessa as well. Evidently, Sir Alasdair had purchased her from Lord Lakyn’s father. She was fine Ascovan stock, a phrase Lord Lakyn was overly fond of.

  She’d gone to the stables with the men, taking a moment to visit with the gray mare King Nathal had given her. The lass still needed a name, but Elissa had yet to come up with one. She could’ve asked her horse-loving suitor, but she’d been afraid Lord Lakyn would’ve turned a simple question into a soliloquy about how important a horse’s name was, so she’d refrained.

  The mare’s leg was better after their wild ride, and for that, Elissa was grateful. Guilt swirled in her stomach for the whole incident. Her gray must have forgiven her, though. The horse had neighed a greeting and sought Elissa’s touch with her soft muzzle. She’d rested her forehead against the mare’s much wider one, whispering nonsense to the beast and wishing for simpler times.

  Elissa had tried not to stare at Sir Alasdair while h
e’d been conversing with Lord Lakyn by his red roan’s stall, but it’d been the first time she’d seen a smile on her chaperone’s face since he’d kissed her.

  No matter which of her suitors stood next to Sir Alasdair Kearney, Elissa couldn’t stop comparing them. Her preferences were with her knight every time, despite his sour disposition since the incident—what she’d taken to calling the day at Castle Durroc and their kiss.

  Lord Audon was kind and reserved.

  Lord Lakyn was fun-loving and upbeat.

  Both were handsome. Both were wealthy and suitable matches, as the king intended. Neither of the men offered her a spark of attraction.

  There was only one more suitor.

  Lord Camden Malloch—the Duke of Dalunas.

  What if I don’t like him?

  Sir Alasdair’s kiss had scrambled her brains and her fantasies. What if she couldn’t see the appeal of any other man?

  She and Sir Alasdair were of a rank. He was an elevated knight—one of the personal guard to a duke. She was a minor lady. There was nothing stopping them from a match. The king was fond of Sir Alasdair. He was wealthy in his own right. Could provide for her. Besides, she had her own land. Her own coin.

  Would King Nathal object to her knight as her match?

  Elissa’s heart sped up.

  Don’t be a fool.

  Sir Alasdair regretted their kiss. His apology had spoken of as much, after all.

  Not to mention his refusal to discuss the incident and the indifference with which he regarded her now.

  Elissa felt like a duty he’d rather not have. He was maintaining his lack of decorum as far as proper escorts, too. If they touched at all, even by accident, a small brush of her fingers against his, or if he thought she walked too close, he’d scoot away, or yank away, unless they were with other people. If he had to touch her, it was hesitant, as if her skin burned his. And never for any length of time.

  A canyon as big as the Netian Valley was between them.

  Elissa hated it.

  The knight still seated her properly at meals in the great hall, but he wouldn’t dance with her if the bards sang after evening meal, even if other couples were dancing. Her knight didn’t address her unless absolutely necessary. Sir Alasdair wouldn’t blatantly ignore her, but his speech was curt and unnatural. Gone was their easy conversation and friendly company as before he’d kissed her.