Water Spell (Guardians of the Realm Book 1)

by Lizzy Ford

  “Karav kept much from you,” he added.

  “I never left his side for more than half a day,” she said. The emotion in her voice disturbed her.

  “You miss him.”

  “Of course I do. I cannot …” she trailed off, flushing.

  “Finish.”

  “You asked me if mages sleep. Yes. But I cannot sleep alone.”

  “You are welcome in my bed, mage.”

  She ignored him. “I will just have to learn.”

  “This is why you have not slept in three nights.”

  “Does my body tell you this?”

  “It does. It also tells me you have not eaten in as long. I did not know mages were as helpless as children with no mother to tell them when to eat or sing them to sleep.”

  Her face burned with heat and her eyes with tears. “I’m mourning. Leave me be.” Her chest ached with tightness from sorrow.

  “Still want to take that oath, mage?” Tieran asked in the mocking tone again.

  “Yes, Inlander, I do,” she replied quietly. “I am not the coward you think I am.”

  He said nothing. Exhausted, upset, she rested her head on his chest again. The lake spoke to her, easing her tension. It talked until they were too far for her to hear it. The clouds did not clear, but by the time they reached the hold belonging to Tieran’s uncle, it was light enough to see her new world, and for a familiar sense of doom to fill her.

  7

  Tieran rode unchallenged across the drawbridge of his uncle’s fortress. A page took the horse. Sela slid off, the loss of Tieran’s heat reminding her how cold she was. The warrior said nothing but led her through the silent hold to a familiar chamber. Closing the door behind her, he pulled off his cloak and stretched it over a trunk to dry.

  “Come,” he ordered, withdrawing the salve from his saddlebags.

  She went. The energy from the lake was long gone, leaving her aware of the toll of three days without food or sleep. Tieran pulled her into his body. She leaned against him, too tired to resist. He checked her wound and smeared more salve on it then moved away.

  “Stay here,” he told her, striding to the door.

  Sela sighed and crossed to the hearth. The fire still burned, and she huddled before the heat. When she was warm, she lay down on her side, watching the flames, willing them to put her to sleep.

  They did not. The morning grew brighter, the sound of thunder distant. Rain began to fall and sang to her as it did. Neither it nor the flames lulled her to sleep, and she found herself sobbing in exhaustion and frustration by midday. Chills returned, whether from the cold breeze that swept through the window or her fear. When she calmed, she looked at her hand.

  The scar was there, where Karav’s had been. She rubbed it, unable to understand how she ended up with a guardian like Tieran after living with sweet, gentle Karav her whole life. Even Tieran’s explanation of a people that created their own laws did not reassure her as she dwelled on the image of Karav disappearing over the hill.

  He left because he had to. He never did anything that was not to help her. If he kept secrets of about her duty, he did it to protect her. She wished he had stayed a little longer, or that she had listened more closely when he warned her of danger. One more day.

  She cried again, ignoring the servant that brought her food. The scents were enticing, but no part of her wanted food. The hole inside her was not going to be filled by venison or ale.

  Out of tears, she returned her gaze to the fire. She felt the heat but was still so cold. Was she feeling Karav’s death?

  A servant returned and took away the food before putting more wood in the fire. Sela watched, disoriented. Her chills turned to sweats and then to chills again. The clouds grew darker outside the window until only the fire was visible. The door opened again. She assumed the servant was returning with more food for her to ignore.

  “Was Karav limited by where he went?”

  Sela rolled onto her back, struggling to focus on Tieran. His eyes glowed, reflecting the fire. They were wild again. He did not wait for her answer, instead flinging daggers across the chamber. He threw off his cloak and wet tunic and under-tunic, then his boots.

  She rose, sensing he needed the cool magic of her blood. His adjustment was harder than hers; she felt no real change since binding. His question penetrated the strange fog in her mind.

  “He never went far,” she replied. “Is it the madness?”

  “Madness!” He rose and threw his boots then breathed a heavy sigh. “Madness is being bound to …”

  She touched his arm, at once feeling his fevered body absorb her cool magic. Sela closed her eyes, fascinated by the fact he was pulling her magic. Normally, it flowed between her and Karav, but it was usually her pulling and pushing, not the other way around.

  Tieran took her arms, and she opened her eyes, startled.

  “You’re fevered,” he said, studying her.

  Frowning, he pushed up the tunic over her wound. She swayed into him. He lifted her and carried her to his pallet, setting her down in the center. Sela shivered and rolled onto her side, curling up. Her body screamed for rest, but sleep did not come. She felt as if she lay still forever, shivering and fatigued.

  The pallet beside her sank under Tieran’s weight. One arm went beneath her neck, the other wrapping around her tightly. He pulled her against his bare chest. She pushed at him, unwilling to sleep with the man she did not trust.

  “Settle, mage,” he ordered softly.

  Her body listened, even if her fevered mind did not wish it. Sela huddled against his body, burning up from the inside and soon after, cold enough to shiver. The will to protest faded with her insomnia. Safe and warm in his arms, she fell asleep for the first night in four days.

  A loud noise woke her. She rolled onto her back, not recognizing where she was at first. She did not remember the full journey from the town and vaguely recalled the fire burning. A fever dream emerged from her thoughts, one she knew to be nothing but a dream. Tieran had held her against him, his body comforting her as chills wracked hers.

  Tieran would never show her any mercy or kindness.

  Sela sat, weak but finally recognizing her surroundings as Tieran’s chamber in the savages’ hold.

  Wiping her face, she pushed herself out of the comfortable pallet. It was a bright morning. The clouds were gone, the air drifting in from the window cool. Her side ached. She peeled up the tunic. Her wound was red around the stitches and swollen. The pain she felt was from the newly formed skin straining against the stitches.

  The sound came again. A shout from the bailey.

  Sela looked down at herself and grimaced. She was rested for the first time in days, but her clothing was stiff and grimy. She sorted through the trunks along one wall until she found what looked like squire’s clothing. Cleaning herself with water from the washbasin, she stopped to look at the wound again.

  How long had she slept? More than a day, by the new skin forming over the stitches.

  She cleaned the wound carefully, not wanting to disturb the healing process then gazed around for the salve. Tieran had removed it from his saddlebags.

  His saddlebags were gone. She focused on her surroundings. His weapons, saddlebags, boots. He had traveled outside the hold, if he took his saddlebags. She frowned, wondering if he took her horse.

  Another shout. Sela dressed and went to the window. She hauled a chair beneath it and stood on it, gazing into the bailey. The hold’s men were sparring on the lists in the bailey. And running in and out of the hold via the drawbridge, which was noticeably missing one long chain.

  She blinked and took in the scene again.

  Men in red cloaks. Iliu had found her.

  Fear slid through her.

  Was this, too, a fever dream? Like that of Tieran’s arms around her?

  The men in red cloaks were overrunning the hold. They climbed the walls while those living in the hold fought them in the bailey and in the stairwells. Sela climbed dow
n from the chair and swayed, weak from fever and days without food.

  She hurried to grab to the boots she’d worn from the town. They were stiff but dry. She pulled them on fast and snatched a cloak. Swirling it over her shoulders, she yanked open the door and started one way down a hallway. She stopped, disoriented. Shouts and the sound of battle came from ahead.

  She turned and ran the other way. She navigated the hold the best she could, running from anything that sounded like battle and descending what stairs she found. At long last, she emerged into a familiar hallway, the one outside the great hall.

  The hallway was packed with women milling and trying to flee through the door leading to the stables rather than the bailey. Sela hesitated. She started to turn back when she heard the sound of boots on the stone steps behind her. She darted forward instead, joining the masses trying to shove themselves out of the hold.

  Someone grabbed her arm and flung her towards the great hall. Sela gasped, closing her eyes as she fell. She landed on another woman, who pushed her off and rose. More women were thrown into the great hall. Sela scrambled to her feet, her head spinning. She staggered and careened into a table.

  Where was Tieran? She hoped he felt her anger and fear. She would gladly be backed into a wall, if he wiped out all the men in red cloaks first.

  They grabbed the women trying to flee and pushed them deeper into the hall. Sela did not have the strength to resist as one grabbed her and shoved. She joined the group of women cowering at the far end from the door. If she appeared to fit in among the slaves and servants, no one could kidnap her.

  Two men took up positions at the doorway. They began stopping women and grabbing their right hands to examine them before pushing them towards the opposite end Sela was.

  She looked around wildly for an escape. The windows were too high and narrow, and the entrances guarded by Iliun soldiers. Men in red lined the walls, armed and ready.

  The doors to the great hall boomed closed. Sela stood amidst the other women of the hold. Many were crying or talking in worried whispers.

  The Iliun men seemed to be waiting for something. None moved or spoke.

  The doors opened again, and a tall man wearing a sash entered. He walked through the women, scouring their faces. Sela hid behind another woman, her hands shaking.

  “We seek a mage!” he bellowed.

  The sounds in the hall faded.

  He strode down the hall and repeated the shout. Sela’s heart quickened, and she prayed no one there gave her up. For all they knew, she was a slave, like half the women present.

  He returned to the center of the hall with a frown and motioned to his men. Two moved forward and grabbed a woman in the crowd.

  Instead of examining her hand, they forced her to her knees.

  “Mage, show yourself,” the commander shouted.

  Sela held her breath.

  One of the men drew a sword, and the kneeling woman started screaming and struggling. They pushed her to the ground. One pinned her on her stomach while the other rested the sword at her neck. The latter looked to their commander.

  Stricken, Sela stared, unwilling to believe they meant to kill an innocent woman.

  The commander gave a nod, and the warrior raised his sword.

  “Wait!” Sela cried, forcing herself to step forward. Her fear screamed at her to stay hidden, even if they slaughtered everyone in the room to find her. But the quiet whisper of Karav reminded her no one’s life was more valuable than her own.

  All eyes turned in her direction. She pushed through the women while the commander walked towards her. Stepping into his path, she did her best to put her fear away and exhibit the royal carriage of her birthright.

  “Mage?” he asked, looking her over. Tall and lean, his eyes were colder than the underground lake. His accent was clipped, his hair graying at the temples and his cloak lined with silk, an indication of his stature.

  She presented her hand. He took it and examined the scar. Satisfied, he stepped closer to her.

  “Where is your warrior?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she replied.

  She felt the backhand before she realized it was coming. Sela reeled and landed hard on the stone floor. She gasped, her ears ringing from the blow. One of the warriors hauled her up. The commander nodded again to the two men holding the woman. Before Sela could speak, one of them slashed off the innocent woman’s head.

  Sela stared.

  “A warning not to cross me,” the commander said to her. He waved for the man subduing her to take her away.

  They led her into the bailey, where the fighting had ceased. Sela realized the majority of the men from the hold were gone; women, elderly and children were grouped in the bailey. Tired already after her fevered night, saddened an innocent woman had lost her life, Sela did not resist her captors as they led her through the bailey, across the drawbridge and outside the walls.

  An enclosed carriage waited in the midst of men in red. One of them opened the door and motioned for her to enter. She went silently.

  A plush seat large enough to serve as a pallet was on one side of the carriage and a small offering of food and wine on a crate on the other side. The interior was lit by holes in the roofing, too small to escape through but large enough for her judge the time of day.

  They chained the door behind her. Sela sat on the bench, eyeing the food. Her weak body needed something. She nibbled on bread baked fresh that morning and sipped the wine. Within moments, the large wooden box lurched forward. Uneasy, she sat back.

  They had not tied her, and they had given her food and a place to rest – after murdering a woman in the hold. Sela had never dealt directly with anyone from Iliun. Was this contradictory behavior normal?

  Tieran would be furious, probably at her, for allowing one of his uncle’s kinswomen be murdered. She had not done more to stop the heinous act. Karav would have negotiated or objected or beaten the men down.

  Sela had stood by in shock and watched. What would Karav think? Did he not always tell her to do what was just, to prevent the loss of innocent life and only use her power in defense?

  She sighed. If Tieran hated her, he had every right to. For once, she hoped he was listening to her thoughts and knew to follow her.

  The road was rickety, though the plush bench cushioned most of the bumps. The midday sun peeked through the holes in the top of the cage and rested on the bench. The wagon’s rattling and sway lulled her tired body into a doze. When the noise ceased, she roused herself.

  The night sky peeked through the holes in the ceiling.

  Sela sat up groggily. The sounds of horses and men outside the wagon forced her attention off her body. A glance through the holes in the roof revealed no visible moon. Heart pounding, she waited for someone to come for her.

  The chains outside her door rattled. The door opened to reveal a small group of the men with red cloaks, to include the commander who ordered the woman beheaded. He stood beside a man whose haughty carriage and rich dress reminded her of the nobles from her father’s court.

  Karav hated nobles. When he had taken over her guardianship, she had moved a short distance away from her father’s palace, to a village in the forest too small to be of interest to any visiting noble. Her father spent most of his time there, and she often visited his court, which Karav had despised.

  One of the warriors motioned her out of the wagon. She went. The commander approached and signaled for the others to leave.

  They were in a hold somewhere. She smelled water in the air. They had to have gone east, towards the lake near the border separating the Inlands from its eastern neighbor, Biu.

  “Lady Mage, my introduce my master, Lord of Genitin, nephew to his majesty, the king…”

  She returned her gaze to the commander as he spoke, surprised to find someone of such rank would venture to the Inlands. The hold was older and small, nothing befitting what she knew of how the blood relatives of the king lived in Vurdu.

&nbs
p; The man he spoke of kept his distance. He wore the red of the Kingdom of Iliu, located west of the Inlands.

  The noble was built much like a warrior with a cool blue gaze and pale skin framed by neatly kept blond hair. He was handsome and a few seasons older than Tieran. Her gaze lingered. A sense of enchantment filled the air around him. He was not a mage, but he wore a talisman or carried an enchanted piece of clothing or weapon, something that touched the magic in her blood. Unable to pinpoint the source of the enchantment, she realized the commander had fallen silent.

  “Where is your guardian, mage?” the noble addressed her.

  “I’m not certain,” she replied.

  “He may have been killed in the battle,” the commander said.

  “No.” She smiled faintly, able to feel the bond. “He’s alive. He’ll find his way here.”

  “By then I hope we are allies,” the noble said. “I have heard of how courageous and fierce Inlanders are. I would not wish him to come for my head.” These words were spoken with humor.

  A civilized man came for another man’s head. Tieran would skin these men alive for taking her then gut them like pigs.

  “Come,” the noble said, stepping aside. “We will talk.”

  There was command in his voice, an indication he was accustomed to being obeyed. Shivering in the cool night, Sela crossed her arms and moved forward. The commander trailed as they walked from the bailey into the hold.

  “I trust your travel was as comfortable as possible?” Lord Winlin asked with politeness that told her he was not really interested.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Thank you.”

  “It was not the ideal way to gain an audience with you.”

  Puzzled by his attempt to be pleasant, Sela looked at him again. She had seen his men fight in the village and in the Inlander hold. He had not sacrificed them or pursued her for a simple audience. If he believed what Citon had told her, that she would become the source of the next generation of mages, then she already knew what he wanted. She also knew well enough how to play to a noble’s pride.