“Do you know where you are, girl?” he asked.
Carol tried to think but did not like the thoughts that came to her.
The elemental moved closer. Carol felt his hungry eyes devour her body as she watched.
“Normally I allow my servants to test themselves against the would-be wielders of magic. Sometimes they return with a new soul. Occasionally, they are defeated. However, you are the one of whom the Endarian, Landrel, foretold, and I will have you for myself. I am Kaleal.”
Again, she tried to swallow, coming no closer to success than on her last attempt. Kaleal. The Lord of the Third Deep. A primordial she could not possibly defeat. Hawthorne had not prepared her for this. Panic rose, constricting her throat. She centered, desperately picturing steel bars between herself and the primordial.
A sneer crossed the primordial’s face as the bars materialized between them. He held out a hand, flicking one finger upward. A huge gust of wind hit Carol, and she lost her focus. The bars disappeared.
Kaleal’s eyes narrowed.
A wave of desire assaulted Carol, leaving her squirming beneath his gaze. Her breath came in ragged gasps. A picture of the primordial’s strong arms encircling her body filled her head.
Kaleal moved so close that his body lightly touched hers, fingertips softly stroking a path on the surface of her hand. As he bent his exquisite face to look directly into her eyes, Carol’s knees sagged. She struck out at his cheek, but somehow her slap became a caress, her arms moving up and around the primordial’s neck of their own accord. As her hands touched his smooth skin, a wave of passion surged through her body, almost robbing her of the strength to remain standing.
Kaleal moved her hands to his chest, guiding them to stroke his skin. Carol’s eyes widened as she fought with every ounce of her strength to deny the feelings cascading through her body. His lips brushed her neck, and she felt her hands move over his chest of their own accord. With horror, Carol realized that he had released them. The feel of the muscles beneath his skin brought tears to her eyes as the true nature of such terrible beauty burned her soul.
She held a being that no master sculptor could hope to capture with his art, with skin so thin and smooth it reminded her of a satin sheet. The musky smell of his sweat dizzied her, adding to the heat rapidly building inside her.
Something sparked within Carol as she struggled desperately to get hold of her feelings. This was a madness worse than death. They said that to succumb to a primordial was to be possessed.
No! Her desire was her own . . .
And her rage returned.
With a burst of will, Carol forced herself to think of her deepest longing, one that had truly torn her heart.
“Arn!”
Her scream echoed through the chamber.
Kaleal stumbled backward, putting his hands up to cover his face. When he lowered them, Arn looked down at her.
Carol felt something tickle the recesses of her mind, something hidden deep.
Arn leaned down. She kissed him, running her arms around his neck and into his curly brown hair. A wave of emotion stronger than the primordial’s desire coursed through her body and soul. She loved him, and the knowledge that she had long denied wrapped her in a lifeline to which she clung.
Since she was a little girl, she had always loved Arn. Her memories rocked her: Arn taking her riding far beyond the boundaries of her father’s holdings. The way he tried to explain his rejection of her advances when she had finally worked up the courage to express her desire for him. His attempted kindness through the years of their estrangement. His devotion to her father, and the high lord’s love for the younger man.
Their lingering conflict no longer mattered. “I love you, Arn,” she gasped, clasping him to her. “I love you.”
With that admission, a new strength of will blossomed in her mind. She loved the real Arn, not this impersonation. Releasing her arms from around his neck, Carol pushed him away.
The primordial snarled, once again Kaleal. The dark slits within those golden eyes widened as his lips curled back to reveal fangs. “You reject my passion, then you shall know pain.”
As the primordial reached for her, Carol’s anger crystallized, sharpening her mind like a scythe. Above Kaleal, the ceiling supports gave way, crushing the primordial to the floor beneath tons of falling stone. As he tossed the rock aside in an attempt to rise, steel chains strapped him to the ground. Kaleal fought desperately to break free. The chains thickened and held. Adding power to her visualization, Carol strapped around his neck a steel collar bolted to the floor.
With Kaleal’s howl of rage echoing in her head, the room dissolved, and her father’s face swam into her vision, tears cutting swaths down his face as he held Carol in his arms.
Gaar’s voice cut through the red haze. “Gods! She lives!”
“Carol, I thought I’d lost you.” Rafel pulled her tight to his chest. “Hawthorne sent word, and I arrived to find you on the verge of death. Thank the gods of light for returning you to me.”
She smiled. Her whisper was barely audible. “Don’t worry. I’m just tired. I’ll be fine.”
Picking her up in his arms, Rafel carried Carol back to her room, lay her on her bed, covered her in a thick pile of blankets, and stood watch as sleep enfolded his daughter.
6
West of Rafel’s Keep
YOR 412, Late Winter
Carol opened her eyes as the wagon bumped over inhospitable terrain, her head resting on a sack that smelled of barley. Beside her, water splashed out the top of one of several barrels. The creak and crunch of the wheels brought her to full awareness. Outside the canvas that enclosed her wagon, a yell arose above the other noises as a driver urged his team of oxen forward.
She was still dressed in the riding clothes she had worn to Hawthorne’s chambers but had to search to find her boots. Climbing forward, she pushed aside the tarp that separated the wagon bed from the seat and poked her head outside. The driver, a groom named Jake, shared the wagon seat with a teenage girl Carol recognized.
Carol squeezed up between these two. Directly overhead, the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky.
“Good day, Lorness,” Jake said, touching his right hand to his hat. “We were worried about you. You’ve slept clear past noon.”
Carol laughed lightly. She had come through the ritual alive and, despite the narrow escape, in full possession of her faculties.
“Thank you, Jake. I’m glad to be here to see you and Lucy.”
Lucy flushed prettily, obviously pleased and surprised that Carol remembered her name. She turned her attention to the girl. “Jake seems to be enjoying our new adventure. What about you, Lucy?”
The girl looked down. “I hate it. We were happy back home. Why did this have to happen?”
“I . . . I really don’t know,” said Carol. “All we can do is make the best of our new adventure, because there’s no turning back.”
Biting her trembling lower lip, Lucy dropped her eyes again, tears pooling at the corners. Carol reached out and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“I’ve always dreamed of something like this,” said Jake. “I’ll wager that before this is over, I’ll fight vorgs and worse, too.”
Lucy stared at Jake as if a rabid skunk had bitten him, making Carol smile.
Carol felt stronger than ever before. For the past five years, she had denied the love that the ritual had uncovered. She marveled at the thought, turning it over in her mind. She had often heard that the line between love and hate was blurry. But she had released her anger at Arn for the hurt he had inflicted. She had begun to fully trust herself again.
And what had the primordial said to her? Something about her being the one of prophecy. She had confronted the lord of the third deep and survived, setting something in motion that she did not yet understand.
This bit about the prophecy was something she would have to discuss with Hawthorne.
A horse trotted up to the wagon
, interrupting her reverie.
“It’s good to see you up and about today,” her father said. “You gave me a scare last night.”
“I’m fine.”
“I see that I’ve been deceiving myself that Alan was my only wild child.” Turning his horse, her father rode off down the line of wagons.
From her stomach, a low rumble caused Carol to notice just how hungry she was.
Reaching under the seat, she brought out a small basket, filled to the brim with apples, carrots, and strips of dried meat. Her other hand grabbed a waterskin. Despite these being travel rations, Carol ate ravenously. The countryside continued to roll by as she ate, the distant blue mountains showing no sign of getting any closer. She finished her meal and, growing sleepy again, drifted into slumber.
She awoke to find her head on Jake’s shoulder. As the sun sank toward the cloudless horizon, she stretched and yawned. “It seems I’ve made a pillow of you, Jake.”
“I’ve had worse duty.”
“Look!” Lucy exclaimed with a clap of her hands. “We’re going to camp beside a stream tonight. We can wash up!”
Brightening, Carol saw the line of wagons crossing a shallow stream to form a defensible double circle on the far side of the brook. The formation was more of a long ovoid than a circle. Rougher terrain required the caravan to be split into multiple, mutually supporting campsites.
As they came to a halt, Carol hopped down and walked toward where her father stood with a group of men. He broke off his discussion as he saw her approach. “Are you well rested?” he asked.
“And ready to work. What do you need me to do?”
“Hawthorne needs your help. Blalock is putting enormous pressure on his wards, and he’s having difficulty keeping them in place.”
“On my way.”
Carol felt her father’s eyes follow her as she made her way to the wielder’s wagon. Poking her head inside, Carol found Hawthorne sitting, his face strained and tired. He motioned for her to sit across from him.
“Blalock is hard at work now,” he said, his voice barely rising above a whisper. “I need you to do exactly as I tell you. Take my hands. Now clear your head. Allow your essence to drift inside the shell of your body. My mind will reach out to yours. You must allow me to guide you. Don’t try to assist with what I’m doing. Just let your mind move in conjunction with mine. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
She centered. Having long ago mastered Hawthorne’s meditation techniques, she released the connection that tethered her mind to her body. She felt the wielder’s mind touch hers, felt its power. She also felt its weakness, a weakness that she unintentionally probed. Recoiling, Carol instantly regained control of her focus. Again, she opened herself, letting go of all thoughts. Once again, Hawthorne’s mind made contact.
A moment later, she opened her eyes to see her mentor staring down at her. “What happened? Why did you stop?”
“We are done,” he said. “We’ve been at it for over two hours.”
Suddenly she noticed how dark it was. Except for the candlelight, she would not have been able to see Hawthorne’s bearded face.
“With your help, I was able to enhance the wards so as to block Blalock indefinitely,” he said. “I dare say, he must have been surprised to feel my defenses strengthen, just when he thought they were about to crumble. That will give him pause.”
Over the next hour, Hawthorne instructed Carol on the precise nature of his magical defenses, imparting the knowledge required to bypass them should she ever become separated from the caravan.
Hungry, Carol excused herself. Walking toward the fire, she saw that dinner had ended. Upon seeing her approach, the head cook waved his hand.
“Jock, do you have anything left?” Carol asked. “I missed dinner.”
“Follow me, Lorness, and I’ll alleviate that.”
He led her around one of the crackling fires to where a large black kettle, marred by dents and scratches, sat along the edge of the coals. Jacob wrapped his hand in a thick cloth, lifting the pot by its wire handle onto a flat rock. Grabbing a clean metal plate from a stack that had not yet been put away, he removed the lid, allowing the smell of fresh baked beans to waft out, making Carol’s mouth water. The cook took a dipper and ladled two full scoops onto her plate.
Carol picked up a spoon. Then, sitting down on a rock near the fire, she began to eat. The beans were good, with strips of meat mixed in, giving the whole dish a zesty flavor. She finished the plate, washing down the last bite with a cup of cold stream water. Thanking Jacob, she walked back to where her tent had been set up, undressed, and crawled into her blankets, immediately falling into a sound sleep.
Her father’s voice outside her wagon woke her. “Time to wake,” he said. “The sun’s almost up.”
Carol poked her head out from under her thick blankets, breathing in the brisk morning air. A thin layer of frost covered the ground outside her tent, the cold making her reluctant to leave her covers to put on clothes. She mustered her will, threw off the blankets, and grabbed her pants, sliding into them, shivering. Next came her icy shirt, followed by her jacket. Why, oh why, hadn’t she thought to tuck them under her blankets when she had crawled into bed?
Carol slipped on her socks and her boots and walked over to where the cook fires blazed. In the predawn darkness, men and women were busy tearing down tents, packing wagons, and saddling horses. The last guard shift came off duty, replaced by the outriders who scouted well ahead along the caravan’s planned route.
The morning sky acquired a peachy glow as Carol finished packing and found her horse. Jake was ready to saddle it, but she shooed him away. Fastening the bridle, she saddled the animal, slapped Amira’s side to make the mare expel a breath, and then hitched the girth strap tight. Lastly, she tied a rain slicker behind the cantle and swung up onto Amira’s back.
It felt good to be on horseback again. Carol loved the feel of the powerful animal underneath her, of the wind cascading through her hair. She trotted forward along the wagons beginning to roll out of circular formation. A double column of soldiers stretched ahead of the lead wagon to the west. In the distance—out to the front, on both sides, and to the rear—she could see the outriders in position. Another group of soldiers sat atop their horses in a double column, waiting to follow the last wagon.
Carol saw her father at the front of the lead column. A rider behind the high lord carried his battle flag, a silver dagger on a black background. She sensed in him a tremendous excitement.
As she spurred Amira forward, watching her horse’s condensing breath puff out into the frigid morning, Carol shared his feeling.
The day passed clear and bright. Although the mountains looked no closer, the snow that covered the upper portions of the range stood out with a brilliant glare. Thin, wispy clouds spread across the western horizon as the sun sank. The wagons formed a circle on a flat expanse of grassy ground, a dry camp. There would be no washing up this evening.
In the gathering twilight, tents were erected quickly, a clear indication that the group was getting more efficient at setting up camp. The cooks soon prepared dinner over open fires. They would be serving beans again tonight. Carol grabbed a plate and ate as soon as dinner was ready, anxious to commence her training despite being tired from the day’s ride.
She made her way through the darkness to Hawthorne’s tent and, throwing open the flap, found the wielder seated on a solid black rug that made him appear to float. Two fat candles burned in glass bowls. The smell of incense hung in the air. Hawthorne smiled up at her.
“Shall we begin?”
“I’m ready,” she said, sitting to face him.
“You know about the difficulties involved in the use of the higher magics, but experiencing them is something far different. Even many of the lesser elementals will attempt to misdirect your will. They will try to cause mischief and distract you so that your casting goes awry. The higher elementals will aim to make you lose concentration
so they can break your mind.”
The wielder absently stroked his beard as he talked.
“You will start with the magics of the weakest elementals. Just because I said your mind is powerful, don’t think that this will be easy. All elementals are cunning. Be wary, lest overconfidence becomes your worst enemy. Do you understand?”
Carol nodded, closed her eyes, and began the meditation that allowed her consciousness to wash her body. She centered, separating spirit from flesh. When she opened her eyes, she saw that Hawthorne had spread a parchment scroll before her. Without hesitation, she read the word written there.
“Wreckath!”
As she spoke the name, she mentally reached out, ensnaring the minor air elemental, Wreckath, willing it to breathe a small gust onto one of the candles. She expected to meet resistance, not enthusiastic cooperation. A strong wind struck the candle, knocking it over, lighting the rug fringe. A stream of sparks jetted into Hawthorne’s beard, and Wreckath fanned them into a flame.
The wielder yelled as he flopped over and rolled on the ground, trying to smother the fire in his beard. Casting the elemental away, Carol lunged for the water pouch, uncorked it, and dumped the contents onto Hawthorne’s head.
“Enough! Enough!” the wielder sputtered.
He lay back, breathing heavily. When he opened his eyes, his gaze caught Carol, who was slightly unnerved.
“What did I say about control?” the wielder muttered as he stood up, wiping water and ash from his face.
“I’m sorry. I expected it to be harder.”
“And next time, it may very well be. Whether the elemental’s domain is fire, water, earth, or air, casting a spell is a wrestling match. You reach out and grab the being with your mind, forcing it to manipulate a part of nature. If the being feels you overcommit, it will use your own momentum against you. If you are too tentative, the elemental will fight. You have to strive for balance. Now, let’s do it again. This time, try to be more careful.”
For the next two hours, Carol practiced, finally managing to control Wreckath to the wielder’s satisfaction.
Mark of Fire (The Endarian Prophecy Book 1) Page 4