Magic of Fire and Shadows (Curse of the Ctyri Book 1)

by Raye Wagner

  Even with his flustered state, Vasi smiled at Danek, her father’s apprentice. With a deep breath, Vasi pushed to her feet, cupped her hand around her mouth, and yelled, “Father!”

  Casimir turned, meeting her gaze, and when recognition sparked in his tired eyes, he waved back. No smile of greeting lit across his features, and new wrinkles rooted around his big blue eyes. He’d combed back his coppery-blond hair, accentuating his wearied expression.

  Vasi took a step forward, her stomach flipped, and her vision tunneled. She staggered, trying to regain her footing as she pitched forward.

  Brida caught Vasi’s arm and pulled, but Vasi dropped to her knees in the mounds of dirt.

  “Vasi,” Brida shrieked.

  Vasi kept her eyes closed, waiting to regain control over her body. Several seconds passed before Vasi could say, “Hush, Brida. I’m quite all right. I stood too fast.”

  Vasi kept her head down, focusing on the dark earth while she waited for the dizziness to pass. Again.

  Now that her father was back, fear prickled and chilled her skin. Ugly doubts ate at her heart like worms in an apple, leaving a hollow ache in Vasi’s chest. What if she was wrong? What if her father actually knew all along? What if Marika had told him, and he’d condoned it?

  Hoofbeats thundered closer, the ground vibrating with their force. She tried to stand, but her vision swam, the basket of carrots and pile of dirty tubers blurring in and out of focus.

  “Is she ill?” Casimir asked, his familiar, beloved voice demanding answers.

  Vasi could feel his presence, but she didn’t trust herself to move. Not yet.

  “She has not eaten for . . . days, sir,” Brida said.

  Vasi reached for Brida, gripping the hem of her dress, and begged, “Say . . . nothing. I’ll not have you punished.”

  A shadow fell over Vasi’s crouched form.

  “Give her here, Brida,” Casimir said. He knelt at Vasi’s side and scooped her up in his arms.

  Her vision held, and she stared at her father. This close, the redness of his eyes and sagging of his shoulders showed clearly the extent of his weariness. However, overpowering his exhaustion, concern etched itself in the furrow of his brow, his dark gaze, and his pursed lips.

  Casimir pulled her close as he stood. Dirt and sweat darkened the collar of his genteel blue shirt, evidence of a long, hard ride. He smelled of travel, dust, and horse as well as another scent, truly his own, the combination of his favorite lemongrass soap and ink. Black ink stained his shirt, several drips right down the front, and Vasi smiled at the familiar sight.

  “Vasi,” he said, his voice rumbling through his chest as he spoke. “Is this true? Have you not eaten?” He carried her down the rows, his boots smashing the husks and stems the young women discarded earlier in their harvest. He examined her face, seemingly only more concerned. “Why have you not eaten for days?”

  The world rocked like a boat in the river, but a warm lassitude of comfort blanketed Vasi. Beaming up at her father, she said, “I had a carrot.”

  “You’re smiling, but you’re eyes are glassy and unfocused,” he said, his expression darkening. “And you’re slurring your words. Brida—”

  “I’m just so happy you’re here,” Vasi continued, patting his shoulder. “We weren’t expecting you for . . . days.” Or had they been expecting him days ago? Had it been weeks? Her thoughts muddled together in a muddy slurry.

  “Vasi?” He pulled her close and whispered, “Please, tell me why I’ve found you unwell. When I left . . .” He cleared his throat but didn’t continue.

  Vasi rested her head against his chest. She didn’t know how or where to begin. She’d been waiting for this moment for months, but words slipped through her mind and eluded her grasp. Her parched throat clogged with emotion.

  “Papa . . .” She trailed off as her nagging doubts returned, assailing her.

  Casimir studied her face. “Vasi, my little dove. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “You could never guess how happy I am.” She rested her head on his chest again as a single tear leaked from her eye and trickled down her cheek. The world glowed in golds and ambers, and with a sigh, Vasi closed her eyes.

  Casimir stopped moving. When he spoke, it was as if through water to Vasi’s fuzzy mind.

  “What’s happened, Brida? How long has Vasi been like this? Has a physician been sent for?”

  The next time Vasi opened her eyes, Casimir was setting her on the narrow bench of the cart. He climbed up next to her and then, with a flick of his wrist, the rig began its trundling pace forward.

  Vasi yawned and swatted at a fly buzzing around her face. Leaning against her papa, she murmured, “You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed you.”

  Casimir put his arm around Vasi, tucking her close to his side. “And I you.” Then he quickly amended, “You and your sister and mother.”

  Vasi cringed, and the fear of losing her papa to the hated Marika reared again.

  “Talk to me.” His puzzled expression filled with questions, and he continued to press. “If you’re ill, why were you in the garden? Why didn’t you tell Marika?”

  Vasi’s head throbbed with a pounding ache, but she dared not rub her forehead lest her father see and heap more questions on her.

  “Please?” he begged, kissing the top of her head. “Please talk to me.”

  Her heart broke, and Vasi spilled her secrets. “Marika locked the cabinets.”

  His tanned complexion blanched. “There has been a theft?”

  Vasi whispered, “No.”

  The cart lurched, and Casimir glanced down. Their blue eyes met, and he shook his head in disbelief. “Why would you not ask her for the key then?”

  There were so many things she could say, so many instances of Marika’s abuse, but the words crumbled in Vasi’s parched mouth. She dropped her gaze and pushed the truth out. “Not eating was preferable to asking for the key.”

  “What?” Casimir gasped, the reins sliding from his hand. He scrambled to pick them back up, but held them limply. The horse slowed, but he hardly seemed to notice, his attention fixed on his daughter. “What do you mean by that?”

  Vasi swallowed, trying to remember what she’d planned to say, but her thoughtful explanations vanished in her muddy mind. “Marika is not . . . kind to me. I’m not trying to fight her . . . I promise, Papa. It’s just that she wants me to get married, and I won’t. But . . . Now that you’ve returned, would you ask her to unlock my room? And can I have something to drink . . .”

  “A drink? And no food? Where are you sleeping? How . . .” Casimir spun toward his daughter, almost bumping her off the bench. He ducked his head and met Vasi’s gaze, his beautiful blue eyes cloudy with emotion. “Does Marika know?”

  Vasi choked on a sob and hung her head. The immediate joy of her father’s arrival slipped away, and its wake left a host of other emotions washing over her, chief among them anger at his betrayal of abandoning her with the nastiest person alive. She closed her eyes again and whispered, “Yes, Father, Marika knows. She’s the one who ordered it.”

  15

  Vasi’s eyes burned, but the ache in her chest made her acutely aware of the inch of space separating her from her father. She fought the lull of his warmth and the rocking of the cart as they approached their home in strained silence.

  No—not their home. His and Marika’s.

  Vasi glared at the thick decorative columns and the elaborate façade of vines and flowers carved in the stone of her childhood home. It would probably be sold soon, regardless of who owned it now, to the lecherous Lord Baine.

  The ride was nearly over, the wagon closing in on the entrance, and Vasi realized her chance to reveal to her father the extent of Marika’s cruelty was rapidly disappearing. Vasi cleared her throat, feeling as though a small stone were lodged there.

  “Father—” She coughed as the wagon slowed to a stop.

  Casimir either didn’t hear or chose to ignore her. He jumped from
the wagon, rounded it, and without another word, scooped Vasi back into his arms and carried her to the door. Dirt flaked around them as Casimir stomped up the stone steps.

  A new wave of exhaustion washed through Vasi—perhaps it stemmed from the comfort of her father’s arms, but her last reserves of energy drained away, and she sagged, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  Her father adjusted Vasi in his arms, rousing her, and kicked the door. After the boom of his foot, the brass knocker made a light thumping sound, but no one answered. Instead of setting Vasi down, Casimir leaned in, grabbed the doorknob, and awkwardly managed to open the door.

  A tinkle of laughter interrupted a low murmuring of voices. The happy sounds floated into the Great Hall, and Casimir stormed through the large room and into the solar. Marika, Roza, and Lady Granth sat around the mistress’s tea table, chatting over a late luncheon. The heavily laden table held tiered dishes with éclairs, teacakes, scones, and cookies, a large quiche, and finger sandwiches. Pots of lemon curd, raspberry jam, and clotted cream sat on the table. Fresh brewed tea and lemon perfumed the air along with bouquets of hot-house roses. The three women glanced up, and shock doused their features. Roza froze with an éclair halfway to her mouth, and Lady Granth’s mouth formed an O.

  But Marika’s painted eyes only widened.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Casimir asked as his gaze swung over the party.

  Marika plastered on a smile and stood. “Casimir, darling, you’re home. I—”

  Vasi’s fatigue fled as adrenaline pumped through her. Her gaze focused, and she studied her father.

  Casimir shook his head, and his gaze swept over the party. “I . . . I cannot think of any explanation for this.” He stared at Marika, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you entertaining company while my daughter is filthy, starving, and slaving in the garden? Did you know she is faint from malnutrition while you gorge yourselves?”

  Vasi braved a glance at the group. Marika’s pale skin reddened even under her layer of paint.

  Lady Granth gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “Oh dear, Casimir, darling, I’m sure you don’t understand. I know this will come hard, but from what Viscountess Pleth has told me, the girl has been a torment.”

  Casimir turned to the Marchioness. “I beg your pardon—”

  Lady Granth nodded. “I’m sure this conversation isn’t one you’d prefer to have with company, but as we’re practically family—”

  “You’re quite right, Lady Granth,” Casimir snapped, his kind eyes turning to ice. “This conversation is not fit for company, and you are not family. You should leave.”

  “Casimir,” Marika said. Her face, if possible, reddened further, but she blustered on. “You can’t be serious. Lady Granth is not only our guest—”

  “I am serious,” Casimir growled at his wife. “I assure you, Viscountess, I am quite serious. Remove yourself from that seat, Lady Granth, so that my daughter may eat. She is in far more need of nourishment than you. Or any of you.”

  The Marchioness sputtered incoherently.

  “The girl has you fooled, my dear!” Marika exclaimed, jumping to her feet. Her hands shook as she waved them in the air. “She’s feeding you lies.” She turned to Lady Granth. “I beg your pardon, Lady Granth. I’m so humiliated. He is under his daughter’s manipulations—”

  “Get out!” Casimir bellowed. “Now!”

  Pushing back from the table, Lady Granth stood, her face turning as red as a tomato. “I’ve never been so mistreated.”

  Her bulging bosom heaved as she crossed the room. When she stood in the doorway, she pointed a closed fan at them and said, “This is what comes of marrying tradesmen, Marika. I warned you.”

  “No,” Marika cried, rushing toward Lady Granth. “Please, for our friendship’s sake, keep this regrettable exchange between us. I am so ashamed, but you can see he is not himself.”

  Casimir ignored them as he deposited Vasi into the vacated seat. He poured tea into a clean cup and added cream and sugar like he’d done a hundred times. His hand remained steady, but his lips quivered as he handed Vasi the cup and saucer.

  Lady Granth sniffed, then standing ramrod straight, nodded. “Marika, my sympathy goes out to you. Clearly, you’ve had to withstand and endure more trials than I could fathom.” She directed the next comment at Casimir. “Your loving wife is quite tormented by that girl—I hope you come to know it before it’s too late.”

  Vasi shook her head, her trembling hand spilling tea on her already dirty clothes. “No. That’s not true.”

  Casimir stood and faced the Marchioness. “Leave now, Lady Granth. We won’t be entertaining you again. Ever again.”

  The woman’s face ripened from scarlet to purple.

  “I should say not,” she snapped and then disappeared out the door.

  “Oh, Casimir,” Marika wailed. Sobbing loudly, she wiped at nonexistent tears. Her perfectly painted face was contorted with rage, but her makeup remained unsmudged. “You’ve disgraced us! You will ruin us!”

  Casimir stared at his wife for a long moment before he glanced down at Vasilisa.

  The tea had moistened her mouth, and Vasi greedily drank the rest of the warm, sugary liquid. Leaning forward, she lifted the pot but fumbled it.

  Casimir caught the teapot and poured her another cup. “There now . . . better, little dove?”

  “Much.” She nodded at her papa with a grateful smile.

  Roza leaned away from Vasi, her hand covering her nose. “Mother?”

  Marika ignored her daughter and wailed louder. Covering her face with her hands, she cried, “Oh, Casimir, how you mistreat me! How you belittle me!”

  Casimir stood stiffly, looking between his daughter and wife. A strange tension held them fixed while Marika’s wails echoed through the room.

  Vasi finished her second cup of tea and pushed the cup and saucer onto the table. Her stomach churned, either from the cream or the carrot, and she willed herself to not be sick.

  “Master Casimir?” the valet gasped, entering the room.

  The entire party startled, and Marika’s wails ceased.

  Mister John stood in the doorway, his gaze bouncing between them before settling back on Casimir. “Master Casimir, you’re home. I thought . . . Well, a summons came for you from the palace. I told ‘em you weren’t home, that you weren’t ’xpected for days. He insisted you were and said guards been keepin’ an eye on the roads, and they saw you comin’.”

  Casimir closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, John. Do you by chance know when the summons is for?”

  The white-haired man grimaced. “Immediate, sir. I’m sorry. The page said it’s urgent. Tsar Baine would like to speak with you right away.” He rubbed his hands on his trousers and repeated under his breath, “Right away.”

  “Of course it is,” Casimir muttered darkly. With a sigh, he turned to Marika. While her face remained tear free and her makeup perfectly preserved, sadness and exhaustion ravaged Casimir’s features. With a deep breath, his expression hardened. “We’ll discuss this when I return home tonight.”

  As he turned to leave, Marika’s lips tipped up in a smile.

  16

  Adaline

  Adaline sat up and blinked as she fought back nausea threatening her insides. The room swam in and out of focus, and the crown princess eased her way back to rest against the pillows and closed her eyes. She wasn’t certain but highly suspected the magic she’d performed a week ago was still causing her sickness.

  She’d only managed a few bites of the bland gruel her maid had brought before throwing it up. Adaline shivered, her teeth clacking from the freezing cold, yet sweat dripped down her forehead and stung her eyes. Waves of nausea rolled through her body, but if she held really still, the room stopped spinning, and her stomach settled its painful churning. A distinct improvement from yesterday.

  The crack between the heavy velvet draperies allowed a slice of the day to spill across the width
of her room, illuminating the rest of the space with muted sunlight. Her bedclothes and quilts were twisted and rumpled around her, regardless of the fact that her maid Portia straightened them every time Adaline crawled to her washroom. The deep-blue damask coverlet slid off the other side of her large bed, but the princess was too ill to reach for the blanket.

  She was too ill to do anything except wish she wasn’t ill.

  “Would you like me to send for the physician, Highness? Perhaps if they bleed you this time—”

  Adaline was no doctor, but the idea of bleeding someone who was sick seemed insane. “No,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t.”

  “Then let me send for the Celestial Sisters,” Portia said, biting her lip.

  “No.” Adaline’s head throbbed with pressure that made her see spots, and her stomach heaved again. But there was nothing left in her stomach, and she retched over the pot only once before reclining again. “I mean yes but only my aunt. Would you send for the queen regent, please?”

  A memory filled Adaline’s mind, from years ago when she used to see threads of magic. She’d seen it for years she realized, six years; and she’d told her mother and father about the vibrant strands, but they only complimented on her vivid imagination.

  Dimira was the only one who understood. She explained how she, too, had once seen threads of magic, and over time, she’d honed the ability and joined the Celestial Sisters in Zelena. In fact, Dimira was a witch of considerable power. After Dimira assessed Adaline’s power, the queen and king dismissed the princess. She’d sat outside the room, pressing her ear to the crack in the doorframe.

  “Adaline’s power is weak but very wild.” Dimira had cautioned the king and queen. “There’s a possibility of it causing great harm, both to her and others. If she wishes, I can take her powers. I will not do it unless it is voluntary, though.”