Sword's Call

by C. A. Szarek

  “I need to get into the castle undetected.”

  “Follow me,” the maid said without hesitation.

  Dammit, if the other shade would be checking on his companion, Cera’s element of surprise was ruined.

  Markus had seen her.

  When he woke up he’d have more than just a headache. He’d tell Varthan she was there.

  The smartest thing to do was stash her sword somewhere safe.

  Separating herself from her weapon—willingly—made Cera shake from head to toe, but it was the best way to keep it out of his hands.

  Keep it protected. Especially if she got caught.

  Her heart sped up.

  Actually, Cera had to be caught . . . but without her weapon.

  It was the only way she could have a sense of control over Varthan. How far it would get her was unknown, but it was better if she made the decision. Making a fist, she gave birth to a new plan. It had to work. Cera would barter herself for her family.

  She grabbed Neomi’s wrist, and they halted, flattening themselves against the outside wall of the stable. Cera closed her eyes and concentrated. She uttered the words of Braedon’s masking spell and prayed to the Blessed Spirit that it worked.

  They went into the kitchens through the servants’ entrance, hidden from open view, encountering no one—not even another servant.

  What to do now?

  She drummed her fingers against the wall.

  “Something wrong, milady?” Neomi whispered.

  Everything. “Not really,” Cera lied, shaking her head and schooling her expression. “I need a place to hide my sword. Varthan cannot gain access to it. Do you know a place where it’ll be safe?”

  “He never ventures into the kitchens.”

  “Show me the least-used room.”

  The maid led her to a small smoke room at the far end of the vast kitchens of Castle Lenore. They slipped inside. The room was empty. Fresh rushes lay on the floor; Cera could smell them, but the shelving that lined all four of the walls held nothing.

  Neomi flashed a smile when their gazes met.

  How could she be so calm?

  Cera needed to absorb her strength; the other girl obviously had faith in her, and she’d have to live up to it.

  Intimidating.

  “There’s a false wall,” Neomi whispered.

  Cera shot her a look. “Show me.”

  Neomi went to the far wall, feeling around for something, both hands spread.

  Cera watched until she heard a click. Behind an empty shelf, a narrow door opened, sinking into the wall.

  She helped Neomi move the shelf just enough so Cera could slip past her into the small space no bigger than a closet, and so dark she couldn’t see her hand. Cera shuddered and didn’t ask how Neomi knew about the hidden space.

  Undoing her belt, Cera slid the scabbard off, squeezing the sword’s hilt as if it could lend her its magic. Laying it on the floor, she sent a prayer to the Blessed Spirit she was doing the right thing.

  “Lady Ryhan?”

  “Cera, remember?” she chided.

  As she stepped out, Neomi depressed the, button to close the door and they replaced the shelf in front of it. “Cera, then. You’ll need a sword.”

  “Yes, but it’s not like I can sneak into the armory.” She’d already taken too much time.

  Why couldn’t Jorrin be at her side?

  He had a sword.

  He’d promised to protect her, and he would’ve honored that promise.

  Cera would probably never see him again.

  Palms damp, her heart thundered. She swallowed against a lump in her throat.

  No self-doubt.

  “Why not?” the maid asked.

  “You won’t have to go to the armory,” a voice drawled.

  They both jumped.

  Drawing her dirk, she shoved Neomi behind her body.

  “Relax, Lady Ryhan.” Amusement rippled through his words, and Cera scowled.

  “Gamel?” Neomi gasped.

  She stepped around Cera as the youth slid into the small smoke room. He had a sword in his hand.

  “Gamel?” Cera looked the boy up and down. He was the son of her uncle’s head steward, and she’d not seen him in several turns.

  He was tall and leanly built, and his brown hair was as curly as Avery’s. Even in the dimness of the room, she could see his deep blue eyes dance. His handsome face wore a playful grin.

  Taking a breath, Cera gave a slight smile, sheathing her dagger.

  “I thought you were dead,” Neomi breathed, throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing him tightly. The boy blushed scarlet, and Cera’s smile widened to a grin.

  “I know my way around this place better than anyone. I got you this, Lady Ryhan. Lady Lenore said you’d need it.” Gamel handed her the sword.

  When Neomi went to step away, the boy shot an arm around her slim waist and pinned her to his side.

  She averted her gaze when Gamel kissed Neomi’s cheek. Neomi grinned up at him, and Cera’s heart ached for Jorrin.

  Cera slipped the new scabbard onto her belt, banishing all thoughts of her half-elfin love. He was supposed to be locked safe from her thoughts. “You’ve seen Aunt Em?”

  “I’ve been slinking around, watching since they got here. I can get into her rooms.”

  “Then take Neomi there and stay out of sight. Markus will be angry I thwarted his attempts with her. She cannot show herself until this is over.”

  Neomi gasped. “No, Cera. I want to help.” The maid grabbed her hand.

  “You’ve already helped, and I’ll not further risk your lives.” She ignored Neomi’s frown and looked at the boy. How old was he now? Sixteen? Seventeen? Not so much older than Avery, but Gamel’s age didn’t matter. His eyes named him a soldier, and Cera needed that. “Get her to my aunt and both of you stay there. She can protect you.”

  He nodded. “I’ve already gotten Greta and Jarina there. The bastards don’t seem to want the older ones, so we’ve all agreed. We’ll protect the shades’ targets. Lord Varthan is content as long as he has Neysa, food on the table and someone to beat.”

  “Is my uncle still in the great hall?”

  “Yes. From what I can tell, he’s all right. Mostly unconscious.” Gamel made a face.

  “What is it?” Cera asked.

  “Lord Varthan beats on him until he passes out, then one of the shades heals him. Over and over.”

  Cera growled. “Neomi told me.”

  “I can get us to Lady Lenore’s rooms quickly. You should come, too.” Gamel’s eyes clouded with concern.

  “No, I have to get to the great hall, but I can cover you with a masking spell.”

  “No.” Gamel made a cutting gesture with his hand. “No magic. I’ve been moving around in the shadows and secret passageways the whole time he’s been here. Never detected once, but the youngest shade—his magic is stronger than I’ve ever known. He’ll sense me if I’m spell-covered. Even Lady Em agrees.”

  Did that mean they hadn’t made it into the kitchens undetected?

  “When’s the last time you talked to my aunt?” Cera asked.

  “She woke me several hours ago. She knows you’re here.”

  “Good. Take Neomi and go. Tell her the sword is safe,” Cera ordered.

  “Where are your companions? Where is your bondmate?” Gamel asked, looking around as if it’d just occurred to him.

  “I am alone.”

  Gamel’s gaze showed concern, but he said nothing. He kissed Neomi’s hand, arm around her shoulder. “We’ll go.”

  Neomi gave a muted protest, but allowed the boy to drag her out of the smoke room.

  Cera sighed and leaned against the wall.

  Had she made the right choice?

  Growling, she pushed off the wall, reaching deep inside for her anger.

  She drew the sword Gamel had given her, testing it, tossing it
from hand to hand before making a few slashes in the air.

  Perfect weight and size for her.

  She silently thanked the boy and her aunt. Sheathing the sword, she took a deep breath.

  It’s time.

  ****

  Jorrin awoke to someone tugging at him.

  Or perhaps it was something.

  Yawning, he opened his eyes, stretching his back and his arms. The sun crested the horizon, but the sky wasn’t very bright just yet.

  When teeth brushed his ankle Jorrin bolted upright, wide awake.

  Cera’s damn wolf had bitten him.

  “Blessed Spirit, Trikser!” Scrambling backward in the furs, Jorrin tore the pant leg of his breeches so he could see his ankle. He exhaled when he saw only an angry welt. Jorrin had expected blood. He rubbed the spot; no doubt it’d leave a large bruise.

  He glared at the wolf.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  Trikser knew he was awake now. The wolf barreled into Jorrin, knocking him over.

  Fighting for breath, he sat up, shaking from the wolf’s muscular body slamming against his chest. “What the . . . ?” Jorrin muttered, standing on wobbly legs and brushing himself off.

  Trikser bounded away from him, whining and whimpering.

  Cera was nowhere in sight.

  She was probably just inside, but Jorrin needed to find her and see what was wrong with her bondmate.

  Stomping into his boots, Jorrin rolled up Cera’s furs. He smiled when her sweet scent clinging to the soft covers tickled his nose. Too bad she’d not woken him when she’d arisen. He could’ve taken her again.

  Flashes of her beneath him, her taste, her touch, and them moving together danced into his mind and he shook himself.

  She’d been passionate, sweet, brave, and innocent, all rolled into one.

  He’d never had such an experience. Such a responsive lover. Couldn’t wait to have her again. Jorrin’s manhood stirred and he tugged on his breeches.

  Not now.

  He needed to prepare mentally for the day’s battle.

  Trikser darted back and forth, his movements more frantic with each pass in front of the ruins of the old castle. Then the wolf skidded to a halt, kicking up dirt. Sitting back on his haunches, Cera’s bondmate threw his head back and began to howl.

  Jorrin gaped. He’d never heard Trikser howl before, but the wolfsong bled desperation.

  Hadrian ran from within the ruins, Braedon on his heels. The elf wizard’s face was as white as a sheet.

  Jorrin’s heart stopped.

  Even before the wizard laid his hands on the wolf’s white mane, he knew.

  Avery exited the decrepit castle as well, dashing to where their mounts were tied together.

  “No. She didn’t . . .” Jorrin whispered. His father made it to his side just as his knees buckled and he tumbled to the ground.

  Her cousin’s face was devoid of color. Avery panted to stave off panic, but Jorrin ignored the emotions as they rolled over his magic.

  “Ash is gone.” Avery bent at the waist, hands on his knees and sucking in air.

  “No,” Jorrin repeated. His lungs deflated. Every breath stabbed.

  “Why would she leave Trikser? Avery demanded. His hands clenched into tight fists, his knuckles white.

  Hadrian was still speaking to the wolf, trying to calm Cera’s bondmate. No one else was better equipped to communicate with the animal, but it didn’t make Jorrin feel any better.

  Why would Cera be so reckless?

  “To your feet, son,” Braedon ordered, tugging on his elbow. His father had recovered from his own shock; his features were set, expression determined.

  “Trikser said she knocked him out with a spell. She’s got an hour or two lead on us,” Hadrian said, rejoining the group.

  Avery covered his face with his hand, but Cera using the magic he’d taught her wasn’t his fault.

  “Then we must hurry,” Braedon’s tone was firm.

  Avery and Hadrian rushed to their horses.

  Jorrin’s face was hot. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He forced a breath, then another, his chest aching.

  How could she have just left?

  Especially after last night. She’d given herself to him. He’d made love to her. Showed her how much he loved her.

  Was it her sick way of saying goodbye?

  His eyes smarted and he swallowed the sudden lump in this throat.

  All the way to Tarvis, Cera had been determined, but finally seemed to accept that it wasn’t weak to work as a team, to let them help her.

  Had it been lies?

  No.

  What happened?

  “Father?”

  Braedon startled. When the other man glanced at him, his eyes were wide. It was the first time Jorrin called him that since they’d been reunited. “Aye, son?” Jorrin’s father clasped his forearm.

  “She’d better hope Varthan doesn’t kill her. When we catch up, I just might,” Jorrin choked out.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lucan blinked. He sensed something, but then it was gone. He looked around the great hall, but nothing was out of the ordinary.

  Lord Varthan was still dozing in Lord Everett’s intricately-carved chair at the head table on the raised dais.

  Dagonet was watching, as he always did.

  Athas and Markus were gone.

  Markus had dragged that poor maid off somewhere because their master had barked to shut her up. Ironically, it’d saved her life for now.

  No telling where Athas was, but he’d take a turn with the girl as well. Before the two had left, they’d argued over who deserved her virginity. Markus had already stolen that from Greta and Athas from the other girl.

  Lucan trembled.

  Why Lord Varthan hadn’t retired to the bedchamber he’d been occupying since they’d gotten there was a mystery. Lucan hadn’t seen Neysa lately, either. She’d been his master’s bedmate willingly, so at least Lord Varthan hadn’t beaten her, but Lucan still felt horrible for the girl. His master was rough in everything he did.

  All four of the girls were unmarried and the one, Lucan thought her name was Jarina, couldn’t be much older than him.

  Tears pricked his eyes, but he blinked them away. He wanted out, away from Lord Varthan and all the killing, beating and raping, but how could he get away from the master without being killed?

  Lucan cocked his head to the side and listened harder. He’d felt a hint of magic, but then it was gone.

  Nothing.

  Just like the day the unidentified group had entered the Province through the Southgate.

  They were there and then they weren’t.

  He winced.

  Lord Varthan had been so angry that Lucan hadn’t been able to see through whatever spell had been cast.

  All four shades had joined together to try to find the invaders, to no avail.

  How could a spell be undetectable to him?

  It’d never happened before. He’d always been able to sense magic, and to interpret it.

  It was Lucan’s gift.

  Unfortunately, his gift was also his curse, and why Lord Varthan rarely let him out of his sight.

  Glancing at Dagonet, Lucan tried to gauge whether the other shade had noticed anything. The older boy usually had keen senses, but at the moment didn’t seem to have sensed anything.

  Lord Varthan hadn’t stirred from his nap, so Lucan would hold his tongue. Perhaps he’d been wrong.

  However, he wouldn’t tell his master until he knew something definite. The lord would beat him for uncertainties.

  Lucan felt Dagonet’s hazel gaze on him.

  Flinching, he chided himself.

  Dagonet wasn’t Athas.

  His heart fluttered anyway.

  “Lucan, come here.” Dagonet’s tone was a whisper, but an order nonetheless.

  ****

  Dagon
et glanced at the younger boy as he jumped. Lucan had felt something, though he’d said nothing.

  Concentrating, Dagonet sucked in a breath.

  Nothing.

  What had Lucan sensed?

  Once again, the lad’s abilities astonished him. Made him more determined than ever to get Lucan out of this alive.

  And Lord Lenore. His promise to the duke would ring true. Hopefully King Nathal’s reinforcements would arrive sooner than later.

  Lord Varthan expected Lady Ryhan, but Dagonet wasn’t so sure about that.

  He hadn’t seen the lady in turns.

  Would she even remember him?

  If so, Dagonet’s mission was in jeopardy.

  Though he’d spent a great deal of time with her father in Greenwald; Lady Ryhan, being a few turns older than his nineteen, had already joined the King’s Riders and was living in Terraquist.

  No matter what, she needed to stay away. Probably had no idea the king was prepared to kill Varthan and save her family—avenge the ones they’d lost.

  Under no circumstances could Varthan get his hands on the sword. With his abilities, Lucan had more than a fair chance of actually breaking the spell Lord Falor Ryhan, Dagonet’s former mentor, had placed on the awesome weapon.

  The king and the Lords of the Provinces had debated for months whether or not to send someone in disguise to gather proof against Varthan.

  Finally, after the former archduke’s betrayal had been made public and he’d been punished, it was decided Dagonet would go.

  Dagonet had been with Varthan for two months when Lord Falor Ryhan had been murdered. The king had wanted him out immediately, as had Dagonet’s father. They’d been worried about discovery, but Dagonet had vehemently refused.

  Lord Falor had been like a second father.

  Dagonet had always been of a gentle nature—his healing magic had shaped him as a person—but something inside him snapped when he’d been told Varthan had killed his mentor’s wife and youngest daughter. Raped them.

  Rage—uncharacteristic in its intensity—had washed over him, blinding reason.

  Dagonet hadn’t given his father or the king a chance to pull him from his mission. He’d demanded retribution for the loss of the Ryhans. And it’d come to a head; he was about to get it.