As long as her lackluster mood was no reflection of the power she would pour into the spell, Noire cared not whether she enjoyed the exercise. Persistence had its reward. At last, she would fulfill their bargain.
“Ah, this should suit my—our purposes,” Venefica said. “Now, don’t move, my Noire, not a feather.” She smiled that deceptive, alluring smile which had first ensnared him. “That is, if you wish to keep all the wondrous parts of you intact.”
He stiffened. What had he agreed to? But then, he’d had little choice. He braced himself as Venefica began chanting so low he couldn’t make out what strange words she uttered. Didn’t she need to brew a potion, or fling colored dust into the fire, or draw the Mist, or…something? This monotonous mumbling seemed rather anticlimactic after all his years of waiting.
Needles of fire stabbed every inch of his skin. Night coalesced around him, ignoring the fact that it was just past noon in all the land. His bones stretched, threatening to rend his joints asunder. Then, his fire-riddled skin simply melted away, leaving him standing taller than before, with no sensation whatsoever.
The last night-black wisps faded, only natural shadows remaining to shroud his tortured form. He looked down at his hands, his human hands, and could have crowed. His elation died in his throat, though, as he ran his fingers down his torso. The fabric of his tunic caused no sensation against his fingertips, nor did his stomach register his hand’s pressure against it. Fighting his first pang of true fear in years, he flattened his palm against the stone at his back.
His hand passed through the wall like smoke.
“What is this, witch?” he said, his voice a hoarse croak. He cleared his throat. “What have you done?”
“You are displeased?” She spread her arms. “Is it not day, and are you not a man?”
“The shadow of a man!” He coughed, but couldn’t rid his voice of its hollow croak. “I can feel nothing, touch nothing. Have you destroyed my body entirely?”
He lunged toward her. He would force that cool indifference from her face. He would…
The instant his outstretched hands pierced a sunbeam streaming through the slit window, his phantom bones constricted. Where the impression of arms had been, wings beat the air. He shouted, but only a caw filled the tower. Talons raked the ground as his body, a raven’s body, rose in furious flight.
No! He longed to rage, to scream. He settled for slashing at Venefica’s face.
She ducked, his talons inches from her cheek.
He circled the chamber—faster, faster—as if he could shake loose this feathered body. He’d been so close!
His frantic flight brought him back to the shadowed edges of the room. The moment the feeble sunlight left the tip of his last tail feather, he dropped without sound or sensation to the ground. He fell silent, for there in shadow, he’d once again become something less than a man.
“Is your little tantrum quite done?” Venefica said, smoothing her hair.
“Can you remedy this?” he asked, his voice roughened with remnants of the raven.
“This is…unfortunate.” She peered down at her book and sighed. “It seems we were mistaken. I still lack sufficient power to do as you ask.”
“You sound unsurprised.” He schooled his hollow voice to show no emotion. “What’s to be done? Am I to remain thus, caught between bird and man, insubstantial as a shadow?”
“What is wrought cannot be undone,” said Venefica. “I must gain more power if you wish me to complete the transformation.”
“If!”
“Until then,” she said, “this…development may be turned to our use.”
“How? I am little more than a wisp on the wind. This ghost of a body is worthless.”
“Ah, but it will enable you to spy for me as never before.”
“What? You dare—”
“I no longer require your eyes in this village,” she said, “but ’tis obvious the girl yet lives, and you are my only link to her. Until she is dead or sufficiently far from this place, I cannot fulfill the terms of our bargain.” She closed her book and looked up at him with a seductive half-smile. “So, my pet, it seems you must serve me a while longer.”
And this was her price.
“Are you sure you’re strong enough to leave the glade?” Jarad asked, handing Lyssanne one of the water-skins he’d refilled at Reina’s pool. “It’s only been a week since the fever left.”
“I believe so,” Lyssanne said, nestling the water-skin atop a folded blanket in her cart.
Reina trotted up to them, eyeing their preparations. “My waters will help you avoid a return of the fever you have conquered,” she said, “but I sense your body battles a greater foe. Not even my small gift can afford you strength enough to reach the nearest town afoot. Exhaustion will make you ill again. Thus, should you wish it, I shall carry you as you journey.”
“But how?” Lyssanne asked. “Legends say a human’s mere touch is painful for you.”
“True,” Reina said. “Carrying most humans would cause unbearable torment, to say nothing of the indignity.” She tossed her head. “I am no common horse, you know. However, you remain pure in spirit and in deed, a rarity among your kind.” She brushed Lyssanne’s shoulder with her muzzle. “Besides, I have grown quite fond of you, and it would be my honor.”
“I’m fond of you, as well,” Lyssanne said. “I know not how to thank you.”
“Yet, you hesitate?” said Reina.
“’Tis just, I have no saddle, and in skirts I—”
“Oh, if that’s what prevents you,” Reina said, chuckling, “ride sidelong. My magic will hold you in place. The blanket Jarad last washed will suffice as a saddle. Jarad, if you please.”
He slung the blanket across Reina’s back, keeping his hands well away from her side.
“Now hop up, child,” Reina said.
Lyssanne reached for the blanket, inches above her head. How was she to do this?
“My, you are a wee thing,” Reina said, laughing. “Step back.” She bent her knees as if taking a bow then lowered herself to the ground. “There we are. Now, up you get.”
After traveling farther west along the cliff top for several days, Reina led Lyssanne and Jarad to the one place where they could descend. Lyssanne dismounted and, with a hand on Jarad’s shoulder, picked her way down the steep incline. Jarad retraced the climb for their cart, helped Lyssanne set up camp, then left for his evening hunt.
Standing in a little patch of moonlight, Reina shook out her silvery mane. “What tale will you share with us tonight?”
Lyssanne shrugged. “I daresay, at my slow rate of travel, I shall need to repeat every story I know or start inventing new ones before we reach a town. Though your assistance has tripled our progress, despite my frequent rests.”
Reina chuckled. “I can scarce fathom what wisdom you would infuse into a tale of your own invention.” She tossed her head. “Might I request your help in removing these tangles from my mane? That wind was welcome today, but it does play havoc with one’s hair.”
Lyssanne laughed, shaking her own locks free of the scarf she’d tied over them that morn. As she reached toward the unicorn, the fine hairs at the nape of her neck prickled. Reina’s ears flattened, and she raised her head, scenting the air. Had she, too, caught that whiff of mint?
A sudden, metallic swish rent the night, a sound akin to a knife drawn across a whetstone.
A flash caught the corner of Lyssanne’s eye, and something sharp stung the base of her throat. As if to swat an insect, she raised a hand toward the spot. She glanced down and froze, staring into the slim, mirrored blade of a sword.
Gasping, she traced the edge of the blade with her eyes—to the tall man at its other end.
The campfire blazed behind him, casting him in shadow. “Step away from the unicorn,” he said, his voice as hard and cold as the steel he held to her throat.
She backed away, nearly tripping on her hem in her haste. “Please, sir, I have noth
ing of value.” Her words shivered between dry lips. “But what I have is yours. Only leave us in peace.”
He made a derisive sound deep in his throat. “I have need of nothing you might possess.”
“Then, wh-why—?”
“I will not allow you to harm or corrupt this noble creature.” He pressed her farther back.
“What?” she whispered.
Muscle undulated along the man’s black-clad arm as the tip of his blade followed Lyssanne’s unsteady retreat. After half a dozen more steps, she stopped. It was that or risk losing her balance. The flat of the sword pressed against her neck, and she hardly dared breathe.
She was a flower in the shadow of an oak. The man stood taller than Mr. Whiskin. His hair, black as a raven's wing, swallowed the firelight, leaving his features indistinct.
His head snapped up, and he peered past her. “Lower the bow, boy.”
Oh no, Jarad. Great King, protect him!
“Loose an arrow, and she'll be dead before the fletching leaves the bow,” the man said, pressing the tip of the sword harder against Lyssanne’s skin. Warmth trickled down her neck and ran under the collar of her chemise. “Now, put the bow on the ground and step away. Over by the fire.” He jerked his head toward the flames.
Reina’s voice filled Lyssanne’s ears, so close it might have spoken within her mind. “Tell him to back away from you, child.”
Lyssanne flinched. Reina had been so still, she’d nearly forgotten the unicorn was there. And Serena? That frantic fluttering overhead must be she.
The man glanced toward Reina, his blade unflinching.
“He can't understand me,” Reina said. “You must interpret.”
Lyssanne struggled to keep her throat motionless as she mouthed each word. “She, the unicorn, she says you must back away, sir.”
“Am I to believe that one such as you can converse in the language of unicorns, when, conveniently, I cannot?” he said. “Do not think me so easily deceived.”
“I am only understood by those worthy to hear,” Reina said.
“I can’t tell him that,” Lyssanne whispered, shifting only her gaze toward Reina.
“I can,” Jarad said. “Reina—that’s the unicorn’s name, you know—she says you don’t understand her because you’re not worthy to.”
“You dare?”
The blade twitched, reducing Lyssanne’s knees to water.
Reina loosed a shrill whinny, rearing up on her hind legs. She lowered her hooves and head, pointing her horn at the man. Pawing the ground and snorting, she inched toward him.
“Truly, sir,” Lyssanne whispered, “sh-she insists you move away from me, or…or she’ll attack.” Clutching at her skirts, Lyssanne willed her hands’ tremors not to travel up her body and cause more damage from that sword.
The man stared at Reina for an age. Then, he backed away a pace, lowering his sword a fraction. Reina stopped pawing the ground but continued eyeing him.
“Peace, Shining One,” he said, retreating farther. “I sought only to protect you.” He spread his arms as if to show he intended no harm. “I would not have you lose your immortality on my account. If this woman is your friend, I have no quarrel with her.”
Reina nodded, then trotted to Lyssanne and nuzzled her shoulder.
“Your pardon, madam.” The man sheathed his sword and swept Lyssanne a grand bow, firelight reflecting off shiny threads at his cuffs and along the edges of his tunic.
Jarad rushed to her side and grasped her arm. “Are you injured, Lady Lyssanne?”
“No.” She raised a hand to her throat. The cut was small, not even as deep as those she’d sustained at Merchant’s Bridge, but it stung something fierce.
“Lady?” the stranger said.
Gooseflesh followed the passage of his gaze from Lyssanne’s head to her hem. Jarad’s hand flexed around her arm.
“You will forgive my skepticism,” the man said. “A bit odd, is it not, a noblewoman traveling unescorted through the forest? Arrayed in such…modest attire.”
“She isn’t unescorted,” Jarad said. “I’m her escort, me and Reina.” He stepped in front of Lyssanne. “And no lady would travel these woods in her best clothes.”
The man sniffed. “Of course. With such a seasoned warrior as escort, the lady could hardly want for safety.”
Jarad straightened to his full height, his fist clenched at his side. “And just who are you?”
“Jarad!” Lyssanne grasped his arm.
“Either you have a great deal of courage, boy, or very little sense,” said the man.
“You must forgive him, sir,” Lyssanne said, pushing in front of Jarad. “He is merely being protective. Like a, a younger brother.”
“Indeed,” the man said. “Brennus Xavier, at your service.” The bow he executed this time was little more than an inclination of head and shoulders.
Lyssanne curtseyed as Mr. DeLivre had taught her, praying she did so properly, since life in a village devoid of rank or nobility had afforded no chance to test her skill. “Lyssanne,” she said, “of…” Her throat closed on the name of Cloistervale. She swallowed and whispered, “Rowan Hill.”
“Are you a knight?” Jarad blurted.
“I am.” The man folded his arms, his dark mantle flowing about his shoulders as only thick, richly woven cloth could.
That he carried a sword at all proved him no peasant farmer or common shopkeeper.
“Brilliant!” Jarad said. “With the Starguard?”
“I do not ride for the queen of Lastarra,” the man said. “I travel wherever I find the need.”
“A knight-errant!” Jarad all but bounced on the spot.
Or a mercenary. Lyssanne flicked a cautionary glance at Jarad, but his wide eyes remained fixed on the stranger—whom, moments before, he’d wanted to pepper with arrows.
“I believe, young Jarad,” said Sir Brennus, “your rabbit begins to attract flies.”
“What? Agh!” Jarad ran to where he’d dropped his bow and, it seemed, their supper.
“My lady,” Sir Brennus said, drawing Lyssanne’s eye.
“Sir, you should know, the only place I’ve ever been lady of is Rowan Hill Cottage.”
“Mm, a fine domicile, I am sure.”
Did his neutral tone signify sincerity, or was he mocking her again? Oh, if only she could discern facial expressions!
“Perhaps,” he said, “you will permit me to lend my services to your night's watch?”
The man had threatened her life, now he wished to share their camp? Lyssanne’s chest tightened, and she squeezed a handful of skirt. “Thank you, but that kindness is unnecessary.”
“I insist, milady.” He softened his tone. “I would make amends for our unsatisfactory introduction. You wouldn’t deny a knight the chance to set a wrong to rights?”
“No, of course not,” she said, her mind racing for a way out of this. “Yet, we are strangers. ’Twould hardly be proper.”
“I am oath-bound to guard the honor and safety of any innocent lady I encounter,” he said. “Besides, what better chaperones could you wish than a unicorn and your brave escort?”
“He may share my watch,” Reina said.
“Very well,” Lyssanne said. What choice had she? Refusal would insult his honor.
As Jarad and Sir Brennus skinned and prepared the rabbit for supper, Lyssanne worked the tangles from Reina's mane. Jarad peppered the knight with questions, which he answered with minimal information.
A slight accent enriched his deep voice, one unlike Mr. DeLivre’s. Something in the way r’s rolled off his tongue and vowels took on more depth conjured images of grand halls and glittering gowns.
After a meal eaten in near silence, Lyssanne fought to prevent nodding off.
“Fear is an exhausting business,” Reina whispered. “Come, child, stretch out beside me.”
Lyssanne hesitated. When Sir Brennus began arranging his bedding near Jarad’s on the opposite side of the fire, she at last str
etched out her own blankets.
She awoke late in the night to find Sir Brennus pacing the perimeter of the camp, seeming deep in thought. At the chatter of a night bird, he swiveled, his eyes and blade catching the firelight. Lyssanne turned and met Reina’s shining gaze, then relaxed again into dream.
When she next woke, ’twas morning, and Sir Brennus was gone.
“He left before sunrise,” Reina said, “insisting he must be on his way. He said my friends didn’t rest well in his company. I daresay, he was right.”
The following evening, Lyssanne shook damp hair from her face and tossed more brush onto the fire. Who would guess a bath in a sun-warmed spring could refresh the soul? She glanced in the direction Jarad had taken to search for firewood, but only the shadows of garments hanging to dry in the trees interrupted the light of the full moon. Dusting off her hands, she sat beneath a tree to watch shimmers dance across the spring and glitter off Reina’s horn.
Moments later, leaves rustled and twigs snapped amid the trees opposite the fire.
“It would seem you are trailing me,” said a deep, somewhat familiar voice, sending an inexplicable chill up Lyssanne’s spine.
Jarad’s laugh accompanied the creak of branches, as two figures burst into the clearing. “Look who I found!”
“Well,” said the taller of the two, “I’ll not quibble over who did the finding.” When Reina stepped across their path, the man bowed. “A good evening to you, Shining One.”
Lyssanne gasped. “Sir Brennus?” She rearranged her skirts to rise.
“Keep your seat, milady,” he said. “You couldn’t be more surprised than I at our meeting again. While scouting for a campsite south of here, I heard a ruckus and backtracked. I came upon young Jarad making more noise than a bear.”
Lyssanne laughed, and even Reina’s whinny held a note of amusement.
“We appear to be traveling in the same direction,” Sir Brennus said. “Perhaps—”
Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 10