Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1)

by Bridgett Powers

  “It wasn’t me,” she said. How could she explain what the King had just done for her? She hadn’t the strength to tell him everything, but he couldn’t possibly understand otherwise.

  He gave her no chance to try. “Where is the unicorn you have enspelled?”

  “She…I didn't…She’s grazing.” Her breaths were coming in shallow puffs. She lifted a hand to indicate the direction Reina had gone. “But I’ve not enspelled her.”

  He stepped closer, his shadow blocking most of the firelight. “Better for her if you have. If she has forsaken her pure heart to willingly aid a sorceress, she too must be destroyed.”

  “De-destroyed?”

  “The only fate sorcery deserves.” His voice whipped at her ears. “And the boy? With what magic did you compel him to join you? Or does he seek to learn your sorcerous ways?”

  “Hunting.” She leaned on one arm, too weak to remain upright. “He’s still hunting.” All at once, the pain returned, bursting through her skull. “D-don't harm them. Please…”

  His sword flashed. Her arm gave way, and she sank into darkness.

  11

  The Shaman of the Wood

  A cool, wet softness slid across Lyssanne's brow, easing the tightness in her burning throat a bit. She sighed, only a trickle of air squeezing out. Why was breathing so difficult?

  Voices drifted toward her from afar.

  “We traveled too long today. It was too much for her.”

  So soft, those lilting tones, Lyssanne wished the sound would never cease.

  “This is more than mere travel fatigue,” said a smooth, deep voice. “She is most pale.”

  “True enough. The child is unwell.”

  The cloth ceased mopping Lyssanne’s brow, lying heavy over her nose and one eye, and the man’s cultured voice grew harsh. “She claimed she contracted no fever since last I saw you.”

  “What ails her is no fever,” said his soft-spoken companion.

  Reina. Recognition seeped into Lyssanne’s sluggish mind. The speaker was Reina.

  “Nor will any suffer from it but she,” Reina said. “Do not look so disbelieving, young knight. Did you not witness Jarad in perfect health?”

  The cloth resumed its progress across Lyssanne’s face. “What is this, then?”

  “I…have my suspicions.”

  “Will you say no more?”

  “No,” said Reina. “I haven’t voiced them even to her.”

  Who was that man? When Lyssanne tried to identify his familiar voice, agony erupted in her head. She lay in silence for indeterminate moments. Her mind, groggy from the pressure besieging her skull, floated in and out of awareness—until a sudden shout, too familiar to be mistaken, roused her to full wakefulness.

  “Reina!” Jarad cried, panting as if from a run. Grass crunched, and the ground vibrated beneath Lyssanne’s legs. “Is she awake yet?”

  A movement stirred the hem of Lyssanne’s gown, and something thudded beside her knee. She eased her eyes open to slits and peered at Jarad. If only she could wipe the worry from his voice. He knelt near her toes, one hand upon a lump on the ground.

  Then, the moist cloth left Lyssanne’s brow. Her eyes traced the hand that held it, up the arm to which it was attached, and found Sir Brennus staring at her, his expression most solemn.

  All at once, memory flooded her mind. The hazy languor of a moment ago fled on the heels of her racing heart. Sir Brennus, formidable knight, slayer of the monster at the inn. Sir Brennus, who wanted to kill her, perhaps wanted to kill them all.

  “Reina?” she whispered, barely squeezing the word through the tiny tube of her throat.

  “Yes, child. I am here.”

  “Run.”

  “Run? Whatever for, child?”

  Lyssanne parted her lips to tell them what the knight had said, but her throat constricted. All she could do was fix her eyes on Sir Brennus and pray her gaze alone could hold him there long enough for the others to flee.

  “Sir Brennus?” Jarad said. “What’d you do? Why is Lady Lyssanne afraid of you?”

  Sir Brennus said nothing, his gaze locked with hers.

  “Go! Please,” Lyssanne whispered. She had to make them see they were in danger. Could they not hear it in her voice? A sob froze in her throat. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. All the while, she couldn’t look away from his face.

  “I am not going to hurt them,” the knight said, his eyes boring into hers. “Or you.”

  Truth rang through his words, and Lyssanne’s shoulders loosened. Yet, memory drummed in her ears louder than the pain hammering against her brain. Witch…destroyed…the only fate sorcery deserves.

  His large hand crept toward her face, and she flinched.

  “I give you my word,” he said, the harshness of his tone contradicting the gentleness with which he brushed the hair from her eyes. “I will bring no harm to you, any of you, this night. Nor shall I allow any other to do so.”

  “But you said…” Lyssanne had to pause for breath, even after so few words.

  “I am well aware of what I said.” He handed his cloth to Jarad. “However, once given, my word will not be broken. Any knight who does otherwise is no knight at all.”

  The fervor in his voice left little doubt. ’Twas no empty assurance Sir Brennus had spouted. Besides, the King hadn’t shown Lyssanne such wonders only to abandon her now.

  Still, she had to move, to sit up, anything but remain lying here with the knight looming above her. She tried to rise, but managed only to lift her head. Mistake, that. The world swam, and her head sank, heavy as two sacks of flour.

  Sir Brennus laid a hand on her shoulder. “Rest.”

  “I brought you some water, Lady Lyssanne,” Jarad said, his voice tense as a bowstring. “Maybe you’ll feel better if you have some?” He looked to Sir Brennus, his next words more timid than any she’d heard him utter. “Could you, um, help her up? Or…or hold this, so I can?”

  Before Lyssanne could protest, Sir Brennus lifted her into a sitting position and leaned her against him. Thanking him, Jarad held the water-skin to her lips. What could she do but drink? Once she’d had her fill, the knight lowered her back to the grass.

  She must have fallen asleep mere moments afterward, for when next she aroused, deepest night shrouded their camp. Someone had draped a blanket over her. Soft snores wafted from a few feet away; and, across the campfire, Sir Brennus and Reina spoke in hushed voices.

  “My word stands, Shining One,” Sir Brennus said. “I'll not harm even a sorceress while she is ill and helpless, but how can you consort with her?”

  “Fear not to keep company with her, knight,” said Reina. “There is more magic at work in you than in her.”

  “You dare accuse me! I am no sorcerer.”

  “Precisely.”

  Silence stretched out like unfurling wings.

  “I know what I saw,” he said, at last.

  “You saw what others cannot,” said Reina. “’Tis a precious boon, that gift of sight. You must open your heart to recognize what it is you see.”

  Again, silence claimed him. Then he spoke, his tone unreadable. “What was it?”

  “What you saw was…a mere reflection.”

  “No, she lit that fire without flint or coals. There was no glass, steel, or water near enough to reflect anything.”

  “Not that kind of reflection,” Reina said. “It is she who is the mirror, reflecting a power far greater than mere magic, far greater than us all.”

  “What power?”

  “Her King.”

  Magic. Would he never be free of it? Noire had begun to despair of the possibility.

  Aiming his beak at the sun, he shot upward, beating the sky with the full fury of that thought. When the air thinned, he flipped into a sharp dive, plummeting toward the treetops. He pulled up so close; his talons tore loose a shower of leaves.

  He soared over Cloistervale, his stunt having calmed his emotions and cleared his head. Mostly. He ha
d a mission, and no shock, no magical creature, nothing, would prevent him from seeing it through.

  The landscape below reflected his mood, bearing little resemblance to the village he'd flown over when first spying upon Lyssanne. The Shadow Mist covered almost every acre of ground, in places no more than wispy vapor, solid as cloth in others. Damaged buildings blemished many streets, testifying of violence, and once-verdant fields stood fallow.

  The people trudged about, ragged and careworn, like peasants elsewhere. How had he failed to notice that Cloistervale’s inhabitants had never before appeared thus?

  Perhaps for the same reason he’d permitted Lyssanne to deceive him. Her intentional wielding of magic and conversation with Reina about faeries had almost cost him everything.

  Clamping his beak so tight his jaw ached, Noire sailed toward the Lucent Mountains. At a shout from below, he dipped his head to peer beneath a wing. A fight had broken out. Fitting.

  He angled upward to skim the mountainside, his talons raking the treetops. How could he allow Lyssanne’s soft voice and quiet ways to deceive him? Oh, he’d been a fool, convincing himself the magic surrounding her resulted from forces beyond her knowledge or control.

  Venefica must never know.

  He plunged into the thicket, then through the open window of his chamber to rest his wings and await sunset. Once in his true form, he sought Venefica out.

  He slipped without sound through her chamber doorway, his lips curving in anticipation of catching her off guard. Instead, the sudden, violent rattling of an ornate cask in one corner startled an exclamation from him. “What in the Seven Lands is that?”

  Venefica drew a sharp breath, turning from her tall, gilded mirror. “An ally.”

  He strode to the cask, hands clasped behind his back. The vessel stood a foot tall and half that in diameter. Carved runes, painted in red and black, covered its stone surface.

  “Do not venture too near,” Venefica said. “It would be unwise to disturb the oni. I have not yet sufficient power to command them fully.”

  What menace could lurk in so small a vessel? Still, he stepped back. “If this poses such danger, why keep it here?”

  “To test them, of course. As my power grows, I shall be able to transport them whither I will and compel them to attack whom I wish, all with a mere thought.” She walked over and patted the domed lid of the cask as one might pat the head of a dog. “Already I have strength enough to send one oni as far as Cloistervale. Though, until I have full rein on its actions, I dare not. I didn’t bring them here to feed on my village.”

  “Your village?” He smirked. “Those peasants don't even know you exist.”

  "All in good time. I must let them ripen before I pluck them up for my service. Soon, they will beg me to rule them.” She returned to the mirror and resumed brushing her hair. “And you? Why have you returned? I didn’t summon you, and the girl still lives.”

  “There has been a development which may make this task you desire more difficult.”

  “Difficult?” She huffed. “What of your vaunted stealth? Are you a warrior or a mere watcher?”

  He narrowed his eyes. Well, he’d taken her by surprise. “And what of the faeries?”

  She spun back to face him, eyes flashing. “Faeries?”

  “I overheard the girl spouting some drivel to the unicorn about learning to wield a weapon,” he said. “Apparently, she had a visitation from two faeries who spoke of this.”

  Venefica’s voice all but growled. “When?”

  He shrugged. “She mentioned it yestermorn, but I can’t be certain when she saw them.”

  “The most crucial information concerning the girl in weeks,” Venefica snapped, “and you learn of it secondhand?”

  “The stretch of forest through which they’ve been traveling is thick with plateris trees,” he said. “I’ve been forced to fly above the canopy and lose sight of them on occasion.”

  “Faeries,” Venefica said, stalking away from him. “One more thing to stand in my way!”

  He smirked. “Yes, well, surely you don’t expect me to go up against that kind of power.”

  “No,” she said. “They must not detect my hand in these matters. Even if they suspect I’ve returned to Lastarra, they mustn’t learn of your true allegiance, lest they use you to gain information. As it is, I do not think them aware of the full extent of my power.” She fixed him with a glittering gaze. “We must discover what they know.”

  “How do you propose we do that?”

  “Make some excuse to encounter the girl. Gain her trust. Give the faeries no cause to suspect you, but find out what they have told her, and what she can do with that power of hers.”

  “Easy enough,” he said. “Though it will take time. I must return to that border town to retrieve the stallion you bewitched for me.” He folded his arms. “We must find another way to converse. As Lyssanne’s distance from Cloistervale grows, so does the time it takes me to fly back here. Soon, relocating them will grow near impossible.”

  After a long silence, Venefica bade him follow her to the tower. She scooped one of her odd powders into a cloth packet and handed it to him. “This will enable you to speak with me through any pool or puddle,” she said. “Drop a pinch of it into the water while in your human form. I shall be able to see and hear you. The powder will have no ill effect, so fear not to use it, even in your only source of drinking water.”

  He glared at the packet. More magic.

  The sun was again sinking by the time Noire made his way back toward Lyssanne’s camp. The girl was a distraction and, for that alone, should be eliminated. Still, he must remember his role had reverted to that of spy, not assassin. Not yet.

  At least the crack he’d allowed to form in his heart’s armor had sealed, harder and stronger than ever. Venefica's promise might not be worth much, but it was all he had. His family's survival—nay, the fate of an entire people—hinged on this quest to break his curse.

  He alighted in a thick patch of wood a safe distance from the stream where Lyssanne had rested since his attack. Once darkness fell and he had shifted, he trudged through the underbrush to inform the girl and her friends of the road he’d discovered.

  “It leads out of the forest?” Jarad said. “That will make travel easier for Lady Lyssanne.”

  “That would be most welcome,” Lyssanne said. Her more sedate manner curbed some of Jarad’s exuberance.

  “We should set out at once,” Brennus said. “Traveling by night, we will avoid notice.”

  Reina nodded, eyeing him for long moments.

  Later that night, Brennus dismounted to hack a path through a tangle of vines. As he swung back into the saddle, Lyssanne and Reina stopped alongside him.

  “Why do you travel with us?” Lyssanne asked with uncharacteristic abruptness.

  He shrugged. He’d prepared for this. “My destination lies in this general direction.”

  “Yes, but,” she hesitated as if choosing her words. “’Tis obvious what you think of me.” She looked away. “Why slow your journey to keep pace with us?”

  Oh, she was astute. He must tread cautiously. “As a knight,” he said, “I can't leave a woman to journey alone when she is ill and has only a boy as escort.” He thought for a moment, then added a touch sure to appeal to her feminine sensibilities. “Besides, I feel somewhat responsible for your worsened state.”

  Lyssanne and Reina lagged behind, allowing him to again take the lead. When they reached the road, they found it deserted. About an hour into their journey along the packed dirt path, Brennus slowed, having pulled well ahead of the others. He turned to await them.

  Moonlight spilled down upon Lyssanne as she rode into view, rendering the lantern Jarad held beside her unnecessary. She resembled a faerie queen in some legend, sitting atop a unicorn, her pale skin shining, hair flying loose behind her, a dove perched on one shoulder.

  Brennus shook himself and whipped back around. She was a sorceress, like Venefica, and
not to be trusted or pitied. Clenching his jaw, he rode on without looking back.

  Later, as they rounded a bend, the moon sank behind the trees. Jarad’s lantern now proved a rather useful convenience. About a mile farther, something shone white in the lantern light. Brennus slowed as they approached, the brightness revealing itself as the snowy hair of a shriveled old man who stood between the road and a steep, shadowy embankment.

  “What’s such an old man doin’ out here this late at night?” Jarad asked.

  “Perhaps we should stop and see if he needs assistance,” Lyssanne said.

  “Unwise,” said Brennus. “He could be a thief, a madman, or worse.”

  Rather than agreeing as he’d hoped, Reina stopped near the white-haired man, forcing Brennus to rein in and double back.

  He positioned his stallion between Reina and the stranger. If there was to be trouble, he wanted no obstacle to hinder his battle. He kept his gaze trained on the man, until a swish and thud announced Lyssanne’s dismount behind him. Gritting his teeth, he did likewise. Keeping one hand on his hilt, he approached the old man, who also held a blade.

  The stranger stood with his sword stuck partway in the ground, leaning on it like a cane. He indeed appeared mad, bent as he was to one side, his tongue lolling out. Perhaps he was a vagabond; for, his wispy, matted hair and stringy goatee trailed over clothes that hung in baggy folds from his bony shoulders to sandaled feet.

  Jarad’s lantern banged against the handle of Lyssanne’s cart, rousing the old man from his stupor. His eyes fell upon Brennus, and he struggled to free his sword from the turf. He pushed against the blade with a foot, heedless of the gouge he was cutting into his sandal. After one last yank, the blade swung free in a wide arc, straight toward Brennus.

  Jumping back, Brennus raised his hands. “Easy, man.” He spoke low, unwilling to startle the stranger into doing something rash. He preferred not to kill the old man if possible.