“I daresay anyone who enters the market square is afforded that pleasure, willingly or not.” Brennus returned his sharp gaze to the supposed shaman. “You say you are no sorcerer, but this peddler’s boasting of you would indicate otherwise. He claimed you as mentor.”
“That much is true,” said Fescue. “He was once my student, a gifted dreamer in the King’s service. Alas, he let greed and arrogance consume him. Now he’s a bit mad and preys on the superstitions of others, always longing for a restoration of the gift he squandered.”
“A dreamer?” Lyssanne asked.
“A young man chosen to receive messages from the King during slumber. I taught him as best I could how to use his gift, to write down his visions at first waking, so they could be passed on as the King directed.” Fescue chuckled. “He tended to speak and write most often in riddles.”
“Yeah,” Jarad said. “I didn't understand half of what he said. Something about shadows and birds that bark and stone trees or, hang on.” He dug the rolled parchment from Lyssanne’s cart. “He gave us this."
Fescue unfurled the parchment, frowned over it, then passed it back to Jarad. “I see he hasn’t lost his talent entirely.” He turned to stir his kettle. “Perhaps there is yet hope for him.”
“But what does it mean?” Jarad asked, dropping the parchment into the cart.
“His description sounds akin to a legendary creature I once heard of in Lyrya.”
“Is it a bird?” Jarad asked. “A dog? The riddle said something about a lion, too.”
“A bird, I believe, of grand proportions, with the head of a dog, the tail of a peacock, and the claws of a lion.”
Brennus frowned. Despite his extensive research into every legend surrounding magic, even he was hard-pressed to picture such a creature.
“It is said to symbolize the union betwixt land and sky,” Fescue said, scratching his chin. “Like a bridge, or messenger between the King and His creation. Though, we need no bridge, save our own loyalty, between us and the King.”
“Do you think such a creature could exist?” Lyssanne asked.
“No idea, but one never can tell. Stranger things there are in the King’s domain than can be conceived in the heart of man. His arts aren’t limited by our knowledge.” Fescue chuckled. ”But if my old student had a vision of it, I'd say it must exist—or something very like it. One thing's certain, the King has a message for you, and some creature carries it.”
“If this man abandoned the King,” Lyssanne said, “how can I trust his words?”
“A wise question, my dear,” said Fescue. “The King oft uses unlikely messengers. Still, I shall search out his words for confirmation. You should also seek guidance in the Kingsword.”
“Where would I find such a creature?” Lyssanne asked.
“Legend claims, its lair can only be found if one has already visited it.”
Jarad’s groan elicited a smirk from Brennus. “Then, ’tis impossible!” the boy said.
“Not so.” Fescue hefted the kettle from the fire with an iron rod. “If the King intends to speak through this creature, He’ll show you the way.” Grunting, he set the kettle atop a cloth on his scarred table. “But He won’t make it easy.”
“Why would the King hinder a path he wishes me to take?” Lyssanne asked.
“Oh, I don’t mean to imply He’ll hinder you, quite the contrary.” Fescue waved them to the table. “Just don’t expect the creature to fly into your lap and cry, ‘Lo, were you looking for me?’” He laughed. “Course, based on what I’ve heard, if it did, it’d probably crush you. The King will light your path, but you must be watching for the flame.”
Lyssanne sighed, taking a seat next to Jarad. “More journeys with no certain destination.”
Fescue ladled out soup. Brennus declined. He would settle for less pleasant and, perchance, safer fare on the morrow. After dinner, they again fell to discussing the riddle.
“Where the sun lays its head,” Jarad said. “That’s west, right? I don’t know about the snow and sea part, but what’s west of here?”
“Gian Plain,” said Fescue, “just beyond this tower.”
“I wonder…” Lyssanne rose and rummaged through her cart. At length, she pulled out a crude map and spread it on the table. “Mr. DeLivre sketched this.”
They all peered at it, except Sir Fizzil, who hummed to himself while twirling a feather.
“Here it is,” Jarad said. “Gian Plain. And look, just beyond it, Lyrya.”
“Mr. DeLivre’s homeland,” Lyssanne said. “He often spoke of the sea. Is Lyrya coastal?”
“A small strip of it borders the Noorzad Sea,” said Brennus. “I’ve visited the shore with friends who reside in the realm.”
“Hmm, the riddle mentioned a…what was it?” said Fescue. “A marble tree?”
“Granite,” Lyssanne said.
“Ah, yes. I heard talk of such a thing, long ago, when I traveled in Lyrya. I think it, too, is a local legend of theirs. Might give you a place to start.”
Further cause for Lyssanne to leave Lastarra. Perhaps fortune at last smiled on Brennus.
“This rain’s set in,” said Fescue. “Autumn storms can last days. Why not ride out the weather here? Meantime, I’ll look into this mystery a bit further. Before you retire for the night, though, tell me, did my old student say anything else?”
Lyssanne glanced around as if hesitant. Her gaze passed over Sir Fizzil, slumped and snoring, to rest on Brennus. Drawing breath, she turned to Fescue. “He said I must beware the shadows that take fog as form.” She then described the Mist she’d seen in Cloistervale. “Could it be this, he spoke of?”
Brennus tensed.
“I’m not certain,” said Fescue. “Did he say what this fog is?”
“He said it is shadow and spirit, that it both creates and feeds on dark emotions.”
“I shall research this as thoroughly as my library allows,” Fescue said. “Meanwhile, the tower and gardens are yours to explore.”
“Your library?” Lyssanne said.
“When I traveled the realms sharing the King’s joyous tidings, I collected old books and scrolls on dark magics,” he said. “The best way to counteract an enemy is to understand him. Perhaps your answer lies in one of those.” Fescue rose and strode to an alcove containing a winding, stone stair. “Mistress Lyssanne, you are welcome to the guest chamber on the first landing.” He swung to face Brennus. “If you’ll assist me, Sir Knight, I’ve cots for you and Sir Fizzil beneath the stair. I trust a pallet will suffice for you, young Jarad?”
Nodding, Jarad rushed to help Brennus and Fescue with the bedding.
Once Sir Fizzil was settled, Lyssanne started for the alcove, but Brennus caught her arm. “I shall bid you farewell. My quest is not yet complete, and I must be on my way.”
“You’re leaving? In this storm?”
“At dawn.” In truth, he’d depart long before that to secure his mount elsewhere, but she mustn’t know this. “I’ve spoken with Reina. She believes it is wise that you rest here. I’m certain she will see to your protection.”
“Then, I bid you safe journey,” Lyssanne said.
Two days later, Lyssanne lounged upon a woven chair in Mr. Fescue's lush gardens. Shelter and bed rest had restored her to a new vigor rivaling his rain-freshened flowers and herbs. Still, after attempting to peruse the tiny, handwritten scrawls and faded texts in his dim library, she’d left research into the matter of shadows to him.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Mr. Fescue burst from the tower. “I've found it!”
Lyssanne set her Kingsword atop a garden table and rose. “The creature or the shadows?”
“The latter,” he said. “’Tis a tale best told in sunlight. I'll fetch another chair.”
“I shall find Jarad,” she said. “I'd prefer he hear everything you've discovered.”
In moments, all were assembled. Even Reina and Serena peeked over the garden wall.
Mr. Fescue opened
a dusty, yellowed volume that looked as if it might crumble. “Shadow and spirit, that was the key,” he said. “I spent all that time looking up spells that bring on darkness, or fog, or whatnot—and there are hundreds. Humph, the spirit part finally led me to it.” He flipped pages with care. “Here we are…a spiritual parasite.” He looked up. “The book calls it Shadow Mist. I'm almost certain this is what my old student described to you.”
“But what is it?” Lyssanne asked.
He patted the book. “According to this, ’tis a melding of spiritual and physical darkness.” Peering at the page, he began to read. “The spiritual element influences minds and hearts to evil thought and emotion. The shadow blinds the victim to its presence and intent. While the Mist fuels the darkness in men, that darkness feeds the Mist. As a result of every feeding, the power of the Mist's keeper grows.” He closed the book and leaned back against the slats of his chair.
Lyssanne shivered. “The Mist's keeper?”
“The sorcerer who commands it,” he said. “One who has given himself over completely to Darkness, but who is deceived. No human can control the spirit of the Mist. It allows you to think so to fulfill its own ends. In truth, the Thief of Souls is in control.”
“Like the spirits who left the King's service to join the Thief's rebellion?” Lyssanne said.
“I daresay, it is precisely that,” said Mr. Fescue. “You have a formidable enemy.”
“But why? To my knowledge, I've never even met a sorcerer.”
“That, only you can discover. But know this, your foe’s influence is spreading rapidly.”
Lyssanne leaned forward, her eyes widening. “You’ve seen this…Shadow Mist, too?”
“No, I’ve seen what I suspect to be its work, and I've received disturbing reports from your region of Lastarra.” He sighed. “Lyssanne, this Mist isn't normally visible to the human eye. Since you can see it, you doubtless pose a threat to its keeper, if only in the sorcerer's mind. Perhaps my student’s warning and riddle are the King’s way of advising you to leave Lastarra.”
“I know not where to go.”
“Seek out the creature.” He stood and picked up his book. "Perhaps Lyrya holds answers for you.”
Noire edged from beneath the bush where he’d sat frozen, listening to Fescue describe Venefica's favored weapon to her sworn enemy. Well, Lyssanne had been warned. Be it on her head if she chose to disregard that counsel.
He lurked outside the garden wall until well after nightfall, grateful he had the means to speak with Venefica from a distance. Once the tower’s lights winked out, he vaulted over the low stone barrier and approached the pool in the midst of the gardens. Clouds obscured the moon, so he wouldn’t easily be seen, even should the unicorn chance to look.
Brennus knelt at the water's edge and pulled the packet Venefica had given him from his waist pouch. He stared at the glassy water then sprinkled a pinch of the powder over its surface and tucked the packet away, watching, waiting.
Within moments, the entire pool had gone a murky black. Venefica's face appeared in its midst. She had, as he'd suspected, witnessed Fescue’s revelation. Her ranting lasted quite some time. Doubtless, Magda had spent much of that evening cleaning up broken household items.
“My enemy learns of my power, yet you fail to do likewise, discovering nothing of the FAE?” The water bubbled. “Now, you’ve allowed her to seek shelter with a former Steward of the King and can no longer show yourself? I begin to question your usefulness.” She sneered. “If I did not know you so well, I might question your loyalty instead.”
“Would you have me further expose myself to suspicion?” He shook his head. “Lyssanne is wary of me, with reason. Should the faeries reappear, I'll not miss them again.”
“See that you don't. You stand to lose much if you fail me.” Across her image, she waved an ebony feather, his feather. “Watch.”
The water blackened again. Had Venefica severed their connection? Then, the darkness parted, revealing an aerial view of Cloistervale. Ah, Shadow Mist—the blackness was a solid blanket of it covering the village.
In a field to the north, a fire raged. Boarded windows and burned-out buildings marred the once tidy rows of homes and shops. His vantage focused in on the moonlit square, where a brawl raged. The image shifted to a youth and his friends taking hammers to someone's wagon.
As if he’d been yanked upward, the scene fell away at dizzying speed. Half of Lastarra stretched out before him—the Cloister Valley, the River Esten, and several towns beyond. Cloistervale was little more than a black smudge north of the forest.
Wisps of Mist stretched to the villages just beyond Merchant's Bridge, and a dusting of the fog covered a town nestled in the curve of the woods bordering Gian Plain.
“Westerfield?” he asked, uncertain Venefica could still hear him.
She reappeared, sweeping away the landscape with the feather. “Indeed. You and Diornian gave me entrance into that town. Marvelous, is it not?”
“Your power has grown much since last I saw you.”
"Certainly. And the people of my village have begun to cry out for my rule. Though, they do not yet realize it is me they long for. They begin to think with fondness of times past, when the lord and lady of the land could solve their ancestors’ cares. They vent their displeasure with that council in spectacular ways. An uprising is eminent. Soon, they will serve me gladly.” Her eyes lost their dreamy glaze and snapped to his face with stiletto sharpness. “As should you.”
He swept her a bow, closing his eyes, lest she recognize in them the mockery of the gesture. “My lady.” He straightened. “One question, that I may be certain of your wishes—”
“They have not changed,” she said. “Remain hidden until the girl leaves the safety of that tower. The old man may be a further danger to our secrecy. I know neither his abilities nor what further information he possesses. Once the girl departs, ensure she leaves Lastarra forever, by any means necessary.”
“And the FAE?”
“If your failure to ferret out what the faeries know continues, you'll simply have to kill Lyssanne yourself. Already, she knows too much. One way or another, I will be rid of her.”
Lyssanne plucked a summerstar and held the yellow blossom to her nose. Its sweet scent conjured images of those hearty, five-petal flowers growing wild along the slope of Rowan Hill and watered her ache for home into full bloom.
Two faint pops chopped her remembrances short at their roots. She looked up, dropping her flower. Olivia and Jada hovered near her chair.
“The King has granted us permission to instruct you in the use of your gift,” Olivia said.
Jada floated over and peered at Lyssanne. “That is, if you've accepted it.”
“I thought I’d seen proof of your claims,” Lyssanne said, "but it almost cost my life. The King started a fire, using light from within me. At least, I thought it was He. How can I know—”
“The knight acted out of fear,” Olivia said. “The King stayed his hand. Now, watch.”
As if drawing in the air, she swept her wand downward, forming a shimmering silver line. She repeated the motion twice more, starting from the same point, then connected the three lines at their base. The figure solidified into a triangular, glass prism.
“Like natural light,” Olivia said, “the King's power can be refracted, divided into many directions or colors.” She shot a beam of light into the floating pyramid. A rainbow spread out on all sides. “Angle the prism just so, and you can direct the light or produce a particular color.”
She turned the pyramid, and a shaft of green light speared the ground at an oblique angle.
“You are the prism, Lyssanne,” she said. “Your faith, the hand that turns it. Depending on the aim of your faith, you can direct the King's Light to fulfill any goal aligned with His word.”
She turned the glass, allowing the light to wash the ground in multiple hues.
“And the colors? They are the varied manifestati
ons of His Light—healing, sustenance for life, restoration, a shield of protection, a beacon to guide your path, and yes,”—she angled the pyramid again—“even a powerful weapon in times of warfare.”
A thin ray of blinding light stabbed a leaf, sizzling, then both prism and light vanished. She handed Lyssanne the leaf. The beam had burned a hole through it.
“His Light is always within you,” Olivia said, “but you must release your faith in order to direct its purpose and function.”
“How?”
“Learn the King’s wishes,” Olivia said, “then aim your faith accordingly. Ah, just in time.” She beckoned past Lyssanne’s shoulder. “Come closer, young Jarad.”
“Sorry,” Jarad said, limping across the garden. “I didn't mean to disturb you. I'll just—”
“Nonsense,” said Olivia. “Let me see that knee.”
Olivia sketched a rapid pattern with her wand, and a wooden block pushed its way into being, as if through a membrane, then thudded to the ground.
“Prop your foot on this. It'll remain solid for a few hours, not that you'll need it that long,” said Olivia. “Mm, as I thought, swollen and growing more so.”
“What happened?” Lyssanne asked, leaning closer to inspect Jarad's knee.
“I'm fine, really,” he said.
“He stepped in a rabbit warren,” said Jada. “Ha! A hunter injured by his prey.”
“The ground gave way under my foot,” he said. “Guess one of their tunnels ran just beneath the surface. Caught two of ’em in my snare, though. Mr. Fescue'll like that.”
“I daresay he will,” Lyssanne said. “You need to prop that leg up. I shall dampen a cloth in the garden pool. The cold should reduce the swelling.”
“Not so hasty,” Olivia said. “Jarad, remain where you are. Lyssanne, what do you believe the King's wishes to be for this boy?”
Lyssanne shrugged. “I dare not attempt to guess His thoughts.”
“Recall what He has said of those thoughts, of His care for His creations.”
“Well…” she said, “’tis written, it is not His wish that the least of His creatures should suffer. When He called everything into being, it was perfect and whole.”
Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 19