“Then, if it is your belief the King would wish this creature whole,”—Olivia took Lyssanne's hand and placed it onto Jarad's knee—“ask it and let His Light do its work.”
“Y-you speak of healing?”
“I do.”
Many were the tales of the medicine-less healings the King had wrought when He’d walked the Seven Lands. Doubtless, He still sent such boons to His subjects from His Shining Land, but to think of such healing as one of the colors within the Light He’d placed inside her…’twas a notion as foreign as the tribal languages of Zyungland.
What might the King's power do if it did flow through her like light through a prism? Would it burn? Even if she could withstand such an outpouring of His divine nature, how could He use her, a broken vessel, to carry healing to anyone?
Lyssanne fidgeted beneath the faeries’ weighty attention. With her fingertips brushing Jarad's knee, she silently petitioned the King to heal it of all injury. She tensed. At any moment, glorious warmth would fill her, as it had the night the King lit the fire. Any moment…
Was she wording her request amiss? She focused all her will on the King's desire to restore those who were hurting, and repeated her petition many different ways. Why was she feeling nothing? She cracked her eyelids open. No glow shone upon her hands. She closed them again and reached within the deepest realms of her spirit, aching for the King's warm presence.
At length, she grew lightheaded, her legs too weak to support her. She sank to the ground, careful not to exert pressure on Jarad's knee. For long moments, she sat there praying, one hand raised to his knee above her head, feeling nothing but the folly of her own efforts. Finally, she wiped moisture from her brow and opened her eyes.
She had failed. That seemed all she was capable of doing anymore, disappointing someone—the Council, the faeries, perhaps even the King.
“I'm sorry,” she said to Jarad then turned to Olivia. “I did something wrong or—”
“You're trying too hard,” Jada said, arms folded, wand sparking aimless sizzles.
“This isn't about effort or struggle,” Olivia said. “It is a matter of surrender.”
“You said this Light is a weapon I must wield,” Lyssanne said. “Surrender is giving up.”
“When surrendering to an enemy,” said Olivia. “This is surrender to a loved one. Such absolute trust grants the King the power and authority to act through you. Only then can you take control over your enemy.”
“He does all the work,” said Jada. “Your task is to let Him so suffuse you with His Light, it spills out to those you wish to aid.”
“The lantern isn’t the source of its glow,” Olivia said. “It allows the flame to shine through its surface.”
“What if I cannot learn to do this?” Lyssanne asked. “To at once surrender and take control? What will become of me? And what of Jarad's knee?”
“You will learn. Have patience with yourself,” Olivia said. “The King does. Besides, you've used your gift several times already, though unawares.”
“No, I, I couldn't have.”
“You did,” said Jada, “in Cloistervale and on this journey. The King doesn't need your consent or even your knowledge for His power to shine through you, only your faith.”
“However,” Olivia said, “if you learn to wield your gift, you can direct His strength where it is most needed." She rested a tiny hand on Lyssanne's shoulder. "Be not swayed by what you see or feel in the natural world. Whatever your senses perceive, believe the King has done the thing you've asked. Then, His Light can shine forth to accomplish it.”
“Should I try again?” Lyssanne asked.
“Not today,” Olivia said. “Let Jarad tend his knee in the natural way. Try again only if you feel the King’s hand tugging at your heart.”
“Will you return tomorrow?” Lyssanne asked. “I so wish to learn, to please the King. I have many questions.” She averted her eyes. “Many fears.”
“What fears?” the faeries asked as one.
“There is a darkness following me.” She shivered. “Mr. Fescue, a servant of the King, warned me of an enemy who wields it. I don’t understand. Has the foe of us all, the Thief of Souls, singled me out for some purpose? Is that why so many dangers have befallen us?”
The faeries exchanged glances. Olivia held up a hand as if to prevent Jada from speaking. “We shall discuss all this when next we meet,” she said. “You’ve grown too pale and will be no help to any creature if fatigue renders you ill.” She grasped Lyssanne's hand in both of hers. “Make use of this refuge while you may. The instant our duties permit, we shall return to you.”
Noire spread his wings and let the bracing air lift him high. Autumn had knocked, and the land was cracking open the door. He glided in lazy spirals, allowing the air currents to carry him where they would.
Lyssanne would sleep a few hours yet, if not most of the morning. His own rest had been minimal, dawn bringing it to an abrupt end, along with his nightly stay in his natural body. Perhaps, if ever his curse was broken, he could sleep an entire night through.
If only he could ensure that Lyssanne would cross Gian Plain into Lyrya as Fescue advised, he might at last be rid of her and this detestable bargain. Though, the open spaces would afford no place to camouflage himself in shadow, and—for now, at least—wherever she journeyed, he must follow.
At present, she seemed intent on planting herself in Fescue’s garden like one of the flowers. The faeries were certainly no help, insisting that she remain in the safety of the tower.
He shook off the memory and settled in a tree with a decent vantage of the door and gardens. Reina stood nearby, dozing. Moments later, Lyssanne emerged, and Reina’s head jerked up, eyes alert.
Lyssanne paused to exchange greetings with the unicorn and assure her nothing was amiss. "I wish to find a quiet place to pray. A walk in the wood seems just the thing.”
“Understandable,” Reina said, “with Sir Fizzil’s endless chatter. Still, don’t wander far.”
Noire took to the air. He dared not lose sight of Lyssanne. She had performed magic once before when she thought herself alone. She’d been praying that time, as well. He flowed into the shadows some distance ahead of her and waited.
She walked between the trees, her damp hair swaying in heavy, shining falls down her back. For the first time in months, the ever-present circles under her eyes were barely visible. She strolled toward his hiding place, graceful and fragile as a fawn.
“Thank you for this,” she whispered, resting a hand against a trunk. “For its beauty and the shelter it brings. For Mr. Fescue’s hospitality and kindness, I ask that you bless him.” Sighing, she closed her eyes. “I thank you for Jarad and Reina. Few gifts could be as precious to me as their friendship. I pray you grant dear Sir Fizzil what healing he seeks.”
She wandered deeper into the wood then glanced up, as a beam of sunlight pierced the canopy of leaves. The ghost of a smile danced across her lips. Her eyes shone as if she’d received an embrace from a beloved friend. Then, the light shifted and the spell was broken. Moving forward, much too near the place where he stood, she continued her monologue. He backed away, but at her next words, his legs forgot how to move.
“And I thank you for Sir Brennus,” she whispered, “for shielding me throughout our journey with him. Though I confess I do not understand him, he is your creation, and his valiant actions have saved us from much calamity. For that and for his own sake, I ask—if it be an endeavor in keeping with your good purpose—please bless his quest.”
What?
He must have spoken aloud. For, Lyssanne flinched, nearly coming out of her shoes. Her expression mirrored his own shock at her words…and she was looking right at him. Her hand flew to her mouth in concert with the further widening of her eyes.
He should slip away before she had a chance to scream or to swoon as she had the last time he’d frightened her. She just stood there, staring at him as if she were as frozen by his presence as
he had been by her prayer.
She had seen him, truly seen him. Not just some vague image in the distance. This time, she was too close to mistake his shadowy form for a normal human body.
She need not recognize him, though.
Lyssanne could identify an acquaintance by utterance alone, but in this form, his voice was not his own. If he kept it gruff, closer to the caw of the raven, even she wouldn’t know him.
This was a gift, a chance to rid himself of the girl without violating his knightly oaths. “You are not safe here,” he said, growling the words.
She drew in a sharp breath. “Wh-who are you?”
“One who knows there is no longer a place for you in Lastarra.”
She shuddered, a delicate flower trembling in a sudden rush of cold wind. He was that wind. He’d swept through the forest of her life, heedless of the tiny flower that had the misfortune of standing in his path. With enough force, one vicious blast of that wind could destroy the flower, shaking loose her glorious petals and leaving her in shreds.
Yet, this little orchid was stronger than he'd thought. Rather than fleeing—now or at his past threats—she had the strength and wisdom to bend beneath the force of the wind. Some would see this as weakness, but he was no fool. As long as she could bend, she would not break.
He must be fiercer, colder, truly give her reason to uproot from her home soil and flee.
He moved so close to her, he could have felt her breath if he could have felt anything at all. Steeling himself for what he must do, he filled his voice with all the menace of every foe he could call to mind and delivered his blast with bitter force.
“If you wish to live, leave Lastarra and never return. Should your feet again tread the ground of this land; the shadows will come for you!”
He roared and rushed…right through her.
Pain ripped at his very center, an almost welcome alternative to the nothingness of shadow. Without slowing, he blasted through his little flower and through the wood at such speed, by the time she turned around to see where he’d gone, he was out in the sunlight, high above her, a raven once more.
Of course, she didn’t look up. To her mind, no doubt, he’d vanished. She shivered, ran her hands along her body as if to ensure she was uninjured, then hastened from the woods.
She had courage, he had to admit, and a surprising strength of spirit. Oh, he’d seen her more frightened than she had perhaps ever been, but never did she fall into hysterics or give way to blind panic. Though physically weakened, she’d born all her trials with dignity.
A sudden, sharp pain stung the skin beneath his tail feathers, sending him reeling beak over talon. He righted himself and came face-to-face with two green lights the size of fireflies. Faeries! Sparks flew from their wands, singeing his feathers. He snapped his beak at them then shot upward. He leveled out high above the tower and soared over the plain to await Lyssanne's next move.
What kind of sorceress could garner the protection of a unicorn and faeries? In all the time he’d watched her, she’d perform deliberate magic only once. Perhaps there was yet hope for her. If she renounced the ways of sorcery…But no, he couldn’t allow himself to start down that path. His walls must remain impenetrable. Her future, her fate, was not his concern.
13
Beyond the Shadows
Lyssanne’s heart skittered in a fair imitation of hummingbird wings as she hastened to the tower. Tingles raced along the nape of her neck, but she dared not look back. That man, that shadow, might still be there, watching. She wanted the tower’s solid walls around her…now.
“Heavens!” Reina said as Lyssanne brushed past her and bolted inside.
She slammed the door then leaned against it, running a hand along its surface above the knob. There must be a latch or crossbar. Finding none, she spun on her heel, eyes raking the rough wood and stone walls for something, anything, she could use to bar the entrance. At the creak of floorboards, she spun back around to find Mr. Fescue striding across the room.
“Where do you keep the crossbar?” she asked on a rush of breath.
“Never needed such precautions out here.” He dropped whatever he was carrying onto a chair and turned to her. “What’s amiss? You look as washed out as a marsh flower after a rain.”
“Where is Jarad?” she asked.
“Out back, beyond the garden. He wanted to take a look at the plain, in case you should head for Lyrya.” His stare seemed to burn right through her heart. “What happened?”
“Do—do you think you could find him?”
“Sure, but I’m certain he’ll return soon. If there’s anything you need done, I could—”
She shook her head. “There’s something in the woods.” She hugged her elbows. “Will you, please, will you find Jarad? I would go, but I, my vision is not…” She shook her head again, unable to make sense of her own words. “You would see him sooner.”
He consented.
Lyssanne leaned against the wall beside the window and called to Reina, asking that she, too, keep an eye out for Jarad. Her breathing steadied only when Mr. Fescue returned with him.
“Lady Lyssanne,” Jarad said, rushing to her side. “Are you…huff…are you ill again? Mr. Fescue said you…What’s wrong?”
She struggled to rein in her disjointed thoughts. “How quickly can we be ready to leave?”
“Whenever you want, I guess,” he said. “Everything’s still in your cart, and my bundle’s all tied up. I just have to grab my bow, but I thought you wanted to rest here a while longer.”
“We must hurry, all of us,” she said. “Mr. Fescue, could you and Sir Fizzil be ready within the hour? Jarad and I can help you gather what you need.”
“Dear girl, I’m going nowhere, and I daresay Sir Fizzil has journeyed as far as he can for the near future. What’s this all about?”
“Please, you must come with us. I fear we’re all in danger, perhaps more so every moment we remain here.”
His voice grew as ominous as when they’d first met. “What did you see in my woods?”
“A man, or…the shadow of a man. I don’t know.” She sank into a chair beneath the window. “It was as if shadow had taken on life, depth, and independent movement. He wasn’t solid or natural—but all wispy, and his eyes…” She shivered. “Dark, empty…like burned-out coals…just floating there in that misty void that should have been a face.”
“If this entity had no face,” said Mr. Fescue, “how do you know it was a man?”
“His voice.” She shuddered again. “It was a man’s voice, but as unnatural as his eyes. More like a croak, and hollow as a pit, yet strangely…familiar.” She shrugged. “His speech was at once cultured and rough, coarse but somehow refined. Dignified.”
“How’d you see its eyes?” asked Jarad, “You can’t even tell what color mine are.”
“He was so close. Not at first, but then he…h-he passed…through me.”
Jarad gasped, pulling up a chair beside her. “It went through your body?”
Lyssanne nodded.
“Tell me, child,” Mr. Fescue said, seating himself, his voice low and serious. “What did you feel when this creature did so? Was it icy?”
“No.”
“Are you certain? This is important. We could be dealing with one of the captive spirits who have forsaken their celestial purpose to serve the Thief of Souls.”
“There was no chill,” she said, “only a stirring of air, as if a lukewarm breeze passed through my skin.” She cupped her elbows. “And a fleeting impression of heart-wrenching pain.”
“It hurt you?” Jarad leaned forward, peering at her.
“Not physical pain,” she said. “This was agony rooted so deep as to puncture the spirit.” She closed her eyes, unable to shake the feeling she’d divulged the most private of confidences.
"Did the faeries chase him off?" Jarad asked. "Or turn him into a rat or something?"
"Faeries?" Lyssanne and Mr. Fescue said in unison.
"Yeah, they buzzed right past my ear and flew around the tower. Didn't you see them?"
"I did," Reina’s voice whispered in Lyssanne’s mind. "They didn't stop to converse."
“Did this, er, man threaten you?” asked Mr. Fescue. “You claimed we are all in peril.”
She told them what the shadow man had said. “That mist spirit you spoke of—could they be one and the same?”
“I think not,” said Fescue. “This creature sounds like it is, or was at one time, human. I shudder to imagine the curse which could create such a being.”
Lyssanne nodded.
“One thing seems certain,” said Mr. Fescue, “it is stalking you. I suspect the rest of us are safe enough. After all, it said you must leave Lastarra. It made no mention of anyone else.”
“Even so,” Lyssanne said, “I think we must leave.”
"I daresay you should,” said Fescue. “Whatever this creature is, you shouldn’t risk angering it. I would gladly shelter you, but anything that can pass through a human body can doubtless penetrate these walls.” He reached for her hand. "Before you decide, I feel compelled to pray for you. If you will permit me?”
“That would be most welcome,” she said.
He began in the traditional manner, thanking the King for bringing Lyssanne this far in her journeys and asking for protection against this new threat. He stopped, mid-sentence, and mumbled words she couldn’t understand. Then, his voice grew dreamy.
“Look to the past to save the future,” he said. "Darkness…" Again, he mumbled for a moment. “Darkness will soon cover this land. If you stay, you will find no escape.” He pressed her hand, then released it and leaned back.
Lyssanne blinked up at him, unsure what to make of his odd, yet somehow comforting, prayer. “What is this darkness you speak of?” she asked. “The mist? The man in the woods?”
“I speak only what I'm shown.” He lifted a hand as if to forestall further questions. “I uttered every word as it was given me. This, I do know, a great battle is yet to come, and it involves you somehow. You must ready yourself.”
Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 20