Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1)

by Bridgett Powers

  “Me?” she asked. Why did such strange people continue to insist she must fight in some battle? “Wise counsel, surely, had your words been spoken to Sir Brennus, but—”

  “No, milady, they are meant for you.” He held her gaze. “If you feel Lyrya is where the King is leading, you should go, straightaway.” He stood and stared down at her. “Seek out the King’s message, Lyssanne. If anyone can help you, it is He.”

  She rose as well. “I have a last boon to ask. May Jarad remain here until his knee heals?”

  Jarad lurched to his feet. “I’m going with you.”

  “Do not be foolish,” Lyssanne said. “You’ve difficulty just hobbling to the gardens. Once you are mended, I’ve no doubt you can find your way back to Cloistervale.”

  “I’m not leaving your side,” Jarad said, arms folded. “I made a promise to the King.”

  “Take the grey gelding, young Jarad,” said Mr. Fescue. “He’s old but sturdy.”

  “We wouldn’t think of depriving you of your horse,” Lyssanne said. “We certainly haven’t sufficient coins to—”

  “I’d take no payment even if you had it,” Mr. Fescue said. “Besides, you helped Sir Fizzil find his way here. He’s more than compensated me for my services.”

  They filled the gelding’s saddlebags with items from Lyssanne's cart, which she'd offered Mr. Fescue as partial payment. Their host helped Jarad cut thick tree limbs into poles, so the travelers could construct a shelter to guard against sun fever. As they bid Mr. Fescue and Sir Fizzil farewell, Lyssanne’s thoughts turned to Lyrya. Perhaps the land that had birthed Mr. DeLivre might hold some kindness for her.

  Gian Plain stretched out far and wide beneath Noire. A stream glistened in the sunlight, like a blue-white ribbon tossed onto the living carpet of green. Here and there, patches of brown mottled the emerald canvas, but overall, the grasslands had refused to accept the exodus of summer—as reluctant as Lyssanne seemed in accepting hers from Lastarra.

  As she had countless times in the past week, she glanced eastward over her shoulder, almost unseating herself from Reina’s back. A flower so deep-rooted wouldn’t easily give way, even to the strongest of winds.

  Noire circled the group, high above the dove who glided just over Lyssanne’s head. Had that flying nuisance possessed his own capacity for thought, he might have suspected her of increased protectiveness. Foolish notion, even if she did demonstrate uncommon loyalty.

  As heat beat down upon Noire’s wings, Lyssanne’s tedious progress slowed to a halt. She dismounted and withdrew provisions from the saddlebags, while Jarad drove three poles into the ground and tied cloaks and blankets to them. The travelers would doubtless rest beneath the cloth’s shadow until sunset, as they had each day upon Gian Plain. Autumn might chill the nights, but the sun’s direct gaze drained Lyssanne's strength, preventing travel past noon.

  Noire landed behind a clump of tall weeds along the streambed to take his own rest. One good thing could be said for this agonizing crawl across the plain, it afforded him more sleep than he'd had in years. Before night fell, however, he must fly well away from Lyssanne’s party. They mustn’t spot him once he shifted, not even as a dark lump against the distant, moonlit sky.

  Night’s increasing chill had left him envious of their campfires, but Jarad’s tracking skill grew by the day. Thus, before each dawn draped him in feathers, he fluffed the grass where he'd lain, leaving no trace of his presence, as if he had indeed become nothing more than shadow.

  In a daze, Lyssanne unwrapped their midday meal while Jarad put the finishing touches on their shelter, chattering about the fresh game he’d hunt once they crossed the plain. Her thoughts drowned his words, boiling through her mind like ingredients in a stew. A creature of legend held a message for her from the King, and she could only find it if she'd already been to its lair. A fallen spirit, bound to shadow, served a sorcerer who wished her ill. And somehow, she must learn to direct the very power of the King.

  One question bobbed to the surface over and over. Why?

  At Jarad’s sudden cry and the following thud, she spun around. One of his boots stuck out from beneath a fallen section of the shelter. Gathering up her skirts, she rushed to him. He sat sprawled, clutching his injured knee.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked, helping him heave the shelter pole and canopy off his leg.

  “My knee,” he said, his voice laced with pain. “It gave way. I just need a minute.”

  She knelt on the dry grass and reached toward his leg. “Let me look at it.”

  He moved his hands aside to allow her fingers’ gentle probing. How could she detect whether anything was broken through the cloth of his breeches, stretched tight over a knee swollen triple its proper size?

  “D'you think,” Jarad said, “the King would help me? I mean, I don't mind the pain so much, but it's slowing our travels. We need to get you to real shelter soon.”

  Dear Jarad, always thinking of others before himself. “I’m certain He would wish to do so,” she said, Jarad’s pain squeezing her heart. Given a choice, she would take it in his stead.

  “Can you, um, ask Him for me?” Jarad said, for the first time in an age sounding like the boy he still was. “I don't know how to say it right.”

  “There is no wrong way,” she said. “He loves you, as I do. You need only speak to Him as you would to me.”

  "Please.”

  “Very well, we shall ask together, but you must believe in His willingness to aid you.”

  “I do.”

  She nodded, closed her eyes, and prayed for this child who had left all, risked all, to come to her aid. He’d tried to be strong for both of them throughout everything they’d endured. His courage would rival the knights of legend. If ever anyone deserved aid, it was he.

  Jarad gasped, and Lyssanne's eyes flew open. Had she pressed too hard against his knee? She moved her hand and stared. The swelling had diminished.

  “It doesn't hurt anymore!” he said. “Could you step back? I wanna check something.”

  Lyssanne stood and backed away. Jarad climbed to his feet and tested his weight on the injured leg. He flexed it several times, laughing.

  “He did it! He heard us.” Jarad gave Lyssanne a swift hug. “Thank you.”

  “No,” she said, her stomach aflutter. "Thank the King. I did nothing but seek His aid.”

  “Yeah,” said Jarad, “but you really know how to talk to Him.”

  More dazed than before, Lyssanne returned to their supplies while Jarad righted the shelter. The King had mended in an instant what should have taken days or weeks to heal.

  Two sudden pops almost caused her to drop the bread she'd just unwrapped.

  “Why are you here?” Jarad snapped, glaring at the faeries.

  “We’ve come to rejoice with you at Lyssanne’s success,” Olivia said.

  “Success?” Lyssanne asked.

  “With your gift, of course,” said Jada. “You don't think the boy’s knee fixed itself?”

  “You show yourselves now, when we’re safe?” said Jarad. “But when Lady Lyssanne was in danger, when that shadow man—”

  “A creature to be pitied, for certain,” Olivia said.

  “Pitied?” said Jarad.

  “If he doesn’t rectify his path, it is likely to end in a fate that causes even the FAE to tremble. An eternity lost to the King.”

  “You're so worried over his fate,” Jarad said, his voice rising, “what about Lady Lyssanne’s? That shadow thing could’ve killed her! You just flew past like a couple of bumblebees.” He drew a sudden breath then snatched his bow from the ground and aimed it at Olivia. “Maybe you're in league with him.”

  “Jarad, no!” Lyssanne cried.

  Jada flashed to Olivia's side, her wand trained on Jarad. “Don’t be so foolish as to attack the FAE, mortal boy.”

  “Easy, Jada,” Olivia said. With the flat of her hand, she lowered her friend's wand. “Young Jarad is merely following his calling. His arrows c
an cause us no harm.”

  “But his words can bring him harm,” said Jada. “Alienate us, and you rid yourselves of your best hope. Not even the King will force our aid upon those who don't want it.”

  “To answer your question, Jarad,” Olivia said, “the FAE are forbidden to interfere in a mortal's life unless she gives us the authority to act. We are only put to flight by the King's words upon a mortal's lips.”

  “The King’s words?” Lyssanne asked, as Jarad lowered his bow. “What do you mean?”

  “He has given you many,” said Jada. “Have you not been reading His book? Olivia gave you parts of it to study and—”

  “Enough,” Olivia said. “The fault is mine. I must be more diligent in her instruction. Lyssanne, in this war, you will face danger in many forms. As such, commanding the Light must become your first thought in every situation.”

  “I had no time to think of anything,” Lyssanne said. “He was just there, and then—”

  “That's because you surrendered to circumstance,” Jada said, vanishing her wand. “You let what was happening in the natural world control your expectations, steal your power. You either take back the right to control your destiny in the name of the King,”—she gestured as if snapping a twig—“or give it over to the Thief of Souls. There is no neutral ground. This is war, and the Thief will take any advantage."

  “The King, however,” said Olivia, “is a gentleman. He and His servants will only intervene if you proclaim His right to do so.”

  “I do this by reciting the Kingsword?” Lyssanne asked.

  “You needn't quote it verbatim,” Olivia said. “Yet, the words you speak hold much power. If not in line with the King’s will for all life, they relinquish that power to His enemy.”

  ”The Council in Cloistervale claimed mere words can never harm or—”

  “It is law,” said Jada. “It’ll hold true whether you believe it or not. You may think you can fly, but if you jump from a cliff, you will fall. Same goes for the law of words.”

  “Are you saying the Council lied to us?” Jarad asked.

  “Not intentionally,” Olivia said. “One of the Thief's greatest weapons is misleading followers of the King just enough to rob them of true power.”

  “Why should my words carry such power?” Lyssanne said. “I am but a peasant.”

  “That,” said Jada, “is a place of high honor. Faeries are created to serve. Humans, whether peasant or noble-born, are created to reign.”

  “Still,” Olivia said, “changing one’s thought pattern is only possible with constant repetition. The King’s book holds clues to His will for every circumstance. Learn them, recite them, and those words will fall from your lips whenever you need them.”

  “Oh, I suppose words can defeat shadows, too?” Jarad said with a half laugh.

  “Yes,” Olivia said. “Your knee is proof.”

  Warmth flooded Lyssanne as the truth struck home. She’d wielded the King’s gift. She had been blind, far beyond the limitations of her natural sight. A broken vessel, she might be, but cracks in a lantern wouldn’t prevent the flame’s light from spilling forth.

  “I begin to understand,” she whispered. “Anyone could do as I did. ’Twas neither I, nor even the gift of Light, that accomplished it, but absolute trust in the King.” She brushed away a tear. “Yet, He has chosen to demonstrate His power through me.”

  “Well spoken,” said Olivia.

  “I treasure your wisdom,” Lyssanne said. “If you will indulge me, I have questions.”

  “Ask them. We shall answer what we are permitted.”

  Lyssanne told them of the Shadow Mist in Cloistervale and of Mr. Fescue’s warnings. Then, she repeated the question she’d posed when last they'd met. Who was her enemy?

  “It is well that you see the shadows,” Olivia said, “and recognize the truth of what they are, for such is the very nature of Light. But to succeed in the King's plan, you must learn to look beyond the shadows, to the truth that is the King's law.”

  “What is this truth?”

  “The law of love, which is the core of all else. The King is Love, as He is Light.”

  “It was because of love, you succeeded this morning,” Jada said. “You neither thought nor tried. You only loved and believed.”

  “Indeed,” Olivia said. “Whatever the shadows might show you, whatever shape they take, remember this—Shadow is created when something attempts to block the light. There is no truth in darkness.”

  “Then...what of my enem—”

  “No more lessons, this day,” said Olivia. “You are weary from many surprises.”

  Lyssanne sighed. She didn’t want lessons. She wanted answers.

  “Never let fear reign,” Olivia said. “You must give no power to the shadows, not in word, thought, or deed.” With that warning fading into the air, she and Jada vanished.

  Brennus rode through a patch of woodland just beyond the Lyryan border, heading toward Lyssanne’s campsite. He flexed his shoulders, still stiff after flying back across Gian Plain to retrieve his mount, then traversing it again on horseback. Venefica owed him much.

  A plume of smoke billowed above the treetops ahead. Brennus dismounted and led his horse nearer the camp. The stallion hung its head, following, meek as a gelding.

  “What?” Brennus whispered. “Lost your bravado now that your master’s no longer the size of a tasty snack?” He smirked. “I daresay you’ll rethink snapping at ravens, henceforth.”

  He stepped into the clearing and stopped short. Despite the early hour, Lyssanne lay already abed.

  Jarad glanced up from stirring the fire. “Sir Brennus?” The boy jumped to his feet, his words hushed. “Where'd you come from?”

  “I had business in the area and happened upon your trail,” he said, infusing his practiced lines with nonchalance. “It takes no seasoned tracker to detect your passage.”

  Jarad held a finger to his lips, grasping Brennus by the arm as if to lead him farther from the campfire. “Lady Lyssanne’s ill,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder to where she lay.

  The threadbare cloak she often wore covered her to the chin. Her face was turned away, her cheek resting upon a rolled blanket. Reina lay between Lyssanne and the fire, partially blocking her from view.

  “Her ailment has returned?”

  The boy nodded, the firelight revealing his haggard features. “I’ve never seen it this bad.”

  “She sleeps?”

  “If only.” Jarad shook his head. “She can’t rest, but she can’t rise either.”

  “Perhaps she should lie closer to the fire. The unicorn blocks all the warmth.”

  “No, Reina’s shielding her from the light. It hurts, y’know, too much light…and noise.”

  “How long has she been thus?”

  “Five days.”

  “Five—days?”

  "It started nearly a fortnight ago, but kept getting worse. We stopped here five days ago, and she's hardly stirred since.”

  “Has she run short on some remedy needed to combat this…illness?” Jarad would expect such a question. “There is a town a half-day’s ride north of here. Perhaps you should—”

  Jarad shook his head again. “Nothing can be done. She just has to wait until it stops.” He folded his arms and looked back toward Lyssanne. “Except…”

  “What?”

  “Well, Mistress Evlia, our healer, sometimes massaged Lady Lyssanne’s head. You know, like they do to calm horses or dogs? I think it maybe helped a little.” He sighed, slumping. “I thought about trying it, but I fear to hurt her. She can't even bear to brush her hair right now.”

  Brennus had to see for himself how the girl fared. The curse Venefica had cast was strong, but to not rise once in five days, despite the discomfort of hard ground?

  Reina lifted her head at his approach, piercing him with her fathomless eyes. Her gaze weighed upon him even as he turned his back on her to crouch beside Venefica’s enemy.

&
nbsp; “Lyssanne?”

  She turned her head then opened her eyes with equal slowness, as if her lids bore the weight of serving platters. He stiffened.

  Her face shone pale as the unicorn. And her eyes! What he saw there chilled him. Those sapphire depths, forever filled with the sparkle of hope or fire of determination, had become twin, dull pools of pain. He’d known torture victims with eyes less haunted.

  “Sir Brennus?” she whispered, her weak voice barely audible. She lifted her head and shoulders with obvious effort.

  Slipping to his knees, he placed a hand behind her shoulder to help her sit up. She swayed. He caught her against his shoulder and held her there, her body limp as a soggy blanket.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, “so dizzy.”

  Jarad brought her a cup of water. Cradling her in one arm, Brennus held the cup for her. Once she'd drunk her fill, he shifted her body to free her left arm, which had become pinned between them. As he lifted her arm, her hand dangled, limp, from the wrist.

  Brennus settled onto the ground and slid her blanket roll into his lap, then eased her head atop it. She lay facing away from him, her long hair spilling into her eyes. He brushed it aside. She shifted as if to rise from his lap, but he forestalled her with a firm grasp of her shoulder.

  “Rest,” he said, a quiet yet unmistakable command. “Jarad spoke of a method your healer once used to ease your pain. With your permission, I shall try it.”

  “You're…a knight,” she said. “Healer’s craft is…beneath you.”

  “It is my right to decide what is beneath me,” he said, already moving his fingers lightly over her hair and temples. “I've seen the pain in your eyes. Perhaps I may ease it, if only a bit.”

  What had prompted this odd compulsion to offer her aid? Perhaps his return to Lyrya had reawakened his training in knighthood at the knee of his oldest friend's sire. Though he and Duncan had oft made jest of the old man’s serious nature, they’d taken his lessons as law. If a knight couldn’t fight a lady's battle for her, he was oath-bound to provide whatever assistance he may. Well, if ever a maiden had been distressed, it was this one. Inconvenient, chivalry.