Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1)

by Bridgett Powers

“I’m having too much fun to rest.” He sprang to his feet and bounded out the door.

  Lyssanne soon followed, her mind full of legendary mountain passes and slain sorcerers.

  Venefica’s summons screamed through Noire’s mind as he slipped along the library wall like so much mortar. A few inches more, and sunlight stretched arms into wings. He shook them for the simple pleasure of renewed sensation.

  Had Jarad not sat facing the little nook between two shelves in which Noire had hidden, he would have exited an age ago. Ah, but a raven sliding from within a wall would have raised a clamor. Perhaps that would have been preferable. It might have prevented Lyssanne’s newest discovery, or his witnessing of it.

  He took to the air to search the castle for a shadowed place in which to speak with Duncan and announce his departure. The trick would be coaxing Duncan to follow him there.

  Strolling toward the stables to meet Reina, Lyssanne searched the bustling outer bailey for signs of Jarad. He could be any number of places; training with blade or bow, tending a knight’s steed, running to and fro with messages. They’d spent precious little time together in the two days since Prince Brennus had departed on some urgent matter.

  The prince’s absence left the castle somehow diminished. His quiet intensity had filled those walls, and not even the renewed bustle of knights and squires in training could replace it.

  As Lyssanne waved to the guards stationed at the sally port near the stables, Clark’s voice boomed from the other side of the gate, requesting entrance. She changed course to greet him.

  “Ah, Little Starling!” Clark said, as the guards shoved the gate closed behind him. “My Carol’s just been scolding me for not having you join us for a meal.”

  A sudden bang and shout cut off Lyssanne’s intended reply. Clark whirled around, giving her a clear view of several large men forcing the gate back open. Clark lunged forward, but before he could reach the gate, it swung wide, tossing the guards to the ground.

  The intruders rushed through en masse, bristling with weapons. At the forefront, strode a bulky, odd-shaped man with something large strapped to his back. Lyssanne caught a glimpse of brown, pale pink, and a sickly green, before a hand clamped onto her arm and spun her around.

  Something whistled past her cheek, slicing the air inches from her skin.

  “Come on!” Jarad shouted, pulling her across the outer bailey.

  As armed men ran past them toward the intruders, Jarad slowed, his head swiveling to and fro. Fighting had broken out, blocking their route to the stable.

  “This way!” Jarad ran toward the front of the castle, pulling her after him.

  She hitched up her skirts, improperly exposed ankles her least concern. Jarad skidded to a halt then overturned a craftsman’s table and ushered her behind it. The instant they were shielded, he unslung his bow from his shoulder and reached for an arrow.

  Scuffling footsteps, grunts, and the clang of steel filled the air. Jarad crouched beside Lyssanne, peeping around his end of their improvised shield, an arrow at the ready.

  “It isn’t dead!” a man shouted near their hiding place.

  “Use your sword!” another yelled. “That’ll finish him.”

  “That creature just keeps coming,” Jarad whispered.

  “What creature?” Lyssanne asked.

  “The vomit-green man-thing with the big pink shell on its back,” he said. “The one that tried to skewer you with his knife when they broke in. Looks like a human hermit crab.” He peeked out again. “How many daggers is he carrying? And where does he keep ’em all?”

  It was a testament to everything they’d endured that Jarad was astounded not at the horror of such a creature, but at the number of its weapons. At least the table spared Lyssanne the sight.

  As if in response to her thought, a thud rocked their shield.

  “Stay down,” Jarad whispered. “He’s coming this way.” He peered around the table long enough to loose an arrow, then ducked back in to nock another. “Creature looks like a pincushion. Knives and arrows stickin’ out all over him.” He leaned out and shot again.

  “Jarad,” she whispered, “Let the soldiers—”

  “They’re busy with those other intruders, and that thing’s getting closer,” he said.

  Another thud, this time too near where Jarad’s head had just been. He changed tactics, aiming from above the table instead of to the side.

  “Be careful,” Lyssanne whispered.

  Jarad loosed another arrow. Just as he lowered his head, something whizzed through the air above him and clanged behind Lyssanne. She twisted around. A leaf-shaped blade as long as her hand lay at her feet. Each of its barbed edges looked sharp as Prince Brennus’s sword.

  A thwack near her ear forced her attention back around.

  Jarad dropped his bow and fumbled with his belt pouch. “I’m out,” he said. “Hold this.” He handed her a narrow leather sheath, then hefted the dagger it had housed.

  “I know you’re back there, missy,” shouted a voice akin to stones grinding together. “Yer little shelter won’t save ya.”

  Jarad leaned out and threw with such force, his body nearly overturned the table.

  A clicking sound filled the air just beyond their hiding place.

  “I don’t believe it,” Jarad said. “He’s laughing. Every arrow I own is sticking out of that creature, and I just hit him dead in the chest with the prince’s dagger. He didn’t even flinch.” Jarad gasped and lunged toward Lyssanne. “Look out!”

  As he pushed her to the ground, a mighty crash assailed her ears.

  “Outa the way, whelp,” the creature’s grating voice roared, closer.

  Jarad’s weight suddenly lifted from Lyssanne’s side, and he flew across the yard. A flash of pink and brown blocked him from view. Then, a deafening clang reverberated above her head.

  “Aim for the shell!” Clark yelled, his boat-sized shoe landing near Lyssanne’s nose.

  The man-crab reeled away from her. She sat up just as Clark’s shoe kicked up dirt and he swung his massive hammer at the creature. It struck the spiky pink shell with a clang that resonated through Lyssanne’s skull. A splintering sound and an inhuman shriek rent the air. The creature stumbled, spun around, and tipped over onto its back like an overbalanced turtle.

  Their attacker lay gasping inches from Lyssanne’s feet, his stringy grey hair splayed in all directions. Lyssanne pulled her legs beneath her and shifted up onto her knees.

  Clark squatted on the other side of the knife-thrower. “What are you called, creature?”

  “Bob.”

  “Bob?” Lyssanne and Clark said in unison, their gazes locking as Jarad joined them.

  “What business have you at Avery Hall…Bob?” Clark asked.

  The creature turned its head toward Lyssanne and pinned her with its large, dead-black eyes. “You’ll wish…it’d been me…killed ya.” Its mouth spread in a gruesome grin.

  Clark jerked the creature’s head back to face him. “You speak to me, creature.” Even Lyssanne flinched at his fierceness. “Now, answer me. Why are you here?”

  “On…orders.”

  “Whose?”

  “She…promised me…gold.”

  “Who? For what?”

  “Sh-Shadow…Kee-Keeper.” The creature’s right arm jerked, he gasped, then he stilled.

  Clark levered himself up but swayed before he could stand. Clutching at his left side, he wobbled then slipped back to the ground.

  “Clark, you’re bleeding!” Jarad shouted.

  Lyssanne rushed to Clark’s side, skirting around the bloody blade that lay between the creature’s green, crab-like pincers. She crouched and looked down at Clark’s plate-sized hand and the stain spreading through his fingers.

  “Ha, would ya look at that,” he said, then gasped. “Got me, eh? H-had his revenge with his…final breath.” Groaning, he toppled over.

  “Help!” Lyssanne shouted to the knights dragging away fallen attackers, to the
stablemen calming horses, to anyone who would hear. “Help, he’s wounded!”

  As she removed her cloak and folded it to press against Clark’s wound, a knight ran toward them. He knelt, lifted Clark’s hand aside, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lady.”

  “That bad?” Clark asked, his voice raspy.

  “Afraid so,” said the knight. “It’s a gut wound. Deep.” He looked up at Lyssanne. “I’ll see to it Lord Avery gets word to his family.” He rested a hand on Clark’s shoulder. “You’ll have your soldier’s sendoff after all, friend.” He stood and walked away.

  Lyssanne pressed her cloak to Clark’s side, tears falling onto her hands.

  “S’why I gave up soldiering.” Clark’s weak chuckle ended as a liquid cough.

  “I’m sorry,” Lyssanne whispered, as blood soaked her cloak. “I’m so sorry.”

  A faerie’s words from what seemed an age past buzzed through her mind. You let what was happening in the natural world steal your power.

  No, not this time. “You haven’t the right,” she said under her breath. “Thief, Soul-deceiver, you’ve no right to steal this man from his family—all because of me. He’s a gift to his kin, to this hall, to me. The King of All Lands gave him life, how dare you wrest it from him!”

  Boldness welled up in her, a sense of right and authority she’d felt only once before.

  “Light and Life of all,” she whispered, “don’t leave him now. Shine brighter within him.”

  Clark’s ragged wheezes slowed. He was slipping away! Lyssanne wept harder. Above her sobs, rose a groan that could have issued from her own spirit.

  “Might ya ease up a bit?” Clark murmured. “My side’s afire already,”

  Lyssanne’s eyes flew open. Clark grinned up at her, pushing at her fingers.

  “No, your wound!”

  Even in his weakened state, Clark’s strength overcame hers. The sodden cloak fell away, revealing the gash in his side—blackened and sealed as if it had been seared.

  “You aren’t, perchance, a seamstress?” he whispered. “Think I need a bit o’ patching.”

  Brennus halted in the doorway of the parlor, his gaze fixed on Venefica. She stared into the fireplace, pulsing with power.

  Within the flames, an image formed—a familiar woman, the mother of the twins with whom Lyssanne had shared a tale the day he’d stolen her rowan blossom for Venefica’s curse. The woman turned, just as a man draped in Shadow Mist stepped behind her. Willem the carpenter grabbed a fistful of her hair, wrenched her head around, and snapped her neck.

  The image followed a tendril of Mist slithering away from the woman’s fallen body—right up to one of the twins, a girl Noel’s age. She peered, wide-eyed, from behind a tree. Brennus went cold as the Mist snaked up her legs.

  Shadows poured into Venefica. She flung back her head, her face exultant. “Another child,” she whispered. “Such pure power.” She straightened and stroked a thumb over the portrait miniature on the mantelpiece. “Ah, Vynasyr, if only you’d lived to see this. Our reign would have been magnificent.”

  “Vynasyr?”

  Venefica spun, flinging out a hand. An unseen force crashed into Brennus’s chest, slamming him against the corridor wall. Her gaze snapped to his. A seductive smile stretched her lips, and she released him. “You startled me, pet. I was just thinking of you.”

  Struggling for breath, he arched a brow toward the mantelpiece. “Me, indeed?”

  She waved a dismissive hand toward the portrait miniature. “An echo of the past, to remind me of our future. He, like you, was robbed of his rightful rule.”

  “Yours appears secured,” Brennus said, eyeing the gleaming wood, rugs beaten free of dust, and portraits hanging in new frames. “The manor bears little resemblance to the derelict shell into which you carried me two years ago. Though, Cloistervale hasn’t fared so well.”

  She glided over to a sideboard. “After the overthrow of the Council,” she said, pouring dark red liquid into a gleaming crystal goblet, “I delayed stepping in for a fortnight, permitting anarchy to flourish, so the alternative to my rule would be clear.” She glanced up. “Wine?”

  “Water.” He dared drink nothing else in her presence. “Doubtless, your entrance and magnanimous offer of assistance were a performance worthy of the courts of Skriptaan.”

  “Indeed.” She laughed. “They fair begged me to reclaim my family’s title and aid them. Now, they live to serve my whims.” She handed him a goblet. “The carpenter certainly has his uses.” Deep purple velvet billowed around her as she sank into a chair. “Henceforth, not even the Light-Wielder will trouble me.”

  Brennus stared. “So certain? I rather expected the opposite after her recent discovery.”

  “I’ve sent someone to see to the matter.”

  He lowered his goblet, the water gone bitter on his tongue. “Who?”

  “One of my many agents.” She smoothed her skirts. “He should have arrived by now. I shall require you to return there once more, to discover whether his attack has succeeded.”

  “If that was your wish, why summon me thence?”

  “I couldn’t have you around to get in his way.” She laughed. “Why, your honor would have compelled you to defend the place. I saved us both the trouble of your one, tiny weakness.”

  “This is why it was so urgent I attend you?” His mind screamed, but his voice only grew colder. “Six days I’ve flown without rest, so you could attack Avery Hall?”

  “If my agent succeeds, you will thank me for it.”

  “There are those in that fortress I would not see harmed.”

  “All the more reason to ensure the girl’s death,” Venefica said. “She is a danger to anyone fool enough to aid her.” A languid smile stretched her lips. “Should my agent fail, and those who so concern you still live, you may finish her by more subtle means, sparing them.”

  “Why waste the effort?” He forced his voice to an air of boredom. “We both, my lady, have matters of far greater importance before us. Your power is restored. Extend your reach.” He expelled a breath and sliced a hand through the air. “I tire of this game. Forget that peasant.”

  “I will see her destroyed.” She sat forward. “And anyone who stands in the way of it.”

  “To what purpose?” Turning from the sight of her, he strode to the window. “You have taken her home, her health, her very way of life. Her entire village is under your command, and soon, all of Lastarra with it. She is no threat to you.”

  “No threat? She is the threat!”

  “How? So, she can light a fire. At your weakest, you could do so with a thought.”

  “Her mere presence thwarted every advance of the Shadow Mist. Imagine what she could do now, when she is learning to harness her power.”

  He laughed. “Her power is unpredictable. Unlike yours, it isn't hers to manipulate at a whim. If she stays away from Lastarra, you’ve nothing to fear of her.”

  “If!” A creak accompanied Venefica’s hasty rise from her chair. “If she persists in her foolish quest, she will become more dangerous—to us both. Already, she knows too much.”

  “She knows nothing definitive. Not even your name.” He spun to face her. “Had you not pursued her, she wouldn’t even know you exist.”

  “Such matters are of no consequence.” She glided toward him. “You swore an oath. One that is yet unfulfilled. Have you forgotten your own words?”

  A cloud of Shadow Mist formed between Venefica’s outstretched palms, and Brennus’s voice echoed from its center. “In payment for this boon I ask,” he’d said, so long ago, “I give my solemn knight’s oath to assist you in reclaiming your birthright and power—whatever that may require. Else, let my boon, my honor, my life, be forfeit.”

  “Whatever that requires,” she said. “Swear to it anew. You need a reminder of your duty, I think.” She reached up and pressed her nails to the back of his neck. “And of the cost of failing it.”

  “My word is never broken.
” He lowered his voice. “I made no vow to kill innocents.”

  “Going soft, great Prince?” She trailed her nails around his upper arm. “I am disappointed. How is a man to rule if he is unwilling to eliminate his enemies?”

  “To free my people, I will eliminate anyone who stands in my way, but she—”

  “She stands in your way! For, while she lives, your curse will remain.”

  He glared at her.

  “Still, you hesitate. Why? Honor, again? What of your land? Your lineage?”

  “What care you for my family or my land?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “But you care. Time grows short, Prince. You feel it with each transformation. The magic bound in your blood begins to wreak its vengeance. Soon, you will be lost—your line, your land with you. I offer you a chance. Can your honor grant that? Can she?”

  The goblet’s stem snapped in his fist, glass shattering to the floor. He was a statue, cold granite, unseeing, unmoving. When he spoke, his voice was ice. “How do you wish it done?”

  20

  Passage

  “Stupasce?” Lord Duncan moved another piece on his game board. “Oh, fii, it’s a real place. Though, why anyone would want to go there, I can’t imagine.”

  Closing her Kingsword, Lyssanne glanced at him across the study. “Is it so dangerous?”

  “Don’t know about danger,” he said, watching Lady MeMe’s next move in their game of strategy. “Just a dead end. I’m not even sure it’s a real pass. Could be just a chunk gouged out of the mountain by a dried up waterfall or landslide. Whatever the case, you can’t go through it.”

  “Have many tried?”

  “Oh, to be sure, but not in years.” He paused to inspect the board, scratched his chin, and slapped the table, jiggling the game pieces. “Ha! Thought to outflank me? Not today, Lady Wife.” He plunked his piece down with deliberate force then turned to Lyssanne. “I do a fair trade with the miners and rockhind herdsmen. They complain often enough that it would decrease their travel—and prices—if they could use the pass instead of the old spine-tree trail.”