Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1)

by Bridgett Powers

  Brennus squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, closed her eyes, then nodded once. A tooth-tingling creak met her ears, as he eased open the door.

  She opened her eyes. In the center of a round, stone room stood a tall, slim figure. A fall of ebony hair, blacker than the Thief’s heart, cascaded down the back of the shimmering burgundy gown draping the woman before them. Chills broke out over Lyssanne’s skin, and she clutched at her homespun skirt.

  Lady Venefica Mortifer turned to face them. “Ah, my prince returns,” she said. “Bearing gifts, I see. You should have informed me you were coming, Brennus. I would have been better prepared to receive you.”

  “But it is so seldom that I can surprise you,” he said, his tone flippant.

  “Yes, I would ask how you managed it, but”—Venefica waved a hand, and the door banged behind them, the sound drawing Lyssanne’s eye—“I fear your timing won’t permit me. A shame, really.”

  A croak was the only answer.

  Lyssanne swung back around. Brennus was gone! In a weak ray of dawn spilling through the slit window, flapped the raven.

  Alone! She was alone. Lyssanne’s blood pooled into her feet. She’d known she would face death in this tower, but had imagined Brennus beside her, through it all. His transformation hadn’t even left her his sword—not that she had knowledge of its use.

  The raven took to the air, his wing-beats stirring Lyssanne’s hair as he flapped toward the shadowed stone walls.

  “Clever of you, pet, luring such a prize my way.” Venefica stepped forward, her words spinning out like spider silk. “Gaining her trust, even daring to feign betrayal of your oath.”

  Lyssanne retreated. Air constricted at her back, warning her the door was near. A cold that wasn’t cold clawed at her skin, a sensation she’d only ever felt in the presence of the Mist. It intensified as the sorceress inched closer.

  “Why, your skills in the art of deception are greater than I realized,” Venefica said. “You will make an excellent consort.”

  A shrill caw echoed from the opposite side of the room.

  Venefica turned her full stare upon Lyssanne. “Do you know who I am, peasant?”

  Lyssanne swallowed, praying her voice wouldn’t falter. “Lady Mortifer,” she said. The custom of a lifetime compelled her to offer a minute curtsey.

  “You must show more deference in the presence of your betters, girl.”

  Invisible hands pressed down upon Lyssanne’s shoulders. Her knees buckled, but she pushed back—and did not fall.

  “Do you know why you’ve come?” the sorceress asked, shedding her languid manner.

  “To…save…Cloistervale,” Lyssanne said, straining to remain upright.

  “No,” said Venefica. “You’ve come because your hero wearies of his charade and your tedious company. He wishes me to finish what began before your pathetic birth.”

  Lyssanne shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

  Suddenly, the pressure left Lyssanne’s shoulders, and she staggered.

  “Still, you believe him?” Venefica’s frosty laughter filled the chamber. “He should join a band of Skriptaanese players.” She drew closer and, with a sharp fingernail, flicked the skin beneath Lyssanne’s chin. “You thought he cared for you? How naive. You aren’t the heroine of some tale. One such as you could inspire nothing but contempt in a prince. You were merely the means to achieve his goals.”

  Lyssanne backed against the door, then shuffled to one side. A wave of cold and darkness bled from the burgundy of Venefica’s gown, then it reached for her!

  “Don’t listen to her,” a hollow voice croaked from the shadows.

  “Brennus?” Lyssanne whispered, barely dodging the Mist.

  She glanced toward his voice, but he was nothing save a motion at the edges of the chamber. He’d flown into darkness, choosing the body of shadow to give himself voice.

  She shivered in recollection—him, wearing that form in Fescue’s wood, lunging through her body. She’d felt his pain as her own. Somehow, the memory gave her strength.

  The Mist drew nearer. Lyssanne sidled along the wall, struggling to ignore Venefica as she spewed forth reason upon reason to suspect Brennus’s betrayal. At last, she could bear no more. “You lie,” she said. “His loyalty is—”

  “To me!” Venefica said.

  It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Brennus had given his vow to the King of All Lands.

  How can you be certain? Whispered a lethal thought. No one was there to hear him make such a vow.

  Like a wave upon the simurgh’s black sea, the Mist lunged for Lyssanne. She leapt aside, just in time. Then, a fist of air slammed into her, pinning her to the wall.

  With a loud caw, Brennus, again a raven, flew at Venefica from the shadows. His mad flight slammed to a sudden halt, as if he’d smashed into a solid wall of air that sent him reeling. Ebony feathers rained like black snow upon the stones below.

  “No!” Lyssanne screamed. “Brennus!”

  Then, the Mist enveloped her. Though it did not, could not, touch her, it encased her in a curtain of impenetrable darkness. She could see nothing, hear nothing but Venefica’s taunts.

  “The King…is my…freedom!” she whispered, as she had in the gargoyle’s grip.

  “Your tricks may repel the Mist,” Venefica said, “but not she who controls it!” Her voice changed to a purr, as pressure increased against Lyssanne’s limbs. “Where is your King now?”

  “He will never abandon me,” Lyssanne said.

  The mist recoiled.

  “Perhaps.” Venefica resumed her lazy tone. “But you have failed Him. He gave you charge over children, and you left them to me. Now, their tears feed my power!” She laughed again. “They will grow only to serve me all their days—those who survive that long.”

  The Mist boiled and closed in again.

  “But I forget,” Venefica said. “You’ve been ill…” She drew out the word. “You let a little pain interfere with your duty to them. You abandoned them, and thus, your King.”

  No, it was a trick. The Thief of Souls knew Lyssanne’s weakness and was feeding it to Venefica. “The King loves me,” she said, “just as I am. He…”

  Her next words died unformed. Images flashed against the blackness, like moving paintings, only more lifelike than any canvas could portray. They depicted scene after scene of the children suffering in every way conceivable and in some she could never have imagined.

  Those horrors soon gave way to scenes of death—little Gavan lying pale and still in his mother’s arms.

  Tears poured down Lyssanne’s cheeks.

  Then, scenes blurred by as if indicating the rapid passage of time. Lyssanne gasped. A teenage girl, who could only be Elaiza, knelt at Venefica’s feet, scrubbing the floor. The image sped forward, Elaiza’s eyes, dull and devoid of hope, filling Lyssanne’s view.

  A chunk of ice dropped into the pit of Lyssanne’s stomach. This was the future of those she loved—and she was powerless to prevent it.

  The pressure in her temples threatened to burst forth like horns from her skin. She struggled to move, to press her hands against the sides of her head and ease the pain, but her arms remained pinned to the wall.

  Where was Brennus? Was he injured? Unconscious? Worse?

  A rustle reached her ears, then a rattling, as of metal against stone.

  “Quiet, Faerie Queen,” Venefica said. “Not even you can escape a cage of iron. I should think, by now, the pain of its touch would have taught you the folly of trying.”

  “Serena?” Lyssanne whispered. “Wh-where…?”

  The rustling and rattling intensified. Then the dove loosed a chilling cry of such bottomless desperation, it’s utterance pulled fresh tears from Lyssanne’s eyes. Never should any being have cause to make such a noise.

  “Fool of a creature!” Venefica shouted. “Your struggles are as useless as a faerie without wings—which, you will soon be. As useless as your precious Light-Wielder.”

 
; The wall of darkness closed in on Lyssanne, filling the space that should have contained air. As if she’d returned to the monster’s cocoon in Westerfield, she fought to breathe, to think.

  Venefica’s laughter faded, the purr returning to her silken voice. “Why resist? You are no use to the children, to my village, to your so-called King—to anyone. They all, even your princely hero, see the truth of it.”

  The pain in Lyssanne’s head pressed outward with as much force as the darkness pressing inward. Between the two, she’d surely be crushed.

  “Lyssanne!” Brennus’s pain-laden cry pierced her shroud of agony.

  “No need for continued pretense, pet,” Venefica crooned. “The time of secrecy is at an end. She is at an end. Now, you can stand openly at my side.”

  No! Pain prevented Lyssanne’s voicing even that feeble protest.

  Above Cloistervale, Olivia froze mid-flight, wand poised to strike the traitorous faerie who commanded Venefica’s inhuman forces. A sound had reached into her spirit, squeezing her heart. If urgency had a voice, if need were a note to be sung, it would be that sound. Serena! She was alive, and Lyssanne was in danger of losing all.

  Olivia’s wand shot forth sparks impotent as her fury. Her target had escaped.

  She pivoted, surveying her forces. The nophel attacked human and FAE warrior alike. Dark creatures slashed and maimed villagers and soldiers. Worse, several of Duncan Avery’s men had fallen to the Shadow Mist. Some surrendered to hopelessness, dropping their weapons, only to be cut down within moments. Others flew into mad rages, attacking friend as well as foe.

  In the brief lull that surrounded her, Olivia glanced toward Mount Mortiferra. Darkness poured from the tower like uncorked wine, coating the mountainside.

  “Lyssanne is losing ground,” she said, sensing Jada’s nearness. “She’s smothered in shadow. If something doesn’t change, and soon, the Light in her will be snuffed out, along with her life and any hope for Cloistervale or the Seven Lands.”

  “Then,” Jada said, “we must change something.”

  28

  The Mouths of Babes

  Lyssanne squeezed her eyes shut against the images upon the Mist and the pain. The horrid scenes only grew clearer behind her eyelids. Why hadn’t the King’s Light freed her?

  “This is pointless.” Brennus’s hollow, shadow’s voice brought her eyes flying wide again. “The Mist can’t touch Lyssanne, never could. It is folly to waste your efforts, when she has only grown stronger in the Light.”

  “Your concern for my time and strength is touching, dear prince,” Venefica said. “Revenge is a delicacy. A dish so long in the making must be savored.”

  “I know well how such a dish can tempt the appetite,” he said, “but if you aren’t careful, this one may burn your tongue.”

  “You grow tiresome, pet,” the sorceress snapped.

  “You can’t hold back the Light, my lady. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “Silence!”

  “Let me—” The thread of Brennus’s words was snipped, mid-sentence.

  “What have you done to him?” Lyssanne cried.

  “Oh yes, fear for him,” Venefica drawled, as shards of cold pierced Lyssanne’s skin. “Protect this messenger of your own torment, who delivered my power even into your dreams.”

  “The nightmares?” Lyssanne whispered. “You caused them?”

  “Indeed, and he was the bridge that brought the shadows into your slumber.”

  “No, I had those dreams even in Cloistervale.”

  “When I was near enough to reach into your mind.”

  Fresh shivers shot up Lyssanne’s spine. During her journey, the nightmares had always occurred when Brennus was encamped with them. And at Avery Hall, she’d slept free of them only after his mysterious departure.

  “That no longer matters,” she said. “Brennus! Brennus, are you—”

  Venefica’s chill laughter drowned her words. “Only my voice can penetrate the Mist now. You waste your breath, both of you.”

  Brennus was trying to speak to her? Lyssanne fought to free herself from the wall. What horror had the sorceress visited upon him? Again, she screamed his name.

  “He is unharmed, for now,” Venefica said. “Though, I fear this once useful vessel of my power has suffered a breech in his stony exterior and must be discarded. I shall see to him once I’ve wrung the last possible vestige of suffering from you.”

  Venefica’s words wrapped Lyssanne’s mind in a tightening noose. She mustn’t surrender to fear. Brennus was right, the Mist couldn’t touch her if she held onto the King’s Light. Oh, but it tugged at the door to her soul, molding to her a hair’s-breadth from her skin.

  “Every flame must go out, eventually,” Venefica said. “Yours should never have burned. I’m surprised the faeries didn’t extinguish you, themselves, after you led their princess to her death. Soon, countless others will join her.”

  A new image formed on the Mist, so near it seemed Lyssanne stood within it. A delicate faerie, clothed in shimmering petals of white, turned toward her, silvery hair sweeping her shoulders. Lyssanne’s vantage widened, revealing a woman, great with child. A soundless bolt of darkness streaked toward the woman, but the faerie intercepted it. She dropped like a stone. Just as her pearlescent wing touched the ground, a ring of white shimmered into existence around her.

  "Because of you,” Venefica said, “the dead faerie’s mother, their queen, is forever my prisoner.”

  Serena appeared upon the mist in her true form, her iridescent wings missing. She grimaced, struggling against the iron bonds chaining her to a wall of stone.

  “All this,” Venefica said, “the faeries suffered for their fabled Light-Wielder? Lives lost, power wasted, for some mad faerie’s hallucination! For you, who have betrayed your King.”

  “I would never betray the King of All Lands.”

  “No?” Venefica said. “Does His book not say, one who betrays His children betrays Him? You are a leech, girl, consuming the efforts of others with your sloth.”

  Lyssanne gasped. “It was you!” She leaned her throbbing head against the stone. “You convinced the council I’d broken the law against sloth.”

  “I?” Venefica laughed. “They saw the evidence of it for themselves. Their obsession with useful toil did that. And you permitted it.”

  Lyssanne was transported, via the Mist, to the day of her greatest sorrow.

  “You scarcely resisted when they accused you,” Venefica said, “allowing my Mist full reign in that village. If you truly are your King’s chosen, you’ve failed Him utterly.”

  Lyssanne squeezed her eyes shut again, desperate to block out Venefica’s voice, but there was no escape.

  “Because of you,” Venefica said, “the boy Jarad no longer has a home. And no one will accept a nameless peasant for any position much above that of a slave.”

  Jarad blurred into view, older, unshaven, and dressed in tatters. He appeared to be begging for bread in the streets of Westerfield. Rough hands gripped his arms from behind, and soldiers dragged him away.

  “This is…a lie.” Lyssanne forced breath out through her constricted throat. “He has a home. He can go to…” She stopped herself just in time. “To a place far from you.” She glared in the direction of Venefica’s voice. “The King protects him.”

  With a sudden jolt, she pulled her left fist free of the wall.

  “He cannot protect the dead!” Venefica shrieked.

  Lyssanne’s stomach lurched as unseen bonds jerked her upward, stone scraping her back, the ground falling away beneath her feet.

  The mist rose with her, then erupted in images of malformed beasts swarming her cottage, the children inside screaming her name.

  “No, don’t!” Lyssanne cried.

  “Those villagers you claim to love were safely under my control,” Venefica said. “Now, not only do they dare resist, but you bring foreigners to die with them.”

  Flash after flash seared Lyssanne’
s eyes—Lord Duncan’s knights torn apart by grotesque beasts or, enshrouded in Shadow Mist, turning their swords upon one another…Green fangs tearing away Mr. Whiskin’s sleeve…Two lizard-men stretching Mr. Cutler between their jaws, fighting like dogs over a strip of bacon…

  “The faerie seer should have named you Wielder of Death,” Venefica said. “Even the unicorn has lost her immortality at your hands. To carry you, she gave up a measure of her purity and can never return to her former life.”

  In a forest, brown and withered, stood Reina, her coat and horn dull, her head drooping.

  “No!” Lyssanne said through fresh tears. “That can only happen it she…if…she—”

  “Takes a life,” Venefica said. “As she did two nights past, when she slew my mud-beast.”

  Those creatures chasing them in the wood! Lyssanne’s stomach boiled, as a storm of lightning bolts struck at random all along her scalp.

  “Even in your mother’s womb, you brought only death and sorrow.”

  Lyssanne’s cottage appeared as if viewed from the edge of Broone’s field. The image was so clear, she struggled to reach for it. At the bottom of the hill, a strong, lean man stepped to the open doorway of a forge. A white-hot flash burst from its fire, and the forge exploded. The man’s screams, her father’s screams, reverberated through Lyssanne’s skull.

  “You see, peasant,” Venefica said, “all whom you love or who seek to aid you come to ruin. I should have done them all a service and slain you as a child.”

  “You tried,” Lyssanne whispered.

  “Only once!”

  Venefica’s fury punched Lyssanne’s stomach, forcing all her breath out on a single puff.

  “I was careless, not remaining to finish the task,” she said, “but I was certain I’d destroyed your gift along with your sight. For, how could the half-blind bring light to anyone? A mistake I shan’t make this time.”

  Lyssanne wheezed, shallow gasps insufficient to replace the air Venefica’s power had driven from her lungs.

  “For all you’ve cost me,” Venefica said, “wasted years, wealth, my betrothed—you, Light-Wielder, will feed the darkness of the Shadow Mist with your pain!”