The pressure behind Lyssanne’s brow built and bulged as if forming a lump beneath her hairline. Agony surged outward and inward at once, hot nausea filling her throat. Often, she’d thought her head pain could grow no worse and still be survived—Oh, how wrong she’d been.
She hung there, too spent even to weep. Tears required energy to spill. Were she not plastered to the wall, she would have fallen into a boneless heap upon the flagstones. Her neck went limp, her head too heavy to hold upright.
She lost the will to try.
“What’s Lyssanne’s greatest source of strength?” Olivia shouted to Jada, then spun midair to fire a stream of power at a faerie she’d once called friend. “Aside from the King, Himself, what brings her most joy?”
“Queen Serena would know,” Jada yelled between blasts of lethal faerie sparks. “She’s been with her longest.”
“She can’t tell us!” Olivia swooped low over the rooftops, sending a dark creature flying before it could sink its teeth into the baker. The arc of her dive brought her level with Jada again. “We need someone who knows Lyssanne well.”
“The boy!” Jada shouted. “He’s been Lyssanne’s student for years.”
“Jarad?” Olivia said, over screams of men, clangs of metal, and booms of magic.
Jada shot upward and flipped backward to avoid a jet of acid breath. Mid-flip, she slammed a wall of light into the flying abomination attacking her. “Yeah,” she said. “He’s rather clever for a human child. He should know.”
Three more sulfurbirds swarmed toward Jada. Olivia swung around to pick one off, but a blast hit her from behind, cartwheeling her forward. Mid-spin, she caught sight of Captain Alvar incinerating a nophel, saving her life.
“Alvar!” she shouted, scanning the air for foes. “You have temporary command of my forces. I’m needed elsewhere!”
He saluted, then turned back into the fray.
Olivia sped toward Lyssanne’s old cottage, her gaze sweeping the allies of Light battling dark creatures in the forests, fields, and streets below. Her lips twitched as she passed the scribe’s shop. Through his second floor window, Gierre DeLivre flung heavy books onto the heads of the witch’s monsters. Several villagers snatched up the fallen volumes and bludgeoned the creatures.
Others brandished farm tools and anything else at hand, but the villagers weren’t warriors. The Shadow Mist clouded their judgment and slowed their reactions, even if they hadn’t yielded to its sway.
Lord Avery’s men fared little better. Though he, at least, resisted the dulling power of the Shadow Mist. He reminded his troops, loud and often, for what and for whom they were fighting.
“Let me through!” Olivia bellowed to a FAE sentry she’d stationed outside the cottage. The protective barrier shimmered for an instant, and she shot past it to a window, pushing the shutters inward without slowing. She had no time to waste on doors.
Jarad sat upon a chair in a room stuffed to bursting with children.
“To the storage cupboard, boy,” Olivia ordered. “War counsel. Now!”
Jarad leapt up and hurtled over three sprawled children. Olivia closed the cupboard door and sealed them in with silence. Jarad’s face shone grave in the leaf-green light from her wand.
“Your lady’s in trouble,” Olivia said. “She’s fading.” Her eyes bored into his, willing him to hold the answer. “You’ve been closer to her than perhaps anyone, witness to good times and foul. What most fuels her gift?”
He closed his eyes, as if sifting through memory. It did not take him long.
“Children,” he said. “When children are filled with love or joy, it’s as if she has energy again.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It was that way here…before she got sick. Then, last winter at Avery Hall, with Lady Noel and the others, it happened again. For a little while, I even thought she’d gotten better.”
Olivia sighed. “That’s of no use. We can’t bring children to her now.”
“What if…” Jarad said, then shook his head.
“What? Don’t discard even the most foolish idea now, boy. We’re out of options.”
“Well, she always says, songs of praise draw the King near and are like a wall that stops the Thief of Souls. What if we all, I don’t know, start singing?”
Olivia was silent a long moment.
“I’ve been telling them stories of the King’s hand in our adventures,” he said. “I think it’s kept us safe. Maybe that’s foolish, like you said, but—”
“No…” Olivia said. “It just might work. I leave you in command of the forces of song. From here, you and the children storm the realms of the enemy with voice and praise. Leave the rest to me.”
Even as Olivia shot back through the window, Jarad began carrying out his duties. “Let’s start with ‘Halls of Wonder,’” he said. “Then, ‘Our Hero King.’”
Olivia hailed one of her FAE subordinates from the air, then sent the russet-clad faerie to command her warriors to join in the children’s song. Meanwhile, she stirred up a soft wind, then formed a little bubble, the opposite of a dome of silence. It left her hands, carried upon the breeze, ready to absorb and amplify the melodies.
“Yes…” Venefica’s voice hissed through the fog of Lyssanne’s pain. “Let go. Your struggles are useless.”
Lyssanne’s limbs trembled, even bound to stone. At least the Mist had come no closer.
Venefica’s voice, a mere wisp of sound, circled Lyssanne’s muddled consciousness. “Ask it, and I can end all this. Your existence—and with it, the pain.”
Perhaps death was the only escape. Lyssanne could have welcomed it…almost.
“Ah, but there may yet be a use for you…” Venefica’s words trailed off as if in speculation. “Give yourself to the Shadow Mist, and I may let you live.”
No! Lyssanne clung to that one, clear thought. She must not open herself to the Mist.
Venefica’s voice caressed Lyssanne’s scalp. “I have the power to lessen your pain.”
The pressure eased, becoming almost bearable.
“Or,” the sorceress shouted, “to increase it!”
Pain slammed outward in all directions. For a moment, Lyssanne didn’t even breathe. Then, she gasped, each heartbeat pounding further agony into her head. Had this intensified torment lasted more than a moment, she would have lost consciousness. If only she could.
As the pain ebbed, Venefica’s poisonous words again reached her. “I offer you a choice. Die, or give yourself to my control.”
“No,” Lyssanne whispered. It was all the resistance she could muster.
“Are you so eager for death?”
“I’ll never…give in…to the Mist,” Lyssanne whispered through the ringing in her ears.
“I know your weakness, girl,” Venefica drawled. “You are no match for my power. You do not, surely, still think you have the strength to resist me?”
Perhaps the sorceress was right; everyone would be better served if Lyssanne disappeared. A deadly thought, but she couldn’t suppress it. Did that not prove her unworthy of the King’s intervention?
The faeries would insist she command the Light, but she could summon neither the strength nor will. For that weakness alone, perhaps she no longer had the right.
The Mist’s icy hand fisted around her heart.
A new sound broke through those lethal thoughts, faint, almost as if summoned from within her mind. Singing? The familiar melody, “Our Hero King,” filled her with a sweet ache.
“Surrender,” Venefica said, as the King’s victory song flooded Lyssanne’s tortured mind.
Surrender, a faerie’s voice whispered from the past. Surrender…to a loved one.
Lyssanne’s shoulders loosened, and she let out a slow breath. Only by surrendering to her King’s power, had she commanded His Light.
King of All, she prayed, I beseech you, by the power that first brought me to be, remake this vessel into which you’ve poured the living water of your Light. Reshape me as you would a br
oken vase, that I may withstand a little longer. Let me not shatter and spill out your gift unused and ineffectual. Seal me, lift me, and pour out your cleansing Light on this darkness.
“Give me your will,” Venefica said, “or watch your friends writhe at my hand before you die. Surrender!”
“None but the King of All Lands holds power over my life or my person,” Lyssanne said, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. “To Him, alone, do I surrender.”
The ever-present images melted from the surface of the Mist.
“Then,” Venefica said, “you choose death!”
29
Shadow’s Teeth
Brennus beat fists of smoke against the wall of magic Venefica had erected around him—the one surface in all the lands his nebulous body wouldn’t penetrate. His innards boiled black as the Shadow Mist. He couldn’t reach Lyssanne, couldn’t attack Venefica with beak and talon to buy her more time, couldn’t even offer what courage his words might have provided.
He leaned his brow against the hardened air and whispered, “You called her into this battle, oh King. Be her general and fight beside her!”
A burst of power slapped Lyssanne’s face like an open hand, snapping her head to one side. Fighting for consciousness, she resumed her silent prayer. Please, it is not the pain I ask you to remove, but the cause of this brokenness, which prevents me doing your will.
All at once, the pressure within her skull deflated and her thoughts cleared, as if murky waters had drained from the surface of her mind.
“My curse!” Venefica shrieked.
Winds rose, plastering Lyssanne’s skirts against her skin and stealing her breath.
“Where the King’s Light is,” Lyssanne shouted above the roar, “darkness must flee!”
The Shadow Mist recoiled, but only for a moment.
“I still have power over you!” the sorceress screamed. “You are nothing!”
Currents of air and Mist whipped at Lyssanne, slashing hair across her face. She closed her eyes against the stinging blows. Then, an invisible hand lifted her from the wall, only to bash her into it. Dazed, she hung limp within its unseen grip.
“The King is my shield,” Lyssanne whispered. “His Light is my weapon; His hand, the strength that wields it.”
The Mist receded again. This time, when it lunged for Lyssanne, a semi-spherical barrier blocked its advance. She hung suspended within a black bubble several paces in diameter.
“Your demise is at hand, feeble flame,” Venefica said.
“Perhaps,” Lyssanne said, “but even in death, it is the King who rules my path.” She caught her breath. “Your power is an illusion, but I see clearly by the King’s Light. You have no real power over me.”
“Fool,” Venefica said, “I am power!”
The Mist gathered in upon itself, deepening to an even darker blackness, then spewed toward Lyssanne in a concentrated stream. Like the juice of a punctured piquantine fruit spraying the underside of a glass bowl, the darkness spread out over the center of her invisible shield.
Lyssanne glanced to one side, at last able to see beyond the Mist, and gasped. She hung near the tower’s high ceiling. Dizziness overtook her, and her shield wavered. She closed her eyes for an instant, imagining it was the King’s hand holding her, rather than Venefica’s power.
Venefica stood far below, arms raised, head thrown back, Shadow emanating from her body. The smudge of darkness near the tower wall at Lyssanne’s left might have been Brennus, but she hadn't time to think on that. While the King’s Light held the Mist at bay, she must wield the weapon of words He’d granted her.
“Even you, Lady Mortifer, are deceived by your mist of shadow,” she said. “It is the Thief of Souls who wields this false power. See it for what it truly is.” She flung her words wide to Earth and sky. “I loose the King’s Light to reveal truth!”
The Shadow Mist writhed, then it contorted, its surface taking on living features and clawing appendages. The snarling approximation of a face continuously bubbled and reformed, always with empty pits for eyes and hideous fangs. Its jagged maw opened in a silent shriek.
Lady Venefica screamed.
“Not into the forest!” Olivia shouted.
Five villagers were fleeing jaw-snapping lizard-men. If they allowed themselves to be routed amongst the trees, it’d be nigh impossible for her forces to protect them.
“Stop them!” she said to the nearest contingent of FAE warriors.
Olivia executed an aerial S-twist to give herself a full view of the embattled valley and determine where she was most needed. Before she could complete the maneuver, a wave of the King’s Light flashed across the landscape. Then, she caught a glimpse of the Shadow Mist and nearly fell from the sky.
All over the village, in the fields, and doubtless among the trees, humans and faeries stood transfixed at the sight of the Mist-spirits taking on tangible form.
As if the King had spoken a command, Olivia sensed her next duty.
She vanished her wand and cupped her palms together. Drawing them slowly apart, she formed another sound bubble. She filled it with her own voice, then sent it off above the heads of every living creature.
“Behold the Shadow Mist!” Olivia’s voice echoed throughout the valley. “This is the weapon of your enemy, the enslaver of your hearts, the foe Lyssanne Caelestis warned you to beware. Now, will you not heed her words?”
Villagers and soldiers turned to one another, eyes wide, mouths agape. They pointed and shouted to friends and neighbors, seeing for the first time the shadow that had wrapped them in its dark embrace, many with its teeth sunk deep.
“Live in her likeness,” Olivia’s voice said, “and honor the King of All Lands with speech and heart. In His glory alone, can you shield your minds from this, the Thief’s power.”
Just as Olivia’s sound bubble finished its work, Jada shouted, “Captain!” She pointed to the south of the village. “He’ll get them all killed!”
Olivia spun around, and her faerie heart lurched.
Jarad marched at the head of row upon row of children. He led them, all holding hands, toward Market Square. Their little voices filled the air, as they stormed the streets of Cloistervale, singing praise to the King and shouting of His favor.
“What’s that boy doing!” Jada cried.
“Winning this battle for us,” Olivia said.
For, as if in terror, the Shadow Mist fled before the children.
One by one, the people of Cloistervale and warriors of Lyrya joined in. The Mist shrank and shriveled, slithering back toward the Lucent Mountains. Still, the battle was far from over. Venefica’s willing servants and dark creatures redoubled their ferocity, fighting with more cruelty and malice than before. Without the Mist’s influence to dull their wits, however, the allies of Light grew in strength and speed. They thought faster, reacted in reflex, and went on the offensive.
The tide was turning. Olivia only prayed the same held true for Lyssanne.
The spirit of the Mist reached for Lyssanne but couldn’t puncture her protection. It snarled and snapped, its terrifying visage calling to mind tales of the Land of Lightless Fire from whence it was spawned.
Lyssanne had gone well beyond her threshold of fear, however. “Deception is the way of the Thief of Souls,” she said, “but the mask is removed.” As the King poured His words into her mind, she uttered them with growing strength. “Lady Mortifer, this power enslaves you as much as it does your victims. The Thief of Souls cares not for your concerns. He’ll—”
“You know nothing, girl!” Venefica said. “I am slave to no one. It is I, who control the Shadow Mist. It matters not what face it wears. I, alone, am its master.”
The sorceress drew a clenched fist to her lips then flung her hand, palm open, toward Lyssanne. New pain exploded behind Lyssanne’s brow. What strength she still possessed leeched from her like water through a sinkhole.
“No,” Lyssanne whispered. “I asked the King to remake me. The po
wer of that curse is broken. He is my strength, no matter what you do to me.”
The pain ceased as if it had never struck.
“Then, why does He not free you from my hand?” Venefica laughed. “He is done with you, girl. If ever He had use for you at all.”
The unseen bonds pinning Lyssanne to the wall pressed harder, all but crushing her, as the spirit of the Mist snarled, prowling through its stream of shadow.
“Only in death, will you be free of me!” Venefica shouted
“Then,” Lyssanne said between gasps, “I shall go to live…in His strength. You can’t reach me there.”
The Mist spirit raged, clawing at Lyssanne’s shield of Light. This seemed to distract Venefica, for the pressure eased, and Lyssanne could again draw full breath. She took advantage of the respite and launched her next verbal assault.
“The Thief’s bonds take the guise of power, while robbing you of the true might the King created in us all. Break free and embrace His Light.”
“You dare?” Venefica whispered. “You dare invite me to serve your so-called King? My lands, my wealth, all but my title, were stolen from my family, and not by this fictional thief you fear. Your forebears usurped my birthright in your King’s name! Their descendants’ suffering is the gift I give myself for all He’s cost me.”
“And when the people of Cloistervale are all dead?” Lyssanne asked. “What will bring you joy, then? Pleasure born of vengeance can’t sustain itself.”
The Mist thickened and lunged, doubtless mirroring Venefica’s wordless fury.
Flashes from the sorceress’s life flitted like memories within Lyssanne’s mind, filling her senses with an image of Venefica as the King must view her—A frightened, lost woman stumbling through the night, her sadness deeper than the Mist spirit’s empty eyes.
“Where was your King’s kindness when I was forced to live in squalor,” Venefica said, “with nothing but an old servant for company and stale bread for food? Where was His mercy when my father attempted to use his family’s magic to better our lot, costing my mother her life? Where was His protection when my betrothed was murdered?”
Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 42