“I hate it when you do that,” Segyn muttered as he righted himself and squared his shoulders.
“I will ask once more,” Lyr said. “Where is the crystal dagger?”
“I know nothing of any dagger,” the old man responded hoarsely. “You have made a mistake in looking for it here. Now go, and leave us alone.”
Confused still, the girl remained silent. She didn’t understand what had happened, and if all went well, she never would. People tended to treat him differently once they knew what he could do. He found it easiest to trust the knowledge of his abilities to a few. The girl before him was attempting to make sense of what had happened; he could see that in her eyes. She’d eventually assume that the old man’s aim had been off and she’d only imagined that she’d been about to die.
“I am not leaving without the dagger,” Lyr said. Keelia swore the weapon necessary to defeat Ciro was located here in this house. Somewhere. “You can tell me where it is and I will leave you to your business, or I can tear the house apart, stone by stone, until I find it.”
The pretty girl squared her shoulders. “You will never find the dagger.”
Lyr turned his eyes to her. “Have I been bargaining with the wrong person?”
The prisoner managed to look dignified, even though she was chained to the wall and dirty from a long period of neglect. “Yes, you have. I am Rayne, daughter of the wizard Fynnian and mistress of this house.”
“She don’t look like any mistress I ever saw,” Segyn muttered.
The girl gave Segyn a withering look. “I have been held prisoner against my will for many months. Release me, take me to a place of safety, and I will see that you have the dagger you seek.”
“Where is it?” Lyr asked.
“Not until I have your word,” she said. “Promise me that you will take me away, that you will not leave me until I am safe, and I will deliver to you the crystal dagger.”
Rayne, daughter of Fynnian, was Ciro’s woman, but perhaps that was not of her choice. Lyr looked into her dark eyes, trying to find the truth there. Yes, she appeared innocent, but that wasn’t what convinced him that she might be telling the truth. The girl was terrified, not of him and not of her jailer’s blade, but of being left here to wait for Ciro’s return.
“Your father is a wizard, you say. Do you have magic?” It would be good to know what he was taking on, if he chose to rescue her.
“None, much to my father’s regret,” she said.
Why had he bothered to ask? There was no guarantee that she was telling him the truth. For a long moment Lyr studied the girl. He had been taught not to offer his trust easily, and pretty women were not exempt from his caution. “Segyn, have Til and Swaine search for the dagger. I will wait here.”
“Only two of your men to search?” Rayne said, seemingly unworried that they might find what they’d come here for without her assistance. “It won’t be easy. You might as well command them all to tear the house apart.”
“Two is all,” Lyr said.
“Did Ciro’s soldiers kill the rest?” she asked.
“Ciro’s soldiers killed none.”
That news did elicit a reaction, from the girl and from her guardian—the old man who remained against the wall with his throat at the tip of Lyr’s sword. Rayne’s surprise was evident, in her expression and in her words. “Four of you defeated all the men above? It has always sounded to me as if there were... many.”
“There were eleven,” Lyr said. “Twelve if you count this old man.”
“Eleven of them and four of you, and yet you defeated them in short order.”
“The Circle of Bacwyr does not know defeat, and such odds are not beyond our capabilities.”
He could almost see the girl’s mind working, and he was so focused on her face that he did not realize what the old man was about to do until it was too late.
Rayne’s guardian thrust his head forward so that Lyr’s motionless sword sliced through the artery there. The girl yanked against her chains, moving as far away from the grisly scene as possible. She turned her head and screamed in horror, and when the scream ended, trailing away to nothing, she began to shake.
Lyr drew his sword away as the old man quickly passed into the Land of the Dead—or wherever his tainted soul might be called—and watched the tears flow down Rayne’s face. Were the tears real? His mother and sisters were not prone to shedding tears, but then again, they were unlike other women, in his experience.
“Why do you cry for a man who kept you prisoner against your will?” he asked. “Is that the case, or did you choose your current position?”
Rayne, daughter of the wizard Fynnian and the monster Ciro’s betrothed, glanced at him with an anger that hinted at strength beneath the petite exterior and feeble tears. “Before Ciro ruined Jiri with false promises and hideous threats, he was a good man. I do not cry for my jailer but for the man I once knew, a man Prince Ciro destroyed months ago.”
Perhaps that was the truth, perhaps not. Lyr was oddly undecided about Rayne’s character. Why had Keelia not spoken of her when she’d sent him so specifically to this house to fetch the crystal dagger? Why had she not told him what awaited him here? Keelia was a powerful psychic. A bit more information would’ve been helpful.
If only it could be that simple. If only Keelia and others like her could see which steps should be taken to bring victory, and which should be avoided. Instead they all were meant to stumble along and confront whatever surprises were met along the way. It was the way of life, or so he had been told.
Segyn carried Jiri’s body up the stairs. Once there, he would order Til and Swaine to search for the dagger, and he would assist them.
Lyr pulled a chair—Jiri’s chair, he assumed by its position—to the center of the room, where he could sit and study the girl who was chained to the wall. While he should join the others in the search, he wasn’t certain it was safe to leave this one alone. She said she possessed no magic, but could he believe her? For all he knew she was a pretty trap, chained to the wall moments before or immediately after he and his men arrived.
There was a brilliantly colored flower which grew near his home, the Ksana. This flower was more beautiful than all the others, and drew the eye with its color and the nose with its sweet scent. But the Ksana was poisonous. A momentary touch, and the skin would turn red and blister. If one were so foolish as to lay a petal against the tongue, illness, and possibly death, would soon follow.
As far as he knew, Rayne was like the Ksana flower. Beautiful, sweetly scented, and deadly.
If his men found the crystal dagger, he would not be obligated to accept her proposition and take her into his protection. If they did not... well, he would address that when and if the time came.
Rayne yanked against one chain. “Jiri kept the key to my shackles with his belongings.” She pointed, and her chains rattled. “Over there.”
Lyr nodded his head but did not rise from his chair. “Aren’t you going to release me?” the girl asked, indignation in her sweet voice.
“Not as of yet,” Lyr responded calmly. “I haven’t decided what to do with you, Rayne, daughter of Fynnian.”
Anger flashed in her dark eyes. “I thought you were an honorable man.”
“I am honorable.” He smiled. “But I am not gullible.”
Again, tears slipped down her cheeks. Lyr studied the tears, unaffected by the display.
“If you would leave me here, then you are no better than Prince Ciro,” Rayne spat in anger.
Lyr’s smile died quickly. From all he had learned of Ciro and his plans, she had just uttered the greatest of insults.
Chapter Two
The journey to Arthes had taken longer than he’d imagined it would, thanks to his maddening traveling companion. Diella was insatiable in every way. She needed comfort, food, sex, and the drug Panwyr, and worse, she talked almost constantly.
Ciro would’ve strangled her with his bare hands if the Isen Demon had not forbi
dden it.
Diella was as yet unaware that she carried a special child within her. The child was the product of the former empress as well as the body she’d taken. It was the babe of the man Ciro had once been and at the same time it was the creation of the Isen Demon, which now ruled Ciro’s body and mind. The child within Diella would not be as powerful or special as the son Ciro and Rayne would make when the time came, but it had a part to play—or so the demon claimed.
“Finally.” Diella’s single word spoke of disgust and impatience as they topped a small hill on the horses which had carried them so far. Ciro knew she would not be satisfied with a single word, not in this or any other situation. “At last the palace is before us. I will have a proper bath straightaway, and new gowns will be made, and I will demand a soft bed with an energetic sentinel and a proper and thorough fucking.”
The body of the young girl Lilia, which had been taken by Diella’s soul months ago, had once been vital and beautiful. The scar Ciro had left on Lilia’s cheek did not fade, but grew deeper and redder with time, as if it had become infected deep below the flesh. There was still some beauty left on that young face, in spite of the scar, but the vitality was being sapped day by day, sapped by Panwyr and hard living and constant travel.
And by the babe, the Isen Demon whispered. The babe takes much.
Their horses at a standstill, Ciro studied the palace which rose in the distance. That imperial palace had been his home, his only home, for twenty-two years, before the demon had taken him. If there had been much of the man he’d once been left in his body, he might have felt some warmth or comfort at the sight, but he felt no warmth these days, not for anything or anyone. Within the stone walls of that tall, austere palace there waited his father the emperor, who would soon be dead. There awaited the throne from which he would begin his rule.
Suddenly a darkness crept into one corner of Ciro’s mind. He was able to see through the eyes of his Own when he so chose, and though he could not immediately tell where or how, some of his soldiers had very recently been killed. They no longer saw anything. He tried to place the darkness. His army had suffered some losses in weeks past as they fought against his father’s sentinels, but the loss he sensed had not come from that quarter.
No, the loss came from much farther away; it came from the mountain home where his beloved Rayne waited for him.
He could not see through her eyes. She was pure; she was not one of his Own. Not yet. Did she live? Or had she died with those whose command had been to protect her at all costs?
Ciro turned his horse about. He was so close to the palace, and Rayne—if she lived—was so far away. Without her, there would be no special son. She was to be his empress; she had been promised to him from the beginning.
She lives, the demon whispered in his mind.
“How can you be sure? If I can’t see—”
Do you think you are my only instrument, Emperor Ciro? You might be the strongest, the most promising. You might be my most powerful general in this war, but you are not my only vessel. Others watch. Others will see that your bride comes to you.
The startlingly clear vision in Ciro’s mind was one of dark tendrils rising out of the ground all across the country, and beyond. Those tendrils claimed and took charge of willing—and sometimes unwilling—bodies. All across the land, by the sea and in the mountains and in the swamplands, those vessels waited to be called.
Take the throne, and Rayne will be delivered to you in good time.
It was Diella’s grating voice which interrupted the demon’s promises.
“Stop dithering about. Let’s go claim what is rightfully ours.”
Ciro would only stand so much, even from this woman. “I will claim what is rightfully mine, and you will take what I see fit to give you.”
“Yes, yes,” she said dismissively, waving her hand in his general direction. “Let us go and claim what is rightfully yours, my lord emperor.” Her smile was brilliant, only slightly crooked thanks to the scar.
***
Rayne waited patiently, quite sure that none of Lyr’s men would find the crystal dagger.
Her heart beat too fast and hard. It had been a long time since she’d thought about the dagger her mother had made so many years earlier. It had been a long time since Rayne had seen the weapon, and yet the details of the workings remained clear to her. Not only was the hilt made of a murky crystal, but so was the blade itself. The entire weapon had been carved from a crystal which was abundant on this very mountain. Rayne hadn’t known it was possible to fashion such a dagger, but her mother, who never seemed to care much for weapons at all, had spent more than a year crafting the dagger this man sought.
She’d also kept her workings a secret from her husband and the servants of this household. Even after death, Rayne had continued to keep that secret. Until now.
From above, the invaders made horrible, destructive noises. By sound alone she could tell that they tore apart furnishings and broke down walls. She should have been outraged, but was not. This house had ceased to be home long ago, and when she left here she would not look back with any fondness. Would the soldiers find the dagger on their own? Possible, but unlikely. Her father was quite proud of his ingenious and secret hiding places, and Rayne had one of her own. So had her mother.
Rayne knew that her father likely had many secret hiding places she had never known of. For the most part, she did not wish to know what her father hid from her and others. While he had never confessed that his magic was of the dark sort, she knew Fynnian was not a good man. She knew that her father studied and practiced the darkest of enchantments.
But not her mother. Her mother had been light and good, and since she had crafted the crystal dagger with her own hands, then it, too, must be meant for goodness.
The swordsman who might be the answer to all her prayers seemed quite content to sit comfortably and wait for his men to complete their task. He did not seem the dark sort, but if he would ride away and leave her here, chained to the wall, alone and helpless... if he did that, then he was most definitely not an honorable man.
If he agreed to see her to a safe place in exchange for the dagger, then she’d be in good hands. His four had beaten Ciro’s eleven, and when Jiri had turned his sword on her, Lyr had responded very quickly. She’d been so sure she was about to die, and then...
“Prince of Swords,” Rayne said, making conversation while his men searched above. “What sort of position is that?”
“In Tryfyn, Prince of Swords is the leader of the Circle of Bacwyr and war advisor to the King.”
“What is the Circle of Bacwyr?” she asked.
“A brotherhood,” he answered simply.
“A brotherhood of warriors?”
“Warriors, wizards, and a few witches.”
“You lead them all?”
He sighed gently, as if he were already tired of her questioning. “I lead the warriors, as did my father before me.”
“You inherited the position when he died?”
“My father is very much alive. He stepped down from the position and now serves as an advisor.”
“Tryfyn,” she said, her tone conversational, as if she were not in chains and he did not hold her very life in his hands. “That accounts for the accent, I suppose.”
“I have no accent,” he replied. “Yours is quite lovely, by the way.”
She did not argue with him that he was the one who spoke oddly, not her. Now was not the time. “You have mighty responsibilities for one so young.”
“I was born to those responsibilities,” he said, only slightly defensive. “And I suspect that I am older than you.”
“Not by much, I’d wager.” Since it was clear that he was a bit touchy about his young age, she let the matter die. Since he led men much older than himself, she could see why he might be sensitive about the subject.
Even though he was young, he did not appear to be foolish or capricious. His eyes were quite steady; they were na
rrowed and piercing and seemed to see all. They did not flicker with uncertainty or flit about. No, they were unwavering, ancient eyes set in a face which had not seen its first wrinkle. He moved as if he were in tune with his body, as if he would never make a misstep or stumble, as if he never wasted a motion or a word. If an artist were to draw the perfect male form, it would likely be just like his, strong and yet somehow beautiful—except for the hard eyes, which were much too piercing to be beautiful.
Those eyes were alive and real and she could almost see the soul resting there. In that way, he was very much unlike the man who claimed her as his own, and unlike her own father. She could entrust him with the dagger her mother had fashioned... couldn’t she?
Certain that the men above wouldn’t find the dagger, Rayne attempted to relax. Silent once again, she studied Lyr, Prince of Swords, from his short dark hair down to the tips of his dusty and very large boots. She had been sequestered in this house all her life, and had not known any men of this particular type. Her father’s infrequent guests were usually older and more scholarly. In her latter days of freedom she had seen more armed men about the place, but they still had not been quite like this. Ciro had arrived young and handsome and fit, but he had never struck Rayne as being reliable and steady. Instead he was like the plants which grew wild and choked out the flowers, like a vine which sucked the very life from the tree it wrapped itself about. She shuddered at the picture of the face that came to her mind. No, young as he was, Ciro was not of this sort, not at all.
Lyr was a soldier through and through, a fighter, a champion. Her champion, perhaps? Was he truly a good man? Was he capable of protecting her from whatever Ciro had become?
What had Ciro become? He was no longer of the natural world, of that she was certain. His promises to eat Jiri’s soul and drink his blood remained with her, as if he had just uttered the words in her ears. Jiri’s insistence that she must remain pure so Ciro could give her a special child on their wedding night was just as chilling. Most women might be pleased to know that a handsome prince wished to wed and impregnate them, but they had not looked into Ciro’s eyes and seen the darkness there.
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