Brelynn.
Marcus turned toward the altar and saw his wife slumped on the ground, her clothes incinerated by the spell but her flesh still smooth and unburned.
He sprinted to her, a golden healing spell already forming on his lips.
Brelynn coughed, then blinked at him, her eyes glowing silver a moment before settling back to their brilliant aqua.
Relief swept over him and brought him to his knees beside her.
“Thank the gods.” Sir Marcus whispered a prayer to Dracor as he gathered Brelynn into his arms. “Good thing magic doesn’t affect you.”
“Can’t say the same for my robes.” She hugged him.
“That was a lot of magic,” Marcus said. “More than I’ve ever seen.”
“It wasn’t all mine.” She glanced at the altar.
Sir Marcus whispered a prayer to the Dragon God, and Brelynn offered one of her own then conjured herself another set of robes.
Every inch of Marcus ached, and Brelynn could barely keep her eyes open, but she was alive, safe, and they were still together.
He kissed her forehead as he held her close. They still had each other, and they would both recover. For the moment, nothing else mattered as they sat beside Dracor’s altar wrapped in each other’s arms.
Chapter 67
When the rescue team finally opened the sanctuary doors, Sir Leopold and Mara charged through first, swords drawn, while Arch-Mage Ndrek followed with a swirling ball of fire dancing above his hand.
Brelynn smiled then glanced at the altar to Dracor. Yes, they had some very good people watching out for them.
“Out of the way.” Sir Matthias pushed past Sir Leopold and knelt beside Brelynn and Sir Marcus. A couple of healing spells later, and he rocked back on his heels. “Not sure I want to know how close that was.”
Sir Marcus whispered another prayer to Dracor. “We’re blessed to be alive. I’ll tell you everything once we get Brelynn home.”
Sir Leopold studied the sanctuary. His gaze moving from the piles of ash, to the dead necromancer, to the torn stone. “Can’t wait to hear it.”
High-Knight Leopold barked orders at a contingent of Knights waiting outside, and some hurried off to get a carriage, while others removed the body and assessed the damage.
Brelynn winced, but in her heart, she knew it was nothing that couldn’t be fixed. Dracor’s light still filled the sanctuary, and the Knights of Valor would repair the stones.
Sir Matthias led her and Sir Marcus out to the carriage and saw them back home. Once the group was seated back in Sir Marcus’s drawing room and Brelynn was comfortably curled up next to him with a mug of hot chocolate, Sir Marcus told them all what had happened.
Including Uzakiel’s contamination of the temple and Dracor’s response.
“We underestimated Korvar,” Sir Leopold said. “Almost got the both of you killed because of it.”
“That was a lot of magic,” Sir Matthias said. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Just tired.” Brelynn laid her head against Sir Marcus.
“I’ll come by in a couple of days and make sure you’re both still doing well. And promise me if either of you feel any worse, you’ll tell me. Don’t know much about necromancy, but those dagger marks were nasty, and Sir Marcus was pretty banged up.”
“We will,” Brelynn promised.
“It is a very good thing that you suddenly became impervious to magic,” Arch-Mage Ndrek said.
“A gift from the gods.” Sir Marcus hugged Brelynn.
“Indeed. You saw to the formal paperwork?”
“Already done,” Lady Matilda said. “Bards are working on the tale, and half the city wants to meet the Lich Slayer’s wife. In the meantime, these two can get to the very serious and rather urgent business of working on a nursery.”
Epilogue
Sir Marcus and Lady Brelynn arrived at the mage training grounds, the heavily armed guards betraying that this was more than a mage college practice session.
Queen Auburn stood beside King Eli, him in his strict black and her resplendent in pale blue silk with her hands resting on the shoulders of a sullen dark-haired boy. A fresh bandage peeked out from under the sleeve of her gown.
Lady Brelynn ignored the king and queen as she crouched down beside the boy. “I’m Brelynn, and we’re going to work together today.”
“I’m Prince Dylon,” the boy said. “I don’t want to work with you. I want to ride my horse.”
Brelynn shrugged. “Your horse fire proof?”
Prince Dylon scowled. “No.”
“Then you need to work with me first. If you get this over with, there might still be time to ride your horse.”
Brelynn offered him her hand.
The prince stared up at his mother, but she said nothing. He dug the toe of his shoe into the ground, then finally reached up and took Brelynn’s hand. The wind whipped her robes as she walked with Prince Dylon out to a rocky expanse swept clean of dried grass and other flammables.
The prince glared at her, but Brelynn ignored the silent tantrum as she stood opposite him. “Call the fire,” she said.
“I don’t want to. I don’t like the fire.”
“It’ll come later, when you least want it.”
He stomped his foot and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re supposed to make that stop!”
Brelynn held her hand out to him, palm up, and summoned a ball of blue flame. “Call it.”
“I’m a prince. Call me Your Highness!” Flames snapped around him as tears stung his eyes.
“I’m not about to call a boy who can’t control his magic Your Highness.”
“I’m a prince!” The fire flared around him.
“You may be the son of a king, but your skills are as poor as your attitude.” Lady Brelynn summoned his uncontrolled fire to her, his red flames feeding the blue fireball in her hands. She sent it skyward, shaping it into a phoenix before dissipating it in the clear sky.
“You took my fire.” There was awe in his voice.
“Because you couldn’t control it. One misstep and you could hurt or kill that horse you want to ride.”
Tears pricked his eyes. “Or my mom.”
“You learned that the hard way, didn’t you?”
The boy hung his head. “I hate the fire. I want it to go away and leave me alone.”
“I understand,” Brelynn said.
“You do?”
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I wasn’t born with this curse. Those who call it a gift don’t understand the cost.”
“They think it’s special, but it’s not. It’s awful.”
“You’ve heard of Sir Marcus Valerian, haven’t you?”
Prince Dylon nodded. “He’s the great hero all the bards sing about. He killed a lich and saved Aerius from a powerful necromancer.”
“Do you know how he got good enough to do both those things?”
The boy shook his head.
“Lots and lots of practice.”
Prince Dylon narrowed his eyes. “How do you know?”
“Because he told me, and you can ask him yourself after we’re done practicing.” She crouched down beside the prince and pointed to Sir Marcus standing beside Queen Auburn and King Eli. “That’s him right there.”
Prince Dylon chewed his lower lip.
“If you get good at your magic, as good as Sir Marcus is at wearing armor and wielding a sword, you may find it can save those you love rather than hurting them.”
“Really?”
“Mine did.”
Prince Dylon thought about that a minute and nodded. “Can we try again?”
Lady Brelynn spent the morning working with him. When he was exhausted and his magic spent, she draped an arm over his shoulder. “What do you say we get lunch and you can conjure your mom up flowers like we practiced?”
“And meet Sir Marcus?”
“I did promise.”
Prince Dylon ran back towards his
mother with a bouquet of conjured white roses clutched in his hands.
Brelynn smiled, happy beyond words, as she walked back to Sir Marcus.
She really was home.
FROM THE AUTHOR
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Seducing the Ice Queen
Excitement punctuated the air. Not the hurried frenzy of another attack, but the quiet joy only a solider understood when the supply line reached his position.
It meant rations, medical supplies, and mail.
Callen oiled his armor as conversation buzzed around him. Several of his soldiers broke into wide grins as they opened tattered packages from home. Reminders of why they were fighting and what waited for them if they survived this. Reminders that would see them through the next battle.
Their young faces tore at him, and Callen focused on the steel in his hands. He’d do everything in his power to get them home, but it wouldn’t be enough. Not for all of them.
A few held letters, most likely written by a Scholar of Serena. The goddess of wisdom’s followers were some of the only who could read and write in the more remote villages of Tamryn. A soldier fresh from his family’s farm glanced at his letter than at Callen, and Callen nodded.
Callen had taken his education for granted, but that was another thing the eastern provinces taught him to appreciate.
As he fastened on his breastplate, a courier handed him a large wooden box, snapped a salute, then hurried on with the rest of his deliveries.
The finely crafted box reminded Major Callen Dorchester than he was still the son of a duke even if only a second son.
His brother’s neat handwriting scrawled across the front of the box, and thoughts of home teased Callen. For a moment, he transported back to a time where sunshine enveloped him and the scent of honeysuckle filled the air. To the hours he’d wasted fishing and throwing back whatever he caught.
He'd given that up when he'd purchased his commission. Second sons were supposed to join the military and bring honor to their family.
Honor, indeed. Such a hollow word when compared to the reality of what he faced in the eastern provinces.
Callen opened the box and unfolded a handwritten note from his brother. His smile dimmed as he read it a second time.
Henry was worried.
Two years ago, Callen wouldn't have noticed Henry’s word choices. But his time in the army had taught him to see beyond the surface, and both his and his men’s lives had hinged on the ability.
Yes, Henry was worried, but Callen didn’t know about what. Perhaps the responsibility of the duchy weighed on his brother. A heart attack had taken their father the prior autumn, leaving Henry as the current Duke of Westlake.
Callen dropped the letter back in the box as regret washed over him. He hadn’t been able to return home for the funeral, hadn’t been able to pay his last respects. He hoped his father understood.
While George Dorchester, the previous Duke of Westlake, had raised Henry from birth to succeed him and run the duchy well, it was possible the pressure of so much responsibility worried him.
Or perhaps there was something more.
Maybe Henry had finally fallen in love.
Callen grimaced. He hoped not for his brother’s sake. Best not to succumb to that particular malady.
The crisp scent of bergamot teased him as images he’d banished two summers ago stole through him.
He’d been in love with Lady Daniella since he’d been out of short pants. Was still in love with her. Her secret smile. Her quiet laugh. Her cool beauty.
His ice queen.
Not his, he corrected himself. She was engaged to Prince Eli. Might have married him by now.
The thought twisted like a dagger in his gut.
No, he didn’t wish love on Henry. He liked his brother too much for that.
He hoped Henry found something easier, something that promised happiness instead of misery. Perhaps mutual affection, or quiet admiration. Almost anything was better than love.
Shaking off the thoughts, Callen dug through the box and grinned at Henry’s thoughtfulness. Warm socks, scarves, and gloves knit from the softest of wools filled the box. All would be welcome in the coming winter.
Nestled in the center of them was a small bottle of the finest brandy.
Callen stroked the bottle then tucked it away. He’d given up drinking except when celebrating with others. Even then, he permitted himself only a small amount. He’d watched too many good men fall victim to the bottle, getting themselves and those who depended on them killed.
Still, he appreciated his brother’s gesture, and he knew his men would appreciate it even more when he shared his bounty with them.
Callen read Henry’s letter again then dropped it back in the box. He’d be home for the Festival of Light, and he’d talk to Henry then. No point dwelling on what he couldn’t change.
Stowing his package in his tent, Callen joined his soldiers and read them their letters from home. As he told a man barely old enough to grow a beard about his sister expecting her third child, the boy dug the toe of his boot into the dirt.
“Hope I get to see her and that babe.” The boy’s gaze tracked across the forest of tents and milling soldiers, beyond the open fields, to the dark haze that glowered in the distance.
Callen clapped the young soldier on the shoulder. “Keep your wits about you and follow Dracor’s light. The god of justice won’t steer you wrong.”
Not a promise, not exactly, but the best he could give. Callen wouldn’t lie to the boy.
The soldier blew out a breath and nodded.
As Callen handed the young man his letter back, he heard a pounding of feet heading for him. With the skill of a hundred battles, Callen spun around, sword and shield drawn as he searched for the source.
A messenger wearing heavy armor approached and snapped a salute. “You are Major Callen Dorchester?”
“Yes.”
“A message from His Royal Highness, King Garrett.”
Ice flowed through Callen’s veins as the messenger handed him a thick letter with the royal crest emblazoned across it. The only time he’d ever received a letter from the king had been the one telling him of his father’s death. But the king hadn’t sent a special messenger.
The intent stares of his men steadied Callen’s hands, and he tore open the letter.
He read it three times, but no matter how much he wished it otherwise, the words didn’t change.
Henry was dead, and the king was summoning him home to be the next Duke of Westlake.
Also by Elizabeth Drake
To Love a Prince
Seducing the Ice Queen
About the Author
Reader of books. Creator of worlds.
Elizabeth Drake has been reading romance stories since she first discovered Victoria Holt tucked away in her mother’s closet.
Her husband later hooked her on fantasy.
Merging her two passions, she started writing fantasy romance. She loves a good romance story, especially if it has knights in shining armor, elves, dragons, or wizards.
Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Drake
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Knight of Valor: Knights of Valor Page 28