Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 2

  Lyssanne tensed. “I’ve never known Kevan to be idle.” If Councilman Torin thought this of him, how could she ever prove herself useful to the village?

  “It is of no consequence,” Aderyn said. “Kevan hasn’t offered for me.” She leaned forward. “How do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “That!” Aderyn gestured at Lyssanne’s hands. “You aren’t even looking at the knife!”

  “Oh. My hands know where to go,” she said, separating the piquantine halves. “I trust them more than my eyes.”

  “Humph. Mr. Riles could do with such a skill.”

  “Mr. Riles?” Lyssanne asked, removing the core. The vengeful fruit spat forth a stream of juice, and she sprang to her feet, spreading her fingers to minimize contact with the stickiness.

  “He cut himself something fierce while plowing today,” Aderyn said.“Mother helped Mistress Evlia patch him up. Said he looked like he’d been attacked. Nearly bled his life away before he reached home.”

  Gasping, Lyssanne turned, her hands deep in her washbasin. “Is he—”

  “Fine as flyl. His wife ran for help in time. He has that love you spoke of.”

  Lyssanne dried her hands, reeling at the abrupt change in topic. “Does Kevan know of your affection?”

  “I suspect so, though we haven’t spoken of it.” Aderyn dropped the pestle and jumped to her feet. “He made this for me, from the heel of the shoe I broke at the Celebration of Lights.”

  Lyssanne leaned closer to peer at the little figure Aderyn held. “It is lovely.” She dropped her cloth to run a fingertip over the wooden charm. The bird, carved in intricate detail, hung from a chord of fine, braided threads. “He must have spent a great deal of time on this.”

  “I think he did,” Aderyn said.

  Lyssanne returned to her chair and began scraping pulp from the piquantine hull. She then mashed it with a spoon to extract more tangy juice. As the sounds of grinding resumed from Aderyn’s end of the table, Lyssanne cut the hull into slim strips.

  “You think I should tell Kevan how I feel,” Aderyn said. “Do you not?”

  Lyssanne drew a slow breath. “Well, if you—”

  “What if he doesn’t share my affection?” Aderyn's said. “Am I to accept Willem?” The pestle clattered against the mortar, and she let out a groan. “Oh, why must life be such a trial?”

  Lyssanne bit her lip. “Mother always said a difficult choice is better than no choice at all.”

  “Sure, but…” Aderyn drew in an audible breath. “Lyss, I wasn’t thinking! I am so selfish. But you still have time. Perhaps Adalbin or Father could speak to…someone on your behalf.”

  Lyssanne laughed. “Oh, I’m not troubled by my lack of offers.” She stood and carried the pulp and peel over to the pot of bubbling juice. “I’ve enough to do just preventing the Council from thinking me idle. All I meant was, your fortunes far outweigh your trials.”

  “You have it aright, of course.” Aderyn joined her to toss in the pinch of honcin powder that would add a sweet bite to the brew. “Of your many, useful talents, this is the greatest.”

  Lyssanne raised a brow. “Flyl?”

  Aderyn laughed. “No, this…us. You always know what to say.”

  Lyssanne shook her head. “I merely know how to listen.”

  The watcher perched on a step just below the uppermost landing of his lady’s winding tower staircase. The sun’s burnished eye winked at him through an arrow-slit, bathing the surrounding stone in an orange glow. If the acrid steam seeping through the open doorway of the chamber above was any indication, he’d find no hidden exit point here. No matter; his thorough search of the secluded manor and the mountainside on which it stood had yielded several options—should the need for secret entry or escape ever arise.

  “Are you certain, milady?” an ancient voice croaked from within the chamber. “Can your spy be trusted?”

  “The water mirror never lies, Magda,” a younger woman said, her melodious voice cold as the Lyrynn Mountains in winter. She glided into view, her emerald silk gown glimmering.

  Lady Venefica Mortifer—dark enchantress, Keeper of the Shadow Mist—the watcher’s soon-to-be liege lady.

  “Besides,” she said, setting a black basin on a wooden stand in the center of the room, “his findings leave little doubt. That girl bears the marks of my first attempt to vanquish her.”

  “Marks?” Magda asked, shuffling forward to mop spilled water from the stand.

  “Diminished sight and stunted stature,” Venefica said. “Meager substitutes for my intended ends.”

  “Still, a grand show of power, that was, milady.”

  “A grand failure,” Venefica said, spinning away from her wizened maidservant with such force, tendrils of ebony hair escaped their jewel-spangled netting to spill over her shoulder.

  The watcher sidled along the stair to keep her in view through the doorway.

  “Failure? Humph,” Magda said. “Fire so hot it fused even the smith’s hearthstones? You would’ve succeeded if not for those faer—”

  “Do not speak of them!” Venefica swung back around. “Their prophecies and interference cost me everything.”

  Magda cringed, sloshing more water from the basin. “I thought ’twas the villagers who stole your birthright.”

  “Indeed,” Venefica said, “but robbing me of my betrothed? The fullness of my power?” She flicked a wrist, igniting candles in several wall sconces. “Seventeen years, wasted! I travel the known realms to gain more skills than all my ancestors combined, and does the remnant of my attack draw the Mist to that girl like iron filings to a lodestone? No, this…Light-Wielder grows more dangerous than ever I imagined possible.”

  “She’s no match for your greatness, milady,” Magda said, slinking from view.

  “Perhaps,” Venefica said. “All who stole from me will soon lament their existence.” She glanced down into the basin then whirled to face the door, dark eyes flashing. “Noire?”

  The watcher bent his head, acknowledging the name he answered to only in this place and company.

  “Cease lurking among the other shadows and join us,” Venefica snapped. “If, that is, you still desire this bargain.”

  He hopped onto the landing, where he could stretch his wings, then fluttered into the circular chamber and alighted atop a worn table near the entrance.

  Magda set a tea tray beside him. “Couldn’t do this below?” she muttered, massaging her lower back.

  “No,” Venefica said, striding over to a brazier beside Noire’s table. “The newer portion of the manor house wouldn’t withstand what I have planned.” She stirred the coals, intensifying the sulfurous atmosphere. “Ancient magic as much as mortar seals these walls. Besides, this remnant of the old fortress was constructed to the perfect height for accessing the elements.”

  “It is to be a dangerous spell, then?” Magda asked, handing Venefica a crystal goblet.

  Venefica nodded, glaring at the vessel. “Mugwort tea, a crutch for amateurs. Still…” She downed the black liquid. “This night’s work will require every ounce of my remaining power.”

  Noire narrowed his eyes. For that reason alone, this had better work. A sorceress without power was about as useful to him as a feather without a wing.

  “But, milady,” Magda said, taking the empty goblet, “if the Light has so weakened you, how can you be certain this curse will do what your full power could not?”

  Noire hopped back a pace, away from the crone and out of range.

  Venefica shrugged. “Because, this time, I do not mean to slay the girl.”

  Magda’s eyes widened so, their surrounding wrinkles smoothed out.

  “Taking her life would only increase her influence in my village,” Venefica said. “Nor do I possess the power to destroy her Light. Perhaps I never did.” A slow smile stretched her lips. “I’ve found another way.”

  “I shall leave you to it, then.” After a stiff-kneed curtsey, Magda scurried from
the tower.

  Perhaps Noire would be wise to follow, but if this dark deed succeeded, Venefica would again have the power to fulfill their bargain. Thus, he would remain—and track her every move.

  Venefica lifted the long-handled bronze pan onto which Noire had placed Lyssanne’s Rowan blossom earlier. “Now, let us see if you are worth the time I’ve invested, my pet.”

  Pet? His wing twitched. That pretentious peahen had the nerve to call him such? His feathers stood out in grand disarray. If he chose to render service to any creature, it was by his will and for his ends. He was no one’s pet.

  Ah, but he had need of her skills. He forced his wings to his sides and ducked his head.

  Venefica set the pan atop the coals in the brazier. “If these fragments have absorbed the girl’s essence,” she said, “behold what shall become of her health, influence, and power!”

  The rowan blossom fell to instant ash.

  Venefica raised her hand, fingers hovering over the ash. She closed her eyes, and the shadows thickened in the chamber, creeping inward from the far edges as if drawn to her.

  “This will do,” she said. The shadows and the chill that accompanied them receded as she fixed her obsidian gaze on Noire. “Yes, this will do quite well. You have proven your worth.”

  She stepped forward and trailed a fingertip down the center of his head, from between his eyes to the first joint of his wings. Noire shivered.

  “I accept your oath,” Venefica said. “Our bargain is sealed.”

  With all her theatrics, she could have found a home among a troop of Skriptaanese players. Still, he bowed low, the very semblance of a faithful servant awaiting instruction.

  Smiling, Venefica placed the pan on a metal rack to cool, then turned to stir the contents of a small kettle suspended above the brazier. “A strong infusion of chamomile, to induce prolonged lethargy.” From a nearby jar, she extracted a pinch of yellowish powder and dropped it into the bubbling kettle. “Saffron to carry my spell upon the wind.”

  Did she really think Noire cared what the ingredients were to do? Her one-sided war with that peasant girl was no concern of his, nor was he a lackey paid to simper at her every word.

  Gathering a dark green, slimy-looking weed and a square of fine-meshed cloth, Venefica returned to the cooling rack. After placing the rowan ashes at the center of the cloth, she folded its corners to form a pouch.

  “Knotweed to bind her gift,” she said, tying the makeshift bag with the stringy plant.

  Noire fluttered to the opposite edge of the chamber and crouched beneath a bench. He was no coward, but neither was he a fool. The final steps in her spell were sure to be the most violently magical. Who knew what a stray spark of power might do to a feathered fellow?

  The dying sunlight shot a red beam through the chamber’s slit window. Venefica raised her hands high, and shadows pooled about her. Icy wind roared through the room, pulling her ebony hair loose and whipping it around her shoulders. Noire tucked his beak behind one wing, as she began to chant.

  “In weakness you will wander,

  All stamina shall fail.

  With pain as your companion,

  No wind shall stir your sails.

  Alone and without aid,

  You’ll face this silent thief.

  For none shall comprehend,

  This curse that lies beneath.

  No respite shall you find,

  No way to spread your Light.

  Your gift I seek to bind,

  Succumb to my true might!”

  Noire peeked over his wing; hoping a spell’s effectiveness didn’t depend on the quality of its poetry.

  Lifting the pouch of ashes toward the heavens, Venefica uttered ancient words. The last beam of sunlight caught on the pouch, and she shrieked, “Join in the death of this day’s light, and surrender to the dawn of night!” With a flick of her wrist, she flung the pouch into the kettle, shouting, “Adficio!”

  The fire blazed up, engulfing the kettle in a shower of green and orange sparks that obliterated the feeble beam of sunlight. The wind inside the chamber intensified. Sharp, pungent smoke curled outward through the single slit-like window set high into the tower wall.

  Aderyn lifted her cup of flyl toward Lyssanne as if in salute. “I shall speak with Kevan. You’ve convinced me.”

  “You should follow your heart—and the King’s leading—not mine.”

  “Sure and I shall. Only, what am I to do about Father?” Aderyn held one fist near the neckline of her dress, perhaps clutching the charm Kevan had given her.

  “What if,” Lyssanne said, “Kevan were to carve small trinkets, boxes, that sort of thing?”

  “Oh, I can hear Father’s response to that!” Aderyn said, flipping her fair hair over one shoulder. “Frivolous waste of time and good wood. Useless excuse to shirk real chores.”

  “Useless here, perhaps,” Lyssanne said, “where we do not prize such things, but elsewhere they are highly valued.”

  “You jest! Valued and sold?”

  “’Tis no jest. My mother told me of it.” Lyssanne hurried to a table near her settee and retrieved a trinket box. “She said this cost what a merchant might pay for a bushel of Kevan’s wheat. And that was years ago.”

  Aderyn took the box. “For this, they traded…what, coins?”

  “Yes.” Lyssanne leaned against the table and sipped her flyl. “I am no judge of such things, but I think Kevan is more skilled than the one who carved the box.”

  “That, he is,” Aderyn said. “His detail is finer.”

  “His carvings could provide the extra trade your father mentioned,” Lyssanne said. “He can store up his wares and, in summer, sell them to the merchant who accompanies the tax man. Your father may even prefer him to Willem once he sees Kevan’s rare talent.”

  “Would the merchant give Kevan coins?” Aderyn asked. “Father says people elsewhere trade in such a way. ’Tis baffling. Coins are nice to look upon, to be sure, but they can’t be eaten, or used as tools, or…anything.”

  “True, but outsiders prefer them. They can be used to pay the village taxes or—” Lightning-bolts of pain stabbed through Lyssanne’s temples, ripping all thought from her mind. “Oh!” The word, half gasp, half scream, tore from the pit of her stomach.

  An explosion of pressure within her skull drove Lyssanne to her knees, her cup shattering beside her. Clutching her head in both hands, she struggled to focus on Aderyn’s voice, muffled as if from a great distance. White light filled her vision, darkness lurking at its edges.

  “Lyss! Lyss, what’s befallen you?”

  Lyssanne couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Pains stabbed her temples, as pressure built in her head. Her ears rang louder and louder. Her skull would surely burst! She sank onto her side, then darkness consumed her.

  Noire lowered his wing a feather at a time. How would they know if it worked?

  A plume of gray smoke rose from the blackened kettle. Blinking, Noire edged from the shelter of the bench. The smoke thickened and formed into the shape of a many-pointed star. Sparks danced upon its surface, giving the star the illusion of a twinkle.

  The star expanded until a dark cavity opened at its center. Within it, an image formed—the peasant girl, Lyssanne. Her face paled, as jagged fingers of power stabbed through her temples, driving her to her knees. The cup she held dropped to the floor, and she clutched her head in both hands as if to prevent its explosion.

  A shriek tore from the image, so sudden and terrible Noire flinched. The girl collapsed. The star burst apart. The fire died. The last remnant of sunlight vanished…and all was silence.

  “It is done,” Venefica said.

  Noire shifted, just as Venefica’s triumphant laughter rang throughout the manor.

  Outside the slit window, no star pierced the newborn night, and even the moon dared not show its face.

  2

  Fallen Star

  The darkness encasing Lyssanne’s mind thinned like river fog bur
ning off beneath the rising sun. Oh, if only it hadn’t!

  Voices—Too loud, they pounded against her skull like hammer blows—and light. Daggers of it pierced her eyes when she tried to open them. Groaning, Lyssanne raised a trembling hand to block the burning brightness. Not even her lids could protect her from it.

  “Mistress Evlia,” a familiar voice whispered, “I think she’s awake.”

  “Good,” another woman said. “Douse one of those lamps, will you? And shoo that bird out the door. Humph, what a dove’s doing followin’ folks indoors…”

  That brisk voice, too near Lyssanne’s ear, tore another groan from her throat.

  “Lyssanne,” the woman said, “’tis Evlia, dear. Can you hear me?”

  What a question! “Yes,” Lyssanne whispered, her own voice thunder inside her head.

  “I know it is difficult, but you need to open your eyes. I must look at them.”

  Lyssanne forced her lids open fraction by fraction. Even dimmed, the light stung.

  “That will do,” the healer said. “You can close your eyes.”

  Lyssanne sighed.

  “’Tis obvious you’re in pain, dear. Can you tell me where?”

  “My head.” If only Mistress Evlia could have heard Lyssanne’s thoughts. Speaking was just too exhausting. Jagged bits of memory pierced her mind, and she gasped. “Aderyn?”

  “I’m here,” Aderyn whispered from her other side. “You collapsed. What happened?”

  “’Twas so…sudden,” Lyssanne said, still trying to recall what had preceded this pain that had struck like a blow from within. “So sharp…here.” She touched her temples.

  “Sharp? Like a knife cutting your skin?” Evlia asked.

  “No, like…lightning inside.” Lyssanne had to pause for breath as if she’d run all the way from the meeting hall. “Hard, fast pains…only seconds at a time, but…so many of them.”

  “The pain is only in your temples?”