Sword's Call Page 20

  They exchanged a nod.

  Tristan’s respect for Lucan went up a notch and he squeezed the lad’s shoulder.

  The other two shades flanked Lady Ryhan at Varthan’s command, and he continued his inquisition.

  ****

  Cera looked up at Varthan and gave a sneer of her own, saying nothing. She needed to keep her temper in check and guard her words. Should be grateful for the healer, but then again, it just meant she’d be in one conscious piece when Varthan killed her. A low laugh escaped her lips at the irony, and she looked away from Varthan.

  The healer was so familiar. When Cera had looked into his eyes, a memory niggled and scooted away.

  Where’d she seen him before?

  Even before he’d taken a chance with his thought-sends, Cera knew—simply knew—he wasn’t evil.

  Much more hid behind the words than what the healer had told her, but she couldn’t guess the rest, it’d been carefully protected.

  Cera would watch him and decide what to do when she made her move.

  “Where is the sword?” Varthan’s tone brooked no argument.

  She met his dark eyes. “Haven’t we gone over this?” Cera tried to sound bored.

  Varthan bristled and took a step toward her. “Where is the sword?”

  Smiling, Cera shook her head. She didn’t move as he slapped her.

  “You will tell me what I want to know.”

  “Will I?” Cera asked in her sweetest tone.

  He growled and slapped her again.

  Her head reeled, and she could taste the metallic tinge of her own blood. Her lip must have split open again, but numbness spread slowly over her body.

  She didn’t tremble or shake.

  Cera couldn’t feel any pain.

  Handy.

  “Dagonet, wake Lenore,” Varthan ordered.

  It took every ounce of her willpower not to react to the fear that bubbled up. She’d seen her uncle in the corner when she’d been dragged into the great hall.

  Unconsciousness was better. He’d not had to endure watching Varthan’s treatment of her.

  Cera would have to dig deep to maintain composure. Uncle Everett wouldn’t watch Varthan hit her in silence.

  She couldn’t watch Varthan hurt him.

  And he would.

  He’d torture Uncle Everett until she told him what he wanted to know.

  Closing her eyes, she prayed to the Blessed Spirit for help and strength as the healer knelt beside her uncle.

  Jorrin’s smiling face popped into her head.

  Along with her love, she saw his father, her cousin and the elf.

  If she concentrated, she could hear Trikser’s whine.

  Banishing thoughts of them, Cera clenched her jaw until it hurt.

  If the Blessed Spirit was trying to tell her something, this time the heavenly being had missed Her mark.

  Cera had left those she loved behind to protect them.

  Varthan ranted and raved as he paced in front of her. Shuffling his feet, the evil man paid no attention to the healer following his orders. Spittle dribbled from the former archduke’s mouth; he clenched his fists.

  She looked away, her eyes glued to the healer and Uncle Everett.

  The dark-haired shade helped her uncle to his feet, the move looked gentle. He leaned in for longer than necessary, but the movement was subtle.

  Had he whispered something her uncle?

  They both straightened.

  Cera stared, trying to decipher the scene.

  What was the healer’s game?

  “Bring him over here. Now!”

  “Coming, milord,” the healer answered.

  Snatching Uncle Everett’s arm, the healing shade dragged him closer to Varthan.

  Gasping, Cera made eye contact with her handsome uncle.

  He was a ragged mess. His hands were bound in front of him, his face covered in bruises. Dried blood was all over it, too, and his bottom lip was cut. The duke’s overtunic and shirt were torn and bloody, as were his breeches, but no serious injuries because of the healer’s ministrations.

  She swallowed back tears.

  Your fault!

  Uncle Everett’s tall frame was slumped, his shoulders caved in. Normally thick wavy golden brown hair, almost the exact shade of his eyes, now hung limp and tangled around his shoulders. He moved as if his whole body hurt, most likely hiding how much pain he was actually in, but his curt nod shouted he didn’t want her to worry about him.

  It made sense the healing shade couldn’t fix him entirely, it would anger Varthan and be obvious the healer was up to something, but it made Cera’s heart ache.

  Her uncle was a kind, decent, gentle man. Always wore an easy smile that lit up his handsome face.

  What if that was changed forever?

  Cera bit her lip hard.

  She couldn’t cry right now.

  Varthan drew his sword and held it to her uncle’s chest. He poked him a few times. Proud, her uncle didn’t even flinch.

  “Oh, get on with your games, Varthan,” Uncle Everett said calmly, his eyes locked onto hers.

  “I was just discussing our situation with your lovely niece.” Varthan’s smile made Cera shudder.

  “You better not have touched her, you swine,” Uncle Everett barked.

  “He has done naught, uncle,” Cera answered, praying her voice didn’t shake. She winced when Varthan slapped Uncle Everett in the face.

  “Markus, show him,” Varthan growled.

  The blond shade gave a curt nod and stepped away from her. Lifting his arm, Markus pointed his finger and Cera’s uncle’s bindings fell away.

  Uncle Everett’s body lifted into the air and was held suspended, his arms and legs involuntarily spread apart.

  “You will die for this, Varthan,” her uncle shouted as Markus continued to hold him floating about ten feet off the floor.

  Varthan laughed. “Where is the sword?”

  “Tell him nothing, niece,” Uncle Everett ordered. “No matter what he does to me, tell him nothing.”

  Cera looked at her uncle, and then back at Varthan. “Go to hell.”

  “Your uncle first,” Varthan snarled.

  A slow, evil smile spread across Markus’s face.

  Uncle Everett screamed as his body contorted in the air.

  She fought tears. Cera had no intention of revealing where she’d hidden her magic sword, but how long she could watch Varthan and his shades torture her uncle?

  Dagonet’s words echoed in her mind; Cera didn’t strain against her bindings, but it proved difficult to sit still.

  “No matter what you do to me, she will not tell you what you want to know,” her uncle breathed.

  She gasped.

  Uncle Everett was so strong.

  The shade twisted his hand and her uncle screamed again. Markus’ skin glowed even more brightly. The bastard enjoyed torture.

  Swallowing a sob, Cera bit her tongue to keep from shouting for him to stop.

  Markus’s magic wouldn’t hold up for long, would it?

  His brow was already beaded with sweat. Surely, Markus would tire, wouldn’t he?

  Chapter Twenty

  “Where is she?” Jorrin demanded of no one in particular, as they neared the castle.

  “I think she used my masking spell.” Braedon yanked Roan to a halt next to Grayna.

  Hadrian pulled Winthrop next to them on his other side, looking at Jorrin and then his father. “Then at least she’ll be safe for a while.”

  Braedon nodded. “They cannot see through the spell.”

  “For how long?” Jorrin asked.

  “We need to get out of sight.” Avery’s tone was desperate.

  “Indeed,” Braedon said.

  “I suggest we follow Trikser.” Hadrian gestured.

  They all looked at the white wolf.

  He was sniffing low to the ground, onto an obvious tr
ail. Very shortly, Trik led them to the smallest building of the stables.

  Cera wasn’t in the stable, but Ash was.

  Trikser frantically searched, becoming more agitated as he sniffed each stall.

  Jorrin cursed colorfully in Aramourian.

  “Magic was used here,” Hadrian said, looking at Braedon.

  Jorrin’s father nodded agreement.

  Avery and Jorrin exchanged a look.

  “Let’s hope it was Cera, and not someone else,” Avery whispered.

  “I agree.” Jorrin’s voice shook. He forced a breath, but couldn’t get the image of Cera as a lifeless body before Varthan out of his mind. Braedon grimaced when he met his father’s eyes. He hadn’t shielded his thought. “Sorry.”

  “It will be all right, son. Get a hold of yourself. We need you as much as Cera does.”

  Jorrin nodded.

  What else could he do?

  “I can get us into the castle. My Lenore ancestors must have been a very suspicious people, because my home is riddled with secret passageways,” Avery said.

  “And you know them all?” Braedon asked.

  “Most, if not all. Cera, Kait and I spent hours at a time exploring them when we were children. Cera even made a map at one time, though I have no need of it now.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Hadrian said.

  “What about Trikser?” Jorrin asked.

  All four men looked at the white wolf, who was still desperately sniffing around inside the small barn.

  “As soon as he finds what he’s scenting we should follow to see where he leads,” the elf wizard said.

  “Aye, I agree,” Braedon said. “He can tell us exactly where she went.”

  “And then we can get inside, hidden,” Avery said.

  When Trikser led them to the servants’ entrance of the kitchens, Hadrian took control of the white wolf. Trikser whimpered, but the wizard was able to make him understand they needed to remain hidden.

  “This will take us directly behind the great hall,” Avery whispered as they entered a secret door off the main hearth in the kitchens.

  Slipping in was much easier than he’d anticipated, but Jorrin’s worry over Cera ate at his stomach, stealing his thoughts. His heart was at a constant pound.

  Clutching the hilt of his sword until his knuckles whitened, he sucked in a breath.

  Still furious, as the minutes ticked by, he grew more worried they would be too late.

  Why would she take this on herself?

  He’d promised her he’d protect her.

  Jorrin had never imagined that she’d take the ability to do so out of his hands.

  What if she died?

  The thought hurt too much to fathom. Mere memories of her kiss, how she felt in his arms, wouldn’t be enough to sustain him the rest of his life.

  “This way.” Avery gestured to the right when the corridor split into two separate tunnels.

  The passageway was wide, but too dark to navigate.

  Hadrian lifted his wand, muttering a spellword Jorrin didn’t catch. The wand came to life, the green glow illuminating the path before them.

  “Stop.” Avery’s whisper was urgent.

  “Look,” Hadrian said, his tone also low.

  They’d arrived in a small room. Light poured in through a large window that looked directly into the great hall.

  Jorrin ducked with a curse.

  “They can’t see us,” Avery said. He quickly explained it was as if they were looking through a window into the hall, but the view from the other side was a large mirror.

  They’d be protected, unseen. Avery said he didn’t know how or why it had been installed there, but his mother’s magic maintained the effect.

  After watching for only a few moments, Jorrin’s blood boiled.

  He gritted his teeth Cera got knocked to the ground, unconscious.

  Only his father’s firm hold on his forearm kept him from leaping to his feet and leaving the cover of their hiding place.

  “He . . . healed her . . . ?” Jorrin breathed, exchanging a look with Avery, then his father.

  “A healing shade?” Cera’s cousin echoed.

  Braedon’s expression was just as stunned.

  They watched the shade heal Cera and help her to her feet.

  A low growl took his attention. Trikser bristled at his side, baring sharp teeth. Hadrian’s grip around his neck was tight, holding him in place, the elf wizard tiny against the large wolf.

  When do we act? Jorrin demanded in a frantic thought-send to all three of his companions. Let Trikser rip out his throat.

  No one answered.

  The young dark-haired boy looked up, staring in their direction.

  Braedon squeezed Jorrin’s arm in warning.

  The shade had sensed the thought-send.

  Jorrin muttered a curse. He held his breath as they waited for the boy to sound an alarm. It never came.

  He exchanged a puzzled glance with his father. “I know he heard me.”

  “I agree.”

  Trikser’s growling increased as Cera was shoved into a chair and bound.

  “Hold,” Hadrian whispered to the wolf.

  Cera’s bondmate stilled, but his whole body shook.

  How much longer could the elf wizard maintain control over him?

  Face bathed with sweat, the skin of the old elf shone bright red against his white beard. Although animals were his gift, he did have to expend magic to maintain the connection.

  Trikser was fighting hard, ruled by his need to rescue his mistress. It wouldn’t be long now before Hadrian was exhausted.

  “Another thought-send . . .” Braedon whispered, looking at Jorrin.

  “You sensed it?”

  “The lad tying her to the chair . . .”

  “Perhaps we have an ally we didn’t know about,” Avery whispered.

  “I wouldn’t count on anything,” Jorrin said.

  “I’m not.” Avery shrugged.

  Moments later, Avery was spewing a litany of low curses as they heard Varthan’s order to awaken his father.

  “He slapped her again,” Jorrin growled, looking at his father. “I will kill him.”

  “Relax,” Braedon ordered. “You mustn’t rush in there if you can’t even maintain control over your emotions.”

  “He’s hurting her . . .”

  “My cousin is stronger than she looks, Jorrin.”

  “I agree. The lass can hold her own.” Hadrian’s voice was strained.

  “I can’t just sit here and watch this,” Jorrin said. He forced air into his lungs, fists clenched.

  “Rushing in could get her killed,” Braedon said.

  “She should’ve never left on her own, dammit,” Jorrin spat.

  His father sighed, and Avery nodded fervently.

  “At this point, that is immaterial,” Hadrian said.

  “The one who sensed the thought-send. He’s the one. The smallest shade. You grab him, Jorrin. Hold the lad here, out of the way. The rest of us will attack. We’ll free Cera and contain the other shades,” Braedon said.

  “No.” Jorrin’s tone was so vehement his father’s eyebrows lifted. No one was going to talk him out of going in the great hall.

  He would save Cera.

  Braedon sighed again as their eyes locked.

  Jorrin didn’t give a damn if his father thought his emotions would inhibit him.

  Rescuing Cera was the only option.

  “Fine. I’ll grab the lad and contain him. The rest of you attack.”

  “That’s better,” Jorrin muttered.

  Braedon looked like he’d add something, but then just shook his head.

  “I shall not be able to control Trikser when we enter the hall.” Hadrian swiped at the sweat on his bushy brow.

  “Order him to stay by my side. I’ll take him to Cera, free her and get her a weapon,” Jorrin said.

 
Hadrian exchanged a look with Braedon, but nodded at Jorrin.

  Jorrin narrowed his eyes and swallowed a growl. He didn’t need his father’s approval. He needed to get into the great hall.

  “I want the one who has my father,” Avery snarled.

  “I’ll stun the lad and quickly rejoin you,” Braedon said.

  Jorrin and Avery drew their swords in answer, and Hadrian broke his physical hold on Trikser, bringing his wand into view.

  The four companions exchanged one last look and charged into the great hall.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  King Nathal was a big man. However, at the moment he’d never felt more insignificant as he sat upon his large white warhorse, Destroyer.

  His army was still out of sight as he looked down upon the large Province of Tarvis, disguised by magic and geography.

  The foothills would keep them out of sight as long as they desired, but it didn’t make him feel any better about the task he had to carry out.

  On his right, Lord Dugald Dagget sat on an ash-gray stallion almost as large as Destroyer, the sun glinting off his embossed chest plate. He wore the colors of his Province, the dark brown breeches and bright green collar peeking out from his armor. The hues were also present in the Berat seal on his shield and saddle. His shoulder-length dark hair was mussed from the helm tucked under his arm instead of being worn. His hazel eyes were sharp as he surveyed the scene before them.

  Nathal had always been fond of the Duke of Berat, but he missed Falor Ryhan. They’d grown up together, trained together, been made knights together.

  He looked to his left, the usual spot of Lord Everett Lenore, another boyhood comrade, and was once again reminded neither of his friends rode at his side.

  One he had to rescue; the other he would never ride with again.

  Not to mention the missing fourth of their boyhood tribe, the captain of his personal guard, Sir Murdoch Fraser. Gone on a mission to the penal colony of Dalunas. It couldn’t be helped, but damn.

  He had good men at his side, no doubt, but not the ones he desired.

  Lord Paxton Gallard, the Lord of Ascova, rode on his left astride his dark bay gelding. His short black hair hidden by his helm, his armor was just as elaborate as Nathal’s, the etched scrollwork showcasing the talent of his head blacksmith. The man’s work was sought out all over the continent. Rarely was it matched.