Rogue's Call Read online

  “Keep looking.”

  “Aye, my lord. None of the lasses so far were the one you seek.”

  Drayton snarled from his throne. “I need the lass.” He leaned forward but made no move to exit the carved dark-wood chair.

  “I’ll find her.”

  “Your magic is useless.” The accusation was a bark, backed by magic intended to intimidate him. “I located those lasses. You’ve done naught for me.”

  You failed, too. But he couldn’t say it.

  Power rushed at him and Charis planted his boots in the dirt so his arse wouldn’t meet the cave floor. He didn’t argue. Justification, no matter how true, didn’t work for Drayton. His magic wasn’t useless. The lass Drayton sought wasn’t in Terraquist, so this last stop had been a waste of time as well as life. Not that he’d bring his opinion to light.

  Charis’ seeking spells never failed. Tracking was what he did best, even without magic.

  Drayton had been the one to insist he’d located the lasses as possible matches for the one he wanted. The old mage had insisted Charis and his men confirm and capture, or destroy the mistake. Drayton’s mistake. Plural, now.

  Death had never bothered Charis much, but the blood was on his employer’s hands, not him and his lads. They were simply the means to Drayton’s ends.

  “I’m almost out of time.”

  Charis straightened his spine at Drayton’s obvious desperation. The first sign of weakness he’d ever seen from the old man.

  Why? hung in the air, but he wouldn’t ask, even if he thought Drayton would shed light on the reasons for his task.

  He never asked questions, so long as the coins were presented as promised.

  * * * *

  Drayton stifled a cry as soon as the half-breed’s back was turned and the mercenary wretch was well on his way through the protective spell-wall that kept Drayton’s home concealed. Putting up the required airs for his hireling took it out of him.

  It was only getting worse, too.

  Agony was what he was made of these days.

  Pain crumpled his form, but he couldn’t use another healing spell. The more magic he used, the more his body suffered. He couldn’t call the water to him and bathe himself in blessed heat, either. He hadn’t the energy after the blast spell he’d thrown at Charis. He’d missed, or the magic had failed him. Again.

  There was no relief for his pain, for his plight. At least not yet. Even a true healer couldn’t stop the disintegration of his form.

  He raised both hands, wincing as white-hot bolts of negative energy shot up into his shoulders. Drayton turned his palms over. His skin was nearly transparent, his veins glowing blue and purple; they, too, ached. His body was showing his ancient age, as it always did when he got this close.

  Wrinkled. Hanging flesh. Weak.

  Looking in the mirror wrenched his stomach.

  Bile rose and Drayton swallowed. Twice. His head spun, temples aching. He needed to seek his pallet. Sleep hung as a heavy demand, even his eyelids offering bite and sting.

  Fighting back a moan, he tried to lift his legs, planting booted feet to the wooden dais. He needed to stand, but when he pushed himself up, his knees buckled and he landed hard on the padded seat of his throne. His tailbone smarted and Drayton closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the burning in his arms and legs.

  His fingers shook but he held his hands still on the chair’s frame as fire raked him, burning slowly down his spine and into his hips.

  He hadn’t much time left.

  Hadn’t gotten this close to death since the first time he’d taken someone’s magic to prolong his life, over two hundred and fifty turns ago. When he’d been an old man not so different from his current situation.

  Drayton needed the lass.

  Now.

  His stolen turns were catching up with him, and the only thing that would save his life was an elemental mage, a powerful one.

  Like he used to be.

  Once he absorbed her powers, he would be whole again. Young again.

  The lass he sought was indeed powerful, so it’d give him another sixty or seventy turns, maybe more.

  Until he’d have to find another.

  And he would. He always did.

  Drayton’s magic could seek like powers, but his health prevented him from handling his affairs. Forced him to seek the services of the dirty-blooded half-breed. Promised the bastards more coin than he possessed, a trick of magic to make Charis see what he wanted—needed—to get the task done. Served the half-breed right for demanding evidence of his wealth.

  When he had his powers back, Drayton would kill the half-elf and his two cronies. Rid the world of their like.

  He cursed and shook his head. Anger didn’t assist his pain; his gut churned and his chest throbbed.

  Where was the blasted lass?

  He’d been searching for her for five turns.

  Five whole turns, from the first signs that his magic was starting to fizzle out. His spells had lacked the power they had in turns past.

  Drayton had been unable to locate her, despite his powers’ natural ability to call to like. She was strongest in water, but she, like him, had master over earth, wind, and fire as well. He’d known what she could do from the moment he’d hovered over her cradle at the hearth in the small castle over twenty turns before.

  Even then, a babe of barely two, she’d protected herself from him on instinct when he’d killed her people—servants and nobles alike.

  Drayton hadn’t been able to touch her. He’d intended to pluck her from her mother’s breast and raise her as his own—to have her with him when he needed her powers.

  The lass was the most powerful elemental he’d ever encountered.

  Even at the tender age of the cradle.

  She’d called the waters to her, her eyes glowing blue, and just about drowned him. She’d ordered water to engulf him before he could counter with his own magic. All without words, because she’d been so young.

  He’d been surrounded by a bubble with no breath or control. Drayton had woken in the woods surrounding the home’s lands, where he’d always assumed the tidal wave had washed him.

  The lass had been gone.

  His powers had failed to locate her even then.

  When he’d made his way to the market, people had been whispering about the whole castle being murdered days before.

  The tiny child had knocked him out for two days.

  Everyone thought she’d perished with all the castle residents in a fire. He didn’t remember a blaze, or know if she’d started one. Or perhaps he had, but he couldn’t confirm. But Drayton had known she’d lived. Never was able to ascertain what’d happened to her, though.

  He didn’t think she was dead. He would’ve just known.

  No, someone had rescued her. Taken her away, and covered her in magic he was somehow unable to sense.

  She was out there, somewhere.

  He needed to know where now.

  His life depended on it.

  Chapter Four

  Nathal saw to his wife’s needs as they reached the bailey of Castle Aldern. He helped her dismount and held onto her for a moment. She’d insisted on riding her own mount instead of inside the carriage he’d brought.

  As king, he traveled extensively, and even though he was surrounded by men and mages he never left his home without, a part of him was leery that Morghyn was with him.

  They’d not been pursued—he’d checked with his half-elfin twin mages what could’ve been considered obsessively—during their two-day journey, but one could never be too careful.

  Had Lady Elissa not accompanied them, Nathal wouldn’t have allowed Morghyn’s presence—no matter how much his feisty wife of twenty-five turns would’ve made him pay later.

  He understood her desire. Elissa was her blood, so she wanted to make sure the lass was safely ensconced in Greenwald. Morghyn needed to see it with her own eyes before they departed. But he didn’t have to like it.

/>   Although Nathal hadn’t explained to the lass, they were leaving her in Greenwald because Lucan—the lone official Mage of the Province—was the most powerful magical being he’d ever encountered. His mages had told him—and he readily agreed—if Lucan couldn’t protect the lass, no one could.

  He wanted her married—that part was true. It was also true that Elissa could select her husband. The four men he’d made inquiries with had agreed to come to Greenwald to present their suits. All were interested. Camden was the only one truly searching for a wife, but the other three young men hadn’t refused.

  Jorrin had agreed to handle the negotiations. Nathal had already transferred her dowry to the Duke of Greenwald’s custody. He hoped the lass could find happiness. He’d known all four suitors since they were children. The lads were good, stable, and could provide for her.

  Avery Lenore was the youngest of Elissa’s choices, and Nathal didn’t think she’d pick the shy lad, but he was of marrying age, and the son of one of his closest friends.

  His wish was that she select Lord Camden Malloch. Dalunas was far, and there was—hopefully—little chance that the men after her would put it together that she’d be so far from Terraquist. Besides, Cam was the best of the bunch. He was the eldest, at seven and twenty. Already a duke, established in the responsibilities of running a Province and caring for his people. He’d be good for his wife’s cousin.

  Nathal didn’t push marriage on anyone. His wife was his world. As were his children. They’d waited a long time for the Blessed Spirit to give them children—they’d had trouble conceiving for turns.

  His eyes swept the bailey for danger, but there was none. He called himself a fool, but…

  Greenwald or not, men and magic or not, Nathal preferred Morghyn at Castle Rowan, with their son and daughter.

  Roblin had begged to come on the journey, since he was already a squire, but Nathal couldn’t allow it. His son had taken the news like a man. When they’d left, he’d been sparring with his mentor, Sir Willum Maron. Roblin had also told Nathal he’d keep his sister safe. He couldn’t have been prouder of the lad.

  “Nathal, is something wrong?” Morghyn’s concern was evident.

  He looked into his wife’s dark eyes. “Nay, love.”

  Doubt flashed in the midnight orbs he loved so much. “Are you sure?”

  “Aye.” Nathal dipped low and kissed her. Much too quickly, but now wasn’t the time.

  Morghyn smiled and patted his chest. “Let us go inside. I’m eager to greet Cera and see the babe.”

  He let out a breath and nodded, easing into a smile. “The laddie is walking and talking a bit now, according to Jorrin’s last missive.”

  Fallon, little lordling and heir to Greenwald, was eighteen months old, if Nathal remembered correctly.

  His wife gave an un-lady-like snort. “Why are men discussing children via long distance letters?”

  Nathal chuckled. “I’ve a secret to impart, my queen.”

  “What’s that?”

  He leaned down, hovering above her ear. “Men are no different than women at times.”

  She laughed and the sound made him grin. “I’m sure I cannot spread this revelation over the realm, can I, my king?”

  Nathal shook his head, loving the twinkle in her eyes when their gazes met. He tried to maintain a serious expression. “Nay. T’wouldn’t do well to get out.”

  “Especially from a warrior king, my love?”

  He slipped off a gauntlet and caressed her cheek. “Exactly.”

  Morghyn’s smile flipped his heart again, and he wanted to gather her up and take her mouth. Nathal squared his shoulders.

  Later.

  She’d be with him for the duration of this trip, there was no worry. He’d have her in his arms, in one of the many guestrooms of Castle Aldern.

  Even after all their turns of marriage, he couldn’t get enough of his wife. Wanted her always. The ease of pleasing her only made him burn more. They knew each other so well, how they both liked to be touched, caressed. He could still make her squirm and scream, and that was all that mattered.

  Nathal grinned to himself as he released her.

  Later wouldn’t come fast enough.

  He offered his wife his arm so they could greet the Duke and Duchess of Greenwald. The captain of the Aldern personal guard, Sir Leargan Tegran and his wife, Ansley, stood arm and arm next to their lord and lady. The lass flashed a grin when their gazes brushed, looking so much like her father, Murdoch, Nathal had to smile.

  Lord Tristan Dagget—Jorrin’s second—and his wife, Aimil, stood with them as well, and Nathal’s smile was one of pride. He’d known each of the young people before him—save the duke, half-elfin Jorrin—since they were wee laddies and lassies. They’d all grown up strong and married well, for love, and were starting their own families.

  The tragedy of Cera losing her parents and younger sister almost three turns before at the hands of an evil man was nowhere in sight. They’d moved on. Healed. Running a strong Province. Together.

  Nathal still missed Cera’s father every damn day. Like Murdoch, Falor had been one of his closest friends, but the daughter was doing the fallen duke proud. No doubt he watched from the heavens with a smile on his face.

  Lord Jorrin Aldern stepped away from his wife and bowed deeply. “It’s good to see you, Majesties.”

  “You as well, my lord.” Morghyn spoke first, a smile in her voice. She inclined her head.

  Polite conversation commenced, and the women broke off, huddling together. Morghyn introduced her cousin and soon their speech consisted of babies and marriage.

  Nathal smirked.

  “They’ll start complaining about us in mere moments.” Jorrin’s words were wrapped in amusement. The wind shifted his dark hair past a long tapered ear, and he shoved it out of the way.

  Leargan caught Nathal’s eye and winked before looking back at Jorrin. “Not Ansley. I happen to be the perfect husband.”

  Jorrin snorted and Tristan laughed out loud.

  Nathal shook his head and chuckled. “I see you lads haven’t changed at all. Damn good to see you.”

  The duke nodded. “You too, Your Highness. Thanks for coming. I’m sure Roduch appreciates it.”

  “Aye. All you lads are like my own. I couldn’t miss his wedding. We come from the same people.” The knight was Nathal’s distant cousin, and like Leargan—as well as most of the Aldern personal guard—he’d raised him at Castle Rowan. Shaped them all. Ensured they were strong knights and warriors—and fought for what was right.

  For a number of turns, Nathal wasn’t sure he’d be a father, so he’d gathered the lads to him, no matter where they’d come from. He loved them as much as he did his children.

  “You brought the lass to us, Majesty.” Leargan nodded toward Elissa.

  “Aye, lad.” Nathal met the captain’s dark eyes.

  “We’ll keep her safe, Highness,” Tristan whispered.

  It didn’t surprise Nathal that Jorrin had already briefed his second and captain. Good. It’d save him time explaining what he needed the duke to handle.

  “What does she know?” Jorrin asked.

  Nathal met the duke’s deep blue eyes. “Not much. For the time being, I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Of course.” Jorrin nodded, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

  “Let’s have a word before the ceremony, if you don’t mind. I’ll also require Lucan; I have some questions for the lad, but I’d prefer to converse with you lads first.”

  “Aye, Majesty,” Leargan said. “I’ll call him when it’s time.”

  He followed the lads into Castle Aldern—dubbed so after the duke just two short turns ago. Although Jorrin wasn’t noble by birth, Nathal had never used rank to judge the value of a man. The lad had proved himself when he’d helped Cera defeat a former archduke, Varthan, who’d betrayed Nathal and tried to assassinate him.

  Jorrin had fallen in love with Cera, at the time heir to Gr
eenwald. So Nathal had made the lad a duke and the couple had married.

  Well, after some prodding. The duchess was fond of the term meddling, but Nathal would never acquiesce that it was such. She’d loved the lad already, no matter her stubbornness at his “forcing” her hand. He was king, after all, and could do what he wanted.

  Though he’d never mentioned it, Nathal suspected their firstborn was well on his way before the marriage, so it’d saved them all from public impropriety that would’ve had to be explained, anyway. Demanding they marry right away had provided a way out—even though the necessity hadn’t been known at the time.

  Jorrin was proving to be a hell of a duke, so it was validation for Nathal that Cera couldn’t argue with anyway. He was fair to his people, yet wasn’t afraid to make tough decisions, and had no qualms about assistance from his wife—who’d been raised for running a Province.

  The duke was perfect to oversee Elissa’s marriage plans.

  Nathal thanked him when Jorrin gestured for him to take the seat behind the dark wood desk in the ledger room.

  The duke and Tristan both took seats across from the desk. Leargan stood between them.

  “I’m going to be frank. Lady Elissa Durroc is in serious danger. I need you to keep her safe.”

  “What’s changed since our last missive?” Jorrin asked, his sapphire eyes keen. He leaned forward in the chair, shooting glances to his two men.

  “Another lass and her family were murdered. This time in my own Province. Not three hours’ ride from Terraquist Main.”

  Leargan cursed, his dark eyes flashing.

  “Same situation?” Tristan whispered. His face was tight, pained. As a healer, he had an especially low tolerance for senseless death.

  Pain darted across the duke’s face and Nathal cleared his throat—and tried to push his emotions away. Jorrin was an empath, and the more strong emotion in the room, the more the lad would be affected.

  He could obviously feel the healer’s pain. Nathal didn’t want to add to it. “Aye. Husband and two laddies also slain.”

  Leargan made a fist. “Baby killers. We need to get these bastards.”