Her Knight's Quest: A Warriors of the Mist Novel (10 page)

Chapter 11

“Y
our wine, Sire.”

Ifre Keirthan, Duke of Agathia, didn’t bother looking up from the manuscript he was studying. “Just set it down and go. Tell everyone else that I am to remain undisturbed until the evening meal.”

When he finally raised his eyes to stare across the desk at the servant, he spoke in a grave tone he knew would not be misunderstood. “If anyone does cross that threshold, I will be most displeased.”

The servant swallowed hard, his face already covered with a sheen of nervous sweat. “Y-yes, Sire. I will ensure that your wishes are carried out.”

“Good. Now go.”

Keirthan watched the man bolt for the door and smiled. Striking fear in his underlings was such a pleasure. He turned his attention back to the passage he’d been trying to translate. He’d never been the scholarly one in the family, but now he wished he’d paid more attention to his brother’s efforts to teach him the old tongues.

Too late now. Ifre glanced at his brother’s portrait on the wall and smiled. There’d been that unfortunate accident that ended up with Armel dead, followed by Ifre Keirthan regretfully assuming his brother’s duties as ruler of Agathia. The official period of mourning was almost over, but he’d kept his brother’s portrait where he could look at it and gloat.

He set down his pen to savor the moment. Armel had possessed a vast potential as a mage. Magic had come easily to him, and so had the gift for tongues that so many of the old texts were written in—especially the forbidden ones.

Everyone knew Armel had been blessed, but potential magic was worthless when a man was burdened with a conscience and an overabundance of honor. No, it only had value when a man had the courage to exploit that potential and to let it take him down the darker roads where true power could be found.

A man like Ifre.

“Armel, you would be amazed at what I’ve accomplished.” He lifted his glass in a mocking toast to his much-detested older brother. “And horrified, which is even better.”

Time to get back to work. He’d managed to strengthen the spell he’d been working on for weeks, enough that he’d succeeded in sending several bolts of death soaring across the grasslands. He wasn’t sure what the bolts had killed, but he’d savored the pain and terror right up until the energy had burned itself out.

The effort had left him exhausted, but the sweet taste of death more than made up for the temporary discomfort. What he really needed was to find a way to repeat the spell, but this time aim the backlash at someone else. He’d drained the woman whose blood had fueled the spell. Maybe he should’ve kept her alive long enough to bear the brunt of the pain. He jotted that thought down in his notes to consider later.

There had to be a way to do that, which led him back to the text he’d been working his way through one word at a time. He’d make faster progress if he hired someone to translate the archaic language for him. The drawback would be having to trust the scribe to keep his mouth shut about the nature of Ifre’s studies. For now, he’d continue to struggle along on his own.

Ifre sounded out the next word and considered its meaning. Light? Sun? Fire? It could be any one of the three, depending on the context. He slammed the pen down again and soothed his frustrations with another glass of wine. He’d sent men ranging far and wide to hunt for his old tutor as well as to search out the hiding place of another of the man’s most favored students.

The tutor was dead—another unfortunate accident, but not one of Ifre’s making. The other student had disappeared after sending word that death was preferable to spending one minute of time in Ifre’s service.

He smiled again up at his brother’s likeness. “I will find her. When I do, her death will be her last gift from me.”

As he took one last sip of wine, he choked, spewing the wine out onto the text and his notes. His throat contracted hard, as if a fist had him in its grasp, making it impossible to swallow or breathe. Pain exploded like acid in his veins, sending him pitching headfirst to the floor.

The thick rug did little to cushion his fall as his whole body shivered and shook. His feet drummed on the floor, and his arms flopped and flailed like a trout tossed out onto the grass drowning in the air.

Was he dying?

He tried to call for help but couldn’t shove enough air past the blockage in his throat to form the words. The noises he made were little better than the croaking of a frog, and a pitifully small one at that.

Even if he had managed a clear call for assistance, it was doubtful anyone would respond. Not after his demand to be left undisturbed. All he could do was ride through the pain and pray it would pass. For an eternity, his body jerked and twitched as his head pounded and thumped against the carpet. His teeth bit deeply into his tongue, and the coppery tang of his own blood clogged his throat.

Slowly, so slowly, control of his muscles returned. As the last few shudders faded away, all he could do was lie there on the floor, covered in sweat and too weak to lift even his hand. His first full breath finally convinced him that he would survive this attack.

For that was what it was. Someone somewhere had countered one of his spells, perverting Ifre’s own power and turning it into a weapon to be used against him. It had to be one of the coins, or maybe several of them, considering the strength of the attack. If his unknown foe had destroyed even one more of the ensorcelled gold pieces, Ifre had no doubt that Agathia would’ve been looking for a new duke to assume the throne by nightfall.

He pushed himself up to rest on his elbows briefly before gathering enough strength to sit upright. When he managed to hold that position for a few minutes, he scooted closer to the desk, needing its support to crawl back up into his chair.

Gradually, his eyes could focus again. At least he’d survived the experience without anyone knowing that he’d been susceptible to attack. Since the death of his more popular brother, he’d imposed his rule over Agathia with a brutal hand. The people were cowed by his power, which was how it should be. That he could be killed from a safe distance didn’t bear thinking about.

He needed to get to his secret chambers down below and see what he could learn about how the backlash had been triggered. If he could trace it back to its source, he would learn the whereabouts of another mage, one with a powerful gift in his or her blood.

The coins had been keyed to engender a killing rage in their bearer if he were to come in contact with dear, sweet Lavinia. Her refusal to serve his cause had shown more common sense on her part than he’d ever given her credit for.

No doubt she’d guessed he wanted her for more than her ability to decipher the old texts. With luck, soon he would know her location. He’d send another troop of his royal guard to search for her. Too bad Terrick wouldn’t be there to lead the expedition.

He spared a brief thought of regret at the loss of the captain of his guard. He had no doubt Terrick was dead, murdered by Fagan’s niece and her band of hired thugs. When on a mission, all of Ifre’s guards wore a pendant that tied their minds and souls to him. They also allowed him to drain their life force to fuel his magic. He’d felt the loss of nearly all the men he’d sent with Lord Fagan.

That bastard had failed to regain control of his family home from his niece, Lady Merewen, and no doubt died in the process. That had cost Ifre not only access to Fagan’s gold, but also the use of the fool’s niece. Looking back, he should’ve insisted on Fagan bringing Merewen to the city as soon as he’d realized her potential. It had been a calculated risk to trust Fagan to keep her pure and safe. However, if she’d spent time at court, she would’ve been missed once Ifre claimed her for his studies. Nobles tended to notice when their own kind disappeared.

Eventually, he would still sacrifice her on his altar. Granted, if she were no longer a virgin, the strength of the blood sacrifice would be greatly weakened when he slit her throat to feed the ever-greedy flames of his magic.

When he was sure he could trust his legs to support him, Ifre walked to the door and called for Lady Theda, his brother’s widow who now served as Ifre’s chatelaine. He’d order her to bring him food, taking pleasure in using her as a superior servant. Once he’d replenished his strength, the hunt for Lavinia would begin again.

*  *  *

Lavinia maintained her composure all the way to her office. She returned the steel box to its usual place on the shelf behind her desk. Taking comfort in the familiar surroundings, she found the quiet at the center of her being and savored a moment of peace.

It wouldn’t last long. Too many thoughts and emotions were at war inside her head, all vying for control. They started with the memory of Duncan’s kiss. She was no innocent; she’d left the outside world for reasons other than to serve the gods. Even so, her limited experience had left her unprepared for the overwhelming impact of this one man.

Who was he really? Certainly not the simple scribe he claimed to be. It was plain to see he’d spent far more of his life with a sword in his hand than he had holding a pen. She didn’t doubt his word that he could perform the duties of a scribe, but why would he want to?

Despite the powerful magic she sensed whenever she was in his presence, he was clearly uncomfortable when confronted with even a simple warding spell. A man of contradictions, that was Duncan.

She considered the matter of the coins she’d destroyed. Her wards had held strong, preventing the explosion of power from harming those within the abbey walls. It was unlikely that any except the most sensitive of the sisters had felt even a whisper of its power.

That didn’t mean the duke himself had remained unaffected by the destruction of the coins. He’d used someone else’s blood to tie the death magic to the gold, but he’d also poured some of his own essence into the spell. It would be nice to think that his fortress in the capital city was too far away and too well warded against outside attack for him to have felt even a ripple of energy.

Comforting, yes, but only a fool would cling to comfort instead of facing reality. The most she could truly hope for was that he sensed the destruction of the coins and that was all. Even that was nothing she could count on, not with other lives depending on her leadership to keep them safe.

She’d also sworn to protect the library at any cost from men like Ifre Keirthan. To be honest, she was surprised that he hadn’t already sent his men to attempt to steal the collection to add it to his own. If he was aware of its contents, he would crave the knowledge it would afford him. Selfish bastard that he was, he’d want it all for himself. Ifre was well aware that knowledge was power, especially when it came to all things magic. If he was the only one with the ability to wield it, then his position as duke was safe.

The position he’d stolen in the first place.

Someone had to break the people of Agathia free from the yoke of his tyranny. Fear tasted sour, but so familiar. She’d lived with it as her constant companion for far too long. Destroying Keirthan’s coins was the first direct action she’d taken, and even that was to save herself, no one else.

She turned to face her garden and the deep green bowl that awaited her attention. Should she risk scrying? No doubt Duncan would make his way back to her office soon. If she started now, perhaps with luck, the gods would gift her with answers before he came knocking.

Outside, the warm breath of the sun teased her skin and the soft breeze was perfumed with the sweet scent of flowers. Both combined to soothe her agitation, increasing the likelihood of success when she uncovered the bowl. Feeling cleansed by the simple beauty of the day, she lifted a pitcher of water high over the bowl.

With a smile, she slowly tipped it until the water poured out in a silvery stream that sparkled in the bright light of the sun. When the bowl was full, she set the pitcher aside and sought out the calm that had eluded her for most of the morning.

It was there, hovering just out of reach. She closed her eyes and let the worries of the day slip away, leaving only the good things, the ones that reminded her that life was worth living. The beauty of the flowers that surrounded her; the friendship she shared with the other sisters here within the strength of the abbey walls.

Then another image pushed all the others right out of her head: Duncan. Being held in his arms, the kiss they’d shared, and remembering what it felt like to be a woman with a woman’s desires and dreams.

Perhaps not the best imagery to focus on when approaching the gods, but then they were the ones who’d warned her that his presence in her life would be significant. The thought made her smile as she stepped closer to grasp the edges of the bowl and willed the water to show her what it would.

Ripples upon ripples offering her no clarity. She let her hands drop back down to her side. The disturbance wasn’t coming from her this time, but from the intruder in the garden. Lavinia didn’t bother to look. She knew who it was.

“If you plan to stay, at least come closer so that you can see what the water reveals.”

“You scry?”

Duncan’s deep voice came from over her shoulder, as if he were leery of approaching the bowl directly.

“Sometimes,” she answered honestly. “More often than not, I get frustrated by my efforts and toss the water at the roses.”

He chuckled. “That explains how lush this garden is.”