Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1)
Read Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) Online
Authors: Coreene Callahan
For you.
I knew the moment we met you were worthy and would find the one destined to love you.
I’m so glad I was right.
The Prophecy
And out of the ashes seven warriors shall rise.
Bringers of death, they shall wreak vengeance upon the earth, until shadow is driven into darkness and only the light remains.
—The Chronicles of Al Pacii:
written in the hand of Seer
CHAPTER ONE
T
RANSYLVANIA
–AD 1331
It was twilight when he made his move, the moment day folded into dusk, the space between light and shadow. He’d watched her all day, marked her progress through the marketplace between stalls and calling vendors, watched her and the little one go about their business never knowing he trailed like a phantom in their wake. A hunter tracking his prey. Now, concealed by the twisted limbs of large beech trees, he watched from across the clearing as she ushered the girl-child over the threshold and closed the planked door behind them.
His gaze centered on the tiny stone cottage. Xavian Ramir absorbed every detail—the thinning thatched roof, the crumbling chimney, the missing mortar between the stones, and the aging wheelbarrow beside the small garden—then scanned the shadowed forest beyond as he’d been trained to do.
Study the angles. Flesh out the target. Define the variables.
Old habits died hard. An unfortunate truth for the woman preparing to eat her evening meal.
He smelled the stew. Rabbit, most likely. The decadent aroma mingled with the grey curl of wood smoke as it escaped, twisting up to meet a darkening sky. His stomach growled. Xavian ignored the discomfort and distracted himself by picturing her.
Raven hair spilling over the curve of her shoulder, she stirred the pot, hazel eyes intent on its thickening contents. Aye, he’d been close enough to see them, memorize their shape, the exotic up-tilted outer corners framed by dark brown lashes. He saw the supple curve of her cheek, the lushness of her lips, and imagined them wrapped around something other than the wooden spoon she no doubt used to taste the gravy.
The muscles roping his lower abdomen tightened. Aye, she was a tidy little bundle, but that didn’t explain why Vladimir Barbu, new lord to Transylvania, wanted her. Hunted her, had gone to extremes to find her. Not entirely, at least. The recently ascended voivode might want the lass in his bed, but Xavian guessed the reasons the warlord had hired him struck closer to the coffers than his heart. What did she have that Vladimir wanted?
’Twas a question that bothered him more than he liked. Curiosity was a luxury, one he couldn’t afford. For an assassin operating at the top of his game, the curse of conscience signaled trouble...the kind he wished he’d never met. But now that he’d been bitten, the bug—the need to know—burrowed beneath his skin, festering until he itched to solve the mystery. So now he must decide. What was more important? The coin he needed to see countless boys rescued and his fledging academy through the coming winter, or her life. He hated to choose. A mother. Jesu, he hadn’t expected that. He flexed his hand and felt the gash on his forearm throb with the movement. The injury was courtesy of a brother-in-arms, the latest in a long line of those sent to kill him.
“Ram?” the soft voice, vibrant with the fullness of youth, came from behind.
Qabil. His new apprentice, borrowed without permission. Hell,
borrowed
. ’Twas a matter of opinion, one the old man
would dispute with his dying breath. Mayhap
stolen
was a better word. Xavian’s lips curved, finding satisfaction in the theft. But as much as he relished the blow to his former master, thankfulness took precedence. Qabil hadn’t been with the bastard long enough and still possessed the wonder of innocence, and despite himself Xavian was grateful the lad had been spared.
Xavian glanced over his shoulder, dipping his chin to acknowledge the call. With a flick, he undid the buckle in the center of his chest, slid the double harness from his shoulders, down his arms, and handed the twin swords he favored to Qabil.
The lad blinked, alarm darkening his eyes. “But—”
“Hold them,” he said, not wishing to explain he didn’t want to frighten the woman or her child. His presence—his size and strength—would do that well enough without being armed to the teeth. The fact he was rarely without the weapons made him itch to strap them back on. He felt exposed without the curved blades on his back, though it meant naught in the scheme of things. He needed her occupied, unsuspecting while he made his decision.
Wide-eyed, Qabil’s hands shook as he hugged the weapons to his chest. “What if the hunters track us here?”
“Quick in. Quick out,” he said, understanding the lad’s fears. Halál’s hunter assassins were naught to scoff at when they came in packs. Less than a full day’s ride wasn’t enough distance. Xavian knew it—so did Qabil—but he couldn’t leave the woman. Not now. “Keep the horses ready.”
Xavian waited until his apprentice lowered his gaze and nodded before he turned his attention back to the cottage. Tension coiling in the pit of his stomach, he listened to the boy’s footfalls fade, then said, “Cristobal, you’re with me. The rest of you spread out. If she runs, I want all escape routes blocked.”
Like the ghosts they’d learned to be, Cristobal and Razvan shifted out of shadow while Andrei and Kazim dropped from swaying tree limbs above. They landed on silent feet behind him, not a whisper of sound to indicate their presence. Faded beech leaves scattered across the turf as his men moved to flank him. Dressed in black from head to toe, their clothes were designed with precision in mind and mirrored his own. Each of them lived in the dark, thrived on silence and the spaces between, the ones devoid of emotion and lined with simplicity. None of them liked ambiguity and sure as hell didn’t accept hesitation in the role they’d been forced into playing.
Cristobal raised a brow. “Uneasy?”
“Nay.” Xavian shook his head. “Merely undecided.”
“The plan?” Andrei asked, the richness of his French accent alight with purpose.
“Reconnaissance.” Pushed by a gentle breeze, the dark leaves of the beech murmured as he admitted, “I wish to know more.”
The least bloodthirsty of their group, Razvan nodded. “I don’t like the bastard...He lied.”
“Mayhap,” Xavian said, unconcerned for the moment about Vladimir and his motives. His focus was on the lass and the mystery of her circumstances. He couldn’t deny his curiosity, a novel prickling sensation he didn’t often experience. “Liar or nay, his coin is still good.”
Kazim snorted, amusement alive in his dark eyes.
Acknowledging the humor with a shrug, Xavian palmed the dagger he kept snug against the small of his back. The blade rasped against leather, the whisper sounding loud in the silence. A crease between his brows, he set the point to his forearm, to the wound left by the former comrade he’d sent to the devil but days ago. He fisted his hand, inhaled sharply, and with a flick, opened
the gash. A red rivulet, heated by life’s essence, tracked south across the back of his hand as he left his men to move into position. Eyes on the cottage door, he strode toward the inevitable, blood dripping from his fingertips.
Her heart ached. It always did when she thought of Bianca. Sitting at the rickety wooden table spoon-feeding her sister’s daughter proved no exception. Sabine, with her golden hair and gentle soul, was like her mother in every way but one. The eyes. Bianca’s had been dark, carrying wisdom beyond her nineteen years. Sabine’s were mismatched, one green, the other blue. The fact her sister wasn’t here to see their beauty, the subtle shifts in color, was all her fault.
Afina Lazar’s throat tightened, the guilt so thick she found it difficult to swallow. She was failing...at everything. Motherhood, the healing, the promise she’d made to Bianca on her deathbed. A death Afina had failed to stop, been helpless to stall, to ease the pain as her sister slipped away. She stroked her little one’s hair, murmuring encouragement as she took another spoonful rich with rabbit meat.
They were lucky to have it. The summer game had proved more crafty than usual, avoiding her traps and homemade arrows with little difficulty. Sabine’s growling belly most nights spoke to the truth. She needed some luck to get them through. Was a little divine intervention too much to ask? Couldn’t the goddess of all things afford them their fair share? Afina hoped so. Otherwise the coming winter might not only turn harsh, but deadly as well.
What would she do if she couldn’t fill their winter stores in time? She couldn’t go home. Nothing but certain death lay in that direction, no matter how plentiful the food supply. At least here, she held some small chance of survival, of fulfilling her role as protector to the Amulet of Orm. As she spooned another mouthful into Sabine, her attention drifted to her satchel—the one that carried her healing supplies. The stupid amulet, bane of her existence, a curse upon the women of her line. She wanted to rip it from its hiding place beneath the leather lining and toss it into the nearest ditch, but knew she never would. High priestess to the Order of Orm, her mother had died doing her duty, saving the wretched thing from Vladimir Barbu...the murdering swine.
Afina rubbed her aching temple, wanting to forget, wishing for another way. But none existed. Her mother had made a fatal mistake, and now Afina was left to pay the price. Vladimir needed her to complete the ancient rite—the ritual that would crown him Lord of Transylvania. She must stay hidden and out of his greedy grasp: to protect her people and her daughter and honor the goddess she served.
A promise made was a promise kept.
She needed her word to mean something, and her sister’s death to mean more. If she abandoned the cause now, after two years of running, she was as gutless as her mother had accused her of being.
The memory of harsh words lashed her.
Tears pricking the corners of her eyes, Afina turned her mind away and scraped the bottom of the wooden bowl, scooping up the hearty gravy for her child.