The Witch's Reward (21 page)

Chapter 24

The magic hadn’t been lost. Larra saw the amazement on the queen’s face as the fluid power moved within her, stretching itself to every open cut, slash and wound on her body. Like it had when she’d faced the lumbar, the magic glowed with a brilliance that defied all description, wrapping around her like a gentle blanket and warming her until all the pain and agony faded away and the skin of her back healed and became supple once again. She stood up, carefully gauging the queen’s reaction, wondering if she would be horrified by the transformation. But upon seeing the older woman’s sudden smile, Larra relaxed.

The queen untied her velvet cloak and wrapped it around Larra. With Larra’s clothing hanging in tatters about her, the cloak offered both protection and disguise in the dark as the queen hurried her from the chamber and through a hidden door at the back of the dungeon, presumably only used by royalty. They rushed through the night, aware that the first glow of the dawning sun was beginning to paint the edges of the horizon. Stress lined the queen’s face as they passed through a rose garden and into a hidden tunnel which led them up a dark flight of stairs and to a paneled, swinging door. The door was in actuality a large, tapestry-covered entrance into the king and queen’s own bedchamber, and it was on the threshold of that hidden panel that Larra paused, staring into the dimly lit chamber at the bedridden ghost of a man lying only a few feet away.

Larra saw that the man had once been strong and healthy; but now there was a lifelessness to his body, a stillness of death that was belied only by the barely discernible rise and fall of his chest beneath the heavy blankets. He was obviously very sick, and Larra wondered what could have occurred between the time he had sent his captain to arrest her and now. There were no wounds that she could see and imagined the sickness was internal.

Staring down at the prone figure, she began to have second thoughts. Awake, this man would determine whether she would live or die.

The soft touch of a feminine hand was felt through the velvet sleeves of the cloak and Larra’s attention was drawn away from the still man to the woman at her side. She saw a type of desperation in the woman’s eyes that could only belong to one who was on the brink of a great loss. It was the kind of desperation that came when someone was about to lose one whom he or she loved deeply.

“Please.”

The word was but a whisper, soft, yet so strong that it overcame the temptation Larra had to let the man die. Magic or no, she had been raised to be a healer by a woman who loved her, and she would not deny this man her ability, regardless of the fact that he held her fate in his hands.

She nodded in agreement and withdrew her arm from the queen’s touch to walk to the bed. Sitting next to the king on the plush mattress, Larra could feel his cold, waxy skin beneath her fingertips. He was clearly on the edge of death, and if Larra had been merely a healer, without the use of an incredible power, she would not have been able to save him. But the queen was right. She was unique, and she had a gift unlike any other. By her own free will and power she had the ability to help and heal those in need—something so special and vital to this world that she couldn’t just give up without a fight. And she hadn’t. She wouldn’t. She had healed herself and now she had the privilege to heal this man. Friend or enemy, she had a responsibility.

Closing her eyes, Larra concentrated on the king. Finding that golden flow of magic within her, she called it up, willing it to be released. As she concentrated, her fingers began to glow and to an observer it looked as though she was literally transferring a sparkling, vivid energy to the sick man. It rippled through her fingertips, flowing over the king’s forehead and face, masking him in a soft ray of light. 

The glow continued to spread over his face and down his throat. For a moment it seemed to disappear as it stretched beneath the heavy bedcovers before suddenly erupting in an all-encompassing cloud of light that encircled the bed and the two people on it. It burst forth in a brilliant spectacle, blinding any observer who was blessed to see such an incredible event. Then, as suddenly as it had flared, it retracted, and the magic drew away beneath the covers and up over the king’s neck and face and forehead until, finally, it seemed to withdraw into the very fingertips that had so spectacularly sent it in the first place.

Larra slumped over in exhaustion. The events of the night had drained her and it was all she could do to drag her hand away from the man she had just healed. Her eyes were shut, her head bowed. She was barely aware of the queen rushing to the king’s side to see if the magic had worked.

Larra didn’t have to see if it worked; she knew that it had. She’d felt it in every fiber of her body. She vaguely heard the queen murmuring in a low voice to her beloved husband, but Larra continued to just sit there, mentally, physically and emotionally depleted of energy. She was too numb to even hear the key turning in the lock, or to recognize that the man quietly entering the chamber had a knife in his hand.

The faint scratching of his parents’ secret panel being opened awoke Christoff. He knew about the secret door, had played hide and seek in the tunnel with his sister when he was a lad. So it was not a complete surprise when his mother entered through that panel. But when a dark, cloaked figure followed her into the room, all senses went on alert.

Hidden by shadows cast from the fire, Christoff slowly and quietly sat up and pulled on his boots. He knew his mother would never hurt his father, but after years of training, he couldn’t help but be on guard because of the secrecy of it all. It wasn’t until a slender arm reached out from behind the cloak and placed a feminine hand upon his father’s forehead that Christoff began to suspect, incredibly, what his mother had done. The glow that proceeded forth was magnificent. It extended over his father’s whole body, lighting up the room in a symbol of what Christoff understood to be hope. He knew without a doubt that the cloaked figure was Larra and that she was using her magic to heal his father, her judge and potential executioner.

It was in that moment that Christoff knew for sure that Lucien had lied to him. Larra never intended to kill his father, and was, as he had been convinced before, innocent of any evil doing. Otherwise she would not have healed the very man who had the power to take her life.

The full impact of what Christoff had done slammed into him with the strength of a hundred armored men. He had betrayed Larra’s trust with his disbelief. He had
known
she was innocent, had even heard the words from the gnome. And despite all this, all it had taken was a few lies from his father’s counselor and Christoff rejected all he knew about the girl, willing to believe the worst of her. 

On some level, Christoff realized that it was the surprise of learning of his father’s situation and the intense worry that came with knowing that his father was about to die that had made him so ready to think Larra guilty. He recalled how he had treated her in the courtyard, calling her names, dismissing her as if she were the lowest of creatures. And of permitting her to be sent to the dungeon. Had he not believed Lucien’s lies, he would have seen her escorted to a clean, albeit, guarded room in the palace. Not that dark, filthy place of suffering.

Christoff wondered why Lucien had lied to him in the first place, what reasons he had for causing such mischief. He was so caught up in his thoughts and regrets that he barely heard the sound of footsteps approaching from outside the chamber door. 

He cocked his head and listened. No servant would come to the king’s door at this hour without being summoned. Casting a glance at his father’s bed, Christoff saw that the magic had stopped glowing. His mother had rushed to his father’s side and was cradling his head in her hands, while the cloaked figure sat quietly, slumped over in what looked like extreme exhaustion. Not wanting to draw attention to himself just yet, Christoff quietly rose to his feet and stepped to the door, where the sound of footsteps had ceased. 

Just as he reached it, the door was suddenly thrown open, the heavy wood sent crashing against the granite wall. A shadowed figure moved into the room, filling it with the presence of malevolence. The figure leapt forward and Christoff saw the glint of silver in the man’s hand. It was all the motivation he needed.

The two figures collided, one tall and slender and filled with an angry, desperate energy. The other equally as tall, but broader, younger, and filled with the intent to protect his family.

Christoff easily outweighed the intruder and the force of his attack allowed him to shove the man back into the nearest wall even as he grasped at the hand holding the pointed, lethal knife. His training kicked in and it was almost too easy to divest the intruder of his weapon. But that same training failed him when he lifted his head and got a good look at the intruder’s face in the light of the fire.

Because to his detriment, he paused.

“Lucien!”

He was so shocked to see that it was his mentor, his father’s best friend, that he didn’t catch Lucien’s fist before it slammed into his solar plexus.

His breath rushed out and pain shot through his chest. But even though his vision briefly blackened and he couldn’t breathe, he didn’t fall. He moved. Lucien had had enough time to skirt around Christoff and step toward the fallen knife, but that was all. Christoff tackled him, and the two went down.

Lucien was slim and weak, but he was a quick thinker and very aware of his surroundings. The fall had pushed him just far enough forward that he could wrap his fingers around the handle of the knife

And Christoff was sluggish enough from the well-placed hit that he was slow in stopping him.

“Lucien, no!” He barely registered his mother scream.

Lucien jerked up with the arm holding the knife. The weapon found its target and Christoff was sliced near the ribcage. The younger man stumbled back and gripped his side, which had already begun to bleed a steady, thick red.

The counselor raised the knife again.

“No!” came a shout from across the room, before a slender, cloaked figure thrust itself between the two men. Immediately, Lucien grabbed the figure and pulled back the hood to reveal a mass of thick, dark hair. Shoving her into the door of a tall armoire he gripped her by the shoulder with one hand and put his now bloodied knife to her slender throat.

“Witch,” came the accusing, out-of-breath voice. “You are like a splinter in my toe, bothersome and painful.”

Keeping the knife to her throat, Lucien turned toward the injured man. 

“Not another step, prince, or I’ll slice her pretty neck,” he sneered. “Oh, wait, I’m going to do it anyway.” His last words were said almost gleefully as he began to press down with the knife. No sooner did it begin to break the skin, than his arm was jerked back by a merciless Christoff.

The knife clattered to the ground as the two began to struggle again. Larra was knocked down, the cloak that had been grasped in Lucien’s free hand ripping from her and revealing the tatters of her dress and the long, recently healed scars on her back. This time, Christoff had the upper hand and succeeded in shoving his arm against Lucien’s throat and pinning him to the wall. Holding the pressure, Christoff glanced at Larra to see if she was all right, worried that the knife had cut her as it had been pulled from her throat. 

He was astounded at the sight of her ripped garments and the revealed scars marring her otherwise smooth, delicate skin.

Scars that could only be received from a serious lashing. 

“Who did that to you?” he whispered hoarsely, not knowing that the look of horror on his face could be misread as one of revulsion. He remembered the lies Lucien had told about the girl, the influence he had had on Christoff from the very beginning. Suddenly he knew. Glaring at Lucien, who was gasping for breath and clawing at Christoff’s muscular forearm, he asked, already knowing the answer, “Did you do that to her?” He watched as a sick smile slid across the counselor’s face.

“Too bad I couldn’t finish the job.”

In a sudden move, Christoff released Lucien from the choking bar of his arm, and brought his other arm back. Filled with rage, he slammed his fist into Lucien’s face with such strength that the man’s nose could be heard breaking clear across the room. 

Never before had Christoff lost control over his anger. It was like a fiery, raging bull, becoming more incensed with every second that its taunter was still alive. He struck at Lucien again and again, until the man lay defeated on the ground. And still he continued to pummel him.

Christoff briefly felt a hand on his shoulder and shrugged it off without a thought. He brought back his arm again, intent on continuing the pounding until Lucien lay dead at his feet, but the hand came a second time, clenching his shoulder in a tight grip. The deep, strict voice that followed caused Christoff to pause mid-strike.

“Enough now, son.”

Looking over his shoulder, Christoff saw his father standing next to him. Realization dawning, he slowly lowered his arm and his father’s grip on his shoulder was released.

The man before him did not resemble the pale, lifeless body that had lain on the bed earlier. This man was the healthy, vibrant king of Aggadorn.
The magic had worked!

With the haze of anger disintegrating, Christoff took stock of the room. His mother had risen to stand by the bed, horrified. Larra was huddled in the corner of the room, just beyond the armoire. Lucien lay in a battered heap on the floor, shallowly breathing with one eye already swollen completely shut.