Sword's Call (22 page)

Her cousin’s face was devoid of color. Avery panted to stave off panic, but Jorrin ignored the emotions as they rolled over his magic.

“Ash is gone.” Avery bent at the waist, hands on his knees and sucking in air.

“No,” Jorrin repeated. His lungs deflated. Every breath stabbed.

“Why would she leave Trikser? Avery demanded. His hands clenched into tight fists, his knuckles white.

Hadrian was still speaking to the wolf, trying to calm Cera’s bondmate. No one else was better equipped to communicate with the animal, but it didn’t make Jorrin feel any better.

Why would Cera be so reckless?

“To your feet, son,” Braedon ordered, tugging on his elbow. His father had recovered from his own shock; his features were set, expression determined.

“Trikser said she knocked him out with a spell. She’s got an hour or two lead on us,” Hadrian said, rejoining the group.

Avery covered his face with his hand, but Cera using the magic he’d taught her wasn’t his fault.

“Then we must hurry,” Braedon’s tone was firm.

Avery and Hadrian rushed to their horses.

Jorrin’s face was hot. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He forced a breath, then another, his chest aching.

How could she have just
left
?

Especially after last night. She’d given herself to him. He’d made love to her.
Showed
her how much he loved her.

Was it her sick way of saying goodbye?

His eyes smarted and he swallowed the sudden lump in this throat.

All the way to Tarvis, Cera had been determined, but finally seemed to accept that it wasn’t weak to work as a team, to let them help her.

Had it been lies?

No.

What happened?

“Father?”

Braedon startled. When the other man glanced at him, his eyes were wide. It was the first time Jorrin called him that since they’d been reunited. “Aye, son?” Jorrin’s father clasped his forearm.

“She’d better hope Varthan doesn’t kill her. When we catch up, I just might,” Jorrin choked out.

Chapter Seventeen

Lucan blinked. He sensed something, but then it was gone. He looked around the great hall, but nothing was out of the ordinary.

Lord Varthan was still dozing in Lord Everett’s intricately-carved chair at the head table on the raised dais.

Dagonet was watching, as he always did.

Athas and Markus were gone.

Markus had dragged that poor maid off somewhere because their master had barked to shut her up. Ironically, it’d saved her life for now.

No telling where Athas was, but he’d take a turn with the girl as well. Before the two had left, they’d argued over who deserved her virginity. Markus had already stolen that from Greta and Athas from the other girl.

Lucan trembled.

Why Lord Varthan hadn’t retired to the bedchamber he’d been occupying since they’d gotten there was a mystery. Lucan hadn’t seen Neysa lately, either. She’d been his master’s bedmate willingly, so at least Lord Varthan hadn’t beaten her, but Lucan still felt horrible for the girl. His master was rough in
everything
he did.

All four of the girls were unmarried and the one, Lucan thought her name was Jarina, couldn’t be much older than him.

Tears pricked his eyes, but he blinked them away. He wanted out, away from Lord Varthan and all the killing, beating and raping, but how could he get away from the master without being killed?

Lucan cocked his head to the side and listened harder. He’d felt a hint of magic, but then it was gone.

Nothing.

Just like the day the unidentified group had entered the Province through the Southgate.

They were there and then they weren’t.

He winced.

Lord Varthan had been so angry that Lucan hadn’t been able to see through whatever spell had been cast.

All four shades had joined together to try to find the invaders, to no avail.

How could a spell be undetectable to him?

It’d never happened before. He’d
always
been able to sense magic, and to interpret it.

It was Lucan’s gift.

Unfortunately, his
gift
was also his curse, and
why
Lord Varthan rarely let him out of his sight.

Glancing at Dagonet, Lucan tried to gauge whether the other shade had noticed anything. The older boy usually had keen senses, but at the moment didn’t seem to have sensed anything.

Lord Varthan hadn’t stirred from his nap, so Lucan would hold his tongue. Perhaps he’d been wrong.

However, he wouldn’t tell his master until he knew something definite. The lord would beat him for uncertainties.

Lucan felt Dagonet’s hazel gaze on him.

Flinching, he chided himself.

Dagonet wasn’t Athas.

His heart fluttered anyway.

“Lucan, come here.” Dagonet’s tone was a whisper, but an order nonetheless.

Dagonet glanced at the younger boy as he jumped. Lucan had felt something, though he’d said nothing.

Concentrating, Dagonet sucked in a breath.

Nothing.

What had Lucan sensed?

Once again, the lad’s abilities astonished him. Made him more determined than ever to get Lucan out of this alive.

And Lord Lenore. His promise to the duke would ring true. Hopefully King Nathal’s reinforcements would arrive sooner than later.

Lord Varthan expected Lady Ryhan, but Dagonet wasn’t so sure about that.

He hadn’t seen the lady in turns.

Would she even remember him?

If so, Dagonet’s mission was in jeopardy.

Though he’d spent a great deal of time with her father in Greenwald; Lady Ryhan, being a few turns older than his nineteen, had already joined the King’s Riders and was living in Terraquist.

No matter what, she needed to stay away. Probably had no idea the king was prepared to kill Varthan and save her family—avenge the ones they’d lost.

Under no circumstances could Varthan get his hands on the sword. With his abilities, Lucan had more than a fair chance of actually breaking the spell Lord Falor Ryhan, Dagonet’s former mentor, had placed on the awesome weapon.

The king and the Lords of the Provinces had debated for months whether or not to send someone in disguise to gather proof against Varthan.

Finally, after the former archduke’s betrayal had been made public and he’d been punished, it was decided Dagonet would go.

Dagonet had been with Varthan for two months when Lord Falor Ryhan had been murdered. The king had wanted him out immediately, as had Dagonet’s father. They’d been worried about discovery, but Dagonet had vehemently refused.

Lord Falor had been like a second father.

Dagonet had always been of a gentle nature—his healing magic had shaped him as a person—but something inside him snapped when he’d been told Varthan had killed his mentor’s wife and youngest daughter. Raped them.

Rage—uncharacteristic in its intensity—had washed over him, blinding reason.

Dagonet hadn’t given his father or the king a chance to pull him from his mission. He’d demanded retribution for the loss of the Ryhans. And it’d come to a head; he was about to get it.

It was probably a blessing the travesty had occurred while he was away on a recruiting mission for Varthan. He wouldn’t have been able to endure the slaughter of his mentor and his family. He’d have revealed himself that night, made an attempt on Varthan’s life.

Dagonet had managed to maintain detached control all this time, and he couldn’t throw it all away now. He’d love to be the one to thrust the sword into Varthan’s heart, but the king had claimed that honor.

Lord Lenore was sprawled on his side sleeping, thankfully appearing in a somewhat peaceful slumber. Each time Varthan injured him, Dagonet healed what bruises he could; each time the man awoke, the bastard beat him senseless again.

Dagonet had been ordered to leave the duke bruised and broken, but he’d heal Lord Lenore little by little, wishing he could force Lord Lenore into a state of unconsciousness to protect him. There was a way to force a deep sleep, but it was prone to produce long-term harm. Still, Dagonet did everything possible.

So far the evil man hadn’t noticed Lord Lenore didn’t look quite so black and blue.

His heart was sick over the death of the lord’s personal guard. He’d done what he could to end pain and suffering quickly, but Dagonet couldn’t save any of them from Markus and Athas.

Dagonet had dealt no death blows, only eased pain at the end. Varthan had been distracted with Lord Lenore, and he’d been lucky to have escaped detection by the other two shades.

To be caught would mean death, after slow torture. He couldn’t allow Varthan to discover his true identity. Dagonet had to protect all those he cared about and conceal the king’s plan.

Lucan jumped again.

Dagonet glanced at Varthan, who was sleeping soundly in Lord Lenore’s chair. He gestured the lad to come to him, instead of repeating a verbal command.

Would Lucan obey?

Varthan was a notorious light sleeper, and if he awoke, Lucan would be punished.

“What do you sense?” Dagonet kept his voice low.

The boy’s face flushed. “I . . . I don’t know,” Lucan sputtered.

“Come now, Lucan. I won’t tell Varthan, you have my word,” Dagonet said, his tone gentle. Damn, he’d forgotten to call Varthan
lord.

Had Lucan noticed?

Would the lad comment?

Lucan looked him up and down, visibly hesitating.

Even if he did succeed in getting him away from Varthan, how would Lucan ever be able to trust again? The boy was barely more than a child. Much too young to have endured what he’d already been through.

“It’s like the day I sensed them coming to Tarvis. They were there and then they were gone. I felt the same tingle.”

“A masking spell.” Dagonet sighed. His gut told him who’d cast the spell. He murmured a curse.

The healer bit back a cringe as he caught Lucan’s wide leaf-green eyes. His expression confirmed the lad had caught his sigh, as well as reference to Varthan without his former honorific.

Double damn.

The boy was sharp.

“Dagonet?”

“Aye?” His heart hammered and it ordered it to calm.

“Never mind.” Lucan shook his head.

Dagonet stared. “What is it, Lucan?”

Will he finally open up?

Lucan shook his head again, this time vigorously. “I think we have company. Even though I can’t say for sure, I think someone’s here.”

What could Dagonet say?

He didn’t like that the youngest shade was probably correct.

Shifting on his feet, Dagonet averted his eyes from Lucan’s much, much too insightful gaze. The lad was evaluating him, his unusual clear green eyes showing great maturity for their turns.

“Tristan . . .” Lucan whispered.

Dagonet planted his feet to stave off the stagger, fighting for composure.

Lucan
knew.

Blanching, Tristan hesitantly met Lucan’s eyes.

What should he say?

No denying it, not with the reaction he’d just given.

How had the boy known his real name?

Tristan had never seen Lucan before being accepted as one of Varthan’s best.

“Your name isn’t Dagonet.” Lucan spoke so low that Tristan had to strain his ears to hear.

He didn’t want to harm Lucan, but just how far did the tremulous trust between them extend?

His instincts shouted Tristan still needed to protect the lad.

How much he could reveal safely to Lucan?

What will it take to get the boy to turn on Varthan?

Tristan would keep protecting him from the evil man as much as he could without being detected. “No, it’s not,” he admitted finally, forcing a breath.

“Who are you?”

“Tristan Dagget.” He prayed to the Blessed Spirit he could trust this lad.

“As in Lord Dagget of Berat?”

“He’s my father. I’m the third son.”

Tristan latched onto Lucan’s arm as the boy’s knees buckled. The youngest shade looked up at him. He’d no idea he’d lost his balance.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Only shocked. You could’ve been killed, you know.
Will be
if they find out.” Lucan’s green eyes were wide, dark hair mussed.

“I’m well aware of that. He has to be stopped, Lucan, and I’ll get you away from this.” Tristan made a vow to Lucan.

The look on the boy’s face told him he’d recognized it.

Good.

“How can I help?”

Tristan fought a gape.

He can’t be serious . . .

“I’m not a betrayer. I . . . only want out. I’ve never been his, not truly.”

“I’ve never thought ill of you, Lucan. I sensed your fear of him the first day.”

“Thank you,” the boy whispered.

Tristan smiled, wanting to drag Lucan into his arms.

Had he even ever been hugged?

Touched with a gentle hand instead of a kick or a punch?

With the affection of an older brother, or a father? Even his mother?

He’d not known him very long, but Tristan could easily see the lad as a younger brother.

Lucan’s eyes shone with unshed tears. He sniffled and wiped at his nose.

Tristan said nothing, even Lucan had his pride.

Given what the boy had been through, he could probably fill a lake with tears and rightly so, but Lucan was stronger than he knew.

Tristan squeezed his shoulder gently and Lucan smiled.

Even one smile from the lad’s a start.

Chapter Eighteen

Markus growled, rubbing his throbbing head.

The bitch was here.

She’d kept him from his conquest.

Stomping his feet as he tried to stand, Markus almost toppled over. He cursed long and hard. Has to grip the side of the nearest stall to keep from falling onto the pile of hay. The spot was supposed to have been where he bedded the pretty little maid.

The ache in his loins had gone unsatisfied.

He’d kill that bitch, no matter what his master said.

Maybe Markus would have some fun with her first, though.

“What the hell happened to you?” Athas bit at him, striding into the barn. The other shade looked around. “You let her go?” His voice was full of venom.