Chapter Eight

They arrived in Tarvis faster than Lucan had thought possible, but as they entered Tarvis Main, it was obvious their arrival had been foreseen. Someone had evacuated all the townspeople, even from the slums.

Lord Varthan would be angry.

Lucan stifled a wince.

His master chuckled, and he jumped in his saddle.

Dagonet caught his gaze and stared for a moment, but the older shade said nothing.

“Dagonet, Markus, and Athas, each of you take a direction and scout the city. Take notice of anyone or anything that may post a threat to us and dispose of it. Lucan stays with me. Report back at city center in two hours.”

“Yes, milord,” the eldest of the four, Athas said, inclining his head and turning his black stallion south.

Dagonet went east and Markus west, leaving Lord Varthan and Lucan to the north.

“What do you see?” his master barked.

The blood drained from his face under the weight of Lord Varthan’s stare.

“Well? Tell me where magic is, boy.”

Lucan shifted in his saddle as the lord growled at him, but he wouldn’t even think of delaying his master’s demands. He closed his eyes, searching for magic. Lucan gripped the pommel of his saddle for balance.

He was able to probe great distances, taking mental notice when the source of magic was significant. He passed over his fellow shades, seeing them riding, their magical auras glowing with the different colors of their strengths.

Searching toward the castle—the center of the normally busy Province—he saw the sign announcing Castle Lenore.

His magical senses surged, jerking him in his saddle.

A great source detected his magic and immediately shut him out. He couldn’t probe further.

Something wasn’t right. He’d been shut out?

Unheard of.

He tried again, asserting more energy, but was once again rejected. Lucan’s temples throbbed. It wasn’t often he had to work so hard with his magic. He squared his shoulders, narrowing the scope of his energy, concentrating solely on breaching the magic inside the castle.

Body thrumming, his head pounded. Lucan’s chest ached with the effort to breathe normally, and he ignored the burning in his lungs as he pushed one more powerful surge of magic against the spell. He was, yet again, shut out.

I’m getting nowhere.

The protection spell was very powerful, thick with control. Whoever had put it in place had a great deal of skill. It’d take an amazing amount of power to breach it, and only if he and the other three shades cast together. He wiped the sweat from his brow and forced a few deep breaths. How could he tell his master?

He’d seen firsthand that anyone could outlive their usefulness to the man, and it scared him to death.

Lucan wanted out.

But how could that ever be possible?

Lord Varthan never had him far from his side.

He’d do his best always to be useful to him.

“The city is deserted, my lord,” Lucan said.

“I can see that,” his master snapped.

“There is only one place I sense magic. In the castle.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Lord Varthan said. Statement, not question.

Lucan heart’s galloped in his small chest. “My lord . . .” He winced.

“Go on.”

Swallowing hard, Lucan forced himself to sit still in his saddle. His knuckles were white from his tight grip on the reins. “Whoever it is . . . is very powerful. There’s a very complicated protection spell cast over the castle. My probing could not penetrate it.”

Lord Varthan laughed.

Long and Hard.

Lucan froze as he unwittingly met his master’s dark eyes.

“It looks like the bitch’s family is playing for keeps.”

Gulping, a tremor shimmied down his spine. He didn’t answer his master.

 

****

 

The other three shades met them in front of Castle Lenore, exactly as instructed.

“What did you find?” Lord Varthan barked.

Athas sneered at Lucan before bowing to their master from in his saddle. “I did not come across so much as a dog, milord. They cleaned out the whole Province—Main, Upper and Lower to the south.” He inclined his head and looked at his two younger companions.

Lucan had felt the disdain Athas had sent his way, but he couldn’t retaliate.

Athas was older and bigger, and would clobber him even if he’d had the guts to try anything. His magic was much more powerful than Athas’s, so Lucan took quiet victory in that.

“Even the inns, no smoke in the chimneys to the west,” Markus said, but failed to bow.

Lord Varthan will smack him for sure.

“I also did not encounter anyone, or feel anything, my lord.” Dagonet inclined his head as Markus should have.

The lord scanned their group, but this time Lucan was not a part of his master’s all-encompassing gaze. He cleared his throat. “Lucan, brief them on the shield.”

Nodding, he closed his eyes and broadcast his memory and feelings into the minds of Athas, Markus and Dagonet. Showing them was easier than telling them, and they’d be able to judge the power of the spell if they experienced his memory of it.

All three of the older boys looked at him, astonishment written in their expressions. They’d comprehended the complexity of the spell over the castle.

“That is a great deal of power,” Dagonet mused.

“It will not be a problem,” Lord Varthan said, but his tone called for the shade’s opinion.

“No, my lord,” Dagonet said. “It’ll take effort and strategy to break through it, but I don’t see that it’s impossible.”

Lucan looked Dagonet up and down. The older boy was almost as powerful as him.

What would it take for their master to consider him as invaluable as Lord Varthan currently saw Lucan?

He was envious that Dagonet could get away from their master as he saw fit.

“Athas, did you see a proper inn?” Lord Varthan glanced away from Lucan and Dagonet.

“Yes, deserted, of course, but not far from here.”

“Lead the way.” Varthan kicked his horse.

“Milord?” Dagonet inquired.

“We will need to rest before you take the spell down,” Varthan growled. Their master did not like to be questioned.

The older boy gave a curt nod.

Lucan urged his horse to follow, saying nothing and making sure he was between Dagonet and their master so Athas couldn’t have open access to him.

No shade other than Dagonet actually questioned Lord Varthan and escaped punishment.

He glanced over his shoulder to find Dagonet’s hazel eyes steadily regarding him.

Lucan looked away, shifting in his saddle.

He was relieved their master was allowing them to rest. Although he’d not gotten anywhere when he’d probed for magic, exhaustion from the energy he’d expended was paramount. And their master was well aware magic was stronger if a body was rested.

Lord Varthan had pressed the shades hard to get to Tarvis, and they all could use a hearty meal and a real bed.

Not that Lucan ever complained, but he would be happy to lay his head on a real pillow. It’d been quite a while.

Hopefully his master would let him have his own room.

Or at least a room away from Athas.

“There will be no people there, milord,” Athas said.

“Less coin to pay for the room.” Lord Varthan gave a humorless laugh.

Markus and Athas exchanged a nervous glance and Lucan gulped.

Dagonet was the only one that seemed unbothered, but that just made Lucan shift in his saddle even more.

 

****

 

Braedon rode hard.

He was worried he was asking too much of Roan, for his stallion was rather elderly. He had to get there.

Patting the horse named for his color, he urged him to greater speed.

If he pushed Roan, he risked taking longer; the old stallion wouldn’t survive injury, but he didn’t want to stop. He was a good hard three days’ ride away from the center of the call’s location.

“I’m sorry, lad, but we’ve a call to answer. It’s important, I promise.” He leaned closer to Roan’s neck to ease his horse.

The stallion was dear to him. His horse was two turns older than his son and had accompanied him when he’d fled Aramour.

Roan was the only sense of home that remained with Braedon every day.

When he’d left his family, he’d honestly believed he would never see them again. His heart beat faster. He’d see his son, after all these turns.

He kicked himself for questioning the call for two days.

Dreams had continued to haunt him, so Braedon had blamed it on that. Meditating to clear his mind, he’d seen it. Like a slap in the face. Obvious. And Braedon was an idiot.

Very clearly . . . three magical auras . . . calling to him.

The first was familiar. Hadrian, his mentor and very old friend.

The second had a magical trail not so different from his own. Jorrin had to be at the center of the call.

Braedon wasn’t familiar with the third, but the call was being simulcast, so it couldn’t be hostile magic.

The desperation in the call was palpable.

What in the Blessed Spirit’s Name could be wrong?

He needed to get there now.

The call didn’t come from Aramour. It was from somewhere due east—near Berat the best he could figure.

Why aren’t they in Aramour?

He hadn’t been that far east in turns.

Braedon had learned how to mask his trail with more skill than Hadrian had ever been able to teach him.

The first spell covered his trail for almost two turns. Then they’d found him again, but hadn’t caught him.

He’d improvised even more with his magic afterward, learning to devise even more powerful masking spells. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have survived.

Braedon had tried to cast an answer to let them know he was on his way, but the magic was closed, a signal only.

The call was surrounded in a protection spell that carried the signature of the first presence. Hadrian had left considerable power in it, not even friendly magic could enter.

Generally if magic was closed, it was so dark magic couldn’t intercept the energy or harm the sender.

Nature of the spell mattered not.

Is Hadrian afraid of dark magic?

The situation had to be dire, because his old friend was usually not afraid to open cast.

Why had they left Aramour?

Was Vanora with them?

Was she all right?

Was Jorrin?

His heart thundered in time with Roan’s hoof beats.

What the hell could be going on?