Chapter Twenty-three

Lucan stopped struggling against the large man who had seized him, but he needed to get back into the great hall.

The man would have to understand he wanted to help.

Why hadn’t his magical senses warned him before very large strong arms had enclosed him from behind?

Suddenly he was free and he whirled on his captor, holding up his hand and flinging a spell to repel the man.

The man was ready for his attack, yelling a spellword.

When their magic met between them it stalled, disappearing after bursting into a bright light that caused them both to squint.

Lucan looked up at the tall man, glaring into his amber eyes. “I have to get back.” He extended his hands so he could strike if necessary.

“I don’t think so, lad.”

Why hadn’t the man stunned him?

Lucan gasped.

“You don’t understand. I need to help Tristan. If Markus finds out he’s not really a shade, he’ll kill him. And the girl. I have to help the girl.”

His stare intense, the man’s brows drew together tightly.

Lucan’s magical senses perked awake.

This man believed him.

This man was an empath and knew he was telling the truth.

His magic told him the man was a very powerful empath.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Lucan.” He looked him up and down.

The man meant him no harm, but he wanted to convince him he could be a help, not a hindrance. Lucan’s open mind would show the empath he spoke the truth.

How had the man been able to grab him without a magical alert?

“I cast a masking spell.”

“A masking spell that I cannot sense,” Lucan said, more to himself than to the man.

“It took me turns to perfect it, and yes, it’s usually totally safe from all magical detection,” the empath said. “It is possible to shield your thoughts, lad.”

“I know. I will as soon as I’m convinced you believe me. I need to get back and help. Markus becomes more powerful the angrier he gets; It’s part of his magic. Athas can detect lies and knows many spells, even if he doesn’t have the power I do, but he’s excellent with a sword and he doesn’t fight fair. The same is true of Lord Varthan. I have to help Tristan.” Lucan took a breath. That was the most he’d spoken at once, probably ever.

“I believe you, lad.”

“I need to go. Now.”

“Braedon, you’re needed!”

The accented shout took Lucan’s attention from the tall man. He gasped when he saw the elf. His magical senses surged. This elf was more powerful than the teachers at the shade compound.

Head throbbing with power, Lucan’s hands tingled, his body starting to warm. Soon his skin would glow if he didn’t shut his magic down. Just probing the elf gave his own magic a jolt of energy, and the elf wasn’t even all that close to him.

He wasn’t very large.

Lucan, small for his age, was probably taller, but he didn’t get time to observe the elf because the elf had soon disappeared into the secret passageway, wild white hair flying about his form as he ran.

 

****

 

Braedon swore. He should’ve convinced Jorrin to take the lad, but his son wouldn’t be deterred from joining Cera.

The shade was staring at him with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen.

A child indeed.

As soon as Braedon had closed his arms around him he knew the lad wasn’t evil. He was possibly the most powerful being he had ever encountered. The youngest shade’s magical aura radiated bright light.

Did Lucan even know what he was capable of?

He had little doubt this one could shatter the spell on Cera’s sword without breaking a sweat.

Braedon gave him a long look. “I feel you speak the truth, but if somehow your magic is tricking me into believing a lie, you’ll not be spared, despite your youth.”

Lucan squared his shoulders and stood taller. “I’m not lying. I’ll help you and I’ll help Tristan. He promised to get me out of this, but I don’t think he can do it alone.”

Braedon gave a curt nod and guided Lucan in front of him.

The moment they reentered the great hall, the lad screamed with rage and ran away from him.

The dark-haired healer was in a fight for his life, a fight full of magic and swords, with the fair-haired shade they’d seen torturing Cera’s uncle.

Lucan ran forward without a care for himself and shouted a spell so fast Braedon couldn’t have understood the words if he’d tried.

The fair-haired shade flew into the air at break-neck speed, and then was hurled down, slamming to the floor so hard his head bounced.

Dead instantly.

Braedon winced.

The littlest shade was seething, shaking hard and gasping for breath.

Braedon went to him and slipped his hands onto the lad’s shoulders to calm him.

Lucan said nothing. The lad had never killed before, no matter how long he’d been a shade. Large green eyes locked onto his, unshed tears shining, threatening to spill over. The lad trembled, but didn’t push Braedon’s hands away.

The healer dropped his sword and collapsed, exhausted, but mostly unharmed.

“You betraying little whelp. I will kill you,” Varthan shouted.

The fact the evil man was surrounded by Cera, Avery, Jorrin, Hadrian and Trikser didn’t seem to dim his anger.

Varthan brandished his sword, but made no move away from his would-be captors, eyeing the white wolf more than the others.

Hadrian cast a containment bubble, but the elf was tired, pale and panting. It wouldn’t last long.

“No, I will kill you!” Lucan glared, shoving Braedon’s hands off his shoulders and rushing forward.

The lad lifted his arm, hand already glowing.

He slipped into a concentration.

Braedon took a step back, squinting against Lucan’s magic.

Chanting, the lad shined more brightly with each passing second.

 

****

 

Everything happened at once.

Varthan leapt forward, crashing through Hadrian’s bubble spell as the doors to the great hall were thrown open. The elf wizard tumbled to his rear end, but cursed and scrambled to his feet again, wiping his bushy brow and yanking his dark brown tunic straight.

Armed men, all holding swords at the ready, poured into the vast room.

Avery was knocked to the ground, shouting in pain and gripping his arm.

Varthan’s blind strike had sliced Avery’s upper arm. Cera’s cousin rolled out of the way of stomping feet and uttered a curse.

Varthan whirled, his sword ready, looking about to see who would fight him next.

When everyone seemed too stunned to move, he continued his stalk toward the youngest shade.

“Varthan,” someone shouted.

Cera’s jaw dropped open when she saw King Nathal, his sword drawn and pointed at Varthan. He didn’t have a helmet on; his tawny hair framed his face like a lion’s mane. His pale blue eyes flashed; his large chest was covered in mail and armor, breeches the bright blue of Terraquist, and a shield on his arm. It depicted a roaring lion and a blue flag, the seal of the capital.

She couldn’t move for a moment, but then chided herself for allowing a distraction and refocused on Varthan.

He was free of their circle now, but wouldn’t go far.

The king’s men encircled the room, and all exits were blocked.

But Varthan was desperate and aware his own mortality was staring him in the face. He changed direction and charged Cera with an angry shout.

She was barely able to meet his strike. Her arms shook from the energy needed to block his sword, and she sensed Trikser’s bristle from somewhere behind her.

Her wolf’s growl was low and steady, but she couldn’t focus on him. Nor could her bondmate save her this time, because there was too much risk of harming her.

Varthan’s body was too close.

The evil bastard cursed as he pushed her back, sword locked against hers.

How much longer could Cera’s arms hold him away from her body?

“You bitch. You’ve ruined everything. You’ve killed my son.”

She was amazed at his physical strength. Cera couldn’t have spoken if she wanted to, panting with the effort to stay on her feet.

“Get away from her,” the little shade bellowed, throwing his arm up and screaming a spell.

Varthan’s body whipped up and away, his dark eyes wide, face paling as his arms and legs scrambled for purchase and only flapped in the air. His sword clattered to the tiled floor of the great hall.

Cera stumbled backward, losing her footing and tumbling to the floor. She winced as her sword went flying and pain radiated in her rear end.

She looked up at Varthan, suspended in the air much as her uncle had been; limbs involuntarily spread wide, and then glanced at the boy.

The tiny shade wasn’t fearful like when Varthan had ordered him to probe her mind.

He wasn’t weak, either.

His clear green eyes flashed with pent-up rage.

The boy would kill Varthan if no one stopped him. He’d already taken one life.

Varthan needed to die, but not by the youngster’s hand.

Jorrin rushed to her side and pulled her to her feet.

She flashed a smile of thanks and refocused on Varthan whose face and body were contorted in pain. Cera didn’t feel anything as she watched, her love at her side.

Everyone in the room had eyes transfixed on the glowing little shade and Varthan; stunned into a silence that was partly because of the youth’s strength and partly because the former archduke was being betrayed by one of his own.

“Lucan, no, not you!” The healer rushed forward, but it was too late.

The boy was concentrating so hard his figure was consumed by his glowing aura. He was a ball of light.

Many of the others put their hands up to cover their faces from the radiance, but Cera stared, unable to tear her eyes away.

Varthan’s head was thrown back, his dark eyes popping out of his skull.

Several people, Cera included, winced at the resounding snap, followed by various cracking and popping sounds as Varthan’s spine was crushed.

She trembled as the awful noises went on forever, every bone in his body pulverized. The bastard slumped and the boy dropped his arm.

He fell to the ground like a pile of rags.

Varthan was dead.

It was too simple.

There was no blood, no torture.

Too good a death for him.

She half wanted to grab her sword and run him through, ensuring he couldn’t get up.

It wasn’t supposed to be so easy for him to die . . .

Relief warred with regret as tears threatened.

Her knees buckled and Cera collapsed.

She was in Jorrin’s arms in seconds as hot tears streaked down her cheeks.

Why am I crying?

Trikser walked circles around the two of them, whimpering, but Cera couldn’t comfort her wolf until she gathered her thoughts.

“It’s over, love,” Jorrin whispered, stroking her hair.

Words deserted her.

A child killed him.

A child had done what she was supposed to do.

She looked into Jorrin’s blue eyes, reading worry there.

Commotion in the hall brought her head around.

Her aunt, uncle and Avery were in a tight embrace, not far from them.

Neomi, hand-in-hand with Gamel and two other young maids had also entered the great hall with a smattering of people.

It was a relieved chaos, knights and her uncle’s servants everywhere.

She had to say something to Jorrin. Cera didn’t like his expression. “I’m all right.”

Nodding, he helped her to her feet and wrapped her tightly against his chest.

She held on, needing his physical strength to compose herself. Leaning up, she brushed her lips against his.

Jorrin returned the soft kiss with one of his own.

When she pulled away, he smiled and she suddenly felt much better.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“Anytime.” Jorrin released her.

Cera turned to her wolf, patting his head and sending him thoughts of love. She asserted she was all right. Giving him a scratch behind one ear, she told him he needed a bath.

Trik sat at Jorrin’s side, and she admonished him to stay there as she surveyed the room.

She wiped the tears from her eyes as she caught sight of the littlest shade. Cera needed to say something to him.

Lucan, the healer had called him.

Jorrin followed her gaze. “Go ahead, love.”

Cera flashed a smile and headed to him.

The little shade was standing with the healer and Braedon. Devastation dominated his expression, as it did Braedon’s.

“Lucan,” she called.

The greenest eyes she’d ever seen met her gaze, tears on his cheeks. Gathering the boy into her arms without hesitation, Cera pulled him close.

His surprise lasted for a second—then his arms snaked around her waist and she squeezed him tighter. The boy’s head didn’t quite reach her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his soft dark hair, her breath causing movement that tickled her nose.

Lucan looked up and shook his head.

The impact of what he’d done was hurting him.

Cera could feel it, even though she was no empath. She looked at Braedon. He, too, felt everything Lucan did.

The boy didn’t know how to hide his anguish.

“Lucan, you saved us. All of us. You did what I couldn’t. You saved Dagonet, and the rest of my family.”

“Tristan . . .” Lucan whispered, glancing at the healer.

“Tristan?” The name clicked. “Tristan Dagget,” Cera breathed, releasing Lucan.

“I couldn’t tell you, Lady Ryhan,” the healer said, taking a step forward and holding out his hand.

Cera shook it and met his eyes. “I can’t believe I didn’t know you,” she said more to herself than to him.

She glanced at Braedon, who smiled and pulled Lucan to his side, throwing an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

Lucan looked up at Jorrin’s father and offered him a tremulous smile.

“With as much time as I spent in Greenwald and with your father, I’m surprised I was able to pull it off.” Tristan grinned, his hazel eyes twinkling and lightening the serious expression on his handsome face.

Cera met and held his gaze.

They both thought of her father and his expression was suddenly fraught with sadness.

“I miss him so much . . .” she whispered.

Tristan squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then nodded. “As do I. He was as much a father to me as my own . . .”

Braedon paled, his expression pained. The apple of this throat bobbed as he swallowed.

She flashed a smile. “Sorry, Braedon. It’s a wonder you don’t go hide in a cave.”

Jorrin’s father chuckled. “I have before, lass.” Braedon smiled, looking a great deal like Jorrin at that moment.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Lord Tristan, this is Braedon Aldern,” Cera said. “Braedon, Lord Tristan Dagget, son of the Duke of Berat, and a former ward of my father.”

The two men murmured greetings and shook hands. They fell into comfortable conversation, Lucan shifting from foot to foot.

Braedon gave the boy a comforting squeeze against his side and Cera suspected Jorrin just might have an adopted little brother when all was done.

King Nathal wouldn’t punish Lucan, but the boy would likely have nowhere to go.

Cera would take him back to Greenwald if Braedon or Tristan didn’t claim him. She owed Lucan her life.

“Tristan.” The Lord of Berat himself, Dugald Dagget strode over, his expression a mix of relief and pride.

Same hazel eyes, rich brown hair, even lean muscular build, Tristan resembled the tall, thin man so much there was no mistaking their relationship.

“Speaking of my father . . . If you’ll excuse me, Master Aldern, Lady Ryhan.”

“Just Cera,” she muttered.

Tristan nodded and flashed a smile. He grabbed Lucan’s hand. “Come, Lucan. I want you to meet my father.”

The boy blanched, but placed his hand in Tristan’s.

Cera smiled encouragingly and glanced at Braedon.

Jorrin’s father smiled at Lucan as well, fondness in his expression.

She didn’t have to worry about the boy after all.