Chapter 2

  Earlier

  Lirrin’s skin already crawled with the malevolent feel of the death-magic spiraling in waves of cold darkness from the center of the city, Darcaen Castle. And he couldn’t even see the blasted place, yet.

  At last, his horse crested the hill that looked down over the wide and wasted valley before him. In the hazy orange glow of the lowering sun, Darcaen City spilled messily from its own walls in the distance.

  The road, such that it was, was busy, carts and wagons creaking, the passing people watching him warily. Above, only one of the four moons showed; tiny red Aenohr ran visibly across the sky. To Lirrin’s left lay the western branch of the Shillialoran mountains. Darcaen lay snuggled up to the foothills while not quite in them. To the east the mountains picked back up as if nothing had happened, and they hadn’t been broken by a large depression at all.

  The valley looked worse.

  Lirrin gritted his teeth at the sight. The wreckage of nature assaulted him, despite the poor lighting. The valley was as dry as the result of a brutal Fire Ward season, yet spring equinox wasn’t yet a month past. Fuck. Only forty days. Summer was still a long time away. What would the valley look like after this year’s summer was done with them? The few bushes out there had already shriveled, grass yellow and crispy-looking. He didn’t see a hint of animal activity, either. How the land could be so damn dry and the air so humid at the same time, he had no idea.

  With an inner quiver for what he’d find, Lirrin shifted his mind to mage-sight, looking at the Fires of Life below. While the Eldritch was an inferno of life energy in the core, near the surface of Aea, it ran like rivers of power, leylines for mages to use. If they weren’t death-mages.

  Those leylines weren’t here. At least not any more. Like empty river ravines, the leylines were dried husks. Just like the land before him.

  Damn death-magic. Didn’t she know?

  No. Auzhua likely didn’t know. And if she did, she clearly didn’t give a shit.

  Of course she didn’t. Queen Auzhua only saw her lust for the power of the Phoenix.

  “Flames,” he hissed to himself.

  The mare’s delicate ears flicked back at his voice as she shifted uneasily beneath him. Lirrin patted her neck. “It’s alright, girl,” he soothed. She was new to him, and he’d had to break her quickly, a difficult task for an animal not used to death-magic. As a Blade, he was soaked in it. She’d been terrified, and his Animal Speech had been the only reason he’d convinced her. Thankfully she’d settled and trusted him now.

  The sound of his soldiers nearing reached him, and he turned in his saddle to scowl at the lot. Once again, they lagged. At the front rode General Ahlger. And that damn Blade. He met Ahlger’s gaze, who gave a tiny nod. The General absently listened to the orange-cloaked Blade beside him—was only doing so to keep the man out of Lirrin’s hair.

  Speaking of hair… Lirrin gave one of his fellow Tor Elves a hard stare as his waist-length strands stirred in the stiff breeze. The man saw his frown and hastily braided it.

  Lirrin didn’t have to look at the Blade to know the man watched him covertly. Well—covertly to his mind, anyway. He’d noticed that this particular Blade didn’t have much of a brain. Of course, it didn’t take much of one to watch, listen, and spit out what he’d observed.

  This Blade was one of those sadistic fucks that enjoyed his job for the fun of butchering people, rather than the gathering of magic. He didn’t have much magical skill, either; barely more than Lirrin. The man had used the excuse of a mere two-day ride to refuse a Portal. Everyone in Lirrin’s command knew the Blade didn’t have the strength to make one. The man could have asked for another Blade to create a Portal, but he’d shrugged and mentioned two days again.

  Everyone in his command also knew he wanted to get Lirrin into trouble.

  Honestly, Queen Auzhua often found reasons to rage at Lirrin for no reason at all.

  Also honestly, Lirrin could’ve requested a Portal himself. A two day delay before he was required to bow before his queen was worth her getting pissed. If she was as busy as he suspected, she wouldn’t have time to try to torment him for the wait.

  When his men had caught up, Lirrin nudged his mare, who immediately turned to the side in fear. Patiently he reined her in a circle away from the city and then back. She gave a hop of protest, but settled as they started down the slow decline of the hill.

  Running his gaze over the outer city, he noted new construction. Darcaen had evicted from the original walls certain more objectionable trades, such as the tanner and the nightmen’s headquarters and pits. Lirrin snorted to himself. As if the inside stank any less, with open sewers in the poor districts, refuse from markets, and the fear, terror, and death.

  It took an hour to reach the outer metropolis, the sun racing for the mountain horizon. Lirrin didn’t mind. If he got to the castle late, he wouldn’t have to worry about seeing the queen ‘til morning.

  Even more delay. He’d take it.

  The thirty-foot high city walls, like the castle and castle walls, were built of dark-gray granite wrenched from nearby mountain quarries. Between the humidity and the dark stone, Darcaen became a heat-sink in summer. He could feel the radiant warmth dozens of feet away. And it was only spring.

  As he rode between the massive gates, Lirrin was washed over by the immediate increase in the stench. Definitely worse inside. No breeze.

  Drawing rein just inside the gate, Lirrin looked around, found his men far back again. That Blade! Lirrin met Ahlger’s gaze with narrowing eyes. The man nodded and kneed his horse to a trot. The Blade squawked in protest and scurried to catch up. Lirrin might not be in a hurry to get to the castle, but having their unit straggling across the city was begging for trouble. The ever-bolder Rebellion never hesitated to take advantage of a weakness

  Weaving through the noisy urban surroundings, they passed the slums, the poor, the lower-middle-class and merchants, markets, crossed bridges over man-made tributaries of the river that passed through the city. They rode past rich houses and parks, past the noble’s houses—which honestly could be home to either crime lords or criminal Lords. Lirrin discounted them all. Right now he focused hard on ignoring his growing queasiness as with every step, the death-magic grew worse.

  Dammit, I am not on a boat.

  The sun had set, with night sweeping in, by the time they reached the Castle walls—and the nausea took effort to suppress.

  The young mare balked at the gates. Lirrin gave her a gentle nudge, but she was having none of it. The death-magic was just too strong. Using his Animal Speech, the one area of magic that he was good at, Lirrin soothed her mind, turning her in several circles, talking softly to her the whole time. As she came out of the last circle, he kneed her firmly. “Come on.” She gave a sideways crabbing motion, eyes rolling, her tail tucked, ears back, and she jumped over the threshold as if leaping a downed log.

  Lirrin patted her neck. “I know, little one,” he murmured to her. “I don’t wanna be here either.” Her ears flicked to his voice, her mind nearly in a panic that he quickly soothed. Her simple mind clung to his, her trust in him all that kept her from bolting back the way they’d come.

  Torches had already been lit and placed, highlighting the people scurrying everywhere through the once gracious courtyard. The place was currently messy with piles of horse crap and puddles of piss. Not to mention…

  Well, that’s new.

  His father must have gotten fed up with the dangerous disrepair and ordered it refurbished in sections, laborers working under the strict eyes of a foreman despite the late hour. Lirrin rode the mare straight to the stable yard to the left of the gate, away from the wide rounded stairs of the Castle’s main doors.

  “Irroc!” someone called into the hubbub.

  Lirrin gritted his teeth at the sound of the Prince’s name, the nausea ratcheting up, nearly gagging him. Saliva pooled in preparation of retching. Again, he suppressed the need to vomit.

  He dismounted at the entrance to the stable, giving Ahlger the signal for him to settle the men. He also gave the signal for disposal then glanced at the Blade.

  Ahlger nodded with a tiny smile, eyes tightening with amusement.

  Lirrin turned and led his horse into the stable, down the aisle, relieved for a moment by the pleasant scent of sweet hay and horses. In the stall once occupied by his battle steed, he fed her well, which calmed her right down. While she noisily chewed her oats, Lirrin made certain she had clean water before he put down fresh flakes of alfalfa for her.

  When Lirrin was done, he offered her the apple he hadn’t eaten at lunch. “Good ride, girl,” he murmured in her ear as she put her forehead against his chest. He wanted to scratch her ears, wanted to show her an affection she would recognize, but…not here. He knew better. Those he cared about had a tendency to die, here in Darcaen.

  “Still talkin’ to animals, lad?” his mentor asked outside the stall.

  Lirrin wasn’t surprised he’d shown up. Nahcin was aware of everything in Darcaen. “Yes, sir. It’s a handy skill.”

  “She seems a bit small.”

  Lirrin pulled a twig from her mane. “She’s solid, though, sir. My geldin’ died. I had to find and break a new one quickly. She’s fast, agile, intelligent, and strong. I couldna ask for better. She may be young, but I’m not heavy enough to hurt her.”

  Nahcin entered the stall with a snort, shooting a disapproving look at Lirrin with a shake of his head. “Uh huh.”

  Damn. He was in for it now. His old mentor saw it; Lirrin hadn’t been eating well lately.

  Running practiced hands over the mare’s chest and shoulder, he nodded. “She’s got good form.”

  Lirrin lifted one hoof to inspect. “Why did she summon me, Nahcin?” he asked, voice low. The hoof was clean, so he dropped it and straightened, meeting the old man’s gaze at last. Nahcin, always old in Lirrin’s memory, seemed ancient now.

  And that hurt. Nahcin was his mentor, friend, protector and taskmaster in one. He didn’t want to lose him. How old was Nahcin now? Old enough to be many years into his retirement; eight to be exact. Old, yet still sharp. Something Lirrin depended on.

  Nahcin smirked. “Family’s in town.”

  Lirrin scowled at him. Definitely sharp, the asshole. He knew damn well Lirrin didn’t consider those evil fucks his family.

  Nahcin’s expression turned gentle in understanding. He knew better than anyone how Lirrin felt, except Lirrin’s father, Ranniel, who shared Lirrin’s opinion, if quietly. “She called them in, didn’t bother tellin’ your father, and dropped their entire retinue in his hands. He was rightfully upset and let her know. She didn’t take his public scoldin’ very well, so he took to his bed.”

  Lirrin grimaced. Queen Auzhua left the castle functions—and truthfully, most of the ruling of the kingdom—to his father. But Prince Consort Ranniel had protested her actions. And she’d punished him for it.

  It certainly wasn’t the first time for either the protest, or the punishment.

  What was unusual was the invitation to Auzhua’s Laeveren kin. Prince Honlin, her uncle, was the only one who visited with any frequency. Too much frequently. The man had a permanent suite in the castle, and lived there half-the-year. Still, the rest had only come once or twice. Auzhua’s old-as-dirt and evil-as-fuck grandfather was the only member of her family who’d never come to the Aedannean continent at all.

  Lirrin restrained the shiver caused by memory of that old man. Auzhua’s darkness was infantile compared to him.

  Lirrin gave the mare a little pat as he picked up the brush, giving her coat long, firm strokes as he waited. Nahcin wasn’t done.

  One wrinkled, age-spotted hand absently rubbed the mare’s forehead. Nahcin’s tone turned serious. “I don’t know this time, boy. She’s kept it close. Ranniel wouldn’t tell me. Or more likely, couldn’t. Like I said, she dumped their arrival and welcome on him. He didn’t know.”

  Lirrin gave a nod. “Thank ye, sir.”

  Nahcin grimaced. “She’s been peevish the last few days waitin’ on ye. I assume the Blade stalled?”

  His jaw clenched and his tone was gritty as he answered, “Yes. He did.”

  Nahcin grinned, but there wasn’t much humor in it. They all knew Lirrin’s rank still galled a lot of personalities, even eight years later. Nepotism was their vocal reasons despite years of proof of Lirrin’s skills, while quietly they loathed Lirrin’s youth. At only forty-eight Elven years, he was just eight years past Maturity. Literally raised to the role he filled didn’t matter to them. Ageism was a problem.

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  Nahcin gave him a meaningful glance. “I’ll let ‘er know ye’re here.” Code for, I’ll tell her the truth about the delay.

  “No hurry,” he muttered, stepping from the stall, and putting the brush in its box. Turning to the stable’s back door he headed there, rather than the wide stable doors. The kitchen entrance was back here, so he’d avoid whoever was looking for Irroc. And it was closer to his own rooms, too.

  Nahcin chuckled behind him as he strode from the stable.

  It was full dark now, or would be if not for the abundance of torches and lifesparks blazing through the courtyard.

  Someone called for Prince Irroc again.

  Lirrin wrestled with the nausea and kept going. He didn’t bother trying to find out who was looking for the Prince.

  He was nearly to the kitchen when his niece caught up with him. “Uncle!” Candra called behind him. He glanced back to see her lifting her skirts over the dirty step as she followed.

  The already present queasiness leaped the instant he stepped inside the kitchen. He almost gagged for the second time tonight. Normal kitchen scents mixed in a revolting blend with death-magic. It was hard to remember to eat, but right now, the thought was enough to…

  He swallowed hard on the bile, and Lirrin gave her a nod of greeting, firmly turning his mind from it. “Candra. How’re ye doin’?”

  She grimaced. “Booooored. Have ye heard what’s happenin’?”

  He shrugged and restrained his pace for her as they wove through the busy kitchen staff and the tables with food in various stages of preparation. “I’ve heard that somethin’ is happenin’.”

  “Tell me!” she demanded. “I can’t get anythin’ out of anyone!”

  Lirrin slid her a glance. “I don’t know much, either.”

  “Lirrin!” she complained. “Unbend a little. I know ye know more than ye let on, and it won’t hurt for ye to talk to me.”

  “Ye know better than that, Candra,” he warned. She did, too. It was literally dangerous to talk to him.

  She shook her head as they reached the back of the kitchen and the servant’s stairs. “No one will do anythin’ to me. I’m to be an alliance bride.”

  He couldn’t fault her logic. She was the only one of his brother Keeoc’s large brood that didn’t have magic. Under normal circumstances, she’d be right. But Darcaen was so far away from normal, the moons were closer.

  “It’s not safe, little niece.”

  “They won’t do anythin’ to me,” she insisted. “I’m family.”

  “So am I,” he said bluntly, stopping to glare at her.

  Candra didn’t glare back, her beautiful gray eyes dimming with understanding. She was quiet for a long moment with that somber reminder. She was old enough to remember Vivia.

  Lirrin knew he was being moody with Candra, who didn’t deserve his foul temper, but he couldn’t help it. He’d been doing alright—or as well as he could manage—until the Blade arrived with the summons two days ago, and left without even watching Lirrin open the fuckin’ envelope.

  It had been an official summons, and Lirrin’s stomach had dropped and not settled since.

  And maybe he didn’t want to help it, either. Maybe he could warn her off…

  Keep her safe…

  Finally she spoke. “Tell me what ye know, Lirrin. Please? It’s like holdin’ water in a sieve, tryin’ to get anythin’ out of the rest.”

  The rest, being her older siblings, most of whom she detested, and who loathed her right back. It wasn’t surprising she’d gotten nothing from them. She was far closer with her half-sibs and the mistresses than her own family.

  Lirrin continued up the stairs that spiraled upward to the right, the scrape of their footsteps on the stone seeming loud in the lull of their conversation. Periodic lanterns lit the way with their flickering, pumping into the stairwell the scent of burning oil.

  Lirrin wondered how much to tell her. He was fairly sure he could trust her, and yet… Still, it wasn’t as if he were spilling a military secret.

  “Taethim is to be betrothed,” he said softly. His stint in the Secret Seeker’s division was ten years past, but he still had contacts, Nahcin among them.

  Candra’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. “That’s why Grandmother’s been spendin’ more time trainin’ him lately. And why Uncle Honlin brought his daughter Hahlla.” She grimaced in disgust.

  Lirrin didn’t say anything.

  Candra grinned. “I know who’ll wear the pants in that marriage,” she sang softly.

  Lirrin snorted and a reluctant smile teased his mouth. Candra never kept her personal truths from him, so he heard some sassy things when he was here.

  His smile felt odd. When was the last time he’d smiled? He couldn’t remember. Probably the last time Candra had dragged one out of him. That would be two years ago, if he remembered right, and the last time he’d been back to Darcaen.

  They exited onto the third level and he gave her a little wave. “See ye in the mornin’, little one.”

  She looked surprised. “Yer not comin’ to dinner? Grandmother waited fer ye.”

  “I’ve been in the saddle since dawn, and I haven’t seen a river much less a bathtub in three days. Nahcin is lettin’ ‘er know I’m here. She’d be pissed if I showed up like this.” He motioned to his dusty form and horse-scented clothes.

  Candra scowled at him. “Ye need to eat somethin’, though.”

  “I’ll have a big breakfast, I promise,” he said, turning toward his rooms.

  “I’ll hold ye to that, Uncle!” she scolded behind him.

  Lirrin strode the dark gray halls of Darcaen, ignoring the salutes or bows of the court sycophants and bootlickers. His apartment was as far as he could get from Auzhua’s tower, as far from the source of death-magic as he was allowed to go. Moving ever deeper into the place, the foul flavor of Auzhua’s brand of occult grew—and the more his nerves drowned in anxiety. It permeated his mind and magic.

  Not that he possessed that much magic, but it was enough to be sensitive.

  Enough for Auzhua to use—whether he was willing or not.

  At the end of the hall, he caught a glimpse through the traffic of his brother Keeoc speaking to his mistress Paedee, and the ever present hatred of his brother swept through Lirrin.

  Keeoc’s gray gaze caught his, eyes narrowing slightly, and they shifted to Lirrin’s door and back to him.

  Message received. Keeoc must be in a spectacularly good mood today, to warn him. Lirrin gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.

  Opening the door to his rooms, he had a feeling he knew who was here. Or at least what. Anger rose fast as he stalked into his apartment, stared coldly at the beautiful Elven woman that leaned easily back on the couch. One shoulder of her pale gown had slid down enough to almost spill a plentiful breast. Brown hair decorated with bright ribbons spilled over the other shoulder while a fan occupied one hand, a drink the other. He caught her expression as she idly cataloged the luxurious room with all its valuable baubles and rich decor in shades of orange, the color of Auzhua’s lifespark; Auzhua used any excuse to flaunt her color.

  The woman’s gaze zipped to his as he stopped at the end of the short vestibule.

  She blinked blue eyes at his bleak stare, sat up, pulled her gown back into place. The courtesan remembered her manners then and stood swiftly, curtsied low. “The Queen sent me to ease you, my…”

  “Get…out…” he interrupted.

  She swallowed visibly and curtsied again. He stepped aside to let her by as she swished past him and out the door, leaving only her sickly perfume behind.

  Lirrin slammed it as hard as he could on her heels, cursing Auzhua loudly and soundly, and not giving a crap what the spies heard. He pounded into his bedroom, stripping the moment he reached it. Lirrin stepped into the bathroom beyond, opened the faucets to run hot water into the tub—plumbing being one of the few technologies to survive the purge long ago. The whole time, he tried to ignore the ache of desire in his groin before settling into the water to his chin.

  Was Auzhua trying to rile him on purpose to get him to cause a scene with the family? Or was there some deeper scheme afoot? He never knew with her, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d used a woman to do it.

  He snorted to himself. Nahcin needn’t have bothered letting the queen know. She’d sent that courtesan, already aware he was here. Or had it been Keeoc? He doubted it. Keeoc had warned him about his ‘visitor,’ and for all his involuted plans, Keeoc was usually very direct with Lirrin.

  Bathing thoroughly, scrubbing harder than he really needed to, he rinsed and rose, the water sheeting from him. Lirrin stopped in front of the mirror only long enough to check his hair. Blue-black and straight, it fell inches past his shoulder. He’d have to cut it before he entered Auzhua’s presence, or he’d be punished.

  Not that it was long, by his standards. Lirrin led his fellow Tor Elves, who universally kept to the old ways, with waist-length hair no matter the gender.

  His hair would be long, too, if Auzhua weren’t half-Laeveren.

  Lirrin shoved the painful memory of the day he arrived in Darcaen as a child as deep into a hole in his mind as he could push it. As he turned away from the mirror, the flash of brilliant blue low on his chest caught his gaze—his mother’s life-gem. Lirrin clenched it in his hand for a moment, drawing a deep breath as he entered his bedroom. Stripping the bed of thick blankets, he dumped them on the floor in a pile, pulling even the heavy padding. Leaving only the thin layer of the woolen bag between him and the pile of rushes, he prepared to try to sleep.

  Lirrin paused before lying down, glancing out the full-length glass windows of the doors onto his balcony. The sky was fully dark now, the city lit with torches out there beyond the castle wall.

  Something…was happening. For a moment, he felt that familiar green-tinged sense of awareness. He’d known it all his life. More than once it had saved his life and he trusted it as much as he could trust anything in this hellhole. Even after all these years, he still wasn’t sure what it was.

  Lirrin went to the double doors, opened them onto the cooler air of early night, searching with his mind for why he felt this unease, but coming up with nothing.

  Shaking his head, Lirrin fell onto his bed, staring out the doors at the sky. The lights of the city obscured it, but he caught a glimpse of a few stars from the constellation of the Guide where it flowed along the southern horizon.

  The heat inside the castle was oppressive. And here, in the depths of the castle, near to Auzhua’s tower aerie, it was so much worse. Death stalked these corridors, and it wasn’t always the worst thing that could happen here. His neck tingled with awareness of the layers of danger within Darcaen’s dark walls.

  “Flames, I hate this place!” he hissed into the dim lighting of candles, fist slamming down on the bedding. His skin crawled with loathing of this castle and its occupants and the death-magic. He hated this place, feared these people—he hated his life.

  The instant that thought entered his head, the coercions that lay over him like a pile of smothering blankets tightened, jabbing sharp pain into his mind. Immediately he turned his thoughts toward his work in the army—the only thing that he was allowed to think about and be deeply involved in, without punishment. And as much as he valued his life in the army for the escape from Darcaen and Auzhua that it provided—even his work wasn’t what he would choose to do. Suppressing rebels, arresting criminals, finding beggars, catching prostitutes and orphans, then sending them to Darcaen, never to be seen again… Snuffing out the Rebellion. Ordering more raids into Boknil… He loathed what he did. What he did all too well.

  Not that he had a choice. Weapons never had a choice how they were used.

  Lirrin spent an hour tossing, gave up and got up. He poured himself a small tumbler to the brim with whiskey, knocked it back and did it again. He didn’t drink much anymore, so it hit him like a fireball.

  Still, with memories here thicker than the blood he’d spilled, he wasn’t likely to sleep. He wouldn’t rest until he was back out there, with his command, and away from this place.

  Lirrin grabbed one of his knives, realized that was also a likely reason why he couldn’t go to sleep.

  No, he wouldn’t be taking a woman to bed tonight, but a blade. Shoving it under his pillow, he tried again to sleep, the alcohol his best shot at any sort of rest. A wave of his hand and his magic doused the nearly spent candles.

  Dreams stalked through his mind, bizarre and dark, edged in mirror-green. A red-haired girl bent over a dying woman, eyes shimmering with hope, doubt, and fear. A Nymph man with blonde hair and gentle eyes swept his gaze over a group of people he must lead, and standing at his side, a Nymph woman and her identical twin, with her twin’s mate, another Nymph man with the coldest eyes he’d ever seen. A Human woman stood back-to-back with her half-Human, half-Elven mate, fighting with strange weapons and magic.

  Surrounding it all was an urgency and desperation…and a pleading hope to him, that he would help.

  Uneasiness stole through his distressed mind, and he grasped the blue gem. Lirrin’s other hand around the haft of his blade tightened, gripping hard the two absolutes of his life.

  Lirrin woke fully as his mind shifted in time to magic.

  This was not death-magic he sensed. Lirrin sat up, listening as his Masters in RenShye had taught him…waiting. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, staring out the open doors.

  Lirrin called his darkened, maroon-hued lifespark for light, setting it over his head, and rose. Slipping into a fresh pair of linen trousers and matching tunic, he shoved his feet into a pair of indoor sandals and grabbed his knife. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he wasn’t going to be caught unprepared.

  Lirrin stepped out onto the balcony, glancing absently at the dark courtyard below. It was an hour past midnight now, the castle quiet.

  The Eldritch was far from quiet.

  Lirrin shivered, though the air wasn’t cold.

  Far below in the earth, the Fires of Life roiled, the souls of every living being that had passed before, forming the magic of life, the Eldritch. For him, it was a curiosity—perhaps a lot more than that, but—as a Blade, even a minor one, he couldn’t touch it. No Blade could. The Eldritch wouldn’t tolerate death-magic.

  Lirrin shifted to mage sight, watching the night with his magic, wary now. It was building, whatever it was. The Eldritch was…no. It wasn’t the Eldritch. A very powerful mage, somewhere distant, was using the Eldritch’s power.

  Lirrin closed his eyes, the better to see. He might suck as an active mage, but his mage-sight was capable of tracking magic. And he had many times.

  West. He felt it now. Lirrin turned his gaze west…actually, slightly south of true west, which told him all he needed to know. With the distance he sensed, it could only be the Mystics at work. In fact, with that much power, they were doing something big. Lirrin sent his mind leaping the distance. In seconds he stared down at the magically glimmering Guardian that covered Lore Valley rim-to-rim.

  Major magical feat, that one, to build and maintain such a huge Guardian. Lirrin shoved the memory of the day it was made into that same hole in his mind, the place where terror and pain lived, because he couldn’t live with it.

  He had a strong feeling that the protective shield was made by the same one he sensed working now. Dropping lower, down the ‘dome’ of the magical barrier and closer to the ground, he watched, waiting and wondering.

  In the Eldritch he saw the gathering magic, a massive blaze of power like an indigo sun. Yep. Same magical ‘presence’ as he felt from the Guardian. Whoever this was, was powerful and they were gathering enough energy to fund a very important spell.

  He didn’t interfere. Auzhua hadn’t ordered him to do so, and he did nothing to mess with Mystics unless she told him to. He wanted nothing to do with them. Not because he feared them, but because he didn’t want to hurt them.

  Mom had been a Mystic. Dad had too, before Auzhua trapped him.

  That brilliant mass of magic swelled even more, going from Eldritch rainbow to deepest blue. The mage had altered the magic to use immediately.

  Lirrin frowned. It felt…different? As if the magic wasn’t quite right.

  Then it began to rise, lifting from the depths of the Fires of Life, condensing. And then the magic was shifting hands, because it went from brilliant indigo to forest green. And Lirrin felt that magic go from raw power—to pure Healing. Still watching, Lirrin sensed the emotions carried on that magic; worry and fear, love and desperation.

  She was Healing.

  The dark green magic shifted again—and became an Eldritch rainbow of shifting colors.

  Lirrin sucked in a shocked breath.

  The Phoenix.

  His gut quivered as he felt the coercive spell of Abdication tighten in warning inside him with his awareness of the girl, ready to whip him to obedience if he didn’t obey the command.

  Fuck!

  Now he did have to interfere with the Mystics. Auzhua’s order for all Blades to seek the rainbow child applied to him too. Maybe especially to him.

  Lirrin waited, watching. Her magic was Healing. But the longer he waited, the more her desperation shifted into anguished certainty.

  Then the magic broke—and so did she. The soft wail of her grief and denial came to him, the sound of that cry hitting him straight in the heart. Her pain touched Lirrin right where he couldn’t stop it, where he’d been denying love and need and hope for so scorching long.

  He trembled, hurting with her hurt. He didn’t know why, and didn’t care. Lirrin reached for her, mind slipping through that Guardian in a feat he didn’t recognize much less understand, moving toward her, aching to help her, hold her, support that grieving heart.

  Lirrin flitted closer, nearing the fading rainbow of her power—and he brushed against it.

  Crack.

  The sense of her alien energy was lost in the instant and violent shattering of the coercions.

  Every spell Auzhua had ever piled on him over the years wrenched hard. His mind landed painfully back in his own body and he staggered against the stone railing. Lirrin swallowed hard, breath ragged, ice sliding down his spine as he reeled.

  Even he knew that spells were not meant to be broken away. They must be undone.

  He could feel the building of the black power and, panting into the quiet of the night, he scrambled desperately, swiping and scrabbling uselessly at the remnants of spells that covered him inside and out—only to make it worse.

  And then the magic—warped and malignant—struck him.