EPILOGUE
“We’ve stopped the bleeding, internally and externally. And Mage Yalanue has crafted a potent stasis spell which should keep her from rapid deterioration. Beyond that, there’s little more we can offer.”
Princess Ilsevel lies on a long scribe’s-table-turned-healer’s-bed in a chamber hastily converted from a scriptorium to an infirmary.
She no longer wears the strange garb of the Licornyn, but is stripped down, bandaged, and draped in blankets for modesty.
She looks frail lying there. Like a pale ghost brought back from beyond the grave. Which is what she effectively is.
How long she will remain on this side of the grave remains to be seen.
The Shadow King studies her face in silent wonder. Ilsevel. Of all people! This woman who was meant to be his bride. The one who is supposed to be dead. Or so he was told—he and the new bride he took in her stead.
Does Larongar know? Is this all part of his ongoing scheme, a bid to keep his favorite daughter out of trolde hands?
An unsuccessful bid if so, for here she lies.
Wounded. Vulnerable. Completely at his mercy.
These Miphates might put up some fight if they were to realize who she is, but their ranks are reduced, and their magic supply much depleted following their long siege.
They cannot stop the Shadow King from taking her.
What twist of fate brought her to that battlefield he cannot fathom.
Neither can he comprehend the bizarre moment he witnessed when she threw herself between him and that Licornyn.
Was that his name she cried out? Does she know the man?
The look on his face when his blow struck—that moment of lucidity burning through the madness of virulium—implied some recognition of the deed done.
Virulium is a potent poison; he should not have been able to come out of it for many hours yet.
There’s too much mystery here, all caught up in this girl who can reveal nothing.
“Will she live?” the Shadow King asks, no trace of emotion coloring his voice.
The nervous mage across the table heaves a sigh. He is a young fellow, unprepared for the responsibilities which have abruptly fallen on his shoulders. “It is beyond my skill to heal her. Most of our healing spells have been cast. We haven’t any strong ones left. Besides, look here.”
He lifts the blanket, exposing Ilsevel’s bandaged torso, and points to a patch of skin between her breasts. Ilsevel breathes shallowly. On her exhale, the mage says, “There! Do you see it?”
Something appears against her pale skin: a shimmering gold mark, there one instant, gone the next.
“What is it?” the Shadow King asks.
“Runes.” The mage curls his lip.
“Written magic?”
“Yes. But not the right sort. This is old magic.” He says it with scorn, as though age were a sin. “Witch magic.”
The Shadow King looks at him, uncomprehending.
The mage continues, disgust limning each word. “It’s those ibrildians, you see. They work a bastardized form of spellcraft, somewhere between fae and human, taking bits and pieces from both and corrupting all. The impurity is sickening. But I cannot deny the potency of the spell.”
“This is a spell?” The Shadow King waves a hand to indicate the shining rune, which appears again with Ilsevel’s exhale only to vanish on her inhale. “What does it mean?”
“Damned if I know,” the mage answers. “All I can tell you is that it’s broken.
See here?” He points to the upper edge of the rune as it appears.
It’s not brilliant like the rest, but rather dark against her skin as though burned.
“It will disintegrate once Mage Yalanue’s stasis spell wears off. Then . . .” He shrugs.
“Then what?”
“She dies. Maybe? As I said, I know nothing of rune magic, only enough to recognize it.”
“Who can help her?”
“A fully trained Miphato might. But . . .”
“What?”
Reluctance is etched deep in the lines of the mage’s young face.
He looks at the princess again, so lovely as she lies there wounded, broken.
Her complexion is sickly gray, and sweat beads her skin, wet strands of hair sticking to her forehead and neck.
“You’ll need a witch,” he says. “This is witch magic and will require witchery if anything’s to be done. ”
“And where might I find a witch?”
“Not here.” The man snorts. “No witches have ever been welcomed within these walls. Save for a burning or two.”
“Where?” The Shadow King repeats, voice dropping to a dangerous rumble.
The mage pales and backs up a step. “Witches were outlawed in Gavaria a hundred years ago, but . . . but they say there’s one. At Beldroth. Sheltered by the king.” He puts up both hands as though in defense. “I’m not saying I know anything for sure! It’s just a rumor I’ve heard. Nothing more.”
The great trolde king turns his attention from the sputtering man back to the princess.
The woman whose life he once intended to join with his in holy bonds, now placed in his hands.
Is this the provision from the gods for which he has so earnestly prayed?
The opportunity to break Larongar’s hold over him?
“Can you make her ready for travel?”
The mage blinks. “She has a gut wound and a curse, either of which will kill her if the stasis spell is compromised.”
“And?”
“And . . . we might be able to bolster the spell. If there is magic to spare.” He twists the collar of his robe uncomfortably. “Where are you taking her?”
“To Beldroth. We leave at once.”
He will soon discover what price Larongar is willing to pay for the life of his favorite daughter.
TO BE CONTINUED