Dark Magic (The Chronicles of Arandal)

Dark Magic (The Chronicles of Arandal) - By Rebecca York

Chapter One

At night, Galladar prowled the great castle under siege. His leather boots made no sound on the stone floor. He was invisible to the king and the fighting men sworn to give their lives in defense of Arandal. No serving maid or lady in waiting spied him, but he watched them and knew their desperate plight.

Outside, he strode through the enemy camp, just as invisible, his breath shallow as the odor of unwashed bodies and greasy cooking fires swirled around him.

The barbarians held the fortress in their vicious grasp. Soon they would be free to rape and pillage and revel in their victory.

But Galladar had the power to change the whole equation, if he chose.

Was that to his advantage?

He had lived longer than any man, and he had learned caution. Or so he thought until he saw the golden-haired Princess Devon, so young and fair, suffering under the edicts of her father, the king.

As Galladar watched her, his desire for her grew.

Could he bend her to his will? Not in the way her father had done with gruff order, insane expectations and harsh punishment. There was a better way. Thinking of it made the blood rush hotly through his veins.

But he must not move too fast, lest he lose the prize he sought.

The smell of fire and brimstone invaded Devon’s sleep, and for a moment she thought she had died and gone to a place of punishment. Then she woke and realized the smoke was coming from the inner keep.

When she heard shouts from below, the clanking of men running in full armor, she reached for the dagger hidden under her feather mattress and wrapped her hand around the jeweled hilt. Barefoot and wearing only her night rail, she leaped from the bed and braced her shoulders against the cold stone wall of her bedchamber as she waited, breathless, in the darkness for the invaders to fling open her door.

But the heavy wooden barrier stayed closed, and from below, she heard the commanding voice of her father, King Wilfred.

“Hurry! You there—Hugo, Cameron, men of the guard! Bring water buckets.”

Moving to the narrow slits that served as windows, she peered down.

In the silvered light from the twin moons, she saw her father standing on a flight of stone steps, making himself a target if the barbarians breached the walls. But the calm control in his voice told her what she needed to know. The savage Lubantans from the south had not stormed the castle defenses. They had only lobbed another burning pot of pitch over the wall.

In the crowd of huddled humanity below her, Devon saw a woman she knew and went very still. It was Senna, one of her old friends from town when she’d still been allowed to mingle with the people. Senna’s dark hair was matted, her gown filthy, and she was holding a screaming baby wrapped in a dirty gray blanket. When a soldier loomed over her, she cringed away.

“Shut that brat up before I smother him.”

Senna had married three years ago. At eighteen, Devon was still her father’s chattel.

But what was her own misery, compared to the chaos below? Families sat in groups, cowering from the soldiers as they rushed past to obey the king’s orders. Devon’s heart squeezed. She knew these people, and she ached for them.

It had been a wet season, so wet that the burning lands to the east had flooded, giving the Lubantans a means to reach Arandal in force.

When her father’s men had fallen back under the invaders onslaught, many of his subjects had been killed in their huts. Some had fled west. And three hundred serfs and town dwellers had crowded inside the high castle walls. That was a fortnight ago, and they were already eating rotten potatoes and stale bread. Soon there would be nothing left to sustain them but rats.

Devon turned away from the window, set the dagger on the end of her bed and lit a candle before crossing to the small shrine of Rivana in the corner of her room. She was the wife of Holder, chief among the gods. Women could pray to her, and although she had less power than her husband, sometimes she could change fate.

The shrine held a small painted statue of the goddess, dressed in flowing blue robes.

Kneeling, Devon stared into the statue’s kind face.

“Help us,” she whispered. “Help us drive the barbarians from the castle. Save the people from death, and worse.”

It was tempting to ask for help from a different quarter. From the magic of the ancient legends. Long ago, Marina, an old woman in town, had taught her something of its powers. That was before Marina had treated a child for burns, and the boy had died. And some cows succumbed to a mysterious illness. When people began to whisper that Marina was a witch and should be stoned to death, she had fled one night and was never seen again. And Devon had understood the power of whispers.

As she turned from the altar, she froze in shock.

In the moonlight, a figure watched her from the corner of her chamber. A tall man with broad shoulders and a piercing stare.

One of the Lubantans? No. She instantly rejected that possibility. The barbarians wore rough tunics under light armor, leather trousers and leather sandals.

This man looked to be in his early thirties, finely dressed in a hip-length black linen tunic and black leggings. His leather boots were set with gold buckles, and he wore a heavy leather belt and jeweled scabbard at his waist.

Only his jet-black hair would be out of fashion in the court. The noblemen of Arandal wore their hair loose. His was clasped at the back of his neck.

Struggling for control, she raised her chin. “How dare you enter my room. Leave here at once.”

From below dark lashes, his midnight eyes regarded her with unnerving steadiness.

“Who will force me?”

She should call for the guard at the bottom of the staircase, but her voice caught in her throat.

Instead she snatched up the dagger from the end of the bed and charged toward him. Before she reached the corner of the room, he vanished. Still, she raised the knife and slashed at the place where he had been.

“You have spirit,” he said, speaking from behind her.

Startled, she whirled to face him again. “Stay away from me.”

“Is that what you really want?”

It should be, but despite her fear, something within her responded in a way that was beyond her understanding.

She had been taught manners and modesty, and she had used them as a shield when she needed them. But she sensed that this man saw through the image she strove to project.

“We’ll talk later. More than talk,” he promised.

The silky tone of his voice sent a hot shiver over her skin. Deep inside herself, she knew that he was offering something forbidden. Something she wanted and feared.

Before she could decide which emotion was stronger, the air wavered, and he was gone.

She stared at the place where he had been, her heart pounding. Had he been real, or was she light-headed from lack of food?

“Who are you?” she demanded, speaking to the empty air.

No one answered.