Spellbinder (Moonshadow #2)

No, trying to take down her benefactor in the dark was akin to considering how to attack an armed soldier in the wagon train… all but suicidal. If she attacked him and wasn’t successful, she risked alienating virtually the only ally she had.

And even if she could manage to figure out a way to block the door lock, or knock him out and escape, what then? She couldn’t see a damn thing.

He had never used a torch when he came. The light would give him away instantly. He slipped in and out, as stealthy and quiet as a thief. If she got out of her cell, she wouldn’t be able to follow him when he left. She couldn’t see a damn thing, and she couldn’t track him by scent like some Elder Races creatures could.

She had no idea of the layout of the prison tunnels or where the guards’ station was. More than likely, she would simply get herself caught again while stumbling around in the dark, and they might break her hands all over again.

Drumming her fingers on the door, she thought, no, I’m not going to be able to escape like that. And clearly, whoever he is, he won’t be able to help me.

Determination hardened into a burning knot in her chest.

I’ll have to find some other way to get out.

One way or another, I’m not just going to survive.

I’m going to thrive.

*

This time as Morgan slid out of the underground passageway, it was predawn. The open areas he had to traverse were still dark, and other than the night guard, there was a stronger likelihood no one else was awake and about.

He also had enough energy to cast a strong cloaking spell over himself, so he strode with some confidence to the small gate he had fashioned centuries ago in a remote corner of the castle wall.

Like the entrance to the tunnel that led underground, he kept the gate shrouded in subtle spells that urged the eye to travel over the area to something else more interesting.

Once he passed through the gate, it was a mile-long walk to reach the small one-room cottage hidden in a deep tangle of bramble bushes high in the hills in the unkempt area above the sprawling castle and town. Normally the walk was an easy one along a steep, narrow path, but at the moment, the wound in his side didn’t make it easy to climb.

More spells of obfuscation draped the cottage like a thick layer of invisible spiderwebs. He had built the cottage himself, a very long time ago, and nobody had ever discovered it.

Isabeau knew he was a master at cloaking skills. She had commanded him to cloak the crossover passageways to Lyonesse to imprison Oberon’s Dark Court and the ones to Avalon for defense. But for all that, her utter self-absorption left her curiously myopic at times.

She was cunning and unbalanced, which made her dangerous, but she also lacked a certain depth of insight for anything that might not pertain to her. She had never once considered ordering him to reveal what things he might have cloaked from her.

At least not yet.

Inside the cottage, he started a fire in the fireplace and placed a pot of water on an iron rod over the growing flames. While he waited for the water to boil, he ate.

He had saved the other half of the chicken, along with fruit, bread, and some of the soft cheese for himself. Once the empty knot in his stomach had eased, the water in the stewpot had reached the boiling point.

Wrapping a cloth around the handle, he carried it to the small table. Then he shrugged out of his shirt, unwrapped the bandages at his waist, and checked the area underneath.

The skin around the wound was a mess of puckered scar tissue that had turned livid red. Dark streaks radiated out from the sutured entry point. Fingering one of the streaks, he frowned. Usually when skin blackened around a wound, it meant the flesh had turned necrotic. At that point, the only way to help the wound heal was to debride it, or remove the dead flesh.

But he didn’t sense any dying skin. He had kept the new wound scrupulously clean from the very beginning, even down to sterilizing the silver knife before the ghoul had stabbed him, and he was taking antibiotics strong enough to heal a horse.

No, this wasn’t a normal bacterial infection. This had something to do with the silver in his system. The only way to heal that was to tough it out. It might take him longer to recover the second time around, but eventually his body would throw off the effects of the silver poison.

At least it would this time.

If he kept reinjuring himself and never gave his body a chance to fully heal, he would never throw off the silver poisoning. Next time he wouldn’t heal as quickly or as well, and he would be slower still to recover the time after that.

His magic would be slower and slower to return. Eventually, it might never return to its full strength.

Releasing his breath in a long sigh, he faced the truth. This was only a temporary reprieve. Sooner or later, he would have to make a choice—either succumb once again to Isabeau’s geas, or let the silver poisoning take him.

He had to find his way to freedom before that happened.

Getting down to business, he cleaned and dressed the wound, then bandaged his ribs again and swallowed pain pills and antibiotics. With food, water, medical care, and shelter, he’d met his needs for survival.

He had brought the books he had gathered for research. They sat in a pile on the table, waiting for his attention, but they would have to wait another day or two. Stretching out on the bed located in one corner, he let himself relax. Like the rest of the cottage, the mattress was musty and needed to be taken outside and beaten, but that too could wait.

For the first time since the ghoul had stabbed him, he could rest for an entire day. Tonight, he would slip back to the night market to get more food, and he would go to Sidonie again. He could heal and feed her, and he could even offer any comfort she might be willing to accept, but there weren’t any long-term solutions for her in that either.

But if he could win enough freedom for himself from the geas, perhaps he could find a way around Isabeau’s orders enough to free Sidonie too.

Sometime over the past few days, his point of focus had shifted, and it was time to acknowledge that. Instead of fighting against the urge to help her, now he wanted to. He even needed to.

When he had discovered her in the prison cell, her utter devastation had shot past all his barriers. The spirit that carried such joyous, bright creative energy had been crushed. After he had spelled her unconscious, he had sat with her broken hands in his lap and absorbed the enormity of what had happened, the wisdom in Isabeau’s cruelty, the profound depth of Sidonie’s pain.

He would not abandon his quest. He couldn’t. But now, taking his revenge against Isabeau and Modred was no longer enough. Destroying them for the sake of all the people Isabeau and Modred had killed so long ago was no longer enough.

Now he had to fight for Sidonie’s sake.

The drugs kicked in, and he closed his eyes. As the narcotics opened doorways in his mind that were better left closed, he spent the heat of the day restlessly twisting in slumber as he dreamed of people and events long past.

Kill them.

Kill them before they destroy your king and everything you love.

Kill them before they destroy Sidonie for good.