Lichgates: Book One of the Grimoire Saga (an Epic Fantasy Adventure) (23 page)

The world grew more beautiful every day: more precious, as if it would fade away at any moment. Bit by bit, she relinquished her kingdom to her son without him even realizing. She’d even left her Sartori blade for him today, to examine while she walked.

She sighed. The legendary Sartori was her favorite weapon, one of only six in existence; only one had been made for each kingdom, too long ago to remember, and only a kingdom’s royal bloodline could wield its blade. It was laced with an almost incurable poison and could become anything from a sword to a walking stick, shifting into whatever its master needed. It—

A soft shock froze her body. Blue light flickered in her peripheral vision. She became suddenly aware of the hidden lichgate through which she’d passed. An unknown meadow stretched before her, its tall orange grasses a carpet for the small hill a short ways off. Trees behind her lined the edge of the meadow.

Only the wind kept her company. The trees swayed, but no wildlife ran by. Her stomach clenched at a blend of smoke and sulfur and something else she couldn’t place. The strange clawed its way into her lungs.

The breeze died, but the rotten stench grew stronger, until she could smell its subtle oak undertones. It was warm and unknown, with hints of musk and almond blurring its way through the acidic rot, but the meadow was calm and empty. She caught her breath and edged back toward the forest from which she’d come.

A Hillsidian with olive-colored skin and black hair ducked through the tree line to her left. The tall man grinned as he sauntered closer.

Why does he look so familiar?

“Braeden?” she called.

“Not quite,” the man said. He took steady paces toward her, and she could see brow-lines etched into his forehead; wrinkles around his eyes; large pores along his nose and cheeks that gave his skin a worn, leather-like appearance. No, he was older than Braeden.

Blood Lorraine held her ground, even though her every instinct was to bolt through the lichgate and back to safety. Shame twisted in her stomach. She’d killed hundreds in her lifetime, and yet her instinct was to run? His stench clogged her nose, rooting her in place. Something about him was simply wrong.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I can see why the boy likes this form, though,” he said, ignoring her question. “It’s very easy to blend in when one is Hillsidian. Everyone around here is so trusting.”

He pulled a thick blade from a scabbard on his back. Though Blood Lorraine did not recognize the man, she’d long studied his sword. He wielded the Stele’s Sartori, a great black blade with silver poison that glistened on its edges as he lowered its point to the grass. He sneered.

She caught her breath in that frightful second of discovery. This was Blood Carden: master of the Stele—and Braeden’s father.

Carden lunged. The blade lifted, aimed for her throat. Lorraine rolled out of the way and slid along the grass. She plunged her hands deep into the dirt as she moved, kicking up a trail of grass and small rocks that were buried in the soil. A green mist enveloped her as she skidded.

Horror and dread stabbed at her from within and fueled her as she summoned the only weapon that stood a chance against the Stele’s Sartori. The weight bled into her hands, familiar and heavy and comforting. With a sharp cry, she summoned her own Sartori from the dirt.

Gavin could look at it later.

Back in Hillside, Gavin settled deeper into his mother’s chair and admired her Sartori blade. It was beautiful, especially in its sword form. It had thick green steel and ornate silver designs etched into the blade itself. The hilt was heavier than he’d ever imagined her capable of wielding.

He tested it in one hand and then the other before he looked around her study. Ancient and invaluable books passed down for thousands of generations littered her shelves and her desk, a cherry oak creation with silver scrollwork inlaid along its base. A bay window on the far wall looked out on the main courtyard from which all the roads in Hillside began, and on the floor beneath the window, a thick patch of clover grew in a deep trench filled with soil. The warm musk of the clover flooded over him and made his eyelids droop, so he leaned back in the chair and grinned. Every aspect of the study radiated the power and security of her kingdom.

Someday, it would be his kingdom.

His smile widened at the thought of being the Blood, of resting the weight of his people on his shoulders and knowing that everyone would look to him for answers and guidance. He stood and spun the sword in the air, focusing his mind on the green metal in an effort to make it change form as it so often had for his mother.

He held the tip of the sword hilt in his palm, so that the blade pointed to the ceiling. It twirled on its head as he glared at it, spinning faster the longer he bent his mind around the image of an axe. It flickered as it spun. The green curve of a battle axe darted into the blur of spinning metal, but quickly disappeared. The blade slowed and began to tip, so he grabbed the hilt to keep it from hitting the floor.

He shrugged. There was still time to learn.

Sunlight darted through the window as a cloud passed by. He swung the sword once, twice, savoring the way the light turned red when it passed along the surface of the Sartori.

But on the third swing, the sword shot from his hands into the bed of clover.

The hilt disappeared into the dirt, slicing the heads from the plants in its way. In the seconds it took for him to race over to the patch of dirt and decapitated weeds, the blade had submerged itself. He dug through the soil, but it was gone.

“What did I just do?” he asked the dying heads of clover.

An unrelated panic raced through him and jolted him into a frenzy. Sweat poured down his back, and it was difficult to breathe. He rubbed his face until his cheeks were red from the friction. It was more than the thought of losing the blade; this burned deeper. Something terrible was brewing. His mother was in danger.

He grabbed his own sword from the cherry oak desk and ran out the door, down the stairs, and behind the castle. There were gasps, whispers, and even screams, but he ignored them all. His only purpose was to find his mother.

His feet led him to the stables, where he flung open the double-doors to the Queen’s private wing and hurried along the stalls. The animals were all in an uproar, flailing around in the same panic that was slowly numbing every other thought in his mind. He stopped when he came to his mother’s favorite mount: Mastif, her massive gray wolf.

The creature was the only steed in the hall that was not pacing or running or screaming. Mastif sat with its legs apart, braced to bolt with its haunches high in the air. The corners of its mouth quivered, exposing its sharp white teeth in its rage. Gavin threw open the wolf’s stall door.

“Take me to her!” he commanded.

Mastif knelt. Gavin dug his hands around the long fur and pulled himself on without pausing to find a saddle. The wolf waited only long enough for Gavin’s weight to fall onto its back before it tore through the stables and into the streets of Hillside.

Gavin didn’t notice the countless citizens he passed as he and Mastif sprinted over the shifting roads of the market quarter. He didn’t hear Richard rallying the guards and troops of all Hillside, or notice the fear which racked every face he passed. But most of all, Gavin didn’t notice the one twisted soul, settled in the alley by a glove vendor, who was smiling at her handiwork from behind a face that was not her own.

Lorraine lunged at the Stelian king, her sword now in hand. She had only a fleeting moment of his surprise to leverage against him. It needed to be used well.

Carden parried her attack, spun, and threw an uppercut to her jaw. She buckled under the hit but stood just as quickly, already healed, and shot her hand toward his face. A trail of thorns and ivy burst from the ground at the gesture, flying and turning and twisting in any direction she chose. The thorns wrapped around his face and neck, slicing apart whatever skin they touched. Black blood oozed over the thorns.

Her heart skipped a beat. Black blood: this truly was Carden. It hadn’t been real, even after seeing the Sartori, until she saw his blood.

Her thorns twisted and tightened the more he fought, but a black fog whistled from the pores on his arms. It warped the thorns, bending them as they dissolved with acidic pops and hisses. The vines drooped and broke off, falling in limp streaks of green to the charred grass at Carden’s feet.

She swung for his neck as the hundreds of oozing black wounds congealed and shrank away, healed. He parried and hit her hard in the chest with his palm, drawing the wind around him in a rush of hot air that shot her backward a dozen feet. Her body skidded and rocks scraped away layers of skin, but the wounds stitched themselves together as she stood and dove for him once more. They attacked and retreated in this deadly tango, leaving curving trails of broken meadow grasses as they fought and ducked and rolled.

Lorraine tripped over her long skirt and fell, rolling away from Carden mere seconds before he stabbed the ground where she’d just been. She grabbed the edge of her skirt as she ducked beneath another swing and, with three mighty rips, made her elegant silk gown a knee-high dress without sleeves.

Carden grinned. “I am pleasantly surprised. I was under the impression that this would be too easy.”

He twirled his Sartori in his hand and the blade shimmered, blurring until it became a spiked mace with foot-long barbs that reflected the sunlight. She resisted the instinct to match his weapon and shift her own Sartori, since she was best with a sword. If he’d known enough to lure her away from Hillside while she walked her favorite trails, he probably knew her strengths and how to play around them.

“I already knew the truth about your son,” the Queen said, using the truth in an effort to throw him off-guard. “I’ve known from the first night, when Braeden changed form in his sleep.”

Carden raised his eyebrows in surprise and paused. He grimaced and laughed darkly, shaking his head. The air around him vibrated and hummed as his body stretched higher and his skin faded into the same dark charcoal gray Lorraine had seen the night Braeden had been brought to her. Carden sneered.

“This is what you saw?” he asked, his voice deeper than before.

A rush of memories made her stagger: Braeden shifting to his Stelian form, fast asleep and only twelve; her Sartori blade hovering over the boy’s neck as he slept; her throat catching as he reached for her hand in his sleep. She’d pulled the sword away, wondering if Richard would understand while simultaneously knowing that Gavin never would.

Lorraine took a deep breath to bring herself back to the meadow. Her body warmed and the magic took over, clearing her mind while dissolving the fear and shame into a rush of glee. The burning current of power— Father had called it the daru when she was little—churned beneath her skin, begging for release, but she wasn’t yet sure if she needed to tap this deeper power. It would give her added strength and speed, certainly, but its cost was control. She would be lost to the bloodlust of the fight.

She swallowed. Against Carden, she would likely need control and cunning over strength. She hoped he was too arrogant to tap into his own daru, and since he’d come alone to face her, that was likely the case. Whatever he’d done to Braeden had scarred that boy for life, so she would end this. She would end him.

“Braeden deserves better than your bloodline,” she said. “I have always loved him, though, regardless of what he is.”