Soul Magic

Rune

1149

PROLOGUE

             
Formless shadows, stealing through the dark.   A scream, a shout, a child’s shrill wail.  Alanna of Rune bolted up in her bed, turning instinctively to look for the slumbering form of her russet-haired son. 

             
Like the night before, he was not there.

             
The small sleeping pallet was heartbreakingly tidy, undisturbed by a small boy’s restless slumber.  Caradoc had not slept in his bed, not since he’d been taken two nights ago.  Again she saw the dark shapes, felt the impossible power of the magic that had kept her frozen, horrifyingly unable to move while Gorsedd stole her son.

             
She uttered a low, keening, cry.  Her child was gone.  And if Gorsedd truly believed Caradoc to be the changeling child of prophecy, he would never be returned. 

             
As a Fae princess and Caradoc’s mother, Alanna knew better.  One night of violence had given her Caradoc.  She wanted only to find her son and bring him home.  That she had not enough magic to do so tore at her.              

             
Once, like all of her kind, she had glowed bright with power.  But the magic had been waning for a long time.  Now, with the remnants of her power clinging to her like a tattered cloak, she could not even determine where Gorsedd had taken her boy. 

             
Her beloved son.  Caradoc.

             
Unable to sleep, Alanna began to pace. 

             
“They will not harm him.”

             
Alanna spun.  “Wynne.”  Alone of all the Fae in Rune, the Oracle’s remaining magic still leant her that soft glow.  Her silver hair, so gray it appeared the startling white of moonlit snow, matched the shimmer of her flowing gown.

             
“Aye.”  The older woman’s lined face looked serene, the opposite of Alanna’s churning emotions.  “I have spent the night trying to find out where Caradoc has been taken.”

             
“What did you--  Were you able--?”

             
“No.”  The single word hovered in the air.  “Neither mirror nor water would ripple for me.  Like everyone else, my own magic has finally begun to fade.”

             
“I must find out where they took him.”  Jaw aching, Alanna forced herself to unclench her teeth.  She lifted her head and met the wise one’s gaze. 

             
“They will not harm him,” Wynne repeated.  “They believe him to be the child of prophecy, of power.  They believe him to be son of the mortal Darrick of Thorncliff.”

             
“But he is not.”  The words burst from her, pent up frustration and worry and rage making her voice as sharp as the ceremonial blade that had long hung above the throne. 

             
“Are you certain?”

             
“You have seen him.”  Bitterness made her throat ache.  “Caradoc is not Darrick’s son.”

             
The old woman’s gaze was sharp.  “Is it possible you are wrong?”

             
“I have wished to be wrong more than you know.  We shared one night of love, Darrick and I, a fortnight before I was attacked.  I prayed that it might be so.  I didn’t know for certain until Caradoc was born.  His coppery hair bespoke his parentage without a doubt.” 

             
“And our magic has continued to wane.”  Though no hint of accusation sounded in the Oracle’s calm tone, Alanna felt the jagged edge of it prick her skin.

             
“I’ve failed our people.”  Anger made a sour knot in her belly.  “Worse, I have failed my son.”

             
“They do not know…  Then tell them.  Tell the world.    Name the one who sired Caradoc.”

             
Name him
.  Alanna opened her mouth, then closed it.   She swayed as memories of that awful night flooded her.  She’d been caught unprepared, for even then her magic had been weak. 

             
She’d strolled in the forest dreaming of her upcoming nuptials.  He’d been waiting for her, grabbing her when she’d walked past his hiding place.  He’d tied her hands so tightly her wrists had bled.  He’d muffled her screams with a wet cloth stuffed in her mouth.  Then he’d taken her from behind, savagely, laughing as he brutally raped her. 

             
She never wanted to speak his name out loud.  To do so reminded her of what had been, until now, the worst night of her life.

             
But losing her son was far worse.  She’d thought she knew then what it was to feel utterly powerless, at the dark mercy of another.  But she’d been wrong.  The horror of that night was nothing compared to this, the awful terror of not being able to find Caradoc. 

             
“Morfran Mortimer,” she said, her voice brittle enough to cut through stone.  “His hair is the color of flame.  He is Caradoc’s sire.  The one who raped me has long been enemy to Darrick and his family.”

             
“As he is still,” intoned the wise woman of Rune, anger coloring her unwavering tone.  “When last I was able to see, I learned that much has changed in the human world since you left it.  Gone to war and returned, Darrick is now fatherless, thanks to that one’s hand.”

             
Alanna thought her heart would stop.  She hadn’t asked, hadn’t wanted to know.  “Morfran has slain Oren Tadhg?”

             
“Aye.  And even now, your betrothed attempts to defend Thorncliff against Morfran’s army.”

             
“He is not--” Alanna froze as Wynne’s words registered.  “Why would Darrick need to defend that which is his by right of birth?”

             
Wynne shook her head, her closed expression one of dismissal.  “You must go to him.  Darrick of Thorncliff is the only one who can help you regain your son.”

             
“Help me?  Why would he help me?  Darrick knows naught of the boy’s existence, nor the reason why I broke our betrothal.  He will hate me now.”

             
“`Tis of no consequence.  You can help each other.  Darrick is the one you must seek.  Tell him the truth.  This much I
have
seen.”  Wynne pointed at Alanna’s heart.  “If you wish Caradoc returned, you must go now to Thorncliff and ask Darrick’s help.”

CHAPTER ONE

             
A change in the wind marked the morning of the third day under siege.  Now from the north, the blustering gusts carried an icy warning that winter was not yet done with Thorncliff keep. 

             
Nor were the invaders.  The afternoon before, their stone-throwing machine had succeeded in reducing the western tower to rubble, though the outer rock wall protecting the keep still held.  The huge log they’d used to batter the wall had temporarily ceased the relentless pounding with  nightfall. 

             
"They but rest.  With full dawn, they will come again."  Darrick of Thorncliff shook his head, his stomach clenching.

             
"Our food-stores are full—" Geoffrey, most trusted of all his men, kept pace at Darrick's side.

             
"Aye." Clapping his hand on the other man's shoulder, Darrick tried to keep despair from his voice.  "We've more than enough to withstand a siege of great length.  But the wall – how long can it hold?"

             
Hope shown in the other man's battle-scarred face.  "`Tis still strong.  We are stone built on rock.  They cannot tunnel, nor burn—"

             
"Are the archers ready?"

             
"Aye. Well rested and fed.  They killed many yesterday.  Mayhap Morfran will call a truce."

             
"With the western tower half crumbled?" Some of Darrick's anguish came out in his short bark of laughter.  "Nay, he is not so greatly feared for nothing.  He will not rest until they have gained entrance.  Our archers crossbows must be deadly in their aim."

             
Geoffrey nodded.  "They will be.  I only wish we could reach Morfran himself.”

             
“`Tis most likely he remains at home, in his keep.  Never will he risk himself when he can send his armies.”

             
“His armies,” Geoffrey spat.  “Our own neighbors.”

             
“They act on his orders.”

             
“And your mother’s.  Forget not that the Lady Rowena has chosen to join her brother.  Though why your own mother seeks to destroy your birthright I'll never understand."

             
"This is not my mother's doing, but Morfran’s.  My uncle cares little if his men reduce Thorncliff to naught but a pile of stones, so long as he ruins me.  Now that Varden is gone, I am all that remains of my line."

             
At the mention of Darrick’s brother, Geoffrey looked away.  Like Darrick, he had been forced to watch the younger man die in the fierce fighting at Lisbon.  Both men had been unable to reach Varden in time to help him.  With Varden’s death, Darrick’s last bit of faith had been buried with him.

             
“Think you that she knows about Varden?”

             
“I have not told her.”

             
“Mayhap Morfran’s telling made it sound like your fault.  I’m thinking `tis how Morfran convinced her to come over to his side.”

             
“Varden’s death was my fault, Geoffrey.”

             
“Nay.”  Though this was an old argument, Geoffrey looked shocked.  “Both of us tried to help him.”

             
“But I let him come with us.  Varden should never have traveled to Portugal.  If I’d left him here at Thorncliff, he would as yet live.”

             
“He has gone to a better place.”  Geoffrey spoke without hesitation.

             
Darrick could not help himself.  He laughed, though there was no mirth in the sound.  “Truly you would have made a fine priest, my friend.”

             
“As I might still, some day.”

             
“Why did you not take the vow when we returned from Lisbon and you learned of your mother’s death?  You always swore you would.”

             
Geoffrey looked away.  “I could not leave you, my Lord.”

             
Stunned, Darrick stared.  “Of course you could.  I would have released you.  The priesthood has been your dream for so long.”

             
“You needed me.”

             
“You could still serve me as priest.” 

             
The faint sounds of the invader’s camp awakening drew Darrick’s attention.  If he closed his eyes, the clatter  might so easily be the sound of any normal morning inside the keep.  He listened to the clanking of buckets, the mild cursing of men as they awakened from sound sleep to face another day and swore.

             
He could ill afford to fool himself.  `Twas not just another ordinary day.  It would be the third day of siege, and any moment now the peaceful quiet of the pre-dawn would give way to the horrendous noise of battle.  A battle that he should never have had to fight. 

             
Further proof that the world contained no justice.

             
"Look."  Crossing himself, Geoffrey pointed to the still empty courtyard below.

             
“Dragon’s breath, now what?”  Darrick clenched his fists.  A small woman, hooded and cloaked in rich scarlet, struggled against the wind, dragging a heavy trunk behind her.  The slight figure, bent forward and trying to walk towards the keep, paid the two men no mind.

             
Something about her…

             
"A spy," Geoffrey breathed. "Though how she got inside…" 

             
“She looks familiar.”  Cursing again, Darrick shook his head.  "I need this not."

             
One quick look at his Lord's face had Geoffrey starting forward.  "I'll take care of it."