The Mystic's Mandate
1257
Ciara stood frozen near the mullein torch, her heart in her throat. The black-clad stranger who had infiltrated Caledon Castle that rainy autumn night accosted Eric in the hallway above the ballroom, a glittering dagger blade dancing in his gloved hand.
Where were the guards? Where were the servants? Where was anyone?
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
One black glove snatched the golden ring brooch that secured the collar of Eric’s tunic, tearing the fabric. The blade slit the rest of his shirt front open, revealing the old scar: the letter Z burned across his torso.
“King Adrian told me he left his mark upon the imposter. And he sent me to finish what you disallowed him thirty-nine years ago.”
“Not the first time I have faced a coward killer unarmed.” Eric’s lip curled.
“Then you had a forest—a wilderness to hide in. You are a prisoner now in King Adrian’s castle. Where will you run?” The dagger flicked a cut in the underside of Eric’s jaw. A drop of blood splashed onto the stone at the king’s feet.
Ciara screamed.
“Ciara!” Eric’s warning shout became an agonized cry as the murderer plunged his dagger into Eric’s side. The cruel blade twisted, sinking to the hilt.
With a grunt, the assassin withdrew the weapon. Eric staggered, clutching for the railing behind him, but missing and collapsing on the carpet runner.
Shouts rang through the great hall, and footsteps pounded up the stairs. The stranger fixed Ciara with a menacing glare, and then he vanished behind a whirling sea of navy blue coats and black boots.
Ciara stumbled to Eric’s side and fell to her knees, bruising them on the stone floor. Time slowed to a crawl as she wrenched her stole from her shoulders and balled it against the wound. Blood. So much blood!
The ring of steel. The shrieks of servants. Ciara saw only Eric’s face. His eyes were still that startling blue, like the day she had first seen them, decades ago, in the ballroom. The conspiratorial grin she had always loved quirked the corner of his mouth up, despite the pain contorting his brow.
“Don’t fret, Ciara.” She had to lean in to hear him. Confound the Elite Guard, shouting and stomping!
“You shan’t leave me!” She gritted her teeth. “I won’t let you. We’ll find the Mystics. We’ll summon the Ovate!”
Eric squeezed her hand. “Forty years estranged—do you think they would come? There’s no potion to fix this, my love.”
“But we…”
His face contorted. “Let’s not spend our last moments plotting and planning for naught. Ciara…”
His voice was fading. Blood soaked her stole. Tears flooded Ciara’s eyes.
“Be strong.” His words faltered.
“Eric, don’t.” The tears spilled, soaking her cheeks and flooding onto his chest where the letter Z boldly reminded her of her shortcomings. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t shunned him, you would never have…”
“Hush,” Eric whispered. “I wouldn’t trade any of it for a life that didn’t include you.”
“Don’t leave me.” Ciara clutched his arm.
“Don’t command me—I cannot obey.” Eric’s words were barely audible. “I’ll wait for you—on the other side—of the veil.”
“Don’t go.” Ciara’s voice cracked. “I love you, Eric!”
He did not answer.
Ciara flung herself across his chest, longing to feel his arms wrap around her, desperate to keep him with her. His heartbeat beneath her cheek slowed and then stopped. A wail of grief ripped from her.
A comforting hand fell on her shoulder. Someone closed Eric’s eyes.
The whirling blur of activity surrounded her, but Ciara had never felt more alone. A terrible sense of loss and fear overwhelmed her.
Eric was gone. For thirty-nine years, they had concealed their secrets and ruled Caledon together through decades of war.
Now the burden was hers alone.
The hand on her shoulder slipped down to her elbow, and with gentle pressure, helped her to her feet. Ciara turned, stricken, to her eldest son.
Damian looked like his father. Sorrow creased his face now, making him appear older than his thirty-seven years. He pulled Ciara into a tight embrace.
Trembling, she laid her head against his shoulder.
The shouting voices faded, and Ciara heard footsteps running, doors banging. A chill rush of wind from the ballroom below tossed her hair, and she shivered.
Damian addressed someone behind her. “Is Ben all right?”
“He’s asleep in his bed, unharmed,” a shaking female voice replied. “There’s a guard posted at the turret door.”
Ciara pushed back from Damian’s arms. Her gaze swept the landing, finding only her son and his wife standing beside her over Eric’s silent form.
“Have they caught the intruder?” Her tone sounded harsher than she had intended.
The princess hesitated before answering. “Not yet.”
“He’s still in the castle?” Fear choked Ciara. “None of us are safe until he’s in custody!”
“He’s not in the castle, Mother,” Damian assured her.
“Where is he?”
“He leaped the railing into the ballroom when the guards and I came upstairs,” Damian explained.
Ciara peered down at the polished stone floor twenty feet below. Empty. She fixed her son with a questioning look.
“Then he ran outside.” Damian indicated the open balcony doors that admitted the driving wind and rain.
Ciara steeled herself. She hurried downstairs and joined a bewildered, blue-clad guard on the rock-hewn balcony where Eric had proposed to her that September night in 1218. Since then, they had laughed, danced, and loved here. Now the rain assaulted her, and the wind whipped her graying hair into wild disarray.
“Where did he go?”
“Into the water, Your Majesty.” The guard’s eyes bulged as he scanned the swell. “There’s nowhere else he could have gone.”
Ciara’s gaze climbed the sheer castle wall towering above them, and then she peered over the railing at the ferocious waves crashing on the rocks two hundred feet below. Anything that might have fallen from the balcony would wash away on such a wild night.
The long-reaching fingers of the prophecy taunted her.
“The final direct descendant of the Grenleigh royal line… before the passage of these eight hundred years… June 10, 2018…”
She knew every word. The weight was almost unbearable now that Eric could not carry it with her, but her silence had become habitual.
Adrian did not know about the prophecy. His attack on Eric had been spite—thirty-nine years of festering spite. But still an uneasy fear haunted Ciara. She would not put it past him to try to destroy the rest of her family.
“I want every member of the guard on high alert,” Ciara ordered. “Don’t assume the assassin is gone until you have searched every inch of ground within these walls. I want four soldiers at Benedict’s door. As many for Damian and his wife. And one for me.”
“Only one, Your Majesty?”
Ciara vividly recalled the crush of the dagger into Eric’s side. “One will suffice. I do not expect to sleep.”
Ciara stood frozen near the mullein torch, her heart in her throat. The black-clad stranger who had infiltrated Caledon Castle that rainy autumn night accosted Eric in the hallway above the ballroom, a glittering dagger blade dancing in his gloved hand.
Where were the guards? Where were the servants? Where was anyone?
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
One black glove snatched the golden ring brooch that secured the collar of Eric’s tunic, tearing the fabric. The blade slit the rest of his shirt front open, revealing the old scar: the letter Z burned across his torso.
“King Adrian told me he left his mark upon the imposter. And he sent me to finish what you disallowed him thirty-nine years ago.”
“Not the first time I have faced a coward killer unarmed.” Eric’s lip curled.
“Then you had a forest—a wilderness to hide in. You are a prisoner now in King Adrian’s castle. Where will you run?” The dagger flicked a cut in the underside of Eric’s jaw. A drop of blood splashed onto the stone at the king’s feet.
Ciara screamed.
“Ciara!” Eric’s warning shout became an agonized cry as the murderer plunged his dagger into Eric’s side. The cruel blade twisted, sinking to the hilt.
With a grunt, the assassin withdrew the weapon. Eric staggered, clutching for the railing behind him, but missing and collapsing on the carpet runner.
Shouts rang through the great hall, and footsteps pounded up the stairs. The stranger fixed Ciara with a menacing glare, and then he vanished behind a whirling sea of navy blue coats and black boots.
Ciara stumbled to Eric’s side and fell to her knees, bruising them on the stone floor. Time slowed to a crawl as she wrenched her stole from her shoulders and balled it against the wound. Blood. So much blood!
The ring of steel. The shrieks of servants. Ciara saw only Eric’s face. His eyes were still that startling blue, like the day she had first seen them, decades ago, in the ballroom. The conspiratorial grin she had always loved quirked the corner of his mouth up, despite the pain contorting his brow.
“Don’t fret, Ciara.” She had to lean in to hear him. Confound the Elite Guard, shouting and stomping!
“You shan’t leave me!” She gritted her teeth. “I won’t let you. We’ll find the Mystics. We’ll summon the Ovate!”
Eric squeezed her hand. “Forty years estranged—do you think they would come? There’s no potion to fix this, my love.”
“But we…”
His face contorted. “Let’s not spend our last moments plotting and planning for naught. Ciara…”
His voice was fading. Blood soaked her stole. Tears flooded Ciara’s eyes.
“Be strong.” His words faltered.
“Eric, don’t.” The tears spilled, soaking her cheeks and flooding onto his chest where the letter Z boldly reminded her of her shortcomings. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t shunned him, you would never have…”
“Hush,” Eric whispered. “I wouldn’t trade any of it for a life that didn’t include you.”
“Don’t leave me.” Ciara clutched his arm.
“Don’t command me—I cannot obey.” Eric’s words were barely audible. “I’ll wait for you—on the other side—of the veil.”
“Don’t go.” Ciara’s voice cracked. “I love you, Eric!”
He did not answer.
Ciara flung herself across his chest, longing to feel his arms wrap around her, desperate to keep him with her. His heartbeat beneath her cheek slowed and then stopped. A wail of grief ripped from her.
A comforting hand fell on her shoulder. Someone closed Eric’s eyes.
The whirling blur of activity surrounded her, but Ciara had never felt more alone. A terrible sense of loss and fear overwhelmed her.
Eric was gone. For thirty-nine years, they had concealed their secrets and ruled Caledon together through decades of war.
Now the burden was hers alone.
The hand on her shoulder slipped down to her elbow, and with gentle pressure, helped her to her feet. Ciara turned, stricken, to her eldest son.
Damian looked like his father. Sorrow creased his face now, making him appear older than his thirty-seven years. He pulled Ciara into a tight embrace.
Trembling, she laid her head against his shoulder.
The shouting voices faded, and Ciara heard footsteps running, doors banging. A chill rush of wind from the ballroom below tossed her hair, and she shivered.
Damian addressed someone behind her. “Is Ben all right?”
“He’s asleep in his bed, unharmed,” a shaking female voice replied. “There’s a guard posted at the turret door.”
Ciara pushed back from Damian’s arms. Her gaze swept the landing, finding only her son and his wife standing beside her over Eric’s silent form.
“Have they caught the intruder?” Her tone sounded harsher than she had intended.
The princess hesitated before answering. “Not yet.”
“He’s still in the castle?” Fear choked Ciara. “None of us are safe until he’s in custody!”
“He’s not in the castle, Mother,” Damian assured her.
“Where is he?”
“He leaped the railing into the ballroom when the guards and I came upstairs,” Damian explained.
Ciara peered down at the polished stone floor twenty feet below. Empty. She fixed her son with a questioning look.
“Then he ran outside.” Damian indicated the open balcony doors that admitted the driving wind and rain.
Ciara steeled herself. She hurried downstairs and joined a bewildered, blue-clad guard on the rock-hewn balcony where Eric had proposed to her that September night in 1218. Since then, they had laughed, danced, and loved here. Now the rain assaulted her, and the wind whipped her graying hair into wild disarray.
“Where did he go?”
“Into the water, Your Majesty.” The guard’s eyes bulged as he scanned the swell. “There’s nowhere else he could have gone.”
Ciara’s gaze climbed the sheer castle wall towering above them, and then she peered over the railing at the ferocious waves crashing on the rocks two hundred feet below. Anything that might have fallen from the balcony would wash away on such a wild night.
The long-reaching fingers of the prophecy taunted her.
“The final direct descendant of the Grenleigh royal line… before the passage of these eight hundred years… June 10, 2018…”
She knew every word. The weight was almost unbearable now that Eric could not carry it with her, but her silence had become habitual.
Adrian did not know about the prophecy. His attack on Eric had been spite—thirty-nine years of festering spite. But still an uneasy fear haunted Ciara. She would not put it past him to try to destroy the rest of her family.
“I want every member of the guard on high alert,” Ciara ordered. “Don’t assume the assassin is gone until you have searched every inch of ground within these walls. I want four soldiers at Benedict’s door. As many for Damian and his wife. And one for me.”
“Only one, Your Majesty?”
Ciara vividly recalled the crush of the dagger into Eric’s side. “One will suffice. I do not expect to sleep.”
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(c) 2020 Christine Stobbe
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The Mystic's Mandate
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