Читать книгу A Meddle of Wizards - Alexandra Rushe - Страница 11

Chapter 3

News from Afar

The rustle of leathery wings woke Raven. Folding his arms behind his head, he watched the bat flutter about the shadowy room. The tiny creature smacked into a marble column and tumbled onto a low divan. With a flash of light, the bat vanished and a pale, willowy woman appeared on the cushioned couch.

Raven knew her at once, though her slender neck was bowed, and her delicate features were concealed behind a curtain of dark hair. He sat up, tugging the sheet around his waist to cover his nakedness. A luscious beauty sprawled on either side of him, and the corners of his mouth curved in an amused smile. His nocturnal visitor was a notorious prude, and she rarely left Shadow Mount, where she was cloistered within the Circle of Seers. Though it had been years since their last visit, he had no doubt she would condemn his amorous pursuits.

The woman on the divan shoved her long hair out of her face, exposing the ruin of her once-lovely eyes.

Raven’s enjoyment vanished in an instant, and he sprang from the bed with a curse. “Glory, what happened to you?”

The voluptuous redhead in the bed stirred at the sound of his voice and sat up, her expression petulant. “Come back to bed, lord. Shamira and I grow cold.”

Glory stiffened. “Two women, nephew? You are a prince of Finlara. Your responsibilities to king and country do not include plowing your way through Akbree Kabal’s harem.”

“I know my duty, aunt. But as it happens, I am in Esmalla on business of my own, not my father’s.” Crossing to the divan, Raven bent to examine her injuries. “Furthermore, I do not bed Kabal’s women. I like my head where it is, thank you.” Paying no heed to her protests, he checked her for other hurts. Aside from a few bruises on her pale skin, there were none. “Who did this?”

She pushed his hands away. “Not in front of them.”

“Very well.” Kissing her cheek, he straightened and regarded the wenches in his bed with a cold eye. “Leave us.”

Shamira shot him a dirty look and the redhead—what was her name?—looked sullen. Grabbing their gowns, they scurried from the room, leaving him in no doubt of their resentment.

No matter. In his experience, women, with few exceptions, were interchangeable, their lovely faces and inviting bodies a blur of smooth limbs and soft breasts in his memory.

He slid into a pair of leather breeches without bothering to light a lamp. The darkness did not hamper his vision and his aunt was blind.

Blind; the thought of the anguish Glory must have suffered filled him with rage. The perpetrator of this savagery would pay and dearly.

But first to see to her comfort. Stripping the rumpled sheets from the bed, he spread a clean blanket over the mattress. Ignoring Glory’s protests, he carried her from the divan and laid her on the bed. He fetched a basin and a clean cloth and wiped her face, avoiding her sightless eyes. Taking a seat on the side of the bed, he held a cup of wine to her lips.

Once she had drunk her fill, he placed the goblet on the floor and took her hands in his. “Now, tell me. Who is the brute who maimed you?”

“I will tell you anon, but first I have dreadful news.” She clasped his hands. “The Eye has been stolen.”

Shock rendered Raven momentarily speechless. The Eye stolen?

“Gods,” he said, his mind reeling at the implications. “Does Glonoff have it?”

“Not as yet, but he is looking for it, of that you can be sure.”

“The Rowan must be informed at once. I will sail for Finlara at first light.”

“I expected you to say that,” Glory murmured. “I have dreamed.”

Raven suppressed a twinge of impatience. Glory was his mother’s sister, the last remaining connection to the woman who’d abandoned him at birth. He loved her, but his aunt was forever prognosticating, and he had little patience for such prattle.

“That is to be expected,” he said. “You are a seer.”

“I dreamed alone. When I refused to tell the High Seer what I had seen, he took my sight. My punishment was just. I broke my vows. Worse, I refused to share my vision.”

“Glory, your precious High Seer has been selling prophecies to the highest bidder for months, including the Dark Wizard.”

Her lips paled with shock. “Are you certain of this?”

“Aye. Kabal has been approached as well. He told me as much.”

To his surprise, Glory chuckled. “’Twould seem the High Seer is not what he pretends to be. But then neither am I.” Her lips curved in a self-satisfied smile. “I would dearly love to have seen Zared’s face when I turned into a bat and flew away. He did not know that I am an adept, you see, and I fancy the discovery came as quite a shock. Zared resents those with a talent for magic. He prides himself on his intellect and understanding, and he hates those with abilities beyond his ken.”

“Zared is a dead man,” Raven said flatly. “I will pluck him from his precious tower and feed him to the crows. On that, you may depend, but why are you here? Why not go straight to the Rowan with your tidings of the Eye?”

“We must journey together. I have seen it.”

More visions. Raven stifled a sigh of irritation. Still, Glory’s resolve and courage were undeniable. She had suffered torture and unimaginable pain. Moreover, the Eska’s palace was a thousand leagues from Shadow Mount, and she had made the journey though blinded.

He stared at her ravaged face, his gut clenched with the burning need for vengeance. Glory was an elf. In taking her sight, Zared had doomed her to an eternity of darkness. Unless…

No. Everything in him recoiled at the thought. It would mean abandoning the habits of a lifetime. He had fought long and hard for acceptance in Finlara as the Rowan’s half-blood son. Finlars had no tolerance for magic, and he had taken pains to conceal his gift. Even his adopted mother was unaware of his talent, the cagey old troll.

But Glory is family. The same blood runs through your veins. Will you allow her to suffer, knowing it is within your power to help? And Finlara is a world away. No one need know.

“You are troubled.” Glory cupped his cheek in her hand. “I sense your disquiet.”

“You are not the only one with a secret, Aunt.”

“What do you mean? What secret have you—”

Raven bent over her and pressed the tips of his fingers upon her torn eyes.

“What are you doing?” Glory’s slim form tensed. “Raven? Raven.”

Raven concentrated, letting the healing force slowly build within him.

Glory bucked like a wild thing on the bed. “Stop! Let me go.”

“Stop fighting me,” Raven murmured. “You’re only making it worse.”

He released the energy pent inside him and poured it into Glory’s ravaged eyes. She screamed and arched in agony. Raven staggered. Pain, white hot and excruciating, swept over him. Gritting his teeth, he threw all his strength into the task, willing Glory’s mutilated tissue and nerve endings to regenerate. It had been a long time since he’d used his peculiar talent and never to restore someone’s vision. For a dreadful moment, he feared he’d lost his touch. Gradually, however, the terrible torment receded and was replaced by the tingling itch of new growth. Long moments passed, but Raven did not release Glory until the last prickling sensation had faded from his fingertips.

At last it was done, and he straightened, swaying. He felt empty, hollowed out, his limbs robbed of their customary strength.

Glory opened her eyes and stared up at him. “I can see.” Her green gaze moved around the room in wonder. “Raven . . . you healed me.”

“Move, Glory,” Raven croaked. “Now.”

She obeyed for once, thank the gods, and rolled out of his way. With a groan of relief, Raven crashed onto the mattress, downed like a mighty oak by a woodsman’s axe.