A Meddle of Wizards

Book 1: Fledgling Magic

by Alexandra Rushe

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Contemporary Fantasy; Dragons & Mythical Creatures

Synopsis

2020 American Fiction Award Winner!

Welcome to Tandara, where gods are fickle, nightmares are real, and trolls make excellent bakers . . .

Raine Stewart is convinced she’ll die young and alone in Alabama, the victim of a chronic, mysterious illness. Until a man in a shabby cloak steps out of her mirror and demands her help to defeat a bloodthirsty wizard.

Raine shrugs it off as a hallucination—just one more insult from her failing body—and orders her intruder to take a hike. But the handsome figment of her imagination won’t take no for an answer, and kidnaps her anyway, launching her into a world of utmost danger—and urgent purpose.

Ruled by unpredictable gods and unstable nations, Tandara is a land of shapeshifters and weather-workers, queens and legends. Ravenous monsters and greedy bounty hunters patrol unforgiving mountains. Riverboats pulled by sea-cattle trade down broad waterways. And creatures of nightmare stalk Raine herself, vicious in the pursuit of her blood.

But Raine isn’t helpless or alone. She’s part of a band as resourceful as it is odd: a mage-shy warrior, a tattered wizard, a tenderhearted giant, and a prickly troll sorceress. Her new friends swear she has powers of her own.   If she can stay under their protection, she might just live long enough to find out . . .

Release date: January 9, 2018

Publisher: Rebel Base Books

Print pages: 330

Sample

Chapter 1

Through a Glass Darkly

Raine settled deeper into the upholstered armchair and opened her book. It was after midnight, but she wasn’t sleepy. God knows she spent enough time in bed. A breeze blew through the screen window, and she tucked the blanket around her thin legs. The April air was cool, but she didn’t mind. Alabama summer lurked around the corner and this might be her last spring.

“Watch this,” Mimsie said, whizzing around the bedroom like a helium balloon escapee from a birthday party.

Raine smiled at the ghost’s antics. Mimsie was a vision today in a polka dot Suzy Perette dress with rounded shoulders, full skirt, and cinched waist. A triple strand of pearls graced her slender neck and she wore her light brown hair curled and brushed away from her youthful face, a face Raine recognized only from faded photographs. The elderly relative who’d taken her in after her parents had died, the woman she remembered, had been more than half a century older, wrinkled and riddled with arthritis.

Mimsie paused in her aerial high jinx. “You look awful. When’s the last time you ate?”

“I don’t know. I’m not hungry.”

“You’re skin and bones. I’ll see what’s in the kitchen.”

The ghost sailed through the bedroom wall, leaving a cloud of Arpege in her wake.

Raine shook her head in amazement. It had been five years since Mimsie had died. Five years without so much as an ectoplasmic peep and then bam! Mimsie was back. The ghost’s sudden appearance a few weeks earlier had sent her scurrying to the doctor, convinced she had a brain tumor. Headaches, nausea, blurred vision, and now the ghost of her dead aunt—what else could it be?

The scans had come back negative. Raine had been sick her entire life, tested for every disease known to man with no diagnosis. The MRI to rule out a brain tumor was just one more procedure. She was twenty-five years old and she was dying, and no one could tell her why.

In the ghost’s absence, quiet settled over the old house, unbroken but for the creak of a settling board and the hum of the electric clock on the table by the bed. Raine returned her attention to Ghosts of Behr County, a worn volume of eerie tales, and one of her favorites. She was engrossed in the story of the Wampas Kitty, a feline banshee whose shriek warned of impending death, when a sudden gust of briny air made her lift her head. The tangy scent of the sea blowing through the open window was overpowering and intoxicating.

Raine loved the smell of the ocean, but she lived sixty miles from the Gulf. Inland. The universe wasn’t satisfied with hallucinations. Now she was imagining smells.

A flicker of movement in the dresser mirror caught her eye, and the book in her hands tumbled to the floor. A ship rode a wintry sea in the silvered glass, the image shaky as an old silent movie. The sky above the vessel was sprinkled with stars, hard chips of brightness against the inky black, and a sliver of moon peeked from behind dusky clouds. A tall, broad-shouldered man strode about the narrow deck, flags on a mast snapping in the breeze. He paused and looked back, as though sensing her regard.

Time slowed and stilled. How long she sat there—seconds? hours?—Raine did not know. The neighbor’s dog barked, breaking the spell. She blinked, disoriented for a moment, and shook off her paralysis. Brain tumor. Definitely. Closing her hand around the heavy flashlight by her chair, Raine hurled it at the mirror. The glass shattered, and the ship and the man disappeared.

Mimsie darted back through the wall. “I heard a noise. Are you hurt?” She spotted the broken glass. “Oh, dear. Why’d you break the mirror?”

“There was a roach,” Raine lied. “One of those big, icky ones with wings. You know I hate those things.”

Raine got to her feet and tightened the string at the waist of her cotton pajamas. She’d lost more weight. Mimsie was right—she should eat something, but she had no appetite. Averting her gaze from the broken mirror, she headed for the bedroom door.

“Careful of the glass,” Mimsie warned. “You’re barefoot.” She fluttered after Raine into the upstairs hall. “There’s chicken noodle soup in the pantry and saltine crackers.”

“Yay. I’ll have a whiskey instead.”

“You don’t drink.”

“I’ve decided to take it up.”

Raine needed a drink. A lot of drinks. First the ghost and now the medieval hunk in the mirror. She’d lost her ever-loving mind.

“But what about the glass?”

“Later, Mims. It’s not going anywhere.”

Holding on to the rail, Raine staggered down the stairs and made her way into the library with the ghost at her heels. She switched on a lamp and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s out of the liquor cabinet. Sloshing two fingers into a glass, she took a hefty swig, coughing and gasping as the fiery liquid burned its way down her throat.

“Don’t guzzle it. That’s good sipping whiskey.”

“For goodness sake, stop pecking.” Raine wiped her streaming eyes. “You’re worse than a broody hen.”

“I’m not pecking,” Mimsie said. “I’m trying to educate you.”

Raine took another cautious sip. “Tell me something. Why show up now? You’ve been dead for years.”

The pretty young ghost sniffed. “I didn’t just show up, Mary Raine. Been here all along. It’s not my fault you couldn’t see me.”

“I can’t get over the way you look.” Raine waved the glass at Mimsie. “You are not the Mimsie I remember.”

Mimsie smoothed the silk dress that covered her slender figure. “I was eighty-four when I died. Why go through eternity an old woman if I don’t have to? Now I’m dead, I mean to live it up.”

The doorbell rang, interrupting them before Raine could think of a response to that bit of nonsense.

“Good grief,” Raine said, lowering her glass. “Who could that be at this time of night?”

“Betcha a dollar it’s that nosy Mamie Hall. Probably saw the lights on.”

Raine groaned. Her next-door neighbor was a notorious busybody. “You’re right. What in the world am I going to tell her?”

“You don’t have to tell her anything. It’s your house. You don’t owe the old biddy an explanation.”

The bell rang again, shrill and insistent.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Raine said. “She keeps that up, she’ll break the damn thing.”

She set the glass down and hurried into the hall. She yanked the front door open. The porch was dark and empty, but the old bell in the middle of the door spun like mad, as if turned by an invisible hand. The porch lights flared on and the bell stopped ringing.

“That’s strange,” Raine murmured, squinting at the glare.

“Raine? Get back here. You need to see this.”

What now? Raine thought, closing the door. Hurrying into the library, she found Mimsie standing by the window, her slim form shining in the dim light. The ghost raised her arm and pointed to the mirror over the mantel. The glass rippled like wind-tossed water.

Raine gasped in shock as the billowing folds of the mirror parted and a man with shoulder-length auburn hair stepped out. He held a brilliant jewel in one hand and he was dressed in some sort of costume—a tattered brown cloak, a knee-length rumpled brown tunic worn over loose leggings of the same color, and scruffy brown boots. He was handsome, Raine’s stunned brain realized, but he was not the man on the ship. Oh, no. This was an entirely different apparition. She stumbled back, tripped on the hem of her pajamas, and crashed to the floor with the grace of a hippo en pointe. Ignoring her aching rump, she gaped at the stranger.

“Do you see what I see?” Raine asked Mimsie, her gaze on her brain’s latest manifestation. Boy, when she had a meltdown, she had a doozy.

“If you’re talking about the man in the funny getup, absolutely,” the ghost said. “Call the police.”

“And tell them what? ´Scuse me, officer, could you send someone over? A man just broke into my house through the library mirror? They’ll lock me up and throw away the key.”

The man gave Raine a quizzical look and said something in a strange language. He waved the jewel at her and took a tentative step closer.

“Forget the police,” Mimsie said with a hiss. “Run. I’ll create a diversion.”

Raine scrambled to her feet and backed toward the door, her gaze on the stranger. He spoke again and the jewel in his hand flared, bleaching the library walls white. Raine’s muscles went stiff and hard as rock. She froze, unable to move, pinned to the floor like a bug.

“Let her go,” Mimsie screeched.

She flew at the man, passed through him, and came out the other side, but if the intruder noticed, he gave no sign. With a despairing wail, Mimsie disappeared, leaving Raine alone with him. Closing the space between them, he lifted Raine’s arm and examined the splotch on the underside of her left wrist. She stared at him, dizzy and disoriented. His hands were strong and uncallused, and his palms were hot against her skin.

He felt awfully real for a dream. No matter, she told herself. Tomorrow morning when I wake, he’ll be gone.

The stranger regarded her, his gaze troubled. “There must be some mistake.”

English, the man had spoken English, though his accent was peculiar.

He released her and stepped back. “You are not what I expected, but you have the mark.” He stroked his chin. “Still, best to be sure.”

He waved the stone again. Raine’s petrified muscles relaxed without warning, and she crumpled to the floor.

“Allow me to introduce myself.” The man bowed. “I am Archimedes Brefreton, a wizard of the order prime. You may call me Brefreton, Bree, or Red—anything but Archie, which I detest. What is your name?”

Wizard? The guy was a total nutter. Correction: she was the nutter. She’d had a complete brain melt.

“There’s a good girl.” Brain Tumor Boy gave her an encouraging smile. “Tell me your name.”

Raine struggled to her feet and straightened her pajamas. This was ridiculous. She would not be controlled by a lump on her brain.

But, to her fury, the words tumbled out of their own accord.

“Mary Raine Stewart, but that’s my adopted name,” she heard herself say. “No idea who my birth parents were. They left me on the steps of Saint Mark’s Episcopal Church when I was a baby. My father’s aunt raised me after my parents died.”

She stamped her foot and glared at this latest fancy of her beleaguered brain. “Stop that. You’re making me talk and I don’t like it.”

“Then I suggest you stop fighting me and cooperate.” He looked her up and down, taking in her ashen complexion, frizzy locks, and gaunt frame. “You are unwell?”

“Wow, someone give Captain Observant a free T-shirt.”

“What ails you?”

“Ding, ding, ding. That’s the fifty-million-dollar question. The only thing the doctors know for sure is that I’m dying.”

“Dying? Inconvenient, to be sure, but hardly insurmountable.” He brandished the gemstone at her. “Do you know what this is?”

“You got a shiny rock. Yay.”

“It is not a rock. It is a god stone and very powerful. With it, your vitality can be restored.”

“Uh-huh.”

Talk about denial. She was so desperate to be well that her psyche had cooked up this garbage. Pathetic.

“Come with me.” He held out his hand. “Help me save my homeland and you will be made healthy and whole.”

“Mister, I wouldn’t go to the corner store with you, even if you were real. Which you are so not.”

His handsome features hardened. Grabbing her by the arm, he pulled her close. “You are under a misapprehension. You have no choice. One way or another, you will accompany me. There are more lives at stake than your own.”

Lifting the jewel, he began to murmur in that strange language, and the mirror over the mantel shimmered and pulsed in response.

Something clattered outside the window, and he turned with a start. “What the–”

Good old Mimsie. She’d promised to create a diversion and she had, rattling the garbage cans around and making one hell of a racket.

Raine jerked free of the man’s hold and punched him in the nose. Hard.

“Ouch.” She shook her throbbing hand and glared at him in outrage. “What gives? Dreams aren’t supposed to hurt.”

He winced and prodded the bridge of his nose. “Now, see here, young lady,” he said as she drew back her fist. “Do not—”

Raine took another swing at the man. He cursed and made a defensive move, and her fist glanced off his upraised arm and slammed into the jewel. It blazed bright as a miniature sun and flew into the air.

A tremendous wind howled through the library. Books tumbled off the shelves. Vases and bric-a-brac crashed to the floor. The couch skidded across the room and Mimsie’s favorite Queen Anne chair smashed into the wall. Raine was lifted off her feet like a papier-mâche doll and tossed toward the mantel mirror. She screamed in helpless terror as the glistening surface of the glass parted like a pair of grotesque lips and swallowed her whole. She tumbled, head over heel, through darkness.

Stars melted around her. Down, down she plummeted, toward a distant shard of light. The splinter of brightness widened, and she caught a fleeting glimpse of mountains and an ocean of trees. Then something slammed into her head and Raine knew no more.

Chapter 2

Magog’s Temple

The broken moon Petrarr smiled upon the temple with crooked teeth. Una, her twin, glowed beside her, round and smooth as a new cheese. The moons were high in the sky by the time the priests had finished their cleansing rites. Chanting, they held their lanterns aloft and marched down the hill, swaying to the beat of the drums.

When the last priest had droned past, Gertie crawled out of the woods and up the treeless slope on her belly. Pausing at the bottom of the stone stairs, she fixed her unblinking gaze on her quarry. Two men guarded the temple entrance. Torches flared on the landing and on either side of the ornate double doors. The wind shifted and Gertie wrinkled her nose. The humans stank of leather and sweat and the smaller one reeked of garlic. She crept closer, her body blending into her surroundings.

Shifting their weapons, the guards peered into the darkness.

Nervous as a lamb at a wolf’s wedding, Gertie thought with an inward chuckle. They sensed the danger, though they couldn’t see her. Trolls had a talent for camouflage.

At the top of the wide stone steps she tensed her hindquarters and sprang at one of the guards, slashing his throat with her claws. He slumped to the pavement with a gurgling cry. The other man whipped around at the noise, his eyes widening when he saw the crumpled figure lying in a pool of blood.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

His question ended in a shriek as Gertie lifted him into the air and fastened her jaws around his throat. The hot, sweet taste of blood filled her mouth. When the man ceased to twitch in her arms, she tossed the body aside and shed her disguise. Her muzzle and claws were wet with blood and the light from the torches threw her hulking shadow against the temple wall. Stepping over the dead man without a backward glance, she stalked across the landing to the temple doors.

Mauric slid out of the darkness, a bloody knife in one hand. As he was human and could not cloak himself in the manner of trolls, he’d disguised himself with black garb. His pale skin was smeared with dark paint, and a black cloth covered his pale locks.

He cleaned his knife and slid it back in his boot. “What took you so long? You’re slowing down.”

“Don’t start with me. I shouldn’t have let you come. It’s far too dangerous.”

The warrior’s eyes gleamed. “That’s the fun of it. In any event, you couldn’t have stopped me.”

Gertie glared at him in annoyance. The young devil was enjoying this. They were deep in enemy territory with plans to kidnap the Dark Wizard’s ward, and he acted like it was a lark. She glanced around, her predatory instincts jangling from adrenaline. Glonoff and his soldiers were camped a short distance from the temple. Hara and her attendants were alone inside . . . now that the guards had been disposed of. It was now or never.

“The moons are on the rise,” Gertie said. “We’re wasting time. We do not want to be here when Magog wakes up.”

She stalked inside and looked around. Few outsiders saw the secret confines of one of Magog’s temples, unless they were being sacrificed on the altar. The shrine was vast, the ceiling lost in darkness. Fire danced in golden braziers, their flames casting flickering shadow monsters on the vast columns. On a dais in the center of the temple a gigantic statue of Magog was enthroned. Padding closer, Gertie studied the god’s features. He was as she remembered, golden and beautiful by human standards, but cruel. A blue sapphire the size of a man’s fist gleamed in one eye; the other socket yawned dark and empty.

Hara Bel-a-Zhezar slept on the god’s stone lap, her head resting on a satin pillow. Her long black hair poured past her creamy shoulders and spilled over the edge of the stone table. The filmy gown she wore displayed her magnificent body to advantage. Tight at the waist and sleeveless, the garment exposed her round white arms and shapely legs. Her full breasts strained against the sheer cloth. Her face was flawless, with high cheekbones and a perfect nose. Long, sooty eyelashes rested in half circles on her flushed cheeks. Her full lips were parted, revealing a glimpse of white teeth. Today was her twenty-fifth birthday and her wedding day. She’d been promised to Magog, the mad god of Shad Amar, since birth. She was supposed to have married him at eighteen, but Magog had succumbed to one of his periodic bouts of madness, and the wedding had been postponed. Tales of Hara’s rage and disappointment at the delay had leaked past the borders of Shad Amar: precious gifts to mark the ceremony destroyed, wedding garments ripped to shreds or burned, and servants slain. Her parents gutted on the altar, or so people whispered.

Her temper tantrum had been for naught. No one disturbed the god of Shad Amar’s darkness, not even Glonoff.

Seven years had passed and Magog’s lunacy had receded. He was to appear in the temple at midnight to claim his bride. Tonight, Hara would come into her power, or so those squawkers in the Tower of Seers claimed. Gertie didn’t set much store by the seers or their mumblings, especially as the talisman Hara was fated to wield—according to prophecy—had been safely ensconced in the Hall of the Gods for thousands of years. Then, two weeks earlier, she’d received disturbing news. The Eye had been stolen. The thief’s identity was unknown, but Gertie was certain that Glonoff had stolen the Eye. His lust for power was well-known. With Hara and the Eye at his command, he would be unstoppable, satisfied with nothing less than control of all of Tandara.

Gertie had never been one to sit by and do nothing, and she’d concocted a schemed of breathtaking simplicity. She would sneak across the mountains into Shad Amar, enter the temple, and snatch Hara from under the Dark Wizard’s nose. The trick would be to make a clean getaway. The thought of being caught by the Dark Wizard or his insane god made her insides shrivel. Still, Glonoff must be thwarted, no matter the risk, and removing Hara seemed the best way to do it.

So what if he has the Eye? Let him try to wield it without his precious ward, Gertie thought with dark amusement. He’ll be reduced to ashes.

A dozen handmaidens slept at the god’s chiseled feet. Gertie bent over the limp form of one of the attendants, her nose twitching at an acrid scent.

“Black gurshee.” She hawked to rid her mouth of the bitter taste. “Glonoff’s drugged Hara and her servants. Finn’s Horn wouldn’t wake them now.”

Noticing the young warrior’s uncharacteristic silence, she glanced back and found him staring at the altar with a dumbfounded expression.

“Gods. Look at her.” His throat worked. “She’s gorgeous.”

“Huh.” Gertie spat again. “Pretty is as pretty does.”

A servant girl moaned and turned her head. Gertie swore softly. There were empty holes where the girl’s nose had been.

Mauric drew his knife. “What is it?”

“The servant. She’s been mutilated.”

“Glonoff?”

Gertie shook her head. “Nay, it was Hara, I suspect. There have been rumors of her savagery, but I gave them little credit.” She grimaced. “Until now.”

“Hara did this? But why? She’s beautiful.”

“Insecurity. Malice.” Gertie shrugged. “Or maybe she enjoys cutting people.”

Mauric expression tightened with disgust. He gripped his knife. “Let’s do this and get out of here.”

They were halfway up the dais steps when Hara stirred.

Mauric shot Gertie a look of reproach. “I thought you said Finn’s Horn wouldn’t wake her.”

“I was mistaken. It happens upon occasion.”

Hara sat up and stretched, her movements lithe and sensual, her dark hair rippling in a silky cascade down her slender back.

Her eyes widened when she spotted them on the stairs. Opening her mouth, she let out a banshee screech that echoed around the temple. The statue of Magog stirred in response, and the temple walls shook and a pillar groaned and toppled to the floor.

Mauric struggled to keep his balance on the crumbling steps. “What’s happening?”

“Magog’s awake,” Gertie shouted. “Forget the girl. Run.”

Ducking falling stones, they raced outside and down the stairway carved into the face of the tor. The earth groaned beneath their feet like a restive animal, and Mauric stumbled and went down on the quaking hill.

Gertie loped up to him on all fours. “Four paws are better than two. Climb on, boy,” she ordered. “Now.”

Mauric scrambled onto her back and held on. When they reached the cover of the forest, he slid off her and stood up. The pitched roof of the temple burst open and Magog thrust his head and shoulders out of the ruin. His blue eye blazed and a penetrating beam of light swept the temple hill and the woods beyond.

“Down,” Gertie said, knocking Mauric’s legs from under him with a swipe of her paw. He hit the ground with a startled grunt as the questing light paused at the edge of the trees where they were hidden, and moved on.

“Tro,” Mauric said, breathing a sigh of relief. “That was close.”

“He’s groggy. Drunk on blood offerings, or we’d be done for.” Gertie pointed to a towering plume of smoke on the horizon. “See that thunderhead? That’s Glonoff. He’s headed this way, and he’s not happy. Trust me. We do not want to be here when he arrives.”

“One of these days, you’re going to tell me the reason there’s bad blood between you and Glonoff.” He grinned. “And it will annoy Raven to no end that you told me first.”

Gertie gave him a sideways glance. “My business with the Dark Wizard is my own, and you shouldn’t plague your cousin.”

“Why? He makes it easy.”

“Enough of your cheek, boy. Fetch your horse.”

Mauric disappeared into the trees. He returned a few moments later with his black stallion.

“Better hold him,” Gertie warned. “Horses and trolls don’t mix.”

“Goblin won’t startle. He knows he’s safe with me.”

Gertie grunted and led the way. They skirted the edge of the forest until the temple was well behind them. Once it was safe, Mauric mounted and they left the shelter of the trees, setting a brutal pace across the low hills and grasslands of Shad Amar. Pausing at the top of a hillock, Gertie rose on her hind legs and sniffed the night air. The green scent of fir and the sweet, dusty smell of dry grass tickled her senses, but there was no sign of pursuit.

She had failed to wrest Hara from Glonoff, but on the bright side, she and Mauric had escaped with their lives. All things considered, no small cause for celebration. The Rowan would not be happy if she’d gotten his favorite nephew killed. She’d tried to dissuade Mauric, but the young hothead had insisted on coming, trailing after her like a blasted hound. She scowled. Kron take it, she was fond of the boy, too. The Rowan should damn well know she’d protect Mauric with her life.

Satisfied that Glonoff was not on their heels, Gertie loped through the grass and caught up with Mauric.

Near dawn, they stopped to rest in a glade at the foot of the Black Mountains. A wall of ancient firs enclosed the peaceful clearing, sheltering them from the wind. In the center of the space was an altar. The pitted gray stone, though worn by time and the elements, was clean and unstained by blood. No bones littered the clearing. A stream danced down the mountainside at one end of the gorge, ending in a double waterfall that sent puffs of mist into the air.

Mauric tended to his horse before striding to the rocky pool to bathe. Licking one paw, Gertie watched him strip off his shirt and wash the dark paint from his face, bulging arms, and muscular torso.

When he was clean, he rose to his feet and shook, spraying her with the icy droplets.

“You’re worse than a dog,” she complained.

Still worrying at her sore paw, she closed her eyes and tested the morning breeze. The spray from the waterfalls gave the air a greenish, underwater quality that made her nose quiver.

“Stop licking that paw or it will fester.”

Gertie opened her eyes to find Mauric standing over her. “Hasn’t anyone told you that it’s bad luck to sneak up on a troll?”

“Hah, as if anyone could sneak up on you. Let me have a look at that cut.”

Reluctantly, Gertie held out her paw. “It’s not bad. I stepped on a stone a few leagues back.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, mor.”

Gertie blinked, touched by his use of the Trolk word for mother.

Mauric cleaned the ragged tear and began to rub unguent on it from one of his saddle bags.

At the first sting, Gertie yelped and jerked her paw away. “Ouch, that hurts.”

“Don’t be such a baby.” Taking her paw again, Mauric finished dressing the wound with salve. “It’s your recipe. Horse manure and lard mixed with honey for healing.” Satisfied with his work, he got to his feet and stretched. “What is this place, one of Magog’s altars?”

“Certainly not.” Gertie removed a shapeless robe from one of the packs and tugged it over her head. “This was once a shrine to Xantheus.”

Mauric whistled. “The slain god?”

“None other.” Gertie shoved her hind paws into a pair of worn boots, wincing at a stab of pain from her injured foot. “Some say guilt over his twin’s death drove Magog mad. At any rate, Magog avoids such places like the plague. We should be safe here for the time being.”

“What about Glonoff? Do you think he knows we were in the temple?”

“Of course he knows. He’s a wizard.”

“And you shed.”

“I may have left a few clumps of fur lying around accidentally on purpose.”

“Knowing it would pucker the Dark Wizard’s arse?”

She grinned. “I certainly hope so. Puckering the Dark Wizard’s arse is one of my chief amusements.” She stomped around a bit to test the boots. “Glonoff will expect us to try for the Arkell Pass, so he’ll search northward first. With any luck, we’ll have a few day’s head start before he realizes his mistake.”

“With the gods’ help, our luck will hold.”

She snorted. “The gods have never favored me.”

A buzzing sound drew her attention to the stone in the clearing.

Mauric swore and drew his sword. “I smell magic.”

“Aye.” With a rumbling growl, Gertie grasped her wizard stone and stepped in front of him. “Get behind me.”

“Nay. It’s my job to protect you.”

“You’re a sweet boy, Mauric. Funny, but sweet. Now do as you’re told.”

“No.”

They were still arguing when a yawning crack opened over the altar and a clump of rags and a red-haired man tumbled out. The gaping hole above the stone closed with a resounding clang, and the man groaned and sat up.

“Bree?” Gertie stared at him in surprise. “What brings you here?”

“Wonderful,” Mauric said, lowering his sword. “Just what we needed—another trodyn wizard.”

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 d