Spellbinder
Page 22

Digging deep, he wrenched Power out through sheer force of will and cast an aversion spell over himself. Then, as rapidly as he could, he crossed the open area. His muscles shook with the effort to hold a spell so simple a magic student could throw it, and for a moment he was tempted to let it drop. The morning was early yet, not quite dawn, and there would be few people about.
Just then, a young voice called out and another answered, and two youths dashed toward the kitchens. They might or might not notice him, but if they did, he was highly recognizable. Gritting his teeth, Morgan held onto the casting.
As he reached the stables, he knew he wasn’t going to make it to his destination. Slipping inside, he let the spell go as dizziness overtook him. Reeling, he almost went down but managed to catch himself on the closest stall door.
Unsteadily, he made his way past the most spacious stalls, which held the nobles’ mounts and Isabeau’s own white destrier. He wanted to make it to the back of the stables where he knew there were empty stalls, but as black dots danced in front of his eyes, he changed course to slip into the stall of the gray dappled gelding he used when he was in Avalon.
A soft whuffle greeted him, and the gelding nosed him, looking for treats. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Nothing for you today.”
Catching the scent of fresh blood, the gelding pulled back and stamped its hooves uneasily. Morgan managed to latch the stall door, then the world went gray and formless, and he felt his legs buckle underneath him.
Chapter Six
The sound of rhythmic thumping and voices roused him. Isabeau’s voice, calling out wordlessly.
As awareness coalesced, he realized he was lying prone in his gelding’s stall. The horse had decided to ignore him and stood with his nose in a box filled with hay, as far away as he could get from Morgan.
Adrenaline kicked him into action. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but he’d been easily visible to anyone who might have glanced into the stall. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he edged back against the shadow of the stall door.
His head swam, black dots danced in front of his eyes, and the wound in his side gave a warning twinge. He pressed a hand against it and glanced down at himself. Liquid red had soaked his shirt and the hip of his pants. He had been bleeding the whole time he’d been unconscious.
The thumping increased in speed, and Isabeau cried out again. Distaste curled Morgan’s lip. She was screwing someone in the stables. The man muttered something unintelligible then emitted a long, low groan. Apparently, at least one of them had achieved culmination.
Isabeau and Modred had a long-standing relationship, to which they were both unfaithful. Modred had pressed Isabeau to marry him for ages, but she refused. She would never let Modred get so close to the power of her throne. Modred was eternally ambitious, and as she had said before to Morgan more than once, he was already close enough to the throne as it was.
And so Isabeau and Modred danced around each other through the centuries, both lovers and conspirators, endlessly colluding in ventures for mutual and individual gain.
Morgan wished they would destroy each other, but as long as Isabeau kept possession of Azrael’s Athame, which gave her control over Morgan and the other Hounds, Modred would never act against her. Aside from her political power, she held too much personal Power and made a deadly enemy.
Morgan had watched them destroy other friends and lovers with their dramas and jealousies. They broke people like children broke toys, carelessly throwing them away when they were ruined to reach for other, brighter playthings. This man, whoever he was, would be no different.
After the man’s groan, the thumping had stopped. There was a rustle of clothing.
“When can we make the announcement?” the man asked. “I don’t want us to hide what we are to each other any longer.”
Morgan recognized his voice. The other male was Valentin, a high-ranking noble from Arkadia, a Light Fae demesne whose crossover passageway was located near Mount Elbrus in Russia.
Valentin had arrived some months ago with a view to strengthening trade and ties between the two demesnes. As Arkadia’s rulers were nearly as xenophobic as Isabeau and had similar views on maintaining racial purity, she had welcomed Valentin with open arms. Quite literally, it appeared.
“We must take our time, my love,” Isabeau purred. “Approach matters gently, and let my court get used to your presence. Let them come to love you as I have learned to. I don’t allow many emissaries from other demesnes to visit here, in the seat of my power. You are still strange to many of us.”
“It’s been months since I’ve arrived,” Valentin insisted. “More than time enough for you and me to fall in love.”
Valentin was another toy that would soon be broken. Not clever enough to have perceived Modred’s enduring position at court, he would push either Isabeau or Modred too far, and Modred would never allow a foreign noble to supplant him.
Valentin’s death would be from poison, or perhaps a fatal fall while riding—something that could be spun to the rulers in Arkadia as an accident. Either that, or he would be driven from Isabeau’s court in disgrace.
“But darling, I am already dealing with so much.” Isabeau’s pout was evident in her voice. “Oberon’s Dark Court is gaining strength. I had thought I’d blocked their access to Earth, but even as we speak, their presence in England grows. That makes my crossover passageways and borders more vulnerable than ever to this interminable war. And the captain of my Hounds is still missing.”
“If one of my captains went missing, I would have him hunted down and strung up for desertion,” Valentin said. But then Valentin didn’t understand the true nature of the relationship between Morgan and Isabeau.
“The situation is not as simple as that,” Isabeau replied impatiently. A note of injury entered her voice. “No one seems to fully understand everything I must cope with!”
As he listened, Morgan considered the precariousness of his situation. No matter what her order had been to him earlier, if she said his name—if she worded a sentence in a way that made it clear she wanted him back and he heard it—his newfound freedom would be gone, and he would have to go to her. The geas would see to that.
He had nothing he could use to stop his ears to avoid hearing her voice. If only he had a lump of beeswax, something. Clenching, he waited to hear the words that would ensure his recapture.