Chapter 7

  Meether shuddered in the abrupt silence, his grip on Ihllaea so tight it made her squeak. He needed to let her go.

  But he couldn’t. His precious granddaughter… Already traumatized, already anxious… And now his Phoenix grandchild had just Sparked with a Flames-cursed Cannibal.

  The shock of this left him breathless.

  He’d seen this happen twice before. Soulbonds linked two souls, made them one. A rare, beautiful, and holy thing, a soulbond between mates produced an inner glow of unity that shone from them both for all to see; even Naturals, who had no magical sight.

  But first came a Spark of potential. A bright but tiny light that stretched between the two who could become soulmates; lit from within and echoed in the other.

  Dear Flames—no.

  Unlike the Spark between Meether’s daughter Rattiri and her future soulmate Covahn—Ihllaea’s parents—this was not something to celebrate, to feel joy in.

  Flames. How could this happen? With a Cannibal? Impossible! Ihllaea is as good a soul as I’ve ever known, and a Cannibal is her utter opposite. There can’t possibly be any compatibility!

  He gave himself a shake, forcing that thought away in the imperative of dealing with this sick creature.

  Also…did Ihllaea know the Cannibal had pointed the proverbial finger at her when he called out to the Phoenix? He didn’t think so. He sincerely hoped not, because Ihllaea didn’t need that pressure. She was still Healing…

  Feeling as if he moved through the fabled Sands of Fate, he lifted his gaze from the unconscious form to meet Daeg’s. The young High King, sword hovering over the man, panted from the fight.

  Daeg’s Nymph-green eyes were grim as they stared helplessly at each other. “He knows,” Daeg growled into his mind, gaze flicking to Ihllaea, then back.

  Dammit. That Spark was hardly the only thing of concern right now. Daeg was right. A Cannibal had recognized Ihllaea as the Phoenix. That was the biggest problem right now.

  No one could ever know she was the Phoenix. Not even their allies, much less an enemy like this man.

  “Flames of our fathers,” Daeg breathed. “I’ve never met anyone that skilled at fighting. And he’s not in possession of his full faculties, either.”

  Meether could only agree with a nod.

  “Grandfather?” Daeg asked tightly.

  He jerked his gaze back to Daeg, shaking his mind loose from the shock of death-magic in Lore Keep and the knowledge that Ihllaea had felt a Spark.

  “Grandfather—how the hell can this man know…? How is this possible? We’ve been so careful.”

  Meether shook his head. “I don’t know.” Like Daeg had said, they’d been so careful. No one should know that Ihllaea was the Phoenix outside of their family. Ihllaea had not been born yet when Meether’s son died, so that wasn’t the leak.

  Ihllaea turned her face into his shoulder, a soft whimper coming from her. For the first time, he felt Ihllaea’s fear—a fear born of traumatic memory.

  Meether wondered what he was going to tell Ihllaea when she asked why the Phoenix had been in this room, fighting a Cannibal of all things, risking herself. Ihllaea was too observant not to notice that—and too intelligent not to wonder. And it wasn’t time yet to tell Ihllaea that she was the bearer of that burden.

  Daeg looked down at the man, his sword wavering. When Daeg turned his gaze back, his mouth was thin. “Fuck,” he hissed. With a snarl of anger, he sheathed his sword, ramming it into the sheath in fury. “We can’t kill him. We have to find out how he knows. It’s not likely someone was tortured for the information, because we know everyone who knows, and they’re accounted for. Which points to a mole.”

  Meether started. “Surely not…”

  Daeg glared down at the Tor Elf. He hesitated, then crouched, shoving the man onto his back. Black hair littered with dead flora covered his face. Daeg swiped it roughly away, staring down at him.

  Meether almost missed it. Daeg gave a soft inhalation, eyes sharpening on the slack face, searching the man’s face intently. His mouth, already tight, turned into a grimace. “What the hell?” he whispered.

  “You’d better decide quickly,” Nohl called from outside the room, voice grim.

  Meether turned to his grandson, lowering the Guardian so Nohl and his assistant Curu could enter. The old Gnome gently guided Nohl through the doorway, his dark, always observant gaze taking everything in.

  “What do you mean?” Meether asked.

  Nohl waved vaguely at the unconscious heap. “He’s dying. If you don’t let us Heal him—and I mean now—he’ll die. He may die no matter what.”

  Meether met Daeg’s gaze again. “Well?”

  Daeg looked down at the man. With fingers considerably gentler now, he lifted more hair from his face.

  Again, recognition.

  Meether scowled slightly, waiting. What’s going on here?

  Daeg stared at the man, one hand lighting with his deep-violet lifespark, the magic of his soul. Those Nymph-green eyes shifted, looking down into his own magic for a moment, then back to the man. Meether wondered what he was doing—but had a feeling he knew.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Still crouched, Daeg sighed slowly, barely an expression of breath, still searching the man’s face. He released his magic, face easing from confusion to consternation.

  Daeg rose smoothly, face now expressionless as he turned hooded eyes to Nohl. “Heal him,” he ordered softly.

  When Daeg’s eyes shifted and met his, Foresight moved in them.

  Meether lifted his brows. He didn’t say anything, but motioned to Nohl and Curu.

  The two Healers bracketed the man, lifesparks blazing urgently.

  Meether glanced around at his Warriors. Most of them were wounded, staring in sick fascination at the man lying on the stone of the Rogue Room, a Cannibal—here in Lore Keep.

  Meether didn’t blame them. He felt that way, too.

  He released Ihllaea finally, turning her to face him, her eyes reluctantly leaving the man to meet his.

  “Laea, our Warriors are injured. Can you take care of them?”

  She straightened and nodded. “Yes, Papa.” Her voice shook with emotion, but the usual determination in her gaze solidified. Sometimes he thought Ihllaea’s false lifespark should be yellow instead of green.

  When she turned to help the Warriors, Meether grimaced. That death-magic was nauseating. And there was also that man’s personal magic. How the hell did he fight like that, on death’s door, swinging magic around like it was nothing?

  Above all, that death-magic had to be contained. It would leak from him, permeating everything around him, and it would eventually become a source of depression and anxiety for his people.

  The fact of a Cannibal here would be enough to upset his people, much less his dark magic.

  Meether startled, breaking realization… “Oh, Flames!”

  Daeg swung around from watching the Healers work. “What’s wrong?” he asked sharply, hand on sword hilt.

  Meether strode to the man, holding out his hand to Daeg to wait. With his magic, Meether searched the Tor Elf, but couldn’t get to the man’s Magic, Empathy, or Healing—but especially his mind, which had the hardest, deepest Guardian over it that he’d ever seen—more indication he was no Rogue.

  That didn’t matter. They wouldn’t be in his mind, anyway.

  One look, and he knew he was right.

  There were no stolen souls.

  But then…he was no Cannibal either?

  But what Meether did see of this man’s magic staggered him. Already bent over him, Meether dropped to a knee, shuddering in sympathetic pain.

  Meether looked up at Daeg. “He doesn’t have any souls.”

  Daeg’s brows lifted, his expression wary. “What made you look for that?”

  “Because he was only using his lifespark. He wasn’t using death-magic at all. He has death-magic, it’s in him, it permeates him—but he didn’t use it. Only his personal energy.”

  “His personal energy was enough,” his grandson Tannan muttered in disgust behind Daeg.

  Meether gave a short laugh. “True. But there’s more. This man is covered in broken spells.”

  Everyone went silent. Everyone also winced.

  “Backlash?” Daeg breathed, eyes widening.

  “Yes. Massive, deep, all tinder backlash.”

  Tannan groaned, but Meether didn’t take his eyes from Daeg’s. Daeg shook his head. “How is he alive?”

  Meether rolled his shoulders, uneasy. “An excellent question. I don’t know how. Those wounds, that backlash—and no souls, Daeg! He’s a death-mage without souls. How is that possible? He only used his magic, his personal energy. Why didn’t he use the death-magic, too? He might’ve killed us all if he had.”

  Daeg scowled, mind turned inward, while Tannan shrugged. “I don’t know, Papa, but he wasn’t exactly thinking straight, not with that backlash.” Tannan gave a visible shudder. “No wonder he’s insane. I’m surprised he was able to fight us at all, the way he did.”

  Daeg turned his gaze back to the man, eyes narrowing. “Ugh, can you do anything about that?”

  Meether drew a shaking breath. “I’ll invoke the Rogue Bond. That should keep his energy down, and it’ll leech the death-magic away. I hope.”

  Daeg glanced around. The young King went to the door. Meether realized that more Warriors had arrived, among them Captain Ordnan. They spoke for a time, then several Warriors took up station around the room, watching.

  Meether, already kneeling near the man’s head, placed one hand over each temple. Focusing on the man’s soul-tinders, he realized he couldn’t get to them, hidden deep inside that impenetrable Guardian. He would have to be satisfied with laying the bonds over the man’s mind—and hope it would work. He’d never had this happen before. Because this man was not a true Rogue, untrained and open.

  As he’d noted before, this man couldn’t be a Rogue. He had death-magic, he’d used his personal magic with purpose, if imperfectly. And he had a mental Guardian, and an impressive one, at that.

  Someone had taught him how to Guard his mind, but neglected to teach the man his magic, if his awkward flinging was any indication.

  Seeking out the Rogue links that lay dormant in the walls, Meether grasped them with his magic, focused them solely on the man, branding the links with this Cannibal’s dusty-red signature. It would drain only him, not anyone else that entered the room.

  The Rogue Bond activated at his will. He breathed a sigh of relief as the bonds engaged. Almost instantly the gagging scent of death-magic eased. It wasn’t gone, but it was semi-tolerable.

  Everyone in the room either breathed a sigh of relief or relaxed.

  It would’ve been funny if it weren’t death-magic.

  Meether stood up, went to Ihllaea. He needed to work on Healing the backlash, but first he wanted his granddaughter out of here.

  She’d already taken care of the Warriors, was helping the final one. Her hands glowed with the forest green of the fake color he’d imposed over her rainbow lifespark long ago. Watching her closely, he worried about her. Meether sensed continued shock from her. He was about to send her away, when she stood from the last Warrior and turned to the Cannibal, green-gold eyes narrow. Fear moved behind the hard determination she showed. She might not have mastered her fear, but she had learned long ago how to work through and then past it.

  “Laea?” he asked softly.

  She looked up at him, eyes dim with painful memory, eyes so vulnerable. She remained lost in thought for a moment before she focused on him. “Yes?”

  “You should leave. I don’t want you exposed to that death-magic anymore.”

  A breath could have knocked him over when his granddaughter shook her head as she looked back at the man. “I can’t,” she said softly, and moved.

  She can’t? But… She’s scared. I feel her fear. Meether opened his mouth to order her out, but Daeg arrived beside him, his hand in a stopping gesture. “Wait,” he murmured, eyes watchful—and protective.

  Meether looked quickly at Ihllaea. She’d knelt at the Cannibal’s head where Meether had been, stared intently at him for a moment. “Papa?” Her voice trembled.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you set up a cleansing tap to the Eldritch?”

  Meether hesitated. “I’m not sure it would work, Laea. Death and life magic don’t mix.”

  Her gaze rose to his. “The Eldritch is stronger. And this man is a Genesis Mage. It’ll welcome him.”

  Meether’s jaw dropped. “How did you know that?” He’d seen it, but that had meant nothing, knowing about his death-magic. But how did she know that Genesis Mages exist…ed—ohhh. She’d read it in her weird books. And it was certainly not a secret, what Genesis Mages were. It was just usually taught in advanced Theoretical classes, which Ihllaea hadn’t taken, because her focus was on Healing, not magical theory.

  “The Eldritch can cleanse it from him. Can you do that, set up a tap?”

  Meether nodded. “If it works, it’ll help us deal with him, if nothing else. Good thinking.” He closed his eyes, mind grasping and weaving the Eldritch into a link between it and the man, setting it into a cycle of constant motion, carrying away the foul magic of death.

  It was working…sort of. It was very slow, but the magical ‘smell’ of death-magic eased even more.

  Ihllaea nodded, satisfied. “Thank you,” she said. Those eyes smiled at him. But behind them, the fear waited there.

  Meether motioned to the door. “Come, Laea.”

  Ihllaea visibly swallowed her fear. “He’s dying, Papa. And right now, I’m a Healer, not a grandchild of the High Mystic.”

  Meether’s heart squeezed. Her courage moved her to heal a man in need.

  Flames, Narrea would be so damn proud right now.