The Star Witch Read online

  “Come in,” Isadora said.

  Again, the door swung open. “I’m sorry,” the young girl said. “I forgot. The Empress Liane wishes to speak with you. Now.”

  Isadora sighed as she headed for the doorway. She was quite sure Liane had never been gifted with patience, but becoming empress had only exacerbated the failing. Pregnancy had not softened the empress. Instead, she grew more strident and demanding with every passing day. Liane expected her orders to be obeyed immediately, and she was quite comfortable with issuing orders. If she wasn’t family—Liane’s brother Kane had married the youngest Fyne sister, Sophie—Isadora would not feel compelled to stay here one minute longer.

  The twins Liane carried would be Sophie’s nephews. The Emperor Sebestyen was blissfully ignorant of his wife’s relation to the rebel Kane Varden, which was a blessing. Sebestyen in a foul mood was a frightening sight, indeed. Learning that his beloved wife was the sister of one of the rebels who was trying to overthrow him would definitely cause a nasty turn in his disposition.

  Liane had been confined to bed for several weeks in order that her children might have time to grow before they were delivered into this world. She had not taken to her ordered bed rest very well. The empress was irritable, demanding, and potentially dangerous, so it was odd that in a twisted sort of way she and the witch who tended to her had become friends. It was possible neither of them had ever had a true friend until this moment in time.

  Isadora entered the imperial bedchamber just as Liane grabbed a pretty vase of greenery and rare flowers— courtesy of her husband—and threw them at the man who was trying to deliver her an early supper. The servant ducked at an appropriate moment, and the vase flew past his shoulder and shattered against the wall.

  “How dare you deliver such a pathetic excuse for a meal!” Liane shouted at the terrified servant.

  Isadora studied the remains of that meal, which were scattered across the floor. Roasted meat of some sort, an assortment of vegetables, freshly baked bread. There was nothing pathetic about it.

  “What would you like for supper?” Isadora asked in a calm voice. “Whatever you wish, it can be arranged, as you well know.”

  Liane glared at Isadora with steely green eyes. “I wish to have this man’s head on a silver platter.”

  The servant edged toward the door. Isadora glanced at the poor man. His face had gone red, and his knees wobbled visibly. “He doesn’t look at all tasty to me.” She gave him permission to leave the room with a gentle wave of her hand, and when he was gone, Liane relaxed against her mountain of pillows. She did not continue to yell, but she did pout. She pouted in the same way she did everything else: to extreme.

  “What’s the real problem?” Isadora asked.

  “The roast was overdone, and I do not care for that sort of bread, and—”

  “No,” Isadora interrupted. “What’s the real problem.” It was likely no one had spoken so plainly with the empress for a very long time. It was certain that no one else in the palace, with the exception of her husband, would dare to interrupt her.

  The empress and her emperor were well matched, when it came to bad tempers.

  The pout did not fade. “Sebestyen is entertaining a very important guest for supper tonight, and I’m stuck here, confined to bed like an invalid or an ancient old biddy, or a...a...”

  “A mother-to-be who wishes only the best for her children,” Isadora supplied.

  “I’m doing very well, you said so yourself. Could I not leave my bed for just this one evening? I promise not to overexert myself or indulge in any excitement. I won’t even speak, if you tell me that silence is best.”

  “Just who is this guest who has you so anxious to leave your bed?”

  Liane smiled, as if she’d already won. “Have you met Esmun Hern?”

  Isadora curled her lip. “Briefly.” Esmun Hern was handsome enough, that’s true, but he was also a blatant rogue who apparently thought himself charming. He had impregnated one of the concubines, Elya, on that day when Sophie had wielded her magic in a way that had left so many of the women in this palace with child—including the empress. Since that time Esmun Hern had left the palace for his native Tryfyn, returned to see Elya, and made a general nuisance of himself by all but laying claim to one of the emperor’s concubines. Sebestyen was wary of annoying the man, since he represented one of the larger clans. Their help would be needed if Sebestyen was to defeat the rebels once and for all. It was the only reason Hern lived.

  “Esmun has decided he wants to marry Elya.”

  “Surely she is not foolish enough to agree,” Isadora said. After all, the man was an outrageous flirt, and if he had been faithful to Elya in his time here, it would be a miracle.

  “She did agree, and now Esmun must have his elder brother’s permission.”

  “A fully grown man asks his brother’s permission to marry?”

  Liane shrugged her shoulders. “It is the way in Tryfyn, or in their clan. In any case, Esmun’s brother arrived last night.”

  “And you wish to see him,” Isadora said. “Is it worth risking an early delivery?”

  Liane sighed in that annoyed way she had. “I have heard that he is quite extraordinary. Sebestyen said he’s a member of the Circle of Bacwyr.”

  “The Circle of Bacwyr is a myth,” Isadora said. “And if the Circle is not a myth, then its time is so far past it might as well be.”

  Liane sat up, as much as she could. “It is said that only the finest of men are admitted to the Circle. It is said that no ten men can defeat one Bacwyr warrior in battle.”

  “You have never before struck me as being gullible, Liane.”

  She did not take offense. “No, but I have always been curious, as you well know.”

  Isadora ignored the empress and began to pick up the dishes from the floor. Some pieces were broken, others were not. Food had been scattered everywhere.

  “You could come with me,” Liane said in a lilting, singsong voice.

  “I’m sure the Emperor Sebestyen wouldn’t approve of your midwife standing behind your chair while he entertains this important man.”

  “Well, no. We could dress you in one of my old gowns and tell everyone that you’re my cousin, come to stay with me until the baby is born.” She sounded quite proud of herself for coming up with the plan.

  “That’s very devious of you,” Isadora said.

  “And while we’re dining with a warrior from the Circle of Bacwyr, someone else can clean up this mess. The empress’ cousin should certainly not be assigned such a demeaning chore.”

  Isadora lifted her head; Liane was grinning. “It will be such fun,” the empress said softly. “It will be an adventure. When was the last time you allowed yourself to have an adventure?”

  In truth, Isadora had had enough adventure to last a lifetime, mostly in the past six months. None of it had been of the pleasant sort. None of it had been fun.

  “We will play dress-up, Isadora,” Liane said in a coaxing voice. “When was the last time you donned a luxurious gown and had your hair fixed and wore imperial jewels?”

  “Never,” Isadora answered plainly.

  Liane cast her a smile of victory. “Oh, dear. In that case, it is time.”

  Lucan tugged on the purple robe he'd donned for supper with the emperor. He was more comfortable in loose trousers and a vest, which is what he wore for training and for fighting. Purple was the color of the Circle, and as he was First Captain and this was a formal occasion, it was only fitting that he wear the uniform that was worn only by the leaders of the Circle.

  Zebulyn had been right, all those years ago. Too bad the old man hadn’t lived to see his prediction come true. All of the prophecy had not yet come to pass, of course, but after twenty-seven years he was here, in the palace of the Emperor of Columbyana. All he had to do was find the Star.

  And beware the witch.

  The task would be much simpler if he knew exactly what he was looking for, but Zebulyn had n
ever given a precise description of the object Lucan needed to retrieve. Neither had any of the other wizards who made up an integral segment of the Circle. Lucan had finally accepted that if he was meant to be Prince, he would know the Star when it was presented to him.

  The three attendants who escorted Lucan to Level One and the emperor’s dining hall were heavily armed, and they would be more aptly called guards. They thought they had the upper hand, but they did not.

  Concealed against Lucan’s body were three knives of varying lengths. Outwardly, he appeared to be unarmed, and the casual inspection he had been given had not revealed any of the hidden blades. The knives he wore, and the leather scabbards that housed them, had been made to fit against his body so precisely the skim of a hand would not detect them. If he needed the weapons, he could retrieve them in a matter of seconds.

  He doubted he would need the weapons tonight. Emperor Sebestyen was anxious to impress. Not on account of the outward reason for this visit. Esmun was unimportant; the woman he wished to wed was less than unimportant, she was insignificant. No, they were not the reason for this fine treatment. The ruler of Columbyana wished to persuade Lucan to sway not only his clan but the Circle itself to his side in the brewing war.

  He’d likely only need to battle boredom over the emperor’s table tonight, but who knew what tomorrow might bring?

  Lucan was escorted into a finely furnished dining room. A fire burned in the stone fireplace, and those odd lights set in the walls burned with yellow light. He had been told those lights were not magical, but they looked like magic to him. Witch’s magic, most likely, since it was rumored that there was an entire Level of this palace devoted to women of that sort and their work. He was no longer afraid of witches, as he had been as a child, but neither did he trust them. If the emperor relied upon the counsel of witches, it could very well sway Lucan’s sympathies to the rebels.

  A wide window looked out over a clear, crisp black sky, but panes of glass kept the evening chill at bay. The long table was set for six, each place setting far from the others. A priest and a minister, both of them clad in plain crimson, claimed two seats on one side of the table. They lifted their heads as Lucan walked into the room, and they smiled insincerely. Both men stood and introduced themselves, and Lucan did the same.

  “Captain Hern,” the priest said with a thin smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m very well acquainted with your brother, Esmun. Fine man, very fine man.”

  Apparently they had been instructed to appease tonight’s guest. “My brother is a fool who can’t keep his cock in his pants,” Lucan said coolly. “I believe that’s why I’m here.”

  The priest blushed, but the minister stifled a smile and turned his head so the older man at his side wouldn’t see his reaction.

  Lucan accepted that he was destined to be in Emperor Sebestyen’s palace, here and now. His presence here was fated, and what happened in the days—or even weeks—to come would affect every man and woman in Tryfyn. And so he waited patiently and carried on unimportant conversation with the two insufferable men who did their best to be entertaining.

  At last he heard commotion in the corridor and turned to face the entryway. The emperor struck him as an unpredictable and possibly dangerous man who was willing to do anything to get what he wanted. How long would it be safe to remain here while staying uncommitted to either side? Not long, he imagined. Long enough to find the Star of Bacwyr? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Zebulyn had never assured his student that he would succeed in his quest. That, he had always said, was left to Lucan.

  It sounded as if twenty men were tramping down the hallway, and as the group grew close, Lucan heard a woman’s voice.

  If the emperor thought he could sway the First Captain of the Circle of Bacwyr with the charms of his harem, he was mistaken. Unlike his brother, Lucan was discriminating about the women who shared his passions.

  Four men carried in a litter that was piled high with pillows and a very pregnant and very beautiful woman. The empress, he assumed, since he had heard that she, like Esmun’s Elya, was with child. The Emperor Sebestyen, a man Lucan had met with briefly just that morning, followed the woman. He looked a tad perturbed, which did not bode well for the evening to come. Armed, green-clad sentinels surrounded the imperial couple. They were the best of the soldiers who filled this palace, dedicated and ready to give their lives for those they had been commanded to protect.

  Behind the emperor trailed another woman. The guards paid her little mind, which meant she was unimportant. The unimportant woman was finely dressed, not in crimson like the empress, but in a silver gray gown touched with a few accents of midnight blue. Dark hair, not black like his own but almost that dark, was styled simply atop her head, and she wore a few jewels that matched the blue accents in her gown. A simple necklace; a bracelet; a ring, which adorned the middle finger of her right hand. As the men who had carried the empress into the room stopped, the woman in gray was there to assist them in very gently helping the empress to her chair, which was at the emperor’s right.

  All of the lady in gray’s attention was focused on the empress as the pregnant woman was settled into her chair. After a moment, the imperial bride slapped at the other woman’s hand with impatience. “I’m fine, Isadora. Really, I am. I do not need to be coddled.”

  Since the priest and the minister had both claimed their seats, and Isadora sat beside the empress, that left Lucan with the seat at the foot of the table. The table was too large for six, and the diners were sitting too far apart for intimate conversation. Still, sitting at the foot of the table, he had a clear view of all the diners. Including Isadora, a dinner guest who claimed his attention more than she should.

  Once she was settled in her seat, Isadora lifted her head and looked at him. Her dark eyes were curious and unafraid, and there was a sternness about her that spoke of hardships and determination. She was not pretty, but she was elegant and striking. The sharply angled face and wide mouth were most definitely memorable. The body, which was too well concealed beneath the gray gown, was slender, and he wondered if there was softness beneath that elegant fabric or if the angles that made her face so striking extended below the high neckline.

  Sebestyen introduced her, in an offhanded way and with a wave of his hand. “This is Isadora, my wife’s cousin come to assist until the baby is born.” For some reason, he rolled his eyes as he finished the statement. “Please forgive her intrusion this evening, but my wife is determined to be here, and she’s just as determined that Isadora be here as well. Apparently one never knows when a maternal emergency might arise.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s always a pleasure to have not one but two beautiful ladies at the evening meal,” Lucan said, calling upon his most charming voice and smile.

  Isadora’s head snapped up, and she looked at him as if she expected to find him laughing or winking at the other men. She thought it was a joke that he’d called her beautiful.

  But it was no joke. She was not pretty, but she was beautiful in the way only a strong woman can be. Too bad he had no time for distractions of the female sort. He was here to find the Star of Bacwyr, to take it, and to return to Tryfyn and become Prince of Swords.

  Isadora reached out to take the goblet of wine in her hand, and as she did so, candlelight sparkled on the ring she wore. For a moment, just one heart-stopping moment, the stone there sparkled very much like a star.

  Her younger sister, Sophie, had played dress-up as a girl, donning clothes and a persona that were not her own for entertainment purposes, but Isadora had not. Even as a child, she had firmly embraced the reality of who and what she was. She did not pretend.

  And now here she was, past thirty and old enough to know better, dressed in a gown that had once belonged to one of the emperor’s sisters and adorned with imperial jewels that were not the empress’ favorites. Empress Liane did not care for wearing blue, not after all those years as a concubine whose primary wardrobe was the blue of Level Three.
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br />   Lucan Hern didn’t say much during the course of the meal, but he had intelligent eyes that studied everything carefully and with great interest. Isadora was amongst those things he studied with perhaps too much interest. It had been a long time since a man’s eyes had lingered on her this way, and his constant perusal made her nervous.

  He did look somewhat like his younger brother, but there were significant differences. Where Esmun’s dark hair was brown and worn in a long braid, Lucan’s was black as a raven’s wing and worn much shorter, though not as short as Liane’s favorite sentinel, Ferghus, who stood against the wall throughout the meal unsmiling and vigilant. Lucan’s thick hair curled slightly, and the ends almost touched his shoulders.

  She was too far away to see his eyes well. They were not dark, as they should’ve been, given the blackness of his hair. Blue or green, she guessed, or perhaps both. Lucan Hern was taller than his younger brother and wider in the shoulders. His hands were large, but were also unusually graceful. Even in eating a meal, he moved with an unexpected masculine grace. There was not a wasted movement nor a single misstep.

  The conversation remained casual. Any talk of alliance and war would happen when the emperor and Lucan were alone.

  After an endless meal, Isadora poked at her dessert, studying the fine sweet frosting on the slice of white cake and contemplating what might happen if the Circle of Bacwyr joined forces with Emperor Sebestyen. If the warriors were like this man, they could very well swing all coming battles in Sebestyen’s favor. Sophie’s husband Kane was a rebel and a fine soldier, but if he went up against a man like this one, what chance would he have?

  Not much of a chance at all, she suspected.

  The priest who sat across from Liane directed his attention to their guest. “We have all heard tales of the Circle of Bacwyr, Captain Hern. Are they true?”

  Isadora lifted her head to watch the man at the foot of the table, as he responded. “I cannot know what tales you have heard.”

  “Tell us of the fall of the Circle,” Liane said brightly.