“Chapman,” Lord Morten Durant, Cragmont’s over-pompous duke, shouted toward the window.
“Yes, your grace,” came the steward Chapman’s eager reply.
“How close are we?” Morten asked.
“Not far, your grace,” Chapman said, peering in from his mount. “The scout advises it’s just beyond the next hill. They’re holding a celebration of some sort. They haven’t noticed us.”
Morten nodded as he stroked the gem-studded serpent ring twining around his fingers. Sylvan could almost see the wheels spinning in the man’s brain. The duke’s hair loss and niece were likely the only things he couldn’t bend to his will. And while he appeared to have accepted the former, accomplishing the latter fell into the murky territory of obsession.
“Instruct the driver to halt outside of their view,” Morten ordered. “And fetch our steeds.”
“Yes, your grace,” Chapman said before disappearing from sight.
“Do you think she’s here?” Sylvan asked.
“Not if she’s thinking clearly,” Morten said. “But when she’s on the run, she rarely thinks clearly.”
“You should have told me she has a tendency to flight,” Sylvan said.
“If you hadn’t bungled the final step, her tendencies would be a moot point,” Morten said. “You’d be able to summon her back anytime we wished, and we wouldn’t be on this merry hunt.”
Irritated hairs pricked up the back of Sylvan’s neck. Her escape was not his fault. If the duke hadn’t been so secretive, so arrogant, Sylvan would have known what he was dealing with and taken proper action to ensure her cooperation. Or he would have proposed an alternative she wouldn’t have been threatened by.
“We should have performed the marriage sealing, instead of the genie binding,” Sylvan said. “If her Gifts are as you say, I’d have her powers now and we could accomplish your conquest without her.” Not that Sylvan cared much about the man’s conquest.
Morten’s complexion grew unnaturally ruddy as he studied Sylvan’s face. “If she passed on her abilities to her husband, as her parents did to one another, then she’d also gain your powers. Kate’s Gifts already make her the most talented sorceress in the kingdoms. If we added invisibility to the mix, my tracking ability would be useless. More importantly, since I don’t have her empathic Gift, I’d have no idea if she were lurking about.”
Point well made. Invisibility gave one the opportunity to hide. To sneak. To spy. One could learn a man’s secrets—his vulnerabilities. The delicious Gift had allowed Sylvan to study Lord Morten for weeks, learning exactly how to infiltrate the man’s ranks and, ultimately, how to fool the Order Master—the land’s most powerful sorcerer—into believing his newest supporter was not only a common lord, but a Zafarian.
Morten’s gaze pierced him for a frigid moment. “Or is your true desire to increase your abilities?” Gripping the Zafarian dagger resting on his lap, the duke slowly leaned forward across the carriage. “If you have plans to usurp my power, I assure you, I can undo this spell before you gain a fingerhold.”
While possessing Kate’s Gifts would certainly help him to reclaim his kingdom, neither gaining her abilities nor Morten’s hoped-for throne were Sylvan’s aims. The maiden herself was the key.
“I do not wish to take what is yours—or soon to be yours—but your threats are hollow,” Sylvan said. “We both know you can’t reverse it.”
“Perhaps not, but there are ways to transfer a genie to another master,” Morten said.
As death of the existing master was the only way to facilitate such a transfer, Sylvan felt the full weight of the threat.
He didn’t like it. The sole reason Sylvan tolerated the relationship with the man was because he needed Kate. He wished to all the gods she were connected to another family, for he’d like nothing more than to dispatch with this power-hungry, throne-usurping sorcerer.
“If you wish to continue to serve me, your concern should be how you are going to seal the spell,” Morten said. “The only two options are consummation or to spill her blood. As you blanched at the latter, I suggest you accept my assistance with the former.”
Blanch wasn’t the term Sylvan would use for his reaction. He needed Kate to fulfill the prophecy, and the seer had made no mention of the maiden in a spirit form. He needed her alive.
“Once we recover her, you may fill the bedchamber with Zafarian minions if you wish,” Sylvan said.
Morten’s snide smile indicated he’d like nothing better.
As the carriage halted, Chapman reappeared with two horses. “Your mounts, your grace. The gathering is around the bend in the road.”
Lively music from flutes, strings, and other instruments greeted them as they rode into the gypsy camp, and the rich odor of roast boar set his stomach rumbling. From the dancing, laughter, and the sight of a couple adorned with flowers, Sylvan deduced they’d interrupted a wedding festival.
Like a wave on the sea, the reveling ceased as Morten, Sylvan and the guards passed by. Adults held their ground in stony silence while children scattered to peer out from behind trees and wagons. Holding up a hand to halt his men, Morten stopped in front of a tall, raven-haired gypsy of bulky build.
The gypsy approached, motioning for his people to move back. Tattoos twined up the man’s thick arms and around his neck, and scars across his right cheek and shoulder indicated he’d faced his share of foes.
“Lost her again, I hear,” the gypsy said.
“Simply the usual cat and mouse game,” Morten said. “She so enjoys the hunt.”
“Then why not let her hide a hair longer?” a crackled voice said from behind them.
With the grace of a lioness on the prowl, a silver-haired gypsy woman took up a position near the tattooed man.
“Why, I fear for her safety,” Morten said congenially. “One with her abilities could meet with mobs or worse, those who would use her to forward their own ambitions.”
“None are worse than you,” the woman said and spat at Morten. The spittle hit the sorcerer’s boot.
“Control your elderly, Vance, before she insults me,” Morten said, his tone eerily serene. “I’d hate for one so frail to meet with harm.”
“Frail!” This time, her wet sentiment hit Morten’s knee.
The bridegroom stepped forward, eyes fixed on Morten. “Come, Selena, Lady Katherine would not wish you to bring an ill fate upon yourself again.” Taking her arm, he led the still-muttering Selena to a tented wagon several paces away, where she turned and watched with beady eyes.
“Is she here?” Sylvan asked. “Do you have her?”
No one spoke.
“Kate,” Sylvan shouted, spinning his horse. “I command you to show yourself.”
No one stirred.
“It appears your commands are useless here,” Vance said.
“Where might she be?” Morten calmly asked as if the two were sharing a smoke.
“If the gods are just, she’s where you’ll never find her,” Vance said, matching the duke’s tone.
Morten chuckled. “You must know by now there is no such place.”