The satchel with the spell’s ingredients went in first, then a small blade with a moonstone handle, two heavy books on Zafarian sorcery, her mother’s brush, a collection of figurines from her father’s travels, two chemises, stockings, her favorite blue gown and a sturdy one of dark green fabric that wouldn’t show the dirt on the journey. Finally, she tossed in a couple of hair ties and a cake of lavender soap wrapped in linen.
To think, she was finally going to be free. Holy gods, was she humming? As she laid the cloak over her stash, she caught Sylvan removing the rapier from its mount above the mantle.
“The workmanship is excellent,” he said, inspecting the intricate handle.
“My father had it custom made. The stones are rare and spelled to bring the bearer good fortune.” Although that hadn’t worked, had it? Maybe it would bring luck in a new land.
As he tested it out, slicing the air with the long, thin blade, something shiny caught her eye from the hearth. All four bronze candlestick holders lay engulfed in the flames, along with the hearth tools, her knitting basket, and what looked like the quills from her desk, the latter turning to ash before her eyes.
A cool sweat crept over her body.
“Do you know how to use it?” he asked.
Well enough to win bouts with the stable hands more often than not. Her father had arranged that as well, insisting she learn so she wouldn’t need to rely on her Gifts to defend herself. But she couldn’t say that, could she? She hadn’t missed the fact that the items in the fire could all be used as weapons.
“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” he said, then tossed the rapier in with the rest.
“No!” she cried. “There’s no need to destroy it. I’ll go with you.” And he did want to go. She could still feel that in him.
“I need to take care of a small matter first.”
“What small matter?” she asked, quelling the instinct to call the blade out from the flames. While Morten didn’t fuss about her empathic abilities, he’d be on her like gulls on a carcass if she summoned an object.
“The final rite of the Binding.”
A final rite? They’d already drawn blood, what more could it require? When he glanced toward the bed, her skin prickled as if jittery spiders had decided to torment her as well.
Backing away, she said, “You told me it was finished.”
“I said it couldn’t be undone.”
She glanced at the weapon in the hearth.
“Don’t do it unless you want Morten to join us.”
Reaching out again to read him, she looked inside the man for anything she could use.
Pushing hard, she sifted through his tangled psyche, past the rage, behind vengeance, and under other dark emotions adrift in him like a shattered ship on the sea.
Fear hitched up her body. She’d missed it before. Where gentle feelings should have been, Lord Sylvan had gaping holes, as if a great storm had washed away any pockets of goodness he’d possessed. A strange sense hit her. She couldn’t quite place it.
“Something damaged you,” she said.
“Do not read me.”
Another wave of emotion turned her stomach. “What happened to you?”
“Get out of my head.”
While he hadn’t answered her question, he must have thought about the event, because his next surge of emotion made the room spin before her.
Struggling to steady herself, she grabbed onto a chair. “Holy gods, it was horrific.”
Fury exploded from him so tangible it propelled her backward.
“I told you not to read me!” he roared, then vanished the same alarming way he’d done before the Binding. One second he was solid before her, the next vacant air. But his essence clogged the space like the pungent odor on the docks.
“Lie on the bed, Kate,” his voice demanded.
With her belly roiling, she glanced at the bed, then darted for her trunk and the small blade inside.
“I command you to stop!”
As if possessed by another, her feet instantly anchored to the floor.
“Now, I command you to lie on the bed.”
“No. There must be another way,” she cried as her legs obeyed, carrying her across the room.
“Not one that you’d like any better.”
She fought every step, but it was useless. Her feet kept moving. “You can’t do this. I’m a lady. My father was a Duke, my great grandfather a king.”
“That merely makes you a genie with a noble pedigree.”
With ugly promise in the air, her body climbed onto the bed. “Maybe I can help you. Heal you,” she said desperately. “In exchange for my freedom.”
“You think you can heal my soul like one of your mangled pets?” The whispered words sent shivers up her neck.
He was right. It wouldn’t be like any healing she’d done before. Could she do it? Would it kill her? Even as she thought it through, her body rolled back onto the bed. Fortunately, the moment her head hit the linens, her limbs were her own again.
Jerking up, she said, “Why not let me try?”
“If you really wish to help me,” he said, invisible fingers moving up her leg, “then lie still while I finish the Binding.” The cushions dipped at her feet.
“No!” She kicked out, slamming her shoe into something solid. His ribs? Stomach?
With a growl, he pushed her down, his heavy invisible body smothering her.
“Show yourself,” she demanded, fighting to break free. “This is sick.”
“As you said.” He yanked her skirts to her waist. “I’m damaged.”
She frantically gestured toward the candlesticks in the hearth. They instantly obeyed, sailing across the room, across the bed, and missed, smashing against the wardrobe.
As he tried to force her legs apart, she wrenched up her body, shoved him lower and thrust a knee where he’d feel it. His heavy grunt told her she’d hit her mark.
She scrambled across the bed, but he latched onto her ankle, hauled her back, and pinned her again, his legs between hers.
An icy tremor rattled her bones. Were the gods so cruel? Would they help her find the means to escape Morten, only to tear it away?
As she twisted and fought, the bed curtains came loose, boxing them in. With a desperate flick of her finger, she brought down the panels, covering Sylvan in moss green brocade.
Cursing, he thrashed about trying to free himself.
With another quick motion, Kate sent the fabric whirling about him until he was rolled tight like a rug.
He began shouting.
She knocked him hard onto the floor.
“Kate, I command you—”
With another swift wave, she toppled the wardrobe over him.
Silence.
She leapt off the bed terrified he’d awaken.
“What’s going on in there?” a booming voice carried through the door.
She hadn’t much time.
“Lord Sylvan needs help,” she cried, snatching up the cloak and the satchel from the trunk, quickly shoving in the blade, brush, and soap.
Running for the door, she willed the beam from its slots on the other side. Throwing open the door, she crashed into an oversized guard with a wary expression.
“The wardrobe fell on Lord Sylvan,” she cried, trying to pull the mammoth into the room. “You need to lift it off him.”