Iron and Magic (The Iron Covenant #1)(54)

His brain chopped through the words trying to make sense of them. “He fled?”

“He did.” Lamar smiled. “Teleported out.”

A chance. Daniels had a shot at the title.

His mind ached, reeling from the red-hot pain.

“Daniels is pregnant,” Lamar said quietly.

“Is it Lennart’s?” He already knew the answer.

“They’re married, and she doesn’t seem like the cheating type.”

“Roland’s worst fear,” Hugh thought out loud.

“Why?” Lamar asked.

“Roland’s magic is like a science. It’s systematic, it’s logical, and it has laws. It supports all of the cornerstones of the scientific method: the observation, measurement, experimentation, and formation and testing of theory. He views it as a civilizing force. Shapeshifter magic is ancient and wild. It relies on instinct. It predates Roland’s systematic approach. He derides it as primitive, but he fears it and he’s drawn to it because he doesn’t understand it. He’s fascinated by witches. His daughter is half a witch and now she’s conceived a shapeshifter child.”

Understanding shone in Lamar’s eyes. “He’s afraid his grandchild will surpass him.”

Hugh nodded. “He’ll do anything to get his hands on that kid. Except that he’s thinking a generation too late. It’s not the baby he needs to worry about. It’s the mother.”

“What does it mean for us…” Lamar frowned.

“My wife allied us with the Pack. The Pack is allied with Daniels. That moves us from Nez’s Personal Amusement column to Weaken Roland’s Enemy. We have two choices: we can sever all association with the Pack or we can openly declare ourselves their allies.”

Lamar rubbed the back of his head. “Pick your enemy time.”

“Betraying the Pack buys us time.” And will make Elara nearly unmanageable. “Standing against Roland now complicates things. Tomorrow the Pack people are arriving. Nez will force the issue. That’s the way he thinks.”

“What do you want me to do?” Lamar asked.

“Your cohort is standing watch tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“We’re going to do a repeat of Fort Smith.”

Lamar blinked. “Okay. How many do you want at the castle?”

“Give me twenty-five.”

“Will do.” Lamar grinned. “Bale’s got the graveyard watch. It will kill him.”

“He’ll survive. That’s all,” Hugh said.

Lamar nodded, walked to the door, and turned. “Preceptor?”

“Yes?”

“If he wants you back, what will you do?”

To be back in the light of the magic again. Everything forgiven. All the doubts forgotten. To bask in Roland’s approval was like walking into sunshine after an endless cold night. He craved it like a drug.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Lamar nodded and walked out.





8





The morning sun shone through the open arches of the breezeway. The short bridge between two towers had a roof, but no windows. Instead large arches were cut into its walls, open to the wind and the sunshine. Elara strolled through it. She liked it here, above the castle, away from work and obligations. And looking down through the arches gave her a slight chill of alarm. She did it now, standing still, looking for a few torturous seconds at the land far below.

Such a long way down.

Slowly, deliberately, Elara took a step back to the safety of the breezeway. Familiar relief came to her. She smiled. She needed that after last night. Six hours of research and divination and she had nothing to show for it.

She did have plenty of time to stew in her hate of all things Hugh d’Ambray. Yesterday at the smithy, he was insufferable. They did learn one useful thing: Radion couldn’t duplicate the pattern of the scale mail and he didn’t know of anyone who could.

Rook emerged from the other tower, moving quickly.

“Yes?”

He reached into a pocket and rolled a glass marble to her. With the magic up, he had no need for paper.

The marble stopped by her feet and Hugh tore out of it, swinging his sword.

She jumped back on pure instinct, but not fast enough. The sword passed through her, harmless, and kept going, because it was only Rook’s memory. Hugh twisted like a feral tiger, and struck again and again, fast, sharp, sinking so much strength and speed into his swings, they would’ve cut anyone standing in his way in half. The raw power, tempered by skill, was mesmerizing. He wasn’t wearing his uniform or armor. He wore a T-shirt, dark pants, and boots. He wasn’t actually fighting. This was practice, but it definitely wasn’t routine. Some inner demon saddled Hugh and drove him into a controlled devastating frenzy.

He was oddly beautiful, the way superior athletes sometimes were, as they pushed their bodies to the limit. Still a touch too lean from starvation, yet a pinnacle of what a human body could do. The way the sun caught the blade of his sword added an almost mystical touch to it, as if it weren’t practice, but a sacrifice of sweat and skill to some vicious war god.

Sun. Practice? In open air?

You… you bastard. “Where is he?”

Rook pointed down. She leaned out of the nearest arch.