The Forgotten Magic Read online

  The Forgotten Magic

  Book 2 of The Forgotten

  ***

  Kelly Peasgood

  A Kelly Peasgood Publication

  Copyright © 2019 by Kelly Peasgood

  Ontario, Canada

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art made with Adobe Spark

  ISBN 978-0-9959971-9-6

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are fictitious, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or any events and locations, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Many thanks to my beta readers: Paul, Mary Catherine, John, Mike, Laura, Willie, Evy, Hal, and Jen.

  As always, deepest appreciation to the man who lets me explore and live in these other worlds yet keeps me grounded in our own. Thank you Mike!

  Prologue

  Dalasham, 186 years ago...

  "One last spell," Constance confirmed, pushing hair the colour of pale honey from a haggard face, her visage once thought quite attractive now harshly etched by long months of strain. "Our greatest legacy."

  "One that no one will know about or remember," Alfred griped, sweat plastering his own dark honey curls to his head, a habitual scowl twisting his lips, though it failed to completely overshadow the desperation lurking in his eyes. But Henri had brought them to this, the power-mad wizard who wished to rule the lands causing fear and mistrust where once stability and guidance had walked hand-in-hand, inciting rebellion in place of unity and peace.

  For the kingdom to thrive again, free from the taint of Henri's delusional wizards, the brother-sister duo of Constance and Alfred had spent much of their vitality, and now would create one final spell, a Dual Great Magic that would shatter the balance of stolen power while instilling unexpected strength into the people.

  For Henri and his followers had stolen from the common people they sought to oppress; they had morphed the life essence of peasants into a rejuvenating source of strength for the spell casters who followed Henri. Henri's spell didn't grant extra life or healing; it allowed the user to draw on the current of magic far beyond what a wizard could normally handle safely, providing nearly limitless power to the unscrupulous. But they directed that flow through living people, filtering it through blood and spirit, draining years, and ultimately life, from those they harvested.

  Whatever Henri's original intentions for trying to take the sovereignty of Dalasham away from its rightful rulers and into his own hands, such an abuse of the natural order of the world could not go unanswered, and it fell to Constance and Alfred, once the King's most trusted wizards, to try to right his wrongs. At any cost.

  "We will free Dalasham from tyranny," Constance said. "That will have to suffice as our reward. If we can move the magic to where no one will think to look, we can break Henri's hold."

  "It's the irony that irks me," Alfred said, more to fill in a silence to hold fear at bay than to offer any true complaint. "If this works, the people of Dalasham will mistrust the very people who will have saved them. Wizards will shun the capital and never understand why, while everyone else will fear what they themselves unwittingly hold a piece of."

  "Then we'd better do it right, brother, because if this doesn't work," Constance forced a grin that seemed more a baring of teeth than a source of levity, "we will have destroyed the very kingdom we've fought to save."

  Alfred scowled again.

  "Always a comfort, dear sister."

  And with that, he raised hands gnarled by hard use and began to weave the first layer of the spell, Constance's fingers dancing through the complementary forms, twisting threads of magic together into finely knit skeins of power, layering and overlapping into a spell only they could see.

  The brewing storm outside caused the canvas walls of the large tent to flap about them while they worked, a mere handful of kilometres from Riverbend, the capital city where Dalasmar Castle stood. Wizards Mirim, Johannas, and Tercel maintained a ward of concealment from outside the tent to hide the siblings' act from Henri, as Wulfgang's army, struggling to free Dalasham from the grip of rebellion, stood guard around them in the rain, watching and ready as Henri's troops advanced across fields growing muddy beneath the heavy tread of armoured feet. The might of those opposed to these rebels had this one last chance to break Henri's vice-like grip on the kingdom; to hesitate now would spell defeat.

  Layer upon layer, Constance and Alfred built their spell against the ever increasing din of approaching battle until, sweat dripping from trembling limbs and drawn faces, the dark day stretching into deep evening, they finally reached the final layer. The ward that had shielded them broke when an arrow managed to penetrate the last of the magical barriers and found Tercel's breast, but the spell lay complete. The wizard brother and sister unleashed their might into the teeth of the storm, and the nature of magic in Dalasham changed forever.

  Chapter 1

  Destiny pushed past the pain throbbing at the base of her skull and opened her eyes. For a brief moment, she feared the blow to her head had robbed her of sight, but the flickering of torchlight easing past the bars covering a small window in the door of her cell quickly drew her thirsty gaze. She blinked, groaning, and levered herself gingerly to a sitting position on the stone shelf built into the wall that served as a bed, a thin blanket the only concession to comfort falling to her lap. She swung her feet to the ground, a hand searching out the lump on her head as she supported herself and tried to get her bearings. She needed to remember how she had come here, and determine where she currently sat, nursing unexpected pain.

  The lady wizard closed her eyes against the dancing light and forced her thoughts back.

  They had finally captured King Stefan, Destiny's magic creating a beacon out of Emily's pendant―the slight weight of the gold necklace now missing from around her neck―allowing Destiny to track the little librarian's movement though the hidden tunnels of Dalasmar Castle, the young woman delivering her King unwittingly into Destiny's Sanctum. Prince Whillim had basked in his power over his brother as he had forced Stefan into the Destiny Seat that would steal the King's memories and forever alter the history of Dalasham. And then, on the cusp of success, as Whillim fingered his blade and made ready to kill Stefan to seal the spell, Destiny had sensed the presence of another wizard in a city devoid of known magic users.

  In that instant of hesitation and distraction, that cursed Emily had done the unexpected. Junior Assistant to the Chief Librarian, a common nobody so many had overlooked, a mere slip of a homely girl struggling in a world ruled by men, Emily had accomplished what no one else would have thought to try. The impossible, Destiny would have thought, had she not seen and experienced the act herself.

  Somehow, the librarian had retained her memory, the truth of Stefan's identity, when no one should have remembered his name. Emily had flung herself into the Destiny Seat, that traitor guard had somehow triggered it―Destiny dimly recalled her own boast meant to wound the other woman, stating how to work the Focus―and the world exploded back to its unaltered course.

  Stefan, his memory returned, had struck out at Whillim even as the Prince's knife angled for his heart, and before Destiny could cast any spell ...

  Pain had shattered her skull, rendering her unconscious and helpless. She suspected the large Captain of Stefan's guard as the likeliest source of that expertly wielded blow.

  And now, those she had helped Whillim to overthrow had captured her in turn and thrust her into their dark dungeons.

  Destiny sneered her contempt, tossed the blanket aside, and pushed to her feet, shunting pain
and nausea aside as she had learned long ago. They had not bound her hands or sealed her mouth. In a kingdom without wizards despite the surprising abundance of magic in the land, those in power had failed to secure their prize. No mere cell could hold Destiny.

  She moved to stand in front of the wooden door and swept her hand in a contemptuous arc, snarling a simple unlocking spell.

  Nothing happened.

  Destiny frowned and tugged at the door with no results.

  A hesitant step back before she attempted a more complex spell.

  Still nothing.

  Destiny growled, feeling her upper lip curl in anger. She again recalled that other wizard she had sensed, the one whose power bore a reflection of her brother's magic. He must have set his own lock.

  Powerful wizards had sought to contain Destiny before, and what she had sensed from this interloper didn't have as great a strength as the beast who had sired her and unknowingly helped train her. It would take but a moment to define this lesser wizard's containment spell, and then smash it asunder.

  Destiny closed her eyes, preparing to gather her power and win her freedom.

  Her eyes flew open with a gasp and she staggered back until her knees hit the stone shelf, tumbling her onto the hard surface meant as a bed.

  She couldn't reach her magic. Panic tore up her throat and stole her breath, squeezing her chest tight. She sensed the core of her strength, but she stood somehow blocked from it, like some kind of wall had encased her centre, erecting a barrier between herself and her magic. Frantically, she scrabbled in her mind, searching for the edges of the obstruction, her breath coming in short gasps as she tried to master her terror. But she discovered no chink in the wall, no border of magical thread she could pick at.

  What spell held her from her power?

  She hadn't felt such helpless vulnerability since childhood, and the impotence threatened to take her back to that frightened child cleaning away the blood of her mother as he stole her little brother. In desperation, Destiny reached instead for that tiny spark of rage that Girl had felt, the hatred that would later kindle and grow and transform her into the powerful woman she had become. She nursed that spark against the despair, and mastered herself.

  Magic might define much of her life, but Destiny knew other weapons, mind and body, and she would not yield to despondency now.

  Think, she told herself, controlling her breathing and calming her mind. Determine the boundaries of your cell, plan your escape. For surely an opportunity would arise, and she mustn't hesitate to act.

  She took stock of her options and resources, the precious few she currently claimed. Stefan likely remained King, his people once again backing him, no longer subject to the altered memories of the Destiny Seat. Which meant that Prince Whillim could no longer provide any sort of protection, nor Milos' mercenaries. Destiny had no allies.

  She still wore the royal blue gown and palace slippers she had donned that morning―they had left her dignity at least―but someone had taken her spiked half-glove, and the little knife sheath at her belt sat empty. She ran her fingers through her long hair, finding it unbound. The leather cord which had held it tied back―a usefully strong strip she might have employed in an emergency―had disappeared, as had the slim blade she wore concealed in her raven tresses.

  So, no weapons beyond her mind and fists, unless her captors forgot themselves enough to succumb to the lure of her body. She shuddered at the thought, her mind shying away from harsh memories of the years when the bastard who had sired her had used her as a vessel for his experiments, and his cruel lust. Yet if selling the pleasures of her womanhood became a viable weapon, she must not hesitate to exploit it, however distasteful.

  Limited weapons and options explored, Destiny determined to learn all she could of her confines. What lay beyond her prison cell? How many guards, what other prisoners might she contact? Would her captors keep to a schedule―changing guards (assuming any came near), providing food and water (surely they would do that at least), clean out the slightly battered metal pail for waste that she noted in the corner (by Kalima, they must occasionally plan to take that away)―or would they try to keep her off balance and desperate by leaving her to her own devices and filth?

  Precious little she could learn here, alone, in the near dark. How long would she sit, forgotten in the depths of Dalasmar Castle? If, indeed, she sat in Dalasmar's dungeon. Would Stefan have transported her elsewhere?

  The thought sent a sliver of dread inching down her spine. Would he have delivered her into the custody of the wizard who bore the pale imitation of Nathan's powers? Did she even now await the arrival of her brother, a man who had forgotten their connection, who only dreamed of vengeance against the woman who had killed to escape her nightmares? A woman trapped and bereft of her magic.

  Destiny began to shake, the unwelcome and loathed sensation of terror closing her throat and constricting her breath.

  Moments later, as though summoned by her fear, she heard the distant clang of a door, followed by the tread of booted feet along a stone corridor. She hunched around her core, nearly curling into a protective ball, then forced her breathing to slow again and sat up straight. Damned if she would let them see her cower.

  A second door, much closer, squealed open, then closed, and she heard the snick of a key in her lock. She tensed, ready to spring at whoever entered if presented an opportunity. The door swung open, and she leaned forward, intending to bowl into her captor, throw him off guard. Only, the man who stood framed in the shadowy door, a lantern held at his side, shocked her to immobility.

  Darien, Chief Librarian of Dalasmar Castle, regarded her dispassionately. Destiny blinked stupidly in response, frozen, trying to determine why this man had come. Trying also not to let him see how her eyes greedily drank in the additional light. Ridiculous to find such relief in the absence of darkness.

  At least it's not Nathan, she thought, breathing out a shaky sigh of relief as her muscles slowly began to relax, allowing her to lean away on the stone sleeping shelf until her back met the cool wall.

  Darien set his lantern down at the edge of the entrance, just beyond the threshold but clearly visible to Destiny. He turned to the left and picked something up, hidden by the wall. Pulling it into place before the open door, she saw he held a three-legged stool, quickly set up and settled upon. After adjusting his tunic and making sure his scholar's cap rested securely atop pale hair, Darien raised his gaze to hers, the colour of the ocean meeting the depths of twilight. The torch behind him sent his flickering shadow stretching into her cell, but the lantern illuminated most of his face, leaving just the far right in intermittent darkness. Even so, she couldn't read his expression.

  Silence stretched as they stared at each other. Destiny remembered Darien's fierce protection of those in his charge despite any magical influence she extended around him, most especially Emily. She recalled his perceptiveness, knowing her Innosvaran origins even though she had thought them well concealed. He had a keen mind, and a strong devotion to his job, disdained any who tried to interfere with the library, his domain. He hadn't slipped the noose of her memory spell like that one guard of Stefan's (and the surprising Emily), but he had constantly found a way around Destiny's influence, exerting his own bit of control within the confines of propriety. She had admired him somewhat, tolerated him more than most, and had never expected to face him from the inside of a prison cell.

  "Come to read me a bedtime story?" she drawled. Although she longed for answers to far more important questions―how long had she lain here, what had they done to her magic, did Nathan approach, what did they intend to do with her?―she refused to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing her discomfort, let alone a librarian.

  Darien gave her a strange little smile.

  "How about a tale of Dalasham before Henri's Rebellion, when wizards might openly walk the streets of Riverbend," he said, and Destiny blinked in confusion. Did he honestly think she had wanted a story?

>   "A time when more than the Chief Librarian knew about the special cells in Dalasmar's dungeons," he went on, his blue-green stare unwavering. "Cells designed to confine a wizard, able to hold her magic in check."

  Slowly, Destiny sat up straight, her gaze taking in the confining space again. She had never suspected Dalasmar knew any defence against magic, let alone had something as rare as a wizard cell. The Wizard Schools had such, used mostly to practice dangerous spells, and occasionally to contain any overly enthusiastic students who had allowed drink to weaken their inhibitions. But Dalasmar, the castle at the heart of a kingdom that didn't embrace magic users; why would it have such? And why would a librarian know about it when the royal house did not?

  But it did explain why Destiny couldn't touch her powers. Not a rival wizard binding her, but an old magic with very specific boundaries. Once she stepped free from this cell, she would feel whole again. With a goal now in mind, she felt calm settle over her and regarded Darien with fresh intensity, seeing his placement on the threshold of her confinement in a different light. The nature of a wizard cell would hold her immobile at the door unless someone chose to free her. Meaning she would have to win past this man gazing serenely in at her.

  Destiny frowned.

  "Why you?" she asked.

  "Why does the librarian come to see the wizard?" he said. "Why not a gaoler, a guard, a soldier? Perhaps the King himself, or his Captain?" He could have made his words a mockery, yet somehow Darien conveyed sincerity. "Because almost no one else will defend you."

  Destiny shook her head, certain she had misheard.

  "Defend me?"

  "At your trial," Darien clarified. "It took some convincing, but the King will afford you a fair trial, as an equal instigator of recent events. Prince Whillim stands accused of treason, you of aiding him."