“I am here,” Piers said, his even tone giving away nothing of his feelings, though his hand trembled.
“You grew up well,” Not-Radre said. “That fool of a guard must’ve taken good care of you.”
Piers didn’t correct her.
Radre’s form sighed. “I suppose you’re expecting a death bed confession about how I really love you and regret all I’ve done. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I regret nothing. Any lives I took would have done the same to me if they’d been faster.”
Nyanda gave a humorless laugh. “You’ll learn. All the power stored in you? It will control you as surely as it did me. You have defeated me. It took my own flesh and blood to bring me down, so I suppose my efforts weren’t entirely in vain.”
Thin-lipped, Piers said, “I won’t be like you.”
The thing on the bed gave a dry cackle. “Yes, you will. Tell me, Pieravor, tell me truly that you haven’t thought about letting High King Broen die and taking his place. You’re his brother, and as the little fool he bonded with hasn’t given him a son, Tirra Neu is your birthright. Tell me you don’t want it.”
Controlling all of Tirra Neu would be so easy. Piers could take everything. Aberfrer vouched for Piers’ heritage. Piers might think to do good in the beginning, but once he became king, the taste of authority would never stop. There were reasons the people didn’t want sorcerers on the throne.
No! Maybe for someone else.
Piers squeezed Wycke’s fingers again. “I don’t want to be king. Until a few weeks ago, all I wanted was shorter work hours and a better apartment. What use do I have for a kingdom? Especially one with no cable.”
A cruel smile twisted Radre’s lips. “You have my magic. You’ll use it—”
“As I see fit, or not. You took power from others. It never belonged to you. You only borrowed what you couldn’t keep.”
Wycke had never before seen such hatred in his brother’s eyes.
Just as quickly, the anger receded to confusion. “Wycke?” Radre asked, sounding more his old self.
“Yes.” Wycke bent closer to the bed to better hear the quiet words.
Radre nodded at the knife in Wycke’s hand. “Is that for me?”
No sense in lying. “Only if we can’t get you back.”
A tear spilled from Radre’s eye, running down his cheek. “You don’t know what I’ve been through, living in this body with her in control.”
“If you’re asking for sympathy, you’ll find none here,” Aberfrer said.
Radre glanced up at the sorcerer, features hardening. “I don’t ask for sympathy. I have control now, but I can’t keep it for long. She’s coming back.” Another tear slipped from Radre’s eye. “Please, end this. I know you have no love for me. I never gave you a reason to. I thought you killed our mother. I know better now and have been forced to relive her murder over and over in Nyanda’s memories. Please.” His eyes went wide. “She comes!”
Wycke wrapped his fingers tighter around the knife hilt. “I’m sorry, brother. I wish things could be different.” One of his tutors once told him that the difference between an ordinary man and a great man was what they’d sacrifice for the greater good.
This man, this cold, cold man who’d never been slow to show his loathing, now suffered a fate worse than death. Yet, the brother Radre despised held relief in hand.
Damn Radre and Lady Nyanda for making Wycke do this! As he watched, the familiarity began fading from Radre’s eyes.
“Please!” Radre pleaded. “Please!”
Wycke pulled in a deep breath, steeling his resolve. A distant part of his mind registered Aberfrer’s hand clutching one shoulder, Piers’ the other, lending their strength. “Because you are my brother, I’ll let no other touch you. Go with the ancestors, Radre Bertillian, King of Myrgren.”
Wycke honored his duty.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Piers sat on a bench in the garden behind the imposing stone castle. Fat blooms hung from flowering plants, the air resembling early spring back home, not winter in the mountains. Snow batted against the invisible half-sphere a few yards away, slipping off the sides to gather in drifts, a line clearly demarking where the ancient spell ended.
Would the spells eventually die altogether, or would the magic living beneath the castle forever preserve this place of beauty?
Wycke sat on a log on the ground, leaning back between Piers’ spread legs and resting his head on Piers’ chest.
