He saw unfamiliar stars overhead, and himself, naked and stretched out on a bed of sand.
At some point, he found himself skin to skin with Wycke, their mouths melded and their limbs entwined. He floated, drifting in the breeze with Wycke, feeling safer than he’d ever felt in his life.
And still, he wished. The images changed again.
Piers stood in front of his mother’s book, in the tower room where he’d been imprisoned. He glanced left, but no raven sat on the empty perch. Caught in a magnetic force, he dropped his head, staring at an opened page. As before, whispers sounded in his ears.
Powerless to avert his gaze, he studied the pages. Letters in some unknown language crawled over the paper, dispersing, reforming. His lips moved, shaping words his brain couldn’t comprehend.
The scent of incense filled his nose, not cloying this time, merely a backdrop. He chanted, tapping out a rhythm with his fingers on some hard surface. Mist swirled around him, thousands of pinpricks of light.
The whispers became clearer, allowing him to make out a word here, a phrase there. If he tried just a little more…
We are here,they whispered,ready to do your bidding.
The lights took human form. He innately knew these were the ones who’d fallen to his mother’s hunger for power. Men and women, young and old, some whose faces were pinched and harsh, others serene. They all stood in judgment of Sorceress Nyanda Gimitri.
“I’m sorry, so, so, sorry.” Piers looked out over his mother’s victims. The sheer number of them! Each leaving loved ones behind. So many people were affected by one woman, and not for good. He blinked back hot tears. Lives cut short, some little more than children.
A woman who appeared only a few years older than Piers stepped forward, wearing deep red robes. “We’re not sorry,” she replied. “Sorceress Nyanda took our souls, thinking she needed them to have our magic.” She inclined her head. “By keeping our souls, we remained on this plane. Her death freed us. You and your mate freed us.”
“Who are you?”
“Many of us are mages. I held the rank of sorceress in life, newly trained and easily tricked by your mother.”
“I’m sorry,” Piers said again.
The woman laid a hand on Piers’ cheek, the gesture so like Wycke’s that Piers’ heart ached. “Don’t be. You’re not your mother, and we expect great things from you.”
“But she was my mother.”
“If it eases your heart, I am your true mother.”
“My true mother?” But Piers physically resembled his mother, held her magic.
The woman’s lips lifted in a benevolent smile, her amber-colored eyes conveying warmth. “Your mother is the magic of this world.”
The woman’s image faded; the tiny lights reappeared. Piers stepped into their midst, sparks prickling his skin. Not pain, but a welcome. A welcome home. Swirls of power rose from beneath the castle, sweeping him away in its tide.
A man born to magic. Home at last.
The magic welcomed him, wrapped him in warmth.
A pool of water, his uncle’s embrace.
He’d never felt a greater sense of belonging.
Then, suddenly, the magic receded. No! “Don’t!” Piers cried. “Don’t go away. Don’t leave me! I just found you!”
Once more images invaded his mind: Chynne, Saris, Jess… Wycke. What would become of them if Piers left? His heart ached. He wanted the magic, the deep sense of belonging, but he wanted—needed—his friends more.
“What about the king?” he asked, remembering his purpose.
“The bond between the king and the sorceress has been severed. She will plague the mortal realm no more.”
Should Piers mourn her? She who’d never truly been a mother.
“We are your family now,” he heard in the woman’s voice. “We’re always with you, little one.” In a bright shower of sparks, the magic withdrew back into the mountain.
