Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy by Cas Peace Read Free Book Online

pillows. Glancing at Cal, she left him sitting on the edge of the bed.
     
She left the sleeping room, moving through the cottage until she reached the cellar door. There was more to this than Taran had said, she was sure. Something in his eyes … It was fear, she realized, and felt herself go cold.
     
Standing in front of the cellar’s wooden door, she regarded the lock as if it might undo itself. She trusted Cal, yet couldn’t resist giving the lock a tug. It was firmly secured, as he had said.
     
Reassured by that if by nothing else, she returned to the warmth of the living room fire and sat staring into the flames.
     

Chapter Five
     
When Taran next awoke, it was daylight. Tentatively, he moved his limbs, relieved to discover only the soreness of his wounds and the aches to be expected after the previous day’s exertions. This was a good sign, so he decided to try his powers by reaching out to Cal. Gently, he gathered his will and released a quiet call.
Instantly, he wished he hadn’t. White-hot slivers of fire licked his brain and he gasped in shock. Had the Staff done permanent damage?
     
However, the experiment was obviously successful because he could hear someone thundering down the stairs. Cal burst into the room and, despite his pain, Taran couldn’t help but smile. Cal had dashed from his bed, totally naked.
     
“Taran, what is it? You sounded like you were in pain … ?”
     
Taran hastened to reassure his Apprentice even though he felt far from happy about his condition.
     
“Sorry Cal, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was testing myself, but I’m obviously not recovered yet. Sorry.”
     
He was sorrier still when a sleepy Rienne came into the room, a blanket clutched around her body against the early chill. Her soft gray eyes were full of anxiety, but when she realized it was a false alarm, she gave Taran a reproachful look and dragged Cal back to bed. Taran sighed and lay back, wondering how long it would be before his mind recovered. He didn’t dare think it might not.
     
Such depressing thoughts eventually forced him to rise. He couldn’t go back to sleep and tossing in his bed did him no good. He dressed, his muscles stiff and sore, and left his room. As he crossed the living space, he lit a taper from the banked fire. He approached the cellar door, seeing with satisfaction that it was securely locked. Taking the key from around his neck, he unlocked the door and descended the steps. A musty smell hit his nostrils. He touched the taper to a lamp resting on a nearby shelf and held it up, illuminating the center of the floor.
     
There lay the abandoned Staff. Setting the lamp down, Taran crouched to examine it.
     
Even in the warm lamp light there was something cold and vicious about it. His skin crept as he remembered the deadly energy that had flashed from its tip. Memories of blue-green light flared before his eyes and gooseflesh rose on his skin. How had it been made, he wondered? More importantly, why? He felt sure the noble’s challenge had something to do this terrible object, yet what he had hoped to accomplish, Taran had no idea. He knew that the Staff was a metaphysical instrument, some kind of amplifier of metaforce, but whether it had uses beyond the offensive, he couldn’t tell. He had never heard or read of anything like it before.
     
He stared—had light just rippled down its surface? Or had his hand trembled, causing the lamp to flare? Suddenly, he didn’t want to be here, squatting next to this deadly weapon. He straightened and extinguished the lamp. As he climbed the stairs, he resisted the impulse to run.
     

     
Nearly a week passed before Taran felt strong enough to attempt the Staff’s return, despite his growing sense of urgency. Badly frightened by his first painful attempt to use power, he waited two days before accessing his metaforce again. To his great relief, the pain was significantly less. Even so, he waited another day before believing his sore