The Keys to the Realms (The Dream Stewards) by Roberta Trahan Read Free Book Online

opinion. He wanted to be sure his point was made. “The Guardians of the Realms hold the power to unmake this world. They control the very elements through which it exists. I think you already know this, and if what you say is true, this is far more serious business than you would have me believe.”
    Thorne felt the younger man studying him, likely wondering just who and what else Thorne knew. The lad’s questions would go unanswered if he were brash enough to ask, for his own good. Thorne had silenced men for less.
    “You have brought me a fool’s errand.” Thorne narrowed his eyes at the younger man, intending that his displeasure should show. “And I am not a fool. No mage hunter has ever faced a guardian before, nor challenged a sorcerer of Machreth’s ilk and survived. What you ask is impossible.”
    The messenger pulled a leather coin sack from his vest. He placed it on the table and slid it forward. “Not for you.”
    Thorne folded his arms across his chest and sagged against the chair back, not in resistance so much as contemplation. The young swordsman was wrong. It was impossible, even for him, but he had no choice. He had to try.
    “Not here.” Thorne indicated the coin with a jut of his chin. “There is a ramshackle old hut, or rather the remains of one, not far from the small gate on the northeast wall of the Fane. Do you know it?”
    The other man’s brow arched slightly, but his reply was even. “The shack or the gate?”
    “I wager you know them both.” Thorne nearly smiled. It was just the sort of quip he might have offered up himself. But when he saw the probing question forming on the other man’s lips, Thorne cut him off. “Deliver your silver to the ruins at first light on the third day after tomorrow. Bring a talisman as well, from each of your fugitives. A lock of hair will do or a piece of clothing—something with a scent.”
    The younger man nodded despite his obvious confusion, but Thorne was done with his meal. He pushed away from the table and stood. “When I see you next, messenger boy, by what name shall I greet you?”
    The younger man rose to meet Thorne eye to eye. “I am Rhys, son of Bledig.”
    “Come well armed and ready for the hunt, Rhys, son of Bledig ,” Thorne spoke over his shoulder as he took his leave of the alehouse. “Or do not bother to come at all.”

    Finn MacDonagh was weary from the unending dread. It had wormed its spiny tail into his gut as soon as he’d followed Cerrigwen out of Fane Gramarye and had been settled there ever since. But follow her he had, even as she’d led them in circles for nearly three days after they left the Fane, along deer trails and faerie tracks. They’d mucked through the dense stands of alder, oak, and rowan that made up the White Woods until finally she’d brought them here, to bide her time.
    The old crone’s cottage had been Cerrigwen’s first home, one of several such places Madoc had fostered his foundlings and the mageborn babes until they were old enough to be brought into the Stewardry. It was long abandoned when Cerrigwen, Finn, and Pedr had arrived, but the roof was whole, and with a little work it had become a tolerable refuge. Still, this time of year the fog never lifted, and it was nearly as cold and damp during daylight as it was at night. At least there was no rain today.
    “Cerrigwen,” he barked at the back of her head as she stood at the edge of the clearing, staring into the eerie depths of the White Woods. “Won’t you at least give me some idea where we are headed?”
    “You don’t really expect an answer,” Pedr said, leading their mounts and Cerrigwen’s silver mare from the woodshed they had fashioned into a makeshift stable.
    “No,” Finn confessed, taking a moment to assess his son’s raggedy looks. Pedr’s blue eyes had sunk into the hollows on either side of his nose. Several days’ worth of reddish-brown stubble bearded his cheeks and jaw and his roan-colored curls had grown