Page 58 of Dragon’s Rogue

She might not think she wanted food, but she needed it. And it was his job to make sure she was okay, no matter what she said.

Blaze heaved a great sigh, leaning her elbows on the table. Zane sat in the chair next to her, resisting the urge to scoop her up and hold her on his lap.

We should take care of her, his dragon said disapprovingly. We should hold her and protect her.

She likes taking care of herself, Zane replied.

Hmph. His dragon clearly thought that was ridiculous.

Blaze flicked him a look, as if she could hear his thoughts again. Damn. After a moment, though, she reached over and rested her hand on his leg, under the table. Her body relaxed slightly.

He focused on giving her strength, while listening to her story.

“I was born into the Coven of the Silver Raven,” she said. “It’s an ancient, powerful coven. We—they—began in Ireland, over a thousand years ago if the stories are true. My ancestors left Ireland and came to the New World—to Massachusetts and finally to Oregon.”

She nodded at the idol. “The idol was our most secret treasure. In a way, our coven was formed around it.” Her voice grew soft, and took on the cadence of a storyteller. Zane could imagine her hearing this story while sitting on her mother’s lap, or curled up before a fire with the other children of the coven.

“There was a young man named Finnbar, who was gifted in magic. He left his home in search of learning and traveled for years with a powerful sorcerer from another land. When he’d learned everything the sorcerer had to teach, he went home to Ireland and lived as a hermit, helping others with his magic.

“One day, after many years, the sorcerer came to Finnbar’s home, looking like he’d traveled hard without rest, and suffered a great and terrible grief. And he carried with him two priceless treasures.

“One was a small statue, an idol of solid gold, looking like a man and yet not a man. Finnbar was amazed, because he had never imagined anything so valuable existed outside stories, or maybe a king’s treasure-hoard.

“The sorcerer begged Finnbar to take the idol and hide it, telling him that it contained the spirit of a powerful sorcerer. He told Finnbar to gather all the strongest magic-users he knew, and form a Circle to keep the idol safe. One day, he said, in a time of great danger, the statue would awaken and speak.

“And when it did, a great and beautiful power would awaken with it, and Finnbar’s descendants would save the world from unspeakable evil.”

She gazed at Thorne. “But it was a lie,” she said quietly. “Whatever… spirit… is in this statue isn’t some benevolent force waiting to help our coven save the world. It is the evil.”

“How did you find out?” Zane asked softly.

Her eyes got a faraway look, and he could feel the old, old pain that haunted her.

“One day when I was about twelve, the son of our coven leader heard the statue speak to him.” She turned to Zane. “Silas Turner,” she said. “The one I told you about. He was older than me—eighteen at the time. He was powerful and handsome and a natural leader. Everyone knew he’d take over the coven one day.”

Zane nodded. “Was he the one doing that sick animation spell?” he asked. He turned to the others. “He was projecting his spirit through some poor sucker’s body. Burning it up, probably.”

The others looked slightly ill. “That’s fuckin’ dark,” Tyr muttered.

Blaze nodded. “Back then, though, he wasn’t like that. Kind of arrogant, maybe, but he’d always been kind to me, ever since I was little. He used to play with me, teaching me spells, and I looked up to him…” She broke off and took a deep breath. Zane put his hand over hers and squeezed gently.

“Anyway,” she said, “he told the coven that the idol said the time was coming when we would be needed to fight, and we should begin to prepare. Over the next few years, he and the Inner Circle—including his father and my parents—held special rituals, rituals that he’d been told about by the idol.”

Zane winced, knowing what was probably coming.

“I was too young to be a part of it, but as far as I can piece together they were doing dark spells. First just to gather power, but then to take control over others, to eliminate rivals who Silas claimed could no longer be trusted. Then it was blood magic—first using their own blood, then the blood of enemies, and then shifters and other sorcerers.”

Her voice grew low. “My father changed,” she said. “So did the others. At first so slowly that I didn’t realize what was happening. But they grew more arrogant, harsher, more distant. More afraid of anyone who wasn’t in our circle, and more hostile.”

She bit her lip. “My mother resisted, after a while. But it drained her—made her so ill she wasted away. She died when I was sixteen.”

Zane held her hand, feeling the pain that coursed through her. He knew what it felt like to lose your family. Nothing could fill that hole.

She went on, “Finally, they targeted a group of shifters who lived in a rural community in the hills not far from us. Panthers—not dangerous to anyone as far as I know, except that they had a couple of powerful sorceresses in their clan.

“The coven went after them. Claimed that they were performing dark magicks and trying to eliminate everyone who might find them out.” She looked down at the table. “But it was my coven who had become the dark sorcerers, who’d become paranoid. My people. My family.”

Her voice broke, and Zane could feel her heart breaking along with it. He rubbed the back of her hand gently, knowing that nothing he could do would help.