Read Online Forging the Runes by Josepha Sherman - Free Book Online Page B

felt his own not yet suspected magic stir and wake and knew in that moment just how different he was, how pleasingly superior. He'd been wise enough to keep his mouth shut about it, watching, learning. The others, even his father, had quickly proven themselves to be frauds, decadently cruel for decadence's sake. There had been no Power in them. But he . . .
    Smiling slightly, the ealdorman headed back towards the royal compound. He was, as far as he knew, the cult's last surviving member. Charlemagne had exterminated the rest—and had been quite right to do it, not on any ridiculous moralistic grounds but simply because its members were too incompetent to live. If one must kill, there should be a point to it; any mindless beast could slay.
    Power, now, Power was definitely worth it all. If only there was some way to fix the magic, hold it at this higher peak! But it would drain away all too soon, leaving him needing yet another hunt, another victim.
    So be it. Right now, he had spells to work, traps to set.
    I don't wish to be king; I don't need that pomp or peril. But if only I can find a way to catch and hold the Power, ah, then I become true ruler of the land.
    If only. Bah.

    Worr woke suddenly, as he often did, staring up into space. Beside him, Beortric was still asleep, his heavy, middle-aged face defenseless and relaxed as that of a boy, and for a moment Worr could not move, overwhelmed by an unexpected rush of tenderness. Ah, he was so lonely, this king, this man, so grateful for any sign of affection.
    God knew he didn't get it from his wife. Edburga did her best to rule her husband, and Beortric . . . Worr sighed. Beortric was too gentle a man to fight her.
    It isn't right, it isn't just.
    But that was Beortric, like it or not. Gentle. Caring.
    The room was filling with the first grey light of morning. Reluctantly, Worr slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping king, then stood for a moment looking down at him, not at all sure of his emotions. Without warning, he was stabbed by the all too familiar knife of guilt. This was sin, what he and the king did together, all the priests said it was sin—yet it hardly felt like anything at all evil. And besides, how could he resist? Beortric had always been so kind to him, and if this brought the king some comfort in return . . .
    I don't love him . . . do I? This is purely out of service to my king—bah, what nonsense! Of course it's more than that. I —I don't know what I feel about him, but it's certainly more than cold duty.
    But the guilt remained, a burden weighing down his soul. Hastily, Worr dressed before anyone chanced to find him here. He brushed a gentle hand across Beortric's brow, then sighed and slipped away. The two warriors watching the door had been carefully chosen to uphold the fiction that Worr was merely guarding his king; they let the ealdorman pass without so much as a glance, and Worr hurried on to his own quarters.
    Ah, but now he was far too restless to abide. He should go to the royal chapel, pray for forgiveness.
    For what?
    I cannot see it as sin, I cannot!
    Worr roused a sleepy servant and had the man fetch his horse. He wouldn't be needed in court this morning; maybe a brisk ride would ease his soul. Worr set his horse to a brisk trot down through the city. The streets were just beginning to fill, and the first merchants' cries met his ears:
    "Fish! Fresh, fresh fish!"
    "Vegetables fit for a royal table."
    "Ribbons! Ribbons!"
    The music of Uintacaester, Worr thought, and smiled in spite of himself.
    But one thin, shrill thread of sound didn't belong to that music. The ealdorman reined in his horse, listening. A scream . . . someone wailing in horror . . . it wasn't his business, surely, and yet . . .
    It was. He was an ealdorman, a noble of the ruling class. What happened in this city, even to the commonest of folk, could not be ignored. Worr sighed and turned his horse in the direction of the screams. He felt