The Warden

By Lyssa Morasey

As the tide turns, Keira, Wes and their friends face their greatest challenge yet...

Escaping the city of New Fauske, Keira, Wes and Cass find themselves fugitives in a hostile land, desperate to make their way home. Cass, now a princess of her people, must travel with Keira to India to gain the trust of a mysterious order of mind-readers; but the mind-readers have layers of secrets and lies the two must first unearth, calling into question everything they once thought they knew.

Meanwhile, Wes and the infidels embark on a risky mission to discover the mysteries of Old Magic. But when Basil and Freya wind up in the clutches of a team of sadistic scientists, Wes must find a way to rescue them before it’s too late.

The way forward is filled with uncertainties and more dangerous than ever. Death and loss loom large on the horizon, and soon all will be forced to decide who and what they truly want to fight for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyssa Morasey
• Release date: Feb 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005681548

Book preview

Five Days Ago: Evana

Cold night winds danced across the sky, nipping at Evana’s face and arms and tousling her hair. But Evana didn’t mind—the cold made her skin prickle with adrenaline, and the wind carried flakes that concealed the footprints that followed her across the snow.

She reached the gates of New Fauske and nodded to the Sentries standing guard on either side, giving a silent order to draw them open. They complied, and she stepped out into the darkened forest that stretched beyond the city.

She found Espen crouched beneath a gnarled alder tree, his eyes warily following her approach. Evana stepped up to him with her arm outstretched; he pressed a small glass bottle into her palm, half-filled with colorless liquid.

You’re sure there’s no way to detect this? she asked him.

Espen shook his head. Not even after death, he assured her. "Draugr potion is untraceable. I weakened it with aniseed powder like you asked, so it will be a good month before he begins to feel its effects."

Evana nodded. Perfect. She tucked the potion away in the small satchel she’d brought with her. How do I give it to him?

Add a couple drops to something he drinks, Espen said. It doesn’t matter what—the potion is tasteless. He only needs to ingest the tiniest bit for it to work. Espen blinked at her. You have the second drinker ready?

I do, Evana told him. An old Nixan baker. He’s glad to do it; Fenris had his mother killed many years ago.

Espen grunted. Good. He’ll need to drink after the duke—as soon after as possible.

I understand. Evana gave him the smallest of smiles. Thank you, she said. I trust that I can count on you to keep your silence?

You’re doing me a favor, High Priestess, Espen replied. I promise you, my silence is yours.

❄❄❄

Evana shouldered her way into Duke Fenris’s lofty bedroom, a steaming mug cupped between her hands. I brought you some hot cider.

Evana. The duke pulled himself up into a sitting position, his pale eyes brightening as they met hers. I was worried you weren’t coming tonight.

You know I don’t break my promises, Fenris. She slid onto his lap and raised the mug to his lips. The duke took a sip, closing his eyes and missing the shadow of a grin spreading across the face of his High Priestess.

Evana lowered the mug onto the little table beside the bed and pushed Fenris back against his pillows, running ice-tipped fingers down his bare chest the way she knew he liked. She knew how to please him, just as she knew how to please Aures and Fyrie. All men were easy. She’d won Fenris over soon after the death of his bond Elise, and had kept him interested for all these years by whispering the forbidden secrets of the Nixan priests in his ear and using their Old Magic to hide her gray hairs and the creases in her skin. She was ageless, frozen in time while the duke grew old and gray.

Cassatia’s shifter friend is still in Boston, according to her phone signal, Fenris said in the breaths between his moans. I wonder if they’re keeping her alive.

Probably, Evana said as she lowered herself on top of him, a hand wrapped around the nape of his neck. She didn’t care what happened to the shifter girl—Evana had only told the duke of her transgression to strengthen his resolve in sending Cass away to marry. Sighing, she pressed her lips to Fenris’s and let his fingers creep down her body, tracing her angles and curves.

You’re so beautiful, he murmured into her hair. How are you so beautiful, Evana?

The Goddess has blessed me, she replied, inhaling the musky scent of Fenris’s cologne. Just as she’s blessed you, by granting your daughter the hand of Prince Iven.

Yes, he sighed, indeed she has. He leaned gently back until he could look Evana in the eyes, and ran his thumb across her jawline until he reached her lips. Finally we will have a royal Nixan with Loraveire blood.

Yes, we will, Evana thought, lowering her head and slipping down Fenris’s body to kiss the tender skin around his navel. She could feel it even now, growing and moving inside of her—her baby, hers and Fenris’s, conceived through Sen science and deception and soon to be an heir. She would be showing by now if it weren’t for Old Magic—Fenris couldn’t know about the baby, who would not be born until months after his death.

Evana turned her head to eye the unattended mug beside the bed; whatever Espen said, she wanted to make sure Fenris drank all of it just in case. She would give him some more after she’d tired him out.

The duke ran his hands up her back, grabbing at her shoulders. Beautiful, he murmured again to her. You are blessed.

Evana smiled. The goddess Nixa had given her nothing more than a name to invoke. This night—a night she had been planning for years and years, the night that would set into motion her greatest plan—was all her doing, all her work.

She didn’t need the blessing of a goddess to become queen.

6 October: Westrey

I clutch tightly at Basil’s hand, squeezing it hard enough to turn his knuckles white and sharpen his winces. Quincey and Freya are crouched down beside us, their faces darkened by the tarp overhead; Cass the Nixan princess is bent over Iraine at the mouth of the wagon, doing her best to revive the unconscious Shade-Sylvan girl.

I did the best I could with the wound, she tells Keira uncertainly, but she still won’t wake up.

In response, Keira gives Iraine a whack on the cheek, which elicits a soft moan. She’ll make it, Keira decides. We just have to get out of here, fast. She picks up Cass’s fluffy white dog and throws him into the wagon beside Iraine. Who knows how much time we have before someone comes looking for us in here.

Baz lets out a pained grunt, his grip on my hand tightening. Now him, I hiss at Cass. You said you would heal them both.

Cass looks quickly to Keira, now stacking empty crates and boxes across the back of the wagon to block us from view. It’s okay, Cass, she assures her. They won’t hurt you.

Having no time for any of this, I grab Cass’s arm roughly and pull her back to Baz. Help him.

She glances between me and Freya, her eyes wide with fear. I…I don’t know if I have enough strength to heal him too.

Help him, Freya repeats through her teeth. Save him or we’ll burn you to ashes.

Cass swallows, nodding. Her hands shake as she runs her fingers along the bullet wound over Baz’s hip. I squeeze his hand even harder, barely breathing. He’s going to be all right, I tell myself.

Keira has finished obscuring the wagon entrance, leaving us in near-darkness—she climbs up into the coachman’s seat and spurs the horses forward towards the warehouse doors. The wagon jerks forward, jostling and swaying and making Baz moan again.

The bullet’s still lodged in his side, Cass breathes. I can’t heal him until it’s out.

Then take it out, I snap. Her dog barks, scratching at the rattling boxes enclosing us; Quincey grabs him and pulls him into his lap before he can make too much noise.

You have to hold him down, Cass says. The wagon’s moving too much.

I nod to Freya. She grabs Basil’s legs, while I move to position myself over his shoulders without pressing down too much on his injured one. Her hands still shaking, Cass cleans the blood away from the hip wound with a ball of snow she pulls from the air and spreads the exposed skin to find the bullet. Basil gasps, his muscles tensed against the pain.

Cass finds the bullet, and a scream builds in Basil’s chest. I throw a hand over his mouth to quiet him before he attracts the attention of any of the Nixa-worshippers our wagon is passing by. It’s okay, Baz, I tell him, not at all convincingly.

I got it, Cass announces, showing me the reddened bullet as if looking for praise. A fresh wave of blood spews from Baz’s wound, and he lets out another moan.

You aren’t done yet, princess, I say, pointing to the wound. Heal him before he bleeds to death.

Pursing her lips, she lays her palms flat against his side and closes her eyes. Streams of ice spread from her fingers to cover the wound, hardening and then dissolving, over and over and over again. When she pulls her hands away, the bullet wound has all but healed, leaving red skin and stilled blood in its wake.

Basil’s body heaves; he pulls himself up and twists to the side, vomiting up his insides. Cass shrinks back while I grab his head and help pull his hair out of his face. He leans back against me, his breaths coming in short gasps.

I unravel Freya’s makeshift tourniquet to expose Baz’s injured shoulder—the wound has stopped bleeding, but it’s still red and big and open. Now this one, I order Cass.

She turns to me; her face is even paler than before, the blood drained from her cheeks. I can’t, she pants. You have to give me a minute.

Cass, Keira calls from up front. The horses have slowed to a trot, the wagon clattering to a stop. Cass, get up here. We’re at the gates.

My muscles go stiff. Oh, God. Keira had said that she’d be able to get us out of New Fauske, but after everything that happened in Fenris’s castle, I’m not very inclined to trust her anymore.

Keira helps to pull Cass out from underneath the tarp to sit in the coachman’s seat beside her. Freya, Quincey and I flatten ourselves against the sides of the wagon, Baz goes quiet, and even the dog sits still.

I hear a crunch outside as one of the Sentry gate guards drops down onto the snow, and more crunches as he steps up to our wagon. Please don’t recognize Keira, I pray.

Where are you going? the guard demands. Caphian ordered us to keep the gate shut until the Warden invaders are found. I bite my lip, my pulse drumming in my ears.

I was given special orders to evacuate the princess, Keira says, her voice admirably steady. The city prison couldn’t be reliably secured, and Caphian believes the infidels are after her specifically.

I’ll need to confirm that with Caphian, the guard says, since all—

Caphian’s busy, Cass interrupts. Busy passed out cold on the prison floor, according to my sister. And we need to get out of here.

I hear the guard shifting uncomfortably in the snow. Princess, I—

Let us out, Cass insists. That’s an order from me.

A tense moment of silence ensues, until finally the guard steps back. Of course, Your Highness. At once.

Another spell of silence, and then the gates creak open, allowing Keira to urge the horses through them and out of the city.

Letting go of Cass’s dog and climbing over Iraine’s gently-stirring chest, Quincey peeks out from between the boxes. I can’t believe it, he murmurs. We’re out of New Fauske.

With a deep breath, Baz opens his eyes, blinking up at me. We’re out of New Fauske, he repeats weakly. How the hell are we still alive?

I shake my head. No idea, I say truthfully. You almost weren’t. But we are still alive, me and Baz and Freya and Quincey and Iraine, out of the enemy’s city and on the run with a traitor Sentry and the Nixans’ new princess.

The only question is where we could possibly go from here.

Eight Years Ago: Aysa

Heavy monsoon winds rattled the trees overhead and soaked my skin with rain, leaving my long hair a matted wet mess down my back. The thunder roared so angrily that I could feel it in the vibrations beneath my feet, and every so often a blinding flash of lightning would break through the dense gray sky.

I shivered, tightening my grip on Vasya’s hand. Avi stood on her other side, fear and worry rolling off his drenched skin. Neither of us liked this, waiting here in the middle of nowhere for someone to come and whisk us off to a temple we’d never seen before.

Vasya sent us comforting thoughts in reply: memories of her cradling us as infants and of us chasing each other through the trees behind our home. You’ll have each other, she reminded us. "You’re lucky. Most jnani have to go through dheira training all alone."

I swallowed, pressing my cheek against her side. But I want you.

Me too, Avi added. I’m scared.

Don’t be, Vasya told him, ruffling his hair affectionately. You are ten years old now—you’re ready for this. She raised her head and peered out into the woods. They’re almost here. Can you sense them?

I could—there was no one else anywhere near us, so the approaching dheira were easy to find. I felt their excitement, their curiosity. When they made it inside of my cast-range, I could tell more: they were both middle-aged, and both of them had trained many dheira before, so their emotions on meeting us were much duller than Avi’s or mine on meeting them.

The trees ahead of us shuddered, and the two dheira teachers emerged, gentle smiles softening their faces. They were a man and a woman; both of them had their ajna-stones pasted to their foreheads, and they wore loose nature-patterned clothes dirtied by the mud and rain.

The woman teacher stepped up to me, lowering herself into the wet grass to look me in the eyes. She wore a layer sun necklace that glistened in the rain. My name is Sarasi, she said, directly to me. "For the next two years, I will be your dheira teacher." She held out her arms; shakily I let go of Vasya and offered my hands to her, and she clasped them between her own. You are called Aysa, right? I nodded, trying to steady my breaths. I wished I could hide my nerves from Sarasi, but it was impossible to hide anything from a jnani—without a thought-block, at least.

Are you ready to see Raja’s temple, Aysa? Sarasi asked. She shared an image of it with me: winding steps through the forest leading up to a cluster of wooden buildings, framed by a bubbling stream. Sunlight lit the buildings and the trees around them, turning the colors warm and welcoming.

I knew that Rajashray wouldn’t look like Sarasi’s image in the middle of monsoon season, but I nodded anyway. She traced circles with her thumbs over the backs of my hands, sending me a fresh wave of reassurance. "It’s scary for all young dheira at first," she told me. But you’ll get used to it soon enough.

I turned to Avi, whose new dheira teacher was trying similarly to comfort him. Vasya stood between us; I could sense the worry and sadness radiating off of her, no matter how hard she tried to mask it. I reached out to her again, a sharp pang piercing my heart.

This time, Vasya took my hand and placed it in Avi’s. You two stay together, she said. As long as you’re together, you’ll be fine, okay?

Yes, Vasya, I said, feeling tears in my eyes. Avi squeezed my hand.

Vasya squatted between us and planted kisses on both of our foreheads. "Listen to your teachers and earn your ajna-stones. Then you can come back home to me and Rey and Shazi, and we’ll live as a family again, all right?"

Both of us nodded. Vasya rubbed our shoulders and spun us gently around to face the dheira teachers.

Come, Avi’s teacher said. He and Sarasi retreated back into the woods the way they had come, waiting for us to follow.

I looked to Avi, who bit his lip and squeezed my hand again. I squeezed back. As long as we’re together.

Then we followed our teachers’ path into the trees, clinging to each other as tightly as we could.

7 October: Freya

I turn my face into the stream of warm shower water, sighing as it flows over my skin and slips through my hair. It’s the first real shower I’ve had since I was taken prisoner, and it’s the best I’ve felt in years.

I stay in there for at least half an hour, wasting all the hot water here at the Regal Inn—a dumpy motel that was about the only place we could afford with whatever cash Baz and Wes and the Sentry girl had left. Then, when the water finally starts to run cold, I turn off the shower and step out, wrapping myself up in a scratchy white towel.

I wipe the condensation off of the grimy bathroom mirror and stare back at my reflection. My face and collarbone are covered in bruises and welts, and a deep scar runs across my left shoulder. My bones extend from my skin like knives, my hair has thinned and my cheeks hollowed, my hands shake with an intermittent tremor, and my teeth are yellow with months-old plaque. I look like a corpse, dead except for my eyes. It’s a wonder Wes and Basil could even recognize me.

Reluctantly I pull on my clothes, torn and frayed and smelling like blood and death. They’re the same clothes I’ve been wearing for months; the only times I ever got treated to new outfits were when I was holed up in the Nixans’ infirmary. I try to remember when I was last in there, but my days in Fenris’s castle are already starting to blur together.

I wrap a towel around my hair and pry open the door into our shoddy motel room, with its two squeaky beds and paint-chipped walls. After spending the entire car ride out here passed out in the back, Basil has finally woken up, the pillows and sheets beneath him stained red with blood from his shoulder; Wes sits at his side like a worried mother, examining the big purple bruise above his hip where the Nixan princess had pulled a bullet out. Now the princess stands behind Baz, her hands on his shoulder wound and her eyes closed as she tries to mend it. Quincey is crouched in a corner, his one eye big and wide and deer-like, and Keira the Sentry sits with the now-revived Iraine on the other bed, the annoying little dog who’d come with us sprawled across the sheets between them. Dogs and Nixans and Sentries and hybrids and dusties and Wardens, all together in a dirty motel room somewhere in the bowels of eastern Washington.

Does that feel better? Cassatia the Nixan asks, stepping away from Basil looking even more white and sickly than Nixans usually look. Glancing up, she notices my reentrance and consciously ducks away to avoid my eyes—she’s terrified of me. I remember seeing her with her father just days before I was rescued; I had never seen her before, but as soon as I laid eyes on Cass’s delicate little figure, frightened and shaking, I’d known exactly who she was. Seeing Quincey and I had scared her that day—now she is stuck with us, a bunch of infidels and a Sentry who is apparently half on our side. I’d feel bad for her if her father hadn’t kept me locked in a cell for a year and a half.

Basil feels his shoulder and rotates his arm around a few times with only a little wince. Better, he confirms. Cass nods awkwardly and returns to sit beside Keira. She’s still wearing her diamond-infused wedding dress from the night before, now stained brown and gray.

I come to stand beside Quincey, draping an arm across his shoulders while he presses himself against my side. Wes finally lifts his attention from Baz for a second to notice me, giving me a tentative smile. It’s been so long since I last saw my twin brother; I’d never thought I could miss someone so annoying.

Keira picked up some food while you were in the shower, he says, reaching below the bed and throwing a McDonald’s Happy Meal at me.

Immediately I open it and pull out a handful of fries. I can’t remember the last time I’d eaten fast food, but it was way too long ago.

Baz gets a Happy Meal, too; he opts for the burger first, though, eating half of it in one bite and getting ketchup all over his face. How long was I out for? he asks with his mouth still full of food.

A while, Wes replies. It’s about one in the afternoon now. Cass and Iraine only woke up an hour before you. And after dealing with Basil’s shoulder, Cass looks more than ready to pass out again, lying back in the other bed with her dog curled up on top of her stomach.

And where are we, exactly? Baz asks.

A couple hours east of Seattle, says Wes. We’re going there to find this business guy Keira knows who’ll give us some money and fake IDs for Cass’s wedding ring.

Bond-ring, Cass corrects him quietly.

He’s a Sen, but he’s done all kinds of sketchy shit for the Nixans and Sentries before, Keira explains. He knows not to ask questions.

Hold on, Baz says, cracking his neck. We’re still going along with what Keira wants after she almost got us all killed?

Well, I don’t know what else we’re supposed to do, Wes mutters. We need money, and we’re on the run, and we’re still on Nixan turf.

Yeah, and Seattle is in the opposite direction of where we should be going.Which means it’s not somewhere the Sentries will be looking for us, Keira points out. Plus, we have the ice-glass from Feolan. We’re hidden from them until we take it off.

I glance down at the ring on my finger, supposedly made from the mysterious ice-glass substance that’s used to channel Old Magic. Until yesterday, I had thought that Old Magic could only be used by Nixan priests; then a Shade hybrid and a Sentry both used it to turn me invisible within the span of an hour. Apparently, from what I’ve pieced together, Wes and Baz ran into a jnani-raised shifter outcast en route to New Fauske who told them that Old Magic can be used by anyone. He also told them that Ferignis, the magic jnani sword our bunker has protected for twenty years, is nothing more than a pretty piece of metal. I’d spent months beating myself up over telling the Nixans about Ferignis, and it turns out it didn’t matter at all. A fresh wave of anger courses through me at the thought.

We should get moving, Iraine says. I’ll take my shower now—I smell like a dead person. She stands up shakily and almost immediately keels over. Keira jumps up quickly to catch her, helping her back onto her feet.

You okay?

I’m fine, Iraine assures her. I lost a lot of blood, that’s all.

I can sympathize; I still feel a bit like I’m going to collapse every time I stand up. I shiver as I think of the days when I was beaten or shocked or starved to the point where I could barely stand at all. But I’d always bounced back—Quincey and I both did. We survived eighteen months in a Nixan torture chamber, and here we are, two hundred miles away and still able to stand.

It feels like a dream, honestly, to finally be away from there, and I’m still half-convinced that it is. Like any second now, I’m going to wake up and be right back in that room, with some Nixa-worshipper hovering over me and brandishing some brand-new way to torture me. I shiver, wrapping my arms tightly around my chest.

You okay, Freya? Wes asks. The way he looks at me, kinder and gentler than he’s ever looked at me before, reminds me that he’s grown up a lot in the past year and a half, too.

I’m fine, I tell him, trying my best for a smile. It’s not the truth, of course: I’m not fine at all, not after everything that’s