Guardian of Honor. Robin D. OwensЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      1

      Lladrana, early spring

      When the Star Etalla glows bright and moves through the constellation Caen; when mists envelop the stone circle high atop Archer’s Mound; when the face of the Moon is hidden—then the walls between worlds are thin, and you may Summon saviors—or demons—from the Exotique Land. Send the Call. Choose well.

      —Spring Prophecy

      The rush of rain hit the stone pavement with hissing, tinny pings. Swordmarshall Thealia hurried through the Castle’s cloister walk, ignoring the silver fall outside the open, pointed arches. The incessant damp weather made her aging joints ache even under three layers of robes. She’d once loved to watch the rain. Once. Now she avoided looking at it, listening to it, and wished she could avoid smelling the miasma that rose from it.

      She’d been called the tough realist, harping on the harsh facts of Lladrana’s desperate situation, demanding action—but she couldn’t face the rain anymore.

      Dread gripped her. She’d just stopped at the map room. She knew it was obsessive, checking the status of the land every morning and evening, but she couldn’t help herself. She always hoped against hope that the tide of inhuman evil wasn’t creeping into her country. That morning especially she’d prayed something had changed, so the Marshalls wouldn’t have to risk the Summoning tonight.

      A futile hope. She’d scanned the animated map of Lladrana, noting the breaks in the magical boundary set by her ancestors against the Dark. She’d counted each glowing white fence-pillar. Even as she had watched, two pillars had blackened and vanished. The loss was escalating and the new gap in the northern defenses stretched miles.

      Fingers of the first taint of evil, the small nasty poisonous creatures signified by gray sludge, slogged to the border—and across. Stirrings of the more terrible horrors—slayers, renders, soul-suckers massed, ready to advance to the new breach. Chill fear had penetrated her bones.

      Now with fumbling fingers Thealia drew the heavy key through the slits of her robes and stuck it into the iron keyhole of the thick wooden door made of grown tree trunks—sacred oaks ritually harvested in bygone times. The door opened smoothly, though she hadn’t said the spell or pushed her shoulder against it. The Knight Lord of the Marshalls must be inside. She wondered if he had brought his brother—his Shield—too.

      Her lips thinned in irritation. She’d wanted a moment or two in the chamber to soak in the sense of serenity that lived nowhere else in Lladrana. He couldn’t appreciate the balm, even if he felt it.

      Straightening her spine and shoulders, she set her steps carefully to glide with grace into the round stone Temple. The scent of rosemary and sage welcomed her.

      Swordmarshall Reynardus paced the sanctuary, tall, broad-shouldered, the silver streak of hair at his right temple turned golden with age. Not even a small paunch softened the man. Lines bracketed his mouth. They had deepened over the past year as the Marshalls realized the ancient fence was failing and that they had no idea how to recharge the shielding posts, make new ones or lace the magical energy between them. Inhuman evil encroached upon Lladrana with sharp, monstrous teeth.

      But didn’t evil always encroach? It was Thealia’s job to make sure the Marshalls guarded and defended Lladrana—even when the steps might be drastic and deadly to herself and others.

      Reynardus frowned and stopped near the eastern point of the pentacle, his robe settled above the ankles of his metal boots.

      “Tonight is the time.” His voice echoed through the stone room, sounding as sharp as his footsteps.

      “All is ready.” Her gesture encompassed the freshly incised pentacle, the altar with the rainbow of glowing gemstone crystal chimes, the tools, the fruit and wine, the enormous silver gong. She hoped her quilted overdress concealed the shiver of apprehension that flowed along her spine like the touch of cold steel.

      Reynardus scowled, thick black brows casting his dark eyes farther into shadow. “We will be using a great deal of energy for such a chancy enterprise, perhaps too much energy. Some of us may die.”

      Thealia inclined her head and folded her hands at her waist. The peak of her coif made her nearly