Page 30 of Immortal Sentry

“How many of our people would accept a queen on the throne? Especially one married to a disgusting waste of a man.”

“Married? To whom? I’m sure she had no say.” Kerric imagined the sweet—okay, maybe not so sweet—girl he’d once known, married to a man far beneath her. A natural leader, had she been born male, she’d undoubtedly now lead troops into battle.

And win.

“She did not. And I will address the issue later. For now, understand that Eron must become king.”

Kerric’s mind drifted back to the child he’d taken up to the ramparts, who’d asked endless questions and had always been a sunny sort, the perfect likeness to his queenly mother before she died far too young. The man in the dungeon bore littleresemblance to the innocent child of Kerric’s memories. He’d grown up beautiful. And treacherous, apparently. “He is a thief.”

“Are not stealth and cunning required for survival at court? Also, the discernment to know when to strike and when to wait? He’s been well taught in everything from penmanship to archery to combat to running an estate. The one he fostered with did not wish to give Eron up but wanted to adopt him, make him an official heir.”

“If you truly cared for the boy, you’d have let him build a life far from here.” So much treachery to be found in Hisar.

Miisov blew out a noisy breath. “I do care. But I also care for the people of Hisar. They deserve a benevolent king, and Eron is the king they need. He has learned the necessary skills for the coming battle. Now, will you help me?”

Kerric splayed his hands out to his sides in a gesture of surrender. “What choice do I have?” He glanced up to see a man who looked very similar to him but with silver hair and eyes, startled before realizing he was gazing into a polished silver mirror. He crossed the floor in three long strides, staring at his reflection. “What happened to me? My hair? My eyes?” Eron had mentioned Kerric’s silver hair, but Kerric assumed it to be but a trick of the light.

“A product of the spell, I’m afraid,” Miisov answered. “You have come to resemble the stone you turned into.”

“Can it be changed?” Kerric stared in shock at his image. He’d once had sun-kissed brown hair and blue eyes.

“I do not know. I had no idea the curse would affect you so. Even if I had, it wouldn’t have changed my course of action. You also have not aged.”

“Not to be rude, but I can’t say the same about you.”

Miisov shook his head in a dismissive gesture. “Your body has still seen twenty-seven summers, I believe. When you face yourenemy, you’ll be younger, stronger, and more determined. Crau has let rich living rob him of his vitality.”

Hard not to notice the lack of Crau’s title. Mages weren’t generally afforded titles other than Mage and were, therefore, careless with what they called others, but Kerric chose to take the omission as a good sign. Still, he wasn’t entirely sure how much he trusted Miisov.

“How do I know you tell the truth? That you’re not using me for some nefarious purpose?”

“Did you trust King Lothan?”

Did Kerric? Yes. Without a doubt, yes. “With my very life.”

“And he trusted me with the lives of all loyal to him.” Kerric wouldn’t mention where that trust had gotten their late king. “Would you trust me more if I shared my greatest secret?”

“Maybe.”

The weariness in Miisov’s eyes made him appear even older. “Like you, I am cursed because I let King Lothan down, and for that, I paid the ultimate price. I appear alive. I walk, talk, eat, sleep, and seem to grow older, but I am bound, like you, to this castle until such a time as I make amends. I can leave for short periods, but only because I’ve imbued my staff with the essence of this place. If I lost my staff, or attempted to leave without it, I would still be bound to the castle, but as an incorporeal ghost, unable to pay my debt and free my soul. Our fates are bound, Captain Kerric. In essence, I appear older because I traded my life for a chance to avenge my rightful king.”

Before Kerric could puzzle out Miisov’s meaning, his skin grew warm, invisible fire licking up his body. Had Miisov lied? Was he striking a killing blow? “What’s happening?” Tight bands wrapped around Kerric’s chest.Breathe.Kerric couldn’t breathe.

“Do not worry. Dawn approaches.” No panic showed on Miisov’s face or in his words.

“What does that mea—” The word cut off abruptly. Kerric once more found himself perched on the ramparts with no need for breath.

A gargoyle once more, with far more to contemplate in his hours of silent watch.

Chapter Thirteen

Asilver-haired man stood at the edge of the woods, bathed in moonlight, his skin alabaster.

Eron looked up the castle wall to the statues standing so still along the ramparts, a chill warning racing along his spine.You’re being watched.

The dream twisted the two images until each flowed into each other—man and gargoyle, gargoyle and man.

Eron bolted upright, sucking air into his burning lungs.

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