A Daughter’s Dedication

Lyra

Lyra Arion glided gracefully across the polished marble floor of Castle Caravelia’s great hall, her heart racing. It seemed as if the entire court had turned out for her debut. The sight of their resplendent dazzling uniforms and gorgeous gowns made her skin tingle with awe. And yet, even among them, she stood out like a vibrant gem. Her emerald green dress shimmered in the light of the chandeliers, her black hair adorned with a delicate silver circlet that made her feel like a queen. All eyes were drawn to her, and she knew it.

The musicians took up a song, and the floor filled with dancers. Lyra watched with unabashed delight, though inwardly, she felt conflicted. The ball had been thrown in her honor, celebrating her debut as a young lady of the court of King Leander. And yet, for all the wonder and joy at her coming of age, she still felt the loss of her father’s murder—a crime for which no one had yet been punished.

His killer was someone in this very court, she mused inwardly, even as she smiled and exchanged meaningless pleasantries. Perhaps even someone in this very room.

A portly merchant approached her with a plump, rich woman on his arm. She didn’t know the man, but the woman was Lady Estelle, a lady-in-waiting of the late queen. She smiled as her husband spoke.

“Lady Arion—what a pleasure! We’ve been eagerly awaiting your debut for some time now.”

Lyra curtseyed politely. “Thank you, sir. I’m honored to join the court.”

“You look positively radiant this evening,” gushed Lady Estelle. “That dress brings out the lovely color in your eyes.”

“Thank you, milady.”

“Your father would have been so proud to see you here tonight. He truly must be smiling down upon you now.”

Lyra’s heart constricted at the mention of her father. She forced a tight smile, her voice betraying none of her inner turmoil.

“You are too kind, Lady Estelle. I only wish he could be here to share this moment.”

“Quite, quite,” said the portly merchant, eyeing the buffet table a little too eagerly. “Well, don’t let us keep you, Lady Arion. May you have a wonderful evening.”

“And you as well,” Lyra said, curtsying again as they parted ways. As soon as their backs were turned, she glared daggers at them. Could it be either of them? No—Lady Estelle’s head was far too empty to be able to hide the conspiracy for long, and as for her husband, she doubted he was of any consequence. Though if Lady Estelle had meant that comment as some sort of barb…

The arrogant Lord Haversmith simpered toward her, interrupting her thoughts. “Lady Arion,” he purred as he bowed, “you look absolutely radiant this evening.”

“Milord,” she answered curtly. But the young man didn’t take the hint. His gaze slid over her body, taking in every inch of her.

“Might I have the honor of a dance?”

Lyra covered her mouth, ostensibly in a coy laugh, but truthfully to hide a scowl. Even as a debutante, she knew how to play the game.

“You are too kind, my lord. Perhaps later this evening? I simply must rest my feet for a moment.”

He hesitated a moment before bowing stiffly again. “Of course,” he muttered, clearly annoyed. But Lyra didn’t care. She turned away, revealing her true emotions only in the subtle twitch of her eyebrow.

Her thoughts turned inward as she observed the whispered conversations along the edges of the great hall. There were many factions in King Leander’s court, all of them vying against each other in a hundred subtle ways. Which of them was responsible for the murder of her father? Was it Lord Aldric, with his too-bright smile and overly familiar manner? Or or perhaps the stern-faced Duke Bardolf, watching from an alcove with an inscrutable expression on his face? Now that she was one of them, Lyra finally had an opportunity to investigate the murder for herself. She could hardly wait to get started.

“Lady Lyra!” exclaimed Lady Forsythe. “How marvelous to see you.” Her voice was like a songbird’s trill, high-pitched and overly sweet. “Your debut has become quite the occasion for the court. That gown is simply divine.”

Lyra nodded. “Your dress is lovely as well,” she responded superficially. “And how fares your husband?”

At the mention of her spouse, Lady Forsythe launched into a seemingly endless monologue about his recent struggles with gout and the various remedies he had tried to cure it. As she prattled on, Lyra’s mind wondered. Could it be her? Or perhaps her foppish son?”

“…and of course, we simply must have you over for tea next week,” Lady Forsythe concluded.

Lyra inclined her head. “You’re too kind,” she replied noncommittally.

“Very well. Have a lovely evening, Lady Arion.”

As they parted, Lyra decided it couldn’t be her. Lady Forsythe was far too absorbed with her own husband. Or was that just a clever ruse?

Patience, Lyra chided herself, though inwardly she wanted to scream. She would find her father’s killer. She would see him brought to justice.

A hand touched Lyra’s elbow, startling her from her brooding thoughts. She turned to find herself face-to-face with a tall, gaunt man whose deep blue eyes seemed to pierce right through her.

“Lady Arion,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Lord Blackwood, at your service.”

Lyra curtseyed, her eyes never leaving his face. “Lord Blackwood. A pleasure.”

“Would you honor me with a dance?”

Lyra hesitated. Something about the man seemed off to her, but she could not refuse a second invitation without drawing unwanted attention. She forced a smile and placed her hand in his.

“Of course, Lord Blackwood.”

They glided across the marble floor, joining the other dancers. Dorian moved with surprising skill, stepping smoothly as he led her with a firm and confident hand.

“I must say, Lady Lyra, you look positively radiant tonight. The court is truly enriched by your presence.”

“Thank you, Milord,” Lyra replied uneasily. She had heard of Lord Blackwood, of course. He was a minor noble with a reputation for charm and wit. His flattery seemed a little too thick, though. She searched his face for sarcasm or malice, but found only a pleasant smile.

Just what was it about this man that put her on edge?

“You seem distracted,” Dorian observed as he guided her through a turn. “Is the ball not to your liking?”

“Not at all, Lord Blackwood. I’m simply… overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all.”

“Ah, yes. Though this isn’t your first time at court, isn’t it?” His grip on her waist tightened. “I seem to remember you accompanying your father, before his… unfortunate passing.”

The words hit Lyra like a physical blow. Memories flooded her mind: the pounding on the door, her grandmother’s ashen face, the terrible news that had shattered her world forever. She swallowed hard, struggling to keep her composure.

“Yes,” she managed. “His loss has been… difficult.”

“My deepest condolences, Lady Arion. We have all keenly felt his absence from court these past five years.”

The music swelled, relieving her from having to respond.

As they continued to dance, Lyra found herself studying Dorian more closely. His charm seemed practiced and stale, his words too carefully chosen. Could he have been involved?

“Tell me, Lord Blackwood: did you know my father?”

“Not as well as I would have liked,” he replied smoothly. “But his reputation preceded him. Your father’s skill in the arcane arts was legendary. Did you inherit any of his… talents?”

The question sent a strange chill down her spine. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Lord Blackwood.”

“Oh, come now, Lady Arion. Surely you’ve felt the call of magic in your blood?”

“I have,” she answered carefully. “But I’m not sure what you’re implying, my lord. My training in the arcane arts is a matter of public record.”

To her relief, Lord Arion dropped the question. “My apologies if I’ve overstepped. I simply find you fascinating, Lady Arion.”

Yes, Lyra thought silently as she turned her gaze from his piercing blue eyes. Just like Lord Haversmith.

The final notes of the waltz faded away, and Lord Blackwood released her from his grasp. She stifled a sigh of relief, ignoring how his eyes seemed to linger. His grip on her waist had been far too possessive.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said, offering a curtsy.

Dorian bowed. “The pleasure was all mine, Lady Arion. I look forward to seeing more of you.”

The feeling is not mutual, Lyra thought but did not say.

As she turned her back to him, she decided that Dorian Blackwood was little more than a petty womanizer. Obviously, that was the only thing that had set her on edge, for what could he have possibly gained from the murder of her father? She would have to avoid him in the future.

She suddenly noticed the eyes of the nearby courtiers drawn to an approaching figure. Lyra turned to see Lady Seraphine, the court magician, gliding toward her with mesmerizing grace. Her long silver hair cascaded down her back, accentuating the purple lace of her gown. Her smile could have belonged equally to a face as young as five or as old as five hundred.

“My dear Lady Arion,” Lady Seraphine greeted her with a melodious voice. “How lovely to see you this evening. You’ve blossomed into such a beautiful young woman.”

Lyra’s spine stiffened. Could Lady Seraphine have been involved in her father’s murder? After all, she had succeeded him as court magician. Few others had gained so much from his untimely passing.

“Thank you, Lady Seraphine,” Lyra carefully chose her words. “The pleasure is mine, though I wish my father were here to see it.”

“His passing still looms like a shadow over this court. These are trying times, Lady Lyra. The kingdom faces many challenges, both from within and without.”

What’s that supposed to mean? Lyra wondered.

“But enough about politics,” the older lady purred. “I suppose a young woman such as yourself must be bored half to death by matters of the court.”

“On the contrary, I find such matters invigorating. There’s so much to consider.”

Lyra’s gaze met Lady Seraphine’s, and for a moment both women took stock of each other. The older sorceress’s violet eyes seemed to miss nothing.

“Your father spoke of you often, you know. He had high hopes for your future.”

Lyra’s throat tightened. “Did he?”

“Yes,” Lady Seraphine said softly. “Tell me, child, have you given any thought to following in his footsteps? The gift of magic often runs in families, after all. And your father’s talents were quite exceptional.”

The way Lady Seraphine called her a “child” made Lyra bristle ever so slightly. But she did her best to hide it, keeping her voice low and controlled.

“You flatter me, my lady. But I don’t think I could ever hope to match my father.”

The sorceress’s laugh was like the tinkling of crystal. “Oh, you underestimate yourself, child. I can see the spark in your eyes—the same fire that burned in your father’s.”

“And what became of that fire, Lady Seraphine? Did someone seek to extinguish it?”

For a fleeting moment, something flickered in the ageless woman’s eyes. But it disappeared just as quickly, replaced by her mask of serene elegance.

“Careful, child. The line between justice and vengeance is often thinner than we’d like to admit.”

“I’m not a child, anymore, Lady Seraphine. This very ball is meant to celebrate that fact. But tell me, how does it feel to wear the mantle of a dead man?”

Seraphine’s eyes flashed. “Your father was a great man, young child, but your grief at his passing does not give you license to lash out blindly.”

“And allow his killer to go unpunished?”

“Such talk is unbecoming of a lady. And dangerous, in these troubled times.” Lady Seraphine’s face smoothed into a placid smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe King Leander requires my company. Do enjoy the rest of the ball, my dear.”

With a swirl of shimmering robes, the sorceress glided away. Lyra trembled with fury, her cheeks hot and her heart pounding.

“By the seven seas,” Lyra muttered, “I need some air.”

Lyra

The pale light of the moon illuminated the castle with a soft, glowing light. A salt-tinged breeze blew gently from the sea, tossing Lyra’ hair and cooling her flushed cheeks. She paused to admire the view of the royal gardens below.

“I will find the truth, Father,” she whispered. “I will not rest until I’ve found them.”

A flicker of movement caught her eye. She turned and found herself face to face with a cloaked figure, his face concealed by an ornate mask. The suddenness of his appearance made her gasp.

“Who are you?” Lyra demanded.

The figure tilted his head inquisitively “A friend, perhaps. That depends entirely on you, Lady Arion.”

A shiver ran down Lyra’s spine. Should she call for the guards? But if he wanted to harm her, he could have already done so.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I wasn’t aware that I needed one.”

The man chuckled. “And yet, here you are, alone at the grand ball in your honor. Clearly, something else is on your mind. Are you searching for something? Or perhaps for someone?”

Lyra’s cheeks flushed. Did he overhear my vow? she wondered silently.

“What do you know of my search?”

The figure leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “The man who killed your father is in this very castle.”

Her heart surged. “What do you know of him?”

“Only vagaries. The killer’s identity is a closely guarded secret, even from me.” He paused. “But your father’s murder casts a long shadow.”

Something in the way he spoke of her father made the words spill out of Lyra’s mouth. “He—he didn’t deserve to die like that,” she heard herself stammer. “He was a great man. Whoever killed him… I want them to suffer as I have suffered. As my father suffered in his final moments.”

“Is it justice you seek, or vengeance?”

“Both,” Lyra answered.

“Be careful, Lady Arion. Such desires can lead down dark paths.”

“Then so be it,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’ll walk any path if it leads me to my father’s killer.”

The masked figure nodded, as if coming to a decision. Without warning, he took Lyra’s hand. Her body tensed, but before she could pull away, she felt him press something smooth into her palm.

“Then perhaps this will aid you on your quest. It will guide you, if you have the will to use it.”

Lyra looked down at the object. It was a small obsidian artifact, like a stone worn smooth from the ocean waves. Its surface was as smooth as polished glass. At its center, a faint light pulsed. She could sense its deep magical power, dark and rich and alluring. Its weight filled her with a sense of pure, untapped possibility, as if she held a small world in her hands.

“But how do I—”

Her words trailed off. The battlements were empty. The masked figure had vanished as if he’d never been there at all.

Lyra

Lyra’s footsteps echoed through the castle as she hurried to her apartment in the east wing. She barely managed to resist the urge to reach for the magical orb, hidden within the folds of her elegant gown. Its powers seemed to course through her, urging her to call upon its dark power.

Not yet, she thought, stumbling a little as she climbed the stairs. She caught herself and reached her apartment without further incident.

Once inside, she bolted the door and hurried over to her writing desk. With trembling hands, she retrieved the enchanted obsidian sphere, placing it ever so carefully upon the polished wood. In the soft glow of the candlelight, it shimmered with an otherworldly allure. She sank into her chair, eyes fixed on the artifact.

“What are you?” she whispered, tracing a finger along its cool surface. She thought of the words of the masked figure who’d given it to her. Could this orb truly help her find her father’s killer? Lyra leaned closer, captivated by the swirling depths beneath its glassy surface. A faint, pulsing light emanated softly from its core.

“How do I use you?” she murmured.

“My lady,” a silky smooth voice purred behind her. “I believe I can assist you with that.”

Lyra whirled, her heart leaping into her throat. Dorian Blackwood stood in the corner of her chamber, appearing from the shadows almost like a ghost. His blue eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

“Lord Blackwood!” Lyra exclaimed, rising awkwardly. “How did you…”

“My apologies for the intrusion, Lady Arion. It was necessary to come in secret, for reasons that will soon be clear.” He glanced meaningfully at the orb. “You’ve made quite the acquisition. Such a fascinating artifact, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of it?”

“More than you might think,” Dorian answered, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. “If you wish to use it, I can give you the guidance you seek.”

Curiosity warred with suspicion in Lyra’s heart. She was half-minded to call the guards and throw him out, but his answer made her hesitate.

“Guidance? What do you mean?”

With a fluid motion, Dorian reached into the folds of his cloak. His long fingers emerged clutching a second magical orb, identical to the one on the table.

“Stars above,” Lyra gasped. “There are two of them?”

Dorian nodded. “The Serpent’s Eyes. Their true powers are only unlocked when they are held by a master and an apprentice. That is why every initiate into the dark arts receives one.”

“The—the dark arts?” Lyra asked, her eyes widening.

“Yes. You do wish to find your father’s killer, don’t you? This orb will help you unlock the gates of shadow. With proper training, you will be able to peer into the darkest corners of men’s souls and bend the very fabric of reality to your will.”

“But… aren’t the dark arts forbidden?”

“Yes,” said Dorian, his smile quickly turning to a scowl. “Those who cannot wield the power hate and fear those of us who can. That is why we must keep to the shadows… for now.”

She frowned. “Who do you mean by ‘we’? Are you speaking about—”

“The Dark Brotherhood? Yes. By taking the Eye, you have joined us, Lady Arion. Though as one of our acolytes, you need not fear our power.”

Now Lyra’s heart truly began to race. She had heard many things about the awful calamities the Brotherhood had wrought upon the world during the Time of Troubles long ago. Most people believed that they had been destroyed by their own power. But she’d also heard rumors that they’d merely been forced underground, biding their time until they could rise again.

“Most of what you’ve heard about us is false, of course,” Dorian continued. “We do not seek to enslave all men, but to liberate them. We seek power to build a better world—much as you seek justice for your father.”

Lyra took a deep breath, her mind spinning. Part of her screamed caution, but her raw, aching need for justice drowned it out.

“Could the dark arts really help me to find my father’s killer?”

“My dear girl, the dark arts could give you far more than that. With this power, you could make your own justice.”

A heady mix of emotions began to well up inside of her. “I’ve tried everything,” she confessed, her voice cracking. “But the investigation into his death has gone nowhere. Everyone at the court speaks so highly of him, but they won’t actually do anything about his death.”

“The foppish, preening peacocks are worse than useless,” Dorian agreed. “The court of King Leander is beyond saving. Your father’s untimely death is proof enough of that.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

He shook his head sadly. “Our influence in the court is far too tenuous, though hopefully that will soon change. But be assured, Lady Lyra—your father’s killer still walks these halls.”

Lyra clenched her fists, her emotions rising. Something in his words—in the quiet intensity of his voice—broke through the wall around Lyra’s heart.

“It’s been five years,” she murmured, her eyes beginning to sting. “Five awful, horrible years. I see his face in my dreams, Lord Blackwood. I hear him calling out to me. It makes me feel so—so powerless.”

Dorian placed a hand on her shoulder. “I understand your pain all too well, child. With my help, you can turn that pain into power.”

“Why would you help me?”

“Because we need you, Lady Arion. If we are to reshape the kingdom—to purge it of all corruption and injustice—we will need every mage who is willing to join our cause. If we had risen to power sooner, perhaps your father would still be alive.”

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. All her life, she’d been taught that the dark arts were evil. Had that all been a lie? I’ve tried everything else, she thought inwardly as her resolve began to harden. But no one else seems to care.

She lifted her chin to meet Dorian’s gaze. “When do we begin?”

“Soon,” Dorian promised. “But remember, secrecy is paramount. The penalty for practicing dark magic is death.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to avenge my father’s death.”

Dorian’s eyes glittered with a look of… gratification? Or was that triumph? In the dim light of the candle, it was difficult to tell.

“You have an unquenchable spirit, Lady Lyra. But you must exercise patience. Soon, the day is coming when we will be able to practice openly. But until that day, we must exercise prudence.”

He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small leather bound volume. Its cover and spine were non-descript, bearing no lettering at all. Muttering an incantation, he handed it carefully to her.

“Open it.”

Lyra undid the clasp, feeling a shiver of energy run down her spine. She saw at once that it was a manual of the forbidden arts, its pages deeply yellowed with age.

“The spell will cause the book to burst into flames if anyone opens it other than you,” Dorian explained. “Keep it clasped, and show it to no one.”

“I understand,” she said, flipping through the pages. Her heart leaped—even at a glance, she could tell that the volume contained a wealth of knowledge.

“I must go now,” Dorian told her. “It will be at least a fortnight until I return. Until then, study the book, and learn to draw on the power of the Serpent’s Eye. Let it be your teacher for now. Show it to no one, except those who belong to our Brotherhood.”

“How will I know who they are?”

“They will make themselves known to you by this sign,” he said, holding up his hand. Pressing his fingers together in the shape of a snake’s head, he curved two of them down to make the fangs. “You must keep the Serpent’s Eye on your person at all times. But show it to no one else. Do you understand?”

Lyra nodded. “I understand.”

“Good. Now, I must go. Do not attempt to contact me. When the time is right, I will contact you.”

He stepped back into the shadows, crossing his hands over his chest. His figure shimmered before dissipating like smoke in the air. Lyra slowly walked over to where he had been standing, carefully checking for any sign of him. But he was gone.

With a heavy sigh, she collapsed onto her bed, still holding the obsidian orb. As she gazed into its depths, she shivered in anticipation of the power that would soon be hers.

“Soon,” she whispered, smiling fiercely. “Soon, Father, I’ll have the power to make things right.”