Prologue
A thin haze of smoke hung in the air, rich with the scent of tobacco and ale.
A sad-faced harpist played away by the campfire, his gaze distant. Voices were solemn, hushed, while outside the rain fell in a heavy downpour.
In one corner, behind a curtain hung solely for that purpose, a serving wench was servicing a handsome lieutenant from the city guard. She had considered herself lucky when he had smiled at her. He was clean, he had always tipped well, and he had kind eyes. When he had whispered in her ear, several other girls had given her very evil looks and as he took her hand and led her to the back of the room, she had merrily waggled her fingers at them behind her back. Occasionally, his grunts and moans could be heard out in the main room.
In another corners, one of the guard and his wench didn’t bother with the curtain; he merely jerked her skirt up and pulled her down on his rigid cock, grunting and groaning his way to a record finish while the girl faked her way along. Neither of them were particularly clean or choosy. He wanted sex. She wanted money.
Ah, the ambience.
In yet another corner, two men sat, backs to the wall, facing the small crowd that lingered, waiting for the rain to let up. A mug of ale sat untouched in front of the swordsman. Though he slouched in his chair, his entire body was tensed, ready. His face, one unusually pretty considering his trade, was grim. Pale blond hair was secured at his nape, revealing one pierced earlobe, a single blue stud glinting there.
He had a thin upper lip, a full, sensual lower one. His long legs were sprawled out and covered from waist to ankle in supple, worn fighting leathers that allowed freedom of movement and light protection.
Across from him sat a gaily-dressed Wildling, his bright shirt the color of the sun the town hadn’t seen in nearly a month. His breeches were red, cut full from the waist down to the knee, where they were tucked into high riding boots.
“Old Lita wanted us to pass the word along. She’d like to see Tyriel, while she’s able. The lady doesn’t have much time left, I fear.” His black eyes—Wildling’s eyes—were somber, sad. Very unusual for a Wildling.
Aryn had been hoping the Wildling had a message from Tyriel, a message, a plea for help, that she had landed her fine ass in trouble, something…but he barely had time to acknowledge the disappointment. His mouth went grim and tight as he closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were dark with concern, fear and rage as he straightened in his chair. Firelight glinted off the deep blue stone in his ear as he leaned forward.
“Kellen, I haven’t seen or heard from Tyriel in nearly a year. We parted ways last winter,” Aryn said, a frown darkening his fair face. His voice was low and rough, with the frustration he still felt over their abrupt parting. In the pit of his stomach, that gnawing doubt that something was very, wrong grew even larger. It had been troubling him for some time and now, he had concrete proof. Tyriel wouldn’t have avoided her family this long. “She had plans to meet up with the family in Bentyl Faire.”
Concern entered Kellen’s eyes as Aryn spoke. Staring at the swordsman, the Wildling shook his head, frowning.
Aryn closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers, suddenly feeling unbelievably weary. “She never showed at Bentyl, or any of the other faires, did she?”
“We haven’t seen Tyriel in nearly two years, Aryn, since we saw you both together at the faire in Kenton. Why did you break apart? Everything seemed to be going so well for the both of you.”
With a restless shrug, Aryn said, “That’s what I thought. We had a solid partnership; people asked for us by name, looked for us.” He paused, glancing at his blade, an enchanted sword that had once been such a burden. “It’s…complicated.”
“Complicated,” Kellen said slowly, the look in his eyes saying he wasn’t buying the horseshit Aryn was selling. Nor should he—Wildlings were excellent purveyors of horseshit and Aryn was barely adequate.
Annoyed, Aryn snapped, “Aye. Complicated. I never planned on either of us going our own way. We worked well together. We suited each other.”
At least until the last day, he thought darkly, grimly remembering that day. She had left one morning after saying things the night before that had knocked him flat off his feet, storming out of the room before he could take it in. And that night—a night that was mostly list to him.
He had Irian to thank for that, he had no doubt. He cursed silently at the sword, a sword that had remained all but silent for many months.
Bloody hunk of enchanted metal, I ought to throw you in the fires of Itherri Bogs.
Not only had his best friend up and left him, the Soul inside the enchanted sword that had become a companion who had all but ceased talking to him.
If there wasn’t a job that needed doing, Irian was nothing more than a brooding silent presence in the back of Aryn’s mind.
As if summoned by Aryn’s thoughts, the enchanter stirred, a low, husky chuckle escaping him.
It was the most Aryn had heard from Irian in months outside of their work.
“So she just left? Didn’t say anything other than she’d meet up with us in Bentyl?” Kel raised and lowered his ale without drinking, his black eyes serious and concerned. “If Tyriel had said she was going to meet up with us, she would. Something must have happened.”
“I know. That’s my fear, too. Tyriel being who she is, only the Lost Gods only know what sort of trouble she found—or what trouble found her,” Aryn said dryly, using humor to cover his very real fear. “Why don’t you spread the word through the caravan? I’ll ask around and we can meet up in Bentyl. Somebody surely has seen her.”
When they met at the Bentyl Faire some weeks later, it was with grim faces. Nobody had seen or heard from Tyriel in months.
Word came winging in from Wildling clans scattered far and wide. Tyriel seemed to have dropped off the face of the world.
If a Wildling hadn’t seen her, then she wasn’t around to be seen.
Clad in somber browns, his fair hair secured in a queue at the nape of his neck, Aryn listened as Kel finished talking. Absently shifting the sword harness he wore, Aryn rose to pace the confines of the small tent.
“Now what?” he asked.
“You don’t need to concern yourself, Aryn. We’re her family and—”
“Don’t.” He turned on his heel and advanced on the shorter man, backing him up against the wall. In a low threatening growl, he repeated, “Don’t. We were partners for six years; we shed blood together, nearly died saving the other countless times. Anything that concerns Tyriel concerns me. Everything that concerns her concerns me.”
Not bothering to hide his small, pleased smile, Kel relaxed. “I’d hoped you would say that. Something tells me Tyriel is going to need all the help she can get.” Rising, Kel wandered over and picked up his harp, absently strumming a somber tune. “The best thing to do is go back to where you two were when you split, since that seems to be the last time anybody saw her. That would be the first place we ought to try.”
“The first thing we need to do is contact her father,” Aryn contradicted, turning to face the suddenly still Wildling.
“Her father.”
“Can you think of a person better equipped to find her?” he asked dryly.