After that, she was treated with a wariness that wasn’t quite respect, but was far from the disdain she’d glimpsed on the faces prior. She could slit their throats while they drank their wine and they would never know it until they fell down dead.
Her father would stand by and applaud.
Averne was the largest and most powerful of the elvish realms and it spanned nearly the entire western border. For over two millennia, it had belonged to the ancient family of Dyn, her father’s forebearer, who had protected Eivisia against any and all who’d dared threaten the People.
Save for their cousins in the north, descendents of Prince Dyn’s sister, none of the People had ridden into battle for centuries. Under the steely look of smoke-gray eyes, none dared to challenge him even now.
They might think the Prince half mad for falling in love with a Wildling—she might have been a little more than mortal, but she could still die so easily. And she had, taken in childbirth. But that love had changed him. Losing her had changed him even more.
For their daughter, he’d lay waste to the world.
“I miss you, Da,” she whispered, reaching up to stroke the amber-colored moonstone beneath her jerkin. It lay side by side with another chain, this one bearing a pendant from the Wildlings, a stunted tree, a symbol that represented the Sacrificed God, lost so long ago few beyond the Wildlings and the Kin still remembered him and ever fewer still lifted their voices in worship.
It had belonged to her grandmother, a woman Tyriel had never known—she’d passed away a few years after Tyriel’s mother had lost her life. When Tyriel finally found her mother’s people, the pendant had been gifted to her by an aunt, her mother’s oldest sister.
She found comfort in the two simple pieces of jewelry most times, a connection to the two unique people who had created her.
But not tonight. Tonight, she felt oddly hollow…and more lonely than she’d felt in a long, long time.
Chapter 4
She came back to camp later that night—much later.
Aryn shifted on his bedroll to watch her wind through the sleeping bodies on the ground.
She was unbelievably quiet, gliding on feet so silent she didn’t even disturb the animals sleeping throughout the camp.
She paused a few feet away, and though Aryn could barely make out her form, much less her face, he knew she was watching him, that she could see him clear as day. He didn’t have to see her to recall that form, those wild black curls, her large eyes, tilted up at the corners, winged black brows, a red kissable mouth and that tiny mole near the right corner of her lips.
Tall, reed-slender, small-breasted and slim-hipped—she shouldn’t have been so enticing, he knew. Oh, but he was enticed. Those long legs, that smile. Her hair, her eyes...and the utter perfection of her bottom. Every damn time she bent over, he saw the tight, rounded ass and wanted to grasp her hips and pull her to him.
He had fantasies of tugging her to the ground and pushing her trousers down just enough so he could drive into her, feel her close around him, tight and snug, wet as the rain.
Other times, he imagined the pleasure they’d both derive if he took his time, stripping her naked, peeling away every stitch of clothing—and one deadly weapon—slowly, piece by piece.
He swallowed a groan and fisted his hand as he willed her to walk on by.
He burned…to know if the fire he saw in her eyes, sensed beneath her skin was as real as he suspected it was. Ached, so badly his cock throbbed every time he caught a breath of her intoxicating scent.
Her eyes had started to haunt him at night, and her low, husky laugh, the way her magic seemed to shimmer in the air around her.
But it was more than that. She had something that drew words from him, something that made him open up.
Aryn was rarely open.
What is it about you?
She continued on past him without speaking. He was closemouthed, or had always thought himself to be, until just a few marks earlier. How had she frozen him in place with simply a look? Why was it his flesh prickled every time she was near?
Not his cock. That did not prickle—it stiffened, hardened and ached.
But he wasn’t a slave to his desires. He’d long learned the dangers of intimacy—physical intimacy was simple enough and easily obtained with a whore or barmaid. He never had to worry about anything beyond satisfying his body’s demands and once morning came, it was over.
The Wildling called to him in ways he knew would demand far more than a night of hard, sweaty sex.
Those demands were something he’d have to ignore, because they came with expectations and promises. He had no desire to give those to anybody, not even a woman who fascinated him.
With a sigh, Aryn flipped onto his back, flung his arm over his eyes and ordered himself to sleep.
God above knew, sunrise came awful early to a mercenary.
* * * * *
Though she had slid into her bedroll far later than the others, Tyriel was the first to rise. Thanks to her elvish blood, she needed little rest most nights, unless she was ill or was coming up to a magical surge—a leap in magical power.
Outside the elvish races, she didn’t think magic worked that way, but, perhaps because they were so long-lived, elves continued to grow in power with their magic for centuries—the strongest of them having surges well into their first and second millennia. Da had explained it was like the stages of growth in children or adolescents, periods of little change followed by a sudden spike of growth that came seemingly out of nowhere. The surges were a drain on the system and required more fuel in the form of food and sleep.
The fae were vulnerable during those periods. Tyriel always traveled to the Wildlings clan of her mother’s people or to Averne when she sensed a surge coming. She’d trust no other when she was in a period of such vulnerability.
Stretching her arms high overhead before bending over to touch her toes, loosening muscles stiffened from a night on the cold ground. Rolling her head on her shoulders, she eyed the sleeping camp.
Rain was coming. The damp, earthy scent was faint on the wind. The rain probably wouldn’t hit until later in the day; with hope, it would even hold off until they made camp tonight.
Grabbing her pack, she headed to the stream for some privacy.
A short time later, Tyriel wound her wet hair into a braid and flipped the long tail over her shoulder. Stuffing her clothes and soap into the pack, Tyriel rose with a smile and an appreciative sniff. The cook was up and had cava going.
The thick, rich scent of it had her mouth watering. She was almost able to ignore the heavy, greasy scent of bacon. Poor little pig, she thought sympathetically as she made her way back to camp.
But that was the way of it. And even if the thought of eating meat turned her stomach, it didn’t bother her if the humans ate it, providing it didn’t come in contact with her own food.
Few people, very few people, outside the Kin knew that meat was akin to poison to an elf. The proteins found in meat were far too strong for an elf’s system and if ingested in large enough amounts, it could cause the body to fail. The heart couldn’t beat right, the blood thickened as the reaction strengthened, and eventually, if not treated, the elf could die.
Which was why so few people knew.
With such a strong weakness, if their enemies knew, it could prove fatal. Foods could easily be tainted in ways that would be unnoticed.