The enemies of the Kin were many, coveting their wealth, coveting their mines, coveting the magic that flowed so easily from one generation to the next.
“Good morning.”
Turning her head, she smiled at Aryn as he stepped from the trees, a pack like her own hanging limply from one hand. “I’m done. It’s all yours.”
“I believe that. I doubt the majority of our fellow campers have ever heard of the concept of regular bathing,” Aryn said wryly.
Remembering the oily stench of unwashed bodies, Tyriel adopted a horrified expression.
“Bathe? As in regularly? But baths cause the pneumonia,” she said, adopting a falsetto squeal while fluttering her hands in the air.
“I’ve heard that.” A wide grin lit his lean face. “I guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”
Waving to the stream with a broad gesture, Tyriel offered, “Go ahead. Dunk yourself—commit suicide. I’ll tuck the blankets around you when the pneumonia has its hold on you.”
“How kind.” His eyes lingered briefly on the damp tunic that clung to her before he turned away.
The hesitation was enough. Her highly attuned senses could pick up the sound of his heart when it sped up a tiny bit, the scent that spilled out of his pores when he was aroused.
Tyriel was proud to admit she was only slightly tempted to linger in the trees and spy on the blond swordsman as he washed up. Just a little tempted.
As she turned, her eyes landed on the sword he took off. Still in its sheath, it leaned up against a nearby stone, within easy reach. Even as she turned to walk down the path, it seemed to draw her eyes again. The runes and marking on the hilt were…familiar.
That temptation was even stronger than the one to play voyeur while Aryn bathed.
If honor didn’t run so strong in her blood, Tyriel might have tried to take the blade, just for.
The blade seemed to call her, all but whispering her name and she had to force herself to turn away.
* * * * *
New moon.
Lying on the ground, listening to the silence, Tyriel studied the star-studded sky overhead. They were even brighter than usual without the moon’s brilliance.
The air had a heavy feel to it. Almost sticky. Very odd, considering how cool the night air was. Rolling on her side, she stared into the fire, hardly even aware that she drifted into sleep.
When she awoke a short time later, the camp had grown quiet, abnormally so. Was it her imagination or did the breathing of the mercenaries around her seemed quieter than normal?
Closing her eyes, she slowed her own breathing and reached out with her senses.
What she picked up sent a chill through her blood.
It was far too silent.
Nor was it her imagination that the rhythmic, familiar music of heartbeats and breaths that surrounded her had slowed.
Dropping her shielding, she let her sense of self flow into the ground beneath her. In just a few heartbeats, she sensed it and came fleeing back inside herself as she sensed a dark, fouled magic.
There was mischief and magic afoot. Bad magic. Slowly, she looked around before she sat up. They were all sound asleep. Unbelievably sound.
Rising, Tyriel took her sword in hand and slid it out of its sheath. Turning in a circle, she studied the camp, counted bodies. All were accounted for, save the guards and a quick study revealed each where in their place—but they slept.
Not likely, she thought darkly.
Her ears pricked and she turned, cocking her head, staring into the woods that lay just to the east of their camp. A threat. Her own heartbeat kicked up and her breathing became softer, shallower as she struggled to pin down what had alerted her instincts.
Her eyes were drawn to the woods and the warrior inside her whispered this was where the threat lay hidden. But the other half of her, the guardian, commanded she stay.
Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground, her long legs folding beneath her. She put her back to the fire, lay her blade across her lap, and stared into the woods.
The threat, whatever it was, would go through her first.
It was a very long night. The first of many.
* * * * *
“I tell you, I’ll do nothing as long as she is within the camp,” the first voice repeated.
“A deal was made,” a second, softer voice refuted. “You’ll abide by it, or else.”
“When the deal was made, there was no elf bitch within the camp. If you think I’ll take on the likes of her, you are sorely mistaken.”
A growl rumbled from the other’s throat. “What if she isn’t within the camp? Can you do it then?”
Head tilted to the side, the first pursed his lips and pondered. “If given enough time, I can do it.”
“Then do it. I must have it.”
“And the mercenary?”
Skinny shoulders rose and fell in a disinterested shrug. “Whatever is easiest for you.”
* * * * *
The sleepless nights were taking their toll. Even though her elvish blood made it possible for her to go days on only the bare minimum, she eventually would falter if she didn’t rest. And it had been nearly three weeks since Tyriel had gotten a good night’s sleep. Every time she drifted close to sleep, somebody woke her, purposely or by accident.
The feeling of being watched never lessened.
“You’re not looking well, Tyriel.”
Looking up, she met the gaze of the healer contracted to ride with the caravan. Clad in robes of gray, signifying his school in the gray arts, Michan stood watching her with concern on his bony face.
“I’m fine, Healer.” With deliberate care, Tyriel slid the stone up and down the length of her blade.
“You’re tired.”
In a cool tone, she said, “As I said, I am fine.”
“I do not mean to overstep, lady.” With a gentle smile, he dipped his head. “I may come from the gray schools, but my healing ability works like any other healer’s. I can feel your exhaustion. There have been nights when your restlessness has disturbed my own slumber.”
“My apologies.” She gave him a disinterested look.
“No need…I simply speak out of concern for you.” He hesitated before saying, “Perhaps I could offer you a tonic?”
“Most of the tonics made for humans are either worthless on my kind, or deadly. It’s kind, but unnecessary,” she said, concentrating on her sword.
“I’ve studied with the elvin kin. I know some of the remedies used by them. I’ve moonwart and polyseed.”
Simple herbal sleep remedies, commonly used among the kin. Studying the nondescript brown eyes of the healer, Tyriel gave him another, longer look. Gray-robed or not, he did know his healing. She’d kept an eye on him from day one, leery of the line he walked that was sometimes so close to the blacker arts.
But—call her paranoid—she wasn’t accepting even a cup of water from Michan, or anybody else on this train. She trusted very few, and he certainly was not on the list. She’d even begun to source her own food.
“My thanks, Healer. But I will be fine.”
It was late that morning, just before the midday break when she acknowledged that she was not fine. Lack of sleep was making her feel dull-witted. She had to rest.
Seeking out a familiar face in the wagon train, she waved Chastin down and made a request.