Aryn had been alive too long to ignore the prickle of unease as it raced down his spine.
“So. We’ve got problems coming.” The blade at his back became noticeably heavier. Warmer, too, and as he shifted the weight of it, he could have sworn the blade started to pulse. He frowned, a flicker of memory rising in his mind, followed by a sharp flash of pain, gone as soon as it started.
Then he forgot the sword’s weight, the odd sense of déjà vu.
“It would seem so. But Tyriel would know for certain.” Sliding Aryn a glance, he said, “But I’ve known many a fae in my life. And when they are uneasy, we’d all be wise to remain on alert.”
“I know what you mean, old man.”
“We’ll handle it,” Vjorl said, his eyes flicking to the man riding along side one of the merchant wagons just ahead of them. It was Chastin and the two of them had already discussed the odd sleeping—non-sleeping patterns of the fae guard. “Chastin is on alert and now you as well. We’ll talk to Lady Tyriel when she wakes and see what happens.”
Chapter 5
Tyriel awoke feeling sluggish.
Bracing her hands under her, she pushed up from the small cot.
My head.
Reaching for it, she cradled it between her hands and concentrated, trying to clear the haze. How long had she slept?
That was when she realized night had fallen.
Cocking her head, she peered through the small opening in the rear of the wagon.
It couldn’t be that late. But there was no movement in the camp, no sound.
Vjorl had promised to wake her before they stopped for the night.
Silently, she rose, blinking her eyes rapidly and taking slow, deep breaths. As she breathed, the cobwebs cleared from her mind much slower than they should have, a sticky film that felt wholly unnatural.
She did a quick self-assessment, already suspecting a source, but sensed nothing. It didn’t matter. She was awake now and that was what counted.
Sliding from the wagon, Tyriel peered around and what she saw filled her with dread.
They hadn’t stopped for the night. It was as if they had just stopped for the afternoon watering and not moved since. Unable to move.
Creeping around to the front of the wagon, Tyriel peered into the still frozen face of Vjorl.
For one horrible moment she thought he was dead.
Reaching out, she placed her fingers on his wrist, felt the slow pulse. Dangerously slow, especially for a human. His eyes were wide-open and frozen, his mouth open as if about to speak.
Hissing, Tyriel jerked her hand back.
Mind magic.
One hand moved in an age-old symbol of protection as she faded back into the shadows cast by the wagon. There was no moon and the night was eerily silent. No sounds of a camp settling down for the night, no birds calling, no horses snuffling in their feed.
Silently, Tyriel moved to the next wagon and stared into the face of another frozen man. The cook and his wife sat staring at each in other in a bizarre moment of affection they would never let the rest of the camp see.
Each wagon, each horse and rider showcased another frozen statue.
Only two were missing.
Mouth drawn back in a snarl, she searched the camp a second time, trying to find them. But they were not there.
Both Aryn the swordsman and Michan the Grey were missing.
Reaching up, she closed one hand around the pendants at her neck. “Be with me.”
Then, going to her knees in the dirt, she drew a small knife from the belt at her waist.
First, she carved a circle in the earth.
Then she spat into it. With the knife, she cut the tip of her left index finger and smeared her blood into the saliva and dirt.
Rearing up, she held the knife high overhead, chanted under her breath and drove it into the earth.
Moments later, the earth shifted and a small sphere rose from the circle she had drawn in the earth.
After murmured words from Tyriel, the sphere cleared…spinning, waiting.
Another whispered order and now it showed the faces of several men. Most, she had never seen before, but she recognized them from the looks in their eyes, the cut of their clothes. Mercenaries.
Bandits would be a better word. Their type rarely worked the way a mercenary did, preferring to hide and attack and pilfer.
One man, though, she knew.
Michan.
“Where?” she whispered, rising to her feet.
As she rose, the sphere drifted in an eastern direction. Toward the woods. To the west was the Shojurn River. The caravan followed the path that headed north, to Shojurn City, still nearly three weeks away. If she remembered correctly, and she was certain she did, the nearest village was a good three-day ride, not even equipped with a militia.
But where was Aryn?
The globe went blank, saying Aryn wasn’t anywhere that her power could locate.
So, like Tyriel herself, Aryn was shielded.
Tyriel gestured fluidly to the camp. “Ay vern noi.” I cannot see you.
She murmured quietly in ancient elvish, “May the darkness protect and hold you.”
And that simple, the camp was gone—or so it seemed.
Illusion. A simple shield, but the sleeping people in the camp weren’t the ones in danger.
Prowling through the woods, sword in hand, Tyriel searched. Countless circles, countless deer trails. She had already spied where the others were, the ones who hunted for their prey, and dodged them easily as they also prowled the woods.
When a hand shot out just behind her, Tyriel didn’t hear or see anything until a blade was pressed to her throat, held by a very knowledgeable hand, with the sharp edge just to the right, where the large vessels lay. A bit different on an elf, but eh, she could still bleed to death if he cut deep enough.
She murmured under her breath, lifting one arm to plow back behind her when he started to speak.
“Hmm. I can tell you aren’t here t’ cause harm but know this—I go to none but the one who already bears me.” The voice was Aryn’s but the cadence, the rhythm, was not.
She lapsed into silence, releasing the magic she’d been calling to her in preparation to fight.
“Fae magic,” he whispered against her ear. “I know the taste of that.”
She shivered, the brush of his mouth against her ear unbearably erotic as a new magic, wild and potent, somehow primitive, filled the air and began to swirl around her.
She’d been right. Aryn’s blade was enchanted.
Heavily enchanted.
And there was something else—the magic in the sword had started to settle inside the swordsman. He was no trueborn mage, but in time, he would be a mage, or enchanter, all the same.
“I mean no harm to him or the others. Only the ones who cast the sleep spell,” she said slowly, lowering her sword and simply waiting.
“Hmmmm.” The hand around her throat urged her back, back against his body, until she was flush against him. His other hand stroked the moonstone at her neck, then stroking the pendant of the stunted tree as the moonstone glowed in recognition at his touch—how odd. Last, he slid his hand along her neck to the curve of her left ear. “You’re fae.”
“Aye.”
“Hmmm. Not just elf. Blood of my kin as well. Jiupsu,” the deep guttural voice said, one hand stroking over her dense black curls. His other hand went from her throat to trail down the center of her chest, down her torso to spread flat over her belly. The knife was suddenly just gone as his hand spread wide open over her stomach, pressing flat and holding her flush against him.