Sunlight filtered through the trees surrounding the campsite. Taryn rolled to her back, looking up through the hazy barrier to an endless blue dome. The previous night, she’d found a simple tranquility in sharing the night sky with Rhoane. She’d hoped it would last, but her dreams were filled with Julieta’s cries and a Dark god’s laughter.
During Rhoane’s recounting of the events that led to the Great War, Taryn kept thinking of the void and the seductive pull it had on her. Kaldaar had been sent to the edge of nothingness, as Rhoane called it. What if the void was, in fact, the space between worlds? Then the touch she’d felt, the seductive caresses, they’d come from Kaldaar.
If Aelinae had frightened her before, her feelings bordered on terror now. A gentle breeze tickled her face, whispering words that sounded much too much like her grandfather.
“Trust in yourself, dear one. Trust in Aelinae.” A soft chuckle, followed by the scent of cigar tobacco and cologne, left her trembling.
She untangled herself from the blankets and shuffled to the fire, where a cup of grhom sat on a rock waiting for her. It and her bedroll were the only items that suggested they’d camped there. The rest of the gear had been packed and removed, leaving the area scrubbed of their very presence, void of anyone else but her. Taryn ignored the tremor of panic that roiled in her gut, sipped her drink, and waited.
Voices drifted to her from beyond where the horses snuffed and pawed the ground. Rhoane’s protective barrier caught the light, and she hesitated a moment before stepping through. Even with Rhoane’s assurance it would take several more days before Zakael could leave the mountain passages, she was cautious. Without a weapon or the power others in this world had, she was vulnerable. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling or one she was accustomed to having.
Taryn stepped around a thicket and saw Rhoane with a small group of people. A renewed flutter of apprehension soured the grhom in her belly. Two men and a woman stood with Rhoane, listening intently while he spoke. His voice was too low for her to hear, but by their faces, Taryn could tell they were upset. The woman openly cried. One of the men, tall, with skin the color of molasses and braids brushing his shoulders, wrapped an arm around her and she sank into him. Taryn looked guiltily away, as if she spied upon something she was not meant to share.
The shorter of the two men caught her attention. Blue ShantiMari flared around him, illuminating his grey hair and clipped white beard. He looked to be about her grandfather’s age, with a lifetime of cares worn on his face. Handsome but not overly so, he dressed in clothing similar to the other men but with subtle differences—a shorter tunic, gloves that reached his elbows, and he didn’t wear a sword.
He watched her with an inquisitive grin for several minutes before alerting Rhoane to her presence.
Rhoane jogged to her, a smile on his face. “Good. You are awake.”
“They don’t look happy.”
“I have just told them of Brandt’s death.”
An all too familiar dip in her gut slowed her pace. “Did they know him?”
“As well as you or I. They are friends who loved Brandt very much. You can trust them.”
The woman stepped forward, folding Taryn into an embrace. A delicate floral scent filled her nostrils. “My dear girl, it is good to have you home.”
“Thank you,” Taryn replied automatically. The woman’s silky hair caressed her cheek, and for one curious moment, Taryn could’ve sworn Brandt’s arms wrapped around them both. Dismayed, she pulled away, breaking the connection.
The tall man—taller than Rhoane by at least a hand—bent at the waist, his black braids falling forward and jingling with the sound of bells. “Welcome home.”
Then the older man approached and regarded her for a long moment before scratching at his beard. “It’s good to have you returned to us, Taryn.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me, but if we’ve met before, I don’t remember,” Taryn said.
The woman laughed, easing the tension in the air. “I would imagine so. You were naught but a babe when you left. I hope you don’t mind if we remember you.”
She was breathtakingly beautiful, with auburn hair that cascaded in loose curls down her back and framed a face the color of fresh cream. Her eyes, similar in shade and shape to Brandt’s, blazed with intelligence. She held her petite frame with poise and moved with a grace that Taryn, with all her gawkiness, admired.
She took Taryn’s hand, giving it a squeeze before turning to the men. “Let me introduce you. This fine gentleman you already know. Rhoane, please.” He bowed low, his hand over his heart. “And here,” her voice softened when she indicated the giant man, “is Sir Baehlon de Monteferron.”
His gorgeous, almost black eyes never left her as he inclined his head. Unsure how to respond, Taryn waved awkwardly. “Hello.”
The woman turned to the older man and with an unladylike grunt said, “Here we have Alswyth Myrddin. Scoundrel and knave to be sure, but he’s a kind soul, so please have pity on him.”
Myrddin gave a curt nod in Taryn’s direction. “Aren’t you going to tell her who you are?”
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot.” The woman curtseyed. “I am Faelara kaj Endion.”
Taryn’s pendant hummed against her skin as she appraised the group. “You were all friends of my grandfather?”
Tears shimmered in the woman’s eyes, giving them an alluring translucency. “We were much more than friends. Brandt was very dear to us.” She folded Taryn into another hug, holding her a moment too long before releasing her. “Now, we should be going.”
The abruptness of their parting startled Taryn. When she tried to catch Rhoane’s attention, he was already halfway to the horses. The men followed Faelara in the opposite direction, and Taryn hurried after Rhoane.
When they finished loading the horses, she touched his hand. Their runes instantly sparked to life. “What do I do?”
A look of confusion crossed his face. “With what?”
“Them.” She jerked her head toward the trees.
“Keep up. They will set a faster pace than yesterday.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Taryn snapped her reins at him.
“Be yourself and listen.” His voice was low as he watched the others, who in turn watched them. “As Fae said, they are friends.”
His advice did not go unheeded, but she would do more than listen. If they were friends of Brandt’s, they might be willing to help her see that Zakael was punished.
Her backside rebelled when she pulled herself into the saddle. She was fairly certain she had blisters in places that weren’t polite to mention.
“How much longer do you think we’ll be riding?” She adjusted her position, finding little relief.
“At least a sennight,” Rhoane said before clucking his stallion to join the others.
A week. She groaned and kicked her mare forward. With all of its power, she didn’t understand why the people of Aelinae employed primitive resources. If they insisted on riding horseback, the least they could do was invent comfortable saddles.
As they moved through the meadow, her stomach growled, and she put a hand over her abdomen. When Faelara gave her a concerned look, Rhoane held back his stallion to hand her a pouch containing dried bread and cheese, along with meat from their meal the previous night.
Growing discontent settled in Taryn’s thoughts. She didn’t like depending on Rhoane, or anyone, for food, for shelter, for anything. Fields and grasslands sprawled in every direction, an unfamiliar landscape with unknown horrors. Until she knew her way around Aelinae, she would be exactly that—dependent on him or one of the others for her survival. The depressing thought weighed heavily on her.
Faelara moved beside her, saying in her gentle voice, “Do you see those trees over there?” She pointed in the distance. “That’s the southernmost border of the Narthvier. And over there,” she indicated to their left, “is the Spine of Ohlin. Those mountains stretch all the way from the Summer Seas to the Temple of Ardyn in the far north.”
At the sound of the familiar name, Taryn shot Rhoane a glance. “Is that where we’re going, to the temple?”
“No, darling,” Faelara looked away from the mountains toward the north, “we’re headed to Ravenwood, the country home of Duke Anje. He sent an urgent message, so we’re going to offer assistance.”
“Is that what you do? Wander around, helping people?”
“It does seem that we travel much more than I’d like. The world is a curious place lately, and we go where we’re needed. Today, that just happens to be a day’s ride north.” Faelara reached over to pat Taryn’s leg. “This will give you a chance to see some of the countryside. When we get to Ravenwood, you’ll meet Hayden, Duke Anje’s son and heir. Very pleasant boy and your age.”
“Which age is that?” Taryn mumbled, distracted by the shadow that had tormented her for most of the previous day. She’d hoped it was a fluke, but its presence once again set her on edge. Each time she tried to look for it, the shadow would dissipate, but if she kept her focus straight ahead, she was able to keep the blot in her peripheral vision. Whoever or whatever it was, it was keeping pace with them but at a discreet distance.
Faelara gave her a strange look. “The only one you are.”
“Which is thirty-five in a few weeks?”
“Yes, that’s right. You and Hayden were born two days apart.”
Taryn studied her riding companion. Faelara wore a deep green riding jacket with matching hat and split skirt that allowed her to sit astride her horse. Taryn admired how graceful she looked upon her mare and shuddered at how she must appear to the regal woman. Dirt smeared, disheveled, disoriented. Never before had she given a thought to how she looked to others, but being near the elegant woman made her self-conscious. Grimacing at the state of her hands, she picked at a cuticle, tearing the skin.
Faelara took her hand in her own. “Let’s see if we can’t get you more familiar with your surroundings. Make you feel more at home.”
The tone of her voice, and slight upturn to her lips, suggested she knew where Taryn had been all those years, but she dared not confirm her suspicions. Rhoane had warned her to keep her past hidden and that’s what she would do.
She listened with quiet intensity as Faelara explained the topography of the land they traveled. They rode through meadows of thick grasses and past fields gone fallow, the pace faster than the day before as Rhoane had promised. Every so often, Rhoane would range ahead to scan the area or Baehlon would hang back to ride behind them, but neither seemed to see the shadow. After a while, she stopped looking for the flicker at the edge of her vision.
With every rut or mud filled road they crossed, more knots formed in her shoulders and backside. Her knees were numb from gripping Cynda, and she was certain she’d forever lost all feeling in her hands from clutching the reins too tightly. They stopped briefly for a midday meal and to rest the horses but were back in the saddle much too soon. Myrddin pushed them faster as the afternoon wore on. When dark tendrils stretched across the road and the sun’s rays slanted beyond the trees through dusk, Baehlon turned them down a treelined drive. Too weary to see straight, Taryn barely registered their location until Faelara touched her shoulder.
“Ravenwood,” she whispered.
Taryn jerked in her saddle and straightened her posture, her exhaustion a nagging memory. Ravenwood meant a bed. Possibly a shower. Definitely a break from the pounding of riding.
She followed Fae’s outstretched hand and whistled low in her throat. “That’s a bloody castle.”
“Manor house.”
“Whatever.” Taryn took in the turreted corners and delicate battlements. Though built for show, it still managed to appear imposing perched upon a hill. The group made their way up the gravel road, past landscaped borders and decorative hedges.
Too busy admiring the scenery, Taryn didn’t notice Myrddin had slowed, his hand outstretched in a silent signal to the others, until she was even with his horse. He placed a finger to his lips, his glare boring into her.
Rhoane and Baehlon drew their swords.
Nervous energy rippled over her in waves, making her palms moist, her throat dry.
Instinctively, Taryn moved closer to Faelara. Gravel crunched with each hoof their horses placed on the ground. Myrddin reined in his gelding, and the others followed, quietly dismounting. Within several yards of the manor, Taryn paused in her step.
The front door stood wide open, without a soul in sight.
Taryn tapped Faelara’s arm, but the woman shook her head and motioned to the manor. Streaks of ShantiMari circled everyone except Baehlon and Taryn, which did not instill her with confidence.
Myrddin felt around the doorway and then stepped into the house. The men moved from room to room, looking for signs of life or a struggle, finding neither. With each new room, Taryn’s heart thumped harder, threatening to burst from her chest.
They moved up the stairs to the first landing, and Myrddin motioned for her to stay with Faelara while the men crept up and down the hallways, checking each room. Halfway up the next flight of stairs, Taryn’s pendant burned against her skin. She stifled a gasp, causing Rhoane to look back. When she pointed to her cynfar, his eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he continued up the stairs, saying nothing. They stopped on the upper landing, where, again, the men crept down the hall.
Taryn moved away from Faelara to follow Rhoane. When he stepped from an empty room and nearly collided with her, he frowned, but she put a finger to her lips, motioning for him to follow.
At the last door, Taryn stopped. “In here.”
Rhoane flinched when he touched the wood. He waited until the others joined them before slowly opening the door. Taryn was last to enter the dimly lit bedchamber. Furniture crowded the large room, and in the center rested a huge four-poster bed with heavy curtains tied to the posts. Beside the bed, a man sat hunched, the sound of his soft cries filling the space. Faelara and Myrddin went to him while Baehlon and Rhoane continued to check the perimeter. A fetid odor like the scent of pork left out overlong assaulted her senses.
Help me, a voice whispered.
Taryn spun around to see who had spoken, but no one was near. She stepped around a chair and covered her mouth to keep from crying out at the ghastly sight before her. Atop the bed, uncovered but clothed, lay a young man. A glowing sword hung suspended above his heart.
The stench increased the closer she moved to the bed. It infiltrated her nostrils, her throat, her mind until she felt as if maggots crawled through her thoughts. Bile burned from her belly to her tongue. She gagged, dizzy all of a sudden.
No time. Please, the voice begged.
“Who are you?” she whispered aloud to the empty air.
Bed. Help. Now. Desperation choked the voice.
Lavender strands of ShantiMari enclosed the man’s body, with the thinnest of threads holding the sword aloft. Even as she watched, the sword moved a fraction closer to piercing his shirt. “Oh my God.”
Hurry.
His anguish permeated her mind to her very core. She swallowed down the bile and took a deep, calming breath. “What do you want from me?”
Sword, the voice rasped. There was no pain in his tone, just a sense of panic and fear.
She had to do something before the sword broke free. Rhoane prowled the opposite side of the room, his focus away from her.
“Hang on.” Before she could change her mind, she sprinted toward the bed. When she’d nearly reached it, she jumped as high as she could, kicking out. A cacophony roared through her mind when her foot connected with the metal. Shards of ShantiMari tangled around her leg, and a burning sensation shot up from her heel. Rhoane stepped out of the way a split second before she crashed to the floor, the sword landing with a heavy clang beside her.
Time slowed as the ringing continued. Vomit roiled in her gut. Images, flashes of light and dark, tore at her thoughts. Shouts and cries echoed in her mind. Julieta’s screams. Kaldaar’s banishment. Rykoto’s laughter as he raped Julieta.
Rhoane was speaking to her, helping her up. She stared at his face, focused on that one reality. A gasp from the bed pulled her attention back to the young man and the threads of ShantiMari tightening around him. He couldn’t breathe. She moved without thought and grabbed the sword that lay at her feet.
When she touched the handle, a shock ran up her arm. Not like the one in her leg, which felt as though it were on fire, but a soothing feeling, as if the handle welcomed her touch. The voices stopped. Her mind cleared. Her stomach calmed. Gripping the hilt with both hands, she raised the sword and brought it down over the man, slicing the lavender cords.
“Taryn, no!” Faelara cried out. Amber streaks of Mari shot toward her, but they were blocked by Rhoane’s Shanti.
“Hold, Faelara.” Rhoane’s voice was like iron. “She will not harm him.”
Taryn ignored the strange tingling of her skin as she cut the threads. When they were too small for the sword, she tossed it aside and broke apart the remaining bits with her fingers, digging through them until the man inhaled and his chest heaved with the rush of air.
The stink of death lingered. “Open the windows,” Taryn commanded. Baehlon moved with silent swiftness, opening first one and then all of the windows, letting in the last of the sun’s rays and fresh, pure air.
After a few minutes of coughing and sputtering, the man took several deep breaths. Taryn stepped back, allowing Faelara to fuss over him. Myrddin’s scowl was her last sight before everything went black.