Men argued in the hall. A man, not Zakael but of similar height with the same black hair and grey eyes, wanted the sword. Needed it. Taryn watched from above, as if she floated among them. Rhoane and Myrddin restrained the man with their ShantiMari while Baehlon pointed his sword at the man’s chest.
Valterys, they called him. He was arrogant enough to think he could defeat the three of them. Taryn drifted closer.
Valterys looked to where she was and was not. He saw nothing and so looked through her. Pulling shadows over himself, he raced down the stairs.
Myrddin swore at the suddenly empty air. “I wish I knew how he did that.” He spat at the ground where Valterys had stood.
Taryn found it curious Myrddin didn’t know such a simple trick.
Searing pain bit at her leg, bringing her back to her body. Gritting her teeth, she fought against the onslaught of fire that raced through her veins.
“Lady Faelara,” a voice whispered above her. “She wakes.”
Faelara’s cool hand felt good against her skin. “She’s burning with fever.”
Rhoane came into focus.
“My leg hurts,” Taryn groaned.
“Hayden, help with her boots,” Faelara told the young man from the bed. They tugged at the laces, pulling the boots off in seconds. Faelara gasped, and Taryn struggled to sit up.
“Stay still,” Rhoane commanded.
Faelara ran a finger along Taryn’s leather pants, tearing them all the way up to her thigh. “Poison. There must’ve been a spell woven around the sword.”
Another shot of fire tore through her. “Get the sword,” Taryn breathed. “It wants to help.”
Rhoane and Faelara exchanged a look before she motioned to Hayden. He darted from the room.
“Why does he want the sword? The man in the hall?” Taryn stuttered through gritted teeth.
“Don’t you worry yourself with that,” Faelara said with another glance at Rhoane.
Taryn arched against the burning that engulfed her leg, biting back a whimper. Hayden returned a minute later with the weapon wrapped in a heavy blanket. Very carefully, he set it on the bed and then stepped back as if it were a viper set to strike.
Taryn’s fingers itched as if she’d been pruning poison ivy. They reflexively twitched toward the blade, curling her fingers around the pommel and pulling it out of the blanket.
“Are you certain, Darennsai?” Rhoane asked. “We do not know that the poison is gone.”
Hazy, fevered thoughts crowded her mind. Images of the Great War. A woman with skin like warm chocolate and hair the color of deepest night. The sword sang a song of forgiveness. For her. With a shock, Taryn realized the other melody she’d heard since the cavern came from the sword. All those years, every song her pendant sang, had come from the sword.
The woman smiled and then drifted off through the clouds. Learn the words, she whispered. An inscription, written in the same ancient text as on the Seal of Ardyn, ran down the center of the blade. Taryn traced the words with her fingertips. They rose and fell beneath her touch. Slowly, she lay the sword on the bed, the cool metal resting against her skin. When nothing happened, the others let out a collective sigh of relief.
“Use the sword to get rid of the poison.” Taryn explained, “I don’t know how I know, but I’ll be fine. Trust me.”
Faelara’s eyes narrowed in the same way Brandt often did when he had a perplexing puzzle to solve. A moment later, she said to the group, “Hayden, you and His Grace will keep Taryn steady.”
Taryn glanced to where an older gentleman had entered. She hadn’t seen his face in Hayden’s room, but his red-rimmed eyes marked him as the man who was sitting beside the bed. He shuffled to stand beside Hayden, nodding to Faelara.
Rhoane pressed his hands against Taryn’s thigh. “Keep your thoughts focused on healing your leg. This might sting a little.”
Taryn swallowed her apprehension and closed her eyes. “Do it.”
At first, she felt only the sword and their hands on her. Then heat ripped up her leg. Her thoughts scattered. She reined them in by focusing on her kata, specific karate moves that required leg strength. Sweat ran down her face, pooling in her hair as bolts of agony tore through ligaments and sinew, muscle, and bone. Rhoane’s and Faelara’s ShantiMari pulsed through her, heightened by the sword’s power to work out the poison. Again and again, they gripped her leg, sending their ShantiMari into her.
Their worry and frustration lingered in her thoughts. The sword sang to her in dulcet tones of healing. Beside her, the duke whispered, and his Shanti pricked her skin. The poison especially disliked his power. Taryn invited his ShantiMari into her, coaxing the sword to accept his healing. She didn’t know why or how, but it was necessary to cleanse her blood.
The sword pulsed with a blinding light that shot around the room in a whirlwind, and their healing webbed through her to find every last drop of poison. She arched against the pull of energy and then sank onto the bed, drained. As quickly as it came, the light vanished.
Faelara stumbled from the bed, her brow drenched, her pale face nearly translucent. The duke offered her and Rhoane each a chair and then stood between them, hovering like a concerned mother. Rhoane, too, looked exhausted. His hands shook a little when he took the glass of water the duke offered. Seeing how much the ordeal had affected the pair troubled Taryn. Her mortality had never been a thought, but if they hadn’t been there, she most likely would’ve died. She owed them a debt she could never repay.
The young man from the bed, Hayden, wiped Taryn’s brow with a cool cloth. Her throat scratched when she tried to speak, and Hayden dabbed water on her dry lips with the utmost care. He was handsome, the duke’s son. Sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. Full lips that looked as if they smiled more often than frowned.
“Thank you,” she croaked. Gratitude was just one of the many emotions that lodged in her throat. She was alive because of these people—these strangers—but there was more. Hayden was supposed to be the one poisoned. Why? And what was the strange light that came from the sword? Whatever this ShantiMari was, it, too, had saved her life. How exactly did one show gratitude to a sword? Questions and thoughts swirled, adding another layer of disquiet to her already unbalanced emotions.
Baehlon and Myrddin entered the room, their features mirror images of displeasure. Myrddin’s gaze swept the room, slowing when he came to Taryn. Surprise flicked across his face for only a moment, then he moved on to the others. What that look meant, she wasn’t sure. Before she could ask, Faelara spoke, her voice low and haggard.
“Did you find any signs of Valterys?”
“None. The bastard just disappeared.” Baehlon snarled. He, too, sorted out the others, his gaze lingering on Taryn. No surprise lit his eyes, just a calm sort of acknowledgment. Taryn held his gaze, questioning, challenging, until a curious grin stretched his lips. Despite his brutish exterior, Taryn liked the man, and sensed she could trust him.
“We’ll keep vigilant, just in case.” Faelara stood, shaking out her skirt. “I suppose I should see what’s left in your pantry. Paderau can wait a day if necessary.”
Rhoane put a hand on her arm. “Are you recovered?”
“Well enough, thank you. I’ll send up a sleeping draught for Taryn. I think we should let her rest.” She checked Taryn’s forehead before kissing it lightly. “Sleep, my darling.”
She left the room, and the others followed. Except Rhoane. He pulled his chair closer to the bed, leaning back as if he might sleep as well. Taryn moved the sword aside before snuggling under the heavy blanket, facing him. He was snoring lightly by the time Hayden returned with Faelara’s potion, and Taryn motioned for him not to disturb the man. She drank the foul tasting liquid with a grimace. Instead of leaving, Hayden sat in the chair Faelara had vacated, watching her until her eyelids grew too heavy and she slept.
WHEN she woke, the sky held the last vestiges of night, with a few stars stubbornly clinging to the pale dawn sky. She stared at the ceiling, willing night to hasten as she tracked the shadows that made a slow progression toward the light. Brandt would know what she was supposed to do. He would make sense of everything that had happened. Her heart pinched with the reminder he was gone. A lone tear slid silently down her cheek to rest in the cradle of her neck.
“Are you in pain?” A voice cut through the darkness.
Fear, raw and primal, paralyzed her body and her tongue. The man had returned for the sword. Possibly to kill her.
“Taryn.” A softness entered the rich baritone and she recognized Baehlon’s voice. She forced herself to look in his direction, chastising her wild imagination. He stood over her, a hand resting on her shoulder, warm and comforting.
Slowly, her heart rate evened and she found words. “You scared the crap out of me.” The tightness in her voice matched her nerves. “What are you doing here?”
“Watching over you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
Even in the dim light, she could see the slight wince, the narrowing of his eyes. “Of course you don’t. I, however, wanted to make certain there was no threat of another spell or more poison causing you harm.”
“I’m sorry. You startled me.”
“No apology necessary. You’ve had an exciting few days. I would be jumpy as well.”
Shadows slithered across the ceiling, and Taryn subconsciously moved for the sword.
“It is there, just beyond your reach. You should get used to having it close at hand. When you’re feeling up to it, I’ll teach you how to properly handle the weapon.”
She itched to touch the hilt, to feel its weight in her hand, its power coursing through her. A little too much. “I think I’d like that.” It was a step closer to avenging Brandt’s death. “Who was that man and why does he want the sword?”
Baehlon stiffened, but then said in an even tone, “Valterys, the Overlord of the West, and if I knew the answer to why he wants the sword or what it was doing hanging over young Hayden’s chest, I wouldn’t be sitting here watching you sleep.”
“I don’t have the answers, either.” She scooted to a sitting position, wincing at the slice of discomfort that shot from heel to thigh.
“Is it bad?” Baehlon’s large hands hovered above her leg. “May I?”
She nodded and pushed the blankets off her body. He gently prodded the mottled skin around her heel. “You’ll be sore for a few days, nothing more.” His glance flicked to the weapon. A slight tightening of his full lips and a twitch to the corner of his mouth marked his reticence.
“You don’t like the sword, do you?”
“It’s a mystery to me, and that makes me nervous. I make it my business to understand weapons, but this, I just don’t know.”
The metal called to her still. A song of yearning playing constantly in her mind. She had to forcibly shut it out.
“I’ve never met a knight before.”
“What makes you think I’m a knight?” The velvety softness of his tone held a hint of humor.
“Besides Rhoane, you’re the only one with a sword, and Faelara called you, ‘Sir.’”
“Just because you can’t see their weapons, don’t think they are unarmed.”
“You mean they have special powers, right?”
“ShantiMari? Yes, they have that, but never assume that kind of power will protect you. There’s something to be said for a nice bit of steel.” He glanced warily at the blade, distrust dancing at the edges of his irises. “Faelara has at least six daggers hidden in her skirts, and Myrddin never travels without two throwing knives up his sleeves.”
“I’ll remember not to piss them off.”
“If that means not vex them, then that might be for the best.”
“It does,” she said with a weak laugh. “You’re pretty cool for a knight.”
His mouth quirked in question.
“Where I come from, that’s a compliment.”
“Ah. Then you’re pretty cool for an Aelan.”
She played with the lace edge of the sheet. “You’re not Aelan?”
“Of course not. My mother was Geigan and my father Danuri.”
“Ah, right.” She pretended to understand.
His chuckle was like a chimney, billowing puffs of laughter. “In a few moonturns, this will become second nature to you. Can you walk?”
She swung her feet over the side of the bed and stood, placing most of her weight on her good foot. “I think so.”
“We should break our fast. Faelara would like to leave for Paderau today.”
Taryn stepped around him, swallowing down the ache that swelled up her leg to twist in her gut.
“Taryn.” Baehlon stopped her with the single word. “What possessed you in there?” He cocked his head toward Hayden’s room.
“He asked for help.”
“Who? Rhoane?”
“No, the guy. Hayden.”
“Ohlin’s teeth. Did it occur to you that you might get hurt?”
“Yes, but he was going to die.”
Baehlon stared hard at the sword before turning back to her. “The next time you’re feeling heroic, alert us first, okay?”
“Sure thing. Not a problem.” It wasn’t likely she’d find another young man with a sword hanging over him, after all.
Baehlon moved in step beside her and placed his fingertips at the bend of her elbow. That slight touch, barely felt through her blouse, held immense strength, and a silent promise that he’d never, ever let anything happen to her.