Entwined (The Rose and The Sword Book 1)

by Meredith Kinsey

  Loran wanted to ask, but his muscles refused to respond. Helpless. Hated every second of it. His animal instincts tried to take over, which only made it worse for him.

  “Now, sidhe,” she said quietly. “You need to wake up. I know you’re in there. I can feel your rage.”

  Inwardly, he flinched. He never flinched. What sort of being could experience another’s emotions? Was she a goddess who had happened upon him?

  “Now, you’re surprised.”

  Could she read minds?

  “I cannot read your mind, not really if that is what you’re thinking. I skim emotions, auras, and images.” She paused, and he mentally begged to hear her voice again. His reaction surprised him. “I have looked after you for three days. I am connected to those I heal.”

  Three days? He thought. Where is the orb? Did she take it?

  “My name is Aileen, and I mean you no harm.” Her hand brushed his cheek, he felt warm, almost hot.

  She’s not Ciaranian. What is she? Her energy buzzed at his senses. Whoever she is, her very essence screams of power—demands respect.

  “You were hurt in the woods. I found you and your horse. I brought you to my home, so I could properly tend your wounds.”

  A cold cloth wiped over his face. Sweat immediately beaded. His head pounded a nauseating rhythm.

  “Men search the woods even now, looking for you.”

  He stiffened. Or he thought he had. The men who sought him would harm this woman. Make it so she could never be kind again. Panic thundered around in his head.

  “But they can’t find you. I am a prodigy of sorts. I performed a spell that will shield us, no matter what comes.”

  Loran studied her words, flipping them around at all angles. Confidence, coupled with her obvious power made him relax a degree. Being forced to participate at the court for so many years, he had become proficient at reading people. He trusted his gut. A general for the Ciaran king had to learn or perish. Shroud yourself in lies long enough, and the truth becomes painful.

  This woman spoke the truth. He liked this sorceress.

  She felt like home.

  Loran’s eyes slid open. He blinked for a small eternity. Sunlight shone through the open window above the bed. A thick quilt covered his entire body, keeping him from seeing how bad his wounds were.

  He looked around. The cramped room consisted of a grand fireplace, table, and bed that filled the space. The fireplace crackled merrily around the cauldron. The walls were basic plaster that suggested durability over elegance. On every available inch of wall, a tool or object hung. He could only name a few. Some were for farming, while others aided spinning wool. Another was for metalwork. Along the window ledge, bundles of herbs hung upside down in rows. Some were fresh; some dried.

  A figure moved. Loran’s gaze riveted to her face. His heart skipped a beat.

  A tiny cherub of a woman stared back at him, with the brightest green eyes he’d ever seen. Full mauve lips pursed as she stared at him. Butterfly wings, the color of new grass and sunshine, fluttered slowly at her back.

  She was divine. Sunlight and magic. Nothing like his past love, who had been slain a score of months ago, alongside his toddler son. The Ciaran made warriors of even their women. His wife had fought valiantly as she died.

  Would this woman fight? Could she?

  Aileen turned to the table. Her wealth of honey blonde hair swung around her in a shroud. The tips of the strands faded to green, curling in every direction.

  She busied herself with a cup and an assortment of vials and bags.

  “Aileen,” he croaked, so quiet, she didn’t hear him.

  Loran tried to sit up and failed. Pain knifed through his torso. He knew pain well enough. He was not the type of general that stayed to the back of the battle. He was on the front lines. With his men. Heat of battle. Blood and bone. Those whose lives became history written. Agony was strength to him. Once he could gauge it, mastering it was not a problem.

  Normally.

  At that moment, he knew he had tasted death. The pain ebbed and flowed so forcefully he couldn’t argue. He steeled his being. Could he master mortality, or would he succumb to it?

  Likely, he would’ve died if this Aileen hadn’t come along.

  He marveled at her. This woman was no doubt Eadrom, through and through. Their peoples did not mingle well. Both of the sidhe race, but the Eadrom and the Ciaran, were sworn enemies. Each taught to hate each other almost from birth.

  Yet, she didn’t fear him. That either made her cunning, crass, or beyond anything he’d known.

  He tried to recall what had happened. The last clear memory detailed his haste. He remembered running to the stable, mounting the only horse already saddled, and racing into the Dul Fialin forest. Hiding for unending days, narrowly missed by his men who hunted him. Around the time they chased him into the Tranglam, his memories suddenly stopped.

  He still had his prize the last he recalled.

  But where did the Comhacht reside now?

  “Where is my horse?”

  Aileen paused in her efforts. He was struck once again by her green eyes. So much intelligence shone there.

  “Pretty is outside, safe as a mouse in her house.”

  Loran pursed his lips. What a peculiar thing to say.

  “What is pretty?”

  “The horse.”

  He grunted in frustration. “Yes, where is the horse?”

  Aileen laughed. The moment the sound ended, he wanted to hear it again. Such innocent beauty was a rarity in the Swordlands.

  “I named your horse Pretty, because,” she paused to grind herbs into a powder in a marble bowl, “Well, I needed to call her something. I hope you don’t mind.”

  His brow furrowed. He hadn’t a clue to what the horse’s name had been. One was as good as any. “Does she still bear a satchel?”

  She dropped her pestle into the mortar. “Oh!” She hurried into the other room and brought out his worn bag, the leather fading at the edges. “I kept it safe.”

  This time he forced himself to sit up and stay there. He shot down his body’s protest that coursed through him. It meant nothing in the face of what he could’ve lost.

  “Did you open it?”

  She smirked. “Of course not. I don’t make my secrets privy to anyone just milling about! You can be sure that I respect the belongings of others. And, I expect you to extend the same courtesy to me.”

  Strange creature indeed, he marveled. The women at court, if left to their own devices, wouldn’t hesitate to invade his secrets.

  Loran took the bag and unlatched the bindings. Inside was a parcel wrapped in thick, spelled leather. He carefully unwrapped the bundle until the barest of sparkle caught the sun, sending displays of light over the walls, ceiling, and floor.

  Aileen shivered, gawking at the parcel. “Now, what is that?”

  His lips tugged into a glower, to cover a smile. “I thought you didn’t intrude on other people’s secrets?”

  “That was before you brought a hallowed object into my home.” Her tone deepened, just a hair, sudden reproach coloring her face. “I bet much on protecting you. But perhaps I decided in haste.”

  “How do you know it’s hallowed?” He swallowed thickly.

  Of course, she would know more about it than he did.

  Loran needed to maintain her good graces. On his own, in his condition, he was no match for the King’s men who hunted him and until very recently, answered to him. They had been happy to turn on him to keep the King’s favor and move up the ranks.

  He was on his own, with one of the most potent objects their world had ever known.

  “I know magic. I dabble in the natural and the unseen. That thing in your hand is not natural.” Her nose crinkled. “It abhors everything that I am.”

  He rewrapped the golden orb, slipping it back into the bag and tucking it between the wall and the bed.

  Aileen picked up her pestle and angrily ground the herbs. “Tell me th
e truth about it. I will know if you lie.”

  He lowered himself back to the bed, knowing he didn’t have another choice. “I stole it from Aelfdane Oberon, for murdering my wife and son.”

  She stilled. “The Ciaranian King, the Clan of the Sword. You stole it from the Dark King?”

  He inclined his head.

  Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the pestle. “Your family, you say? Why would he do that?”

  “I am his most coveted general. I had never lost a battle until.” He hesitated. “Until I did. The King was furious. He punished me. By taking away all that mattered to me.” Why did he tell all of this to a stranger? It felt so effortless. As if he had known her for years.

  The moment came back to him vividly. He felt crazed. His mind shattered as he clutched his wife, his son in front of the entire court. Their lifeless bodies had taken the things from Loran he never thought he would give up. Loyalty and honor.

  “I tried to kill the King. Right there, with all the noblemen and my soldiers in attendance,” he found himself saying. He had spent so long in solitude; he had no idea the well of emotions he had just unleashed, just by giving voice to what had weighed on his mind. “I was so close to ending him. I could feel his breath on my sword hand. Then, for the first time in battle, I hesitated. That one second cost me my chance at revenge. They dragged me away, but they couldn’t subdue me.”

  I escaped before they could lock me up. Hiding in the servants’ quarters.” He paused, remembering his desperation to make the King feel what he felt; a pain so acute, it could cut like a knife. “I paid a sorcerer to use the darkest magic he could fathom. He created a leather shroud that blocked all magic or person from ever finding the contents. I stole the Comhacht, the source of all the King’s power. I’ve spent every day since, trying to hide it where he will never know power again.”

  “I’ve heard of the dark King. But this evil is beyond me.” Her eyes smouldered, and anger licked at the line of her lips. “Aelfdane is far more dangerous than even the tales suggest. He can not go unpunished.”

  “Punished isn’t good enough! He must lose everything.” Loran bellowed, then coughed into his hand. Blood staining his white flesh, startling them both. “I have to hide the blasted orb before he finds me. He doesn’t deserve the crown. Without the magic from the orb, they will take the throne from him.”

  Aileen went to the cupboard. She began to pull more bottles, jars, and stones from every available place. Darting into her other room, she and came back with even more, along with several books.

  “What are you doing?”

  She flipped through the first book. “I know a place we can hide it.”

  “We?” Loran coughed again. The edges of his vision had begun to blur, to darken. He fought to maintain consciousness.

  “You are in no condition to cut parchment, let alone launch a campaign of this magnitude.” Her finger ran across the page, then flipped to the next. “You will fail to protect the orb if I don’t act now.”

  Loran huffed. “How would you know?”

  She shook her head and pinned him with a stare. “Do not question my intuition.”

  Magic clung to her words, thick as honey, dangerous as poison. This sorceress was not a woman to trifle with. It was in his best interest to listen and learn. Indeed the Goddess had sent her to him.

  “What do you plan?”

  “We are going to hide the orb with the dragons who live in the Aerouant caves, a day or at most two days’ journey from here.” Aileen changed books, reading through pages faster than Loran could follow. “You will need to be in near perfect condition for the journey.”

  He laughed, his morbid humor rising. “And how would you propose we accomplish this feat?”

  “Magic,” she mumbled, already drawing away from him. “Now, hush. Let me work. Lest you die before we can accomplish your goal.”

  Chapter Three

  It had been a long time since such an immense task had burdened Aileen.

  She was up to the challenge.

  The fire in the hearth snapped. Her cauldron now housed some of the darkest magic she had ever attempted on any other being.

  She had learned the risks the hard way.

  After Loran’s second dose of the powerful draught, he dozed. The layered spells brought serenity to his mind and soul. A simple recipe of several human and fae herbs cultivated in her meadow.

  Aqua vitae. A spell to end all spells. Short of death, this liquid would heal all mortal wounds. It was not a spell to attempt lightly. The Goddess would require a price to be paid. Whether it was on her, or Loran, remained to be seen. Karma would not be escaped.

  If the spell worked at all, she thought.

  While her grand finale simmered, she went into her workroom. She pulled a haversack from atop a high shelf. Long ago, she had spelled it to hold close to unlimited objects. The first few attempts had been hazardous, at best. But the last had been excellent work.

  Now, her brew would be her most daring feat to date.

  Their journey would require provisions for every possibility. Aileen pulled countless remedies, tonics, and herbs onto the worktable. A few books, several candles, and an assortment of crystals added an impressive height to her gatherings. Darting into the main space, she retrieved fruits, nuts, and dried meats for the journey.

  Sorting through the bounty, she mentally cataloged the contents as she packed them away.

  Her mind kept drifting back to Loran. His muscled body. His wit. His torment. What a creature! Having never met a Ciaran before, so she had no way to gauge them. But this man was larger than life. She could feel it.

  Rosemary and lemon wafted through the house. The draught was ready.

  With utmost care, Aileen ladled the potion into a clay cup. More into capped vials, half to accompany them, half for her reserves. One never knew when a spell to cure all that ailed an immortal was needed.

  Moving toward Loran, she checked his breathing. His sleep remained serene.

  “I’m sorry to do this, but I think you’ll want this,” she muttered.

  She shook him awake, and he grabbed her arm in a painful grip. His eyes flew open, and he snarled. His face was not of the man who confided in her, but that of a dark general, who had waged and won war upon war.

  “Calm yourself, Loran,” she whispered. For the first time, she feared what he might be capable of.

  He blinked, and his grip loosened. “Aileen?”

  “Yes.” She pulled her arm from his grasp, careful not to spill a drop. “I need you to wake up.”

  Aileen bit her lip, with indecision splitting her mind. Did she tell him the truth, and then give him the cup? Or, did she just get it the worst of it over? What would she prefer?

  “I need to warn you,” she began. Her voice trembled. “This is a particularly important cog in my plan. You need to drink deep. It will heal you,” she hesitated “mostly.” He studied her, weariness lining his timeless face. “And it is going to hurt more than anything you have ever experienced or can imagine.”

  The firm set to his lips, the determination, awed her.

  “I can take it.”

  She handed him the cup before she lost her nerve. He opened his mouth and downed the contents.

  He smiled then. “That tasted good.” His brow furrowed, and beads of sweat appeared. “It’s hot in my stomach, its...”

  His mouth opened in a wordless scream. Aileen cringed, grabbing the towel to mop his face and neck. His hands flew up to the bed frame. He clamped so hard that the cloth was worked free. Iron met his bare hand and burned them.

  Aileen pried him from the metal. She bandaged his hands as he was struck dumb with pain.

  After a while, when his voice returned, his screams vibrated through the small cottage, late into the evening.

  ◆◆◆

  At high noon, Loran checked the straps to Pretty’s saddle. He cringed when he moved too quickly.

  Aileen frowned. “I know you’re feeling
better. But the spell takes time to restore your body properly. You are not well enough yet.”

  He attached his satchel to the horse’s equipment. “And I will continue to heal, regardless of if I stay in bed, or ride a horse through the woods.”

  “Have you ever been to the Tranglam before yesterday?” She handed her bag to him, and he set about securing it. “This isn’t like most places you have been. There are things out there that could truly hurt or kill you.”

  He snorted. “I won’t get hurt.”

  Of course, he’s never traveled the Tranglam. Only peasants and thieves even attempted it. He had never known of someone coming back out, once they’d gone in. What had possessed him to enter the treacherous terrain? Had he been that desperate to flee? He no longer remembered.

  He was lucky to be alive! What had he and the horse encountered while he was dragged unconscious? Why were his memories so hazy?

  Aileen threw up her hands. “Fine. But if you die, I am going to be terribly upset with you.”

  Loran barked a laugh that made his side burn like fire in his closing wounds. The moment the pain had started to ebb, he’d been out of bed. Every moment he waited, he risked Aileen and the orb’s safety.

  How long would the protection spell last on the house? Aileen promised weeks, but he feared his men were far more capable than Aileen understood.

  His men knew him. Inside and out. They would never give up. It had been months since he had fled the castle. They were the most determined men he had ever known and would not stop until he was dead. He had to get Aileen out, far away before the soldiers found them. Together. His sins were his own, but to hang them on Aileen’s head was too much. She was too kind a soul for him to let that happen to her.

  He checked to make sure the Comhacht was still concealed. Again.

  “You have checked on the orb seven times now.” She laughed. “I promise a nymph didn’t steal it.” She winked. “At least, not yet.”

  Loran scowled. He would not allow his men or some forest fairy to take his prize. Revenge was all that he had left.

  “Get on the horse,” he said gruffly.

  She snorted as she lifted her foot into the stirrup. Her ankle-length skirt slid up her leg. Loren tried not to notice, but his mind stayed stuck on the image.