The Crystal Keeper BoxSet

by Laurisa White Reyes

  He willed himself to move forward. He knelt on the floor beside the bed and cautiously, tenderly stroked her hair. Tears burned his eyes, and his strength left him. His hands and lips trembled.

  “You’re safe now, Ivanore,” he whispered. “I’m here. And I’ll never let anything happen to you again.”

  19

  After leaving Noam, Brommel and Arla rode most of the day in silence. Brommel spent much of the trip brooding over Arla’s stubborn insistence on traveling to Dokur, of essentially becoming a slave, despite his wanting to take her home. He could not understand how a woman would choose her allegiance to a long-lost princess over her own daughter. He could never do that. His son would always come first, princess or no princess. Even his loyalty to Jayson wouldn’t trump Brommel’s dedication to young Rylan.

  Maybe it was an island thing, Brommel considered. Perhaps the people of Imaness placed greater importance on royalty than on family ties, but for as long as he’d lived on the island he had never sensed such feeling in anyone else. Arla seemed unique in that respect, her absolute determination to find her missing friend. Perhaps that was it. It wasn’t Ivanore’s royal blood at all. It must be some deeper, more meaningful bond. A sisterhood that Brommel, as a man, could never understand.

  He had spent most of his adult life avoiding such friendships. He had been an assassin for the Vatéz, none of whom were to be trusted. He gave his allegiance to no man, and none were loyal to him.

  But there had been Brielle. When she came to his mind, the thoughts of her flowed through him like warm tea, seeping into every bit of him, calming him. He had met her by chance on the road one day. He had killed a man, a traitor to the Vatéz. He had killed many men and no longer felt remorse for his deeds. He had been riding his horse at a slow trot contemplating this very thing, wondering if he had lost his humanity completely. In killing for the Vatéz, had he somehow also killed himself?

  The possibility troubled him. Only much later did he come to realize that his concern over his own lack of compassion for the men who had died by his hand was evidence that some spark of humanity remained in him.

  She had been walking alongside the road in the same direction he was traveling, a bundle of firewood in her arms. He saw her from the back, her dark hair braided tightly against her scalp and pinned in a swirl. As he passed by, he glanced back, thinking nothing in particular. But then he saw her face. Narrow features with wide, dark eyes. Lips full and pink, their corners tipped up into a smile. A wistful expression was on her face as if some thought known only to her had stirred up some lovely, happy memory.

  That was the image of her Brommel recalled best. When he missed her, as he often did, he would call up that first sight of her, that glimpse that stole his heart. They had been married only a few years when the Vatéz stole her from him. He would have given anything, even his own life, to have saved her. Brielle was the only person on earth to whom Brommel was so devoted.

  Perhaps it was that sort of devotion Arla felt for Ivanore, not romantic love, for though Brommel loved Brielle, his loyalty to her was more than that. It came from the fact that she loved him, despite his flaws, despite his weaknesses. She saw him for the man she imagined him to be, a man greater than Brommel considered himself.

  The ox tripped, and the rhythm of its steps was interrupted, jogging Brommel out of his deepest thoughts. He glanced over at Arla, who was gazing off toward the forest. Arla loved Ivanore, Brommel realized. There was a sisterly bond between them that only they could understand. Arla knew Ivanore’s true identity, which meant Ivanore had confided in her, had trusted her. Such trust takes a great deal of time to develop. It had taken him more than a year before he confided in Brielle about the truth behind his job. And he had fully expected her to be shocked and to abandon him for it. But instead, she had loved him all the more.

  As if sensing she was being watched, Arla turned her face to Brommel. When their eyes met, Brommel felt an odd heat cut through him. And when she smiled at him, his heart picked up speed. His body’s response to Arla surprised him, embarrassed him. He looked back to the road and snapped the reins.

  The ox’s pace resumed its rhythm.

  “We’re nearly there,” said Brommel with intentional gruffness.

  Arla’s smile faltered. They said nothing more for the remainder of the ride.

  20

  Ivanore slept fitfully. Sometimes she moaned. Other times she blinked open her eyes and looked around fretfully so that Jayson had to soothe her back to sleep. Nira managed to coax the semi-conscious woman into sipping broth.

  “Every bit helps,” said Nira. “Needs to get her strength up.”

  All through that day and night, Jayson refused to leave Ivanore’s side. He took over the job of wiping down Ivanore’s feverish body with a wet cloth, though he didn’t trust himself to try and feed her for fear she might choke. Nira proved adept at nursing the sick, and Jayson was surprised to discover the woman had a compassionate side after all.

  Sometime during the third night, exhaustion overcame them both. Nira retired to her room. “Call me if anything happens,” she instructed. But soon after Nira left, Jayson fell asleep with his head resting on the bed.

  He awoke to movement. Ivanore stirred, not in the way she had when her dreams had been invaded by fever and hunger. No, this was a calm, gentle shifting of a woman waking from a deep, satisfying slumber.

  Jason sat up. The previous day, Nira had brought him a stool to sit on, but the hard wood had made his legs go numb. He didn’t care. He watched Ivanore, her eyes still closed, take one breath after another. Under the quilt, her chest rose and fell. Jayson touched the back of his hand to her cheek. The fever was gone. Relief flooded through him.

  He should call Nira, he thought, and he nearly leapt off his stool to go fetch her. But in that moment, he changed his mind. A few minutes more wouldn’t hurt, would it?

  He lowered his hand and rested it on the blanket near Ivanore’s shoulder. He wanted so much to touch her the way he used to, to press his body against hers and remind himself what it meant to truly feel alive, but the greenish-yellow bruises reminded him of the condition in which they had found her. He tried to imagine what had happened to her. Had someone hurt her?

  But the question that rolled through his mind like a boulder careening down a mountainside was this: Where had she come from? The last time he had seen her was at the docks of Nauvet-Carum. She had boarded a ship with Captain Dawes and set sail for Imaness. He had learned months later of Captain Dawes’ death at sea, but by then he and the Guilde had settled in at Ashlin. Ivanore had gone home—hadn’t she?

  Jayson now wondered what had really happened on that ship. Had Arik betrayed them both? Had he lied about taking his sister back to the island? Jayson berated himself for having trusted the boy at all. He should have known better. What he would do to Arik if he ever got the chance to dig his claws into him.

  Ivanore moved again. She turned her face away from Jayson into the pale sunlight sneaking in through the slats of the window shade. The light illuminated Ivanore’s skin, white with hints of rose in her cheeks. Ivanore had been in Hestoria so long he had forgotten how fair she was. Seeing her now nearly brought him to tears once more.

  He swallowed down his emotion, but Jayson couldn’t wait a moment longer. He parted his lips and spoke her name.

  “Ivanore,” he whispered. “Ivy?”

  A moment passed before Ivanore’s eyelashes fluttered open, her eyes shifting in Jayson’s direction. When they finally found him, she smiled as if she were dreaming.

  “Jayson.”

  Jayson could contain himself no longer. Tears sprung from his eyes as he grasped her hand in his and kissed her palm.

  “Oh, Ivy. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  Ivanore swallowed with difficulty, and her words were strained. “Such a vision,” she said, pressing her eyes closed, releasing a tear down her cheek.

  Jayson wiped it away. “I’m not a vision, Ivy.
I have no idea how you found me after all this time or where you’ve been.”

  Ivanore tried to speak again, but her voice cracked. Jayson reached for the glass of water Nira had left on the bed stand. He slipped one hand behind Ivanore’s head and lifted it off the pillow. He felt her hair against his fingertips, the weight of her skull in his palm. She took several sips, then Jayson gently laid her head back down on her pillow.

  “I have so much to tell you,” she said weakly, her eyes still closed. Jayson realized she was drifting away from him again.

  He again wrapped his hands around hers. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk later,” he said. “For now, just rest.” He started to slip his hand away when Ivanore’s expression suddenly became fretful.

  “Don’t leave me,” she said weakly.

  Jayson leaned over her and placed his lips against hers in a whisper touch. He felt her relax again. When he pulled away, Ivanore’s breathing was slow and even. She had fallen asleep again.

  “I’ll never leave you,” he whispered. “I swear it.”

  21

  The second of Ivanore’s stops, Ulna, Erland wouldn’t even call a village, just a cluster of a few dozen cottages beside a grove of dormant fruit trees and a barren cornfield.

  Because of the small size of the town, Erland decided to leave his men in the forest and to deal with the traitor alone. As before, he followed the Gorelian wherever it might lead him, which ended up being the last cottage on the lane.

  Easy enough, thought Erland readying his hand on the hilt of his dagger. With any luck, he might be able to dispatch the man or woman without anyone else noticing and be on his way.

  He tapped his knuckles against the door and waited. After a few moments, no one came. He tried once more, but still no response. The house was empty.

  This made things a bit more complicated.

  The Gorelian, its snout to the ground, sniffed agitatedly at the door.

  “There’s no one here,” said Erland impatiently. “Whoever we’re looking for has gone out. Surely you can follow his scent elsewhere.”

  The creature licked its lips, thick saliva dripping from its tongue. Then it continued its loud snuffling until it seemed to latch onto a new smell. It moved away from the door around the side of the cottage. Erland followed the Gorelian past a large basket of wet clothing waiting to be hung out to dry, towards the grove of trees nestled behind the cottage. The sound of youthful laughter rang through the air, touching Erland’s ears like the clear ting of a silver bell.

  The Gorelian continued into the trees and soon came upon three children darting among the trunks in a game of tag. Two of the children, a boy and a girl, looked to be about four years old. They were nearly the same size and height with similar features: clear inquisitive eyes and dark hair. The third child was a boy several years their elder, his resemblance to them unmistakable.

  When they spotted Erland, they abruptly stopped their play and stared at him with innocent curiosity. The oldest boy stepped forward.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked. Erland thought the boy sounded quite grown up for his age.

  “I’m looking for someone,” said Erland. “Your father, perhaps.” Of course, he wasn’t certain if the person he was searching for was their father at all. He wasn’t even sure anyone here was even guilty of helping Ivanore in her escape. The Gorelian certainly smelled her at the cottage, but she might have entered the structure on her own.

  “My father’s not here,” said the boy, suspiciously.

  “And your mother?”

  “Our mother isn’t with us anymore.” Here, the boy’s voice grew gentler, as if avoiding using words that might upset his brother and sister. But Erland was growing impatient. Had the Gorelian led him here for nothing? He didn’t have time to waste. He was about to give his apologies and turn back for his men when the Gorelian scurried up to the boy.

  The boy recoiled at the sight of the creature, but he did not run away as some children might. Instead, he moved protectively between the Gorelian and his younger siblings who now cowered behind him. Impressive, thought Erland. A boy beyond his years, the sort that might make a future leader in the army.

  As he was thinking these thoughts, the Gorelian snorted around the boy’s feet. Then, raising its head sharply, turned a decisive eye toward Erland.

  Erland’s blood went cold. This was the traitor? This was the one who betrayed the Vatéz by assisting Ivanore?

  His palm grew moist around the dagger’s hilt. “Punish them,” Arik had commanded, and Erland knew exactly what that meant. In Durvett, he had taken the life of one man, hoping it would be enough for Arik. Here, he intended to do the same so that when Arik asked for his report, he could honestly say that yes, the traitors had met their deserved end.

  But a boy? A child?

  Erland didn’t have the heart. Not that he hadn’t killed children before. He had, in Alay-Crevar, but their cries and their mothers’ pleas still haunted him night after night.

  Erland wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He stared at the boy and the two youngsters he was trying to protect. How could he leave those little ones with such an image in their memories?

  He moved his hand away from the dagger.

  “I’m sorry to have troubled you,” he said. “Come on you,” he called to the Gorelian. “There’s nothing here.”

  He was glad to be back on his horse, glad to be moving again, to hear the steady clip clop of his steed’s hooves in rhythm with his men’s marching. Where to next? he wondered. And how much longer would they need to travel?

  They hadn’t been on their way long when someone came darting through the brush ahead of them. Out of breath, a Vatéz messenger approached Erland.

  “I’ve come from the borderlands,” he said, wheezing. “Our Gorelian has reached the end of the trail.”

  Erland drew his eyebrows together. “End of the trail? What do you mean?”

  “Lady Ivanore,” the man stammered. “She’s been taken into a house on a farm called Ashlin.”

  “How far from here?”

  The man drew a deep breath. It’s taken me since last night to reach you. I’ve barely slept.”

  A day’s march for his army then, maybe a little more. And no telling for certain how far behind Ivanore the Gorelian was. A day? Two?

  Erland glanced back at his men. They’d been marching for more than four days now, but they still had plenty of food and water. Now that they had a particular destination in mind, he was sure they would keep whatever pace he asked of them. He didn’t want to wear them out, but he also didn’t want to take so long as to give Ivanore a chance to escape.

  They had to make haste. Hestoria’s future—and his—depended on it.

  22

  It was as if Jayson’s voice called to her from a faraway dream. Ivanore remembered the depth and strength of it when he’d say her name, as if the sounds of the word infused him with power. But then there were times when he’d whisper it in her ear, soft and yearning, and the sensation of his breath on her skin sent delicious shivers through her.

  “Ivanore.”

  They had met in her father’s court. Jayson had come as an emissary for his people, the Agorans, petitioning Lord Frederic for better lands. The Agorans had been confined to the Taktani marshlands for years and struggled to build adequate shelters and to find enough game to feed their families. Ivanore’s father had ignored Jayson’s request, of course. Fredric despised non-humans. But that was precisely what Ivanore found so fascinating about Jayson. He was human, at least partly so. His father was human and his mother an Agoran. From the first time she had seen him, she had felt drawn to his feline features—his eyes, his powerful claws. Yet she also loved how he was framed by very human muscles and tawny skin that made him peculiar among his tribe.

  They had fallen in love, had run away together, had borne a child together. But her father viewed their love as a betrayal. Jayson was exiled, and she was forced to flee her home and to
give birth to her second son alone.

  Ivanore had never second-guessed her choices when it came to Jayson. She carried no regrets save one—she missed her boys with an ache so deep that only constant effort to clear her mind of them allowed her to keep breathing, to keep living.

  But now, as she swam in and out of consciousness, her brain burning with fever, voices of her past tormented her. Kelvin’s innocent laughter. Marcus’s tender cries. And Jayson, whispering her name over and over.

  Ivanore.

  Ivanore.

  She blinked open her eyes. As the room swam into focus, she struggled to access some sense of recognition. She was in a bed, but it was not her own. A thick, downy quilt covered her to her chin, soft as a chick’s feathers against her skin. On a nearby table, a lamp glowed pale yellow. And someone held her hand. She could feel the gentle pressure of his fingers cradling hers.

  She felt weak, and her mouth was dry. She tried to recall the events of the previous few days, the endless walking, the hunger, the cold. She remembered a word printed on a sign: Ashlin.

  “Have I—?” she started to ask, but her voice was raspy, her throat sore.

  “Shhh,” said the voice, his voice. “You’re home now. Everything will be fine.”

  She forced a dry swallow. “Home? Am I on Imaness?”

  Each word stabbed at her throat. Her head throbbed, and she shivered. She closed her eyes, wanting to drift back into her dreams, wanting to hear her name again. She felt something warm against her cheek, a gentle stroke.

  “Sleep, Ivy,” said Jayson. His voice sounded so near. “Sleep now. And when you wake, I’ll be right here beside you.”

  ***

  When Ivanore next awoke, it was a new day. She knew it by the sunlight drifting in through the open shutters of her room. The pain in her head and her throat had gone. When she sat up, she felt refreshed and alive. She felt stronger too. She vaguely remembered someone spooning broth through her lips.