“I see you haven’t completely forgotten me, then, my dutiful son.”
The cool voice wraps around him, too similar to Calum’s for comfort. Although he and Firesse are alone, he imagines his father slowly circling him, poking and prodding, frowning at anything that doesn’t meet his standards. His memories of Drake are few and far-between—his father had preferred to leave the raising of his child to his slaves—but he’s heard enough stories to know his father was a cruel man, black-hearted and remorseless. The circumstances surrounding Calum’s birth alone are proof of that.
“What a harsh thing to think about the man who gave you life.”
Something shifts again in the forest. A flash, slower this time, of a man in his mid-thirties, his hair tied back from his harsh, angular face. Drake is shrouded in shadow, a figure formed from smoke. He pauses long enough to fix his gray eyes on his son. His lip curls in disgust. Then he steps behind a tree and out of Calum’s view.
What the hell?
“Don’t—” Firesse begins when Calum leaps forward, plunging into the underbrush with wild eyes. He scans the trees, shoving branches and vines out of his face as he pushes in farther. Behind him, Firesse lets out a string of Cirisian curses. “Where are you going?”
“Father? Drake?” Calum stops in a small clearing and turns quickly, straining for a glimpse of the figure. “How is this possible? Where are you?”
“CAN’T YOU SEE ME?” Drake shouts, so loudly Calum’s ears ring. It echoes through the forest.
“Where are you?” Calum cries again, whipping his head around so quickly he winces.
I’m here, his father whispers in Calum’s mind, the words a soft hiss. I have always been right . . . here.
Icy tendrils snake through his mind, tasting his thoughts, his memories. He imagines his father thumbing through them like pages in a book, distaste on Drake’s face when he sees Tamriel’s smile, Elise’s lips on Calum’s, Mercy’s snort of amusement and annoyance.
What strange company you’ve kept in my absence, child.
Drake pauses on the memory of Calum and Elise sitting in her art room, bent over a roll of parchment as Elise carefully scrawls the king’s signature. She had blown the ink dry, then rolled the parchment, holding it out for Calum to press the royal seal to the cooling wax. It was the night they’d forged the contract for the Guild. Shame floods through Calum, but an undercurrent of something else, some other emotion—pride—fills him. Drake’s pride.
I wondered how long it would take you to fight back, to reclaim what the king stole from us. The decimation of our house, that’s all he’s ever given you, yet you trip over yourself to serve him . . . like a dog to its master. No longer.
The icy sensation slides down the back of Calum’s neck, goosebumps prickling up and down his arms. His headache from this morning—dulled by the water and fresh air—returns with a fury, pounding in his temples and behind his eyes. He barely stifles a cry of pain before warm hands clamp down on his upper arms.
“Calum? Calum, are you all right? Look at me, look at me!”
Calum is frozen in place by disgust, hyper-aware of the knife-ear’s filthy hands on him, the hands which have spilled so much Beltharan blood. This creature—this thing—dares to touch him? He’ll teach her to mind her place—
A sharp slap stings his cheek and Calum gasps, stumbling back, the spell broken. The ice-water filling his veins is gone, his father’s presence nowhere to be found. His face aches, but it’s a dull throb compared to his terror.
Firesse’s eyes are wide with concern and fear. “By the gods, Calum, what the hell was that? What happened?”
“I-I-I—” Calum stops himself and takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. Did you see—?”
“I didn’t see anyone. You’ve been standing here for five minutes, staring at nothing.” She curses again in Cirisian, trembling. “Is your cheek okay? I didn’t know how else to stop it.”
He waves the question away, turning in a slow circle. The forest is empty save for the two of them, sunlight streaming through the tops of the trees. Slowly, the sounds of life return. “Did you see him? Or hear him? He yelled so loudly—”
“I didn’t hear anything. You can’t just go charging into the forest like that—you could’ve been killed! Who did you see?”
He opens his mouth to tell her, then closes it. She’ll think he’s insane but, more than that, he doesn’t want to say it aloud, to realize the terror which wracks his body. When she had touched him . . . the rage which had coursed through him . . . If that’s how strongly Drake had hated elves, it’s no wonder he had murdered Liselle.
His voice is soft, pinched with stress and fear when he says, “You didn’t hear him?”
Firesse shakes her head so vehemently her braids whip through the air. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Calum sinks to his knees, unable to keep his strength up any longer. Part of him hates Firesse seeing him so weak, but he squashes it. Despite having no affection for humans, she had helped him, and for that, he’s grateful. “I . . . Then . . . Just give me a second.”
A shudder runs through him and he stands, although haltingly. The ground nearly slides out from under him when he takes a step in the direction of the valley. Firesse catches him and slings his arm around her shoulder to steady him.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says.
Calum can’t agree fast enough.
23
Tamriel
“Your Highness? Your Highness! It’s Calum!”
Firesse’s voice rings through the valley, high and raw with worry. Tamriel shoots up, the chipped arrowhead he’d been examining forgotten immediately. It slips through his fingers and falls somewhere in the grass at his feet. The guards and elven fighters around him tense, turning their heads toward the girl’s shouts.
“Your Highness!” Akiva yells, but Tamriel’s already running across the field. He’s never heard Firesse sound anything but in control, and she’s never deigned to use his honorific before. The long grass sways around him and threatens to tangle his feet, shafts of arrows sticking out of the ground. Behind him, he hears the pounding of feet—his guards, Myris, and her fighters.
Calum was right. I never should have trusted her. If she hurt him—
Tamriel rounds the side of the hill and nearly collides with Firesse, who bears most of Calum’s weight as they hobble away from the forest. Calum’s face is white as a ghost, his arm slung over Firesse’s slender shoulders, but he’s alive. Just barely, by the look of him. Tamriel slips an arm around his cousin’s waist and together they help him lie down on the grass.
“Water, now!”
Myris pulls a canteen from her belt and Tamriel gently pours the water into Calum’s mouth. He swallows, then coughs and sputters, slapping the canteen away. Tamriel frowns, leans close to listen to his cousin’s heart rate and breathing, then jumps to his feet. He glares at Firesse.
“What did you do to him?” For a moment, Tamriel doesn’t recognize his voice—it’s cool, measured, sharp as a blade. The words come out as a threat, not a question—a promise of retribution.
“I didn’t— He just—”
“Stop,” he says, and her mouth snaps shut with a click of teeth. “What. Did. You. Do?”
“Nothing. He saw someone in the woods and bolted after him—”
“You let him go off alone?”
“I didn’t— I didn’t see anyone, but something . . .” Firesse’s eyes are huge, darting from Calum to the guards kneeling around him to her hands, anywhere but Tamriel’s face. “He was having some sort of episode—”
“Episode?” Tamriel shakes, but out of fury, not fear. He forces himself to take a step back; fueled by his worry, nerves, and rage, the urge to punch something rises inside of him, and Firesse looks like a really good target right now.
“Yeah,” Calum says with a weak laugh, “heat stroke or dehydration or something. Guess you were right: I really can’t hold my liquor.�
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Tamriel opens his mouth to argue, then thinks better of it. Even in the face of this, he can’t afford to antagonize the Cirisians. Calum lies on his back in the long grass, running his hands down his face. When Tamriel falls to his knees beside him, Calum’s lips curl into a tired smile.
“Gave you a good scare, did I?”
Maybe Tamriel will punch him.
“Vena kij,” Firesse says. “Search the forest and make sure no one’s out there. If you find someone, bring him to me.”
Myris nods. She and her fighters immediately scatter into the forest, unsheathing their blades. They melt into the shadows in seconds.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” Firesse says as soon as they’re gone. She treks a little way up the hill and sits with her back to them, wrapping her arms around her knees.
“How do you feel, sir?” Silas asks. His brow is pinched in concern, his expression mirrored on the faces of the other guards. They surround Calum and Tamriel, providing as much shade as they can with their bodies.
“Just peachy. Now will you all stop staring at me like I’ve suddenly contracted the plague? I’m fine. See?” Tamriel holds out a hand as Calum pushes himself up, ready to catch him should he feel faint, but his cousin slaps it away and sits upright without a problem. Relief floods through him as the color slowly returns to Calum’s face, but he’s not entirely convinced of his story. Calum is deliberately avoiding talking about his ‘episode,’ either out of embarrassment or . . . what? Fear?
“Rest now, but we must speak later. Alone,” Tamriel murmurs, and Calum nods.
Tamriel orders the guards to spread out and watch the forest in case anyone else is lurking inside, waiting to strike. He kneels beside his cousin, waiting for him to offer some semblance of an explanation. He doesn’t. When Firesse joins them, they fall into uneasy silence, every pair of eyes trained on the dark shadows hanging from the tree branches.
Myris and her fighters return half an hour later, reporting no signs of disturbance. They hadn’t found so much as a single footprint or trampled flower, which means if anyone was out there, it had to be a Cirisian—humans are too clumsy on the uneven ground not to leave tracks. Tamriel wonders aloud if it had been someone from Firesse’s clan who hadn’t been happy about his First hosting humans in her camp, but she quickly shoots down that idea.
“My people don’t disobey my orders. I told you you’d be safe with me until Ialathan, and I keep my word.” She has recovered well from her earlier fright; her eyes are focused and sharp once more, her chin held high with confidence.
“Someone from another clan, then,” Tamriel says. “How far is the closest tribe?”
“On the next island,” Myris answers. “But they didn’t have any way of knowing you’d be here at the battlefield, so they couldn’t have planned an attack.”
He turns to Firesse. “What did you see?”
“Nothing. I was facing the other way. Calum bolted before I even realized what was happening. When I found him, he was . . . catatonic. I never saw anyone.”
“Then we must go back to camp. It’s not safe here.”
“It’s not safe anywhere,” Akiva mutters under his breath.
They wait another ten minutes for Myris and her fighters to do one more sweep of the land, then Firesse leads them back to the hidden trail out of the valley. Tamriel and the guards stick close to Calum. Although the color has returned to his face, he’s not yet steady on his feet. More than once, Tamriel has to reach out and help him along the uneven path. Calum grumbles about being treated like a child, but Tamriel knows he secretly appreciates it.
As they walk, Calum’s eyes dart from tree to tree, his shoulders hunched. Pangs of worry cut through Tamriel at the sight; Calum has had a hard time since they left Sandori, but it’s only become worse since arriving in the Islands. If he weren’t standing in for Master Oliver with the guards, Tamriel would have already ordered him to return to the capital. But even if he had, Tamriel knows Calum would never have agreed to leave him.
They return to camp by mid-afternoon, thirsty, bug-bitten, and drenched in sweat. The second they spot the first Cirisian tent, Calum moves away from Tamriel’s side, mumbling something about appearing weak. Tamriel rolls his eyes. Calum will go to his grave insisting he’s perfectly fine.
Firesse and Myris excuse themselves to speak with Kaius, the fighters dispersing through the camp now that their jobs are finished. Calum grimaces, swatting a fly out of his face, then starts toward his tent. When the guards begin to follow him, he mutters, “You’re dismissed.”
Concern flits across Akiva’s face. “Are you sure, sir? Do you need—”
“I said you’re dismissed. Leave me alone.” Without looking back, he pushes open the tent flap and ducks inside. He sighs when Tamriel slips in after him. “When I said ‘leave me alone,’ I meant you, too. I’m not in the mood to chat.”
“You can’t order me around, Calum, and you can’t send me away like you can the guards.”
Calum groans as he stretches out on his bedroll, using his arms as a pillow. “I know.”
“So let’s—”
“Talk about it? Told you, not in the mood.”
“Calum—”
“Later. Right now, I’m running on three hours of sleep and I feel like shit. All I want is a nap. So, later, I promise.”
Tamriel doesn’t like it, but he agrees—not that he could argue, anyway; Calum closes his eyes and rolls onto his side before he even finishes speaking. Tamriel steps outside and orders Silas and Clyde to stand guard over the tent, then gestures for Akiva and Maceo to follow him as he starts toward Firesse’s tent. Voices spill out through the canvas as they near, the usually soft sounds of Cirisian sharp and urgent. When Tamriel enters—Akiva and Maceo waiting outside—Firesse, Kaius, and Myris stop talking and stare at him, annoyance flickering across Kaius’s face at the interruption.
“May I help you?” Firesse asks. “I assume Calum has decided to rest. If there is anything he should need—”
“He can get it himself,” Kaius finishes for her.
“—I will retrieve it for him. It’s the least I can do to make up for the fright earlier.”
“Which never would have happened if your people hadn’t been intruding on our land,” Kaius snaps.
“Thank you,” Tamriel says, ignoring the hunter’s glare, “but I need something else from you: the weapons you confiscated from my guards. They must be returned to my men if you wish me to uphold my half of the deal.”
The First stares at him, then her eyes flick to Kaius and Myris. “Leave us.”
Kaius’s eyes widen in surprise, but he and Myris obey, shouldering past Tamriel without another glance in his direction. When the tent flap falls shut behind them, Firesse gestures to a beaten-up chest in the corner of the tent, tucked away beside her bedroll.
“Take them. If someone truly is out there, you should be able to defend yourselves. I assume I don’t have to describe just how gruesomely my hunters will disfigure you if you turn your blades on us, do I?”
“Not at all.”
“And I won’t apologize for confiscating them. I needed to know I could trust you.”
“I understand. I would have done the same if I were you.”
They watch each other for a long moment, and something changes in Firesse’s eyes. Some sort of fragile understanding grows between them, two children thrust into power they didn’t want. Her lips twitch into an almost-smile, then she looks away, letting out a long breath.
“Vareisa,” she murmurs.
“What?”
“It means ‘thank you.’ I wanted to thank you for . . . being different from the rest of your family. For not trying to slaughter us the minute you set foot on our land. For making me a promise which will save thousands of lives.”
“Oh. Of course.” How would she react if she knew how different he is—that he had worked for years to smuggle elven slaves out of their bonds? Would Kaius and Myris look at him�
�and his men—with kindness instead of hostility? Or is their hatred of humans so deeply engrained that nothing will quench their thirsts for revenge? He wonders—not for the first time—if some of the elves in Firesse’s clan are here because of the work he and Hero did.
He longs to tell her the truth, but if he does, it’ll spread around camp. His men will know he’s elf-sympathetic, no better to rule the country than his good-for-nothing, grief-stricken, mad father. No, there’s someone he must confess to first, someone who will hold his secrets as closely as she holds her own, and—
Oh, shit.
Tamriel’s breath catches. Whoever had scared Calum and Firesse is still in the forest. Does he know Mercy is out there? Will he go after her next?
“Where is Mercy?” he asks, his voice tight with worry.
“She left with Nynev hours ago. Why—?” Firesse stops, the reason behind Tamriel’s panic becoming clear. Her hands fly up as if to calm a startled animal. “You mustn’t worry about her. She’s with Nynev, one of our most skilled huntresses. She’s in no danger—”
“You thought we were in no danger at the battlefield.”
“I promise you, she is fine. There are other hunters in the area. If they see anything, they will report back immediately. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll have Myris send out her fighters again to do another sweep.”
Tamriel doesn’t listen. As skilled as Nynev might be, whoever had been out there had terrified Firesse, and she’s the First of her clan. He sticks his head out of the tent and calls to Akiva and Maceo, then turns back to Firesse. “Where is she?”
“Northeast. There’s a stream that cuts through Nynev’s hunting grounds. Follow it, and I’m sure you’ll find them.”
“Your Highness?”
Akiva and Maceo peer into the tent, blinking as their eyes adjust.
Tamriel points to the chest in the corner. “Gather your weapons and come with me. We’re going to find Mercy.”
Tamriel sprints through the forest, slowing occasionally to keep his footing through tangles of underbrush, exposed roots, and jagged rocks. Akiva and Maceo trail behind him. They work their way northeast in silence—the last thing they want is to lead whoever is out here straight to Mercy—and although it’s unlikely whomever Calum had seen at the battlefield has wandered so close to Firesse’s camp, Tamriel can’t bear the thought of sitting idly by while Mercy might be in danger. His footsteps sound impossibly loud in the quiet forest, his heart thumping so hard against his ribcage it feels as if it’s going to burst out of his chest. In what feels like a matter of seconds, all three of them are drenched in sweat.
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