They washed quickly. Quentin spared a few minutes to use the Elven lord’s flat razor and shave off his new beard, which had begun to annoy him, while Aryal combed through the massive wardrobe. She found sleeveless silk tunics and trousers that were slightly large on her and tight across the shoulders on Quentin, but the lightweight material would breathe while it provided a little buffer against the armor, so it was perfect for their purposes.
Last came the weapons: long swords belted at the waist, short swords strapped to their thighs, and unstrung longbows strapped to their backs along with quivers full of arrows. Aryal used Quentin’s blindfold to tie back her hair. When she noticed that he watched her, she muttered, “Souvenir.”
He cocked his head, immeasurably charmed by the sight. There she stood, looking as lethal as he’d ever seen her, and …
He asked, “Did you just blush?”
She made a face and strode for the door, saying over her shoulder, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“And now you’re running away.” He prowled behind her. Inside, delight filled him with airy lightness.
“Don’t be stupid. Of course I didn’t. And I’m not.” She wrestled with the locked door.
“Yes, you did. You blushed and ran away.” He reached around her, pulling her hands away from the door. As he unlocked the door, he nuzzled her neck. She smelled clean and wild. The scent went straight to his cock, of course. “It was fantastic.”
She shook her head, sounding winded as she said, “Because it’s always all about you, isn’t it?”
“Damn right it is.” He bit her gently, slipping an arm around her waist as she leaned back against him and reached over her shoulder to stroke his hair.
She twisted and kissed him, and he clenched her to him, kissing her back hard and hungrily. How this much emotion had fountained out of nothing was something he couldn’t understand, but he would never get enough of her, never.
Adrenaline at what lay ahead had already started to beat a tribal rhythm in his chest. His hunger for her only heightened it. He bent her back over his arm, his kiss turning savage. They were both shaking when they wrenched apart, all lightheartedness and joking lost. She stroked his cheek and looked him deeply in the eye, her angular face serious. He brushed his mouth along her fingers.
Then, having already said everything they needed to say to each other, they left.
He glanced one last time over his shoulder, out the window at the gigantic stone faces of the gods. Hyperion faced the westering sun. The angled light had turned the god’s blank eyes golden.
Quentin had never been much for prayer, but this time, he decided to give it a go. Just see that we find her, he said silently to the god. We’ll take care of everything else.
They left the palace by way of the kitchens and stopped briefly to collect more portable food and wineskins filled with water—and another two bottles of brandy, because you never know, they might just be able to hang on to it this time—and they distributed it all evenly into two sacks, along with the vials of healing potion they had gathered from the barracks.
The light was fading fast by that point, so they jogged down to the shoreline and strode along the piers, looking for a small sailboat suitable for one or two people. They found one quickly and Aryal jumped in to hoist the sails while Quentin unfastened the ropes mooring it to the pier. He shoved it off and leaped in. The last of the day’s light lay fractured in slivers along the top of the rippling dark waves as they drifted beyond the pier into open water.
Aryal’s cloaking settled over the small boat like a shimmering veil. They had to figure out by trial and error how the tide ran, and how to move forward in the right direction using the angle of the wind. Eventually they settled into tacking in a zigzag course. By then the overlarge moon had risen and it shone with so much silvery light, to Quentin’s feline gaze the scene turned almost as bright as day.
They took turns eating, while the other remained vigilant at the tiller. Watching the island as it neared, he ate lightly, just enough fuel for whatever came next but not enough to weigh him down. While he swallowed his last bite of wayfarer bread, a flicker of light appeared.
It shone from the building that lay up the steep hill, nestled among the trees.
“We’ve got her,” he said softly. He could sense that Aryal had gone tense and still. He noticed something else too. Two piers at one end of the beach held several moored boats. “There are too many boats. We shouldn’t waste time trying to disable them all.”
Aryal asked, “What do you suggest?”
He turned to her. “I take point,” he said. “The current is running at an angle to the island. When we get close enough, I’ll swim the rest of the way to the beach. The witch is smart. She’ll have shadow wolves on the beach as sentries. We don’t know how, but somehow they’re linked to her, so I’ll draw her attention. Meanwhile, you sail with the current, land somewhere along the other side of the island and double back so that you come at the witch from behind.”
She studied his face. “You’ll draw her fire on your own?”
He gestured impatiently with one hand. “Yeah, it’s gonna hurt. That just means you’ll have to move fast. I’ll also try to wait a little while before I engage, to narrow down the lag time.”
Did she pause to think about how this might have been her opportunity to get rid of him, as he had once paused to think about her? No sign showed on her tense features. “I don’t like it.”
“Tough,” he said. He turned back to look at the island. “I’m the one who’s more equipped to fight the shadow wolves.”
“But you’ll be facing them both until I get to you. And while Elven armor is magic resistant, it doesn’t block everything. Once its resistance has been compromised, it’s no better than any other leather armor.”
“It’s better than a simple frontal assault,” he told her. “Her wolves could engage us to cover her retreat, and we’ll have expended our energy and given away the element of surprise for nothing. This way—she doesn’t know that you survived the first attack, sunshine. She might wonder, but she won’t know that you’re coming.”
She was silent for several moments. “Shit.”
“It makes sense,” he said gently.
“Okay, already!” she exploded. “But shit!”
He didn’t say anything. If their positions were reversed he would hate it just as much as she did, and there wasn’t any way to make it better. He studied the fast-approaching shoreline and rotated his shoulders, loosening them up for a swim and a fight. Was that a shadow he saw, pacing the beach?
They reached the point where she was going to have to angle away to avoid landing. He settled his supply sack and a wineskin of water firmly around his neck and one shoulder. Then he wrapped one hand around his arrows, holding them in the quiver, as he braced one foot on the edge of their small sailboat and prepared to jump over.
“Quentin,” she said.
She sounded so urgent that he paused to glance at her.
The expression on her face was tight, and her eyes burned with determination. Her mouth worked. Then she said, “I’ll hurry.”
He gave her a bright, hard grin. Then he launched over the side of the boat and hit the water, stopping only for a moment to watch as Aryal and the sailboat turned away. The strong current tugged him in the sailboat’s direction, so he couldn’t pause for long. He ducked his head and cut across the current, swimming in strong, sure strokes. The armor, weapons and supply sack made swimming awkward, and it was difficult to develop a rhythm.
But he didn’t have to go far. After a few minutes, he came up against the furthest boat at the end of the first pier, and he grabbed its anchor chain to tread water. He eased the supply sack, the skin of water, and the longbow and arrows over the rim of the boat as he studied the nearby beach. A path zigzagged up the hill that was so steep it warranted carved steps in places. It led to the top of a bluff. He could just see the edge of the trees at the top.
Down below on the beach, two spots of blackness glided across the sand as shadow wolves paced. They seemed restless. He recovered his breath as he studied them. Now that he knew what to expect, he could sense them quite well. Maybe, as Aryal had said, they weren’t the product of a magic spell, but he wasn’t convinced. Both wolves carried something of the same magical signature. It seemed too singular, as if stamped with a certain personality.
Did the witch have so much Power that she could cast a spell that acted like thirteen independent entities—and then not only maintain it indefinitely, but across large distances? His credulity balked at the idea.
Did the ones on the beach already know that he was here? Could they attack while he was still in the water, and if so, why did they hold back?
He pulled his own Power up and held it ready. Offensive spells were tricky to cast in battle, because they took time to create and fighting happened so fast. That was why the best and most effective spells were the simplest ones. They were easy to remember in a panic, and quick to spit out and do damage.
And one of the most effective spells of all was one that counteracted other dangerous magics.
One of the shadows stopped moving. It appeared to be facing him. It didn’t do anything, but just waited.
He wasn’t going to need the bow and arrows for this fight. He pushed away from the boat and glided toward shore, watching both shadows warily. The one shadow wolf never moved. The other didn’t stop pacing.
He reached a point that was shallow enough that he could touch bottom with one boot, and that was when a mental voice entered his head, speaking with a strong accent.
Help us.
You speak telepathically? What the hell? He stared at the wolf in front of him, not surprised so much that the wolf could speak to him but that it chose to.
The wolf said, Beware. If you come to shore, we are bound by orders to attack you.
Quentin treaded water, thinking hard. It sounded sophisticated, like it really was a thinking individual. What are you?
We are Wyr too, the wolf said. Or we once were. Our alpha mated with Galya. When he was severely injured in battle, she caught his soul and tried to revive him. His body died, but he stayed bound to her. She has become obsessed with finding a way to resurrect him, and us. One by one we have given our lives to prolong hers, in the hopes that she will eventually find a way to bring us back. But she did not tell us that we would be bound to her will, and it has been so long.
She had prolonged her life through the sacrifice of theirs? Shock and revulsion froze him until he started to sink. He kicked up and treaded water again.
Resurrecting the dead was forbidden in every culture he knew, and he had always believed there was a strong reason for that. It bent an essential event in nature, and the results, or so he had heard, were invariably warped and tragic.
He said, Help me make sure I understand you properly. She’s looking for a way to resurrect you?
There is a thing mentioned in the very oldest of tales called the Phoenix Cauldron, the wolf whispered. It was said to have been so Powerful it could bring the dead to life. It was lost long ago when this land was barred from the rest of the world. She searches night and day for it. But I am so tired. Yet she won’t let me go.
She sacrificed Wyr to prolong her life and held their souls against their will. Rage followed closely on the heels of all his other emotions.
Aryal should have landed by now. It was more than past time to make a big noise and end this witch.
He swam closer to land.
As he neared, the wolf whispered, Some will not fight you with all of their strength, but don’t trust Pyotr, the alpha. He is as devoted to her as ever.
Understood. He stood to walk out of the water, and the other shadow whipped around. It stalked him across the sand.
The wolf that had been talking to him crouched and sprang. Quentin flung out his hand silently to throw the spell he had held ready. He put all the force he could into it.
::Dissipate::
The spell was meant to counteract dangerous magics, and it worked better than he could have hoped. It hit the attacking wolf in midair. The black shadow twisted as if it were in agony. Then with a snap and an outcry that rang in Quentin’s head, it vanished.
In the distance, out of sight at the top of the bluff, a woman screamed in shock and fury.
So he had gotten the witch’s attention.
Quentin ducked his chin down with a dark smile and strode onto the beach, and as the second shadow wolf raced toward him, he pulled his Power together and punched the air with another spell.
Like the other wolf, when the spell hit the shadow twisted and snapped into nothingness. He shook his head. Even though they had already been—mostly—dead, he still felt like he had killed them.
Then some sixth sense tickled at him. He looked at the path.
Ten shadows poured over the edge of the bluff. Then the last one appeared, and that shadow was the biggest and most Powerful of them all.
Yeah, those numbers didn’t look so good when Quentin had to throw each dissipation spell one at a time.
A woman appeared at the top of the bluff. Galya. The silver moonlight seemed to hollow out her eye sockets and turn her face to bone.
Come on, Aryal. Move your ass, sunshine.
The shadow pack reached the beach and hurtled toward him.
He gathered up his Power and prepared for battle.
TWENTY
As the water pulled the sailboat away from Quentin’s dark, partly submerged form, Aryal nearly jumped overboard to swim after him.
It didn’t matter that everything he had said made sense, or that she had agreed with him. He was going to call all the attention to himself, and that meant he would take some damage. That also meant he was taking a serious risk, and she hated leaving him.
Hated it.
The current ran deep and fast as it swung her around the end of the island. She looked down the length of that side. Holy gods and fuck, water broke in white swirls of foam against broken rocks along the coast. There was no place to land the boat.
Then, because she was who she was, she looked up. The broken rocks rose up to a sheer cliff face.
And none of it should matter in the slightest.
She should be able to change into the harpy and fly over every inch of that cursed shore. She screamed out her outrage and pain, silently, hands clapped over her mouth.
Then she pulled her souvenir out of her hair and tied her arrows securely into their quiver. With it slung on her back along with her unstrung longbow, she flung herself out of the boat and tore through the water, swimming hard toward land.
The water helped by picking her up and flinging her against the rocks. She landed against one partially submerged boulder with a force that knocked the breath out of her, and she twisted and shapeshifted all in one desperate move, clawing at the granite to find some kind of hold before the treacherous, foaming maelstrom pulled her back out to sea.
Struggling to kneel on the slippery boulder, she lunged at the cliff face and clung to it, talons digging into the jagged, crumbling rock as she fought to catch her breath. Her entire right side had absorbed the impact. Bones were bruised, and they throbbed with a fiery pain. Tomorrow she would be black all over.
Face tilted up to her goal, she began to climb. If there wasn’t a fracture in the rock for her to slip her talons into, she made one, driving her hands and feet at the cliff to gouge out enough of a hollow to hold her weight. Climbing was grueling, exhausting work, and her aching wings hung heavily at her back like a ragged parachute, weighing her down.
She was halfway up the cliff when Power flared, and the witch screamed in the distance. Another time she might have savored the sound, but now fear gripped her. She wasn’t far enough up the cliff, wasn’t close enough to the battle. She redoubled her efforts, heart pounding when she felt Power flare again. She recognized Quentin’s signature.
Then Power flared with
a different signature.
The witch had found him, and engaged.
Panic drove her through the rest of the climb, and she didn’t pause when she reached the top. Shapeshifting to be rid of her wings, she raced blindly along the edge of a massive, ancient stone building, around a corner and over what must have once been a manicured lawn but was now overgrown with weeds and neglect.
She found a path and took it, even as she reached over her shoulder for the unstrung longbow. A blast of light and Power flared ahead from the direction of the beach. It lit the ground ahead of her as if hell’s light poured out from a crack in the earth.
Precious seconds flew away as she stopped to brace the bow on one foot and strained to bend the strong, seasoned wood so that she could attach the bowstring. Then she hurtled along the path to the edge of a bluff and looked over a scene that could have been birthed from her worst nightmares.
Quentin and Galya stood several feet away from each other. The witch appeared unscathed.
The light came from Quentin.
An area along his wide chest, one shoulder, his neck and the side of his face blazed with some kind of spell that shone like a beacon in the night. What she could see of his expression was agonized, and his Power flared spasmodically as he struggled to counteract the attack spell. Dark forms writhed along his legs and arms as the shadow wolves gripped him with black teeth.
Oh gods.
She looked at the witch, who stood with her hands on her hips and watched Quentin burn, and she had never hated anybody as much as she did this woman.
Even though the witch’s spell still worked on Quentin, his Power surged. The blast knocked all the shadow wolves away. He flung a hand toward the witch, piercing the air with a deadly missile of Power. The sleek, elegant spell shot toward the witch, who deflected it effortlessly with a twist of her wrist.
Aryal whipped out an arrow from the sodden quiver and notched it, and sighted down the longbow until she was sure she had the perfect shot. Then she loosed it. Despite its speed, her harpy sight could track the arrow’s flight.
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