by Kara Jaynes
19
Bran
“You’re up!” Bran strode over to Grace, taking one of her hands in both of his. He smiled broadly. “Excellent. How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been dragged over iron spikes and trampled by horses,” Grace laughed. “It’s a vast improvement though.”
It had been around a week since Grace had awoken, over three weeks since her attack. They stood in the garden. It was spring, but the air was still chilly. Bran shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over Grace’s shoulders. She smiled up at him. “Thank you.”
“Here, come take a seat.” Bran motioned to a wrought iron bench under a willow tree. “You don’t want to overtax yourself.”
“I’m fine,” Grace grumbled, but she allowed herself to be led over and sat.
Bran watched her closely. She looked paler than usual, thinner, but still beautiful. She eyed him curiously, a smile on her lips. “What are you staring at?”
“You, of course.” Bran leaned forward, his mouth meeting hers. He breathed in her scent. He’d almost lost her. Never again. It would never happen again.
“I hate to interrupt you two lovebirds, but we need to talk.”
Fyrsil stood several feet away, a smirk on his face, arms folded across his chest. Adaryn stood a little behind him, Dahlia’s hand in hers. She never went anywhere without the child.
“Oh?” Grace arched an eyebrow at the brigand king. “You’re a pleasant eyeful, but I’ve chosen Bran, dear. Sorry.”
Fyrsil winked at her. “You’re not married yet, sweetheart. But I was talking to Bran.” Fyrsil frowned at him. “I need to talk to you. I’ve waited too long as it is.”
“About what?” Bran stood. They were nearly the same height; Bran edged him out by half an inch.
“The sky jewel. It’s mine. I want you to return it.”
Bran rolled his eyes, pretending exasperation, but he felt his body tense, his heartbeat quickening. He was ready for battle. “I’m not returning it, Fyrsil. You’re a villain, remember? You stole from your people, and condoned the murder of innocents.”
“It’s still mine.” Fyrsil’s voice was silky-smooth but there was an edge to it, a tightening around his eyes. Looking at him, Bran was reminded of a coiled spring. The brigand king was ready to fight too.
“I’m not giving it back.” Bran spat contemptuously. “That’s the end of it.”
Fyrsil’s eyes glittered. “I could have let Grace die, Bran. Think about that for a minute. You were going to let her die over a gem.”
“That’s not true!” Bran’s hands clenched into fists. “I had to keep it from you. I won’t allow the sky jewel to be used for evil.”
Fyrsil chuckled. “I heard the stories. You killed your father. Not evil, huh?”
Bran snatched up the threads of enchantment quicker than thought. The sky jewel pulsed with power. Forming it into a shield, he slammed it into the brigand king.
Fyrsil brought up his own shield; it shattered under Bran’s onslaught and the outlaw stumbled backward, grunting with pain.
“Stop!” Adaryn leapt forward, standing in front of Fyrsil. She glared at Bran, shaking a finger under his nose. “Killing him won’t help anything.”
Grace hurried over, laying a slim hand on Bran’s arm. She looked up at him pleadingly. “Please, Bran, be a dear. He’s pig-headed, but he did save my life.”
Bran drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He shot a venomous look at Fyrsil. “Don’t mention my father to me ever—ever—again.”
He turned his back abruptly to Fyrsil, the nomad’s way of displaying power and pride, and strode off, Grace’s hand in his. He didn’t dare turn around. He would kill Fyrsil otherwise.
Grace was silent as they walked to a quiet and secluded part of the forest. She looked up at him, her eyes sad.
“What?” Bran snapped, then moderated his tone. He wasn’t mad at her. “What?”
“I’m sorry about your father, Bran,” she said. Her gaze slid away from his. “I would be devastated if anything happened to my father, and, well . . . I’ve been selfish. It didn’t occur to me that you’d feel the same way about your father.”
Bran shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. It’d been an accident. Yes, he fought Oisin. He had to, he’d had to save Grace and Aaric, but he hadn’t meant to kill him.
He felt tears build on his lashes and he blinked furiously. Not here, not now. He couldn’t let Grace see his weakness.
“Come here.” Grace sat on the ground, pulling his hand so he sat beside her. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a warm embrace. “You’ve been holding it in for too long, Bran. Let yourself grieve.”
Bran coughed; it sounded like a sob. Despite how many times he blinked, the tears wouldn’t stop coming. They leaked down his face, dripping from his chin. “I didn’t mean to—” He couldn’t continue.
Grace tightened her embrace. “It’s going to be all right, Bran.” He could hear the tears in her voice. “It’s going to be all right.”
20
Adaryn
“Your friend is an arrogant, pompous fool who’s not going to realize that until it’s too late. I hope I’ll be there to see that.” Fyrsil paced the entry hall, hands behind his back. His dark brow was drawn down in a frown. “Yes, his pride will be our downfall.”
“You’re just jealous.” I sat on the floor, Dahlia in my lap. I was trying to teach her cat’s dance with some strings, but her little fingers weren’t deft enough. “You almost had it that time.” I smiled at her and my heart lifted when she smiled back. What a dear.
“No, I’m not.” Fyrsil’s voice was irritated. “He’s taking his power for granted. I had a talk with Lord Flores, and you know what? Bran actually gave him the sky jewel temporarily, to gain his trust.” Fyrsil shook his head, too disgusted to continue.
I nodded. “That’s crazy, I agree. To be fair though, it’s not like the Oppressor could actually use it against him.”
“He’s too young and irresponsible,” Fyrsil said. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “Why don’t you take charge of the sky jewel, Adaryn? You’re about the same age as Bran, but you’re definitely more mature.”
“Nice try.” I smirked at him, and laughed when he scowled at me. We both knew he’d find a way to take it from me.
Bells sounded from outside, a wild clanging and banging. Fyrsil and I only had time to exchange confused glances before Grace’s father came charging down the stairs, throwing on his jacket. “The city is under attack!” he shouted.
We followed him to the stables. He didn’t bother with the carriage, saddling his horse himself. Fyrsil and I followed his example, and within minutes were clattering down the streets, Dahlia seated in front of me.
“You should have left her back at the mansion,” Fyrsil yelled over the horse's hooves. “You’re a terrible mother.”
“I can’t trust her with anyone,” I shot back. “She has to stay with me.”
There was no time to argue after that, as the reason for the alarm quickly became apparent.
The streets were in turmoil. Oppressors ran screaming in every which direction except for some of the city guard. They formed a knot of defense around Lord Flores and charged a group of nomads.
Magic ripped from the nomads’ hands, setting fire to people, homes, everything it touched. And at the heart of their group . . .
“Donell!” I screamed over the rush of noise. “Donell! What are you doing?”
Donell turned to face me, and my heart clenched in my chest. He looked so much like his sister, Ember, my lost friend.
He sneered at me and lifting a hand, blasted enchantment into the side of a house, taking a wall completely down in a ruin of rubble. He motioned with his hand, and several nomads rushed inside. Fyrsil and I lifted our hands. I didn’t want to hurt Donell, but after what Bran had told me, I couldn’t trust his motives either.
Donell’s eyes narrowed at me, as if reading my thoughts
. “You’re still siding with the Oppressors, I see. You’re a traitor, Adaryn.”
The nomads reappeared from the opening in the house, and my heart sank to see a couple of children slung over the shoulders of two nomads. “No!” I shrieked. “You can’t do this, Donell!”
“You don’t decide my fate, Adaryn!” He glared at me, his pale eyes wild. “No one does. I choose my fate. I choose Eletha!”
Heeling his horse to the side, he rode away, the remaining nomads forming a knot around him. I saw a slim girl seated behind Donell, her thin arms wrapped around his middle. I would have bet my last copper she was the one who had been working Twyli magic in the city. The one who attacked Grace.
Weaving the elements, Fyrsil brought lightning down toward Donell, but enchantment surged from the Twyli and deflected it. Our moment was gone.
Lord Flores roared a cry of attack, and the city guard raced their horses forward in response, but Fyrsil reached out, grabbing the magistrate’s reins. “Let them go,” he said. “You won’t win without the sky jewel.”
“Where’s Bran?” The magistrate asked, his face a thunderhead. “They stole more children? This needs to stop!”
Fyrsil and I could do no more than shrug helplessly. I hadn’t seen Bran for over an hour, not since the squabble between him and Fyrsil.
“What’s going on?” As if Lord Flores had summoned him, Bran heeled Star through the crowd, Grace seated on her white mare a little behind him. She looked exhausted, her face pinched and pale.
“Grace! What in blazes are you doing here?” Lord Flores rode over to her, then turned to Bran angrily. “Why did you bring her here? Such carelessness.”
“She insisted, sir.” Bran protested. His eyes were red. If I didn’t know Bran any better, I would have said he’d been crying. But I knew him better than anyone. Bran never cried.
“Call the guard back,” Fyrsil ordered. “The magic users will kill them.” He was already turning back toward the mansion. “We need to come up with a proper plan.”
21
Grace
“How are you feeling?” Adaryn stood in the doorway of Grace’s bedroom, watching her. They had returned from the attack and Lord Flores had insisted they return home immediately for Grace’s safety.
Grace shrugged, barely suppressing a wince. She knew she owed Fyrsil her life, but couldn’t he have healed her better? “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to lie to me.” Adaryn walked into her room, most likely oblivious to how rude it was to enter without being invited. She held the hand of a small child.
Grace eyed her. The little girl was adorable, a tiny thing with white-blonde hair and deep blue eyes. “Hello, dearie.” Grace picked up a small tray from her vanity filled with sweets and held it out to the girl. “Would you like a piece of candy?”
The little girl looked up at Adaryn, waiting for her nod of assent before reaching out a little hand and taking out a fistful of treats.
“What do you say, Dahlia?” Adaryn said, and she and Grace shared a laugh at Dahlia’s barely audible ‘thank you.’
Grace stood, and patted the vanity stool where she’d been sitting. “Come sit here, dear, I’ll fix your hair.” The poor dear would soon have hair worse than Adaryn if it didn’t get brushed. Did Adaryn even know how to take care of a child properly?
Wordlessly, the little girl clambered up onto the stool. Grace took a brush, carefully working out the knots and snarls. “Where did you find her?” she asked Adaryn quietly.
She silently listened to Adaryn’s tale regarding Dahlia. She felt like her heart might burst from compassion for the little thing. “You poor dear.” She kissed Dahlia on the top of her blonde head. “Don’t worry while you’re here. Auntie Grace will keep you safe.”
“Auntie Grace?” Adaryn laughed. “We’re not even related.”
“Not by blood, true,” Grace said, then paused. The two women regarded each other solemnly.
Adaryn broke eye contact first. “A lot has changed,” she said. She chewed the inside of her lip, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
Grace nodded. “If things continue this way, we might even become friends.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” Adaryn said, folding her arms across her chest, but she still wouldn’t look at her.
Grace patted Dahlia on the head. “I suppose I don’t have a choice but to be nice to you if I want to keep spending time with this little cutie.”
Adaryn laughed, and after a moment, Grace did too. She motioned Adaryn over. “Why don’t I brush your hair? I mean this in the nicest way, but it looks perfectly dreadful.”
Adaryn looked suddenly wary, and shook her head. “You won’t get the tangles out. Aaric bought me a comb and I broke it trying.”
Grace snorted before she could stop herself. She held up the implement. “This is a brush. Much better suited to your hair.”
Adaryn looked doubtful, but picked up Dahlia and sat on the stool, placing the toddler in her lap.
“What happened to Aaric?” Grace asked mildly. “I haven’t seen him for months.” She frowned, trying to work the brush through the other woman’s hair. Merciful heavens, but the nomad’s hair was a hopeless tangle!
“He’s . . .” Adaryn’s voice trembled. “He’s gone, Grace.”
Grace stared at the back of Adaryn’s head, her fingers suddenly numb. “What do you mean, gone? Gone? How can he be gone?”
“There was a shift in the volcanic rock, and he—” Adaryn choked on the words, unable to continue.
Grace shook her head. “There has to be some mistake . . .” She trailed off helplessly.
Adaryn sat in a huddle, her shoulders hunched. She didn’t speak.
“I’m so sorry, Adaryn.” Grace didn’t know what else to say. Aaric? Dead? The thought was inconceivable.
“Thank you.” Adaryn said. Her voice sounded strangled. “It was such a senseless way to die. The fool man was probably trying to study rocks.” A laughed escaped her lips, but ended in a sob. “Idiot.”
Adaryn hastily wiped her eyes, then turned to give Grace a watery smile. “Thank goodness for Dahlia. I don’t know what I’d do without her.” She kissed the little girl on the top of her head. “When Ruis is safe I will give myself time to grieve. I can’t afford to do it right now. Let’s talk about something else.”
So they did. The two women spoke about the similarities and difference between their cultures. They spoke of their fathers, Bran, and of times when life was less complicated.
22
Bran
“We attack tonight.” Lord Flores paced his study. “I cannot—will not—allow any more children to be taken. Will you help me?”
“Of course,” Bran said. It was nearing midnight, still the same day Donell and the Twyli had openly kidnapped children. “I don’t want to see anyone else taken either.” He turned to Fyrsil, who was lounging in a chair by one of the bookshelves. “Are you coming, Fyrsil?”
The brigand king gave an exasperated sigh. “I suppose I should. Sooner rather than later would be much more beneficial to the children, of course.”
“What do you mean?” Lord Flores eyed him suspiciously.
Fyrsil picked at the cuticles of his nails. “I mean, the children will be dead within hours, if they aren’t already.”
“Adaryn told me,” Bran said. “The Twyli royalty use the children’s . . . ‘essence’ to make their magic stronger. But they’re not here, and they’ve forbidden the other Twyli to practice it. Why would this Twyli woman you saw steal the children if she’s not royalty?”
“Are you really that dense?” Fyrsil shot him a look filled with contempt.
“Enlighten me.” It was an effort for Bran not to grind his teeth.
Lord Flores was silent, but watched Fyrsil intently.
Fyrsil smiled, obviously pleased by the attention. “We’re dealing with a rogue, Bran,” he replied. “She’s practicing the Dark magic on the sly. Smart girl, if you ask me. If she’s been using th
e children of Ruis as long as you say, her power is probably comparable to the Twyli prince.”
“Then we need to take her out now,” Bran agreed. “We don’t want her joining forces with the Twyli leaders.”
“No, we do not.” Lord Flores stood. “We end this, gentlemen. Tonight. Now.”
Bran and Fyrsil followed the magistrate out. Donell and the Twyli rogue wouldn’t live past dawn.
23
Aaric
“The journey from Sen Altare to Ruis is longer than I remember.” It was early morning, and Luna yawned, looking at the landscape with bleary eyes. They had been traveling for a couple of weeks, heading north. They were making good time, only stopping to eat or rest, but they were still weeks away from Ruis. “I should have chosen a softer saddle before leaving.”
Aaric scanned the area about him, feeling slightly uneasy. The land about them was fairly flat, sagebrush growing everywhere. He couldn’t say why he felt on edge, only that he did. Something was off, but what?
“We’ll stop in the next village and see if we can find one for you, Ms. Flores,” Roon said. He was a tall, thin man with large eyes that perpetually made him look surprised. He was an Oppressor; even when the collars had worked in Ruis, slaves rarely went very far from the city as the collars became less effective the farther they went. Lord Flores had been sure to send proper, Ruis-born servants with his daughter.
“I have an extra blanket, Ms. Flores,” Sara tittered. “In my pack. I can fetch it if—”
“No thank you,” Luna said sourly. “I’m not that old.”
She booted her mare in the flanks, riding forward so she was beside Aaric.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. She peered at him. “Your back is stiff and you keep looking around like something is out there. Brigands?”