by Meg Anne
Starshine protested the insult by shooting a small spout of flame at his feet.
Ronan let out a startled shout and jumped to the side, “I meant no insult, lady,” he said hurriedly as he addressed the Talyrian, “I just want to assure that your mistress is well protected.”
Starshine lifted her paw as though to swat at him. Sensing all he had done was insult her further, Ronan looked at Helena for intervention. Amused, despite the corpse leaking blood on the ground behind her, Helena simply shrugged.
Ronan gave her a glare of his own. “Why weren’t you carrying a weapon?” he snapped instead.
It was her turn to look sheepish, “I assumed between my magic and Starshine I would be fine. We hadn’t seen anything to indicate...” she trailed off.
“Why do we bother training, Helena, if you fail to use those skills when you need them?”
“I wouldn’t say I failed, Ronan. I did kill the caebris after all.”
His arms were crossed against his chest, as he considered her words. “So you did, but at what cost?” he asked, referring to her still-dripping nose.
Helena scowled and Ronan shook his head, ready to let the fight go, as the words had stemmed from his concern for her rather than any real disapproval.
“Help me find him, Ronan,” she pleaded softly, “before it gets worse.”
Ronan’s nod was stiff, worry evident in every line of his body. “Let’s get you cleaned up and back to the others.”
Helena sighed, she was not looking forward to that conversation at all.
Chapter Nine
Ronan’s answer to her run-in with the caebris had been more training. The morning after the attack he had woken her by lifting her from her pallet and throwing her into the icy stream. She had stood spluttering, shivering, and shooting daggers at him with aqua eyes swiftly shifting into iridescence. In response, he tossed his sword at her feet and uttered two completely serious words, “Beat me.” There was an unspoken message that followed, whispering to her in his rasping growl, and I will stop.
He pushed her past every physical limit she thought she had, daily. He woke her up before the dawn and had her running drills with at least one of the others but sometimes two. If one of the Circle was unavailable to be her partner for the day, he would unleash himself on her, holding none of his ferocity back.
Helena was ready to murder him. There was only so much of his taunting she could take. She didn’t care that his stubborn brutality had paid off and that she had already far surpassed any accomplishments she had previously bragged about. After a few weeks under his determined tutelage, she could now best most of them in both hand to hand and armed combat more often than not. Except Ronan; that smug bastard continued to beat her, howling with laughter each time he landed a blow or knocked her on her ass.
She remembered the day she had first watched him training with Von, and how he had been the one laying on his back in the dirt cursing at Von to help him stand. Her desire to be the one to put him there, even just once, was what drove her to keep standing long after she wanted to curl into a ball and whimper.
Helena had not asked him for mercy, not once. She knew what drove him to push her so hard was his fear of what could happen to her if her magic ever failed her completely. She could see the concern burning in the back of his icy blue eyes when his calloused hand would reach down to pull her back to her feet. Not that she would allow him to help her up.
Her stubbornness was more than a match for his. If she was being honest with herself, it was because she was just as shaken as he was. The possibility of being in a situation without magic to defend herself, or the others, disturbed her deeply. It had only been a handful of months at most, and already calling her magic to her had become as instinctual as breathing. That was not to say she always had control of it, or even that she was always successful. There were still far more mishaps than she would willingly admit to, but the urge to reach for it was ever present. It was an essential part of her now.
And so they trained, both single-minded in their focus to make her as fierce a warrior as any Daejaran he had trained. The fact that she could already beat both Darrin and Kragen had left her thinking that there was something seriously lacking in the Rasmiri training plan if two of their best could be so easily outmatched, but she would never say so aloud.
“And again,” Ronan snapped, his fiery red hair pulled into a tight knot on the top of his head. Sweaty strands were sticking to his cheeks and neck, looking like trails of blood in the glittering morning light.
Helena wiped at the sweat on her brow, her gaze severe as she moved into position. Her magic was rippling inside her, urging her to pay attention to it like a cat purring at her feet. It was hard to deny that part of herself, but the unspoken rule between them was that there would be no magic during their sessions. The whole purpose of her training was to ensure she would not falter if there came a time that her magic was unresponsive, so she ignored the urge to let it wrap itself around her and instead focused on finding an opportunity to strike.
She circled him slowly, eyeing him as a predator assessing its next meal. She quickly weighed and discarded each potential move, already anticipating how he would counter it before her strike would land. He tossed his ax from hand to hand, shifting his weight between each foot; his coiled energy not allowing him to stand still.
Helena forced herself to be aware of the sounds in the early morning air: the low hum of the insects beginning to wake with the warmth of the sun and the soft caw of the birds that sought their breakfast. The jungle was alive around her, but her focus noted it only as a static image. She was aware of it, but only as a means of determining how it could help or hinder her. The rest of her mind was zeroed in on the opponent in front of her.
Her opportunity presented itself when Ronan had started to twist his body to keep her in front of him. Her move was immediate; there was little, if any, forethought before she swept her leg out and knocked his feet out from under him. He had been expecting her to strike with her weapon, not with her legs, and fell with a muffled grunt. He was already using his momentum to spring back up, but she landed on top of him before he could get his feet beneath him.
She knew that his sheer bulk could work against her so speed would be her asset. She twisted her body around his so that she moved from his chest to his back, wrapping her arms around his neck to cut off the flow of air as she did. She increased the intensity of her hold as he struggled to dislodge her.
Her legs were iron bands around his torso, one of his arms also caught in the hold. He continued to squirm, but eventually tapped at her leg as the hold on his neck became too much for him. She released him immediately, the surge of victory sweet. Before she could say anything, he pulled her to him and lifted her in an elated hug.
“Uh, Ronan, I don’t think you usually hug your trainees when they beat you,” she pointed out chuckling.
“Shut up, Hellion,” he murmured gruffly, using the childhood nickname he had picked up from Darrin. The Circle had decided it was a very fitting name for their Kiri and had taken to using it whenever they were exasperated with her. Needless to say, they were now using it quite often. Ronan held her tightly, squeezing her in his arms, “Well done, Helena, truly. There are few seasoned warriors that can get past me. That you were able to do so after just a few weeks is incredible.”
She bristled with pleasure at his words; the compliment doing much to ease the frustration his weeks of taunting had caused.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” he asked as he stepped back from her, still holding onto her arms.
“Again?” Helena asked, trying not to wince at the thought.
Ronan laughed and shook his head, “That’s not what I was going to say, although we should definitely test if you can repeat your success. No, Kiri, I was going to say that now that you have proven you can beat not only your team but also your Commander, you have earned the right to wear your Jaka.”
Helena went com
pletely still at his words, her eyes going wide at the declaration. She had thought in passing once about asking for a Jaka, the idea of inking her flesh with words of strength and protection a comforting one, but to hear that she had officially earned the right to bear that symbol had tears quickly filling her eyes.
She tried to blink them back, but Ronan spotted them. His smile was warm as he wiped one of her tears away. “He would be so proud of you. You realize that, don’t you?”
Ronan’s voice was gentle and warm. She sniffed back tears as she nodded, the words causing a ball of emotion to lodge at the base of her throat.
His fingers wove into the tangle of her hair and pulled her back into his chest as tears blurred her vision. “He would fight me for the honor of being the one to mark you, declaring it his right as your Mate, although as the one who trained you tradition dictates that it should come from me.”
Helena laughed at that. Von would absolutely balk at the idea of anyone else touching her so intimately, let alone permanently marking her. He would most definitely pull rank and declare that as his Commander, the ritual of the Jaka was his to perform, not Ronan’s. Despite the fact that no such rule existed and he would be completely making it up.
She pulled out of the comforting embrace and wiped at the wetness on her cheeks with a chagrined sigh, “I’m not usually so weepy.”
Ronan offered her a crooked grin, “That’s what every woman says when she’s caught crying.”
Helena rolled her eyes, “I can knock you on your ass again if you’re going to insist on turning into a massive asshole.”
He laughed at the brazen declaration. “You can try, sweetheart,” he taunted.
Helena pretended to consider it, before pronouncing in her most carefully neutral voice, “I think that I’ve wounded your male ego enough for one day.”
His knowing grin made her smile despite herself. He nudged her with his shoulder, “I meant what I said. You did well.”
She beamed, the sweat, dirt, and achy muscles long forgotten as they leisurely made their way back toward the camp. “So when do I get my tattoo? Do I get to pick where it goes?” she asked, recalling that both Ronan and Von had their Jakas over their hearts and down their right arms, although she had not noticed the same markings on Serena.
“It is your choice. Most go for the traditional placement,” he rested his hand on his chest to indicate his own markings, “but many of the women prefer their back or arms.” Ronan shrugged as if the placement did not matter, “We place it over the chest because it is closest to our heart. Thus the words rest above the most vulnerable part of ourselves. But it is merely symbolic. The location does not make the words any more powerful.”
Helena considered it, trying to imagine her skin marked with the dark ink. She could not imagine herself with the symbols swirling along her collarbone and over her shoulder, no matter how hard she tried. She liked what Ronan had said about having the words rest above her heart though, which had her asking eagerly, “Can I put it on my ribs? Just under my chest? That way it will still be close to my heart.”
Ronan’s smile widened, “As you wish, Kiri, although I should warn you that is one of the most painful places to be marked.”
Helena shrugged, not overly concerned with his assessment. Pain, she had realized, was subjective. There were jagged edges in her soul where none had ever existed before losing Von. She was already living with the agony of that loss scraping and tearing at her very core every day. She highly doubted the handful of hours someone poked at her flesh would even register. Nothing could possibly compare to the all-consuming ache of losing the most vital part of yourself.
Von was lost in the mist, his nerves frayed and over-exposed. As soon as the mist would begin to fade, he’d break into a sweat and start shaking, terrified about facing the fresh hell it would torture him with. He had watched the most horrific and painful parts of his life replay, sometimes in slow motion, on a continuous loop. His brother’s accident. His father’s shame when he declared himself a mercenary. Ronan almost dying, his face slashed in half and blood covering his unconscious body. Other soldiers whose names he did not speak but would never allow himself to forget. Men who had died due to his arrogance and the sheer stupidity of decisions he had made because of it. Battle after bloody battle, and all of the bodies of the innocents that accompanied them.
Then there were the other visions. The ones that hadn’t happened but still could. Those hallucinations almost exclusively involved Helena, her aqua eyes beseeching him to save her and then condemning him when he could not. Over and over again he had watched her get beaten, raped, or torn apart by one type of savage monster after another. Every time these visions assaulted him, he damn near pulled his arms out of their sockets trying to get free of the invisible chains that held him in place. It was driving him insane watching the nameless and faceless beings torment her. With every failure, he felt his grip on sanity slip a bit more.
He swallowed, his throat still raw from the last bout of screaming. His lips were cracked and bleeding from biting down on them in his struggles, his body sore and bruised from pulling so hard against his restraints. There were also wounds he could not account for, deep red welts along his wrists and ankles. Their presence did not seem to make any sense as he had never seen any bindings. But then, what of being trapped in this misty place made actual sense? Who could even say what was real or not here?
There was a chattering of voices in the distance that seemed to be growing closer. It was not one of the voices he recognized, or associated, with the visions. Von laid curled into himself, his aching body protesting each movement as he forced himself to try and move into a sitting position. Everything within him objected to the weakness his position conveyed, and yet there was nothing he could do to protect himself against the relentless assaults. Even so, he refused to meet the next bout of torture while lying down like a child. Until they actually broke him, he would continue forcing himself to stand up and face it head-on.
He could not guess how long it had been since the last vision, but he knew since he was mostly coherent that the next round was nearly upon him. The voices which seemed to be beside him now confirmed it. Despite their nearness and volume, he could not make sense of the words, only the underlying urgency.
Something was happening. Von struggled to focus, trying to force his brain to comprehend the sounds around him. He pulled himself toward them, staggering to his feet. He was rewarded with the word “vessel” but alone the word meant nothing to him.
There were two distinct voices now, one of which was clearly angry. He could feel the emotion more than hear it. In fact, that voice was not raised at all. It was more of a harsh whisper he strained to hear. Von could sense the anger of the speaker through the tendrils of ice it wound around him. It was a cold so fierce it burned white hot. The effect caused the hair on the back of his neck and arms to lift in warning. This kind of anger was something best avoided.
The other voice was a soft, protesting keen. This must be some reprimand, he decided. Someone must have failed and the keening voice was trying to get out of a punishment. At least, that was the sense he got, given the way the other voice seemed to cut off and speak over the other. Was it him? Had he failed and this person was taking the blame for it? He certainly felt like a failure.
Von couldn’t understand what the mist was trying to accomplish this time. He felt no personal connection to these voices, only confusion. Although, he was still warily anticipating the emotional blow that was sure to follow. It always did.
Up ahead a dazzling light flared through a crack in the midst. Von squinted, shielding his eyes from the unexpected brightness. What in the Mother’s name is happening? The beacon of light was new to him, as well. There would be illumination during one of the visions, and there was always an eternal glow in the mist, but not the harsh yellow light which was currently blinding him.
He stumbled toward it, his body in agony at the movement. The light grew b
righter the closer he moved toward it, and something was whispering frantically in the back of his mind for him to remain in the safety of the mist. Von laughed harshly at the thought, the safety of the mist. What kind of warrior was he, if he was content to remain in the arms of his captors, even the invisible ones?
The light was becoming painful in its intensity; its harsh glow beginning to make his eyes burn. He squeezed them closed to gain some relief but did not stop moving. This was no gentle sunshine; he felt no warmth the closer and brighter it became. His curiosity was eating at him. Von was certain this was some trick of the mist and he was eager to uncover its deception. If nothing else, the end of the vision would allow the soft, lilting voice to find him once more and soothe the ache the vision would surely leave behind. With a final push, he stepped into the blinding center of the beacon and forced his eyes wide open with a ragged gasp.
Rowena paced at the foot of the prisoner’s bed. Her anger was making the room turn cold, as ice began to coat the surface of the walls. Gillian shivered and tried to cover her reaction by rising to her feet. It had been four weeks since she had last promised her mother that Von would wake. Four weeks with absolutely nothing to show for it.
She had sat in the room with him so long she had begun to feel like she was the real prisoner. Resentment ate away at her insides; why should she be trapped so? They had the bait, why did it matter if he was conscious or not? At least this way he was not a threat to them. The thoughts, though they bolstered her courage, would never be voiced. She knew better than to question her mother.
“Wake him,” she hissed.
“Mother, I—” Gillian started to protest.
The use of the word caused Rowena’s lips to twist with distaste before her face settled back into its expressionless visage. “Now,” she ordered. For all that the word was whispered, it cracked like a whip.