by Kara Jaynes
Progress was slow. Her fingers stung from the night cold, and the earth grew colder the deeper the roots went. Still, she went on. She had to. She had to prove to King Ruald she was still loyal. Yes, she’d freed Silvan, but it had been for the best. She’d have to try and convince the king.
“Who are you?” a woman’s deep voice asked, filled with surprise and anger. Isabelle paused in her digging to look up. A woman stood less than ten feet away, her slim form hooded and cloaked. “What are you doing to my bitterweed?”
Isabelle stared at the woman. What could she say? What could she do? She’d trespassed and was stealing a plant. She would have laughed at herself if she couldn’t feel the waves of enchantment rolling off the woman in waves. Dark enchantment.
Alinor was a very powerful enchantress.
“I . . .” Isabelle trailed off, and the enchantress tsked in annoyance.
“You know, I am getting very frustrated with trespassers. You’ve come here under the cover of night and are stealing my bitterweed. You shall pay the price.” She raised her hands, pale white in the darkness.
“No, wait!” Still crouched in the dirt, Isabelle flung out a hand beseechingly. “Wait! Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you ask, only please let me take this bitterweed. A woman lies in the near village with the wasting sickness. I come only to help her.”
“Your only reason for coming?” the woman asked. She laughed when Isabelle remained silent. “Very well. I will take pity on the woman. She’s expecting a child, isn’t she? That is why you came for this particular herb. A life for a life. It is a bargain.”
With a swirl of her cloak, the enchantress disappeared. Isabelle stared, stunned, at where the woman stood a moment ago, her mind still processing what had just happened. A life for a life. Isabelle didn’t like the sound of that. What had the woman meant?
The unborn child.
Isabelle dropped her knife, frantically digging through the dirt with her hands. With a final wrench, she pulled up the gnarled roots of the bitterweed. Snatching up her dagger, Isabelle turned and ran back the way she’d come.
The enchantress was going to take the baby. She was certain of it. She had to hurry, she had to warn them.
She hurtled through the wall that was an illusion, nearly running over Ash’s tail. The wolf leaped to her feet, her eyes glinting in the darkness.
“Ash, we have to hurry,” Isabelle panted. “Back to the village, quick!”
Together they ran through the woods, branches slapping at Isabelle’s face, her cloak getting tangled in the brambles. She tore her cloak loose from the thorns and sprinted on, her breath coming in painful gasps.
After what seemed forever the trees thinned, and the lights of the village sprang up in her vision. She was back. Isabelle found the healer’s house and opened the door, stumbled inside, and closed it behind her. She froze, stunned at the scene before her.
A fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with a warm, yellow light. Selene was sitting up in bed, still clearly pregnant. She was drinking something from a cup Marta held to her lips. Silvan stood behind her, holding a tray of what was clearly bitterweed.
He’d found it. He’d found it and had come back in time to help Selene.
Silvan looked up when she came in, his blue eyes registering surprise. “Isabelle? Are you all right?” His gaze traveled down to the bitterweed roots she still clutched. His eyes caught the light, his irises flickering red. His face contorted in rage, the thin metal tray twisting and crumpling his fists. “What have you done?”
The door slammed opened, nearly ripped off its hinges in an incredibly strong gust of wind, and Isabelle fell to her knees, unable to keep her balance. The fire in the hearth shuddered, its light flickering in a wild frenzy.
Alinor stood at the entrance, her hood thrown back, exposing a pale, youthful face, framed by long curly black hair. She smiled at Isabelle. “Well? You’ve delivered your bitterweed. It’s time for you to fulfill your part of the bargain.”
Isabelle stared at her, mouth going dry. “M-me? I thought . . .” Magic that be.
With a snarl, Silvan launched himself at the enchantress, but Alinor was quicker, reaching out to touch Isabelle’s face.
Time and thought slowed, and Isabelle’s world tilted, grew dark, and disappeared.
14
Isabelle was dying. Time no longer held any meaning, her existence was one eternal nightmare. She was shackled to the wall in Alinor’s basement, and try as she might, was unable to free herself.
The enchantress stood several feet away from her, hood thrown back, face turned upward. Her voice was a low continuous chant that went on forever. Isabelle couldn’t remember a time where she had never heard it.
Isabelle stifled a sob, pulling futilely at the manacle that bound her wrist, chained to the wall. She had to free herself, she had to, or she would die.
Her fingers, once smooth and straight, were gnarled and crooked. It hurt to move. Her vision was blurred. She’d no longer be able to shoot an arrow, even if she did ever manage to escape.
Alinor paused in her chanting, turning her face toward Isabelle as if searching for something. Her face was youthful and beautiful, age not yet marring it. She frowned. “I sense you, dragon. I know you’re here.”
Isabelle’s heart clenched as a young man stepped out of the shadows, red-eyed gaze locked on the enchantress, murder in his face. “I’m here for the girl.” Silver hair framed his impossibly beautiful face.
Alinor laughed. “She’s hardly a girl anymore.” She gestured to Isabelle, and Isabelle cringed, trying to hide her face. She couldn’t remember why, but she didn’t want him to see her. Not like this.
“However,” the enchantress continued, “perhaps we can do a trade. A life for a life. If you care for her, as I think you do, you won’t refuse.”
“Can you give her back her youth?” the man asked, and Alinor shook her head, black curls swaying. “I can’t reverse the corpus spell.”
“Yes, you can,” the silver-haired man replied. His eyes glinted as he unsheathed his sword. “In death.” With a roar, he rushed at the woman, his sword a blinding streak of light.
Alinor brought her hands up, lightning crackling from the tips. An arc of light streaked toward the man, but he deflected it, the lightning slamming into the rafters. The house shuddered. The enchantress screamed, and shadows detached from the walls, throwing themselves at the young man.
The man moved with the speed of a snake, his sword a whirling arc of light that tore the shadows to shreds.
Alinor darted past her attacker, attempting to flee up the stairs. With a lunge, the man impaled her on his blade. The enchantress shrieked. Isabelle flinched at the sound, trying to cover her ears.
The silver haired man ripped the sword from Alinor’s body. With a sigh, her body disintegrated into ash, smoke and light.
The light paused, like a thin mist, then rushed into Isabelle with stunning force, ramming her body against the wall. Stars swam in her vision and she blinked, trying to clear it. She shifted, on her hands and knees, and paused, staring at her hands. Her fingers were straight and smooth, and she could see.
“I’m back,” she whispered, touching her face. “I’m back.”
She remembered everything. Silvan. She looked up at him.
The man stood a few feet from her. She shied away from the red-hot anger in his gaze directed at her.
“Are you crazy?” he shouted. He visibly shook with rage. “What were you thinking, going up against an enchantress? What were you thinking?” He took a step closer, bearing down on her. “You promised. You promised you’d stay away from her, and you went anyway. You lied!” Isabelle cowered away from him, her mind going numb with fear.
“Don’t hurt me,” she whimpered. Silvan staggered back as if she’d struck him, falling back into the shadows. His eyes glowed like a feral animal.
“I only wanted to help that village woman,” Isabelle said. “You hadn’t come.”
Silvan’s laugh was cold, chilling her to the bone. “Only? So you didn’t send me away so you could use the bitterweed I brought as a way to show the king you were still a loyal Hunter? Your desperation was solely for the fact a woman was about die, rather than you were about to lose an opportunity to prove yourself?”
A lump formed in Isabelle’s throat. He was wrong . . . but he was also right.
Silvan stalked over to her and, reaching down, touched the manacle. It sprang open. “I thought you were the one, Isabelle. But now I’m not sure anymore.”
Still seated, Isabelle rubbed her sore wrist, looking up at him.
Silvan’s face had lost most of its fury. “I have to go. Ash will be waiting outside the garden. I think she can get you to Illyminatym safe enough.”
No. Isabelle scrambled to her feet. “Don’t, Silvan. Don’t leave.”
The silver haired man ignored her, sheathing his sword. He strode toward the stairs.
Isabelle caught up to him and reached out, touching his shoulder, her fingers trembling.
“I’m sorry I lied.” Tears formed on her lashes. “Please . . .” she whispered. “Please, Silvan. I’m sorry.”
Silvan turned toward her, his red eyes wide, his jaw clenched. He inhaled sharply and in one, swift motion, closed the gap between them, pressing his mouth to hers.
A shock ran through her body at his touch. Silvan’s arms wrapped around her, crushing her to him. His kiss was full of hunger, heat, desperation. One hand came up, tangling in her hair, his other arm tightened around her waist.
Isabelle responded to his need, eagerly running her fingers over him. She could feel the muscle in his shoulders and back through his shirt, the raw and barely contained power that emanated from his body. His magic. His spirit.
Is this love? She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Her soul shivered with longing.
With a shudder that wracked his body, Silvan pulled away, breathing heavily. When Isabelle reached out to him, he held up a pale hand. “Wait.” His eyes were still red. He swallowed, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were blue. He smiled at her; it looked forced. “I’m sorry. I allowed my passions to control me. It won’t happen again.”
He turned away. Isabelle leaped forward, grabbing his wrist. “Don’t go.” She stared up at him, trying unsuccessfully to stop her body from trembling like a leaf in a high wind. Passions taking control sounded all right at the moment.
Silvan looked down at her, his face impassive, but she could feel his pulse pounding against her fingers. So it was real. Whatever he felt for her, was real. “No more lies, Isabelle,” he said quietly.
The house rumbled and Silvan glanced around, his body tensing. “Let’s get you out of here,” he said. “This house is old, much older than it looks, and it appears to held together by enchantment. With Alinor gone, I don’t think it’ll last much longer.”
He pulled his wrist away only to take her hand in his, and went upstairs, leading Isabelle.
Isabelle stumbled after him as if in a dream, watching his lean form, his movements fluid and graceful as they navigated through the old house. She took comfort in the strong reassurance of his fingers curled protectively around hers as he took her down a narrow entry and out into the cold air.
Isabelle blinked, her eyes watering from the glare of the early autumn sun. The garden still lay sprawled before them, immense in size, but seemed less threatening than it had earlier. A low groaning creak sounded behind them and when they turned around, the house was nothing but a rundown cottage, the windows broken and ivy running up the walls. Long deserted.
“It’s the enchantment,” Silvan said quietly. “It’s gone.”
Isabelle was unable to repress a shiver, and Silvan squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Let’s go,” he said. “We got to get you back to Illyminatym.”
“How long was I in there?” she asked.
“Over a week. It was a very powerful enchantment surrounding the house. It took me that long to pass through it.”
More than a week. Isabelle felt like she couldn’t breathe. Jack could be in the city by now. Tyro, too. And if he’d decided to track her . . .
She swallowed, her mouth going dry. Tyro had called her a traitor, and he’d also made it very clear what would happen if one were to betray the kingdom.
“Isabelle. What’s wrong?” Silvan was looking into her eyes, concern in his features
“Nothing.” She smiled up at him and saw his eyes narrow. Too late she remembered he’d told her no more lies. “No, I mean, I can’t tell you yet. But I will.”
“Okay.”
That was easier than expected. She looked at him, surprised, and Silvan smiled down at her. “Tell me when you’re ready.”
She felt a tremor of happiness at his words. She followed him through the garden, feeling strength emanating from his grasp. Isabelle had always found him attractive, but that kiss changed everything. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Isabelle swallowed, a tremor of desire rippling through her. Silvan’s mere presence was intoxicating, and she desperately hoped he felt the same way about her.
15
After Isabelle and Silvan’s confrontation with the enchantress, they continued north for several days, staying off the road. It was raining, but they traveled anyway, not wanting to lose more time. Silvan guided her through the thick forest, seemingly familiar with the woods. When Isabelle asked him, he smiled.
“I’ve spent more time here than in the cities.” His smiled faltered. “It’s safer that way.” Whether for himself or for others, he didn’t say.
Which led Isabelle to another question. “Your eyes. They change color when your curse is stronger, don’t they?” She stepped over a tree root.
Silvan shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Unfortunately, yes.” His look turned rueful. “A dead giveaway, isn’t it?”
“Your eyes are naturally blue.” Isabelle watched him out of the corner of her eye.
“Well, they’re not naturally red, I’ll tell you that.” Silvan’s smiled was strained. His gaze scanned the surrounding forest constantly, watching for danger. Ash trotted ahead of them, ghostlike as she wove in and out of the woodland shadows.
“And violet is when your curse is struggling to take control?”
Silvan nodded curtly. He seemed on edge.
Isabelle’s brow furrowed. A thought coming to her. “Your eyes were red when you . . .” She couldn’t finish the thought aloud. When you kissed me.
The silver haired man glanced at her, his face softening. “I’m sorry about that.” He looked away. “My curse can be difficult to control.”
Magic that be, this was awkward. What if he’d only kissed her because of his curse? She felt her face warm. Please, no. She studied Silvan as he stalked through the forest foliage, finding a small deer path to travel on. His black trousers were form fitting, his loose white shirt unlaced despite the chill in the air. The rain dampened it, and it clung to him, showing the muscle of his shoulders and chest. The man was beyond gorgeous. She felt a shiver run through her body as she looked at him. She’d never felt like this about anyone before, she was sure of it.
Silvan stiffened, his head snapping up to peer into the trees. When Isabelle opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong, he held up a hand for silence. Isabelle froze, straining to hear what he did. Aside from the normal sounds of the forest, she didn’t hear anything.
“Isa-belle!”
Isabelle jumped in fright at the loud, raucous cry. She clutched Silvan’s arm, her heart hammering as she looked around, trying to locate the sound of the voice. “Isa-belle!”
Silvan pointed. High above their heads, in the branches of a large fir, sat something big and black. It hopped down to a lower branch. It was an enormous crow. It trained one beady eye on Isabelle, staring at her without blinking. It opened its beak, croaking her name again.
“Isa-belle! The King demands your presence at once. This is a dire
ct order from the King. Continue north, and return to Illyminatym with all haste!”
With another rough cry, it launched itself into the air, great wings flapping as it flew away.
Isabelle sat on the ground, wrapping her arms around her legs, mind reeling. The king had summoned her. She’d heard of the enchanted crows. It was a quick and effective way of sending important messages to his Hunters.
But why? He knew Isabelle had set out on the journey with Tyro. Wouldn’t any message from the king be for Tyro, the Head Hunter?
There could only be two possibilities. One, something had happened to her family. But then again, King Ruald probably wouldn’t concern himself with most commoners, even if they were related to one of his Fabled Hunters.
The only other logical explanation was that Tyro had already arrived and told the king about Isabelle’s involvement with Silvan.
She hugged her knees tighter. She’d have to face Tyro. She took a shuddering breath; she’d forgotten to breathe.
“Isabelle.” Silvan crouched on the ground next to her, his eyes peering intently into hers. “What’s wrong?”
“Tyro,” Isabelle whispered. Her fingers were tingling. “He knows I freed you from the shadowhold.”
Silvan’s brow furrowed. “The Hunter?” Understanding dawned on his face. “You believe the king has summoned you because of Tyro’s report.”
“What other reason could there be?”
He was quiet, considering her words. “You don’t have to go back,” he said quietly.
“What?” Isabelle stared at him, flabbergasted. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t be a Fabled Hunter. You can give it up.” He smiled faintly. “You don’t have to be a Hunter to fulfill your passion for archery, and you can make a difference in this world, regardless of your social standing.”
Isabelle considered his words. Were they true? If she’d learned anything being away from home, it was that she could do or become anything she wanted.