by Kara Jaynes
“That’s codswallop, and you know it. You’re leaving because of me.”
Bran shrugged. “Donell found us together. At the social.”
“Who’s Donell? The redhead?” Grace’s face paled, but her chin rose, jaw firming. “He’s little more than a boy, Bran. He’s got to be, what, sixteen?”
“Nineteen.” He frowned. She was making him look like a coward, and she couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than Donell herself. “He told everyone, and, well, they didn’t take it so well.”
“You said you had important matters to discuss with Bran,” Kenroc growled, still standing by the tent opening. “Discuss.” He lit the tent with a ball of glowing light held in his hand, adding to the light of the lamp sitting on the floor.
Grace’s loud sniff spoke volumes, but she let the matter drop. “Something bad is happening in Ruis.”
Bran’s eyes widened with incredulity as Grace explained matters in the city. When she finished, he put up his hands in a gesture of peace. “It wasn’t us, Grace. I can promise you that.”
“I know that,” Grace said, rolling her eyes. “It’s the magistrates you need to convince. How, I have no idea. But I wanted to let you know what you’re going to be up against.” She was silent a moment, her pale brow furrowed before speaking again. “They think you’re responsible, and will act accordingly if you can’t prove it wasn’t you.”
“Not our problem,” Kenroc said. “We’re leaving in a couple of days.”
“You can’t.” Grace spun around to face him. “We need your help, Kenloc. How could you turn your back on the children?”
“Kenroc,” Adaryn’s father corrected with a grumble, but he didn’t answer her question.
She looked up at Bran, her eyes luminous in the magic’s light. “If you say it isn’t you, then of course I believe you. But you’ll help us, won’t you? Annabelle’s sister’s been captured, Bran. It’s getting personal.”
Bran bit his lip, considering. He didn’t know what to do. Looking down at his hands, he could feel Kenroc’s and Grace’s eyes on him like hot coals. He loved Grace, but. . .
“I can’t.” He finally looked up at the young woman. “I want to, but I can’t. My loyalty needs to be, must be, first and foremost to the clan. I need to do what’s best for them, and that’s getting them out of here, away from Ruis. I’m sorry.”
Grace stared at him for a long moment, her face expressionless. Then, pulling her boots back on, she stood, briskly brushing off her trousers even though there wasn’t any dirt on them that Bran could see. “Well. You had best get away then. The magistrates will bring the entire city guard down on your heads before long, I suspect. I have to go, my parents will be sick with worry.” Getting to the tent opening, she glanced back at Bran, eyes filled with unshed tears. “Shame on me for thinking you valued us. What we had.”
“Grace!”
“Don’t follow me, Bran. I can get home by myself.” She practically fled the tent.
Bran half-stood as if to follow her, then slumped back down. He felt defeated. “That woman’s impossible.”
“All women are,” Kenroc said, but he said it absently, frowning at nothing, arms folded across his chest.
“Did I make the right choice?”
“The clan will think you did.”
“Please see her to the edge of the forest, at least,” Bran ordered, “and to the city, if she’ll allow it.”
Kenroc nodded and left, leaving Bran alone to mull over his miserable choice. Throughout his entire life, he’d always picked his clan first, so why did it feel wrong now?
He froze, a thought coming to him. He thought of the fight he’d had with his father. He’d gone against clan orders then, risking his life to protect a bumbling, fool-of-a-man whose head was in the clouds more often than not. When the clan was ready to kill him, he’d defended him.
“I was protecting him for Adaryn’s sake,” he said aloud to himself, but he knew that wasn’t true. He’d considered Aaric a friend and was willing to defend him. Grace, too. He threw himself backward to lie on his blankets, frustration lining his face. Ever since getting tangled in the lives of Oppressors, Bran’s moral compass didn’t know which way to turn.
18
Grace
“Thank you for the offer, Konrec, but your assistance is not needed.” Grace blinked furiously. She refused to cry.
“Getting closer,” Kenroc mumbled, glancing at her. Neither one of them had spoken to the other until now. Their horses stood at the edge of the forest, the plains stretching before them. “Are you sure you won’t get lost?”
Grace tried to sneer at him but her lips wobbled. “I won’t get lost.”
“I can accompany you—”
Grace cut him off. “You need to get back to camp. I suspect my father will come looking for me soon, and I’d hate for him to kill you before I can explain things. I don’t need or want your company. Good day.”
She set off, leaving the wretched man and his wretched forest behind. She waited until she knew she was well and truly alone before letting her tears fall.
What an idiot she’d been! Of course Bran would choose his clan over her. She should have known that. It still hurt, though. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to run away with her when she’d suggested it. She’d been a fool to think the nomads would care what was happening to the children of Ruis. It wasn’t their children being whisked away.
She froze, her hands going slack on the reins as a thought came to her. What if her father was right? What if Bran was kidnapping children? This would be the perfect revenge, stealing their oppressor’s children and future away, either to kill or enslave them. Maybe they sold them far away. She’d thought Bran impossible of such a thing, but she hadn’t thought he would choose his clan over their love either.
She sniffled and hiccupped, wiping tears away angrily. You stop this crying right now. No, she knew it wasn’t Bran. Despite her feelings of anger and hurt, she knew it wasn’t him.
She rode slowly, allowing Blossom to find the surest foothold in the slick grass and snow. It was near to midnight, if not quite, and black as pitch. Ruis was still far off, its lights twinkling in the distance. She’d be glad to be home and hoped Polly had warmed the coals in her bedroom fireplace. Her cloak warded off the worst of the cold, but the damp chill was beginning to work its way into her skin.
Her horse whinnied in fear, and Grace saw furtive movement out of the corner of her eye. Turning to look, something hit her on the side of the head, hard. Losing her grip on the reins, she slid from the horse into the slushy snow. The lights of the sprawling city before her dimmed, and went out.
19
Bran
Dawn was just breaking when Bran received news of Oppressors nearing their camp. A sentry sprinted to tell Bran, a tall, thin lad in his teens. “It’s an army, Bran,” the youth panted, face flushed from exertion. “I’ve never seen this many men in a raid, ever.”
Bran, Kenroc and several of the clansmen ran to meet them, the rest staying behind to ready defenses.
Running through the trees, Bran heard the Oppressors before he saw them. A deafening crack sounded and a bullet embedded itself in a tree next to him. “Stand down!” he roared. He saw a thick knot of Oppressors gathered several yards away and hurtled toward them. The sky jewel hung from a cord around his neck, pulsing with power as he pulled magic through it. He wove wind and slammed it into the Oppressors. Men stumbled and fell, unable to keep their footing. Only one man kept his stance. With a stagger, he lurched forward.
Cold rage seeped into Bran. He didn’t know why they were here, but he would put an end to it. Bloodshed wasn’t ideal, but he would not allow any more nomads to be taken slaves. “Why are you here?” He addressed this to the man standing before him.
The Oppressor looked to be in his middle years. He strode forward proudly, a pistol in his hand aimed at Bran’s heart. His gaze fell on the sky jewel. “You’re the clan chief.” It wasn’t a question. A
nger burned bright in his eyes. “Where is she? What have you done with my daughter?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bran snarled, “but if you don’t want me to destroy you and every last Oppressor here, tell your men to stand down. If even one nomad dies today. . .” He let the implication hang.
“Don’t pretend ignorance,” the man spat, but he waved his arm, and a younger man standing behind him blew a whistle in three, short blasts. Within a few moments, Oppressors fell back, coming from wherever they’d been sent in the woods. They formed a solid wall behind the middle-aged man.
Bran peered at him. With wavy brown hair and a steely set to his jaw, there was something very familiar about him.
“I’ll ask you one more time.” The stranger spoke again, his gun still raised. “Where is my daughter?”
Bran tilted his head, considering his question. “Is she one of the children that have gone missing in the city, then?”
“It would seem so,” the man growled. “But Grace could hardly be called a child at twenty-two years.”
“You’re Lord Flores.” Bran felt like he’d been punched in the gut; this was hardly the way he would have chosen to meet Grace’s father. Without his mask from the social, Bran hadn’t recognized the magistrate. Lord Flores inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Bran’s statement.
“She didn’t return home last night?” Bran’s answer was in the magistrate’s icy glare. “Kenroc!”
Adaryn’s father pushed his way through the crowd of nomads that was beginning to form behind Bran. “You saw Grace home safely last night, didn’t you?”
“She was here then.” Lord Flores expression darkened.
“I saw her to the edge of the forest,” Kenroc replied, ignoring the Oppressor, “but she refused further assistance.”
“Explain yourselves.” Lord Flores eyed the two nomads as if wondering which one he should shoot first.
“Grace didn’t make it home?” Bran felt his chest tighten with apprehension. “If she’s not with you, where is she?”
“I’m giving you approximately thirty seconds to tell me.” The magistrate’s voice had become dangerously mild. “According to the gatekeepers of Ruis, she left the city just a little before twilight. There is a mix of hoof and human footprints in the snow on the plains. The ones that weren’t muddled led us here.”
Bran shook his head. Grace had to be out there, but where? He thought of the missing children. Could they all be connected somehow?
A thought came to him, and his eyes widened with realization. “I didn’t steal your daughter, Lord Flores, believe me, but I think I know where I can find her.”
“Where? And how can I trust you?” Lord Flores smoothed his mustache, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I promise we won’t harm you if you and your men don’t harm us, and I won’t rest until you get your daughter back,” Bran insisted. “Nomad’s honor.”
Some of the Oppressors snorted in disbelief, but the magistrate nodded. “I trust you.” He continued, noticing Bran’s start of surprise, “I know a little of your ways. A nomad’s promise is binding, is it not?” The magistrate finally lowered the gun. “But I’m coming with you.”
Bran shook his head. “If she’s where I believe she is, her life will be at risk if I’m seen with a magistrate. The nomads will kill her without question.”
Flores’ expression hardened. “So nomads did take her.”
“Not my clan,” Bran countered, folding his arms across his chest. “A different tribe. If she’s with them I should be able to bring her back safely, but only if I’m alone.”
Lord Flores studied him with narrowed eyes, then nodded. “Fine. But hurry.”
As he left the camp, Bran thought of the magistrate’s words. A nomad’s promise was binding, but Grace’s father would be one of the first Oppressor’s to trust it. A peculiar man, Lord Flores. Bran would keep a close eye on him.
20
Grace
Light slowly trickled into Grace’s vision. It was cold. She shook her head. It ached, but why? She couldn’t remember. More light. She opened her eyes and her surroundings swam into focus.
She lay in the snow, her hands tied in front of her, the rope secured to the trunk of a fir tree. She tried moving her arms, but to no avail. Whoever had trussed her up had known what they were doing. But who? And why?
“You’re awake. Good.” Grace looked over her shoulder and saw a tall man walk over to her, his hair fiery red. Grace tried to keep her face impassive, but her heartbeat skittered under that cold stare.
Donell chuckled. “No need to be afraid. Yet.”
“I’m not afraid.” Grace spoke through clenched teeth, hoping he wouldn’t hear the lie. This was the man who would have killed her without hesitation if Bran hadn’t stopped him. “Are you going to kill me?”
“I should.” Donell crouched in the snow in front of her, his arms resting on his thighs. He watched her intently. “I should finish what Oisin started.”
Grace studied him. He looked older than when she’d last seen him. He’d grown out of the awkward stage of adolescence and into manhood. He was taller, his gangly limbs more muscular. He had a few nicks on his clean-shaven face, as if he were still getting used to using a razor.
“If the rumors are true,” Grace muttered, “Oisin got what he deserved.”
“You would think that.” Donell’s lip curled in a sneer. “Being an Oppressor.” His expression was one of disgust. “Bran killed his own father trying to protect you and that fool inventor, and did you even stop to consider how Bran might have felt to lose him?”
“I. . .” Grace paused. Donell was right. Why had the thought never occurred to her? Grace would be devastated to lose her own father.
“Well, it doesn’t matter now.” The redheaded man stood. “Bran’s shown his true colors. He’s no longer a true nomad.”
“What do you mean?”
Donell smirked at her. “He’s going to prove it by giving up his position and power. He’s not worthy.” He considered her a moment and his face became mocking. “He’ll give up his current life for one with you.” His smile grew, Grace’s unease growing with it.
21
Bran
It was Donell. He had to be the one responsible for the disappearances in Ruis. I’ll bet my last copper he knows where Grace is, too.
Running through the forest, Bran sprinted as fast as he could. His lungs felt like they were on fire, but with Grace potentially in danger, he couldn’t make himself run any slower.
Lord Flores had seemed remarkably trusting once Bran had given him his promise. As well he should, Bran thought to himself. Once a promise was made, a nomad’s word was binding. It was their way. He was surprised the magistrate knew about it, though.
He reached the plains, hoping to find clues of Grace’s whereabouts, but any tracks her horse would have made were completely trampled by the small army of Oppressors. Fools.
Scanning the ground carefully, he was able to locate a solitary set of tracks that led into the forest, away from his camp. Today was warmer than usual for winter and the snow had partially melted, making the tracks hard to see. If anyone but Bran had been looking for them, they might’ve been impossible to locate.
Entering the woods made things easier. The ground was softer, the footprints easier to see imprinted in the damp earth. Bran frowned, studying them. Whoever left these was carrying something heavy.
Now that he’d found the tracks, he was able to move faster and broke to a run again. He had to find her. Feeling a faint stirring of enchantment, Bran slowed, tilting his head, concentrating. There. The magic was coming off to his left. Bran stalked through the foliage, carefully watching his step. He didn’t know who was casting enchantment.
“Why are you here?”
Bran turned toward the voice. A man stood several feet away, a dark glower on his face. Gruffyn. He was one of the men who’d left with Donell.
“So you came after
all,” the man sneered.
“What are you doing here?” Bran demanded. “The clan is that way.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“I could ask you the same question.” Gruffyn crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t think you’d have the guts to come find us, but he was right. Here you are.”
“Who was right?”
“The clan chief,” Gruffyn answered, putting an emphasis on “chief.”
“I’m the clan chief,” Bran growled.
“Not my chief.”
Bram rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you follow Donell. You’re obeying a man young enough to still be called a boy.”
“He has more honor than you,” Gruffyn countered, his face darkening. “He doesn’t consort with the Oppressors.”
“Where is he?” Bran glared at him. Idiots, the whole lot of them.
Gruffyn smirked and motioned off to the woods behind him. “Follow me. He’s expecting you.”
Bran strode over to him, watching Gruffyn warily. Gruffyn was only a few years older, but was built like a bear, broad shoulders and thick arms. Bran was stronger in magic, but if Gruffyn attacked him it would be a close fight.
As if reading his thoughts, the older man said, “This isn’t an ambush, Bran, even if you deserve it. Donell wants to talk to you.”
“I’m not worried,” Bran snorted. “You forget, I have the sky jewel.”
Gruffyn frowned. “I haven’t forgotten.” He led Bran through the forest, walking down a thin deer trail until the woods opened up into a small clearing. A few tents were set up, smoke rising from a couple of campfires.
A handful of men could be seen, scattered about the makeshift camp, but very few women and almost no children. It seemed that most of Donell’s followers consisted of young, unmarried men. Bran felt his lips quirk in dry amusement. This clan wouldn’t last long.