Yvan starts to move, the muscles of his neck and shoulders tensing against my hold as he leaps up, steadily and effortlessly. I can feel his strength, his grace as his arms and legs move around me, and I quickly abandon all shyness to cling tightly to him for dear life.
I don’t dare open my eyes or think about how much slick ice coats the Spine as we ascend at what feels like breakneck speed. Instead, I try to remember complicated apothecary formulas. I silently recite the names of different constellations. I think about the steps of making a violin in sequence and try to visualize them all.
After a while, an icy wind picks up, and the sounds around us are different—open and stark. I realize we must be quite high above the trees.
Then our orientation changes, and I feel Yvan’s hands beneath my thighs, steadying me. “Are you okay?” he asks gently, and I nod into his shoulder.
“We’re at the top,” he says, keeping a tight hold on me as wind whips against us. “The view is beautiful.”
I open my eyes slightly, glimpsing a dazzling blue sky above. He turns and hoists me up a fraction so I can see the view over his shoulder, and I gasp with wonder.
We’re on a bare outcropping of rock, the wilds past the Southern Spine splayed out before us. The villages of Keltania are tiny and still far off, the land snow-dusted and glittering in the sunlight. It’s so spectacular, and I should be freezing, but I’m not at all. Yvan’s so decadently warm.
I close my eyes again when we begin the descent, an almost vertical drop. After a while, the sharp smell of pine trees grows stronger, and before I know it, Yvan’s stepping onto level ground.
“We’re down, Elloren.” His lips brush against my neck as he says it, warm and soft.
I open my eyes to see a thick pine forest surrounding us. Yvan loosens his hold on me as I drop my feet to the ground. I untwine my arms from his neck and step back, instantly missing his warmth as the cold snakes in under my cloak.
But more than the warmth, I miss being so close to him.
“So, what are you, Yvan?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light. “Mountain Goat Fae?”
He smiles slightly at my joke, but then his expression turns pained.
“Yvan, is it really that bad?” I ask gently.
He doesn’t answer, but the anguished look that momentarily passes over his face fills me with concern for him. Whatever it is, it is that bad, and he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.
At least not with me.
Yvan averts his eyes, his face tensing. “We should be on our way. Andras will have the horses waiting for us. And we’ll want to reach Lyndon before dark.”
I nod in agreement, and we continue on, side by side, winding through the trees, our arms bumping against each other every now and then. Every time it happens, a zing of heat trickles through my fire lines, and we give each other a hesitant smile, and I resist the urge to take his hand.
My mind wanders back to the night we freed Naga. I remember how Yvan touched my face; how it seemed like he wanted to kiss me. And that night by her cave, when we recklessly let our fire power rush toward each other. In those rare moments, it was as if his true self finally emerged. And for a brief moment earlier, when we were wrapped around each other climbing the Spine, it felt like that again.
Feeling reckless, I let my hand lightly bump into Yvan’s and hook a finger around his. He inhales sharply, and I feel the hard flare of his fire power as he shoots me a heated look.
Then he twines his fingers wordlessly through mine.
* * *
Eventually, we come to the end of the wilds, and I can hear the sound of male voices mixed with horses snorting and whinnying up ahead.
“Make sure you hide your hair and pull down your hood,” Yvan cautions me, peering out through the trees and dense brush toward the horse market, his fingers still clasped around mine.
My face is already camouflaged by a dye Tierney mixed for me, the tone a ruddy Keltic coloring to hide the emerald glimmer of my skin, and my hair is mostly hidden by a long white linen scarf wrapped around my head.
I let go of Yvan’s hand and push every last strand of my jet-black hair under the scarf, drawing the hood of my cloak over it. Then I pull up my woolen scarf, hiding the lower half of my face.
“Do I still look like my grandmother?” I ask him, the wool of my scarf scratching against my lips as I speak.
“No,” Yvan says with an affectionate smile as he assesses me. “You look Keltic. I don’t think your grandmother would have been caught dead in clothing like that.” He holds out his elbow, and I thread my arm through his. “Just stay close to me until we find Andras.”
* * *
Activity swirls all around us as we enter the market. Multiple horse dealers show off steeds of every color and breed. Keltic men kneel next to the animals, studying them, running their hands down the animals’ legs to check for defects, bargaining for a good price.
The warm smell of horse droppings, fur and hay hangs heavy in the air. The pungent scent brings back good memories of caring for our own two horses at Uncle Edwin’s and happy times riding with my brothers.
Andras’s horses are by far the healthiest and best-looking of all the horses there, and he’s surrounded by a number of interested buyers. He catches sight of us and waves, then says something to the men around him and strides over to where we wait near the pasture’s gate.
“Hello, Andras,” Yvan says.
Andras nods in greeting and glances up at the Southern Spine. “I didn’t expect to see you two until much later. You made good time.”
“It was my extraordinary climbing abilities,” I nervously joke. “It was like I owned the Spine. I was getting a little tired of having to keep rescuing Yvan from falling to his death, though. It got old real fast.”
Andras cocks one black eyebrow at me in surprise as Yvan’s mouth lifts into a wry grin.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m a bit on edge.”
Andras laughs and goes to fetch our mount, returning a few seconds later with a beautiful ebony mare, to the evident disappointment of the man who was assessing her.
The mare is already saddled up and ready to go, and I feel grateful for Andras’s attentiveness.
“You don’t have to hurry,” Andras tells us. “I’ll be here all day tomorrow. I’ll wait for you.”
Yvan takes a few minutes to pat the mare’s neck and mane to soothe her before easily swinging himself into the saddle. Andras helps me climb up behind Yvan before he makes his way back to his prospective buyers.
As I watch Andras’s broad back recede, I wrap my arms around Yvan’s waist and pull myself in tight against him. The muscles of his abdomen stiffen in response, but then he relaxes. It feels intimate, holding on to him like this. And more than a bit thrilling.
“So,” Yvan says, turning his head so he can peer back at me, his lips lifting in a teasing smile. “It sounds like I can count on you to help me back over the mountain tomorrow.”
“Only if you ask me very nicely,” I say enticingly, wrapping my arms a little tighter around him. “And say ‘please.’”
I rue the overly flirtatious words as soon as they’re said, acutely aware that we’re crossing too many boundaries with each other.
Yvan’s banked fire gives a hard flare, his eyebrows go up, a spot of color lighting his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I backtrack. “I’m just...nervous.”
“It’s okay,” he says, smiling slightly, his hand coming up to caress mine, and my breathing turns erratic.
Yvan stiffens, as if he’s suddenly remembered himself, his hand falling away from mine. He makes a sharp clicking sound, jerks his heels in toward the horse, and we’re off.
CHAPTER TWO
THE SURGEON
For the next hour we travel through small Keltanian villages and farms, and a growin
g feeling of shame and dismay descends upon me.
I’ve never seen true, widespread poverty before, and I know that my people are largely to blame for the hardship that plagues Keltania. While the Gardnerians live in ornate towns and cities, feasting on food harvested from lush, fertile fields, this country is downtrodden and worn, its people weathered and subdued.
I remember reading about what happened during the Realm War—how the Gardnerian forces drove the Kelts off the most fertile farmland, drastically shrinking the country’s borders and uprooting families who had worked the same fields for generations. I can almost hear Lukas’s voice in my mind, smugly reminding me that the Kelts treated the Fae in much the same fashion. But as I survey the scenes around me, I’m more certain than ever that it’s past time to find a better way.
Late afternoon descends, the day growing increasingly cold and overcast as dark clouds gather in the sky. Yvan and I stop briefly outside a small tavern to tend to our horse and eat. Andras has packed bread, cheese and dried fruit for our trip, and I fish the food eagerly out of one of the saddlebags as Yvan ties the mare’s reins to a hitching post.
People come and go about their business, their horses blowing out steam from warm noses as they pass.
As Yvan sets some food out for our horse, a muscular, elderly man spots him from across the wide dirt road and yells his name. The man’s snow-white beard pokes out from under his scarf and his warm brown eyes are full of delight.
Yvan straightens as he approaches.
“Yvan, my boy,” the man beams, reaching up to squeeze Yvan’s arm. “Let me have a look at you, lad. It’s been a good, long while, it has. You’re turning into quite the tall young fellow, aren’t you now?” He looks to me with rosy-cheeked good humor. “And who’s this you have here with you? A lady friend?” His eyes twinkle at Yvan, full of mischief. “And not Miss Iris, by the looks of it.”
“No,” Yvan says, his voice level. “This is Ren. Ren, this is Phinneas Tarrin, a longtime friend of my family.”
It surprises me, his calling me Ren. That’s something only my brothers and Gareth call me, but I realize immediately how smart this is. Like a fake name, but one I can easily remember.
“Ah, so it’s Ren now, is it?” Phinneas chides Yvan, his tone full of suggestion.
“It never was Iris,” Yvan replies evenly.
“Not if she had any say in it, lad!” Phinneas chortles, slapping Yvan on the back. “You playing hard to get all the time! Poor Miss Iris. Ah, well, such is the fickleness of youth. Pretty eyes, this one has.” He leans in toward Yvan, as if about to tell him an important secret. “Better not let Miss Ren here get away.”
“I won’t.”
His promise both surprises and warms me.
“You don’t want to end up a lonely old coot like me,” Phinneas jokes, eyes twinkling mischievously. His gaze turns wistful. “Exactly two years and twelve days since the missus passed away. Ah, well, I’ll be joining her soon enough, if the Gardnerians have any say in the matter. All of us will, no doubt. No match for their Mages and dragons, the whole lot of us. But no matter. Better to go down fighting, I say.”
Phinneas winks at Yvan, then wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Be careful of this young man, lass. Hangs with a dangerous crowd, he does. Lot of revolutionaries, every last one of ’em. Stays out of trouble these days, though, off at that University of his.” He shoots Yvan a look of mock disapproval. “All that study taking the fight out of you. Ach, it’s just as well. Wouldn’t want to scare off your lady here. Seems a quiet one, she does.”
“She avoids trouble at all costs,” Yvan tells him soberly, and it takes all of my self-control to suppress a laugh.
“Best be avoidin’ you, then, lad,” Phinneas says, chuckling to himself.
“That’s good advice, actually,” Yvan says, an edge of seriousness to his tone now.
Phinneas peers at Yvan for a brief second, as if momentarily thrown by the comment, then leans in to reassure me. “I’m only joking, Miss Ren. Yvan here, he’s a fine young man. Known him most of his life. You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone better.” He gives my shoulder one last squeeze before releasing me and patting Yvan’s arm. “I best be leaving you two to be on your way. You take good care of Miss Ren, here.”
“I will,” Yvan replies with conviction.
“All right then,” Phinneas says, regarding us warmly. “I’ll be off. Give my best to that fine mother of yours.”
* * *
After Phinneas leaves, Yvan and I share the food, eating in silence. I wonder—rather unhappily—about his long history with Iris, and what Phinneas would have said if I’d removed all my wrappings to reveal I’m not only a Gardnerian, but Carnissa Gardner’s granddaughter.
And I also wonder, as I surreptitiously glance at Yvan, what he meant when he told Phinneas he wouldn’t let me get away.
“I’m going to get some water for all of us,” Yvan says, finishing his food and wiping crumbs off his clothing. “I’ll be only a minute or so. Stay with the mare. Horse thievery is pretty rampant here.”
I warily scan the crowd as he disappears into the tavern, hoping there won’t be any trouble. The threat of thievery is disconcerting, but I can understand how the impoverished people here could be driven to desperate acts to feed themselves and their families.
Yvan is quick about his task, but when he returns with a jug of water, he looks stunned, as if he’s just seen a ghost.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
He waves my question off, his face stricken. “Just more bad news about the Gardnerians. Sometimes there are things that are...difficult to hear.”
“Did something happen?” I ask gently.
Yvan hesitates, his eyes looking far away. I notice he’s paler than usual. “It’s just...someone I know,” he says, handing me the jug to stow in our saddlebags. “Someone who went against the Gardnerians.”
It’s clear Yvan doesn’t want to elaborate further, and that he’s deeply upset, so I let it drop. He mounts the mare, then extends a hand to help me into the saddle, and we continue on the road toward Lyndon.
* * *
We reach Clive Soren’s surgery practice a little before twilight falls, the shadows around us lengthening. It’s a sturdy, whitewashed building with a sign outside that reads Clive Soren, Master Surgeon.
Yvan strides through the unlocked front door, seeming quite at home here. I cautiously follow, looking around curiously. The front room is filled with dark wooden bookcases containing numerous medical texts, and a row of chairs lines the only spot of wall not covered with books.
Yvan tells me to wait for him, so I take a seat and pull off my winter coverings as he crosses the room to another door, knocking before he enters. I catch a fleeting glimpse of another space much like this one, but instead of books, the shelves are packed with rows of glass jars filled with a variety of medicinal herbs and tonics.
A deep voice booms through the partially open doorway. “Yvan Guriel! What are you doing here?”
I listen as Yvan explains that he brought someone for Clive to meet.
“You seem a bit cagey, Yvan,” Clive teases. “It’s a woman you’ve brought, isn’t it? Finally found someone at the University, did you? And I’m willing to bet it’s not Iris. I imagine she’s not too happy about that.”
I’m beginning to flat-out despise Iris. I hate that she has a history with Yvan, and I don’t. And I hate how everyone we meet wants to talk about it.
Yvan says something else I can’t hear, and Clive laughs heartily. A chair scrapes against the wood floor and heavy footsteps make their way toward the door.
It’s clear from Clive’s expression as he steps into the front room that he’s prepared to like me. He’s a ruggedly handsome man—tall and broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, with dark brown hair and brown eyes that rival Yvan’s in intensity. He also has
the air of someone used to being in charge, and who it’s best not to cross.
“And you would be?” he asks, his smile dampening a bit as he takes in my black hair, my infamous looks.
I extend my hand. “Elloren Gardner.”
The remnants of his smile quickly darken to an expression of stunned outrage. He suddenly looks as if he’s holding his breath and fighting back the urge to strike at me with both fists, which are now balled up at his sides.
“I need to speak with you, Yvan,” Clive says roughly. He glares at me, strides back into the other room and slams the door.
Stung, I move toward the door, their voices carrying straight through the wood.
“What the hell are you doing? Bringing her here?”
“We need your help.” Yvan’s voice is firm.
“‘We’? Interesting people you’re aligning yourself with these days, Yvan.”
“She’s not what you think.”
“Oh, really? She’s not the granddaughter of Carnissa Gardner, then?”
“She is.”
“I’ve never taken you for a complete idiot before, Yvan.”
“I’m not.”
“Are you sleeping with her? This...Gardnerian?” He says the word like it’s the vilest insult imaginable.
“No.” Yvan’s voice is tight with offense.
“So, you haven’t given leave of every last one of your senses, then.”
“I’m not sleeping with her,” Yvan says, his tone hard.
There’s silence between them for a moment.
“What have you told her about me, Yvan?” Clive’s voice is low and combative.
“That you’re a friend. Someone who might be able to help us. And that you’re involved in the Resistance.”
Clive snarls a low oath. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be mixed up with this girl?”
“Yes.”
“Has she been wandtested?”
“She’s a Level One. She only looks like her grandmother. She has none of her access to power, and Elloren’s nothing like her.”
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