Shawna Thomas

by Journey of Dominion

  Mohan smiled. “Sounds like he messed with the wrong kian.” He nodded. “The leader of the caravan. One with an eye for the letter of the law and not its spirit.”

  “What can I get ya?” The barkeep got down to business.

  “Dinner and a room.” In the warmth of the inn, the exhaustion he’d kept at bay hit him all at once.

  The man signaled to a small, elderly woman, who disappeared into the back then came out with a steaming bowl and loaf of bread. Mohan placed a copper coin on the counter. The stew was watery and mostly vegetables but managed to warm him in a way he hadn’t been since leaving his troupe. He’d been eating dried provision and not pausing long for those.

  “Where you headed?”

  Mohan looked up. The barkeep must be bored. “Greton,” he said after he swallowed.

  The man opened his eyes a little wider. “Then I hope you’re planning to stay a while.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Fellow came through yesterday. The pass is closed.”

  The spoon dropped on the counter and spattered stew on the freshly cleaned surface. “What?” No.

  The barkeep shrugged and wiped up the stew, depositing the spoon back in the bowl. “Pass is closed. It is a sight early. Strange. We haven’t even gotten snow yet. But I don’t doubt it. For the last few days the mountains have been shrouded in dark clouds.” He pointed outside. “Same clouds that are heading this way, though they’re not so dark as they were. Might peter out before it gets here.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m no seer.”

  The stew solidified in Mohan’s stomach. He was too late.

  “Say, something wrong with the stew? You’ve gone all pale-like.”

  Mohan shook his head. The pass was closed? It didn’t seem possible.

  “Ah, did you have a girl in the valley?”

  “Something like that,” Mohan croaked. He was going to be sick. “Where’s the room?”

  “You haven’t finished your dinner yet.”

  “I can’t eat any more.”

  “You’re not sick, are you?” The man’s voice had taken on a suspicious tone.

  “No. Not sick. Been riding too hard. This is the first real meal I’ve had in days.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either.

  The man nodded, suddenly sympathetic. He handed the bowl to the old woman then pointed up a narrow stairway. “First door on your right.”

  Mohan nodded. As he turned, the old woman scraped the remaining stew in his bowl back into the pot. He staggered up the stairs to his room. He’d stay the night. He and Avi were too tired to do anything today. And in the morning...

  What options did he have? He’d failed her. He’d failed Ilythra.

  * * *

  From the high window, Bredych couldn’t hear the sound of the horse’s gear or the rough Rugian dialect, but he could imagine it as clearly as if he were among them. The Rugian horses left a dark, muddy trail through the pristine dusting of snow as they began the long trek up the mountain. Grisom, the Rugian chieftain, had wanted to return to the other side of the Har Neider before winter closed the pass. Bredych had let him think it was entirely his idea, but it suited him to have them distant for now. At least until after spring. A smile crept on his mouth. No one had questioned why the western pass had closed this year before the higher eastern pass. He’d even heard some of the villagers remark that the gods had shown favor this year by bestowing mild weather. Simpletons.

  He slowly turned from the vista outside to the room, but he didn’t pay attention to the ornate furniture or the fire raging on the grate. From memory, he walked past the tapestries and a collection of golden chalices toward the fire without a second thought. His mind was focused on one thing: Ilythra.

  He sat in his favorite chair, reaching for the glass of wine his servants knew better than to forget to place near his chair in the evening. She’d been different than what he’d expected. He closed his eyes as though a stronger image might dwell in the darkness behind his lids. There was a fire within her, a drive that when realized would equal his own. Bredych was not above admitting a miscalculation. The keeper was young and uneducated, but she was no lackey of Zeynel’s.

  A spark of excitement kindled in his belly as he thought of the ways he could help her garner the experience she needed. When he considered what they could accomplish side by side, the spark graduated to warmth spreading through his groin.

  No woman had affected him that way since Ciera. Ciera. Even now her name brought with it a delicious anger. She’d been the cause of her own downfall. He sighed. In the end, she’d been less than what she could have been, shackled by a tyrant of a husband. Revenge will be mine, Ewen.

  He’d planned on giving Ilythra to Erhard, to keep the king busy and out of his way until everything fell into place and to have the stone close at hand until he was ready to make his move against the Siobani. He’d moved too quickly once long ago. He learned from his mistakes.

  All reports said that Ilythra was subdued and seemed tired and a little distracted. Just where she should be. It was time to concentrate the dose again, to disable her even further. Take her mind. He was sure the stone keeper didn’t know he couldn’t take her stone by force, just as she couldn’t take his. She needed to give it to him freely. And she would, once she was addled enough.

  When she’d first entered the valley, she’d wanted to kill him. He smiled. Perhaps revenge wasn’t in her nature because that had been the first thing to fall victim to the fragrance. One more step and she’d be a mindless puppet. But was that what he wanted? He missed the fire in her gaze.

  Bredych took a deep breath and opened his eyes. The king was a fool and didn’t even have the capacity to realize what Ilythra was capable of; but he did.

  He would alter his plans just a little. Instead of subjection—where was the fun in that?—perhaps recruitment was a better plan of action.

  * * *

  Ilythra gazed toward the snow-topped mountains, her breath dappling a misty halo around her face. She glanced back to the castle walls, tinged green with moss and growing vines, and pulled her cloak around her shoulders. It was increasingly hard for her to think indoors.

  The castle grew more active each day with the approach of Emdarech, a festival celebrated on the cusp of winter before the first storms raced across the land. In the castle, servants bustled up and down corridors, cleaning and airing linens in preparation. She glanced around. They were late this year, or the storms were early. Boughs of ivy hung on every imaginable surface, even in the kitchen. One of the cooks told her these were an offering of sorts to the mountain gods. The plant seemed to thrive indoors and had already sent out roots seeking moisture in the stone walls.

  Aclan was healing with no further sign of infection, but it would be days before she could remove his stitches.

  She hesitated, in no hurry to go back indoors. Wait, the library. She’d forgotten again. She’d planned to go search the books in the library today. The odd lax feeling clashed with an illogical sense of contentment. The garden had become a haven of sorts and every morning she walked its winding trails, watching its slow decline into the winter. In inclement weather, she’d taken to strolling along the castle’s many corridors.

  A horse’s angry neigh cut the morning silence. Ilythra picked up her pace and headed toward the stables. Three men, arms straining, held ropes attached to a horse in the corral.

  One of the men flew back, the victim of a well-placed kick. Shouts passed between the men, competing with the horse’s protests. Ilythra recognized Bosky, the head groom, but focused on the horse. At first she thought it was a Heleini animal but realized it was impossible. The stallion tossed his chiseled head, arched his neck, nostrils flared. He’s going to rear.

  The horse rose up in the air, shaking his head, while the grooms held on to the ro
pe, their eyes wide with fear. The horse came down, breathing heavily from his nose. His pale coat, now darkened with sweat, gleamed in the sun, ears alert for movement. Beautiful.

  “Where did he come from?” she asked a stable boy.

  “Found him wandering the woods, they did. Billy of a time catching him.”

  “I can imagine.” A flicker of interest. She leaned against the fence. Something in her responded to the stallion.

  “Watch out!”

  The man holding the second rope jumped in time to escape the horse’s front legs.

  “Leave him in the corral. He’ll come to the stables when he’s good and hungry.” Bosky slapped the dust off his leggings, glaring at the horse, and then saw Ilythra. “I wouldn’t get too close. That one’s a handful.”

  “You found him roaming the woods?” Impossible. Who would let an animal of obvious quality go?

  “Yep, wasn’t nearly so wild with the trees all around. Don’t think he’s ever seen a barn before—least, he wouldn’t go in it.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  The groom gazed at the horse. “Don’t rightly know. Not many wild horses nowadays. Mostly been caught and corralled.” He shook his head. “He’s one fine piece o’ horseflesh though.”

  Ilythra’s heart pounded as the horse focused in her direction. Eyes wide, the stallion shook his head, throwing his dark mane behind him.

  “That’n has a temper.” The groom’s voice held respect. “But did ya see the intelligence in those eyes?”

  Ilythra nodded. She had.

  Bosky made a noise low in his throat. “Well, good day. Don’t get too close.”

  Leaning against the fence, she watched the horse. The stallion kept his ears alert, glancing toward her at regular intervals and shaking the ropes still attached to his neck.

  “You’ll get tangled,” Ilythra called. “You’re going to have to let someone take those ropes off.”

  The stallion turned to her, pawed the ground and then stepped closer.

  She felt suddenly restless as though she was trying to remember something and couldn’t. “I’m not sure you’re wild at all. I think you’re opinionated and don’t like being told what to do.”

  The stallion took a few more steps toward Ilythra. His ears twitched. He pawed the ground, lowered his head and blew into the earth. When he looked up, he seemed to be considering her.

  “You are a smart one,” she said, her voice soft. The horse neared then paused before her, nostrils flared. Delicate whiskers tickled her chin as the horse butted his nose gently against her chest.

  Ilydearta? Did the horse sense the stone?

  She slowly reached out to caress the stallion’s forehead. Impossible—how could a horse know she had one of the Triune stones? The horse sidestepped and whirled, stopping a wheel away.

  “Coincidence or not, you need those ropes off you.” Slowly, she climbed the short fence. The horse snorted and moved back another step. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you or try to take you anywhere.”

  The stallion shook his head, eyes trained on Ilythra.

  She stretched out her hand and walked slowly forward, letting the stallion become familiar with her presence. “A fine horse like you needs a name.” She paused and considered the animal. “Melior. How’s that?”

  Every sense alert, Ilythra removed the ropes. When the last one lay at her feet, Melior bolted to the other side of the corral. Ilythra stood still, watching. Melior snorted, closing the distance between them again. When he’d reached halfway, he spun and retreated. Ilythra didn’t move.

  “I can stand here all day, boy. I’ve got nothing better to do.” The truth of her words alarmed her, but she didn’t take her gaze off the horse.

  Ilythra stood for a moment longer before the horse approached. His warm breath blew tendrils of her hair free from its braid, tickling her cheek. She ran her hand down his neck, across his shoulder and toward his hip. His velvety skin rippled under her touch. When she reached his back leg, he stepped away.

  “Still don’t quite trust me. That’s okay, you will.” Ilythra stood and pointed to the stable. “In there, you’ll find food and shelter from the cold.” She stepped back. “There are also a few nice mares you might like.” After jumping back over the fence, she turned. “I’ll be back, Melior. Don’t worry. You and I are going to be friends.”

  * * *

  Rothit circled. Sweat ran freely down his face, his eyes narrowed. A flexed muscle gave his next move away. Ilythra met his blade with her own, the dull thud of wooden practice swords echoing in the almost empty arena. With a twist of her wrist, Rothit’s sword flew onto the dirt floor.

  A furtive clapping sounded from an alcove. Ilythra grasped Rothit’s arm in a warrior’s grip. “Good match.”

  The captain of the guard scowled at the prince. “Show some loyalty, boy.” He pulled her close. “Your reactions are slower than normal. Do you feel unwell?” he asked in a quieter voice.

  “I beat you, didn’t I?” She did feel sluggish.

  “Yes, you did, but you always could. Today, it took you longer.” Concern darkened his brown eyes.

  “I think I may be fighting off a cold.” She shrugged. He was right. She’d been going through the motions.

  He stared at her, his dark gaze probing. “What made you change your mind? I thought you weren’t going to winter here?”

  He was right. What had changed her mind? “The pass closed. Trying to get rid of me?” Ilythra picked up the practice swords and stowed them in the armory. Rothit followed.

  “No, you’re the best sparring partner I’ve ever had. In fact, the men are lining up for a chance to spar with you. Don’t you find that a strange coincidence?”

  Ilythra measured him. He wasn’t looking at her and had kept his voice low. “That the men are lining up for me or the pass is closed?” Again unease darkened her thoughts. She should be remembering something. “Sometimes, yes.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Why do you say that?” Did he know something she didn’t? She suddenly wanted desperately for him to tell her because she knew she’d forget again that there was even something she should ask.

  Rothit shook his head. “I’ve been in Greton a long time. Long enough to know when to look the other way. You’re a warrior, and warriors aren’t often suited to palace intrigue and subtleties. I don’t want to see you hurt.” His voice lowered further. “I’ve never heard of the western pass closing before the eastern.” He shook his head. “I don’t abide much to legends, but there is one that tells of a powerful wizard in these mountains who can call the wind. I don’t know if it’s true but it seems to me someone wanted you here. Someone with a power I can’t understand.”

  Ice coated her limbs until her fingers tingled, and with effort she slowed her breathing and then heart. He’d just described a stone keeper.

  Rothit glanced at Aclan, who had stood and was slowly making his way toward them. He laid a hand on Ilythra’s arm. “I’m going to look around a bit. If you find yourself in need, I’ll do whatever I can. Remember that.”

  She watched him go, wondering if she would remember.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Cold rain washed the land, spilling past her window in gray sheets. Ilythra ate in her room alone. She thought about checking on Aclan, but it wasn’t really necessary. She thought about seeing if Erhard was busy, but not even spending time with the king interested her. Rothit’s words from the day before drifted in and out of her thoughts like a mist she could feel but not touch. A legend of a powerful wizard who can call the wind.

  It made sense that with Crioch, Bredych could control the weather. But if he could control the weather, what about the wolves? What else could he do? She rubbed her temples. Can he control people? Can he control me? It was hard to
concentrate. Why did he want her here? He hadn’t done anything, made any move. She’d barely seen him since she arrived. But something’s wrong. He couldn’t control her mind. That was one thing Zeynel had told her. If she couldn’t blame her fuzzy thinking on Bredych, what was the source?

  Frustrated, she rose and left the room. Passing an open doorway, she realized too late the murmuring voices coming from within. She wasn’t in a mood to socialize and was about to hurry away when someone called her name. Ilythra walked back to the light spilling out of the room into the hall.

  A group of women took advantage of the light from three large windows to work on their stitching. An impressive tapestry lay over several laps, hands now paused, needles in the air, waiting for Ilythra’s approach.

  A stately woman sat a short distance from the rest of the women. She stared at Ilythra with open scrutiny. “I was beginning to believe you were a rumor or some kind of ghost.” The woman’s hands rested placidly on her lap, but her dark eyes glinted with life. “Now at least I know you’re flesh and blood. I hear you’re tending dear, sweet Prince Aclan and he’s doing much better.”

  “He is much better.” Ilythra attempted not to eye the door.

  “Forgive me, my dear. We’ve not been introduced. I mean, how could we when you’ve not been down to dinner since I arrived?” The woman’s voice made it clear what she thought about such a lapse. “I am Lucin, Erhard’s aunt on his mother’s side.” She smoothed her dress, head bowed, then brought her gaze to bear on Ilythra again. “I see it’s true about the clothing.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Tell me, do you actually fight men?”

  “Only when I have no other option.”

  One of the women tittered. “I’ve had no other option a time or two myself.”

  The matron speared the young woman with a glance and returned to Ilythra. She peered down her long nose, folds of chin resting on a high collar. “There are always options.”