“You’re still my teacher. You’re still Shistra-Phail. And Lara still loves you.”
The silence went on a moment too long, and his reply was just a little too calm. “The Ariah loves all her people.”
Jeren almost snarled at him. “You know exactly what I mean and don’t pretend otherwise. She needs you, Indarin. Now more than ever. She’s struggling. And, yes, she loves you so stop pretending you don’t know it. Besides...” She would have to tell him eventually. There was no way she could do this alone. “Besides, I need you too. I have to go back to River Holt.”
There. It was out. She’d thought admitting it would make her feel better, but it didn’t. Now it just gnawed inside her as she waited for his answer.
“Putting aside for a moment the thought of the Ariah—a woman for whom personal relationships are all but impossible—and I—a powerless Shaman who the Feyna would never accept as a consort for their leader... you plan to leave my brother?”
“No... yes...” And the strength drained out of her. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do anymore.” She sank down to sit on the edge of the cot, buried her face in her hands and fought back tears.
She was startled when she felt him move to sit beside her. He didn’t hold her, or try to comfort her as another might. He just sat there, patient as a stone. That was Indarin through and through.
“What do you want to do?” he asked at last.
She shrugged. “I just want to help. I don’t want anyone else hurt. I don’t want Shan in danger. I don’t... I don’t want...”
“What?”
She drew in a long breath, until she couldn’t put it off anymore. “I don’t want to go back to River Holt, or face my brother, but I don’t see how I can avoid it. Gilliad won’t stop, Indarin. He won’t ever stop.”
“Then you must find a way to stop him.”
She paused, letting this sink in with all its ramifications. “You know Shan. He won’t want me to go. He won’t let me.”
Indarin snorted a bitter laugh. “Since when has he been able to stop you doing anything you wanted to, Jeren?”
She’d hit him already this night. What was one more time? But when she turned to face him, there was no humour in his face. Indarin was in earnest.
“I have to do it. But how do I leave without him? How do I persuade him to let me go?”
“You could ask him to come with you.”
He’d want to do it for her, as he always did. To spare her. To keep her safe. To protect her. And she would open him up to that same old temptation of revenge, the thing that had almost destroyed him before.
“I can’t. I have to do this on my own. Gilliad is still my brother, even if he has become some sort of monster. My blood. And it could just as easily happen to me.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Help me. I need... I need to know how to use my powers in other ways. Not just to heal.” She stared at her hands again. Curled her fingers, uncurled them and then once more, curling them this time all the way into fists.
“That’s not the way your magic works, Jeren.”
“I know. But if I’m to stand against him... he’s so strong, Indarin. He’s so dangerous.”
Cautiously, as if afraid to touch her, Indarin wrapped his fingers around hers. “Yours is a magic born of healing, of life, not death. Yours is the stronger magic by far. You don’t need to kill or maim someone to take them out of a fight. What if they were to simply fall asleep instead?”
Could it work? She gazed at her hands. There was no reason why not. Often now, after she healed another, she sent the suggestion that they should sleep in order to cement that healing. That had been Indarin’s suggestion too, for when someone was hurt, sleep was usually one of the best medicines available.
“I could work on that, I suppose.”
A smile flickered over his lips. “Don’t fall into the trap of thinking you must become like your brother to defeat him, Jeren.”
“No,” she said. “You’re right. You... you’re the best teacher I’ve ever had, Indarin. Don’t you see that? Even without magic.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I think you flatter me, but...” He sighed, releasing her. “But I also think you’ve made your point. Now, it’s late and I should be resting. Tell the Ariah I will focus instead on living and she too may rest easy. Is that enough for you?”
He was a hard man to read, let alone to help. Much like his brother. “For now.”
“Good.” He lay back and closed his eyes. He looked like a statue in repose, still and serene. “A little help with getting to sleep would be appreciated, Lady Jeren.”
She pressed her hand flat against his chest and sent out the feelings of sleep, of warmth and safety, of a cocoon of comfort closing around him, of being cradled. It only took a moment, and as it wasn’t an offensive gesture, the body welcomed it. His breath deepened and slowed. In moments, he slept the peace-filled sleep of the blessed.
Now, she just had to tell Shan her plans.
Or find another way.
Finding Shan didn’t take long. Though he wasn’t in the camp, some instinct guided her effortlessly. Old tracks let her feet to a familiar place. Jeren picked Shan out, a silhouette against the low moon, perched on a rock at the edge of the hollow. They’d met there once, when the sect mother Ylandra had bound him to serve her and had instead got him captured by the Fellna. He’d called Jeren “his guiding light” and Jeren had believed she was losing him forever. She almost had to Ylandra’s petty stupidity, to the Enchassa.
And now, she thought, I am. Not through another’s machinations or because of the Fell. I’m the one to blame here. No one but me and my accursed duty.
She’d ignored it, and look what that had cost. Tears stung her eyes, but she pushed them back ruthlessly.
Tell him? Or not?
He, of all people, deserved the truth. To lie to Shan was like lying to herself.
But wouldn’t it be kinder to leave him in ignorance? To just use this newfound skill to make him sleep a bit deeper, a bit long so that when he woke...
By the gods, when had she become so manipulative?
Or maybe it had always been there inside her. Maybe it was simply part of being True Blood.
She flexed her fingers, forced the strain of indecision from her face and tried to imitate a smile.
“Shan? There you are.”
If it was anyone else she would have said he started. But she knew it would take someone far more skilled to sneak up on her husband. He’d been deep in his own thoughts, that was all.
“You’ve finished your discussions?” Shan’s voice fell flat, deadened. It was more a statement than a question. He rose to his feet, a statue no more.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Just... thinking.” Their eyes met and something flared, hot like shame inside her and she dropped her gaze from him. It was as if he could sense she was hiding something. Or as if he was. And this sort of doubt could only fester. It would get worse and infect everything in their lives. Shan’s voice gentled. “Do you remember when last we met here?”
“I’d rather not.” Her laugh sounded false even to her. “Are you thinking of Ylandra? Of what happened to her?”
There was no way for sure to know what had become of the sect mother. If she was lucky the Fellna had killed her. Certainly Indarin had mourned her as dead. But Jeren suspected the Enchassa was more vindictive than that. Ylandra had failed to bring her Jeren.