Fethan turned away and went back into the tent, muttering curses.
Her expression softened. “I’m sorry, Shan. We will do everything we can for Indarin. You know that.”
Shan bowed, suddenly awkward and stiff. “Where’s the boy?”
“With his mother. I will show you.”
So she was hiding behind formality. Jeren couldn’t blame her. Even she wasn’t sure of all that had happened while she was captured by the Shimmering. Shan had told her though—about Indarin, about Devyn. Before she had become their leader, Lara had been passionate and impulsive, almost reckless. And she had idolised Indarin. Jeren could sense the conflict in her now, the dreadful pull between what she wanted and what she had to do that Jeren understood far too well. Though she knew the way, she let the Ariah lead her nonetheless. It was more than an honour, it was one friend offering comfort to another in the only way she could at the moment, and Jeren couldn’t deny Lara that.
Not when her position tied her hands from doing more.
Another tent, in the Holters’ section of the camp, as plain and unadorned as the others, but the figures gathered outside identified it as Doria’s. Her little girl, Jerryl sat at the door, clinging to a cloth doll Leithen had made for her. Inside, Doria knelt on the floor of the narrow tent, next to a low cot. They’d covered Devyn’s face with a sheet, but his mother still held his hand. She wept silently, tears silvering her face. When Jeren entered, Doria looked up. Grief, that was all. Dreadful, numbing grief.
“Lady Ariah, Lady Jeren.” Doria’s voice cracked. “I didn’t think you’d—”
The Ariah bowed her head. “I must go back. I leave Jeren with you, Mistress Roh.”
Doria started to get to her feet, but Jeren caught her free hand, dropping to her knees as well. She couldn’t bear it if Doria became all Body Servant of the line of Jern now, formal and consumed by duty in spite of her loss. It was wrong. And she would. Jeren remembered seeing it when her father reigned, servants from Doria’s family so devoted to hers that death, illness and disaster meant nothing, were pushed aside for the sake of their lord.
She couldn’t bear that.
“I’m sorry, Doria.” The words came out fast and hard. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault.”
But Doria shook her head. “My son...” Her voice broke and she tried again. “My son was a Roh. To the end. He died defending you.”
“They... they gave her some sedatives,” Shan said. Jeren winced, wishing he’d stayed silent. Emotional women really weren’t his area of expertise. Doria’s eyes sharpened when they fixed on him.
“Is that what you think is talking now? That the drugs have dulled my mind? No. How can you understand? You aren’t one of us, not a Holter, not a Roh. My boy...” But then her tears came again and she crumpled, sobbing without noise, her whole body shaking.
Jeren held her, closing her own eyes. What was there to say? She was right, Shan couldn’t possibly understand. On one hand, the bond between the lines of Roh and Jern was iron fast. Body servants were more than honour bound to protect her family. Their souls cried out to do it, some old part of Jern’s magic. They raised their children with that single purpose, married only those who felt the same call and helped them learn. Born to it, Devyn had not hesitated, had not feared even though he knew the danger of magic in general.
But Devyn was barely more than a boy, a boy who had seen countless horrors. He’d deserved a life, not a cold grave. And as long as he’d been close to her, that life would never have been pleasant.
It was her fault. She ought to be blamed.
The temptation to reach out to him even now stirred inside her. She could heal wounds, but could she draw someone back from death? Damn it, she knew it was wrong, but she longed to try, to see that shy smile again, to hear him laugh.
To free him from all his blood obligations and send him to make a life for himself far away.
All it would take was a touch, a surge of magic, a single moment.
She shook, already reaching out for him, and forced herself to pull back her hand, to wrap it around Doria once more.
It was only then she realised the woman was looking at her again. Pride filled her eyes.
“He died for you, Jeren. He is a Roh. We would all do the same.”
“But I don’t want you to.”
Doria almost laughed, though laughter was beyond her now. “No one wants it, child. But in life, and death, we’re bound together. And we’ll do what we must. All of us. You’ve been true to us, Jeren, you—” she glanced up at Shan.“—you and yours. My boy...” Her face fell again and the pride melted back to grief and pain. “My boy would want no less.”
Chapter Three
Shan waited outside, stopping those who would have paid condolences to Doria and keeping a close eye on little Jerryl. After a while, she came to nestle at his side and, finally, she fell asleep. When Jeren came out, her face was bleak, but softened at the sight.
“I’ll get Doria.”
Shan shook his head. “Let her be for now. We’ll take her to Leithen.” Doria needed time with her grief, to let it fully form, to let the understanding that Devyn was gone take root. He’d seen it before. Whereas Leithen—gentle soul that he was inside, a Roh by marriage rather than blood—would need his children around him now, to give him purpose. Just as they needed him. Everyone handled grief differently. He recalled the days following his sister’s death, the way he and Indarin had reacted. So different. And now, Indarin was dying, and he was playing nursemaid.
He gathered the child gently against his chest and got to his feet, carrying her through the camp until they found Leithen, still keeping watch by the tent they shared. Guarding it even when Jeren wasn’t there. Tears had carved lines in his face, and he looked up with dull eyes when they approached. Pern was asleep, wrapped up in his father’s cloak, but even he stirred as they approached, and opened his dark eyes. Too like Devyn’s. Jeren looked away.
Shan gave him Jerryl, and fixed him with a stern glare. “She needs you all now.” He didn’t mean the little girl. They both knew that.
“Doria is still with Devyn, Leithen.” Jeren placed a hand on his shoulder. “She shouldn’t be alone.”
And that was all it took. A Scion of Jern spoke, and the magic held true. Leithen Roh obeyed. Carrying Jerryl, with Pern trailing behind him, he took his leave of them. Shan watched him make his way across the camp, watched the gazes that followed him of Holter and Feyna alike, the pain and loss like a pall over him. Jeren’s shoulders slumped, and Shan caught her before she could fall.
“I’m all right,” she assured him, though her voice was weak. “I... I’d like to see Indarin. If they’ll let me.”
“They’ll let you.”
She looked up into his eyes and he saw the same grief there. The bond between the Rohs and his mate made no sense to him, but he could not doubt its existence. And it operated in both ways.
“But Fethan...”
Something black and angry ghosted up from the base of Shan’s spine. The Seer was as proud and obnoxious as ever. His previous shaming when Lara had become the Ariah had done nothing to quell that. And the Ariah seemed hard pressed to hold him in check. As a new ruler, her position was hardly absolute and it was already apparent that he was blocking her at every turn.
And now his brother and his mate had become pawns in that power struggle.
Well, no more.
The Seers closed rank before the tent as they approached. Shan pushed them aside without pause. He was all set to tear open the door, when something seized him, unseen, and unassailable. It coiled around him, held him there and for a moment, just a moment, he was back in the shadows, in the darkness. He sucked in a breath and he could hear her voice.