No. That was unfair. She was a Sect Mother and she had to protect her people. That was her solemn vow, her duty. She was a formidable warrior, tracker and leader. She had to know how dangerous this was. But time was indeed against them. Time and the nature of their enemies. She knew what she was doing and full accepted the risk. The role of Sect Mother was to protect her people.
And his duty was to protect her. Even now. Even as she walked away from him into an impossible situation. They could get help, he knew that. But it would take a day to get there, raise the alarm, and get back. Even if the trail had not gone cold, how many of them would have died? Peaceable Feyna, men, women, children. How many would the Fellna have used, sacrificed, drained, slaughtered…
Given the option, could he honestly say he would act in any other manner himself?
When Ylandra strode forward, following the trail of devastation, Shan steeled himself for what lay ahead and followed her.
By midafternoon the ground had become rocky and the trail died away. Even Ylandra’s tracking abilities failed them. As they moved up the rugged incline, Shan caught an unexpected smell drifting on the air. He signalled Ylandra who slowed the pace, her eyes studying the rocks and undergrowth, watching for the inconsistent shadow that might betray a Fellna in hiding, but there was nothing.
Two small figures cowered in the rocks above them when Ylandra passed beneath. With the mood she was in, Shan thought it better not to draw attention to human children hidden nearby, especially as she did not appear to have seen them at all.
Then again, their guardians could not be far away.
“Ylandra,” he called, intending to tell her quietly and she turned, scowling.
With a howl, a blur of limbs hurled itself towards them, a stout branch flying at his head. Shan dodged the blow with ease and his attacker swung on, overbalancing. Shan stepped aside as the human boy fell, sprawling at his feet. But no sooner was he down than he was up again, the branch held out before him, its whole length trembling, conveying the anger and fear of the one wielding it.
“Jerryl, Pern, run!” the boy shouted, his eyes never wavering from Shan’s bemused face.
Instead, small rocks rained down on them, ill-thrown and ineffective.
“No!” his assailant yelled desperately. “I said run.”
Cursing, Ylandra seized the youth by the scruff of the neck and kicked his feet from under him. He dropped, the branch falling from his startled hands, and the next minute she had a knife at his throat. Not the Sect Knife. That would be too great an honour, or so she would see it. A knife, Shan thought, was still a knife.
“Tell them to stop,” she growled.
“Jerryl, Pern,” the boy called, his voice shaking as he completely ignored her instructions. “Run!”
He was brave. Shan had to give him that.
Another rock shot towards them, this time on target for Ylandra’s head. Shan snapped out his hand and caught it, but not before another struck her hand and the knife went flying. But she didn’t let go of their young attacker.
In a voice which betrayed more rage than annoyance, she called out again. “I don’t need a blade to snap his neck, little ones. Show yourselves.”
“No!” The boy redoubled his struggles, but there was no escaping Ylandra. She held him like a rat in a trap.
“Shan, go and get them.”
He looked up to the rocky outcrop. “No need. They’ll come down. Let the boy go.”
“What?”
“Let him go. You’re frightening them. You’re hurting their friend.”
With a muttered curse, she dropped the boy. Barely fourteen summers, if Shan was any judge. Just on the cusp of manhood, all long limbs and joints, pushed over the edge too soon. He scrambled up and faced Shan, terrified, but angry and determined. Like a kitten spitting and hissing his anger, yet still a warrior defending his own. Shan studied his face, the firm jaw, the calculation in his hard eyes. There was pain and rage, and the need to lash out, to fight, to kill.
Jeren had once screamed it to the heavens “I wanted to kill him. I needed to kill him.” The very words Shan had used standing over his sister’s broken body. This boy only had to give the same cry and he would be Shistra-Phail too. The truth of it was already apparent in his all-too-human features. Just like Jeren.
“I’ll do it myself,” Ylandra hissed.
“No,” the boy snapped, valiant despite his fear. “They’re just children.”
“And so are you,” said Shan, not quite finished with his assessment. “We mean you no harm. Will you ask them to come down?”
“Why? So you can drag them back to their torment with your shadowy brethren? I don’t think so.”
Shan’s eyelids narrowed. “You think us Fellna?”
“Is he blind?” Ylandra asked.
“Fair, Fell, you’re all the same. You’ll kill us all, given half a chance, and burn the Holts too.”
A Holter. Shan shook his head. What was a Holter—no, a Holter’s child doing here?
“Your friends aren’t running. They won’t leave you. We are not Fellna. I swear it. We will not harm you.”
The boy rubbed his neck and glared at Ylandra.
“You attacked us first,” she said, by way of an explanation.
“I believe your people call this a parlay.” Shan gave a curt bow, a gesture of respect which he hoped might win a little trust and ease the tension. “I am Shanith Al-Fallion. What is your name?”
The boy shifted from one foot to the other and glanced up at the rocky outcrop. “Devyn Roh, of River Holt,” he said eventually. “And they are my brother and sister, Pern and Jerryl.” Two children emerged, too young for Shan to be able to tell their age for sure. Seven, eight? He couldn’t tell with Holters. They scrambled down to Devyn’s side and he pulled them close, his arms wrapping about their tiny bodies.
“Rohs?” He remembered Jeren’s love for Mina, her guardian and only friend. Also a Roh. “Are you kin to Mina Roh?”
“She was my mother’s sister.” Devyn’s eyes shifted warily. “She…she’s dead. She died when Jeren of River Holt… You’re him, aren’t you? Her Fair One?” Hope exploded in his eyes. “Is she here? Is Lady Jeren here?”
“No, but she’s near.”
“Take us to her.” His voice shook, but his eyes blazed.
“Impossible,” said Ylandra. “We have our own mission. And Shan is forbidden to be with her. You will have to make your own way.”
“Ylandra, they are children.”
“And the children of our own people, Feyna children, are in mortal danger. Would you have me leave them to their fate for three humans? Three Holters? You’d choose her kind over your own even in this?”
“The Fell have your children, it’s true,” Devyn interrupted, heedless of her rage. He didn’t know it. How could he know that such spite and vengeance was something to be feared above all else? “But they also have my whole family, every generation.”
“What?” Shan exclaimed. “How is that possible?”
Devyn’s face darkened and took on that stony look. His rage and pain were great indeed. Shan knew the expression and the tone too well, had borne both many times. “Gilliad of River Holt. That’s how.”
“But your line are his servants. Jeren told me—”
“No more. He blamed us, said we helped her, and would betray him with the intention of putting her on the throne. So he made a pact with the Fell and they came and took us away. Here. Into the darkness.”
One of the little ones sobbed and Devyn pressed both closer against him.
“And how did you escape?” Ylandra asked bitterly. “Why you and not my people?”