Leithen laughed again. Damn, but that sound was infectious. It gladdened Shan’s spirits by its nature and its significance. Hope, he decided. It sounded like hope. Jerryl bounded into Leithen’s arms and was soon up in the same position as her brother.
“Come then,” Shan said. “We must hurry.”
It took far longer than he might have hoped. By the time they reached the Spring Camp it was evening and the cookfires were already burning bright. Bright but few. Shan lowered Pern to the ground and called out a greeting.
Lara ran out to meet him. “Shan?” she gasped. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face flushed, but when she saw him her mouth hung open and all colour drained away. “By the Bright God and his Lady, Shan? You’re alive?”
“Of course I’m alive.”
But they were all staring at him, all his people.
No, not all. Indarin wasn’t there. And most importantly, neither was Jeren.
Lara gaped at him. “But…but she said…”
A wave of cold passed through him, the icy fingers of terror. “Who said?”
“Ylandra. She came back no more than an hour past, said the Fellna ambushed you and you were captured. She had to leave you there and feared they would kill you. She and Indarin went to break the news to Jeren.”
No. She intended to use Indarin to trap Jeren, to break his beloved’s heart before betraying her to the Enchassa. His head reeled with the thought. Not just the treachery, but the cruelty, and for no reason. No reason but her own twisted hate.
“Ylandra is a traitor to all of us. She intends to give Jeren to the Fellna. Where are they, Lara? Where is Indarin taking her?”
“She went with Ariah. To the Vision Rock. What do you mean, ‘give Jeren to the Fellna’?”
He turned away, gathering his bearings once more, but Lara started after him.
“Shan? What happened? What’s going on?”
“You heard me. She’s…she’s damaged. The Enchassa did something to her, made a deal with her, for me. But more than that, I think hate has eaten away at her mind.” He shook his head, like a wolf shaking off an irritation, wishing it was that easy to rid himself of this dreadful sense of doom. “They did something to her, to us both, but to her most of all. Something terrible. I haven’t time for this, Lara. All I need is a weapon, and I need it now.”
One of his brethren passed him a sword, but even as Shan started forward, his body betrayed him and he stumbled.
Lara’s hands saved him the humiliation of falling. “You’re exhausted, Shan.”
He waved back at the Holters huddled together in their strange surroundings. “Take care of them, please. They are my friends. Without them I would be lost.”
“Holters?”
“Yes. River Holters, Rohs.”
“Well, then.” Lara gave a brief smile for the exhausted Holters. “Their own people can care for them. I’m coming with you.”
“Their own…? What?” Shan’s head swan with it all. The need to find Jeren, to protect her, was greater than he could articulate, but here he was, discussing the impossible.
“There are Holters here, came for Jeren. And one of them’s a Roh too. Torvin Roh. He went with Jeren and the others, as witnesses.”
“What?” Leithen interrupted before Shan could say a word. “Shan, Torvin Roh is Gilliad’s man through and through. He turned most of those not arrested in the first swoop. He’s the one who caught Doria, the children and I. If he’s with Jeren, she is in mortal danger.”
Chapter Ten
Their approach through the narrow canyon was not the moment of high ceremony a Holt would have made of such an event. Ariah walked in silence and Jeren followed her, wishing they could move faster. The leader of the Feyna people still carried the white-handled Sect Knife, cradling it against her now as if it were a child found wandering or abandoned.
The canyon narrowed and curved, hiding their destination from sight. The full moon lit the way, making the rocks and the small stream by which they walked seem more like silver than stone or water. Just when Jeren was beginning to wonder would they ever reach the sacred place, the canyon opened up and she caught her breath in surprise. A pool spread out before her, a wide expanse of water which reflected the moonlight onto a standing stone. Whorls and spirals covered the surface of the stone, intricate carvings as old as time itself. Buried in the granite, slivers of mica sparkled and danced with the reflection from the water. The effect was magnificent, and hypnotic. It took a moment before Jeren remembered to breathe once more.
“Kneel,” said Ariah. “And look into the pool. The visions will come quickly and it will feel real. Frighteningly real. Nothing can hurt you here so let it flow over you and through you. Be with your visions and learn all you can. Afterwards we will talk and work them out. But remember, Jeren, no matter what you see, I am with you and you are safe. You are always safe, little one.”
As Jeren knelt, Ariah’s hand rested on her hair, hair still matted and sweaty from the struggle with Ylandra. The bandage on her arm ought to be changed soon, and the wound beneath stung painfully. Ironic really, that she could heal others but never turn that power on herself.
The water captured her eyes, the reflection of the stone broken as a light breeze played across the surface. The moon and the mica glittered like the tears of the Goddess. And beyond those moments of blessed light, darkness rose up from the depths to seize her conscious mind and snatch it away.
River Holt was a jewel in sunlight, perched on the very edge of the waterfall. Jeren flew towards the Citadel on Kiah’s wings, spiralling over the Greeting Square and the many streams and canals that cut the city glittered in the sunlight, reflecting light up onto the polished marble and gilded decorations.
So beautiful. Her home was so beautiful. She had forgotten since the shadows had fallen on it with her father’s death. River Holt had started life as Jern’s dream, a dream he made a reality through sheer force of will and determination. And his children had only made it more wonderful.
The Great Hall of the Citadel thronged with life, with joy. Her people, decked out in all the colours of the rainbow, all their finery—and when given an opportunity, River Holters could give peacocks a run for their money. Disembodied, like a ghost, Jeren slipped between them, walking over the highly polished marble floor that reflected those around her but didn’t return her own image.
Everyone turned, facing the throne on its raised dais. With a flurry of activity servants scurried around, opening the door to the private chambers beyond. A fanfare rang out, the music that heralded the arrival of the Scion of Jern himself. So many times Jeren had proceeded her father on such an occasion, stepping out with a smile, the perfect daughter. Gilliad would follow her, then her mother. And finally her father, the Scion of Jern, ruler of River Holt. Not a king, but as good as such. A True Blood Lord with Felan’s Sword at his side.
But this wasn’t the procession she saw now. A woman came first, one she didn’t know, though she looked like a Roh from her features and colouring. She was followed by a man, broad-shouldered like a bull, his face bearing the hardened expression of a warrior and scarred lines of suffering. Behind him came Elayne, still dressed in her armour, though a cloak of the softest grey gentled the effect and her golden hair hung long down her back. She looked strangely vulnerable. And behind her…
Jeren’s heart lodged in her throat, pounding away impotently. There was only one reason for Vertigern to be here, to be coming from the private Chambers. Only one reason in the world. Yet he was. Handsome as any fairytale lord decked in the finest cloth. He stopped at the edge of the dais and held out his hand to the final person to enter. A woman, beautiful and regal, gowned as only a True Blood Lady could be. Light glowed from her skin, from her eyes, from her long chestnut hair. She wore a golden diadem, and Jeren knew her. The Lady of River Holt. How could she fail to recognise this image? Jeren stared at this version of herself in wonder and horror combined.