Felan’s sword weighed heavily on her back, dragging her down towards the water. All around her people were kneeling, but when a nursemaid appeared with a wailing bundle, they cheered. The other Jeren took the child in her arms, cradling it so tenderly and soothing its cries until they hushed. Only a mother could do that, Jeren thought.
“No,” she whispered, and the other Jeren looked up as if able to see her past self. She smiled. There was tragedy in that smile.
“How did this happen?”
The image dissolved in answer to her question and another scene resolved itself. Night time in River Holt and Gilliad’s body slumped at her feet, his face twisted in agony, frozen in death. Blood spread in a wide pool across the marble and Jeren knelt over him, trembling, tears streaming down her face. Her magic recoiled inside her, seeking sanctuary, a hiding place against the assault to come. And come it did, the power of the Scion of Jern, like a flood of light. It tore through her, stripping away her defences, too strong and too powerful to resist. And glorious. Terrifying and glorious.
Ours, chorused a host of voices inside her mind. “Heir and vessel. Ours!” She knew them, could hear Gilliad raging at her, her father and grandfather, all those voices of her ancestors married together inside her, shredding her resistance and her sanity, remaking her as the Scion of Jern. They were the voices her brother had spoken of, and now they had her as well.
“Shan!” She cried out his name, even though she knew he was lost to her, now and in the future. “Shan, please, no!”
Ariah released her and Jeren fell forwards, her hands sinking into the pool. Stones bit into her palms and her tears splashed before her, lost as they flowed into the waters.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, her throat aching. “Please no.”
Ariah wrapped gentle arms around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Jeren. I’m so sorry. Take a moment and see if there is more. If not then tell me what you saw. I may be able to help interpret it.”
Jeren sobbed as she struggled to control her grief and failed. Shaking, chest heaving, she drew herself upright again. “There’s nothing to interpret.” She searched Ariah’s face for a sign that she might be wrong. “I killed my brother. I became Lady of River Holt and the power of my ancestor’s insanity gripped me. I…I had a child, a human child. And Vertigern stood by my throne.”
“That is not the only path,” Ariah assured her. “Though to come first, it is the most likely. We can look again, see your options.”
“What options are there for a traitor?” Torvin’s voice rang out over Aran’Mor. He stood, silhouetted on the edge of the canyon, a sword in his hands. “Gilliad was right. You intend to take his throne.”
“Torvin?” Jeren struggled upright. “What…what are you saying?”
“That you must die, before you can harm my True Blood Lord!” And he leaped at her, the sword flashing silver in the moonlight. Jeren rose to meet him. He looked like the spirit of death descending on her, and given what she had seen, part of her welcomed him.
Shan sprinted through the gully leading to the Vision Rock, ignoring the pain stabbing through him, or the cramps in his side. All he could think of was Jeren, of her unknowingly walking with a traitor, if Ylandra didn’t get her first. All he could hope was that Indarin would be there, that his brother would save his mate.
Jeren meant the world to him, as only a true mate could. He felt no hesitation now in admitting it, no fear, no regret. She was everything. His beloved. His wife.
But she wasn’t a warrior, no matter what she thought. She was not a killer. He loved that about her almost more than anything else. Her soul was pure and untainted. Her magic was a force of life.
Lara matched his pace and speed, never complaining, never faltering. So like her father, determined and true of heart. That she had befriended Jeren gave him hope that others would accept her too. But then, Lara was as open and giving a soul as his own sister had been.
They stumbled into the encampment on the edge of the sacred land.
“Shan!” Indarin shouted, his voice filled with unexpected joy and triumph. Before Shan knew what was happening, his older brother, his caustic and dismissive older brother who always regarded him as an overemotional reprobate, seized him in strong arms and embraced him. “You’re alive. Thank all the gods, you’re alive.”
“Ylandra…” he panted.
“She’s here, under guard. Ariah will help her and Jeren is fine. They went to the Vision Rock, hoping to speed things up so we could go to help you.”
“But…the Roh… Torvin Roh…”
“What of him?” Indarin looked around. “He was here. Vertigern and his woman are, anyway. Jeren healed her, saved her life. You chose well, Shan. She’s worthy of you, more than worthy. In fact, I wonder if you’re worthy of her.” He laughed.
Shan could only stare at him. He couldn’t remember the last time Indarin had ever laughed.
“Torvin Roh is a traitor,” Lara snapped, her mood less shaken. “The Holters Shan rescued told us. He serves Gilliad. He’s here only to kill her.”
That shook Indarin back to seriousness.
“She’s with Ariah, at the Vision Rock.”
It was all the information Shan needed. He hated the place with a passion he could not articulate. Falinar had died there, helpless and alone. He would not allow the same fate to befall Jeren. But as he pushed past Indarin, another sight stopped him in his tracks.
Ylandra.
She sat, defeated, her arms tied behind her back, her ankles bound together, her mouth gagged. He stared and Indarin cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“She wouldn’t stop shouting. Raving. She said the Fellna had you.”
Shan lifted his chin, unable to look away from the former Sect Mother. “They did. She left me there. They tricked her but she still…she made the decision.”
Ylandra lifted her face and stared at Shan, her eyes like malignant slivers of steel. Tears welled up behind her lashes, glittering in the moonlight.
“I’m sorry, Ylandra,” he murmured. “I truly am sorry.”
She closed her eyes, flinching as if struck. And then her entire body convulsed. Teeth clenched, muscles spasming, she hit the ground hard, writhing against the stone. Indarin cried out her name, dropped to his knees to restrain her, but the fit continued, more violent than the human’s falling sickness. She thrashed from side to side and then stiffened all over, arching back in Indarin’s arms.
“Help me, Shan,” gasped his brother. “What is it? What’s happening to her?”
Abruptly she cried out, the sound muffled by the gag. Indarin tore it from her mouth, whispering her name, trying to smooth back the silver strands of her loose hair.
An instinct trilled at the back of Shan’s brain, or perhaps just a sense of foreboding. “No. Indarin—”
Ylandra screamed and shadows poured from her distended mouth. Shadow upon shadow, black as night, flowing like hot tar. Indarin froze in horror as the nearest coalesced into the form of a Fellna and threw itself at him. It slammed into his solar plexus and he went down beneath it in a gasping heap.