“My…my people…” A fog drifted over his mind, the Enchassa’s power falling over him. He knew it even as he failed to shake it off.
“She’ll bring ruin to you all.” A fingertip slid down the length of his arm, leaving ice and terror in its wake. And something else. Something terrible. “This I foretell. And though you think you love each other now, that will never endure. She lives for but a moment next to us. She is a brief light and at best you’ll spend countless years in mourning once she is gone. Her home will draw her back, that’s inevitable, and I see only blood there, blood spilling all around, blood covering her, drowning her. And the blood of the Feyna will stain the ground as well. Your blood, your people’s blood billowing through the pools beneath the Vision Rock. And all shed because of a sword, a sword like a grasping hand reaching out from River Holt.”
The Enchassa’s grip closed around his throat. “Let’s end this, you and I,” she whispered, her breath like the first warning of a snowstorm.
“Don’t forget about me,” Jeren hissed, her voice brittle from beneath them. She seized Shan’s hand and thrust the knife he was still holding right at the Enchassa’s heart. With a howl of rage the Fellna threw herself back, turning to avoid it, and the blade sliced along her forearm, trailing a smear of tarry blood behind it.
In a flurry of snow and shadows, she was gone.
Breathing hard, Shan let the cold wash through him, out of him. Jeren was a limp bundle in his arms, too light, too chilled to be safe there. He sucked in another breath, held it, let it go. Too close. That had been far too close. Fool that he was, he had let the Enchassa touch him, had fallen beneath her spell like a child. Only Jeren had saved them. Everyone underestimated her.
Sometimes even himself.
Her eyes opened, clouded and groggy. “You…you aren’t hurt?”
Shan shook his head, words choking in his throat. She smiled, actually smiled at him, and closed her eyes again, nestling against him despite the coldness of the night. The wind sliced around them like a knife of Feyna steel. They couldn’t stay here, that was for sure.
He managed to pull her into the shelter before his own strength failed him too and they huddled together for warmth and safety until dawn.
Chapter Two
They limped down the mountain’s slope in the early morning light until not long before noon, when Shan called a rest. If he was unusually careful of her that morning, if he spoke merely to give directions and reference their surroundings, Jeren didn’t press the matter. Shadows hung around his eyes. She closed her hand around his and held him. At first she thought he might pull away, but he didn’t.
It took time before he spoke. “I almost lost you.”
“What were they?”
“Fellna. Cousins to my people, if you like, but corrupted by magic and their devotion to their own dark god.”
“Fell,” she murmured, staring into the distance. “There’s a nursery rhyme.
Fell is fell and Fair is fair,
Stray not in the shadows, you’ll find them there,
The others will dance with the sun in their hair,
But Fell is fell and Fair is fair.”
She quoted the old words in a singsong voice, wondering at the warning it carried about his people too. Did he notice? Probably. He didn’t miss anything. She pushed on. “We call them Fell and they’re something to frighten children.”
“They’re something to frighten everyone. And no story or rhyme for babes. Curse it, Jeren…”
He brought his hand up, tilting her head back so he could kiss her. In spite of her fears and the nightmare such a kiss had become last night, Jeren knew all would be well so long as he could kiss her. This was different. This was really Shan. No doubting it. She melted beneath his touch, indulging in the sensations while they lasted. His soft lips were both gentle and demanding, insistent…yes, that was the word. She returned the kiss, her hands closing on his shoulders.
A movement behind them brought Shan to his feet, sliding his sword from the scabbard. Jeren twisted around to face this new threat, her body poised to attack.
“Shanith Al-Fallion,” said a voice from amid the rocks and the scrub above them, “you’ve become slow in your time with humans.” A laugh punctuated the words. “Or maybe you’re just distracted.”
A Feyna warrior rose from his hiding place. His braided white hair was longer than Shan’s and, though broader across the chest, he stood a little shorter. But he wore the same grey hand-stitched leathers, and in his features Jeren could see many similarities. There was a ghost of Shan’s smile, the way the skin crinkled around the silvery eyes.
“Indarin.” Shan sheathed both sword and knife and stepped forward to embrace his fellow warrior. “Jeren, this is my brother, Indarin. And this is Jeren of River Holt.”
Abruptly, the easy grin dropped from Indarin’s face. “River Holt? She’s True Blood?” He jerked away from Shan with a snarl. “She is, isn’t she? She’s his blood kin. What are you doing with a Scion of Jern, Shan? Have you lost all reason?”
Swallowing her pride, Jeren got to her feet. How did one formally address a Shistra-Phail warrior? She had no idea. There was nothing formal in her relationship with Shan. She would just have to try to do her best. “Indarin, please, I realise my brother did a terrible thing to—”
“Oh you do, do you?” Indarin interrupted. “He’s a murderer, a defiler, a rapist…he’s a curse.”
She stood firm, facing him squarely. “And worse,” she continued. “Much worse. You cannot possibly imagine. I know him better than anyone.”
Indarin’s expression did not change though he fell silent. He studied her a moment longer and then turned to Shan. “Why do you bring her here?”
The moment dragged on too long and she lowered her gaze to hide her dismay. What had she hoped for? Born with stolen magic flowing with the blood in their veins, the True Blood were either exalted or accursed depending on who spoke of them. When the magic ran wild, as it did in her brother Gilliad, it brought madness and destruction. The True Blood could be a danger to all.
But Shan’s words, when they came, startled her beyond expectations.
“I love her,” Shan said. Just like that. As if it was the easiest, and the simplest thing in the world.
Indarin sucked in a breath. “You’re mad. Bad enough choose a human, a Holter, but a True Blood? A Scion of Jern? Think, Shan. What will our people say?”
Shan shook his head and a short, bitter laugh burst from him. “When it comes to love, Indarin, I no longer believe in choice.”
And Jeren wasn’t sure whether that made it better or worse.
In theory, Jeren of River Holt knew more about the Feyna, whom her people called the Fair Ones, than any other human alive. But that didn’t help her much as she struggled along the mountain path behind the two brothers, cursing under her breath. The gown she wore was still too heavy and formal for walking at speed, even though she had shed the underskirts and slashed the material for ease of movement.
They had not dared stop in a Holtlands settlement to try to trade for other clothes. Not that they had anything they could easily trade, even if they had.
The narrow path, its edges eaten away by gorse and heather, wound down into a valley greener than she imagined possible after travelling so long through the snow. Though still north of River Holt, they were finally on lower ground and nearer to the sea, she guessed. Or perhaps spring was finally on its way. Or maybe it was because of the people living here—as all the world knew, the Feyna were the first children of the gods and blessed for that.