In the valley below she could just pick out the small settlement, a gathering of round hide tents, patches of leather amid the green. The breeze carried the scents and the sounds of a small village, the distinctive smell of a forge and the unmistakable sound of metal hammering against metal. Elsewhere two lithe figures sparred with long blades, their movements quick and dangerous, sunlight gleaming off the weapons and the long white-blond braids of their hair.
Indarin paused on the ridge and gave a cry, a long deep-throated “Ho” calling for attention. Below them, everything stopped. Other Feyna emerged from shelter, stepped out into view so they could see what the scout had brought.
The two sparring warriors turned as well. One was a woman, and even at this distance Jeren could see her heart-stopping beauty. The Shistra-Phail’s eyes widened at first with surprise and then warmed with joy as she beheld Shan. Something cold stirred in the pit of Jeren’s stomach. She didn’t like it. Not the look the woman cast up at him or the way it made her feel.
“A bright hour brings you home, Shan,” the warrior woman called up to them, a rich and mellow voice full of pleasure and promise. “Come down to us and tell of—” Her voice faded as Jeren stepped into view. The pleasure in those silver eyes faded to confusion. And something worse, far worse.
“Come, little one.” Shan wrapped the warmth of his hand around Jeren’s suddenly frozen fingers. “It is time for us to tell all.” She stumbled after him on reluctant feet.
Shan knew hostility intimately. Whenever he travelled to other lands he encountered it. Humans had no time for the Feyna, the monsters of many a childhood tale. But he had never thought to see it so naked on the faces of his own people before. He wished they would direct it at him rather than at Jeren. That would have been easier to bear by far. She had not asked to come here. They’d had no choice. Neither had she asked to be born the sister of a madman. Why was it no one here recalled her father when he had lived among them? He’d been a friend, a brother-in-arms, a comrade. There were many old enough, for the Feyna did not age as a human aged. No, they only recalled Gilliad, his flouting of their laws and friendship, his betrayal of their most sacred ways—and the murder.
Gilliad had killed his sister, his sister, for the Lady’s sake. If he could put his need for vengeance behind him, why could no one else?
Shan knew Jeren sensed it too. Her hand trembled in his, her grip tightening, but to her credit she didn’t hold back or stop. He had never doubted her courage.
“There’s a ritual of welcome first,” he murmured so only she would hear. “I’m going to start it, and it will give you a few moments before they start asking questions. It will be all for the good, little one, I swear it.”
“If you’re sure,” she replied stoutly.
Ah, he loved her bravery, the inner strength she didn’t appear to realise she possessed.
But before he could speak, Ylandra bustled her way through the gathered Shistra-Phail. In one hand she was still holding her sword from sparring practice. In the other nestled a white-hilted knife, almost identical to his sect knife but for the colour—the Sect Knife. It was Shan’s turn to stare in disbelief.
Indarin came to a halt beside him. “Yes, there’s that too.” His brother sighed. He didn’t sound happy about it.
Shan shot him a glare and then returned his attention to Ylandra and her knife. Its presence alone spoke of great changes in his sect.
“Greetings to you, Sect Mother.” He acknowledged her rise in station with a curt bow of his head.
“Do you eschew our ritual tongue now as well as your people?” Her eyes flashed. “There are traditions to observe, Shan.”
Traditions that had been put aside for some years, traditions the previous Sect Mother had felt were unnecessary. But Vala was Sect Mother no more. Had age finally caught up with her? He’d have to quiz Indarin and none too kindly, for this should have been the first bit of information he shared. A surprise like this was not only unwelcome it was unfair.
So Ylandra had become Sect Mother in his absence, and she was enforcing the old form of ritual greeting. And what else, he wondered.
Shan bowed his head and released Jeren, spreading his hands out wide in supplication. He couldn’t say it didn’t grate. Shistra-Phail were proud and free. They bowed to no one but the leader of all the Feyna, Ariah herself. The problem was, he couldn’t afford to offend Ylandra, for Jeren’s sake. So now, he bowed.
“Ghen’is, M’Rashina,” he said in the lyric tongue of the gods, the high and holy language reserved for only the most formal of occasions. “Will you welcome home your returning son?”
The whole camp fell silent around them. It felt like a thread pulled tight, waiting to snap.
Then Ylandra inclined her head in formal acceptance. “Ghen’is, M’Roi. And who is this you bring with you?”
Shan kept his eyes trained on the ground, picking his words carefully. “A human of River Holt who seeks that which we have sworn always to give to her line: shelter, guidance and friendship. Her name is Jeren, Scion of Jern.”
He looked up just in time to see Ylandra’s eyes flare wide, but to her credit she didn’t voice her surprise. Not like everyone else who heard. She waited until the outcry around her subsided.
“I fear the Scions of Jern have forsaken our friendship.” Her voice was like a river of ice. “So why does this one suddenly have need of us?”
“Nonetheless, Jeren asks it.”
Ylandra folded her arms across her chest and looked Jeren up and down appraisingly.
A surge of sudden anger rocked through Jeren’s body—Shan saw it flush her skin, harden her eyes to knife points—driving out the fear and apprehension that had frozen her so far. Ylandra looked on her like a piece of dirt. Jeren held herself still and calmly met Ylandra’s gaze when it returned to her eyes. She was a Lady of River Holt, a descendent of heroes. Her pride would not permit her to be faced down in this manner. And he loved her for it.
“She gave the call.” Shan interrupted their standoff, afraid they would hear the desperation in his voice. “She gave the cry of the Shistra-Phail soul. You cannot refuse.”
Ylandra cast him only the briefest glance to remind him that as Sect Mother she could refuse and no one would gainsay her.
“Can she not ask for herself?” Ylandra asked finally, her eyes boring into Jeren’s.
Blood beat a rhythmic tattoo at the base of Shan’s throat but he could do nothing, not if Jeren was to be accepted here. If he stood up for her now, they would see her as weak. Jeren’s temper coloured her cheeks even more, but she reined it in and bowed gracefully. Not a curtsey. She was facing a warrior. Her ancestor Felan had argued his way into a sect. Perhaps she could do the same. Shan hoped so.
“Sect Mother, forgive me that I do not know your high words to ask. I humbly petition the Shistra-Phail of this sect, and the people of the Feyna, for shelter, safety and guidance. I am Jeren, Scion of Jern, and I am True Blood. My kin have turned traitor, my brother seeks to imprison me and has taken a Feyna’s life.”
The hum rose in the surrounding onlookers but Shan kept his eyes fixed on the two women, unable to tear them away.