“Come,” Ylandra commanded and, like some kind of tame dog, her wolf-warrior followed.
Inside Jeren’s body the weight tore open a great and endless pit and she was falling, falling down…
A firm hand caught her elbow as her legs started to give. Indarin jerked her upright and forced her to stand. “Can you walk, True Blood?” he asked brusquely.
Whatever shreds of dignity remained to her were all she had now. Jeren nodded stiffly.
“Good. They’re looking for weakness, to see you crack so they can report it to Ylandra. There are some here who would run to her gleefully. Do you want that?” Indarin kept his voice so low that even among the heightened senses of the Fair Ones, only Jeren could hear him. He led her away, each step carefully measured—not too quick, not too slow.
The thought of Ylandra gloating over the hysteria of a weak Holtwoman made Jeren’s blood leap like fire. It was even worse than being torn away from Shan. No. She’d never give Ylandra the satisfaction. Jeren wasn’t sure how the Sect Mother had done it, but whatever duty she had placed on Shan had forced him away. She had made him her servant. No, worse. Her slave.
Indarin must have sensed Jeren’s iron will reasserting its control for he released her. She didn’t miss the fact that he wiped his hand down on his hip as he strode ahead of her. He didn’t want to be anywhere near her, not really. Like Shan had been once. Disgusted. But still with her. Just like Shan.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To find you a billet. Or would you rather leave?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Not without Shan.”
There was a moment of silence. Indarin’s step didn’t pause, but his breath hitched for a moment. “And if that is not possible?”
That hadn’t occurred to her. That very fact made her feel strong once more.
“Then, I’ll find a way to make it possible.” She glanced over her shoulder. They were far enough away by now, weren’t they? Darting out her hand she tried to pull Indarin into the lee of one of the tents.
He didn’t budge, just looked down at her hand and then back to her face, his eyes hard as polished river stones. He wasn’t Shan. She had to remember that. They might look alike, but they couldn’t be more different. She released him and stepped back into the shelter. After a moment Indarin followed her.
“He called me his mate, didn’t he?”
“Yes. In a formal way. Those words would ordinarily have bound you both together for life. Did he never discuss it with you? Shan must have been desperate. He would not have voiced them lightly.”
Jeren’s stomach clenched and heaved. Desperate. Is that what he thought? Shan wouldn’t have said it if he weren’t desperate? For a moment she just wanted to slap Shan’s brother in the face. But it would have been like hitting stone. Desperate indeed.
“What did Ylandra say? What is this duty of Service?”
“Ah.” Indarin’s face fell for a moment before he looked away, over his shoulder, back towards the centre of the village. “The only thing that can break the bonds of mate to mate. He’s tied to protect the Sect and the Sect Mother. In times of war, one of the warriors may be selected. Legends say they gave up mates, family, everything, but in practice…well, it hasn’t been necessary since I was a boy and then, those chosen had not yet mated, had nothing to lose. They embraced the honour.”
“Are you at war?” Jeren asked hesitantly, half afraid of the answer. They had reason to war against River Holt, after all. Her brother had killed one of their own, on their sacred land. And now Shan was back with news of what had almost happened to him and what had happened to their fellow warrior, Haledren…
More deaths. More torture. More blood on Gilliad’s hands.
Indarin’s upper lip rose in a snarl.
“You met the Fellna in the mountains, True Blood. They are encroaching on our lands, more so this season than ever before.” He sighed, and suddenly his eyes looked so like Shan’s that tears stung Jeren’s own. “We are always at war with them.”
“And she took Shan because of me?” she asked, uncomfortably aware of the tightness in her throat.
“She took him,” came a new voice, the woman who had shouted from the crowd, “because she’s a selfish, vindictive bitch who has coveted Shan since first she came here.”
The Feyna woman stepped towards them, slipping around the edge of the tent on silent feet, and Indarin rolled his eyes to the heavens before he turned to face the newcomer.
“Lara, this is neither the time or the place—”
“Really? That didn’t unsettle you? That she took your own brother despite his having claimed a mate? She’s destroying everything this sect is meant to be, Indarin. She’s doing the Fellna’s job for them. I am not alone in thinking this.” Her silver eyes flashed and she swept her long braids back from her sculpted face with a hand that only slightly betrayed her with a tremble.
“Then it must be raised at Springmoot,” he replied firmly. “Not gossiped and bandied about in camp. If it discomforts you, try another sect.”
Lara’s hands balled into fists at her sides. No trace of a tremble now. “This is my sect as it was my father’s, Indarin. As much as it is hers now.” She nodded at Jeren. “And her mate’s—your brother, Ylandra’s slave.”
“Lara…”
The female warrior folded her arms. “Our Sect Mother just made Jeren swear to obey her with one breath and stole her mate with the next, once she knew there was nothing else to stop her.”
Jeren seized the silence that followed. “Shan’s not my…not my mate…” Gods, even as she said it, she wanted to take it back. She loved him. That was what it meant, but they had made no formal declaration, no handfasting or ceremony of binding. And “mate” sounded so…primal, so… Something melted inside her. It sounded so like something Shan would say.
Lara and Indarin cast her scathing glances.
“He claimed you as such,” Indarin replied at last. “He did so in front of us all. Do you really mean to tell me that he never discussed it with you first?”
Her face heated and she studied the ground. Indarin made a noise somewhere between a snort and a growl.
“Ever rash, my little brother. His quest for vengeance, his life decisions, his choice of a mate and the time he chose to tell Ylandra…”
“He knew how she felt?” Jeren whispered. That was worse, far worse. But he couldn’t have guessed what she would do, could he?
Lara’s hand brushed against her shoulder, a gesture of comfort, or an attempt at such. “He wanted to make sure you were safe, no matter what the cost.”
Jeren just nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Lara backed off again, though she didn’t leave. Her bright eyes watched Jeren and Indarin without a blink.
Indarin relented at last. “Well, we must find you a bed and some suitable clothing.”
Jeren glanced down at her ragged gown. Once it had been worth more than most people would see in their lifetime. Now she’d be lucky if someone gave her a copper penny for the remains.
“There’s room in my tent,” Lara offered.
“I’m to stay?”
“You’re Shistra-Phail, in training at least. And born with innate magic, so your training will fall to me,” Indarin told her firmly. Jeren thanked the Lady he didn’t say serpent-born, the phrase they normally used to describe those like her, cursed with magic in their blood. “It was his last request.”
Jeren shuddered. They made it sound like he was dead. “And Shan?” Hope buoyed with her words, but Indarin’s answer sent her heart crashing down again.