Anala.
Quick as thought, Jeren scrambled out from under the blanket and pulled on the tunic Lara had given her. It was too long and a little too snug, but she didn’t care.
The wolf called again.
The night air made her skin tingle and stung her martyred eyes, but she pushed her way outside, hunting for that sound and its source. On deft feet she followed it out of the Shistra-Phail camp and into the trees. But it wasn’t a wolf that called her. Or at least no natural wolf.
Shan stood in a small hollow out of sight of the camp and its patrols. In the moonlight he might have been a statue, so pale and finely sculpted did he appear. Jeren’s throat made a small whimper and she ran, tearing across the space between them in a mad dash.
Shan opened his arms and enveloped her in a lover’s embrace. When she buried her face in his broad chest, his face sank into her hair, his breath warm and uneven against her scalp. His scent encircled her, the deep musk that only he carried, the scent she knew and loved.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
His heart beat even harder. “We’ll find a way, little one. I love you. I will not be parted from you like this.”
“Indarin and Lara said when Ariah comes—”
Shan shushed her gently, cupping her face in his hand. His long fingers curled against her cheek, ghosting against her skin. She tilted her face up to him and met his kiss.
His mouth teased hers, dwelling on her lips until she parted them, his tongue exploring with great care and determination. And then she realised what he was doing. He was kissing her in such a way as to impress the sensations in his memory forever. He was kissing her goodbye.
“No,” she gasped when she could breathe again, squirming closer.
“Jeren.” His voice was a low growl. “I will not be parted from you. But you need to learn what Indarin can teach you. He’s more than half a seer. He’s the Shaman. You need to learn not just about the sword, but also how to control your powers. And I have a duty to my people, a responsibility. You understand that, don’t you?” He played with the sensitive strands of hair around her temples, threading the silken lengths through his long fingers.
Duty, yes, she understood duty. And responsibility. She had forsaken both for him, hadn’t she? She tried to keep that flare of anger from her face, but it betrayed her.
Shan sighed and pulled her close again. “What choice did you have but to escape, Jeren? Would you have stayed there and wed him? Would you have let him bed you?”
This time her anger turned incandescent. It savaged its way through her and she shoved him back.
“No,” she said in a voice of finest steel. “I would have found a way to fight him. I would have been there to protect my people. Instead I ran. With you.”
“You’re safe here. Indarin will see to that.”
“I’d be safe with you. That’s why I left. Come with me now. Let’s go somewhere else. There has to be another—”
“No.” The word was final, absolute.
Shock and betrayal sliced deep into her heart. What? She could leave her people, but he could not leave his? She could run and hide, but not him? A wave of cold washed through her and she struggled back from him, her mouth open, her eyes stinging. He was going. He was leaving her.
He stepped after her, his arms reaching for her. “I’m sworn here. Until the threat of the Fellna is gone or Ylandra releases me.”
“But she won’t do that. She wants you! She wants you for herself.”
Realisation flooded his face. Gods! Had he not realised that? Or was his horror at the fact that it was so obvious to her? Or worse—the thought made her stomach twist—did he reciprocate Ylandra’s feelings? Why not? She was his own kind, a Sect Mother, and a beautiful, fearsome warrior.
Jeren flinched back from that thought, even as she recognised it as the truth. They were suited—Ylandra and Shan—a perfect match. Two beautiful, perfect beings, akin in strength and skill. And what was she? A freak, an outcast, strange even among her own kind, serpent-born, cursed.
True Blood.
“You’re my mate,” Shan told her in muted tones. A ripple of danger undercut his voice, and an icy determination. He stepped towards her again and this time Jeren didn’t pull back. She faced him, matching the iron she saw in him. “My wife, if you’ll have me. Nothing can change that. No matter what Ylandra wants, or what you think she has power to do.”
Shaking, she gazed into his eyes, into the silver she loved so well. His lips pursed together, parted, and closed again. Nerves? He was nervous?
“She’s very beautiful, Shan.”
He chuckled bitterly. “Not so beautiful as you. She wouldn’t attempt half the things you’ve done for me. I’ve sworn myself to you as well, Jeren. If Ylandra thinks she can alter that, then she does not know me at all. And it seems, neither do you.”
Jeren closed her eyes as he touched her, melted against him, the only warmth in the world. She looked up and with a shaking hand touched the woven band of leather around his neck. Small beads dotted the front, smooth and cold to the touch. She hated it. Truly hated it, a web of leather thongs and decorations. Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them back. She couldn’t ask him to leave, no more than she could ask him to cut off his own braids and succumb to the madness that had taken Haledren.
No, madness hadn’t simply taken Haledren. Gilliad had driven Shan’s sect brother insane, had tried to do the same to Shan. Her own shame rose up again. And her gratitude, that she and Shan had escaped. That they were free.
My wife, if you’ll have me.
She smiled up at him, forcing the tears away. Who wouldn’t have him? And he wanted her. Just her. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, and feel it. Most of all, she could feel it in her heart. They belonged together, no matter what, and no woven band placed on him by other duties and honour would change that. She believed it. She had to.
“I am your wife,” she told him. “I always will be. If you forget all else, my love, remember that.”
A smile drifted across his pale lips. “I could no more forget that than my name, or my mother’s face. You’re my light, little one. My guiding light to bring me home.”
Lara rolled out of her bunk, bright and alert. “Are you ready?” she asked Jeren. “He’ll be waiting.”
For a moment all Jeren could do was stare at her companion. Did she mean Shan? The spark of hope died as she remembered his kiss goodbye, the way she sensed his early departure, the silent tears she had wept into the bedroll.
“Indarin?” she asked warily, as she pulled her clothes on.
“Yes. He likes to start training early. You’ll like him. You’ll see. He’s special. A bit like you, I guess. He should have been a Seer. That’s what they say anyway. He’s our Shaman, though he dislikes drawing attention to the role. He prefers to pretend he doesn’t have magic at all. To fit in, I guess.” She shrugged. “That’s all most of us want, isn’t it?” She pushed back the flap and led the way outside. The morning was crisp and bright.
“And why are you here?” Jeren followed her into the open air. “You don’t seem enraged or bitter or…”
Lara rolled back her shoulders, stretching out her neck and back, tilting her face up to the sun, catlike and beautiful. “Not now perhaps, but my father was Shistra-Phail. And…” She let out her breath in a long rush. “And when he vanished, I knew…” Pursing her lips, she fixed Jeren with a meaningful glare. “I knew what happened to him, even before you arrived to tell us.”
The bottom fell from Jeren’s world again. She stared, with her mouth hanging open, at the daughter of the Feyna her brother had driven insane and killed, the event which had led her to first flee River Holt. She couldn’t find words. Her heart felt like it was cracking all over again.