by Layla Harper
Frinhol forces a breath through his lips. “The barrier ward around the hag’s land is substantial. It goes on for miles.”
My gaze snaps to the goblin. “How do you know this?”
“I know everything that goes on in my territory.”
“How substantial?”
He points to the map and draws a circle on a location east of the River of Tears.
I tap my fingers against my knee. To control a creature that may or may not be a goddess of old who consumes males, I must find her skin or her soul. It will be like looking for a white grain of sand in this gray desert. “How will I know when I find it?”
“Thanks to the bloody wizard, we have no use of a location spell,” Frinhol gripes.
“Nor would it work against her magic.” Rowena shrugs. “If it were that easy, the ceasg would have lost her soul centuries ago. And it is possible she already has.”
Jatta. I run a hand through my hair.
“Do not trust her words, Rogar. She uses guile and cunning. If you find her soul, or her skin, do not return it, no matter how she begs or cries. Destroy either and she will forever be bound to you.”
“Lay waste to a creature’s spirit?” Frinhol’s stance is… uncomfortable.
I do not blame him. I do not relish destroying a soul, but Aelinor has left me with no choice.
“Do not mistake my words, goblin.” Rowena’s voice is firm and full of fire. “This creature will lure you. She will eat your soul if given the chance.”
Her black eyes sweep to me. She points a finger in the air like a haughty governess. “And you, this is no time for mercy. Feel no pity for this creature. Do not offer it sanctuary in your lush kingdom. If the ancestors bless you, and if by some miracle of the fates you capture this ceasg, bind her to you. Do not let your weeping integrity sway you otherwise. Do you understand me, orc?”
“Aye, norn,” I grumble. “I hear you loud and clear.”
7
Rogar
“Eh, what did I tell you?”
I view Frinhol’s armory, unable to hide my awe. Outside of dwarves, goblins are known for crafting the cleverest and most devious tools forged from the finest steel. Poison rings. Blow darts. Hidden daggers. Indestructible armor. The list is lengthy. The swords, axes, and maces hanging from these walls are no exception.
“Spells were woven into the wood.”
I frown.
Frinhol shrugs. “What? You had that look on your face. I figured you were wondering how your wizard managed to miss the most important building in my camp.”
This male has the uncanny ability to read my thoughts. “You would be right.”
“Come.” He leads me to a set of drawers on the other side of the room. “This should do.” He pulls chain mail—no, not chain mail. The garment is constructed of fine silver plates emulating mirrored scales that pick up the colors in the room.
“Camouflage?”
“Fresh from the forge. With accompanying head gear.” Frinhol lifts a smaller sample of the fabric.
“You took Jarkil’s blacksmith?” By the fates, I like this goblin.
“I did not take. I borrowed, and then he decided to stay.”
I laugh.
Frinhol throws the overshirt at my chest. I brace myself for the garment’s mass but am pleasantly surprised by the lack of heft.
Frinhol arches his brow and makes an I-told-you sound. “It’s a marvel, isn’t it?”
The shirt slides over my head, running over the planes of my body like liquid silver. “I cannot lie. The workmanship is remarkable. If I did not know any better, I would say the metal is spelled.”
“And perhaps it is.” Frinhol slaps me on the back. “Come. I’ll saddle you up on my finest boar.”
“Orcs do not ride boars.” Oh, how I miss my warg. No finer companion could an orc ask for than a creature like Gray.
“Afraid?”
I growl, then follow the insolent male outside.
After a humiliating trek across the desert upon a tusked boar that chooses to fart and snort the whole way, we arrive at the mountains and quickly ascend to the ledge.
The River of Tears winds north through a section of Balor’s Ridge, dumping into the Sea of Storms. Cliffs frame the hag’s territory on the west side, abutting the river. Several caves sit across the waterway, about fifty or so feet from the riverbed surrounded by miles of sand.
To the east lies the border to the summer kingdom, and beyond, the high queen’s fortress.
“The barrier ward runs along the perimeter on the east side,” Frinhol tells me. “It goes about a hundred feet south before running north again. It forms a near oval around the caves.”
On our stomachs, we peer over the ledge, our bodies clothed head to waist in Frinhol’s camouflage.
“She must live in the cave.”
Frinhol nods. “Anything of value will be inside. I doubt anyone has gotten past her barrier spells.”
I squint. A shape comes into view.
Odra.
“That did not take long.”
“She is no traitor, Rogar.” But Frinhol does not sound convinced. The male wears a worried frown, searching the skies, probably looking for his lieutenant.
“If the oath is powerful, she may not have had a choice.” It would not be the first time a witch’s bargain compelled an unsuspecting fae into more than they had bargained for.
“Rursk must not know she is here.” He growls. “Cursed fates, she brought the babe with her.”
Jatta.
Frinhol looks ready to launch himself into the river.
“Easy, goblin.”
Another form emerges, this one from the middle cave, and begins the trek south. I cannot make the creature’s features, but she appears lithe, about Odra’s height. Long flowing hair hides most of her body. If she senses us here, she shows no sign or awareness.
Odra stops at what appears to be a random location. A meeting point? She holds the child on one hip and a basket in her other hand.
“A year and a half ago, Rursk approached me. He asked permission for Odra to leave Azgagh to acquire a conception potion from a hag near the River of Tears. No mention was ever made of the witch again. Until today.”
“Now you know why.”
“If she is a ceasg, she’s isolated herself here. Odra is her link to the market. What goods would a creature like her desire? Ale? Clothing? Oils and fragrances?” His gaze crosses the river to the east. “Only summer’s armies pass this way.”
“It is a good location for a ceasg.”
Frinhol grunts. “Perhaps. If you like sand and water.”
When the hag reaches Odra, the border flares. Frinhol’s assessment is partly correct. The hag’s territory is oval, but she has not warded the land along the riverbed.
Interesting.
With water being her domain, she would be strongest there. I would be a fool to breach her territory via the river.
But that is exactly what I intend to do.
“When we return tomorrow, you will watch from here,” I tell Frinhol. “And whatever happens, you will not interfere.”
“As you wish, King Rogar. But it is a terrible plan.”
“No worse than riding a boar halfway up a mountain.”
My goblin friend shakes his head. “I cannot argue with that.”
Back at camp, I head for my tent.
Frinhol and I surveilled the hag until the suns set. After Odra’s departure, the creature returned to her cave, basket held to her chest. We witnessed nothing more to suggest she is the ceasg. But my instincts scream yes, and the prospect of attaining three magical wishes is too great a temptation to ignore. If I succeed, it means expediting my plan to rescue Kyra.
Possibly on the morrow.
If all goes according to plan.
There is much that can go wrong with this course of action.
I set the bag the healer gave me on the ground and carefully remove the items one by one.
Pipe.
Incense.
Herbs.
Medallion.
Talti’s words scroll through my head. “If there was a way to see your beloved, would you take it?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
She takes my hand and places the sacred herbs in my palm. “The magic is old, back to a time when goblins prayed to the old gods. Power similar to the magic your kind once held. The magic you hold inside you.”
“The bond that does not allow me to feel my mate?”
“Can you not?” She smiles. “We are all connected, Lord King. Goblin, orc, animal and plant. All living beings, of this realm or another. Your bond is unique. But first, you must listen. You must feel. You must believe.”
I set fire to the sage and hold the smoking brush in my hand. I am a male of action who has lived by the sword. I pay my respects to the ancestors as is their due, but this…
This is the work of a shaman.
Not a warrior.
“You must feel. You must believe.”
I shake away the dubious thoughts clouding my mind and work through the steps. This is no different than any other mission. And if all goes well, if the ancestors deem me worthy, then Ulda will open a door to the dreamscape.
To Kyra.
Simple.
So why does my gut churn?
“The dream realm is a dangerous place. This amulet will protect you and your love from reapers and those who would harm you.”
I place the medallion over my head and reach for the ceremonial pipe. The smooth bone artifact has been in Talti’s family for millennia. I light the chamber and lift the lip to my mouth.
“The pipe is the link between land and spirit. A sacred connection. One you must always respect.”
I inhale the mix of tobacco and willow deep into my lungs and hold. Once, twice, three times, replaying the sacred words in my head.
“The link is your guide. When the incense burns, your journey comes to a close.”
“Let me be worthy.” I reach for the bond tethered to my soul. “Let me find her.”
A breeze ripples through the tent. White smoke wafts to the ceiling.
“You will be tested. I see much darkness. Much pain.”
Shadows play against the walls. Wavy figures appear, their stark outlines both bright and dark against the canvas. Light filters, draining from the tent until all that remains is gloom.
I close my eyes. “Kyra, my sweet. Where are you?”
My voice echoes in my ears, distant and strange. Air whirs near the side of my face, my neck. The brush of something warm against my back, my arms.
A strange calm settles over my nerves.
Find the bond.
I laugh.
How could I not see it before?
It is here.
It has been right here all along.
I reach out, seize the brilliant cord, and tug.
8
Kyra
The hall erupts in jeers and bellows. Seconds later, a body thuds somewhere to my left amidst the clamor of crashing furniture and tableware.
Crammed inside this torture coop makes trying to get comfortable a feat of epic proportion. I slide my elbow farther back so the fleshy part of my upper arm cradles my ear and cheek. We’re no closer to getting out of here than we were this morning. If anything, our chances have worsened.
I have one teensy-weensy bright spot in this disaster of a day. The morning guards went bye-bye, replaced with the mellower duo from the night before. I offered them sanctuary if they helped us escape. Quietly, of course.
Maybe too quiet, because they ignored me. No reaction. Zip. Nada. Not even a twitch of a pointy tipped ear.
Could be a language barrier, or…
My lungs deflate.
Look at me. I’m human, imprisoned, and marked for death. It’s no secret I’m being used to lure Rogar, but no one expects me to walk out of this cage. The ice queen holds all the cards, including their lives. I have nothing but my word. And given how highly the fae regard human integrity, that isn’t saying much.
But I’m determined.
Not going to lie, though. Today was tough, both physically and emotionally. After the horrible death we were forced to watch, Aelinor descended the castle stairs, gathered a band of her warriors, and charged off to God knows where. We were left hanging in the cage, huddled with the suns to our backs for hours on end until she returned.
Ilearis’s fae blood healed the blisters on her skin.
Me?
No such luck. What the suns caught, they destroyed. Even through my disgusting tunic. The pain in my knees pales in comparison. I shift and wedge my right hand beneath my left cheek. I’m tired. So tired.
But lying here, hovering between a state of sleep and wakefulness, I feel him. Rogar. The weight of his presence settles against mine. A comforting heaviness. And if I hold still and block out the sounds ripping at my walls, I can almost hear the rattle of his chest humming against my back. A purr seducing me into the sweetest surrender, providing a sense of calm and security I’ve never known before. As long as we’re together, I’m safe. No matter what they take from me, as long as I’m with him, I’m home.
God, I miss him.
“Kyra.”
“I’m okay, Ilearis,” I lie through my chattering teeth because I know she’s worried about me. I’m worried about me.
Tenderly, so as to not hurt me, she blots the sweat from my skin. “Let me help you.”
Is it hot in here? Or is it me? “No.”
“If you will not let me heal you, then you must eat. Drink.”
My stomach revolts at the thought. “Maybe later.”
“Please, Kyra. Try. A tiny bit of magic could ease your pain.”
“No. Not yet, Ilearis.” Everyday we’ve been here, Aelinor drags her to the foot of her throne. The ice queen grows stronger, her dark magic polluting and poisoning everything around us. To keep fighting her off, Ilearis needs all the help she can get. I won’t let her waste a precious drop of her magic aiding me. I just have to hang on a little longer.
For Rogar.
“Let’s see how I’m doing tomorrow, okay? If I’m worse, you can help.”
“My mother is right. You are stubborn.”
“Ha.” I snort, then moan. “That’s like the pot calling the kettle black. Or is it the kettle calling the pot black?” I don’t know. Exhaustion seeps in from every angle. My eyes close, the noise below dimming to a constant buzz.
“Sleep, Kyra. I will keep watch”
Watch for what?
My groggy brain grapples with the comment before giving up and drifting off in a completely different direction. When I was a kid, I struggled with insomnia. More like I feared falling asleep. The first few weeks in a new home were always weird. It usually took a couple of days to get the real lay of the land. People faked being nice, especially with DCF calling to ensure a smooth transition.
Take Mrs. Mello, for instance. In public, she was the sweetest lady. A widow who’d never had kids of her own. Who loved to garden and crochet and bake apple turnovers.
But behind closed doors?
What a yeller.
And when she drank?
Duck for cover. Anything her hand came into contact with was either aerial or fodder for your ass.
I was one of the lucky kids. Two days after I was transferred there, a young couple moved into the house next door. Really attentive neighbors. You know, the kind who bake and bring yummy food to the door when they introduce themselves. At some point, they must have heard the crying, or the screaming, or maybe they were just really good at reading people, because it didn’t take long before we were all relocated to new homes.
But every night I slept in that house, I stuck my fingers in my ears and squeezed my eyes shut. I escaped to a happy place. A memory. Sometimes a fantasy I’d create. Years later, my happy place was the campground down at the cape. The one I’d told Rogar about. I imagined myself lying beneat
h those beautiful twinkling stars, sandwiched on either side by loving parents who thought sharing this view with me was the best thing on Earth.
Tonight, when I close my eyes, I go to the cavern. I picture the cool water in the basin. The uneven stone towering five stories over my head. I imagine a seven-foot orc with gorgeous, heavy-lidded, lust-filled eyes, who watches me like I’m a satellite orbiting his world.
I smell him then. The earthy scent of Rogar’s skin. The hint of leather from his clothes. It sparks a fire in my core, one only he can quench.
“Kyra.” The low rumble of his voice penetrates my awareness, the sound so real. Like a soft whisper caressing my ear.
Something tugs the center of my chest. I open my eyes. Below me, Ilearis huddles beside my body, her brown gaze locked on the mercenaries gathering below the cage. Too large a group for the two demons guarding us to fend off alone. My red, blistered skin glows unnaturally, even from this altitude. Between my burnt flesh and torn clothes, I’m a mess.
“Kyra.” Rogar’s voice beckons.
Where is he?
More than anything, I want to go to him.
But I can’t leave Ilearis alone.
Yet what good am I to her in this condition? Do I let her heal me? Do I let her deplete the magic she’ll need to defend against Aelinor?
Because that’s exactly what will happen. She’ll heal me and drain what little magic she manages to regain after each brutal session. Aelinor’s plan is insidious. She’ll break us both, not with knives or claws but by using our own weaknesses against us.
I can’t let that happen.
I won’t.
“Min droning. Where are you? Come to me,” Rogar’s voice pleads.
I’m torn between staying and going. But if this really is a dream, then I’m not abandoning Ilearis. Maybe this is my body’s way of healing. Shutting down all necessary functions so the real business of surviving can happen.
But a flying dream?
Really?
Apparently, even asleep, I’m a glutton for punishment. Flying dreams have always scared me. As a kid, I believed if I fell to my death in a dream, I’d die in real life. Total bullshit, of course, like the Bloody Mary legend that had me avoiding mirrors in fourth grade. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still harbor a sliver of that fear somewhere inside my brain.
