Veil of Shadows

by Walker, Shiloh

  “How does using sand construct a barrier for magic?” Lee muttered.

  Without looking away from her work, Elina called out, “We could try using it to plug our ears so we don’t hear the nattering of my niece, for starters.”

  Lee made a face at Elina’s back and moved away, joining Syn in her pacing.

  Syn smiled. Keeping her voice low, she said, “It’s not the sand—it’s the mental process. She’s grounding herself—we use the physical images to help strengthen our connection.”

  “Considering how the energy has gone all kablooey, I don’t think strengthening that connection is all that wise an idea.” Lee leaned back against the wall and absently toyed with the end of her long blond braid. She watched her aunt with concern in her eyes.

  Syn wasn’t entirely sure what kablooey meant, but she got the general idea. “The energy is still there. It recognizes us, somehow. It has to—otherwise, it wouldn’t have tried to grab me. We still need that connection if we’re to do the magic.”

  “You really think this will work?”

  Syn glanced at Lee and whispered, “I hope so.”

  They fell silent, watching with anxiety and hope as Elina finished her preparations. When she was done, she heaved out a sigh and then said, “Okay, Syn. You’re up.”

  Syn crossed the floor and settled on her knees across from Elina. “I hope you haven’t lost your mind,” she said grimly.

  “And I hope you haven’t lost yours by trusting me not to have lost mine,” Elina replied. She held out a hand.

  Syn laid her palm in Elina’s and then glanced at Lee. She flashed the other woman a grin and said, “Wish us luck, Lee.”

  Then they closed their eyes. Syn stretched out her senses, watching Elina. Elina fought through the chaos of energy like a swimmer struggling to navigate a flooded, raging river. She was strong, though, strong and steady, and didn’t falter as she made her connection.

  It echoed—a minute click—through both Elina and Syn. Then Elina whispered, “Now.”

  Syn reached.

  Reached . . . and fell. The energy grabbed her, sucked her in, and she struggled, desperate to surface before it was too late.

  Then Elina was there. Within the earth’s energy, Elina was there and she reached for Syn. The second their gifts united, the chaos eased and Syn realized she wasn’t drowning in the chaos.

  It worked—

  They opened their eyes and stared at each other, both of them grinning. Elina had tears in her ears, and there was a knot in Syn’s throat that robbed her of speech.

  “It’s working, isn’t it?”

  As one, they looked at Lee. “It’s working,” Elina said quietly. She pulled her hand from Syn’s and held it out. Fire sparked. From nothing, it grew until it danced in the air above Elina’s palm.

  Syn could feel the heat. Her fingers itched and she lifted her own hand, stared at it nervously. Did she dare?

  There was a crash.

  Syn looked up as Lothen came barreling in. She saw him lifting his pulsar, but she wasn’t quick enough. He caught Elina across the side of her head, knocking her unconscious. The connection between them shattered and Syn’s magic recoiled back inside herself. She felt the greedy, desperate draw of the earth but somehow, she fought free.

  Surging to her feet, she sidestepped as Lo turned to her. “You touch me with that thing and I’ll ram it up your ass, soldier,” she said, her voice icy.

  “At ease, Lo.” Kalen came inside and the look on his face was one of pure fury.

  Syn glanced at Lee and then at Elina.

  Hell. They’d known there would be trouble if they were caught. She could handle it.

  Then she caught sight of another face—Xan.

  He stood at Kalen’s back and the look on his face froze Syn to the core.

  Torn, Morne lingered in the trees just a few hundred yards from the small shelter. He’d been trailing Dais when he’d sensed the presence of the women.

  It had made him pause, and now he couldn’t seem to pull himself away. Even from this distance, he could make out familiar faces. It made his heart hurt in a way he hadn’t expected.

  Bleeding sands, he missed his friends.

  Not just Elina—all of them.

  Most of all, though, Elina. She was there. He could all but feel her.

  Did he join up with the rebels? Somebody had been hurt—he didn’t know who, but what if it was her?

  Or Lee. Syn.

  Thoughts of the others paled in comparison to his need to see Elina, though.

  Only one thing kept him from following.

  Dais.

  The bastard was close, and he wasn’t alone.

  Morne trailed his fingers along the bark of a nearby tree and focused, reaching out with his gift. Dais was no longer operating on his own. He had two other men with him, and that wasn’t good.

  Dais, the fucking traitor, wouldn’t come this close to camp without good reason. There was only one likely reason—Lee.

  Morne closed his eyes and focused on the sounds of the rebels. They were heading back to camp. Distantly, he thought he could hear Kalen’s voice, Lee, Lo. He could sense the emotions, vaguely, even through his shields. Anger. Irritation. Fury. Fear. But the emotions were all focused—no adrenaline-fueled terror, nothing of desperation, no emotional cries for help.

  They could do without him.

  Which was damn good, because as much as he wished to be with them, he suspected he needed to be elsewhere.

  Dais.

  As he started through the trees, he brushed his hands down the trunk of a tree and whispered, “I’m getting close, dead man.”

  The earth would carry his message.

  Moments later, he sensed the fear.

  Dais had heard him.

  Dais swore as he heard something through the trees.

  No time. They’d wasted too much time.

  He needed to pull back. It was the only wise decision.

  Grimly, he caught the Warlord’s gaze and bowed his head. “My lord, it would appear there will be others joining up with the female. I feel it would be wisest to pull back before our presence is discovered. We can try again when we have a better chance of success.”

  “Success?” The Warlord arched a brow.

  The Sirvani stood off to the side, waiting in silence. He had his hands clasped at his back and he stared at Dais with unreadable eyes.

  “Yes, my lord. We have time. We will get her. But we cannot risk—”

  A wind whispered through the trees.

  A chill raced down Dais’s spine as he heard the words.

  Eerie, disembodied . . . I’m getting close, dead man . . .

  It echoed around them, and the wind faded away, the air still, undisturbed. Dais swallowed and laid a hand on his pulsar, instinctively backing away even though he had no idea where the threat lay.

  Morne—

  One look at the Warlord’s face told him they had heard the warning as well. The Sirvani looked at the Warlord and then back at Dais, but remained silent. The Warlord didn’t flicker a lash as he said, “It would appear somebody else had plans for you as well, spy.”

  Dais opened his mouth to respond.

  But the words died on his tongue. He had good eyes—he was a damn fine marksman, a damn fine tracker. Still, all he could see was a flash of silver as the knife hurtled through the air.

  Then the Sirvani lay on the ground, a blade protruding from his chest.

  Dais jerked up his pulsar, aimed it at Laithe. Confused, he stared at the Warlord. Yet again, that safe position he’d been scrambling for was crumbling away under his feet. So close . . .

  “Stay back or you’re dead,” he warned the Warlord. “Hell, you’re dead, anyway. Your lord will gut you.”

  “No.” Laithe smiled, a humorless twist of his lips. “He’ll kill you, assuming you live long enough. After all, you’re the one who just killed one of his servants.”

  Dais’s eyes widened, comprehension dawning.
“Doublecrossed. Was this the plan all along? Set me up . . . No, that doesn’t make sense.”

  Despite the fact that Dais had a pulsar leveled square between the man’s eyes, Laithe continued to watch him with that amused little half smirk on his face. With the weight of the weapon pulling at his arm, Dais fought to keep his hand steady. It was hard, though. Death breathed down on him from multiple directions—both Morne and Kalen would gut him where he stood.

  The Warlord before him looked as though he had similar inclinations.

  “I’d hardly kill a comrade in arms just to set you up, scum.” Laithe cocked his head. In just that moment, something about the man seemed very, very familiar. “Unlike you, I actually understand the concept of loyalty.”

  “If you’re so fucking loyal, then why did you kill him?”

  “Because it was the only way to protect the one thing I’d die to protect . . . Nothing is thicker than blood. Nothing.” Muscles in the Warlord’s body tensed.

  It was like watching one of the ed-discs about natural predators when he was back in school, in what seemed like another life.

  Although the Warlord still appeared unarmed, Dais had the worst feeling he was utterly outmatched . . . and death was only seconds away.

  “Desist.”

  The order came in a familiar voice—the tone bored, as though Dais’s death meant less than nothing.

  He knew otherwise. As Morne stepped out of the trees, Dais stared at the man. He used his thumb to adjust the pulsar’s settings—one setting would kill the person who took the blast. There was another setting, though, that had a broader scope—strong enough to disable several people with one blast. He might have a chance against one Warlord, but not against two.

  Hell, he doubted he had a chance against Morne, period.

  If there was anything Morne wanted more than to see Dais’s blood spill red on the forest floor, it was to do it himself.

  Laithe barely glanced at Morne. They looked as though they’d been cast from the same mold—was this the family the Warlord had spoken of? The reason he’d killed one of his own men?

  But they looked at each other with no sign of recognition. “Desist?” the Warlord demanded in the native tongue of Anqar.

  Dais followed the conversation haltingly—they spoke too quickly for him to translate as easily as he’d like. Still, he understood enough.

  “Yes.”

  The Warlord’s lips curled in a smile as he studied Morne, from the top of his shorn hair to the very battered soles of his boots. Morne looked more like a rebel soldier than an Anqarian Warlord. “On what grounds?”

  “That of a blood feud.” Morne looked at Dais and said coolly, “My brother is dead because of this man. I call a Warlord’s vengeance on him.”

  The words froze Dais to the core. They had an effect on the other Warlord as well. With a displeased look on his face, the Warlord stared at Dais for a long moment before shifting his attention to Morne. “Warlord’s vengeance. What is your line?”

  “I’m a blood-son of the Ramire line. My brother—my twin—lies dead, and this man had a hand in it. His blood is mine.”

  “Ramire . . . The only Ramire I know was a Sirvani. He served under Raichar Taise.” Laithe’s eyes narrowed. “I question the truth of your words.”

  Morne cocked a brow. “Would I lie? To what purpose? I want the man dead, and it’s my right to end his sorry existence.”

  Dais saw his death in Morne’s eyes. The other Warlord looked less than pleased as he slanted a glance at Dais. “Then end it now.”

  “You can’t trust this man,” Dais said, shifting his pulsar to Morne. “He’s fought in the rebel army for nearly three decades.”

  “And this coming from the man who betrayed his own people for money?” Laithe asked, that amused smile returning to his face. “I don’t care if he’s served tea and sweets to the devil himself—we both want you dead. I do not need to trust him to watch him send you straight to hell.”

  Dais wasn’t a foolish man. He knew things had just gone bad in a major way, and he knew he didn’t have a saint’s chance of surviving this. Still, he wasn’t going to stand still for his death sentence, either. Curling his lip in a sneer, he said, “I may well be going to hell, but I’m not interested in a straight trip.”

  He fired, and without waiting to see the results, he dove into the woods.

  Morne gritted his teeth as the lingering effects of the pulsar’s blast tore through him. It burned like hell—agony that tore at every last nerve ending, fire that buzzed through his veins. Digging one hand into the earth, he rode through the pain and emerged from its grip in time to see the other Warlord still fighting it.

  Taking a full-body blast was less than pleasant, to put it mildly. He knew he’d be feeling the lingering numbness and alternating chills for the next several hours. He could do nothing to ease his own pain, though. Healers rarely had much effect on their own injuries—he could direct energy to serious wounds, enough to slow bleeding and possibly save his life, but that would do nothing for this sort of pain.

  He could function through it, though, and it was the only reason he still lived. Dais wouldn’t have forgotten that detail. Sucking in a deep breath of air, he shoved himself upright and managed to draw his own pulsar within seconds of hitting the ground. Clutching his weapon in a sweaty grip, he managed to shove himself upright, keeping watch.

  Dais—what if he lingered? If ever he would have a chance to kill Morne, it was now.

  With his free hand, he dug his fingers deep into the earth and asked, Where . . . ?

  The answer came to him in a rush of images, and as his mind processed them, Morne sagged, torn between relief and disgust. Dais was fleeing. He wasn’t a foolish man—he hadn’t lingered to see if his gamble had paid off. Morne had dealt with enough blasts that he could focus past the pain, at least enough to disable the treacherous bastard. If he had lingered, Morne would have found a way to kill him.

  The fuck had eluded him once again.

  The pain cleared enough for him to shove himself to his feet. Giving the other man a disgusted glare, he braced his weight against the nearest tree trunk. Still holding his pulsar, he waited.

  SIX

  “You could have gotten all three of you killed.”

  Syn stood before the commander with her hands linked behind her back, staring straight ahead.

  In the back of her mind, there was a mix of relief, guilt and exhilaration.

  But she didn’t let any of it show on her face.

  Kalen was beyond pissed, and if he had any idea that part of her was figuratively rubbing her hands together in glee, he’d only rail at her for that much longer.

  As it was, she’d been confined to quarters for the remainder of the day while he seethed. It wasn’t just her, though. Lee was also confined to her quarters, and Elina was confined to a bunk in the medicon. She was under observation—the medics didn’t seem overly worried, but head injuries were chancy things.

  Of course, if they hadn’t been interrupted the way they had, Elina wouldn’t have gotten hurt at all. Lo had found them first and he’d panicked, striking Elina the same way he’d struck Syn back when she’d almost gotten lost in the energy maelstrom. Knocking her out had cut the connection.

  Of course, there hadn’t been any danger for Elina, and Lo had given her a concussion for no good reason. But somehow Syn doubted Kalen would appreciate her pointing that out.

  “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  Cutting her gaze to meet his, Syn inclined her head. “Nothing that you would care to hear, Commander.”

  It had been a long time since the two of them acted like commander and subordinate . They were comrades—friends. He was Lee’s husband. He was one of Syn’s dearest friends.

  But right now, he couldn’t act like the frightened friend, a horrified husband. She could understand that. And even though it was hard to keep quiet, she understood his fear, and she understood his position.


  She also understood her own, and she couldn’t very well expect those under her to treat her with respect if she couldn’t show it to the commander.

  So she kept the words behind her teeth. Or rather, that was her intention.

  He glared at her, his silver eyes flashing. “I want an answer, Captain Caar. I don’t give a bloody damn if it’s one I want to hear or not. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Syn looked away.

  Kalen rarely yelled. He didn’t need to. His anger was like a cold blade, and now was no different. He advanced on Syn and she stiffened her spine, met his gaze dead-on. “Captain?”

  “You want to know what I have to say for myself?” Syn narrowed her eyes at him. Spinning away from him, she stalked over to the window and stared outside. The paths were empty and the common area she could see was empty. Considering how early in the evening it was, that was rather unusual.

  Except it made perfect sense.

  Every last soul in the camp probably knew what happened and every last one of them knew that Kalen wasn’t going to react well. They were keeping out of the line of fire.

  Smart.

  Looking at Kalen over her shoulder, she said flatly, “It worked.”

  Kalen slashed through the air with his hand and growled, “I don’t care if it worked. I said no magic. That means no fucking magic.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Syn responded. “You’re not the one who has to live with it. You’re not the one who is dying inside from that damned edict.”

  His silvery eyes turned to winter ice and he shook his head. “Don’t, Captain. You know damn well I understand how hard—”

  “No.” She turned back to face him and crossed her arms over her chest, fighting the chill that had lived inside her ever since the day she realized she couldn’t use her magic anymore. “You don’t understand, Kalen, because it doesn’t touch you. You don’t understand, because you’ve never been where we are, and even though I know you sympathize, it’s not enough. Sympathy doesn’t equate understanding, Kalen.”

  A muscle jerked in his jaw. “I know this is hard.”