The Stones of Resurrection

by Tameri Etherton

“Yes, that’s right. You and Hayden were born two days apart.”

  Taryn studied her riding companion. Faelara wore a deep green riding jacket with matching hat and split skirt that allowed her to sit astride her horse. Taryn admired how graceful she looked upon her mare and shuddered at how she must appear to the regal woman. Dirt smeared, disheveled, disoriented. Never before had she given a thought to how she looked to others, but being near the elegant woman made her self-conscious. Grimacing at the state of her hands, she picked at a cuticle, tearing the skin.

  Faelara took her hand in her own. “Let’s see if we can’t get you more familiar with your surroundings. Make you feel more at home.”

  The tone of her voice, and slight upturn to her lips, suggested she knew where Taryn had been all those years, but she dared not confirm her suspicions. Rhoane had warned her to keep her past hidden and that’s what she would do.

  She listened with quiet intensity as Faelara explained the topography of the land they traveled. They rode through meadows of thick grasses and past fields gone fallow, the pace faster than the day before as Rhoane had promised. Every so often, Rhoane would range ahead to scan the area or Baehlon would hang back to ride behind them, but neither seemed to see the shadow. After a while, she stopped looking for the flicker at the edge of her vision.

  With every rut or mud filled road they crossed, more knots formed in her shoulders and backside. Her knees were numb from gripping Cynda, and she was certain she’d forever lost all feeling in her hands from clutching the reins too tightly. They stopped briefly for a midday meal and to rest the horses but were back in the saddle much too soon. Myrddin pushed them faster as the afternoon wore on. When dark tendrils stretched across the road and the sun’s rays slanted beyond the trees through dusk, Baehlon turned them down a treelined drive. Too weary to see straight, Taryn barely registered their location until Faelara touched her shoulder.

  “Ravenwood,” she whispered.

  Taryn jerked in her saddle and straightened her posture, her exhaustion a nagging memory. Ravenwood meant a bed. Possibly a shower. Definitely a break from the pounding of riding.

  She followed Fae’s outstretched hand and whistled low in her throat. “That’s a bloody castle.”

  “Manor house.”

  “Whatever.” Taryn took in the turreted corners and delicate battlements. Though built for show, it still managed to appear imposing perched upon a hill. The group made their way up the gravel road, past landscaped borders and decorative hedges.

  Too busy admiring the scenery, Taryn didn’t notice Myrddin had slowed, his hand outstretched in a silent signal to the others, until she was even with his horse. He placed a finger to his lips, his glare boring into her.

  Rhoane and Baehlon drew their swords.

  Nervous energy rippled over her in waves, making her palms moist, her throat dry.

  Instinctively, Taryn moved closer to Faelara. Gravel crunched with each hoof their horses placed on the ground. Myrddin reined in his gelding, and the others followed, quietly dismounting. Within several yards of the manor, Taryn paused in her step.

  The front door stood wide open, without a soul in sight.

  Taryn tapped Faelara’s arm, but the woman shook her head and motioned to the manor. Streaks of ShantiMari circled everyone except Baehlon and Taryn, which did not instill her with confidence.

  Myrddin felt around the doorway and then stepped into the house. The men moved from room to room, looking for signs of life or a struggle, finding neither. With each new room, Taryn’s heart thumped harder, threatening to burst from her chest.

  They moved up the stairs to the first landing, and Myrddin motioned for her to stay with Faelara while the men crept up and down the hallways, checking each room. Halfway up the next flight of stairs, Taryn’s pendant burned against her skin. She stifled a gasp, causing Rhoane to look back. When she pointed to her cynfar, his eyes narrowed for a moment, and then he continued up the stairs, saying nothing. They stopped on the upper landing, where, again, the men crept down the hall.

  Taryn moved away from Faelara to follow Rhoane. When he stepped from an empty room and nearly collided with her, he frowned, but she put a finger to her lips, motioning for him to follow.

  At the last door, Taryn stopped. “In here.”

  Rhoane flinched when he touched the wood. He waited until the others joined them before slowly opening the door. Taryn was last to enter the dimly lit bedchamber. Furniture crowded the large room, and in the center rested a huge four-poster bed with heavy curtains tied to the posts. Beside the bed, a man sat hunched, the sound of his soft cries filling the space. Faelara and Myrddin went to him while Baehlon and Rhoane continued to check the perimeter. A fetid odor like the scent of pork left out overlong assaulted her senses.

  Help me, a voice whispered.

  Taryn spun around to see who had spoken, but no one was near. She stepped around a chair and covered her mouth to keep from crying out at the ghastly sight before her. Atop the bed, uncovered but clothed, lay a young man. A glowing sword hung suspended above his heart.

  The stench increased the closer she moved to the bed. It infiltrated her nostrils, her throat, her mind until she felt as if maggots crawled through her thoughts. Bile burned from her belly to her tongue. She gagged, dizzy all of a sudden.

  No time. Please, the voice begged.

  “Who are you?” she whispered aloud to the empty air.

  Bed. Help. Now. Desperation choked the voice.

  Lavender strands of ShantiMari enclosed the man’s body, with the thinnest of threads holding the sword aloft. Even as she watched, the sword moved a fraction closer to piercing his shirt. “Oh my God.”

  Hurry.

  His anguish permeated her mind to her very core. She swallowed down the bile and took a deep, calming breath. “What do you want from me?”

  Sword, the voice rasped. There was no pain in his tone, just a sense of panic and fear.

  She had to do something before the sword broke free. Rhoane prowled the opposite side of the room, his focus away from her.

  “Hang on.” Before she could change her mind, she sprinted toward the bed. When she’d nearly reached it, she jumped as high as she could, kicking out. A cacophony roared through her mind when her foot connected with the metal. Shards of ShantiMari tangled around her leg, and a burning sensation shot up from her heel. Rhoane stepped out of the way a split second before she crashed to the floor, the sword landing with a heavy clang beside her.

  Time slowed as the ringing continued. Vomit roiled in her gut. Images, flashes of light and dark, tore at her thoughts. Shouts and cries echoed in her mind. Julieta’s screams. Kaldaar’s banishment. Rykoto’s laughter as he raped Julieta.

  Rhoane was speaking to her, helping her up. She stared at his face, focused on that one reality. A gasp from the bed pulled her attention back to the young man and the threads of ShantiMari tightening around him. He couldn’t breathe. She moved without thought and grabbed the sword that lay at her feet.

  When she touched the handle, a shock ran up her arm. Not like the one in her leg, which felt as though it were on fire, but a soothing feeling, as if the handle welcomed her touch. The voices stopped. Her mind cleared. Her stomach calmed. Gripping the hilt with both hands, she raised the sword and brought it down over the man, slicing the lavender cords.

  “Taryn, no!” Faelara cried out. Amber streaks of Mari shot toward her, but they were blocked by Rhoane’s Shanti.

  “Hold, Faelara.” Rhoane’s voice was like iron. “She will not harm him.”

  Taryn ignored the strange tingling of her skin as she cut the threads. When they were too small for the sword, she tossed it aside and broke apart the remaining bits with her fingers, digging through them until the man inhaled and his chest heaved with the rush of air.

  The stink of death lingered. “Open the windows,” Taryn commanded. Baehlon moved with silent swiftness, opening first one and then all of the windows, letting in the last of the sun’s rays
and fresh, pure air.

  After a few minutes of coughing and sputtering, the man took several deep breaths. Taryn stepped back, allowing Faelara to fuss over him. Myrddin’s scowl was her last sight before everything went black.

  Chapter Eight

  Men argued in the hall. A man, not Zakael but of similar height with the same black hair and grey eyes, wanted the sword. Needed it. Taryn watched from above, as if she floated among them. Rhoane and Myrddin restrained the man with their ShantiMari while Baehlon pointed his sword at the man’s chest.

  Valterys, they called him. He was arrogant enough to think he could defeat the three of them. Taryn drifted closer.

  Valterys looked to where she was and was not. He saw nothing and so looked through her. Pulling shadows over himself, he raced down the stairs.

  Myrddin swore at the suddenly empty air. “I wish I knew how he did that.” He spat at the ground where Valterys had stood.

  Taryn found it curious Myrddin didn’t know such a simple trick.

  Searing pain bit at her leg, bringing her back to her body. Gritting her teeth, she fought against the onslaught of fire that raced through her veins.

  “Lady Faelara,” a voice whispered above her. “She wakes.”

  Faelara’s cool hand felt good against her skin. “She’s burning with fever.”

  Rhoane came into focus.

  “My leg hurts,” Taryn groaned.

  “Hayden, help with her boots,” Faelara told the young man from the bed. They tugged at the laces, pulling the boots off in seconds. Faelara gasped, and Taryn struggled to sit up.

  “Stay still,” Rhoane commanded.

  Faelara ran a finger along Taryn’s leather pants, tearing them all the way up to her thigh. “Poison. There must’ve been a spell woven around the sword.”

  Another shot of fire tore through her. “Get the sword,” Taryn breathed. “It wants to help.”

  Rhoane and Faelara exchanged a look before she motioned to Hayden. He darted from the room.

  “Why does he want the sword? The man in the hall?” Taryn stuttered through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t you worry yourself with that,” Faelara said with another glance at Rhoane.

  Taryn arched against the burning that engulfed her leg, biting back a whimper. Hayden returned a minute later with the weapon wrapped in a heavy blanket. Very carefully, he set it on the bed and then stepped back as if it were a viper set to strike.

  Taryn’s fingers itched as if she’d been pruning poison ivy. They reflexively twitched toward the blade, curling her fingers around the pommel and pulling it out of the blanket.

  “Are you certain, Darennsai?” Rhoane asked. “We do not know that the poison is gone.”

  Hazy, fevered thoughts crowded her mind. Images of the Great War. A woman with skin like warm chocolate and hair the color of deepest night. The sword sang a song of forgiveness. For her. With a shock, Taryn realized the other melody she’d heard since the cavern came from the sword. All those years, every song her pendant sang, had come from the sword.

  The woman smiled and then drifted off through the clouds. Learn the words, she whispered. An inscription, written in the same ancient text as on the Seal of Ardyn, ran down the center of the blade. Taryn traced the words with her fingertips. They rose and fell beneath her touch. Slowly, she lay the sword on the bed, the cool metal resting against her skin. When nothing happened, the others let out a collective sigh of relief.

  “Use the sword to get rid of the poison.” Taryn explained, “I don’t know how I know, but I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  Faelara’s eyes narrowed in the same way Brandt often did when he had a perplexing puzzle to solve. A moment later, she said to the group, “Hayden, you and His Grace will keep Taryn steady.”

  Taryn glanced to where an older gentleman had entered. She hadn’t seen his face in Hayden’s room, but his red-rimmed eyes marked him as the man who was sitting beside the bed. He shuffled to stand beside Hayden, nodding to Faelara.

  Rhoane pressed his hands against Taryn’s thigh. “Keep your thoughts focused on healing your leg. This might sting a little.”

  Taryn swallowed her apprehension and closed her eyes. “Do it.”

  At first, she felt only the sword and their hands on her. Then heat ripped up her leg. Her thoughts scattered. She reined them in by focusing on her kata, specific karate moves that required leg strength. Sweat ran down her face, pooling in her hair as bolts of agony tore through ligaments and sinew, muscle, and bone. Rhoane’s and Faelara’s ShantiMari pulsed through her, heightened by the sword’s power to work out the poison. Again and again, they gripped her leg, sending their ShantiMari into her.

  Their worry and frustration lingered in her thoughts. The sword sang to her in dulcet tones of healing. Beside her, the duke whispered, and his Shanti pricked her skin. The poison especially disliked his power. Taryn invited his ShantiMari into her, coaxing the sword to accept his healing. She didn’t know why or how, but it was necessary to cleanse her blood.

  The sword pulsed with a blinding light that shot around the room in a whirlwind, and their healing webbed through her to find every last drop of poison. She arched against the pull of energy and then sank onto the bed, drained. As quickly as it came, the light vanished.

  Faelara stumbled from the bed, her brow drenched, her pale face nearly translucent. The duke offered her and Rhoane each a chair and then stood between them, hovering like a concerned mother. Rhoane, too, looked exhausted. His hands shook a little when he took the glass of water the duke offered. Seeing how much the ordeal had affected the pair troubled Taryn. Her mortality had never been a thought, but if they hadn’t been there, she most likely would’ve died. She owed them a debt she could never repay.

  The young man from the bed, Hayden, wiped Taryn’s brow with a cool cloth. Her throat scratched when she tried to speak, and Hayden dabbed water on her dry lips with the utmost care. He was handsome, the duke’s son. Sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. Full lips that looked as if they smiled more often than frowned.

  “Thank you,” she croaked. Gratitude was just one of the many emotions that lodged in her throat. She was alive because of these people—these strangers—but there was more. Hayden was supposed to be the one poisoned. Why? And what was the strange light that came from the sword? Whatever this ShantiMari was, it, too, had saved her life. How exactly did one show gratitude to a sword? Questions and thoughts swirled, adding another layer of disquiet to her already unbalanced emotions.

  Baehlon and Myrddin entered the room, their features mirror images of displeasure. Myrddin’s gaze swept the room, slowing when he came to Taryn. Surprise flicked across his face for only a moment, then he moved on to the others. What that look meant, she wasn’t sure. Before she could ask, Faelara spoke, her voice low and haggard.

  “Did you find any signs of Valterys?”

  “None. The bastard just disappeared.” Baehlon snarled. He, too, sorted out the others, his gaze lingering on Taryn. No surprise lit his eyes, just a calm sort of acknowledgment. Taryn held his gaze, questioning, challenging, until a curious grin stretched his lips. Despite his brutish exterior, Taryn liked the man, and sensed she could trust him.

  “We’ll keep vigilant, just in case.” Faelara stood, shaking out her skirt. “I suppose I should see what’s left in your pantry. Paderau can wait a day if necessary.”

  Rhoane put a hand on her arm. “Are you recovered?”

  “Well enough, thank you. I’ll send up a sleeping draught for Taryn. I think we should let her rest.” She checked Taryn’s forehead before kissing it lightly. “Sleep, my darling.”

  She left the room, and the others followed. Except Rhoane. He pulled his chair closer to the bed, leaning back as if he might sleep as well. Taryn moved the sword aside before snuggling under the heavy blanket, facing him. He was snoring lightly by the time Hayden returned with Faelara’s potion, and Taryn motioned for him not to disturb the man. She drank the foul tasting liquid with a grimace. Inst
ead of leaving, Hayden sat in the chair Faelara had vacated, watching her until her eyelids grew too heavy and she slept.

  WHEN she woke, the sky held the last vestiges of night, with a few stars stubbornly clinging to the pale dawn sky. She stared at the ceiling, willing night to hasten as she tracked the shadows that made a slow progression toward the light. Brandt would know what she was supposed to do. He would make sense of everything that had happened. Her heart pinched with the reminder he was gone. A lone tear slid silently down her cheek to rest in the cradle of her neck.

  “Are you in pain?” A voice cut through the darkness.

  Fear, raw and primal, paralyzed her body and her tongue. The man had returned for the sword. Possibly to kill her.

  “Taryn.” A softness entered the rich baritone and she recognized Baehlon’s voice. She forced herself to look in his direction, chastising her wild imagination. He stood over her, a hand resting on her shoulder, warm and comforting.

  Slowly, her heart rate evened and she found words. “You scared the crap out of me.” The tightness in her voice matched her nerves. “What are you doing here?”

  “Watching over you.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  Even in the dim light, she could see the slight wince, the narrowing of his eyes. “Of course you don’t. I, however, wanted to make certain there was no threat of another spell or more poison causing you harm.”

  “I’m sorry. You startled me.”

  “No apology necessary. You’ve had an exciting few days. I would be jumpy as well.”

  Shadows slithered across the ceiling, and Taryn subconsciously moved for the sword.

  “It is there, just beyond your reach. You should get used to having it close at hand. When you’re feeling up to it, I’ll teach you how to properly handle the weapon.”

  She itched to touch the hilt, to feel its weight in her hand, its power coursing through her. A little too much. “I think I’d like that.” It was a step closer to avenging Brandt’s death. “Who was that man and why does he want the sword?”