by R. F. Long
The children, the small ones, helped him up. He could feel them trembling even as they did so, afraid to touch him, afraid of their shadows. And rightly so. Doria and Devyn were at the opening, trying to aid Leithen, his larger frame hampering his progress.
They weren’t going to manage it, not like that. “Doria, let me help.”
She backed away, letting him take hold of her husband’s hand. Devyn strained to pull harder. “As one, Devyn. Leithen, can you brace yourself against the sides, give yourself something to push off. Ready?” Leithen nodded, his face a pale blob in the darkness, his grip tightening on Shan’s hand. Devyn watched Shan, waiting. “One, two…three.” On three they both pulled, bracing themselves against the rockface, and Leithen grunted, a sound which stretched out in pain and effort as he scraped through the last section.
And then he was free. All three of them tumbled onto the rocky ground.
“We have no time,” Shan told them, picking himself up. “I’m unarmed and I must reach Jeren before Ylandra. I fear I may already be too late.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Leithen replied, picking himself off and dusting off his ragged clothes. When he saw Shan’s surprise, he actually laughed. “We’re Rohs, Shan. All of us, even the little ones. We serve the children of Jern, and Jeren is our Lady since her brother cast us aside. We must protect her. It is in our blood.” Murmured agreements came from his family, even to Jerryl, the littlest of them.
There was no argument to be made. Shan knew that. Jeren was stubborn, and determined. He’d said it himself to her on more than one occasion. It was a known River Holt trait. Though he would never admit it, it was one of the things he admired most in her. In them. Yes, in them all.
“Very well,” he agreed. Perhaps they expected more of an argument, but they took his acceptance well enough. “But we need to move now. And the pace will not be slow. Cannot be slow.”
Doria gathered the younger children in her arms in apprehension. Did she think he’d suggest leaving them behind? He had gone part of the way to convincing them that his people were not monsters like the Fell’na, but not all, it seemed.
“If you will.” He held his hands out to Pern. The boy went to him warily, and then squealed with unexpected delight as Shan swung him up onto his back.
Leithen laughed again. Damn, but that sound was infectious. It gladdened Shan’s spirits by its nature and its significance. Hope, he decided. It sounded like hope. Jerryl bounded into Leithen’s arms and was soon up in the same position as her brother.
“Come then,” Shan said. “We must hurry.”
***
It took far longer than he might have hoped. By the time they reached the Spring Camp it was evening and the cookfires were already burning bright. Bright but few. Shan lowered Pern to the ground and called out a greeting.
Lara ran out to meet him. “Shan?” she gasped. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face flushed, but when she saw him her mouth hung open and all colour drained away. “By the Bright God and his Lady, Shan? You’re alive?”
“Of course I’m alive.”
But they were all staring at him, all his people.
No, not all. Indarin wasn’t there. And most importantly, neither was Jeren.
Lara gaped at him. “But…but she said…”
A wave of cold passed through him, the icy fingers of terror. “Who said?”
“Ylandra. She came back no more than an hour past, said the Fell’na ambushed you and you were captured. She had to leave you there and feared they would kill you. She and Indarin went to break the news to Jeren.”
No . She intended to use Indarin to trap Jeren, to break his beloved’s heart before betraying her to the Enchassa. His head reeled with the thought. Not just the treachery, but the cruelty, and for no reason. No reason but her own twisted hate.
“Ylandra is a traitor to all of us. She intends to give Jeren to the Fell’na. Where are they, Lara? Where is Indarin taking her?”
“She went with Ariah. To the Vision Rock. What do you mean, ‘give Jeren to the Fell’na’?”
He turned away, gathering his bearings once more, but Lara started after him.
“Shan? What happened? What’s going on?”
“You heard me. She’s…she’s damaged. The Enchassa did something to her, made a deal with her, for me. But more than that, I think hate has eaten away at her mind.” He shook his head, like a wolf shaking off an irritation, wishing it was that easy to rid himself of this dreadful sense of doom. “They did something to her, to us both, but to her most of all. Something terrible. I haven’t time for this, Lara. All I need is a weapon, and I need it now.”
One of his brethren passed him a sword, but even as Shan started forward, his body betrayed him and he stumbled.
Lara’s hands saved him the humiliation of falling. “You’re exhausted, Shan.”
He waved back at the Holters huddled together in their strange surroundings. “Take care of them, please. They are my friends. Without them I would be lost.”
“Holters?”
“Yes. River Holters, Rohs.”
“Well, then.” Lara gave a brief smile for the exhausted Holters. “Their own people can care for them. I’m coming with you.”
“Their own…? What?” Shan’s head swan with it all. The need to find Jeren, to protect her, was greater than he could articulate, but here he was, discussing the impossible.
“There are Holters here, came for Jeren. And one of them’s a Roh too. Torvin Roh. He went with Jeren and the others, as witnesses.”
“What?” Leithen interrupted before Shan could say a word. “Shan, Torvin Roh is Gilliad’s man through and through. He turned most of those not arrested in the first swoop. He’s the one who caught Doria, the children and I. If he’s with Jeren, she is in mortal danger.”
The Wolf's Mate: A Tale of the Holtlands, Book 2
Chapter Ten
Their approach through the narrow canyon was not the moment of high ceremony a Holt would have made of such an event. Ariah walked in silence and Jeren followed her, wishing they could move faster. The leader of the Fey’na people still carried the white-handled Sect Knife, cradling it against her now as if it were a child found lost or abandoned.
The canyon narrowed and curved, hiding their destination from sight. The full moon lit the way, making the rocks and the small stream by which they walked seem more like silver than stone or water. Just when Jeren was beginning to wonder would they ever reach the sacred place, the canyon opened up and she caught her breath in surprise. A pool spread out before her, a wide expanse of water which reflected the moonlight onto a standing stone. Whorls and spirals covered the surface of the stone, intricate carvings as old as time itself. Buried in the granite, slivers of mica sparkled and danced with the reflection from the water. The effect was magnificent, and hypnotic. It took a moment before Jeren remembered to breathe once more.
“Kneel,” said Ariah. “And look into the pool. The visions will come quickly and it will feel real. Frighteningly real. Nothing can hurt you here so let it flow over you and through you. Be with your visions and learn all you can. Afterwards we will talk and work them out. But remember, Jeren, no matter what you see, I am with you and you are safe. You are always safe, little one.”
As Jeren knelt, Ariah’s hand rested on her hair, hair still matted and sweaty from the struggle with Ylandra. The bandage on her arm ought to be changed soon, and the wound beneath stung painfully. Ironic really, that she could heal others but never turn that power on herself.
The water captured her eyes, the reflection of the stone broken as a light breeze played across the surface. The moon and the mica glittered like the tears of the Goddess. And beyond those moments of blessed light, darkness rose up from the depths to seize her conscious mind and snatch it away.
River Holt was a jewel in sunlight, perched on the very edge of the waterfall. Jeren flew towards the Citadel on Kiah’s wings, spiralling over the Greeting Square and the many s
treams and canals that cut the city glittered in the sunlight, reflecting light up onto the polished marble and gilded decorations.
So beautiful. Her home was so beautiful. She had forgotten since the shadows had fallen on it with her father’s death. River Holt had started life as Jern’s dream, a dream he made a reality through sheer force of will and determination. And his children had only made it more wonderful.
The Great Hall of the Citadel thronged with life, with joy. Her people, decked out in all the colours of the rainbow, all their finery—and when given an opportunity, River Holters could give peacocks a run for their money. Disembodied, like a ghost, Jeren slipped between them, walking over the highly polished marble floor that reflected those around her but didn’t return her own image.
Everyone turned, facing the throne on its raised dais. With a flurry of activity servants scurried around, opening the door to the private chambers beyond. A fanfare rang out, the music that heralded the arrival of the Scion of Jern himself. So many times Jeren had proceeded her father on such an occasion, stepping out with a smile, the perfect daughter. Gilliad would follow her, then her mother. And finally her father, the Scion of Jern, ruler of River Holt. Not a king, but as good as such. A True Blood Lord with Felan’s Sword at his side.
But this wasn’t the procession she saw now. A woman came first, one she didn’t know, though she looked like a Roh from her features and colouring. She was followed by a man, broad-shouldered like a bull, his face bearing the hardened expression of a warrior and scarred lines of suffering. Behind him came Elayne, still dressed in her armour, though a cloak of the softest grey gentled the effect and her golden hair hung long down her back. She looked strangely vulnerable. And behind her…
Jeren’s heart lodged in her throat, pounding away impotently. There was only one reason for Vertigern to be here, to be coming from the private Chambers. Only one reason in the world. Yet he was. Handsome as any fairytale lord decked in the finest cloth. He stopped at the edge of the dais and held out his hand to the final person to enter. A woman, beautiful and regal, gowned as only a True Blood Lady could be. Light glowed from her skin, from her eyes, from her long chestnut hair. She wore a golden diadem, and Jeren knew her. The Lady of River Holt. How could she fail to recognise this image? Jeren stared at this version of herself in wonder and horror combined.
Felan’s sword weighed heavily on her back, dragging her down towards the water. All around her people were kneeling, but when a nursemaid appeared with a wailing bundle, they cheered. The other Jeren took the child in her arms, cradling it so tenderly and soothing its cries until they hushed. Only a mother could do that, Jeren thought.
“No,” she whispered, and the other Jeren looked up as if able to see her past self. She smiled. There was tragedy in that smile.
“How did this happen?”
The image dissolved in answer to her question and another scene resolved itself. Night time in River Holt and Gilliad’s body slumped at her feet, his face twisted in agony, frozen in death. Blood spread in a wide pool across the marble and Jeren knelt over him, trembling, tears streaming down her face. Her magic recoiled inside her, seeking sanctuary, a hiding place against the assault to come. And come it did, the power of the Scion of Jern, like a flood of light. It tore through her, stripping away her defences, too strong and too powerful to resist. And glorious. Terrifying and glorious.
Ours , chorused a host of voices inside her mind. “Heir and vessel. Ours!” She knew them, could hear Gilliad raging at her, her father and grandfather, all those voices of her ancestors married together inside her, shredding her resistance and her sanity, remaking her as the Scion of Jern. They were the voices her brother had spoken of, and now they had her as well.
“Shan!” She cried out his name, even though she knew he was lost to her, now and in the future. “Shan, please, no!”
Ariah released her and Jeren fell forwards, her hands sinking into the pool. Stones bit into her palms and her tears splashed before her, lost as they flowed into the waters.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, her throat aching. “Please no.”
Ariah wrapped gentle arms around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Jeren. I’m so sorry. Take a moment and see if there is more. If not then tell me what you saw. I may be able to help interpret it.”
Jeren sobbed as she struggled to control her grief and failed. Shaking, chest heaving, she drew herself upright again. “There’s nothing to interpret.” She searched Ariah’s face for a sign that she might be wrong. “I killed my brother. I became Lady of River Holt and the power of my ancestor’s insanity gripped me. I…I had a child, a human child. And Vertigern stood by my throne.”
“That is not the only path,” Ariah assured her. “Though to come first, it is the most likely. We can look again, see your options.”
“What options are there for a traitor?” Torvin’s voice rang out over Aran’Mor. He stood, silhouetted on the edge of the canyon, a sword in his hands. “Gilliad was right. You intend to take his throne.”
“Torvin?” Jeren struggled upright. “What…what are you saying?”
“That you must die, before you can harm my True Blood Lord!” And he leaped at her, the sword flashing silver in the moonlight. Jeren rose to meet him. He looked like the spirit of death descending on her, and given what she had seen, part of her welcomed him.
***
Shan sprinted through the gully leading to the Vision Rock, ignoring the pain stabbing through him, or the cramps in his side. All he could think of was Jeren, of her unknowingly walking with a traitor, if Ylandra didn’t get her first. All he could hope was that Indarin would be there, that his brother would save his mate.
Jeren meant the world to him, as only a true mate could. He felt no hesitation now in admitting it, no fear, no regret. She was everything. His beloved. His wife.
But she wasn’t a warrior, no matter what she thought. She was not a killer. He loved that about her almost more than anything else. Her soul was pure and untainted. Her magic was a force of life.
Lara matched his pace and speed, never complaining, never faltering. So like her father, determined and true of heart. That she had befriended Jeren gave him hope that others would accept her too. But then, Lara was as open and giving a soul as his own sister had been.
They stumbled into the encampment on the edge of the sacred land.
“Shan!” Indarin shouted, his voice filled with unexpected joy and triumph. Before Shan knew what was happening, his older brother, his caustic and dismissive older brother who always regarded him as an overemotional reprobate, seized him in strong arms and embraced him. “You’re alive. Thank all the gods, you’re alive.”
“Ylandra…” he panted.
“She’s here, under guard. Ariah will help her and Jeren is fine. They went to the Vision Rock, hoping to speed things up so we could go to help you.”
“But…the Roh… Torvin Roh…”
“What of him?” Indarin looked around. “He was here. Vertigern and his woman are, anyway. Jeren healed her, saved her life. You chose well, Shan. She’s worthy of you, more than worthy. In fact, I wonder if you’re worthy of her.” He laughed.
Shan could only stare at him. He couldn’t remember the last time Indarin had ever laughed.
“Torvin Roh is a traitor,” Lara snapped, her mood less shaken. “The Holters Shan rescued told us. He serves Gilliad. He’s here only to kill her.”
“She’s with Ariah, at the Vision Rock.”
It was all the information Shan needed. He hated the place with a passion he could not articulate. Fa’linar had died there, helpless and alone. He would not allow the same fate to befall Jeren. But as he pushed past Indarin, another sight stopped him in his tracks.
Ylandra.
She sat, defeated, her arms tied behind her back, her ankles bound together, her mouth gagged. He stared and Indarin cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“She wouldn’t stop shouting. Raving. She said the Fell�
�na had you.”
Shan lifted his chin, unable to look away from the former Sect Mother. “They did. She left me there. They tricked her but she still…she made the decision.”
Ylandra lifted her face and stared at Shan, her eyes like malignant slivers of steel. Tears welled up behind her lashes, glittering in the moonlight.
“I’m sorry, Ylandra,” he murmured. “I truly am sorry.”
She closed her eyes, flinching as if struck. And then her entire body convulsed. Teeth clenched, muscles spasming, she hit the ground hard, writhing against the stone. Indarin cried out her name, dropped to his knees to restrain her, but the fit continued, more violent than the human’s falling sickness. She thrashed from side to side and then stiffened all over, arching back in Indarin’s arms.
“Help me, Shan,” gasped his brother. “What is it? What’s happening to her?”
Abruptly she cried out, the sound muffled by the gag. Indarin tore it from her mouth, whispering her name, trying to smooth back the silver strands of her loose hair.
An instinct trilled at the back of Shan’s brain, or perhaps just a sense of foreboding. “No. Indarin—”
Ylandra screamed and shadows poured from her distended mouth. Shadow upon shadow, black as night, flowing like hot tar. Indarin froze in horror as the nearest coalesced into the form of a Fell’na and threw itself at him. It slammed into his solar plexus and he went down beneath it in a gasping heap.
Shan and Lara shouted the alarm as they drew weapons, engaging the enemies which came pouring from her body. With each convulsive jerk, another tore its way out of her, smeared in her blood.
Fighting the Fell’na, Shan slipped into the Dance, each attack anticipated a moment before it fell, each muscle in his body moving like liquid warmth, ready, willing, obedient. Black blood splattered his face but he spat it out and charged towards where Indarin lay, pinned by a host of shadow forms. He tore his brother free as the other Sh’istra’Phail arrived to take on their ancient foes.
