Aislin of Arianrhod (Land of Alainnshire)

by S. L. Jesberger

  This can’t be happening! Who would summon help for Arianrhod if they couldn’t? Maeve, Devin, Gwen and her mother were stuck in the cave. They’ll never know what happened to us!

  Aislin narrowed her eyes as a lone man on a black horse rode into the center of the clearing. He dismounted and stood facing her direction before he handed the reins to another. Blinking, she tried to focus in the twilight. He too had a hood pulled low over his face.

  He walked slowly toward her, and it seemed to her as though he was gliding along the ground. He was much taller than the others. She could see even in the darkness that he had an authoritative air about him.

  He came to a stop directly in front of her. She shuddered as he studied her, his face a dark void behind the hood. Summoning every ounce of strength she had, she tried to twist out of their grip. She could barely move.

  He slowly began to lift his right hand, the first two fingers extended into the air. It seemed to mean something to those holding her. One of them grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back at an angle. The movement was unexpected, and she exhaled sharply.

  He brought those two fingers down to the hollow of her throat and pressed them there for a few seconds. Slowly, he pulled his fingers from the depression at the base of her throat, sliding them gently up the right side of her neck. She shivered at his touch. He stopped at the curve of her jaw, hesitated for a moment, and then forcefully pressed his fingers into the nerve under her jawbone.

  Pain shot through her body, an explosion of heat trapped within the confines of her skull, fusing her bones together and boiling her blood in her veins. She was dimly aware of arching violently forward as a spinning wall of flame sucked her up into its center.

  “I’ll take her with me,” the hooded figure commanded. They handed her limp body up to him after he had mounted the horse.

  Shifting her to get a better hold, he looked down into her face. An unexpected ripple of pleasure teased him. The thought popped unbidden into his mind: She is beautiful.

  She is an enemy. Everyone is an enemy to your people. You must find out who they are and what they want, and then you must kill them both.

  He turned the horse around so abruptly that it reared up on its back legs and pawed the air before taking off at a hard gallop back into the heart of Blackthorne Forest.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE PAIN IN AISLIN’S SHOULDERS brought her around the next morning, though every part of her body felt like it was on fire. Forcing her eyes open, she rolled her head to one side, and the world began to spin. She groaned in agony.

  She closed her eyes again, determined to lie quietly and let the thick fog that enveloped her clear away on its own.

  What had happened in the forest? And where was Roderic? She tried to listen for some sign of him, but she heard nothing. Wherever she was, it was as silent as a tomb.

  Her wrists were bound. She shifted slightly and heard the soft chink of the chains. She picked her head up and looked around. She was lying on her back nestled in a pile of blankets on the floor of a pure white marble room. The room was very small, and there were bars on the door. Everything was pure, clean, ethereal white. It was clearly a prison, but it looked like no prison she’d ever seen before.

  Looking through the bars, Aislin could see the bottom of several richly colored tapestries hanging on the walls outside. The place felt like a castle. But where?

  Feeling like she might be able to move without being sick, she pushed herself up to a wobbly sitting position. She tipped her head forward against her knuckles and closed her eyes. The man had done something to her jaw. With only two fingers.

  Why do I feel like I’ve been run over by a herd of wild stallions?

  A piercing scream shattered the silence. Roderic!

  Aislin jumped to her feet and ran for the door, but the chains around her wrists brought her to an abrupt stop. She could hear him continue to scream, agonizing long screams of pain that could only mean he was being tortured.

  The screaming stopped. There was dead silence for several minutes, and then she heard a lone set of footsteps out in the hall, heading in her direction.

  She pulled back as far as the chain would allow, crouched down in the corner, and waited.

  They had descended on the man first, thinking he was the leader of the two. They chained him to the wall, kicked and beat him, but he said nothing. He wouldn’t give his name, nor would he give them the name of the woman with him.

  In frustration, the tall, hooded man stepped forward to read his memories. He got nothing but nonsensical bits and pieces of disjointed thought: black, smoky swirls, the man crying over a young woman on a bed, more darkness, the man lying on a bed staring at the wall, a burial of someone who was obviously of high rank, the man sobbing. A young boy’s face popped into view, and he recognized the landscape of Wyndham, but none of these memories meant anything to him, and it gave him no clues as to who they might be.

  The man had screamed the entire time, as if reliving his past was incredibly painful. No one had ever reacted like that to a mind read. The council decided to see if the woman would be more cooperative. The hooded man made it clear that he, and no other, would be the one to go to her.

  He stopped in front of the cell holding the woman and waved his hand over the handle. The door swelled open, and he stepped inside.

  Aislin knew it would be the man on the horse before he even stopped in front of her cell.

  She squeezed her eyes shut fearfully as he entered. He took a few steps and crouched down in front of her. She cautiously opened one eye, tilted her head obliquely, and peered over at him. He was just far enough away that she couldn’t see under the hood. The hood made her feel sick and uneasy. What was he hiding under there?

  “Who are you?”

  Aislin was shocked to hear that the voice was normal, rich and deep. She could understand him. He didn’t sound vicious or threatening. In fact, she thought he sounded rather anxious.

  Recovering a bit of her courage, she lifted her chin and said, “I might ask you the same question.”

  “I will be the one who asks the questions. Who are you?”

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  “You have a name?” he asked.

  “I do.”

  “And what is that name?”

  “You first,” Aislin said.

  “I insist that you tell me your name!”

  “And I insist that you tell me yours!”

  “You came here looking for us, didn’t you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Aislin snapped impatiently. “How could I be looking for you if I don’t know who you are? I’ve seen nothing but the hood over your head!”

  She was surprised to hear a low growl come from behind the hood. He stood up, pushed the hood back a little on his head, and then was back on his haunches in front of her. He held both hands out, and she cringed, thinking he was reaching for her jaw again.

  “Look at me!” His voice was so powerful that she did as she was told. She couldn’t see anything but his eyes, shards of sharp green ice under the hood. It was impossible to look away. She felt him put a hand on either side of her head, and whisper something unintelligible to her. Her body relaxed; she slipped down the wall. And then...nothing.

  The hooded man smiled slightly as the woman’s eyes rolled back in her head. He closed his own and began to read her memories.

  She was a child attempting to mend something, but an older woman was displeased and pushed her out the door, slamming it shut behind her. The same little girl trying to give the woman a bouquet of flowers, but being pushed away, the flowers thrown to the floor. A ragged little urchin throwing rocks at an older boy. He laughed at her, and then hugged her close to him. A small girl hoisted into the air by a king. A half grown woman with a look
of pure joy on her face, barely clothed, long legs exposed and barefoot, riding bareback on a stallion, holding onto its mane and galloping at full speed. Then the woman was shoveling the stables, though she seemed to be happy to be doing so.

  The memories swirled into black fog and disappeared for a moment in chaos, and then he saw the king lying on a bed, motionless and clearly dying and the young woman was lying next to him, crying. Then they were burying the king in a silvery stone tomb, and she stood looking at the ground, her chin quivering, as a young prince draped his arm protectively around her shoulder.

  Blackness, chaos, sickness, death. The woman going door to door at the houses in a village, wiping the brow of the sick, helping prepare the dead for burial. She was dirty and tired, eyes full of tears, and she wiped her face with her sleeve. So many bodies, so many dead. A stone courtyard, and a young king falling onto the ground as the woman watched, and then she was cradling a newborn baby.

  The young woman, dressed in white silk, had a small tiara placed on her head by a man in robes, and he heard the word ‘regent’ and with a start he knew... knew without doubt who this beautiful stranger was.

  Still he watched, fascinated. She struggled, repaired, and planted in an attempt to keep things running smoothly. He could feel in his heart the same responsibility that she felt to the people entrusted to her. She climbed trees, spent long nights poring over numbers, long days helping to pick crops.

  The memory faded to the woman standing alone on a gray stone walkway, her gown billowing out behind her. A bloody man hoisted her over his shoulder and ran with her into a house, locking the door behind him. He ran up a flight of stairs with her still over his shoulder, entered another room, and collapsed in a heap on the floor. And then the bloody man called her by name... Aislin.

  Astonished, he looked at the woman slumped at his feet and thought: What gift have the gods delivered to me?

  Aislin slowly regained her senses and looked up at the man standing in front of her, hidden behind the hood. She knew he’d done something to her, and she was furious.

  “What did you just do to me?”

  “I read your memories.”

  Aislin didn’t know what that meant, but she didn’t like it at all. Eyes narrowed, she hissed at him: “Stay away from me! Don’t you ever touch me again!”

  “I know who you are, Princess. What are you doing in Blackthorne Forest?”

  Aislin couldn’t breathe for a moment. She could think of nothing to say in return. He’d rendered her unconscious by touching her jaw, and now he’d discovered who she was simply by holding her head. Whoever he was, this man was dangerous.

  She was tempted to deny everything, but she got the feeling he knew more about her than he was letting on. She would meet his queries with the truth.

  “Please. Let us go. We must get to Wyndham, to my uncle.” Aislin hoped she didn’t look as pitiful as she sounded.

  “Jariath has invaded Arianrhod. You have somehow managed to escape him.”

  “Yes.” She frowned, completely baffled. How does he know that?

  “Your companion? His name?”

  “Roderic. He’s a courier who brought news of my nephew from Wyndham. He was unlucky enough to be with us when Jariath invaded.”

  The man stood up and turned his back to her, as though he were in deep thought.

  “Who are you? What is this place?” she whispered. “Please tell me.”

  After several minutes of silence, the man finally bowed his head. Time stood still as he reached up, pulled off the hood, and dropped it onto his back.

  His hair from behind was a glossy blue black, long and straight as an arrow, spilling like silk into the neck of his tunic.

  Aislin’s heart thumped in her chest like a little bird as he turned around slowly and knelt in front of her. Several staccato breaths later, she was looking into his eyes.

  He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and yet...not like any man she’d ever seen.

  His eyes were bright green, the color of emeralds and sunshine, shot through with flecks of black and gold. He had the long, dark lashes of a woman, and at first glance, his skin was a smooth dark brown. As she looked closer, she realized his skin was actually green brown, the color of grass that has been cut and dried for several days. His cheekbones were high, sharp blades in his narrow face, and his lips were full and sensual.

  It was his ears that made her look twice.

  His ears were larger than normal, or at least normal for any man she’d ever seen. They rounded up and came to a perfect point at the top, but... she blinked and looked again... he seemed to be able to turn them independent of each other—like a cat!

  “Who are you?” Aislin asked breathlessly, pulling back from him.

  “I am Tristan of Oakenbourne, chieftain of the Sylvan.”

  Aislin looked from one side of his head to the other, and back into his eyes.

  “You have never looked upon the face of a Sylvan.”

  “Sylvan?” She knew she was looking up at him wide-eyed and slack jawed, but she just couldn’t make sense of those ears. “What are you?”

  “I am of the Sylvan people, the People of the Forest, and the last of the elven races to live in these lands.” His eyes had grown cold; his words dripped with impatience and irritation.

  “Elven? Elves? Are you telling me...you’re an elf?” A chill ran down her spine, putting an end to the stunned laughter that threatened to burst from her lips. “There are elves living in Blackthorne Forest?”

  “You’ve never heard of elves?” He raised ebony eyebrows over fascinating green eyes.

  “Yes, in children’s stories and bedtime tales. No one believes they actually exist...” She let her voice trail off as she gaped at him.

  His lips thinned in an icy smile.

  “...and yet here you are.” She studied his face. There was no explanation. He clearly didn’t look like anyone she’d ever seen.

  She shivered as the strangest feeling came over her.

  This elf is about to turn my life upside down!

  Her eyes caught Tristan and held him. Large, beautiful, the color of the sun as it slips away on a summer’s eve. He wanted to put his hands on both sides of her face and get lost in them.

  He caught his breath as he fought the unseen snare that had been thrown around him. This beguiling woman was pulling it tight, reeling him in with her eyes. He felt powerless, and it caused him a moment of panic. Breaking his gaze, he stood up abruptly.

  “I’ll be back to question you tomorrow, and you will tell me everything I want to know. It will be very painful for you if you don’t.”

  “What have you done with Roderic?”

  “He is chained in a cell down the hall. He is none of your concern.”

  “Yes, he is my concern! You must let me see him!”

  Tristan pulled the hood back up over his head, and slammed the barred door behind him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  TRISTAN KNEW HE SHOULD GO back to the Sylvan Council. They were waiting to hear from him. He just needed a moment to clear his head and think about what he’d seen, though it was what he’d felt during his brief encounter with Arianrhod’s princess that troubled him the most.

  He climbed the white marble stairs and quickly opened the banded oak door to his apartments. He slammed the door behind him with the same force he’d slammed the door on her and began to pace.

  What’s wrong with me? There was no reasonable explanation for the pull she seemed to exert on him. She’s a human! You’re a Sylvan!

  But she didn’t know about the Sylvan, didn’t believe you existed, so she certainly can’t know about...no way she could know about you. But that doesn’t matter. She is what she is. Humans all seem to want to live forever, and if she finds out, it wi
ll be the same as it was all those years ago. I can’t go through that again.

  Now that she’s seen your face, seen Oakenbourne, it makes her doubly dangerous. You never should have told her your name, revealed yourself to her. Now she knows!

  But you scanned her memories. You saw that she had honor and principle—that she cared. No human you have ever scanned has shown you memories like that.

  He shook his head, angry with himself.

  They weren’t even looking for you at all. They would have passed right through Blackthorne without ever seeing you if you hadn’t captured them first. She said they needed to get to Wyndham. They are obviously trying to get help in the fight against Jariath. They shouldn’t even be here.

  The vision of a vibrant and happy young woman flying through the meadow on a bareback horse flickered into his thoughts, and he was filled with regret.

  You will have to choose your words carefully when you go to the council. They’ll want to put her to death immediately. Maybe I can buy some time once they find out who she is. I don’t want her to die. He closed his eyes in anguish. She had a spark, a something he couldn’t put his finger on.

  Sighing, Tristan stood up and walked back down to the council room.

  The council elders were talking quietly when Tristan slipped back into the room. They didn’t notice him at first, and then Colven, the oldest Sylvan in the village, announced his arrival.

  “Tristan has returned.” Colven clapped his hands to get the attention of the others. “Everyone! Take your seats!”