Aislin of Arianrhod (Land of Alainnshire)

by S. L. Jesberger

  Tristan was most of the way down his side of the dungeon when he found the cell that held the two women. They were huddled together under a blanket, fast asleep. He crouched down, pulled the hood up over his head, and called Gwen’s name. She didn’t respond.

  “Gwen! Gwen, wake up!” She stirred a little, and Tristan called a little louder. “Gwen, wake up!”

  Gwen opened her eyes fully and stared out through the bars. Keeping her eyes focused in his direction, she shook Emara awake.

  “Who is there?” Gwen whispered fearfully. “Who are you? I can’t see you very well.”

  “I’m a friend of Aislin’s. We’ve come to get you out of here.”

  “Aislin?” Emara asked, blinking as she came awake. “She’s here?”

  “Yes, she’s here with me.”

  “I told you she’d come!” Gwen whispered in excitement. Tristan smiled under the hood. “How are you going to get us out? Jariath has the key!”

  Tristan put his hands on the lock and began to speak in ancient Sylvan. The orange glow surrounded his hands again, and soon the door to the cell swelled open.

  “How did you do that?” Emara asked, eyes wide.

  “Long story. Come quickly—we’ve got to find Aislin and get out of here.”

  The two women got to their feet, and followed him out into the short hall. He had expected Aislin to be waiting for them, but there was no sign of her.

  “Wait here,” Tristan instructed Gwen, and went quickly down the other hallway.

  Tristan called to Aislin all the way. There was no response. He didn’t see her anywhere, and he could feel in his bones that something was wrong. The hair on his neck prickled as he reached the end of the row and found the rag on the floor.

  Picking it up, he held it to his nose and immediately pulled it away. It was soaked with bortroot, a sleeping drug known only to the Sylvan.

  Tristan stood helplessly holding the rag, his heart pounding, an anguished roar echoing in his head.

  No. No. No! Not again!

  Spinning on his heels, he ran back the length of the hall and skidded around the corner.

  “I’ve got to get you out of here,” he gasped. “We don’t have any time to lose!”

  “Where’s Aislin?” asked Emara. “You said she was here with you.”

  “We have to go. We have to go now,” Tristan whispered urgently, crowding the women toward the culvert.

  Without warning, colors and sounds filled his head, making it feel as though it were going to split open. He covered his ears with his hands and dropped to his knees.

  What is this? Men on horses...thousands of them...banners...on the road... And then he knew. This had nothing to do with Aislin, but it was a small miracle nonetheless.

  Gwen bent over him. “Is something wrong?”

  He struggled to his feet. “We must go quickly. Wyndham’s army approaches and we must get to them.” He shook his head to clear it, then draped them both with gossamer. “I don’t have time to explain, but this will make you invisible to the guards outside. However, you must stay silent. They will still be able to hear you if you talk.”

  He helped them down into the culvert and climbed down behind them. Emara put up a bit of a fuss at crawling through the dirty storm drain, but Gwen reached out in the direction of Emara’s voice with both hands and pushed. The older woman fell forward onto her hands and knees.

  “Just do it, Emara! Unless you’d rather stay here,” Gwen snapped.

  With no further protest, Emara started to crawl. Gwen got into the pipe behind her, followed by Tristan.

  He urged the women on quickly, impatiently, his mind filled with Aislin. She would want him to make sure her family was safe before he turned his attention to finding her, but his insides were roiling with fear. He searched his mind for another vision, some clue as to where she might be, but there was nothing but mocking silence.

  Gwen emerged out of the end of the storm drain on her hands and knees, secured her feet under her, and stood...

  ...right up into the middle of a line of Jariath’s soldiers.

  She went completely still. Barely breathing, she eyed the men. They were huge, ugly, dressed in black leather armor, carrying swords and axes of every size. Death radiated from them like heat. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

  They didn’t seem to notice her standing there though, and she took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself. Hadn’t the hooded man said they would be invisible to the guards outside?

  “Don’t be afraid. They can’t see you, but they will be able to hear you if you scream. You can’t see me or each other. I have a hold on both of you. Just trust me,” the hooded man whispered to her, as he slipped his hand in hers.

  Trust you? We have no choice, thought Gwen, as she gripped his hand right back.

  She was utterly astonished as the man, his hand in hers, marched them unnoticed through the line of soldiers.

  The man walked them rather briskly for about a mile before Gwen heard someone hit the ground. She knew immediately that Emara had fallen.

  The man removed his cloak of gossamer, taking care to keep the hood securely over his head. Gwen watched him closely as he knelt and removed the invisible veil from the fallen woman.

  “Can you go on?” he asked Emara.

  Gwen pulled off her gossamer and knelt beside her mother-in-law. She brushed a strand of dirty hair out of the older woman’s face. Emara looked very ill, and was almost unconscious. “I don’t know if she can. We haven’t had any food and barely any water for days. She’s weak.”

  “There’s a road about three miles away. Wyndham’s army is coming in on that road. We must get there as quickly as possible,” the man said. There was fear and urgency in his voice.

  “I can’t,” Emara said weakly. “I can’t go on.”

  “Well, I won’t leave you here,” the man said firmly, sweeping Emara up into his arms. She gave a squeak of protest, struggled a little, and then went limp. “Gwen, can you make it?”

  Gwen’s eyes widened, and she gave him half a smile. She’d never seen anyone manhandle the old queen that way. Under other circumstances, Emara would have flayed him alive with her tongue just for touching her. She didn’t know who this man was—the hood he kept over his face was a little ominous—but she liked him.

  “I can make it,” Gwen said, her smile lingering longer than it should have.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  RODERIC SAT TALL ON DELPHAS, riding with Bryce and King Stanis at the head of Wyndham’s army. They’d made it to Arianrhod in a little more than two days—a phenomenal feat. Along the way, more and more men had joined them until they were an army of about 40,000.

  It was unbelievable to see the number of men trailing out behind them for miles. They had crossed into Arianrhod an hour past and were traveling along a dirt road in the cover of the forest until they could get closer to the village.

  Roderic was pulled from his musings as Bryce’s horse reared and almost threw him off.

  Directly in the middle of the road in front of them stood a man dressed in brown, a hood pulled over his head. Everyone came to a dead stop as Bryce struggled to get his mount under control.

  “State your business or move out of the way!” Stanis ordered, his own horse skittering about.

  The man stood his ground, feet slightly apart, arms crossed in front of him.

  Roderic knew in an instant who stood before them. He rode forward to Stanis. “I think I may know this man.”

  Roderic dismounted and walked to him. “We’ll take back Arianrhod this day. We owe you our thanks. And that’s a damn fine horse you gave me.” He extended a hand. The hooded man hesitated for a moment, and then gripped his hand tightly.

  “I didn’t give her
to you. We’ll have some negotiating to do, but I think we can come to a suitable agreement.” Roderic couldn’t see his face, but he could hear the smile.

  “Why are you standing in the middle of the road?” demanded Bryce.

  “I’ve brought you a gift.” The man beckoned to something hidden in the trees along the road. Gwen and Emara stepped out next to him and faced the men. They were filthy, their gowns torn, and they looked exhausted, but they were alive.

  Bryce leapt off his horse and swept his mother up in a hug so fierce that Roderic thought surely her bones would break. Gwen’s small body shook with sobs as she embraced the son she hadn’t seen for almost eleven years.

  Stanis dismounted, pulled his sister into his arms and held her tightly. After making sure there were no serious injuries, they took both women to the rear of the column and put them safely in the care of one of the medics.

  “How did you happen to come by them?” Roderic asked. “The last I knew, everyone was safely in the cave under the manor house.”

  “Jariath found the cave sometime after you left for Wyndham. Maeve and Devin had been out for a walk when Jariath arrived. He took Gwen and Emara captive. Devin and the girl made their way to us. Aislin was delighted to see them both.”

  Roderic blew out a breath of relief. “Where is Aislin?”

  “She was with me, but she was taken while we were in the dungeon. It’s imperative that I find her quickly. I was hoping I could ride with you to Arianrhod.” The man took a shaky breath. “It’s the fastest way...”

  “Taken? Taken by whom?” Roderic asked, alarmed. “Please tell me Jariath didn’t...”

  “No, not Jariath, but she’s in danger nonetheless. If you’ll just permit me to ride with you...”

  “Why do you keep your face hidden?” Bryce asked. “If you expect to ride with us, I insist that you show yourself.”

  The hooded man didn’t move. Roderic could sense the man had mixed feelings about revealing himself. Then slowly, hesitantly, he reached up, took hold of the hood, and dropped it down to his shoulders.

  Roderic’s eyes widened in shock, and he heard a stunned gasp escape from Stanis.

  Bryce took a step back, his hand on his sword. “What is your name? What manner of man are you?” he demanded.

  Taking a slight bow, he said, “I am Tristan, chieftain of the Sylvan people of Blackthorne Forest.”

  “You’re an elf!” blurted an astonished Roderic. Tristan nodded, his face impassive. “I thought they’d gone extinct long ago in these lands!”

  Bryce stepped forward and grabbed Tristan’s hand. “You’ve saved my mother and grandmother. I call you friend.” Tristan looked surprised, but grinned at the boy.

  “Come! Saddle up! We’ve got work to do!” Stanis called to his men. He then spoke directly to Tristan, who had swung himself up onto Delphas behind Roderic. “Do all that you can to find Aislin. She is the heart of this family.”

  Chapter Thirty Four

  AISLIN INHALED SHARPLY AS HER eyes fluttered open. She was lying face down, her cheek flattened against cool stone. Her left arm was pinned under her at a painful angle. Every bone in her body felt like it was broken.

  Wha...?

  She dimly remembered struggling with someone in the dark somewhere, but her head was pounding. Trying to remember made it worse.

  Where am I?

  She blinked and tried to focus. Her eyes fell on a thin red trickle of something running past her nose on the floor in front of her. Still groggy, she slowly tilted her head upward, curious about the source of the rivulet.

  Her eyes met the cold, dead eyes of Duff, just inches from hers. She scrambled to her feet with a strangled scream.

  The movement was much faster than her drugged brain was willing to permit, and she staggered a little before falling to her knees in front of him. The sickening stench of blood and butchered flesh filled her nostrils. She lifted the back of her hand to her mouth, closed her eyes, and willed herself not to vomit.

  Even with her eyes closed, the image was burned into her brain.

  Duff was on his belly, his throat sliced open from ear to ear, and he was lying in a puddle of his own blood. It pooled in a large red stain of gore under his head and ran slowly in a trickle past where Aislin had been laying. He stared straight ahead, his green eyes unseeing, his mouth open in a soundless scream.

  Feeling the wave of nausea subside a little, she opened her eyes. Her eyes caught a flash of silver, and she lifted her gaze beyond his body. Her pike was lying on the floor just past him. The memory of what had happened in the dungeon slowly came back to her in bits and pieces.

  He grabbed me. There was something on the rag... I heard him laugh. Duff...I knew...

  Breathless and shaking, she got to her feet, struggling to make sense of it all. How had he found her? And why was he dead?

  It was only then that she looked around. The tapestries, the cut and color of the stone in the walls, the purple carpet all looked strangely familiar to her.

  Eyes wide, mouth open, she felt a chill tease her spine. She was in the throne room of the manor house at Arianrhod!

  “You do seem to have an interesting effect on men, Aislin.”

  She closed her eyes, a painful breath caught in her throat. That voice.

  No. Please...no. Let it be anybody but...

  Aislin slowly turned around.

  Jariath was sitting sideways on her father’s throne with his long muscular legs draped over one arm of the ornate oak chair. The lazy, predatory smile he had on his face gave her cold chills.

  A thousand thoughts collided like comets. Only one formed and stuck: Where is Tristan?

  Drawing short, sharp breaths through her nose and fighting the urge to break and run, Aislin stared at him. She needed answers, but she had to make sure she asked the right questions. Jariath was a master at picking up the nuances of voice and expression. She knew she would get a thorough interrogation from him regarding the dead elf on the floor, but first, she had to find out how much Jariath knew. Until she did, she was afraid she would betray that there was more to this situation than met the eye.

  “How did I get here?” she asked cautiously, hoping her face was a blank mask of surprise.

  “My soldiers caught this person just outside the village, with you hanging limp over his shoulder. He just appeared out of thin air. He was as surprised to see my men as they were to see him.”

  Aislin stood still, wary, trying to read him. She was numb with terror for Tristan, more than for herself. Had Duff known that Tristan was in the lower dungeon with her? Had he told Jariath? How had Duff gotten into the manor house in the first place?

  “I really hated to kill him, but he came to me with such a nasty attitude, insisting you belonged to him, and I had no right to you. Fool! He didn’t live long in my presence, I can assure you. I certainly wasn’t about to let him take you away from me.” Jariath slid his muscular body off the throne. She tensed as he began to stalk in her direction.

  “Did you know he was an elf? I thought they were long gone. The question is: why was he carrying you off? How would someone like him, know someone like you?” Jariath turned accusing eyes to her, and she momentarily stopped breathing.

  “I don’t... know what you mean.”

  He pulled a jeweled silver dagger out of his boot and was at her side in several long strides, pressing the length of the blade to the side of her throat.

  “Where have you been?”

  If you only knew, her mind laughed.

  Jariath was practically standing on top of her, so close that his breath ruffled her hair. Aislin went completely still, staring at the floor.

  He ran his knuckles over her right cheek. She knew he’d noticed the bruise that lingered there—a souvenir of her first encounter with the
dead elf at her feet.

  “Who hit you?” he murmured in her ear.

  “No...no one hit me. I...I...fell,” she said in the barest whisper.

  He growled and moved the tip of the dagger until it was under her chin. He used the sharp point to slowly raise her gaze to his.

  The terror and desperation she felt the night Duff took her came crashing back. There was too much emotion in her eyes, and she knew it. She attempted to drop her head, but she couldn’t do it without impaling herself on the dagger.

  Jariath’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head as he studied her. She knew he didn’t believe a word she’d said.

  He laid the razor sharp edge of the dagger parallel to her jaw. She swallowed hard.

  “Are you lying to me, you little bitch?” He moved the knife a fraction, and she felt the sting of the blade as it bit into her skin.

  “Why would I lie to you?”

  He was just inches from her, staring into her face, using his massive body to intimidate her. His blue eyes glittered as he probed her gaze. She stared back, fascinated, as his irises began to pulse and throb.

  She got very light-headed as she focused on his eyes, as though she were being driven from her own body. She’d gotten the same feeling during the nightmare she’d had about him in Blackthorne Forest. He was stealing her will, absorbing her into him, taking her from herself, and she was powerless...helpless...to stop him.

  Fight back! Fight back, damn you! the far recesses of her brain demanded.

  Why fight? her conscious self responded. He’s bigger, stronger. He wins. You lose.

  She felt drowsy, languid, weak as a kitten as he twisted her will away from her with his eyes. It took tremendous effort, but she pushed...literally pushed...him out of her mind and back into his own peculiar madness, where he belonged.