Touch of Gypsy Fire

by Shiloh Walker

  Rain was coming. The damp, earthy scent was faint on the wind and the rain probably wouldn’t hit until later in the day; with hope, it would even hold off until they made camp tonight.

  Grabbing her pack, she headed to the stream for some privacy before the others woke.

  A short time later, Tyriel wound her wet hair into a braid and flipped the long tail over her shoulder. Stuffing her clothes and soap into the pack, Tyriel rose with a smile and an appreciative sniff. The cook was up and had cava going.

  The thick, rich scent of it had her mouth watering and she was almost able to ignore the heavy, greasy scent of bacon. Poor little pig, she thought sympathetically as she made her way back to camp.

  But that was the way of it. And even if the thought of eating meat turned her stomach, it didn’t bother her if the humans ate it, providing it didn’t come in contact with her own food.

  Few people, very few people, outside the kin knew that meat was akin to poison to an elf. The proteins found in meat were far too strong for an elf’s system and if ingested in large enough amounts, it could cause the body to fail. The heart couldn’t beat right, the blood thickened as the reaction strengthened, and eventually, if not treated, the elf could die.

  Which was why so few people knew.

  With such a strong weakness, if their enemies knew—

  The enemies of the kin were many, coveting their wealth, coveting their mines, coveting the magick that flowed so easily from one generation to the next.

  “Good morning.”

  Turning her head, she smiled at Aryn as he stepped from the trees, a pack like her own hanging limply from one hand. “I’m done. It’s all yours.”

  “I believe that. I doubt the majority of our fellow campers have ever heard of the concept of regular bathing,” Aryn said wryly.

  Remembering the oily stench of unwashed bodies, Tyriel adopted a horrified expression. “Bathe? As in regularly? But baths cause the pneumonia,” she squealed, fluttering her hands in the air.

  “I’ve heard that.” A wide grin lit his lean face. “I guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”

  Waving to the stream with a broad gesture, Tyriel offered, “Go ahead. Dunk yourself—commit suicide. I’ll tuck the blankets around you when the pneumonia has its hold on you.”

  “How kind.” His eyes lingered briefly on the damp tunic that clung to her before he turned away.

  The hesitation was enough. Her highly attuned senses could pick up the sound of his heart when it sped up a tiny bit, the scent that spilled out of his pores when he was aroused.

  Tyriel was proud to admit she was only slightly tempted to linger in the trees and spy on the blond swordsman as he washed up. Just a little tempted.

  As she turned, her eyes landed on the sword he took off. Still in its sheath, it leaned up against a nearby stone, within easy reach. Even as she turned to walk down the path, it seemed to draw her eyes again. The runes and marking on the hilt were…familiar.

  And for some reason that temptation was even stronger than the one to play voyeur while Aryn bathed.

  If honor didn’t run so strong in her blood, Tyriel just might have tried to take the blade, just for a bit.

  The blade seemed to be calling her.

  New moon.

  Lying on the ground, listening to the silence, Tyriel studied the star-spangled sky overhead. Near the western horizon, a dark circle hung in the air, where the moon would be in a few more nights.

  The air had a heavy feel to it. Almost sticky. Very odd, considering how cool the night air was. Rolling on her side, she stared into the fire, hardly even aware that she drifted into sleep.

  When she awoke a short time later, the camp had grown quiet, abnormally so. Even the breathing of the mercenaries around her seemed quieter than normal. Closing her eyes, she slowed her own breathing and reached out with her senses. Even the heartbeats seemed to be slowed. Dropping her shielding, she let her sense of self flow into the ground beneath her and she shrank back from what she found—tampering with the life force, the ebb and flow of the magick in the earth, in the people.

  There was mischief and magick afoot. Bad magick. Slowly, she looked around before she sat up. They were all sound asleep. Unbelievably sound.

  Rising, Tyriel took her sword in hand and slid it out of its sheath. Turning in a circle, she studied the camp, counted bodies. All were accounted for.

  Her ears pricked and she turned, cocking her head, staring into the woods that lay just to the east of their camp. A threat. Her own heartbeat kicked up and her breathing became softer, shallower as she struggled to pin down what had alerted her instincts.

  Her eyes were drawn to the woods and the warrior inside her whispered that this was where the threat lay hidden. But the other half of her, the guardian, commanded she stay.

  Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground, her long legs folding beneath her. She put her back to the fire, lay her blade across her lap, and stared into the woods.

  The threat, whatever it was, would go through her first.

  As it was, it was a very long night. The first of many.

  * * * * *

  “I tell you, I’ll do nothing as long as she is within the camp,” the first voice repeated.

  “A deal was made,” a second, weaker, rasping voice refuted. “You’ll abide by it, or else.”

  “When the deal was made, there was no elvin kin within the camp. If you think I’ll take on the likes of her, you are sorely mistaken.”

  A growl rumbled from the other’s throat. “What if she isn’t within the camp? Can you do it then?”

  Head tilted to the side, the first pursed his lips and pondered. “If given enough time, I can do it.”

  “Then do it. I must have it.”

  “And the mercenary?”

  Skinny shoulders rose and fell in a disinterested shrug. “Whatever is easiest for you.”

  The sleepless nights were beginning to take their toll. Even though the kin required minimal sleep, they did require some recharging. And it had been nearly three weeks since Tyriel had gotten a good night’s sleep. Every time she drifted close to sleep, somebody woke her, purposely or by accident.

  And the feeling of being watched never lessened. Tyriel had taken to wearing a crucifix around her neck, acknowledging the superstitions of her mother’s people. The Sacrificed God would no doubt snicker at the thought of saving one such as her, but from time to time, she was able to rest, one hand curled around it.

  “You’re not looking well, Tyriel.”

  Looking up, she met the gaze of the healer contracted to ride with the caravan. Clad in robes of gray, signifying his school in the gray arts, Mitchan stood watching her with concern on his bony face.

  “I’m fine, Healer.” With deliberate care, Tyriel slid the stone up and down the length of her blade.

  “You don’t seem to sleep very well,” he noted, eyeing the circles under her golden eyes. “Perhaps I could offer you a tonic?”

  “Most of the tonics made for humans are either worthless on my kind, or deadly. But thank you for offering,” she said, concentrating on her sword.

  “I’ve studied with the elvin kin. I know some of the remedies used by them. I’ve some moonwart and polyseed.”

  Simple herbal sleep remedies, very commonly used among the kin. Studying the nondescript brown eyes of the healer, Tyriel pegged him as an honest enough man, even if his art was something that didn’t appeal to her.

  Gray-robed or not, he did know his healing, she knew. She’d kept an eye on him from day one, leery of the line he walked that was sometimes so close to the blacker arts.

  But—call her paranoid—she wasn’t accepting anything more than a cup of water from Mitchan, or anybody else on this train. She trusted very few, and he certainly was not on the list.

  “Thanks, Healer. But I will be fine.”

  It was late that morning, just before the midday break when she acknowledged that she was not fine. Lack of sleep was starti
ng to make her slightly ill. Clambering into the wagon, she shot Dule a grateful glance. “Just a nap and I’ll be well.”

  Of the sixty-odd members of the caravan, Tyriel trusted only three. Dule, who was as honest as the day was long, Aryn, with those sinful eyes and Gerome, who was too damn greedy to do a damn thing that would endanger his caravan.

  Of those three, Dule was the only one she felt safe in confiding her exhaustion.

  Not that it had taken her confiding in him. He had been watching her for a couple of days and just a short while ago had ordered her to rest that day. She dropped to the small cot inside the wagon, stretched on her belly, folded her hands under her head, and was asleep in less than a heartbeat.

  “Have you seen Tyriel?”

  Dule glanced down at the blond swordsman who had guided his horse to the side of the wagon. A scowl twisted his mouth as he shifted; recalling the blow the boy had delivered during their last practice.

  “She’s resting.”

  “Resting?” Aryn repeated, his brows rising. “In the middle of the day?”

  “She’s exhausted. So I told her to rest.”

  “Why is she exhausted?”

  “I didn’t ask. I assume something is bothering her and keeping her from resting well at night.”

  A new voice called Dule’s name in the distance. Through the dust, he could make out the Healer’s gray robe. Sliding Aryn a glance, he said, “Quiet, now.”

  “I was wondering, have you seen Tyriel?” Mitchan asked. “I’ve been trying to watch her for the past few days. She doesn’t look well.”

  “She’s off doing an errand for me,” Dule lied. “She’ll catch up with us later.”

  Bushy black brows rising, Mitchan asked, “But isn’t that her horse tied behind your wagon?”

  “I sent her on mine. Her horse picked up a rock last night. He doesn’t need to do any heavy work for a day or two.”

  Aryn frowned, turning his head away while Mitchan talked with Dule a few more moments. Keeping his voice low, Aryn asked after Mitchan rode away, “What is going on? Why didn’t you tell him she is sleeping?”

  “Do me a favor, run and set me horse loose for a bit—whack his flank and tell him to get feed. He knows what that means, and he’ll come back when he’s through. Be quick, and be back fast. Don’t let that healer see you, either, else I’ll slice your pretty face up,” Dule said sharply, keeping an eye on Mitchan’s back as he headed for the front of the train.

  Aryn frowned and opened his mouth to snap back but Dule said, “For the lass, boy?”

  Aryn’s brows lowered and he sighed, guiding his horse around and galloping to the back of the train, relying on instinct and his gut, but double-checking, just to be sure, that Mitchan had not followed. Bloody weapons master had best be quick to offer an explanation, he groused as he smacked the horse’s flank. The ugly beast took off eagerly, his intelligent eyes wide and bright as he clambered up the hill that bordered the side of the trail, nimble-footed as a mountain goat.

  “I don’t trust him.” Dule didn’t even wait for Aryn to demand an explanation when he returned, just opened his mouth and baldly stated those four words.

  “He’s a healer. If you can’t trust him, who can you trust?”

  “Myself,” Duel replied with a sneer. “He’s a gray Healer, so any covenants he made when he took on his robes are subject to his own approval. He may not violate the laws of nature when he heals, but he doesn’t have a problem violating the laws of man.”

  Casting a worried glance to the back, Dule said, “And it ain’t jes that she’s not sleepin’. Ain’t been doin’ that fer a while now. And now, she up and naps in the middle of the day. Somethin’s up.”

  Aryn had been around too many times not to feel his skin prickle when Dule said that. “We’ve got problems coming?” he asked mildly as the blade at his back became noticeably heavier, and started to pulse. Odd—it seemed like it had done this before. And then an odd, muffled feeling pushed at his mind and he forgot that thought.

  “Dunno. She be the one to ask.” Sliding Aryn a glance, he said, “Somethin’ ‘bout the fae that jes’ plain bothers me. When they start acting all twitchy-like, you know somethin’s up. And hell, half the time, I dunno if I wanna know.”

  With a laugh, Aryn said, “I know what you mean, old man.”

  With a sigh, Dule reached up and scratched his bald head. It was bald by his own hand, not by God’s. Daily, he scraped it smooth with the edge of the wicked knife he carried at his side. “Nope. I don’ wanna know. We jes deal with it when it’s here.”

  Chapter Four

  Tyriel awoke feeling sluggish.

  Bracing her hands under her, she pushed up from the small mat Dule slept on. Thank God the man was clean, she thought hazily as she looked around.

  My head, she thought. Reaching for it, she cradled it between her hands and concentrated, trying to clear the haze. How long had she slept?

  That was when she realized night had fallen.

  Cocking her head, she peered through the small opening in the rear of the wagon.

  It couldn’t be that late.

  Not a soul was moving.

  Dule had promised to wake her before they stopped for the night.

  Silently, she rose, blinking her eyes rapidly and taking slow, deep breaths. As she breathed, the cobwebs cleared from her mind much slower than they should have.

  Sliding from the wagon, Tyriel peered around.

  They hadn’t stopped for the night. It was as if they had just stopped for the afternoon watering and not moved since. Unable to move.

  Creeping around to the front of the wagon, Tyriel peered into the still frozen face of Dule.

  For one horrible moment she thought he was dead.

  Reaching out, she placed her fingers on his wrist, felt the slow pulse. Dangerously slow, especially for a human. His eyes were wide-open and frozen, his mouth open as if about to speak.

  Hissing, Tyriel jerked her hand back.

  Mind magick.

  One hand moved in an age-old symbol of protection as she faded back into the shadows cast by the wagon. There was no moon and the night was eerily silent. No sounds of a camp settling down for the night, no birds calling, no horses snuffling in their feed.

  Silently, Tyriel moved to the next wagon and stared into the face of another frozen man. The cook and his wife sat staring at each in other in a bizarre moment of affection they would never let the rest of the camp see.

  Each wagon, each horse and rider showcased another frozen statue.

  Only two were missing.

  Mouth drawn back in a snarl, she searched the camp a second time, trying to find them. But they were not there.

  Both Aryn the swordsman and Mitchan the Grey were missing.

  Reaching up, she closed one hand around her crucifix and prayed a brief prayer.

  And then she fell to her knees and drew a tiny knife from the belt at her waist.

  First, she carved a circle in the earth.

  Then she spat into it. With the knife, she cut the tip of her left index finger and smeared her blood into the saliva and dirt.

  Rearing up, she held the knife high overhead, chanted under her breath and drove it into the earth. Enchantment—not one of her stronger gifts, but at times, it had its uses.

  Moments later, the earth shifted and a small sphere rose from the circle she had drawn in the earth.

  After murmured words from Tyriel, the sphere cleared…spinning, waiting.

  Another whispered order and now it held three faces. Two she had never seen before, but she recognized them from the looks in their eyes, the cut of their clothes. Mercenaries.

  Bandits would be a better word. Their type rarely worked the way a mercenary did, preferring to hide and attack and pilfer. The third, though, she knew.

  Mitchan.

  “Where?” she whispered, rising to her feet.

  As she rose, the sphere drifted in an eastern direction. Toward the woods. To th
e west was the Shojurn River. The caravan followed the path that headed north, to Shojurn City, still nearly three weeks away. If she remembered correctly, and she was certain she did, the nearest village was three days away and not even equipped with a militia.

  But where was Aryn?

  The globe went blank, saying Aryn wasn’t anywhere that her power could locate.

  So, like Tyriel herself, Aryn was shielded.

  Tyriel gestured fluidly to the camp and murmured, “Ay vern noi.” I cannot see you. She murmured quietly in ancient elvish, “May the darkness protect and hold you.” And as simple as that, the camp was gone—or so it seemed.

  Illusion. A simple shield, but the sleeping people in the camp weren’t the ones in danger.

  Prowling through the woods, sword in hand, Tyriel searched. Countless circles, countless deer trails. She had already spied where the others were, the ones who hunted for their prey, and dodged them easily as they also prowled the woods.

  When a hand shot out just behind her, Tyriel didn’t hear or see anything until a blade was pressed to her throat, held by a very knowledgeable hand, with the sharp edge just to the right, where the large vessels lay. A bit different on an elf, but eh, she could still bleed to death if he cut deep enough.

  She started to murmur under her breath, lifting one arm to plow back behind her when he spoke. A deep guttural voice, but his none the less.

  “Hmm, ye are here t’ cause harm but know—I’ll go to none but the one who already bears me.” The voice was Aryn’s but the cadence, the rhythm, was not.

  A wild and erratic primitive magick filled the air, swirling around her, blowing her hair back from her face, sending a prickle along her skin that told her what she had already suspected. Aryn’s blade was enchanted. And there was something else—the magick that was in the sword was starting to settle inside him. He was no trueborn mage, but in time, he would be a mage, or enchanter, all the same.

  “I mean no harm to him or the others. Only the ones who cast the sleep spell,” she said slowly, lowering her sword and dropping her shields with a small fluid gesture of her hand.