The Sunset Lands Beyond (The Complete Series, Books 1-3): An epic portal fantasy boxed set

by Sarah Ashwood

  Life’s too short for that, I decided, and offered Master Risean as cheerful a “thank you, it’s good to see you” as I could.

  I almost meant it, too.

  Afterward, I turned to the others, and we made polite exchanges. At this point Aureeyah joined us, her gentle aura nearly invisible in the bright afternoon sunshine. That worried me. When I’d first met her beside the stream, during the journey to Treygon, her aura had been one of the first things I noticed about her. It didn’t glow so vibrantly anymore, even at twilight. Somehow, I was afraid to ask why.

  With everyone’s attention now on the forest fairy, Rittean drew me away from the group so we could talk privately.

  “My father spake true,” she offered. “You look exceeding well.”

  I quirked a grin. “Why, thank you. I guess I’m doing pretty well on the whole.”

  “Your appearance has altered since we last met. You no longer look so…young, so bewildered.”

  I grimaced. “Young—I hadn’t noticed, but I guess all the stuff I’ve gone through since leaving Laytrii is enough to mature anybody. As for bewildered? Hmmmm…parts of Aerisia I’m getting comfortable with, but parts of it I don’t know that I’ll ever figure out.”

  “Indeed. Word was sent of all you endured. The Dark Powers, I fear, will not give you an easy time of it. I—I heard of Jonase, and I wept for you.”

  Naked empathy clouded her happy eyes, making me squirm inside. Did I really deserve such unmitigated kindness?

  “Well, it’s all over now,” I responded a bit gruffly, still loathe to think of that creature and his attack. “Besides, it was pretty much my fault.”

  At this, her sorrow subsided and the merry Rittean instantly resurfaced. “Indeed, I heard tell of this too! Your independence will be the cause of much suffering,” she warned playfully.

  “Hey now, I would think that’d be an admirable trait for the Artan,” I protested.

  “Admirable when used wisely,” she reproved with a wink. “Come.” Looping her arm through mine, she led me further apart. “In all seriousness…you are well?”

  “Yeah, well, like I said—on the whole, I’m doing okay.” I shrugged.

  Accepting this at face value, she dropped the subject. “And where were you when we arrived? I saw you not.”

  “Walking off frustration. Or trying to.”

  “Frustration? Why are you frustrated?”

  In her eyes I saw understanding, a willingness to listen. Desperately in need of a sympathetic ear, I poured out the whole story of the past few weeks, beginning with the arrival at Treygon and continuing on to the present. I held nothing back, telling her things I hadn’t even told Aureeyah, such as my fears that I would never succeed in learning to wield magic and thus end up a failure as the Artan. Of my annoyance that the fairy always sided with the Simathe High-Chief and that she refused to share all she knew concerning me as the Artan. I explained how frustrated it made me that I nearly always bungled attempts with both weapons and magic. And I told her about Ilgard’s kiss.

  Throughout my tale of weal and woe, she listened patiently, sometimes interjecting advice, suggestions, or sympathetic murmurs. But when I admitted the biggest secret of all—the kiss—her jaw dropped. She was dumbfounded.

  “Surely you jest!”

  “Nope, ’fraid not.”

  Unconsciously I glanced about, seeking the object of our discussion.

  “But…the High-Chief? Surely this cannot be!”

  “Oh, but it is.”

  And there he was, approaching Lord Garett, the Ranetron High-Chief. His back was to me, his cloak stirring in the breeze. Rittean tracked my vision. Watching Ilgard, she leaned on her moonstone-tipped staff, a frown creasing her ivory brow.

  “Well. I must confess myself to be at a loss. Verily, I am so astonished that I, well…I have no words.”

  “That’s because there are no words. I was shocked myself. I mean, who would’ve thought?”

  “Have there been any further…attempts?” she quizzed delicately.

  “Nope. Ever since the night my magic appeared, he’s gone back to being his regular self. Which means he pretty much ignores me.”

  “This was the same night he helped you recover the lost memory?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “And how did you feel about this…recovery?”

  “How did I feel about it? I don’t know. It felt weird, I guess. Naturally I’ve never experienced anything like it. Why do you ask?”

  She shrugged evasively. “What is it like, this Joining?”

  My gaze drifted again toward the Simathe High-Chief. “It’s strange. It’s like—like I have this kind of awareness of him. It’s not constant, but whenever he’s close by, I usually feel him right before I see or hear him.

  “When he did the memory thing, it was so strange. I could feel him inside me—inside my mind—but it wasn’t like an alien presence or anything. It felt bizarre, but not…not…” I searched for the right word.

  “Wrong? It did not feel wrong?”

  I nodded. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it. It didn’t feel wrong. Sometimes,” I continued, “I wonder what this must be like for him. From all I’ve been told, the awareness, the sensations, must be extreme on his side.”

  “Why would you wonder this? Why concern yourself with what he undergoes?”

  I scowled at my friend. There was a secretive set to her mouth that I didn’t like. “I’m not concerned about it. I’m just curious.”

  “Ah.”

  “What do you mean, ‘ah’? Why are you asking all these weird questions, anyway? What’s gotten into you?”

  She flicked a sneaky glance toward the Simathe then back to me. “I am merely conjecturing.”

  “Merely conjecturing what?”

  “If the time you have shared and all you’ve endured may have altered your opinion of him.”

  “Opinion of who, Ilgard?”

  I peeked his way. When I looked back, Rittean was watching me with a gleeful, cat-that-ate-the-canary smirk.

  “Hah—no way! I may not be afraid of him like I once was, but there’s no way on earth that I actually like the guy.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Really, I don’t.”

  “Mmmm.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “You are being so annoying about this—you and Aureeyah both. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear the two of you were trying to set us up.”

  I didn’t trust her full-blown smile. “Set you up?”

  “Yeah, you know, like help us get together. Like each other. Fall in love.”

  “Ah.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Nay, we’ve no such devious purposes. We merely watch and wait. You can hardly blame our interest, after all. Never, you see, has a Simathe spent so much time with a woman as the High-Chief with you. Never before has a Simathe Joined with a woman.” She winked. “And I have my doubts as to their kissing one, whether out of anger or no. You cannot fault us for speculating on what the final outcome of all this may be.”

  I groaned. “Oh please! Things are not like that between us, and I sincerely doubt they ever will be. He ignores me, and I don’t like him.”

  “So you say.”

  “Whatever.” I rolled my eyes at the cryptic comment. “Let’s talk about something else. Why are you all here?”

  “Various reasons. The High-Chief sent word that you might welcome visitors and dispatched warriors as guides. I believe there is news from abroad to be shared with the High-Chief, and there was—there is—a gift to be presented to you.”

  “A gift?”

  “Aye, my father has deemed it time.”

  “What kind of gift?”

  She smiled. “Come, see for yourself.”

  She laid a hand on my arm to guide me back to the group, but before we reached them, I paused, needing to voice a question niggling at my brain.

  “Rittean, did Ilgard really send for you?”

  She looked bewildered
. “Aye. I have said so, have I not?”

  Pursing my lips, I cast a pensive glance toward the enigmatic Simathe lord.

  Wow, that was a nice thing to do. Wonder what got into him? Maybe he’s trying to make up for our argument. Maybe he really does have feelings, after all. Hard to believe, but I guess anything’s possible.

  Sword of a Queen

  The object was long, slender, and draped in thick, red velvet. I reached for it, feeling all eyes on me. As I took the gift from Risean’s wrinkled palms, the scarlet covering slid off, landing in a graceful heap on the grass. I was so enraptured with what I saw that I didn’t even notice.

  The gift was a sword. Lightweight, sturdy, its polished steel glittered in the fresh afternoon light. Neither long nor short, it was of medium length and almost dainty—clearly, a weapon designed with a woman in mind. Its hilt was shaped into a tree, which was deftly, delicately, intricately carved. I worked my fingers into natural grooves between the branches, marveling at how well it fit my hand and felt so right in my grasp.

  On both sides of the blade, letters were engraved in a handsome, flowing script. Haltingly, I read them aloud.

  “Balos tein apone loy d’afey madross.”

  “‘Using this blade, I vanquish evil,’” the Moonkind Tredsday translated softly. “My lady, do you recognize the sword’s hilt?”

  Upon closer examination, I realized that, yes, it did seem familiar. “Is it…the Living Tree?”

  The old man smiled proudly. “It is indeed. What you hold now in your hands is none other than the sword of Laytrii, crafted by her husband, Lord Ranetron.”

  “He made it?”

  “That he did. The man is reported to have been as skilled a sword smith as a warrior. In this gift to his bride, he utilized the best of both.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  Carefully, I ran my fingertips across the blade’s underside, tracing the engraved lettering. “It’s so beautiful,” I marveled aloud. “So—why are you giving it to me? Doesn’t this belong in a museum?”

  Perhaps Aerisians didn’t know the word museum. Ignoring the latter question, Lord Elgrend answered the first.

  “You,” he said, “are our Artan, and as such this weapon rightfully belongs to you. With it, may you do as did Laytrii and the first Artan: subdue shadow and deliver our land from the taint of The Evil.”

  Shrugging, I said cautiously, “Well, no offense, but from what I hear, those two women—great as they were—didn’t exactly crush The Evil. If they had, I don’t think I’d be standing here today.”

  “They made war upon The Evil, and they vanquished it for their day, their time, and their people. So much would we all do, and no more may any do. Except yourself,” the High Elder added. “You, as the Artan, have been given the opportunity to do far more than they in not only annihilating The Evil, but also mortally wounding the Dark Powers, so they may never again overtake us.”

  Engrossed by this astounding idea, I couldn’t form a reply. This beautiful sword, bestowed upon me as the Artan, held equal symbolism with the necklace I already wore. Both were reminders of Aerisia’s two most famous heroines to whom they’d once belonged. Heroines whose examples I was to follow, and even surpass.

  In that moment, I could feel the trust, the responsibility, placed in me by these folks as tangibly as I felt the weapon in my hands.

  Swordplay

  Turning from the group, I stepped a safe distance away to test my new weapon. Hesitantly at first, but then with broader, sweeping strokes copied from watching the Simathe, I experimented with the weight and balance, amazed that it felt so right in my grasp, as if it had been crafted to fit my hands. I’d never dealt with swords, so this came as a surprise. What should’ve been awkwardness and hesitancy was instead a growing confidence that made me want to brandish the weapon and test it in real battle…

  A quick, half turn sideways. I brought the weapon up, thinking only to slice empty air, but I was met by strength and metal. Steel clanged in my ears as a second blade stopped mine, sending a peculiar quiver through my arms.

  “What th—” I stumbled but recovered my balance. “Ilgard, I might have known!” I huffed, stamping my foot. “Is it your personal duty in life to do whatever you can to annoy me?”

  He answered with a movement faster than my eyes could follow, his sword snaking out, slapping mine and all but tearing it from my grasp.

  “What was that for?” I cried, lunging to recover it before it fell.

  He shrugged. “You’ve a weapon. Use it as a sword, not a plaything.”

  “I wasn’t using it as a plaything! I was getting the feel of it. And this is hardly how you train someone to use a sword,” I retorted, but what did I know? Maybe this was an accepted method of sword training.

  Refusing to confirm or deny the accusation, he poised with sword drawn, awaiting my next move. Common sense dictated that I back down before I made a fool of myself in front of my friends. My pride, however, was stung, and I’d had about enough of this man always besting, ignoring, or literally lording it over me.

  Maybe it was idiotic—actually, of course it was—but I heard myself snap, “Fine, be that way. Take this!”

  With all my might, I swung my sword toward his. As might be expected, his blade blocked mine easily. Nevertheless, the instant our weapons connected in a ringing blow, another odd quiver—different from the first—raced through my body. Simultaneously, what should have been a beginner’s attempt morphed into a master’s deadly stroke. My blade slipped over and around his in a wicked caress, driving straight for his heart. Only his own well-honed skills prevented a mishap. Leaping backward, swinging at the same time, he deflected the tip of my sword before it punctured his chest.

  As he sprang away, so did I, landing in a defensive crouch. “What’s the matter, High-Chief? Surprised?” I mocked. Shifting my stance, I set my feet, Laytrii’s sword gripped tightly in both hands, held at arm’s length and to the side of my face. “Afraid? Surely not. C’mon, let’s do this.” Fathomless, alien eyes flickered over me—wary, as though he’d never seen such a sight. “Shall we dance?” I taunted him, unafraid.

  Then I charged.

  If warfare is revelry and the battlefield a ballroom, then our merging was a tango of steel enacted on the bare dirt of Treygon’s weapons ring.

  The glint of sunlight on metal. The rush of wind past my face as my blade flew to meet his. The jarring of impact. The merging then drawing back of footsteps. The advance, the flight. During all this I was no longer myself, a complete novice with a brand-new weapon. Somehow, my lack of experience meant nothing. Hannah Winters from Earth had been left behind. No longer was I flesh and blood, human, or even a woman—I was my sword.

  Every atom, every particle of my weapon, I could feel like sweat on my skin. I was tireless, ruthless, fearless. I was cold, inanimate metal brought to life. Possessed, I had abandoned human thought, human feeling, human strength that ultimately turns to weakness. I was invincible, but so was my opponent. For every thrust I offered, there was his weapon to turn me aside—narrowly at times, but he wasn’t giving in.

  How long we fought, I can’t say. I suspect our dance of steel could have been sustained indefinitely. I couldn’t tire while so entranced, and I know a mere bout of swordplay meant nothing to the High-Chief of the Simathe. Before it finished, we’d battled all over that weapon’s ring and even the training ground itself—back and forth, up and down, in and out. Neither of us could gain an advantage. A detached slice of my mind marveled at how much flesh and blood could endure. Why was he not tiring? When would he make a mistake? Something trivial that I could capitalize on, use to end this match, and come out on top?

  But the man wasn’t mere flesh and blood. He wasn’t even human. He was Simathe. And defeat wasn’t in his nature.

  The end came unexpectedly. Once again, we were trampling the ground where our skirmish had begun. Faces blurred and clothing was a swirl of color as I whirled to block a blow, came up,
and found my blade locked in a straining hold against the weapon of my enemy. That one second of hesitation was enough. Faster than a heartbeat, the Simathe’s free hand flashed toward his belt, and there was a dagger at my throat. Unintentionally or not, he pressed too hard and its tip pierced skin. A drop of blood splashed onto my bare sword arm.

  That was all it took. I woke up.

  As soon as that drop splattered, red, wet, and sticky, the spell was broken. I was human again, no longer my unyielding sword, which dropped immediately from my hand. My knees buckled, and my head drooped, too heavy to support.

  What’s wrong with me? Am I dying? I’ve never been this tired in my life!

  In a haze of nausea, I stumbled away from the dagger, from my opponent, from Laytrii’s sword. Exhaustion slammed me like a bat striking a ball. I couldn’t support myself any longer and fell to my knees, panting, gasping for breath, my heart racing a million miles a minute. It was as if time had been suspended for my body during the fight as flesh became steel and steel’s stamina became mine. Now flesh was flesh, and I was used up, unable to think or speak or even hold up my head.

  Over frantic laboring for breath, I caught the sound of approaching footsteps, followed by the stiff creak of leather boots as someone knelt before me.

  “My lady?” A large hand, coarse and weathered, lifted my face.

  I squinted, straining to focus bleary eyes. “Ilgard?”

  “Aye, me. Are you well?”

  If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have sworn he almost sounded concerned.

  My panting had lessened to the point that I could rasp a few words. “Help me up, will you?” I whispered, and his arm went around my waist, hoisting me to my feet. Lightheaded, I swayed and would have collapsed if not for the warrior’s support.

  What is going on? I wondered fearfully. Whatever just happened…is it going to kill me?

  A tumult of voices dizzied me. I couldn’t distinguish what they were saying, and I really didn’t care. If I was going to die, or even pass out, it wouldn’t be out here in the Simathe training grounds. Maybe I didn’t have a lot of self-respect, but I had too much for that.