The Stones of Resurrection Page 10

  The horses’ hooves squelched with each step on the road made muddy from storms that had raged throughout the night. Mist hung about Taryn’s ears, tickling them. Drops of chilled water ran down her skin, soaking through layers of clothing. She pulled her cloak tightly against her, but the moisture found a way in despite her best efforts.

  The group rode quietly; when they spoke, it was in hushed tones, as if the trees themselves might give them away. Her night of fitful sleep dragged at her, but she fought to stay upright and alert. Myrddin once more led the group, staying away from the major roads and skirting any villages or homesteads they came upon. His flimsy explanation for the clandestine route—that the duke rode without an escort—only heightened her suspicion something was not right. The same something they refused to discuss with her. A nattering at the back of her mind told her to be wary.

  Tension from the previous two days touched them still. The burden of their fear lay wrapped in a blanket tied to her saddle where the sword sang a gentle melody about the days of Aelinae before the Great War. Taryn’s hand twitched, and she had to keep herself from taking the weapon from its coverings.

  Truth was, she liked the feel of it in her hand. The leather grip, secured with decorative silver work and studded with gems the color of a tranquil sea, warmed and molded to her touch. Exquisite dragons flanked the pommel with wings flared, talons gripping a large ruby. Crushed jewels of every color created the illusion of scales and diamonds glittered in their eyes. The imposing piece thrilled her each time she held it. More than that, it infused her with a sense of belonging. Of purpose.

  “These trees were planted by my great-great-grandfather on the eve of his wedding to his bride. Their marriage lasted two hundred seventy-nine seasons.” Hayden’s words interrupted her thoughts. “This part of the road is referred to as the ‘Lovers’ Tunnel.’ See how the branches join above us?”

  A line of trees stretched far into the distance, their verdant cover stretching from one side of the road to the other, twining in the middle. Sunlight peeked through, dappling the ground and warming her chilled skin. Too consumed with thoughts of the sword, she’d not noticed the tunnel of trees or the valley dotted with daffodils beyond the sturdy trunks. Sparrows sang sweet songs to them as they passed.

  “It’s lovely. They must’ve loved each other very much.”

  “Theirs was a love match from the first moment they met.” His eyes caught the light and glowed as brilliantly as the backlit leaves. “Would you like to hear the story?”

  Her brief nod was all Hayden needed to launch into the tale. When he finished with his great-great-grandparents’ courtship, he segued into Duke Anje and Duchess Gwyneira’s romantic endeavors. The song of the sword kept distracting Taryn, but when Hayden mentioned his mother was the empress’s sister and his father was the cousin of Valterys, her attention snapped fully back to him. Anje had the same dark hair and grey eyes as Valterys, but not the height or the hard edges. In fact, Anje’s gentle manner reminded her of Brandt.

  Hayden, the only living child of the duke, had inherited his looks from his mother. From the paintings Taryn saw at Ravenwood, Gwyneira was a beautiful woman with flowing golden hair, the same as her son, but with dazzling blue eyes. Anje’s firstborn was killed in an accident three seasons past, and six moonturns after that, his newborn daughter died in her mother’s arms only moments after birth and Gwyneira of a fever a few hours—or bells, as they called them—later. Luck did not favor the duke where his family was concerned, a fact he attributed to his severed relationship with Valterys’s family.

  Hayden skirted the issue, but Taryn heard the pain in his voice as he spoke. Anje put a reassuring hand on Hayden’s shoulder, giving a slight squeeze.

  “So, your name is Hayden, but you’re also called Lord Valen because that’s the region you rule over? Or is that just your father, the Duke? But no, then he’d be called Paderau, or maybe he is…” She trailed off, trying to recall all of their titles. “Wait a hot second, why aren’t you a prince if you’re also related to the empress and the, um, king?” Taryn asked.

  “Overlord. There’s never been a king in the West, only an overlord,” Anje said.

  “It’s Rykoto’s way of repressing us mortals,” Hayden joked, but there was a bite to his words. “I suppose I am a prince of the West, but not in the East as male heirs are not welcome at the Crystal Palace. Like my father before me, I eschew any connection to the Obsidian Throne.”

  Myrddin led them off the road to a clearing. “We’ll sup here then continue our travels. Don’t dawdle. I’d like to be in Midvale before sunset.”

  “There’s so much to remember,” Taryn mumbled as she slid from the saddle. Names, places, customs—it overwhelmed her.

  “There will be plenty of time for you to absorb it all, my dear,” the duke promised. “Don’t concern yourself with memorizing everything in one day.”

  She stroked Ashanni’s muzzle, choosing her words with care. She didn’t know how much Anje knew—how much anyone knew, for that matter—about where she’d been her whole life. “It’s very different where I was raised.”

  Anje took her hand, patting it the way Brandt used to. “I imagine it is, but you’re not alone, Taryn. We’re here to help.”

  They kept saying that. We’re here to help. But she wasn’t sure exactly what they meant. There was an unspoken sense of expectation, as if she was supposed to be doing something but somehow had missed the memo.

  Their meal consisted of dark bread, cheese, and meat, with cockleberries and a banana like fruit that Faelara called a skirm. Simple fare, but delicious. Taryn ate enough even the duke approved, and she lay back to relax before she had to get in the saddle again. But Hayden had other plans, declaring it time to begin her dance lessons. Taryn groaned and took his offered hand.

  The first dance Hayden taught her was simple enough, but when they moved on to the delante, her feet lost all coordination, finding each other more than the ground. Every so often, her heel would rebel with a sting of pain, but for the most part, whatever Anje had done the previous night had helped. To Anje, she would be eternally grateful. His son, not necessarily.

  With forced patience, Hayden instructed her on the steps of his chosen dance. When she had the basics down, he showed her three others, each of which had Taryn swearing off dancing forever.

  “This is bloody ridiculous,” she complained after yet again tangling her feet and ending in a heap on the grass. “I’m not a freaking princess, and I don’t need to dance!”

  “Ohlin’s blood, Taryn. It’s not that difficult.”

  “Hayden,” Anje warned, his voice low.

  His son took a deep breath and dropped the aggressive tone. “You don’t have to be a princess to enjoy a turn around the ballroom. It’s a civilized way of interacting with one another. Besides,” he reached down to help her up, “many a secret is revealed in the way one dances. You just have to know what to look for.”

  “I’m pretty sure the only secret I’m keeping is that I have no patience for this kind of stuff. Can’t we just play football and end this torment?”

  “That’s enough for today,” Myrddin said. “Give the girl time. She’ll come around.” He caught Taryn’s eye and winked. “Let’s load up.”

  Taryn mouthed a thank you to him before retrieving her cloak and heading to the horses.

  Rhoane moved in step beside her, surprising her. “What is football?”

  She glanced at him, a smile on her lips. “It’s a game we play where I come from. Lots of running, kicking a ball—it’s fun. If you want, I can show you when we get to Paderau.”

  “I would like that.” They reached the horses, and he stroked Ashanni’s neck, his head bent close to the mare. “She says to relax and sit farther back in the saddle. You will not be so sore if you do.”

  “You talk to horses?”

  “Would you like me to teach you?”

  “Sure, right after my dancing lessons and just before Baehlon dest
roys me with the sword. I’ll pencil you in.”

  “You say the most curious things.” He patted Ashanni’s neck and helped her into the saddle.

  “Welcome to my world.” It felt good to banter with him again. Since joining the others, he’d kept Baehlon company most of the time, and she missed him.

  They rode at a quicker pace but not too harrowing or difficult for Hayden to instill every facet of court life into her brain. At first, she tuned him out, but eventually she realized his information would help her. If she was going to blend into Aelan society, she needed whatever knowledge Hayden could give her. What he knew could fill volumes.

  As they rode, she listened with renewed interest, asking few questions. The more she heard, the more she felt like an interloper. Aelinae was about as far from the life she’d lived as she could get. Not only was their dress and technology medieval at best, but they believed in magic and Houses and a hierarchy based on gods. Gods who often interacted with mortals. Gods who went to war with each other.

  As the thrumming pain in her leg reminded her, this was a hostile world to the uninformed. Courtiers and rulers were completely foreign to her, but when did she ever pass up a challenge? She could only hope she didn’t make a fool of herself and embarrass the others.

  The sun sat low on the horizon when Myrddin led them to a grove of trees not far from the road where they would camp for the night. Hayden took the horses while Baehlon and Rhoane went to gather wood for the fire. Duke Anje and Myrddin busied themselves with setting up sleeping rolls, which left Taryn to help Faelara prepare their meal.

  Faelara hummed softly as she went about her tasks, every so often stopping to tap her finger upon her lips. Then she’d snap her fingers with a nod and return to whatever it was she was doing. Taryn sat on a rock, peeling potatoes, and watched the peculiar woman. Pots sat on an open flame with ShantiMari enhanced spoons lazily stirring the contents. Faelara dug through a leather satchel, pulling out more items than the satchel could physically hold. Pale amber Mari rolled off her in waves.

  Taryn leaned in to the power, anxious to feel Faelara’s warmth. A sharp jab pierced her skull, shattering her thoughts. Her shoulders bunched against the assault, and she groaned. Another stab was followed by yet another, more insistent. She grabbed her head with a small cry.

  “Taryn, what is it?” Faelara knelt before her and gently removed the knife Taryn held in her hand.

  “My head.” A fierce blow made her reel with dizziness. Bile rose up the back of her throat, and she gagged against it. “Holy fuck, that hurts.”

  Her pendant flared heat across her chest, followed by a stinging cold. From the edge of her vision, she saw Rhoane burst through the trees, his sword drawn. Baehlon followed a step behind.

  A roar, like the clamor of a powerful hurricane, rushed through her, drowning all other sound. Rhoane knelt beside Faelara and placed his hands alongside Taryn’s head as searing pain ripped apart her mind. She flinched, and Rhoane held her tighter. A wavering darkness just beyond the trees teased her sight. Not human, but a shadowy presence. When she tried to make it out, it vanished.

  Harsh pounding battered her skull from the inside like a great battle took place inside her brain. She winced and kept her eyes trained on Rhoane’s, not wanting to see the shadow. Her sight tunneled to a single speck and nothing existed except her and Rhoane. No sound. No forest. Nothing but the two of them. Rhoane was calm. Rhoane was safety. Rhoane had promised to protect her. He’d healed her once with Faelara’s help; he would never hurt her. She opened herself to his touch.

  The torment stopped. Warmth flooded her. Rhoane’s Shanti. She angled into it like a sunflower seeking light. Gradually the throbbing lessened until her vision cleared and she could make out their voices.

  “Should be warded.”

  “Don’t want to inflict more harm.”

  “A danger to herself and others.”

  She wasn’t sure who said what, but fragments of their conversation stuck like a burr in her psyche.

  “Taryn?” Rhoane’s gentle tone pulled her attention to him. A tiny dimple she’d never noticed quickened her pulse. She reached to touch it, and a surge of emotion swept over her. Rhoane’s thoughts and feelings overwhelmed all her senses. His terror was as real to her as her own. His fear and confusion and anger mirrored hers, but with more vehemence. Palpable rage funneled into thoughts of death—of killing whatever or whoever had hurt Taryn.

  Alarmed, she jerked her hand away. “I’m fine. Really, it was nothing.” She brushed him off, afraid of what would happen if she touched him again.

  “You should rest, girl,” Myrddin commanded and the others parted so she could lie on one of the bedrolls he’d laid out.

  “I need to work.” She picked up the knife Faelara had taken from her and began peeling another potato. A slight tremble made the task difficult, but she needed to focus on something simple. To distract her from what had just happened. First she was poisoned, and then this—whatever this was—happened. Nausea rumbled in her belly. She kept her face calm, her movements deliberate. Being the center of attention had never been something she craved and their attention made her self-conscious and anxious.

  After several minutes of hovering, all in the name of making certain she was fine, which she lied again saying she was, Duke Anje shooed them away. He sat beside her, close enough for paternal comfort, but not crowding her. The others went back to their chores, leaving Taryn and the duke alone. A wall of his ShantiMari rose around them, hovering above Rhoane’s but not touching his power.

  Curious, Taryn thought as she finished the potatoes. Within the strains of ShantiMari existed a form of etiquette. A code of respect, perhaps.

  “Thank you,” Taryn whispered.

  “They mean well, they really do.” A playful smile crossed his face. “You keep giving them scares and they might never leave you alone.”

  “It’s not like I’m asking for this, you know.”

  He patted her shoulder and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Something tells me you’re going to keep us on our toes, young Taryn.”

  “I’d really rather not, if you don’t mind.”

  His chuckle lifted her spirits. If he could find humor in the situation, maybe so could she. Doubtful, but she could try.

  Rhoane kept close, finding tasks to complete that required his presence. By the time supper was eaten, she’d recovered enough Baehlon thought her fit to begin sword lessons. Despite the fact she was exhausted from riding all day, had danced through her lunch, and had a seizure before dinner, Taryn was excited to take up the sword.

  When she touched the hilt, a ripple of power traveled the length of her, from her fingertips to the very edge of her hair, all the way to the tips of her toes. Raw energy vibrated in her veins, extinguishing any hint of exhaustion, leaving her feeling alive, refreshed.

  She faced Baehlon, a renewed sense of excitement making her bounce with anticipation. Orbs floated around them, giving off muted light by which to see. Taryn would’ve liked to study the orbs, to trace the strains of light she saw woven in each, but Baehlon was already beginning their lesson and she reluctantly pulled her attention from the glowing orbs to him. There was too much to learn and see and discover on Aelinae. As much as she wanted to know everything now, she accepted it would take one step at a time to uncover all of this world’s secrets.

  “You hold your sword so,” Baehlon instructed.

  She copied his grip on the handle, her fingers wrapping around the leather, becoming one with the weapon.

  “Your foot position is just as important as your sword.” Baehlon moved through transverses and passes, side steps, advancing and retreating, all the while adjusting the angle of his blade.

  “It’s like a dance,” Taryn said, breathless from the constant action.

  “But far deadlier. Never let your guard down, young one.” He thrust at her, narrowly missing her side. She swung a clumsy parry, knocking his sword away. “You’ll have to do better
than that.” He swung low and smacked her bum.

  “What the hell, Baehlon! That freaking hurt.” She rubbed her backside, glaring at him.

  Baehlon twirled his weapon in his hand, a wicked grin spreading across his face, showing straight white teeth.

  “Oh my God. You’re kind of cute when you smile,” she teased. “You should do it more often.”

  Immediately, she regretted the witty comment when Baehlon advanced on her with devious precision. Taryn followed his every move, mimicking him as best she could.

  When the light had faded to dark shadows and they were both drenched in sweat, Baehlon called a halt to their lesson. “I think that’s enough for one night.” Baehlon clapped her on the back. “You did well. I’m serious, Taryn. You have the talent to become a warrior.”

  “What if I don’t want to become a warrior?” She envisioned herself on a field of battle, wearing garments of leather and steel, armed with the sword. The image unsettled her.

  “You either are or you aren’t. There is no choice.” He sheathed his blade before joining the others.

  No. She wrapped the sword and placed it under her bag. I have a choice.

  She took a seat by the fire and listened as her traveling companions discussed the lesson she’d had with Baehlon. It dawned on her that all of them saw her as something she wasn’t. They were each, in their own way, moving her toward some unseen goal. A warrior or a courtier, she wasn’t sure. But she wouldn’t be a doll for them to dress up and orchestrate to their whims. Who she would be was her choice. If they didn’t like it, well, that was their choice.

  Chapter Eleven

  Taryn quietly made her way through the trees to train before the others woke. For as long as she could remember, she’d been in one martial arts class or another. It kept her grounded, Brandt had said. Taught her self-defense while focusing her mind.