A sickeningly wet crunch filled the air and she spun in time to see the ancient thing inside Aryn’s body release Michan’s broken body. It was little more than a fleshy sack above the waist, ribs, arms and spine shattered.
For a moment, they both just stared at Michan’s sightless eyes, bloodshot now, and gazing overhead at the lattice of tree branches.
“You are a worthy partner, elfling. He’d be wise to keep you as a friend.”
Tyriel looked at the swordsman, saw his wicked smile but before she could respond, he turned and took off at a run, disappearing into the woods faster than any human she had ever seen.
Chapter 6
Tyriel bided her time, made sure the other had left Aryn’s body.
She also made sure she had her own wits about her before she approached Aryn nearly a week later.
His sword rested against a rock while he knelt beside the creek, splashing his face with cold water.
Dragging her eyes away from his bare chest, she reminded herself she was here to discuss a matter of importance, not to ogle his physique, fine as it was.
But bloody hells, it was so fine—sculpted, lean, muscled. With water trickling down his skin, dampening the waist of his drawstring trousers, he looked like every wicked dream she’d ever had and every precious wish she’d never dared to ask.
“Would you mind telling me about your sword?” she asked when he turned questioning eyes her way.
With a frown he said, “Not much to tell. It was left to me at my mentor’s death. He’d gotten it from his. I’ve had it more than thirty years now.”
“Long time.”
Aryn shrugged, drying his face on a coarse cloth before reaching up and securing his damp hair with a leather thong. The blue stone in his ear flashed and winked at her.
Thirty years of bearing that heavy piece of metal might have something to do with that chest, she mused. Mentally, she slapped herself, dragged her eyes away from his chest, focused on the extraordinary blue of his eyes.
“Did your mentor tell you much about it?”
“Other than where he’d gotten it, I don’t think there was much to tell,” Aryn said with a shrug. Reaching for his shirt, he tugged it over his head and tucked the ends of it inside his breeches before fastening a thick heavy leather belt around his waist. The harness he slid into, shrugging his shoulders automatically until the weight of the sword was right.
“Another question.” She looked him up and down, measured the feel of him against what he’d just told her. She’d estimated him to be perhaps just entering his third decade. Had his mentor given him this blade when he was still a boy? Perhaps…but… “Would you tell me how old you are?”
“Now that’s a personal question.” Amusement lit his face as he crossed his arms over his chest. It was a position that had his biceps bulging.
Tyriel had to work to keep her attention on his face. His open amusement, the way he smiled, that warmed her through.
“Are you going to answer?”
“I will.” He shrugged. “I don’t know that you’ll believe me, though. I’m less than a year from my fifth decade.”
Whistling under her breath, she gave him another once-over and decided she’d been right that about his blade—the magic within the blade was settling inside the bearer. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a mage yourself. Or perhaps had an elvish ancestor in your family line.”
“Not a mage,” he said with a disinterested shrug. “And if there are any long-ears in my family, I have no way of knowing. I was a foundling, left in the streets of some village in Nenu by my mother—I assume. A priest took me the nearest orphanage and there I stayed for some years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There is no need.” With an easy shrug, he shifted his gaze away from to study the terrain. “He wasn’t a bad sort and the priest apparently felt responsible for me, stopping to see me once a month on his trips to the city. He gave the mistress of the home extra coin to make sure I had lessons and before I turned five, he took me out of there and signed me over to apprentice with his brother, the leader of the village guard. His brother and wife couldn’t have children and the priest decided he’d make me a gift to them.”
“Like a stray pup?” Tyriel struggled not to gape.
“I wasn’t much more than that,” he said gently. “Us mere mortals don’t have the resources elves have and many don’t have the communal families like the Wildlings. It was a good life. My adopted mother loved me and my adopted father had a boy he could train, who’d help care for him and his wife as they grew older. They were good people.”
Her heart softened as the note she heard in his voice. “You loved them.”
“I did.” He looked away, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. “They’ve been gone almost twenty-five years, him first, her a week later.”
“Is he the one who left you with the blade?”
“What’s this curiosity about my blade, Mistress Tyriel? You have a fine one yourself.” He made a point of looking at the hilt of her blade, worn in a sheath at her hip, as opposed to his. “And it’s rather grand one—I imagine that’s a moonstone in the pommel, a powerful deterrent against those who might use enchantment in a swordfight.”
“You’ve picked up interesting knowledge.”
“Some. And yet I’m still wondering why you’re so curious about my blade.” He held her gaze with a flat one of his own.
Tyriel made a decision. He wouldn’t like what she had to say, but he would listen. Somewhere inside, he already suspected something was amiss. She’d seen it in his eyes the day after the attack, had sensed it, felt it. A few times she had sensed him questioning himself, then his eyes had gone dazed, and she had felt a rush of magic rise up.
The enchanter within that blade was blocking him.
Well, perhaps it was time for that to stop.
“May I?” she asked, holding out her hand.
Silently, Aryn reached behind him, drew the sword from its harness and handed it to her.
No wonder the script on it had looked familiar. The words were a very, very ancient form of the old Wildling tongue—one that hadn’t been spoken in probably two or three thousand years.
“Irian.” She traced the script on the blade, studied it again and compared it to her knowledge of what she’d learned of her mother’s people. Yes. Irian. Raising her amber eyes to his, she said, “That means enchanter. This is very old.”
“What else, lady?” Aryn asked, his eyes dark and turbulent. In them, she saw the knowledge he’d been struggling with, the understanding that the blade was more than just a fine piece of weaponry. “I doubt its age means much to once such as you.”
Magic pulsed within the blade. She could feel the enchantment now, feel it pushing at her, trying to usurp control over her and force her to surrender the blade back to its owner—no, his owner. His master—the man the enchanter had given his loyalty. She had no problem with that, except this enchanter was taking control of Aryn’s mind.
That bothered her.
“The age of the sword doesn’t matter all that much, except its age is part of what it is. Your sword is enchanted, Aryn. Or maybe I should say, possessed.”