He stared at her as if she had lost her mind.
Tyriel sighed and stroked her brow. She most likely had. It was his fault—he was too bloody distracting. Long, lean, those broad shoulders, those deep blue eyes…ah, Tyriel, focus—focus!
But it wasn’t just the way he looked, or the way his fine backside filled out his breeches.
He called to something inside of her, something she had never felt in all her years.
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and she handed the blade back to him. As she did, she made certain their hands touched, and she closed her other hand over his, focusing, whispering silently to the one inside his mind, as the clouds tried to take him over and wash away his will.
I am telling him…he will know the truth… and know it today. Now go away.
There it was…that first sign of surprise, and then disgruntlement. Then outright refusal.
Tyriel tried again, reaching out to that ancient being alone who shared Aryn’s skin.
I am not a mortal creature like the body you now inhabit, Jiupsu warrior. You try to enslave this man—I do not care for that.
And now she felt his shock, then silence.
No, he had never seen it that way, had he?
“It hides itself very well,” she said, letting go of Aryn’s hand, and the sword’s hilt. Meeting his eyes, she studied him and saw the understanding in his blue eyes. Yes, she thought. He already suspected something. “Maybe, though, I should say he hides himself very well. If something hadn’t happened last week, I may not have known. He certainly doesn’t want others knowing.”
“He?” Aryn repeated, staring at the sword he held in his hand for a long moment before slowly lifting his gaze to hers.
A grim resignation filled his eyes.
Too many odd things had happened since he had first taken the blade, she suspected, for him not to realize there was truth to her words.
“Hmm. Definitely a ‘he,’” Tyriel said. “He’s taken control from you before, hasn’t he?”
Those blue eyes darkened as Aryn stared at Tyriel, while she watched memories flicker through his eyes.
Then his gaze became shuttered and he lowered his lashes until only a sliver of blue remained visible.
“What have I done?” he asked, his voice rough.
Tyriel’s heart broke as she saw the horror in his dark blue eyes begin to grow…she suspected he feared that he had committed atrocities while unaware.
Gently, she said, “I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong, anything you wouldn’t have done of your own free will, if you had been given the choice. He was protecting you, and the camp, the night I realized what was going on. There’s a warrior residing inside the blade, make no mistake of that, Aryn. A man with a soul much like your own, I would imagine.”
She relayed what she had awoken to that night a week earlier.
“So there wasn’t something odd in the food that had us all feeling like shit the next morning. No bad meat or aught else. It had been a spell.” He lowered himself to a crouch, balanced on his heels, hand gripping the blade’s hilt as he studied the weapon.
“I imagine you were the one who gave the cook the idea, aren’t you?” He glanced up at her but it was clear he had little interest in her answer. “And...Michan. He didn’t disappear while seeking help. I killed him.”
“Yes. I…suggested it, rather strongly. I don’t want the camp knowing…” her voice trailed off as she attempted to explain why she had concealed the truth.
“You don’t want the camp to know how powerful you are,” Aryn supplied, looking from the sword to her. “And you didn’t want them know about me.”
Meeting his eyes, Tyriel admitted, “Yes.”
“Tell me all of it. Now.”
“So…you believe me.”
With a hard sigh, he dragged a hand down his face and looked away. “This isn’t the first time I’ve woken with blood on my hands and no knowledge where it came from.”
* * * * *
Sometime later, Tyriel leaned forward in her saddle and stroked the side of Kilidare’s neck, promising the bored elvish steed some excitement soon. What exactly, she didn’t know. She’d conjure up some mock battle, if it would spare her the woebegone looks he kept giving her.
Not a pack horse, his sullen thoughts kept telling her.
“I know,” she crooned, rubbing the strong neck beneath her hand.
“Frequently talk to yourself?”
Turning her head, she caught Aryn’s amused eyes on her.
“Yes, I do. But this time, I was talking to Kilidare,” she told him, nodding at the stallion. The gray ears flickered and he turned his huge head, regarding Aryn with intelligent, and very bored, eyes. “He doesn’t approve of this trip. Not a pack horse.” She poked out her lip and affected a sulky tone, mimicking the elvish stallion’s mental tones as he bemoaned his plight.
His eyes lingered, very briefly on her mouth before he smiled.
“Bored, eh?” Aryn asked. Running an admiring eye over the lines of the steed, he agreed, “He’s definitely no pack horse. That’s one of the finest animals I’ve ever seen.”
Kilidare preened, tossing his head and lifting his feet high, prancing along the roadside as though it were a stadium.
“That’ll keep him happy for a while,” Tyriel said, laughing as Kilidare’s neck arched. If he were a man, he’d be flexing his muscles about now.
“Tyriel.”
She looked up, and nodded as Aryn gestured to the side with his head. Sometime later, they rode at the back of the train, far enough back that dust didn’t disturb them, but close enough they could be seen, if they were needed.
“I want to know more about…Irian,” he finally said, scowling. Aryn had never been one for naming his sword, or anything other than his horse. And now, he was talking about the damn sword as if it were real.
“It is real. He is real.”
Aryn’s head flew up, eyes narrowed. “I don’t care for anybody’s hands inside my head.”
“Neither do I. And you needn’t worry on that level—I can speak, in a way, to those I’ve established bonds with, and only for short periods and over short distances. I can, however, speak easily with most animals—that’s a gift many Wildlings possess. As I have no bond with you and you are clearly not an animal, you needn’t worry. I wasn’t in your head. I knew what you were thinking just from the look on your face.”
There was skepticism in his eyes.
“Hells.” She lifted her eyes heavenward. “Give me patience, Nameless One. Aryn. How old do you think I am?”
When he didn’t answer, Tyriel took care to blank her features. She didn’t care for the odd twinge of…hurt.
“I’m nearing my first century, Aryn, and for the past four decades, I’ve spent the majority of my time in human lands. You don’t spend that much time around humans without learning to read their expressions. I don’t need to go poking into their minds; their thoughts are usually spread all over their faces.”
He frowned and she suspected he didn’t like the idea of being easily read.
“What sort of bond?” he asked.