“Oh, please.” Tyriel laughed.
That enraged Irian even more and his control over Aryn faltered, giving the swordsman a chance to seize the reins.
“You have no idea how much the world has changed since you walked the earth,” Tyriel said. “You can’t compel anything from me. I am not of your clan and I owe you no fealty. More…if that’s how you try to claim bedmates…” A smirk lit her face and she flicked her hand dismissively. “Really, Irian. I’d have thought better of you.”
Aryn shoved the enchanter down, slammed the door in the other’s face mentally and finally, finally felt alone in his head. But the echo of Irian’s anger and embarrassment burned inside him.
“I can fight my own battles,” Aryn growled, his cheeks flushing red.
“True. Although you’re not used to fighting them with an enchanter who has seen millennia pass—one who has planted himself inside your own mind and tries to use your own body against you. It’s not like the playing field is level.”
“You taunting him isn’t going to help.”
“I didn’t taunt him.” She smoothed her shirt and the leather jerkin before glancing at him. “I just made him aware that if he keeps trying to overwhelm you, I had access to magic and a weapon that could rid you of him.”
Cutting around him, she said, “We should go, have word with the pub owner before the night gets too busy.”
“Wait.” Aryn caught her arm and immediately wished he hadn’t touched her again. He could still scent her, could imagine the taste of her on his tongue. “What weapon?”
Tyriel didn’t answer as she tried to tug free of his touch.
“Tyriel…”
“You’re like a dog with a bone, Aryn.” Sighing, she lifted her eyes to his. “Myself. If you choose, I could break the bond between you.”
* * * * *
Aryn settled into a corner, looking foreboding and somber, his pale hair pulled back in a queue, Irian strapped at his back, a sleeveless leather jerkin revealing the muscles of his arms and shoulders.
Occasionally, he would glance at Tyriel and smile, or glare at the men who slid her long, lingering glances, but mostly, he was silent. Looking grim, possessive, and serious was his role.
Playing pretty music on her flute and smiling sweetly was Tyriel’s.
Both were doing a very good job.
This was the second day and the frustration ate at Aryn like a tumorous growth.
Although it felt like they were going nowhere on this, Tyriel’s face was less animated today. He doubted anybody else noted, but the shadows under her eyes spoke of her restless night and he could feel the uneasiness within her.
Something will happen soon, she’d told him as they journeyed down the steps to the pub earlier in the evening. I can feel it.
She had sensed something the past night, slept poorly. Several times, he’d woken to hear her mumbling in her sleep. He’d wanted to demand she tell him what was amiss, but didn’t feel right in pushing. She’d come to help him—she didn’t have to be here.
He, on the other hand, did. Irian no longer compelled him. Even if the soul in the sword suddenly disappeared, Aryn wouldn’t leave her until he unearthed whatever foul magic plagued this seemingly idyllic village.
“Stop it, lad.” Irian came to awareness on a quiet sigh.
Aryn had the disturbing image of another man, a bit taller, broader, thick dark hair and black Wildling’s eyes—the man seemed to stand beside him, watching Tyriel as intently as Aryn did. “She does have t’ be here. She feels the same gnawing in her gut that you feel right now. Her heart compels her t’ be here the same as does yours.”
Aryn shifted against the wall. “I liked it better when you were just a sword.”
Irian laughed. “Never was I just a sword, Aryn. And well you know it. Part of you has always known.” The ghost-like image of Irian that lingered in Aryn’s mind seemed to shift and he propped one fur-lined boot against the wall, watching as a man lifted his mug of ale to his lips and drank while watching Tyriel as she left the stage. “He is wondering if she’s for hire. Not from here. Getting ready t’ toss some coin her way for a quick fuck.”
Aryn had noticed the man earlier—he’d been here the previous night and had spent much of the night staring at Aryn’s partner then, too.
“Is he now?” he murmured. “Apparently my possessive act needs a bit of work.”
“Lad, if you only knew—he’s a bloody fool. Everybody else knows t’ whom she belongs.” The ghostly image slid him a narrow look. “Well, almost. But he’s daft and stupid. Thinks Lady Tyriel is a lovely, hot young thing with naught much between her ears, a woman good for no’ much more than a hard fucking. And he’s monied. He thinks that’s all that matters. Men like him, they never change.”
Aryn watched through slitted eyes as Tyriel passed by the man in question. A merchant, Aryn suspected. Rich, too. He had two guards with him and neither of them reacted as the man reached out to stop Tyriel.
She slowed her steps and gave him a polite look.
“Should have just kept walking, elf,” Aryn muttered. Some of the pub’s customers were already looking toward Aryn, but the merchant took no notice as he settled a hand on Tyriel’s hip, smiling as he spoke.
With a firm shake of her head, Tyriel stepped away.
The merchant fisted his hand in her skirts and yanked. Aryn winced, wondering if that move would end with a knife in the man’s bollocks.
But Tyriel stayed in character and wobbled, as if thrown off balance and when the merchant caught her arm, she tumbled into his lap, her mouth an open, startled oh.
“Stupid man,” Irian said as Aryn shoved away from the wall. “Very, very stupid.”
Aryn ignored him as he strode across the room. The two guards were already on their feet, one moving to his employer, the other coming around to intercept Aryn.
Aryn pulled his sword from the leather sheath at his back without breaking stride and swung, clipping the guard on the temple. He went down hard.
“Stay out of this and you can keep your tongue and your sword arm,” he warned the other guard.
The man glanced between the merchant and his fallen partner and backed up, hands raised.
Satisfied, Aryn turned his attention to the merchant who had just now noticed he was the center of attention.
Pressing the tip of his blade to the man’s nose, he said, “That’s my woman.”
“She’s got no marriage band.” The merchant glanced at his guard.
Aryn lowered the blade and pressed it to the merchant’s throat.
“Do you want to leave this town with bloody stumps at the end of your wrists, and a bloody hole where your cock once hung? If not, I suggest you let her go.”
The man’s answer came out more a squawk than anything else and Tyriel slid smoothly from his lap. Aryn thought he glimpsed laughter in her eyes, imagined she could have dealt with the pig in fifty different bloody ways, but it would have shown her hand.
“Now,” Aryn said, letting some of his savage temper bleed through in his voice as he hauled the merchant up. Kicking the man’s feet out from under him, he let the bastard drop to the floor, side by side with the fallen guard. “Perhaps we should establish rules of etiquette.”