He caught the faint hesitation and wondered at it, but knew she wouldn’t answer questions.
“Normally, he wouldn’t care about insulting anybody,” Tyriel continued, giving the other man a dry look. “But he does value certain bonds. I just reminded him of one. He seeks to make amends.”
“By letting me stab him?” Aryn wasn’t put off by the idea.
“No…” Tyriel cleared her throat. “In ancient times, such an insult would strain bonds like the one between Jaren and my family. Such bonds, if broken, could lead to betrayal, death, war. The People take bonds seriously, and insults against them just as seriously. An iron blade, such as that one, used to pierce the skin for a blood offering, was once used to forge an alliance between two warring factions within Eivisia just moments before the sun would have risen on the day of a battle that likely would have annihilated easily half the race. He’s offering you the blade as a symbol.”
Aryn liked his own idea, but he got the point. Giving Jaren a short nod, he said, “There’s no harm done. Apology accepted. Why don’t you put some clothes on so we can talk about the…situation?”
* * * * *
The situation was simple to explain, more complicated to deal with, and the plan…well, if it didn’t end with several people dead and more than a few townspeople calling for blood, then Aryn would consider them all lucky.
And if the bloody townsfolk did try to call for blood—or their heads—he’d wring their fool necks. They’d invited the murdering sot behind this into their homes—and none had realized it.
Tyriel had sent him back to the street after they’d put together a quick plan and told him to watch for any changes while she and Jaren gathered up supplies. Whatever they needed, he had no idea, but he was no magic-worker.
Impatient, he fought the urge to pace while Irian groused in the back of his mind, as edgy and restless as he.
Jaren appeared first, moving out of the shadows like he was one of them, coming from a different direction than the pub, his dark clothes and hair all but lost to the night while the pale oval of his remained set in those hard, impassive lines. Cat-bright, gleaming eyes assessed Aryn without a blink and he settled next to him on the wall as they both waited for Tyriel to join them.
“It’s an unusual blade you carry,” Jaren said softly.
“Is it? I never noticed.”
He could feel the fae watching him and trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. Turning his head, he met the man’s gaze. “That is called sarcasm.”
“Is it? I never noticed.” Jaren’s lips curved faintly and he went back to the leaning lazily against the rough wood of the pub’s outer wall. “Hope the magic in it is good enough to protect your thick, fool head.”
Aryn scowled and looked away. He was tempted to just leave the arrogant prick and head to the blood house on his own.
“No, Aryn, brother of my soul. You’ll wait,” Irian said, his mental voice sour with irritation. “Y’ would hate for that one t’ have t’ take you down if y’ took off before it was time. And he’d enjoy it, too.”
“Fuck off, old man.” Aryn wished, and not for the first time, the bloody enchanter could take form so he could knock him down. At least once.
Irian chuckled. “Until the scales are balanced, the sword is the form I have, unless I take yours.”
The question, “What scales…” faded from his mind as Tyriel landed between them on the balls of her feet, clad not in her serving girl’s skirt, but in black leather like the other elf wore, her hair woven into a tight braid, her own blade lying snug in its sheath down her back, her amber eyes glinting.
“Are you still feeling it?” she asked, her eyes on Aryn.
“Something pulls us,” Aryn said, unable to explain beyond that.
It was enough. She waited for Aryn to take the lead and she followed along behind.
Jaren fell in behind her, his steps soundless.
Aryn’s hearing was sharp, especially for a human’s, but while occasionally he could hear Tyriel’s light footfalls, if he hadn’t looked back from time to time and seen him, he would not have known Jaren was there.
“A deadly one, that,” Irian murmured as they took the final corner before the street opened up to the Alley—the town’s small collection of impoverished families and the lone, non-disciplinary temple set aside for those who might worship there.
Religious sects came and went among humans although in small towns such as this, they usually followed the old ways. Just inside the town on the main road a larger, newer temple dedicated to the twin goddesses Evine and Evinore, protectors of flocks and farming, stood ready to accept those willing to pay the requisite offering to the priest.
But here in the Alley, a handful of the impoverished had no access to the house of worship except on two feasting days.
The undedicated temple had been built by a wandering priest decades earlier but mostly went unused.
Yet tonight, golden light burned behind draperies drawn against the damp and cold. The few people out in the street rushed by the small structure, heads bent as if they feared to look up.
Fouled magic, blood, old and freshly spilled, and fear filled the air, the reek of it a noxious perfume.
“They use enchantment to make those around this place walk on by, as if it there’s nothing here.” Irian’s mental voice was hot with rage. “It bleeds fear and their natural instincts have them taking care to avoid this place, leaving those in the temple free to wreak have.”
They’d end all of that tonight. Aryn said nothing out loud, but he felt Irian’s savage agreement.
The shadows gave cover to the three prowling the night, allowing them to draw close to the temple, until Aryn could have drawn his blade and pressed the tip to the old, scarred wood of the eastern wall.
Magic prickled against his skin, standing so close.
It made him itch.
“Men come,” Jaren murmured.
The warning was needless. The drunkards made enough noise to wake the dead buried outside the town walls, but as they drew nearer, the three warriors retreated back into the shadows to listen and wait.
“…a nice, plump bitch meself,” one said. “Tired of that skinny cow at home. Grinding into her’s like fuckin’ a board. Nothin’ soft.”
They passed by, allowing a look at their profiles as they climbed the steps.
After spending some time in the town, Tyriel and Aryn knew some of the people here by face, if not name.
And the man who’d just spoken was familiar to them both.
Tyriel’s blood burned.
“I hear there’s an auction comin’ soon. He’s bringin’ new girls from Nenu. Some, I heard, are from rich families…not servants or farm girls, but ladies, with soft hands. I’d sell my left nut to get a soft, sweet virgin.”
The moonlight fell on the second man’s face.
Aryn found his hand closing on the hilt of his sword, Irian’s growl a thunder in his head.
“We wait,” Jaren warned in a near soundless whisper, gripping Aryn’s upper arm in an unbreakable grip.
Aryn dropped his gaze to the man’s hand, stared.
It was Irian who cut through the red haze of fury. “He’s right, brother,” the enchanter said. “We wait. So we can destroy all of them.”