Jaren turned to look at them, his dark-green eyes gleaming against his pale skin.
“We must go—something calls to me,” he murmured. “One of them...I sense someone with fae blood. She’s suffering and screaming.”
He took off, moving at an impossible pace, considering the low ceiling and how it demanded they all scuttle half-bent over. Soon, though, the ceiling opened up, catching Aryn off guard.
He went still, uneasiness flooding him as he looked around.
“This isn’t part of the town sewer,” he muttered, more to himself than his companions.
“No, but I imagine pieces of shit spend a great deal of time here.” Tyriel wasn’t smiling as she made the cutting remark, her eyes shifting around as she took in the rough-hewn walls, carved into earth and stone by no natural means.
Dark sigils marked the space every few hand spans and Aryn suspected he knew it was no simple ink or paint used to make them.
Jaren stood in the direct center, staring upward. His breath came in hard, staccato bursts and a faint green glow burned from his eyes as he turned to glare at Tyriel.
“We need to move.”
The next few seconds happened too quickly for Aryn’s mind to process. Jaren leaped—it was more like he flew, but even the fae couldn’t do that.
Halfway to his goal, Tyriel lunged and caught him, twisting as she did so, bringing him back down to the hard-packed earth with a solid thud.
The fae male jerked back, snarling soundlessly.
“No,” Tyriel ordered.
Jaren went to shove past her and she shoved back.
Aryn knew the fae were strong. But this was the first time he’d seen such clear evidence. Jaren went flying back, striking the wall behind him with such force, dust flew out from the wall and small bits of gravel rained down.
“I hope nobody up there heard that,” Aryn muttered.
“No. Nobody will have heard. The air up there’s thick with magic. It’s why you’re itching under the skin,” Irian told him.
Aryn looked down at the wrist he’d been scratching. Closing his hand into a fist, he lowered it to his side.
Jaren pushed away from the wall, his green gaze glittering with anger.
“Get out of my way,” he said coldly.
Tyriel advanced on him instead and when she was close enough, she caught his arms and shoved him back until he was pinned between her and the cavern wall. “Stand down, Jaren. On the oath you gave to my father and family, I command it.”
“Then I renounce my—”
“Mecaro! Esiyencio!” she rasped, gesturing with one hand toward him and the taller elf’s eyes narrowed as he opened his mouth but no sound came out. He started to lift a hand but froze.
“Ceano mora fovan.”
“High Elvish hasn’t changed much—silence, still your tongue. Do not move,” Irian translated with a smile. “An odd package, this Wildling-elf. Not just an elemental mage, like she tried to tell me. She bespelled him well and truly.”
But Aryn heard little the enchanter said. His attention was locked on Tyriel, the anger in her eyes and voice, the desperation.
“You think I don’t hear her?” Tyriel said, voice thick with emotion. “Yes, there’s a girl with fae blood in there—that’s what draws you. But you only sense her. I can feel all of them. Not just the girl with fae blood. There are others, scared and desperate. all of them on the verge of adulthood and all of them terrified. If you rush in focused on just one, you risk all of them. I won’t have it.”
She made a sharp motion with her hand and Jaren could move again. He swore, reaching out.
Aryn lunged, sword drawn. He had no thought of even moving, but he had his blade, Asrel, the tip pressed to Jaren’s throat.
“Be at ease, Aryn,” Tyriel said, smiling slightly. “Jaren might want to wring my neck at times, but he means me no harm.”
Without even glancing at Aryn, Jaren whispered savagely, “Sometimes, Tyriel…you push even me. If you weren’t right…” Then he released her and stepped back, his eyes never leaving Tyriel’s face. “Every second we wait takes her closer to things worse than death.”
“Then shouldn’t we stop wasting time?” Turning from him, she drew a small blade and pierced her flesh. “Viastra…”
Dust drifted up from the earth while the mage light at Tyriel’s circle moved to the center of the artificial cavern. The dust seemed to fuse with the mage light before they both burst into flame. Tyriel called the ball of flames to her hand and fed it her blood.
Aryn’s ears popped at the rise of pressure hitting the room.
The flame-infused mage light went blood-red before arcing away from Tyriel, back to the cavern’s core and up, spinning, spinning, spinning…then it exploded outward and the cavern disappeared—or so it seemed.
A veil of misty white hung before them and across it, as if painted by the muses of the gods, there was an image. Then the girl in that image blinked and Aryn realized this was no image.
“This is the main room,” Tyriel murmured. “Just above us. Count the men. Guards…”
“I count four,” Jaren said, voice coolly logical now.
The misty white image because more focused and Aryn could clearly see the young woman now, trembling as she stood there, waiting with her head bowed, arms crossed over her mostly bared breasts. She stood in profile, and men around her leered. One even circled her.
What kind of magic was this?
Irian’s attention focused. “Fae sight…she’s worked a spell so you can see what she and the other long-ear see, brother. Quite some feat.”
Aryn gripped Asrel’s hilt as the tension in the cavern continued to mount, the image in the whirling while the dust on the ground rose to swirl around them in a lazy whirlwind.
The image reformed.
“Aryn, Jaren. Deal with the guards. The men from the village will scatter once they see us, hopefully most of the guards will, too. They likely don’t expect trouble on a magical front.” Tyriel’s voice was cold, the promise of bloody violence on those who didn’t flee.
The image spun and swirled, reforming to show another room, this one darker. It held only a moment, then faded. But Aryn saw another young woman. She was restrained, her body bent into an unnatural position while thin slices marred soft golden skin.
Jaren vibrated with rage.
“We’ll save her,” Tyriel whispered to him. “But we have to deal with the sorcerer first. It’s time. We must move—fast. Aryn, it will get very dark in a moment. If you can’t see, let Irian guide you. We can’t wait any longer.”
Aryn heard her urgency and was about to ask for the cause.
But she was moving and following instinct, he moved with her, seeking out the narrow staircase built into the hacked-out stone wall.
“Don’t touch the sigils, brother,” Irian warned as they drew close. “Nasty work there.”
Aryn didn’t need that warning. His skin crawled just looking at the foul marks.
He could barely make out a deeper shadow when Tyriel stopped.
“The door,” she murmured, reaching out to grip Aryn’s upper arm. “Hold steady, Aryn. Jaren. Now.”
An explosion shook the ground. Aryn clenched his teeth against the curses that wanted to tear out of him, pressed his head back against the stone and told himself he wasn’t going to be buried alive with a couple of insane fae for all eternity.