“No.” Shaking her head, she squeezed her eyes closed again. “No. It’s not you. It’s illusion. You’re not real.”
“Oh, but I am, my lady,” he murmured, his lips soft against her cheek as he pressed a gentle kiss there. “Touch me. You’ll see. I’m quite real.”
“Illusion.”
“Then denounce me. Break the illusion,” he said, stroking his hands down her arms, running the tips of his fingers over her lips, the arch of her brows, as though he couldn’t stop touching her face. “Call up that wild magic of yours to break anything false that may lie here and we shall see what is real and what is illusion.”
Call my magic, she thought.
It was then that the bitter laughter started.
And nothing he said could make her stop. But eventually the bitter laughter turned into tears and she curled against him and wept.
At some point, she realized he might just be real and although relief kissed her like a welcome balm, there was pain, too, because the staggering, faltering rhythm of her heart still haunted her.
How little time left, she thought. Aryn had come, as she’d hoped, and she had next to no time left at all.
She wouldn’t tell him though.
Perhaps she’d explain some of it.
But not all.
Why trouble him when there was nothing he could do?
* * * * *
“The magic is gone.”
Jaren stared at her sleeping figure and tried to come to grips with what Aryn had told him. Such an act would have surely driven most, if not all, of the Kin truly insane. Or just simply killed them. Magic was part of their makeup, part of what they were inside, like their skin color, their hair, their blood.
Tyriel had cut her magic out, extinguished the fire that fueled the magic that made up the cells of who she was. It had been a sheer act of desperation.
De Asir knew what to do against a soul eater. Tyriel did not. No lone elf did. They were wily and cruel bastards, soul eaters, but rarely seen. They never entered the High Kingdoms and no lone elves ever ventured out into the mortal kingdoms.
Tyriel, though…
Well, she had forged her own path, as she always had.
It was insanity, to carve out a crucial part of yourself, something that would result in pain and possibly madness, haunting you your entire life.
It was also one of the most sincere, truest acts of heroism he had ever stood witness to in all his long years.
Jaren’s gut burned and his heart ached.
“If you let her see the pity in your eyes, do you really think that is going to help?” Aryn asked quietly as he moved past the assassin to collect his bedroll and place it by Tyriel’s, keeping her next to the fire while he slept between her and the darkness at their backs. He arranged his bedroll and shucked his jerkin before turning to face the elf. “She will not want or need your pity.”
“I cannot help that I pity her.”
“Pity her all you wish. But she doesn’t have to see it all over your face.” Aryn moved his eyes to where she lay sleeping, her sleep fitful, but deep, thanks to a restorative brew Jaren had concocted. Aryn had fed it to her, spoonful by spoonful, and now it was helping her rest and further heal by replacing the stores that had been drained dry during her captivity. It would take more than just one bowl of it—more like a vat, or several of them.
But it was a start.
“We need to do more than this—but is she strong enough to move?” Aryn didn’t know enough about an elf’s physiology to make this choice. If she was too weak, and they moved her, then she would die.
Jaren moved one broad shoulder absently, then rubbed his temple. “I think we must try. She cannot stay out here. Winter is coming. Normally, such a thing wouldn’t be an issue to the fae. But her strength is gone. I say we ask the Healer.” He nodded his head to the stallion that never strayed too far from the Wildling-elf’s side.
The Healer, eh? With a curve of his lips, Aryn made his way to the stallion in silence, his booted feet making little noise over the grassy terrain. But Kilidare heard him all the same and turned dark, turbulent eyes his way.
“She sleeps. Too much. All the time.”
That powerful, intelligent voice that boomed into his mind would never cease to amaze him. Aryn rested a hand on the powerful stallion’s neck, stroking absently. Kilidare leaned into him, appreciating it even more when Aryn obligingly scratched as his ears. They both looked at Tyriel, worry heavy in their hearts.
“I know, Kilidare,” Aryn said finally and it no longer seemed so strange to him that he spoke to what he still considered a very smart horse. “We need to take her back to Averne, to her father’s people but we aren’t sure if it’s safe to move her. With winter coming, we can’t linger here much longer but we don’t know if she’s strong enough to move yet. The elf suggests we ask the Healer.” Aryn dipped his head in acknowledgment to Kilidare.
Kilidare’s ears flicked forward, then he paced closer to his mistress, lowering his large, equine head until he could rub his velvety nose against Tyriel’s cheek. “Averne. Yes. Needs her people’s Healer, her home. And you. Heart hurts for you.”
* * * * *
Morning came and they broke camp, ready to leave for Averne.
Kilidare insisted Aryn ride him, holding onto Tyriel.
He’d watched with some worry just moments earlier as Jaren placed a hand on the neck of Aryn’s big gelding and murmured into Bel’s ear. Bel had stood there, riveted, and oddly docile under the stranger’s touch. Jaren had said he could ‘show the horse the way’ when Aryn had voiced concerns about what to do with his mount. Bel had been his a long time, and although he’d choose Tyriel over his horse, he didn’t want to simply abandon the loyal beast.
Jaren had promised no such thing was necessary. It will take him a bit longer. No horse can travel at the speeds our mounts can, but without you on his back, he can move faster. He’ll find you, swordsman, have no doubt.
He half-expected Tyriel to argue when she heard of Kilidare’s suggestion, but she was apathetic and stood there looking lost in the clothes Jaren had given her to wear, the garments hanging from her too thin frame.
Aryn mounted and Jaren made a few quick adjustments to the saddle and stirrups, grumbling about shoddy human leatherwork before approaching Tyriel. She stiffened at first, then nodded and let him carry her to Aryn, her bare feet exposed to the cool morning air, toes curled in.
The sight struck Aryn as heartbreakingly vulnerable and he wanted to hold her close, swear that she’d never know another moment’s harm or pain.
Instead, he forced a smile as he took her up onto the elvish steed and helped her settle into place in front of him.
Jaren fetched a pair of thick woolen socks for her bare feet and tugged them into place, apparently as bothered by the sight of her vulnerable, bare feet as Aryn.
She sat still through it all, not relaxing until Jaren turned away and headed for Lieva, his own steed.
As Tyriel relaxed against him the faintest bit, Aryn realized he had a problem, one he hadn’t considered.
Her soft, frail form would sway against his the entire journey. Her body was cupped in the cradle of his thighs, the scent of her hair flooding his head. Need twisted inside him and he mentally grasped for anything disgusting and revolting as he willed his body under control.