But fighting? Well, that he understood.
Tyriel was drained, her body empty of the resources and magic she needed to survive.
Irian’s mind began to race. He could do nothing about her depleted resources. But the magic…well. Enchanters collected magic, hoarding it throughout their lives, in objects or charms, sometimes within themselves. A very few could even pierce the veil and step into the ether plane, where magic was rampant and wild.
Irian had been able to do it by his third decade, the summer before he lost Fael, crossing into that ethereal space between life and death, dreams and waking. He’d lingered for the span of an evening without suffering ill effects.
Over the centuries since, he’d sometimes retreated there until he had to emerge or risk forgetting everything and becoming a creature of magic entirely — forgetting everything … including Fael.
In that plane, he’d created a cask, storing his own magic, since there was no way to carry it in a physical body he no longer possessed.
He could be a conduit, but nothing else. Often, it had seemed a thankless task, because no human could ever hold such raw magic and all his bearers had been mortals.
Now, though, as a plan began to form, his eyes studied her pale face.
Too much raw magic for a mortal.
But what about a Wildling-fae?
Chapter 18
Aryn was exhausted.
Even the elvish steeds with their seemingly endless stores of reserves seemed to be dragging after nearly five days of hard riding. The past night, after a quick meal and break only long enough for the steeds to rest, they’d continued on, straight through the night, because Jaren said he sensed a storm on the horizon.
Tyriel had fallen asleep almost the moment Jaren had handed her up to Aryn and she hadn’t woken even when they stopped for a quick repast in the morning, the change from dawn to day only apparent by the lightening of the clouds, for no sun penetrated that heavy blanket.
It had grown colder, too, and Tyriel shivered. He’d never known her to be cold and Jaren now rode his mount bareback, wearing only his leathers, leaving his saddle behind at their last stop so he could give Aryn both his saddle blanket and his cloak in hopes of helping Tyriel find warmth.
Aryn knew a few small enchantments that would work to warm or weatherproof a temporary lodge—such little magics had been useful enough over the past year. Tyriel used to be the one to lay protective, warming spells over their tents in wintry weather and he’d once teased her about it. She’d loftily informed him that he was welcome to sleep in the cold and rough it all he liked.
He didn’t know anything that might work to help warm a person, though.
“Irian?”
There was no answer from the enchanter, just as their hadn’t been one in the past two days.
Swearing under his breath, he started to pull back on Kilidare’s reins, but the steed tossed his head.
“Faster,” the steed demanded. “We race.”
Aryn scowled and looked up.
That was when he realized they’d pushed through the heavy forest growth of Appan Wood, the final barrier between them and the outer mountains guarding the High Kingdoms. Those white-capped peaks rose tall and majestic in the air before dipping low to give way to deep, mysterious valleys.
Aryn drew in a slow breath, his skin already prickling from the proximity to what was rumored to be a land where magic was embedded in the earth, down to the very bedrock.
The hair on the back of his neck rose and under his skin, he itched.
Wards, he realized. Powerful, powerful wards guarded that kingdom, so strong, he felt them even though they were still some distance from the border.
The screech of a predatory bird echoed around them and Aryn looked up.
Kilidare surprised him by coming to a smooth stop, tossing his head back and whickering, as if greeting the hawk when the bird dipped a wing at them.
“Scouts,” Jaren said at Irian’s puzzled look. “They know we’re coming. Let’s not keep them waiting.”
The itching under Aryn’s skin grew progressively worse, but he ignored it stoically, focused on the mountains and his own desperate hope that they can find help for Tyriel there.
“No! You didn’t want me when I was strong and healthy and powerful. Now that I’m broken and weak and dying…well, I don’t want you!”
Her words haunted him. At night, as he lay as close to her as he dared, he lay awake, staring at her face and committing every line of it to memory.
He’d been such a fool.
Tyriel stirred in his arms and he looked down just as her lashes lifted. For once, she had a faint smile and her voice, though weak, was warm as she murmured, “I’m home.”
Then her gaze swept to his.
He dredged up a smile for her.
Hers faded almost as immediately so he didn’t think his effort was very convincing.
“What’s wrong?”
What was wrong? Aryn didn’t think there was enough daylight left to list all that was wrong in his world. He struggled to find a believable excuse that wouldn’t add to the weight her now frail shoulders carried.
He came up short.
There was nothing he could say, or offer, that would sound believable, and he didn’t want to lie. His lies and refusal to admit the truth was part of the reason she’d left to begin with.
Some part of him stood braced, ready for Irian’s castigation but it never came and his frown deepened, turning his focus inward.
“Irian?” he murmured.
“What’s wrong?” Tyriel asked a second time.
Shaking his head, he met her gaze. At least now he had an honest answer. “I’m not sure,” he said quietly. “But I can’t find him. He’s not…” He reached for the right way to explain the bond he shared with the enchanter. “There.”
Tyriel’s brow furrowed, confusion sparking in eyes that had gone dull. For a brief moment, she almost looked like herself.
But then her lashes dropped and she turned her face into his chest. “Probably up to no good, then. You know how he is.” She sighed, her words growing thicker as sleep once more chased her. “I’m glad, you know. That you still have your bond with him. I…”
She lapsed into silence as sleep overtook her once more.
A howling wind came whipping down from the mountains in the next moment and Jaren brought his mount around, lifting a hand. “We should wait a moment,” the elf said, voice grim.
In that moment, the mountains began to tremble and overhead, the skies darkened while the wind grew ever stronger, until Aryn’s hair was torn from its queue and all but blinded him. and the wind howled furiously through the trees.
Squinting a look up at a sky that had gone from clear and blue to a leaden gray with thunderheads piling up over them, Aryn shouted, “What the hell is this?”
The wind stole the words from him the moment he spoke, but Jaren was close enough to hear nonetheless.
He brought his mount closer and leaned closer to Aryn before he spoke. “My lord Prince has sensed something terribly amiss with his daughter. It’s shaken him, and his control. Give it a moment. He’ll rein it under control.”
Aryn balked, not believing what he’d just heard.
The sky opened up and lightning struck down mere yards away, cleaving a massive boulder in half.