“Her mother’s bloodline is what saved her, love. The iron poisoning alone would have killed a full-blooded fae. And then to rip out her magic…that was an of such desperate courage, I can’t imagine the fear she must have felt to take such a step.” She sighed and sat beside him, taking his hand in hers.
After they’d helped Tyriel to her quarters—along with the brooding, quiet mortal swordsman who wouldn’t be removed from her side—Lorne had retreated so his Consort could do whatever Healing she could.
But he’d known when she came to him that she didn’t expect her efforts to bear much fruit.
“She’s dying,” he said in a flat tone, the words all but ripping through a heart still bruised from the loss of his Wildling wife.
Alys took his hand, saying nothing.
Friends since a childhood that had long since faded into the past for both of them, they’d come together nearly three decades earlier, both of them grieving for loves forever lost to them. Theirs wasn’t a love match, but they did have love for each other, and a respect born of both time and shared experiences.
“The human,” Lorne said. “What did you learn…”
The words stopped as both of them sensed the new presence—someone who’d invaded their private chambers.
Alys drew the dagger from her waist while Lorne pulled a blade that he carried at his back, hidden by a small personal glamour. The moment he touched the hilt, black flames leaped to life along the blade. He whirled, placing himself and the blade between the intruder and the slim figure of his consort.
What he saw took him sent shock reverberating through him.
Prince Lorne of Averne, Prince Regent of the High Kingdoms and Protectorate of the Western Gate, had seen many oddities in his lifetime and very little took him aback.
But the spectral form of a Jiupsu warrior, who ached with the weight of age, standing in his personal sanctum had him momentarily at a loss.
He’d seen his second millennia come and go, and yet, in this being’s presence, his own age felt like nothing—he was like a stripling in the presence of a forest giant, one so old, its age seemed immeasurable.
The figure glanced at the sword, then back up, quirking a brow. “A blade forged in Myrsae, imbued with the magic of the First Guardians. Impressive. It might even hurt if you were to run me through with that.”
Lorne narrowed his eyes. Myrsae, a land forgotten by time to much of the world and attributed to myth by the few who still remembered it. Yet this man spoke of it with easy knowledge. “You’re the one who cast the enchantment over the blade carried by the mortal swordsman.”
The specter inclined his head.
Slowly, Lorne lowered his sword. “Who are you…and how did you so easily step past my protections?”
“I am Irian.” He smiled, a brief flash of his teeth in a craggy face. “And your protections are impressive, princeling. But they aren’t as effective as one who no longer relies on the trappings on flesh and blood.”
“The trappings of flesh and blood,” Alys muttered as she moved to his side. “Such small, inconsequential things.”
The warrior gave her a small smile.
Taking his Consort’s hand, Lorne looked the enchanter over with a jaded eye. “Now we know the who and the how. Tell me the why.”
Irian’s eyes fell away and the eerie luminescence of his form dimmed. “Tyriel.”
Chapter 19
Tyriel felt so empty inside.
The painful, vicious aches from so many beatings was gone, thanks to Alys’ wondrous healing abilities.
Her father’s consort had also purged the lingering effect of iron sickness lingering in her system and after a long night’s rest and a light meal, the pounding in her head had retreated somewhat, letting her think clearly for the first time in months.
It wasn’t an improvement.
Without the constant pain, she was acutely aware of the emptiness inside her, acutely aware of her ever-waning strength and the grief she could feel all around her.
She was mostly aware of Aryn, though.
The way he watched her, as if he feared she’d disappear. In the recesses of her weakening heart, the love she’d had for him almost from the first still burned and it hurt, knowing that he suffered, knowing the guilt he now carried on those strong shoulders.
She wished she had the strength to send him away. There was no reason for him to linger and watch her fade. But it was an arduous task to even speak.
She’d slept away nearly an entire day after Alys’s first healing session, rousing only when driven by thirst or a need to use the personal chambers. Each time, Aryn had been there, waiting by the bed as if he could sense her needs.
Now, on her side, she watched him through her lashes.
He had yet to realize she was awake so his expression was unguarded. She took in the fine lines of strain fanning out from his eyes, the hard set of his mouth, his jaw a rigid line.
The bleakness in his gaze made her want to weep.
“If it hurts you so, then why will you not fight for him?”
Tyriel closed her eyes, Irian’s voice in her mind feeling oddly foreign after so much time had passed. Leave me be, she thought, not bothering to establish a true link with him.
It didn’t matter.
“No. I did that when you ran from us in Ifteril. I let you be even though everything in me said we should follow. Look at what has happened.”
Tears burned. I don’t know what you want from me. I’m dying, Irian. My heart is failing and everything in me hurts. Just breathing hurts. All I want is peace.
She felt a phantom hand stroke her hair gently and she opened her eyes, half-expecting to see his familiar, ghostly form.
But she didn’t.
“I want to know this: if you had the strength in you to keep going, if your heart wasn’t failing you, would you fight?”
She wanted to scream. Hadn’t most of her life been a fight of some form or another? What am I supposed to fight for, Irian?
Aryn stirred and his tired eyes focused on hers.
For a brief moment, naked longing burned there.
Then he blinked and when he leaned forward to take her hand, his blue eyes were unreadable.
“For him, love,” Irian murmured from within her mind. “For the life you two could still have. If you had the strength to fight for it...would you?”
Aryn lifted her hand to his lips, unaware of the enchanter’s presence. As the sweetly intimate caress, Tyriel squeezed her eyes shut.
Yes.
She didn’t even have to consider it.
If she had the strength, she’d fight.
But I don’t, enchanter, do I? And fuck you for reminding me of that.
* * * * *
Aryn tried not to think about the frailness of the hand he held as he sat by her side.
She rested against him, thin fingers wrapped around a mug of tea her father’s consort had brought.
“Drink a bit more?” Aryn asked.
She heaved out a sigh. “You said you’d drink a cup yourself if I’d drink mine. You’ve had even less than me.”
Aryn grabbed the mug from the table next to the bed and tossed back half of it. “There.”
Tyriel glanced at him before straightening, weight propped on a quivering arm. With her free hand, she brought the cup to her lips. Her fingers shook but she took three healthy drinks before lowering it.