“That’s enough for now,” she said, voice thick with exhaustion. “I want to lie down.”
Aryn took the cup and placed it by his own discorded one. As he turned back to her, a yawn cracked his mouth wide open.
“You should rest, too,” Tyriel murmured, her lids so heavy it was a strain to keep them open.
“I’m fine,” he said, tugging back the covers before helping her settle on the bed.
But when he went to pull away, Tyriel caught his hand. “Lie with me. Please.”
A muscle pulsed in his jaw, but he nodded. “I need to take off my boots.”
He yawned again halfway through the routine task, mumbling, “Maybe I do need a lie-down.”
When he turned to Tyriel, she was already asleep.
Careful not to disturb her, he pulled her into his arms, then covered both of them with the thick, warm blankets.
She snuggled into his chest.
Exhaustion pushed ever closer.
He heard the door open and he tried to look and see who it was.
But lethargy gripped him, all but dragged him into the darkness.
His last clear thought...had the royal consort drugged the fucking tea?
* * * * *
“Enchanter.” Lorne looked over the still body of his daughter and the man who looked ready to follow her into death itself. “This had better work.”
“I’ve already told you I can make no promises.” Irian approached the sleeping couple, reaching out with his mind to ascertain that both truly, deeply slumbered. “But this is one way I know that might give her a chance. The sword, Prince Lorne.”
After looking at his consort, Lorne picked up the sword from where Aryn had put it when he removed his boots and a few other weapons. After pulling it from its sheath, he offered it to the specter.
He didn’t look surprised when Irian was able to take the blade in hand—although he was startled when Irian’s form flickered, and for a brief moment, looked solid and whole, flushed with health and life.
The change lasted only seconds and with a pop, Irian reverted back to his normal, spectral state and the air went tight with magic.
“You must see to it that no one enters the room while I work.”
“Of course,” Alys said with an incline of her head.
“How long will this take?” Lorne demanded.
“A few days? Perhaps a week?” Irian shook his head. “I do not know.”
He placed the sword on the bed next to Aryn, the hilt brushing the sword’s arm.
Then, after a final look at Tyriel, he put his hand on the blade.
And disappeared.
* * * * *
Tyriel was lost.
She had no idea where she was.
When she’d first come to awareness in the utter, complete black emptiness, she’d nearly panicked. It had taken forever to get her limbs to move and she’d thought perhaps she’d find herself trapped—had nearly expected it. She’d find herself shut away in some close, airless space and eventually, Tainan would reveal himself, showing her this latest cruelty.
But after endless moments, she’d managed to move. Step by careful step, she’d realized she wasn’t in any sort of room or prison that she could deduce.
Beyond that, she knew nothing of where she was or even how long she’d been there.
Her last memories were of Aryn, his arms around her, a cup of Alys’ tea in her hand, the flavor of it sweet on her tongue. Then the soft, warm blanket of sleep.
Had she died?
Was this the afterlife?
If so, either she’d failed to live up to whatever expectations the Nameless One had of her or the supposed paradise that was meant to wait for the faithful and true-hearted was an absolute lie.
The endless maw of darkness stretched out around her as she walked. She had no way of knowing just how long she’d been walking, for although it seemed an age, her body wasn’t weary, her feet didn’t ache—
“Wait...” She stopped and smoothed her hands along her arms. She’d been in her bedchamber back at Averne, in her own bed. Alys had assisted her into a gown of iferi silk, soft against her skin but so warm.
But she wasn’t wearing the sleeping gown.
And when she touched her arms, it wasn’t the spindly limbs she’d last seen.
No, she touched the familiar wool, cotton and leather of the garb she typically wore when outside her father’s lands. Inside boots that were coming to show signs of wear, she curled her toes.
“A dream?”
Her words were lost to the vastness around her and she blew out a harsh breath. Once more, she began to walk, but quicker now, with more purpose.
Instinctively, she went to reach out with her magic and the jab of pain that struck her in the chest as she remembered was so sharp, it felt like a blade.
Tears burned a hot path down her cheeks and she dashed them away. It was that action that her aware of the subtle change, a faint lessening of the endless dark.
She could see. Not well, and there didn’t look to be anything to see.
But she was no longer in a place so devoid of light, she couldn’t make out the shape of her own hand before her.
She had no idea when the change had started, either. Not that it would do much any good to pinpoint the change—time and place seemed to have no meaning in this...wherever she was.
But the darkness was lessening.
“Am I dead?
The vast emptiness around her seemed to sigh.
And then, in front of her, a pool of light began to coalescence.
With that pool of light took on form, she wasn’t surprised to find herself staring at Irian. The light ebbed until she was looking at Irian as he must have looked in life, rather than the spectral form she normally saw.
“Don’t you ever grow tired of playing tricks with my mind?” she said, a bubble of anger forming in her chest. Had she just spent all this time trapped in some enchantment of his? Why?
“This is no trick, Tyriel,” Irian said.
The sound of his voice, oddly more...real than she’d ever heard him sound startled her and the poignant grief in his eyes had her throat thickening.
Tearing her gaze from his, she looked around.
“No? Then what is this?” She was barely able to see much more than perhaps an arm’s length before her before the darkness cloaked everything, although she thought the light just might be increasing from...somewhere.
“This is...you,” Irian said. “I have to admit, it took a long time to come so far. I was starting to worry we’d never find this.”
Frustrated, Tyriel glared at him.
“Find what?”
“Look.” Irian spread his hands out and turned in a slow circle.
There was more light, although she had no idea where the source of it was. Her vision, sharply acute thanks to her elvish bloodline, had adjusted to that scant illumination well enough that she could see him without difficulty. He had his head tipped back and she mimicked the movement more out of habit than any real curiosity about whatever it was that held his attention.
“We’re within you, Tyriel. In the very core of you, deeper, even, than your soul.” He finally spun back to look at her, his dark eyes glinting. “That you don’t recognize this hollow hell is odd, but I’m not overly surprised. You’ve never had a reason to look so deeply inside yourself until you stripped away all your magic—almost all.”