Divided Enchantment (Unbreakable Force Book 4) (9 page)

Grace’s father stood, smiling in a way that seemed almost kind. “You can choose to stay in the stables, or down in the city barracks. There’s no way on this good green earth that’ll I let you stay in the house. You understand, of course.”

Bran nodded stiffly. “I don’t require your assistance. I’ll find somewhere to stay on my own.” He turned and opened the door to leave.

“What do your people think of this, Bran? Of helping their enemies?”

“They don’t approve,” Bran replied, trying to ignore the stab of loss he felt in his chest. “They’re on their way to Sen Altare.”

“You would leave your people?”

“I would save the children of Ruis.” Bran strode away, fists clenched at his side. What was done was done. He just hoped his clan would still accept him after all was said and done.

26

Bran

A
few nights later, Bran rose to his feet, shoving his rucksack under some straw. He’d slept in the loft of an inn’s stable a few streets away from the Flores home. His pride wouldn’t allow the magistrate to dictate where he slept, so he’d hidden himself here.

Stretching his arms above his head, Bran yawned until his jaw felt like it might crack, then climbed down from the loft and out into the cold, night air. With it being this close to midnight, most people were indoors, but there were still a surprising number of people out.

Bran set off at a jog through the city, making his way down to the lower district. The air had an ominous feel to it and people gave each other a wide berth. Word of the disappearances was impossible to keep secret in a city this big and word had spread like fire. Everyone walked quickly with heads down and shoulders hunched.

It’d been a week since Bran had entered Ruis and came to an agreement with Lord Flores. The magistrate had told the Night Watch that Bran was a hired tracker and left it at that. The men hadn’t been overly thrilled to have to work with a nomad, but didn’t press the matter as the orders came from a leader of Ruis.

Half closing his eyes, Bran breathed the night air deeply and stretched his senses, trying to detect magic.

Nothing.

He frowned, irritated. He’d grow accustomed to having the additional power of the sky jewel and it felt strange to not have it with him. He could still sense magic without it, of course, but he couldn’t reach as far.

His stomach growled and he looked around, hoping a food vendor was still open, but no such luck this late at night. He considered going back to the inn, but he didn’t have enough money to buy a meal.

There. He felt enchantment being woven off to his left. It was almost out of range of his senses, but it was there. He veered down a side street, and moved into a loping run. He
would
get to the bottom of this. Donell wasn’t a liar and said he wasn’t the one behind the kidnappings. Bran believed him, but he didn’t have the foggiest clue as to who else it could be.

The magic swelled, and then disappeared. Completely. Bran skidded to a stop in the dirty snow, swinging his head this way and that. Confound it, but try as he might, he couldn’t sense the magic anymore. Muttering a curse under his breath, Bran began to walk slowly, taking in his surroundings. There were fewer people here, and he eyed anyone who passed him suspiciously. They were all dressed like Oppressors. No one was using magic.

A shuddering howl sounded in one of the houses next to him and the hairs rose on the back of his neck. It was a woman.

Bran fumbled at his belt pouch and pulled out a whistle one of the men from the Night Watch had given him. He blew four short, ear-piercing blasts on it, signaling that he found something. Being a nomad, he wasn’t allowed to enter the home without a Night Watch member there. Shouts came from a distance. The guards had heard his signal, but would take a while to get there. He began pacing.

A moment later a woman burst out the front door of the little house. “Edith!” she screamed, running into the street. “Edith! Where are you? Ediiiith!”

Bran strode over to her. “What’s the matter? Who is Edith?”

“My baby!” The woman was in hysterics, wringing her hands as she spun in a circle, wild-eyed. “My baby’s gone! Edith!”

“Who took her?” Bran scanned the streets, but they were surprisingly empty. Everyone had scattered at the sound of the woman’s cries. Cowards.

“I don’t know! I didn’t see.”

The Night Watch appeared. Bran ground his teeth in frustration. The fools were too late.
But so was I,
he admitted ruefully.

A few moments later they were all in the house in a small, cramped room with a little bed, specifically sized for a toddler. He checked the window. Locked, just like the rest of the house. He knelt by the bed, reaching out with thin tendrils of enchantment that were invisible to everyone else. He didn’t want to start a panic. He could feel faint remains of magic here, and followed it to the window. He tracked it outside where it faded to nothing. “Blast it.” Another child was gone, and Bran was no closer to solving this mystery than anyone else.

27

Grace

“
I
can’t find them.” Bran paced the attic, scrubbing a hand through his long, brown hair. “Hang it all, it can’t be
that
difficult to locate a few scrawny children.”

“Give it time.” Grace sat on an upended box, skirt pulled up so she could sit cross-legged. “You’ve only been at it a couple of weeks.”

“Spring is on our doorstep, Grace.” Bran’s face was dark with frustration. “I’m not any closer to solving this problem than your father was. I can sense the magic, but never at the right time, and it’s gone before I can track it.” He stopped pacing a moment to turn his glare to the window. Twilight was coming on fast. “Whoever is taking the children is a magic user. I could sense the threads when I entered the room of the little girl who was taken three nights ago. But it’s so faint I couldn’t track it more than a few paces away from their house.”

“See? That’s something.” Grace hoped she sounded encouraging. “My father just assumed it was the nomads who kidnapped them.”

“As far as I know, nomads
are
the only people who can wield magic.” Bran froze, his body stiffening.

“What?” Grace asked. “You think it’s Donell after all?”

“Do you remember King Matias?”

“It’s him?” Grace practically squealed with the new revelation. “It has to be him, Bran. He escaped the Sen Altare prison, remember? He’s here to extract his revenge.”

Bran eyed her, puzzlement etched in his features. “But why? He hardly knew you, and you are the only person in our group that still has solid ties to Ruis. He had to know Adaryn wouldn’t have cared.” But then he hesitated, and Grace knew they shared the same thought. Adaryn wouldn’t have wanted anything to happen to children, even if they were from Ruis.

“We can’t come to any hasty conclusions,” Bran said as he headed for the exit that would take him down to the third story of the Flores mansion, “but I should inform your father, just in case.”

“I’ll come too.” Grace started to rise, but paused when Bran shook his head. “Your father isn’t particularly pleased with our engagement—” he stumbled over the word—he still found it odd she’d mentioned marriage first, “—and we probably shouldn’t been seen together too much.”

He left before Grace could respond. She sat there, arms crossed with a scowl on her face. For a man who was so brave, Bran sure stepped lightly around her father. What was he afraid of? Bran was fearless and strong. She didn’t understand it.

Her glower faded as her thoughts moved to Annabelle and her sister, Amees. Amees had been gone for over a month. Was she dead? Or being held captive somewhere? Grace’s jaw firmed and she stood, smoothing her skirts. A walk in the city would do her some good. She would go to Annabelle’s. She understood how Bran felt. Grace felt wretchedly useless.

On reaching the gate, Arnold, the young boy who helped manage the gardens and tend to visitors, stopped her. “Your father said you weren’t to leave the property, miss.”

“Oh did he, now?” Grace smiled, showing too many teeth, and Arnold stepped back. “I’m just going to Miss Fontei’s house. Father won’t mind.” She saw his gaze flicker toward the house. “Don’t you
dare
think of ratting me out, you little sneak.” She shook a finger at him and he shook his head.

“No, miss. I won’t . . . tell your father.”

“There’s a good boy.” She smiled at him, and after he unlocked the gate for her, walked briskly out.

“Would you like me to accompany you, Miss Grace?” Arnold called out behind her. Grace hid her smirk in a gloved hand. “No, Arnold, thank you.” Like he’d be of any use.

The city was as she remembered it, still packed with people, but the streets had a more furtive air about them, and people kept their heads down. The lit lamps cast flickering shadows on the roads and sides of buildings, making the city look sinister.

She kept her head down, hoping she didn’t draw any attention to herself. She passed a few groups of loud, drunken men, arguing over the problems of Ruis, but for a wonder no one seemed to notice her. Annabelle’s house seemed farther away than she remembered. She was still in the wealthy district of Ruis; she shuddered, thinking what things must be like in the poorer parts of the city.

Half an hour later, she paused on a street. It didn’t look familiar at all. She rarely walked in the city; she typically went by carriage and she’d never traveled alone at night. Heart thumping, she turned in a slow circle trying to get her bearings. Where was she?

“Please, miss? Do you have a coin to spare, miss?” A young boy stood by her, looking up with large, liquid brown eyes. His face was pinched and pale, his clothing torn and dirty. He didn’t have any shoes, and his feet looked painfully cold.

Compassion welled in her heart at the sight of the little vagrant and she dipped gloved fingers into her purse. “Here you go, little sir.” She smiled at him. “It’s all I have on me, I’m afraid, but it’s yours.”

The boy’s eyes widened hungrily at the sight of the two gold pieces and, snatching them from her hand, he bolted down the street and turned down a small alley.

“Wait!” Grace called out. “Wait, boy, I can help you!” He needed new clothes, badly. And a proper meal. She hurried down the street and into the small alley, She froze at the sight before her, confused.

The boy lay on the ground several feet into the alley. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing. A woman stood over him, looking down at his still form. It was hard to see her in the fading light, but her hair was long and pale, hanging loose. She was clothed in a black form-fitting tunic and trousers. Her boots were laced halfway up her calves and were black as well. Kneeling, the strange woman reached out a white hand and touched the boy on the shoulder. He whimpered, but remained still. The woman picked him up, and slung him over her shoulder, turning toward the far end of the alley.

Grace stepped forward. “Wait, you there! What are you doing with that boy?”

The woman froze then turned slowly to look at Grace. She felt her insides turn to water. The woman’s eyes were yellow, and glowed in the lamplight like those of a wild animal. Grace swallowed and steeled herself. She took another step forward. “The child comes with me.”

The woman just watched her, expressionless. Fear shivered down Grace’s spine as a thought came to her. “It’s you,” she whispered with certainty. “You’re the one who’s been taking the children, aren’t you?”

The woman’s face split into a mirthless grin and Grace involuntarily stepped backward. Lifting a hand toward her, blinding white light shot from the woman’s palm and slammed into Grace.

So this is flying.
Grace catapulted backward through the air, slamming into the side of a building on the other side of the street. She screamed as pain ripped through her. Something was broken.
Everything
was broken. She was dying, she knew it. Pain. Agony. It surrounded her, engulfed her, consumed her.
I should have stayed home. I should have listened to Father.

28

Bran

“
G
race!” Her name caught in Bran’s voice as a sob. He picked her up, cradling her close. She cried out in pain, her eyes closed. She was burning up. She’d been hit with magic; he could feel it all over her and sense it in the alleyway. Well, what had once been an alleyway; it was nothing but a crumbled ruin of rock and debris now.

“Help him,” Grace murmured, eyes still closed. “She took him. I . . . help.”

Carrying her as gently as he could, Bran took Grace back to her home. Arnold was waiting anxiously by the gate. He’d told Bran that Grace had left when Bran had discovered her missing. He’d come too late. Kicking open the front door, he carried her up the first flight of stairs. Her room was on the second floor.

Lady Flores was in the hall. Her face drained of color when she saw Grace. “What’s happened? Who are you? Gracie!”

Bran brushed past her, taking Grace to her bedroom. Lord Flores appeared a moment later, having heard his wife’s cries. Bran ignored them, laying Grace gently on her bed. She no longer whimpered with pain, which was even worse. Her skin was a deathly pallor, and her breathing was uneven and shallow. She was dying.

Lord Flores looked stricken as he knelt by her bedside. “What happened?” He reached out a hand to touch her, then stopped. “She’s broken. Everywhere.
What happened?
” His expression was pleading. “You can heal her? With the magic?”

Bran blinked, feeling tears build up. He was no healer. But he had to try, because if he couldn’t heal her, Grace would die. “Give me the sky jewel,” he mumbled. “I’ll need all the magic I can get.”

Lord Flores wordless pulled the blue gem from his pocket, handing it over. Bran hastily tied the cord around his throat, his fingers trembling. He couldn’t lose her, not after losing his father too. He couldn’t take another loss. Not Grace.

“Perhaps I can help.” A smooth, deep voice sounded behind him. Bran spun around. King Matias stood in the doorway, his black hair tied back in a messy tail. The times Bran had seen him the man had been nothing but arrogance, which he definitely showed now in his stance and expression. Matias walked over to kneel by Grace in a few, swift strides, elbowing Bran aside. He frowned, looking Grace over. “This is worse, much worse than the black eye I healed last time.”

“Don’t you touch her!” Bran snarled. He tried to, anyway. It sounded more like a strangled sob.

“If I don’t, she will die,” Matias said coldly. “You know I’m a healer, so don’t play the fool.” His gaze found the sky jewel. “I’ll be able to heal her completely with the aid of that.”

“No,” Bran spat. “You’re the last person I’d trust with it.”

Matias shrugged, as if it were of no concern. “Suit yourself.” He then turned his attentions to Grace, his brow furrowed with concentration. A pale, blue glow emanated from his hands, washing over Grace. The young woman lay motionless, seemingly unaware of the magic.

Matias took a deep breath and worked the enchantment. Bran soon lost count of the number of strands and intricate knots Matias wove, and he realized just how hopeless he would have been to try healing her himself.

What felt like hours later, Matias released the magic and sat back with a sigh. He looked tired. “She’ll be all right. What she needs now is plenty of rest.” He said that bit to the Flores, but then eyed Bran. “Did you see who hurt her?”

“No. Whoever harmed her used magic, though.”

“I thought all the nomads went south,” Lord Flores said gruffly, his expression dark.

“It wasn’t nomad work.” Bran’s heart leapt at the woman’s voice. Adaryn stood just inside the room. She looked the same to Bran as she always had: fierce blue eyes and wild hair. “It was the work of the Twyli. Dark magic.” She held a child in her arms. Certainly not Adaryn’s. The girl had to be three or four years old.

“What are you doing here?” Bran stood up, and strode over to envelop Adaryn in a bear hug. “I thought you went east.”

“I did.” Adaryn buried her face in his chest for a moment, breathing deeply. She looked up at him, her eyes sad. “I came back to warn Ruis. They’re coming.”

Bran stared at her, puzzled. “Who?” he and Lord Flores asked the question simultaneously.

“The Twyli.”