Sword's Call (3 page)

Jorrin grinned.

“Ceralda Ryhan,
formerly
of Greenwald.” She bowed the same way he had, and then froze in her saddle, her eyes as wide as saucers. “But all my friends call me Cera.” Her added words were rushed, shaky.

He cocked his head to the side, trying to read her again. Why the sudden shift in her mood? Jorrin’s magic told him nothing, but the smile was forced and she looked ready to bolt.

“My stallion is Ash, and my bond, Trikser.” She finished evenly, and he admired her ability to compose herself.

His curiosity about her slid into obsession. Narrowing his eyes, he stared. “So, he is bonded to you?”

“Yes, since he was a cub.”

“Dragons bond to elves or even humans. They say they’re fated to their bondmates. They’re always exactly the same age, down to the day, and have to find each other. The dragons feel longing to begin the search before adulthood. Their intelligence demands it. If the dragon doesn’t find their bondmate, they can die, or so I’ve heard.”

“Dragons?” she asked, head cocked to one side.

“Yes. There are many in the mountains of Aramour.”

“I’ve never seen a dragon.”

“I have only seen them from afar, but they are majestic nonetheless.”

“I can imagine.” Cera smiled, and he ignored how his stomach jumped. “Just what did you do in Aramour?”

“I grew up. I left to look for my father . . . he disappeared when I was very small, but in the last few turns, I have been . . . an occasional mercenary of sorts . . . I suppose.”

“Your father disappeared? I’m sorry.”

Why did she have to zero in on that?

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I’ll find him.” His heart sped, unwanted emotion hitting him in a wave. Jorrin shut down his magic and straightened.

“A mercenary?” Cera’s expression was thoughtful.

Jorrin nodded. Mercenary was a loose accuracy, really. He’d taken a few jobs where he’d been one of several guards to escort haughty highborn ladies to market in the Provinces he’d visited, but he’d still been a hired sword, and he knew how to use it.

However, the
Dragon’s Lair
incident certainly didn’t speak highly of his prowess. Those damned morons had taken him completely by surprise, and his sword had stayed sheathed under his cloak.

A
female
saved
him.

How embarrassing was that?

“And I can track, so I’ve picked up some gold doing that. What about you?”

She shook her head. “I’m just a girl.”

For the first time, his magic gained emotion from her. Sadness and regret rolled off her in waves.

He wanted to reach for her, comfort her in some way, but instinct kept his hands on his reins, to himself.

Cera said nothing more, and he didn’t press.

Jorrin would get her to open up to him in time.

She cleared her throat. “There’s a small town about twenty miles from here. We can get a bite to eat, and perhaps find an inn.”

And then what?

Jorrin left unsaid, but the thought was palpable between them.

****

Varthan growled, slamming his fist on the table. The young shade jumped, but even that didn’t give him any satisfaction. The boy could tell him nothing he didn’t already know. It’d been a waste of time to leave Greenwald without a more definitive plan.

He’d been content in Castle Ryhan for the last two months, since he’d seized it with his best shades and killed the Ryhans. He’d been running the Province as he saw fit.

It was a dump really; the castle much smaller than his own former lavish home on lands in Terraquist—stolen by the damned king when he’d been stripped of his title of archduke.

The only comfort had been killing every last wretch that was loyal to the
former
Duke of Greenwald.

Oh, and bedding every maid he’d left alive. His shades had enjoyed themselves as well.

But no one would tell him where the duke’s eldest daughter was.

No matter what forms of persuasion he’d used—fist, weapon, or magic—not one of the blasted servants would confess her location. On the other hand, it was a relief to discover she lived, because he’d first thought he’d killed all the Ryhans.

He needed the little bitch, because the day he’d killed Falor Ryhan one of his shades had warned him against touching Ryhan’s sword—
his
sword—because of a deadly spell.

Before he’d lost the damned thing because of that steward.

Though the man had paid with his life, his death gave Varthan no satisfaction.

Pity, really. Killing something—someone—ususally made him feel better.

The shade Lucan, his youngest and most powerful, was certain only a true Ryhan could touch the weapon without coming to harm.

The eldest daughter would help him break the spell.

Then Varthan would have his revenge on King Nathal. He’d look into the king’s pale blue eyes as he ran him through with Falor’s magic sword.

I can’t wait.

They’d already lost almost two full days because of the rain.

“We’ll go to Tarvis,” he said more to himself than to Lucan. “The bitch has family there, and we’ll reach them before she does.”

His companions nodded and the oldest, Athas, went to settle the bill. The other two, Markus and Dagonet, left the inn to ready the horses.

At least they could sense his mood and didn’t question him.

All his shades had different gifts, which two elf wizards longtime in his employ had honed and grown in his secret compound . . . until they were ready to use their magic at his behest.

Most of the boys had come to him as children. He’d clothed them, raised them and provided for them. They were all indebted to him.

Varthan was their god.

Though the name fit, he hadn’t named the boy-mages
shades.
They’d earned the name from the king’s knights for all their escapes from the king’s
justice.
Not even one of his shades was in the penal territory in Dalunas, the Southeastern-most Province of the continent.

Moving their compound was an irritant he’d had to endure at least once a turn for the last several.

Expensive, but they’d yet to be discovered.

Before the king’s betrayal, they hadn’t been tied to
him
, either.

He scowled at Lucan, who stood at his side shaking. He resisted the urge to strike the boy, proud of his self-control.

“Let’s go.”

The boy nodded and fell into step after him as he rose from the table and headed out of the putrid, shabby inn.

He made a face. Castle Lenore had better have more comfortable beds than the one he’d slept in the previous night. A backache always put him in a sour mood.

****

They left the small village late, in the pouring rain. Cera covered her head with the hood of her cloak. Jorrin should have enough sense to do the same.

She cursed as the rain pelted down on them.

So much for a warm bed in a cozy inn.

Would they get into a fight in every tavern they entered?

Jorrin had drawn his sword, prepared to fight, but she’d grabbed his hand and urged him to run, as they had from Marshek’s tavern. Taking the time for a real fight wasn’t worth the risk. Someone had seen her magic sword again. She could have hugged the half-elf for not asking questions.

Should she be concerned or relieved that he had been a mercenary?

If he was skilled with his sword it could be handy, but she should’ve never let him accompany her. Hired swords usually weren’t the most reputable of people, either.

Cera stared at him for a moment, dismissing any worries. She was in no danger from Jorrin. Not physically, anyway. Getting lost in his sapphire eyes was another matter entirely. Her heart skipped a beat, and she promptly ignored it.

Why the hell had she told him where she was headed?

For that matter, why had she told him her
real
last name on the road the day they’d met?

Thank the Blessed Spirit he’d not recognized it.

She cursed. It was too dangerous to involve anyone else, even a handsome stranger. If anything, this most recent bar scuffle proved that.

Jorrin had tried to blend in; he’d pulled up the hood of his cape. He’d been antagonized into action. The men who had pushed them had to be Varthan’s hired thugs. Maybe their descriptions were already out and the brutes had been trying to confirm their identities.

If she kept drawing the sword, the bastard would have an easily laid trail to find them. No telling how far his
eyes
could see.

She glanced over her shoulder. No one was following them yet, but they hadn’t much time. Cera looked for Trikser and slumped with relief when she spotted him. Matted wet fur could be dried, but her bondmate couldn’t be replaced.

Nor would she survive if she lost him—literally. The magic that bonded them was permanent, and both their lives depended on each other. In turn, if she died, so would her wolf.

The village was the fourth they’d visited since Cera had saved Jorrin’s hide in Lower Greenwald. They were in Berat now, but wouldn’t be able to ride all night. With the mounting rain, mud was everywhere, splattered a foot high on the stone buildings. Large puddles widened the unpaved road and made for an even rougher ride.

The harder they rode, the more they risked a slip or fall injury. Cera wasn’t willing to chance Ash breaking a leg, and Jorrin no doubt would feel the same about his dappled horse.

There look to be a few caves over there. We should check them out.
It took her a moment to discern Jorrin’s voice was in her head, not in her ears.

It was the first time he’d thought-sent to her.

How did he know she had the ability?

They hadn’t taken a moment to discuss magic, but he obviously had some. Not all humans could send and receive thoughts, so Jorrin must have sensed her speaking mentally to Trik.

Great.
She had no desire for a little magic talk. She had to protect the sword at all costs—even her life—until she could get to Uncle Everett and Aunt Em, and get word to the king.

Let’s go for it,
Cera responded with a thought-send, pushing away the dread closing in on her.

They rode into the cave’s wide mouth, its size admitting their horses with ease.

She shivered against the dank air, but it would work for the night. At least the ground looked dry. No place to tie the horses, but they were far enough inside the cave that worry wasn’t necessary. Ash wouldn’t wander far anyway.

They could start a fire, get warm and dry. Even bed down around it.

Cera spotted a grouping of stones that would be adequate for a fire ring and chose a spot where she’d curl up with Trik.

She heard Jorrin’s boots hit the dirt. He faced away from her, staring silently into the darkness behind them. He must be probing magically.
Smart.
The last thing they needed was to disturb some wild animal.

Cera shot a glance at Trik. Her wolf was close, not reacting to anything, so they were probably all right, but Jorrin’s caution couldn’t hurt.

Leaving him to it, she dismounted, taking off her wet cloak. She loosened the straps around the stallion’s middle, then yanked the saddle off, dropping it with a thud. Cera wiped Ash down, getting him as dry as she could before covering him with a warm blanket from her pack. Shivering, she grabbed her rolled sleeping furs, gathering them up in her arms.

Jorrin said nothing, and when she glanced in his direction, he was similarly tending Grayna.

“You can thought-send.” Why the hell had she opened with that? Didn’t she want to avoid magic?

With another shiver, she pulled her furs close around her shoulders. Trikser shook himself off and lay down against her. His warmth was welcome, but he was still wet, his fur soaking her already damp breeches. Cera’s teeth chattered and she buried her hands in his fur. He wiggled closer and licked her arm.

“So can you.” One dark eyebrow raised, he followed her lead with his own furs.

“I learned to thought-send before I bonded. I have some magic, but it’s limited.” Why was she being so honest? What was it about this man? Her stomach fluttered and Cera frowned.

“I have magic, too. It’s not limited. I suppose training comes with the heritage.” He gestured toward his tapered ears. “Magic comes in handy at times. Like this.”

Sparks ignited from the damp air as Jorrin focused on a piece of wood lying between them.

Cera smiled in thanks at the fire’s birth.

He went for something that looked like kindling from his pack and threw it into the flames. The blaze flared and briefly glowed blue.

Was that stuff magic, too? Would it make the fire last longer?

He said nothing as he settled across from her, the warmth between them.

Trikser wiggled closer to her and the fire, resting his large head on her lap. She scratched between his ears, but Cera couldn’t tear her eyes away from Jorrin.

Which of his parents is elfin?

She’d seen half-breeds before, even met a few, but not one that favored the beautiful graceful elves so much. His long tapered ears were elegant, making her want to run her fingers along them.

Where did that come from? Cera shook herself, but continued to watch him.

He had a calming effect on her. She liked how the movement of the fire reflected over the smooth planes of his handsome face, the pleasant glow making him even more striking. Her eyes drifted to his mouth. Full lips in repose.

What would it be like to kiss him?

She cursed herself as her heart raced, and she forced her gaze away.

Jorrin didn’t seem to notice. She tried to convince herself it was a relief.

“Maybe we should get some sleep.” Cera yawned.

He nodded. “I guess we’re safe in here, but I’ll stay up for a bit, take the first watch.”

Thunder boomed and Ash neighed. Grayna echoed the stallion’s nervousness and pawed the dirt.

Gently pushing her bondmate off her lap, she rose and went to Ash, running her hand down his muzzle and whispering. She made sure both horses were as secured as they could be and repeated her reassurance to Jorrin’s dappled mare.