“You will,” Keshel said in a tone that meant he knew because he’d seen it. Keshel was never forthcoming about his visions. Marai guessed there were many things he knew about her that he’d never share. Keshel had told her once years ago that it was often better to let things happen the way they were intended. That sometimes knowing something was going to happen made things worse. She couldn’t comprehend how much those visions of the future weighed on Keshel. He never showed weakness. Perhaps she’d learned that from him.
Every day, Marai awoke and her heart seemed a little lighter. Every hour, a fissure in her soul healed over, and stitched itself together. She gained sturdiness from the laughter of her people. Resilience in their passion, their dedication to each other. She’d crawled through broken glass to reach this point. To find herself again. Marai’s soul was bloodied and torn, but healing.
“I know you miss him,” Thora said as they washed bloody bandages at the river. Raife had accidentally sliced his hand on Aresti’s sword during training, and the wound had bled a lot before Thora could magically seal the cut. He was fine, but they’d used several strips of cloth to soak up the blood. “Your prince.”
“He’s not my prince,” grumbled Marai.
Thora stopped vigorously scrubbing the cloth, and gave Marai her usual knowing look. “No? Then what is he?”
“Nevandia’s prince,” said Marai.
Thora raised an eyebrow. “It’s alright, you know . . . to feel more.”
Ivy curled and tightened around Marai’s mending heart. They’d saved each other, in a way. Ruenen had shown her possibilities. A future that didn’t reside at a blade’s edge. He’d opened her eyes to more.
“You’re one to talk,” Marai quipped, letting those feelings of more drift away.
“You’re not the only one struggling with those feelings,” Thora said, face falling. “I know what it’s like to care for someone and not be able to be with them.” She clutched Raife’s wet bandages to her breast.
Marai looked away, staring hard at the water lapping on the pebbles as if the river had personally affronted her. A hollowness took over, encapsulating her heart. “It doesn’t matter what I felt once, because he’s dead.”
“Of course it matters, Marai,” Thora said. “Attraction isn’t a choice, but loving someone is. And choosing to love is a brave, scary thing.”
Marai had been brave once; had been willing to cleave her heart in two and share it with another, with Slate. That youthful courage and brashness had been punished. She’d vowed to never let love blind her; that no man would ever hurt or claim her again.
Ruenen had never tried to claim her. He’d chosen to care. Marai still didn’t know what her feelings for Ruenen were . . . was it more than friendship? Did she love him?
But Ruenen was dead. It’d been a month since the day she’d portaled to the Badlands. Rayghast had slain him by now. The cruel king had probably overthrown Nevandia. Keshel hadn’t mentioned he’d seen anything about it . . .
Marai briefly considered portaling to Paracaso to see if there was any news about Tacorn and Nevandia, but then she shook the thought from her head.
Do I really want to know? Because then it would be real . . . then there would be confirmation of Ruenen’s death, and Marai didn’t think she could bear to hear those words spoken aloud.
Aresti’s figure appeared, barreling in from the boundaries of the fae territory. She’d been on watch duty all afternoon. Marai stood at once. From a distance, she spotted the frantic expression on Aresti’s face.
“What’s wrong?” Marai asked.
“Riders,” Aresti panted as she neared, sweat plastering hair to her neck and temples. “Twenty–heading this way. Fifteen of them wear black armor.”
Tacorn.
Rayghast, the bastard, had arrived.
Marai dashed inside the cave and grabbed Dimtoir and her dagger. It was time to wage war.
The others followed her outside like lost kittens, panic knitting their brows.
“How did they find us?” Thora questioned, biting her lower lip, glancing between Marai and Keshel. “And why so many?”
Twenty wasn’t many. Rayghast could have sent dozens more.
“What are you doing, Marai?” asked Keshel. He placed a hand on her shoulder, briefly halting her. “My barriers will protect us. The riders will leave if they can’t find us.”
“Rayghast ordered those men to find me at all costs. I’d rather kill them now and be done with it.” Marai was a threat to him and his plans. She’d killed too many of his men; had humiliated the king by escaping with Ruenen from his dungeon. And more than that, she was fae, and Rayghast wanted to eradicate all traces of faerie blood from Astye.
Marai stalked off in the direction Aresti had come from, ignoring Keshel and Thora’s calls from the cave entrance.
She’d make them bleed. The riders weren’t Rayghast, but it didn’t matter . . . Marai would make them pay for what the cruel king did to Ruenen.
The riders weren’t hard to spot, cantering through the canyon pass, beside the river, to the edge of Keshel’s barrier. Fifteen brawny soldiers sat astride their mounts, sporting Tacorn’s crossed-sword emblem pins upon their chests. Marai briefly wondered how suffocatingly hot they must be wearing all that black armor. Their five bounty-hunter companions were olive-skinned men of Ehle in lightweight linens and protective turbans. They couldn’t proceed through. Their horses reared and neighed at the sensation of magic; their ears twitched. Animals could always sense magic in ways humans couldn’t.
“What’s going on? Why can’t we get through?” one of the soldiers asked.
Hidden behind Keshel’s invisible wall, Marai crept closer to the men. Maybe they’ll turn back.
A bounty hunter pressed his hand up against the invisible shield. “It’s magic!”
The soldiers stirred, grabbing for their weapons.
“We found them! The fae are here,” one of them said; their commander, based on the red plume on his helmet. “Find a way through this barrier.”
The soldiers and hunters began pummeling Keshel’s shield with their swords and spears, hoping to break through. Marai wondered if Keshel could feel each strike. Would he weaken? Would his barrier fall?
Feet pounded the earth behind her. Aresti, Leif, and Raife had followed. As reluctant warriors, they lifted their bows and arrows with trembling hands. Twenty against four was frightening odds to them as inexperienced killers.
“Stay back behind the barrier,” Marai whispered. “You can shoot from here, and stay out of harm’s way.”
Aresti, Leif, and Raife didn’t move, not forward, or further to safety.
