Divided Enchantment (Unbreakable Force Book 4) (5 page)

15

Grace

W
hy hadn’t Bran come?

Grace sat in the parlor with her mother and father over tea. Her mother chattered on about the latest gossip. Grace tuned it out. It’d been nearly two weeks since the Winter Social, and she hadn’t seen Bran once since then.

She thought about their kiss, her face warming. They’d kissed before, but perhaps
that
kiss had been a little too forward. Surely he wouldn’t stay away because of that.

“Are you feeling quite all right, dear?” Her mother interrupted her thoughts, leaning forward to peer intently at her daughter. Her hair was stick straight and thin, but every bit as blonde as Grace’s, put up in an elegant bun. “You look a little flushed.”

“I’m fine, Mother,” Grace insisted, feeling her face heat further. Why did parents always notice the things one didn’t want them to notice?

“You’ve hardly touched your meal,” her mother countered. “Eat.”

Grace smiled—it felt like a grimace—and bit into a sugared cake. Perhaps the clan had found out he’d been visiting her. She thought of the red headed young man, the one who’d tried to kill her, and shivered. He frightened her, though she wouldn’t want to admit that to anyone.

The door to the parlor opened and Polly stepped inside. The nomad servant bobbed a quick curtsey. “Miss Annabelle Fontei is here to see Miss Grace, my Lord.”

She hardly got the words out before the young woman appeared in the doorway, wringing her hands.

On hearing Annabelle’s name, Grace rolled her eyes, irritated to see her, but then noticed her friend’s expression. Annabelle’s complexion was red and splotchy, her eyes swollen from crying. When she saw Grace, her friend rushed across the room and into her arms.

“She’s gone, Grace,” she sobbed. “She’s gone! I’ve looked everywhere.”

“Who?” Grace asked, bewildered.

“Amees.” The young woman was completely hysterical, tears streaming down her cheeks. “My sister is gone!”

Amees was only five years old. Grace exchanged glances with her father. Apparently the disappearances were now happening in the upper district of the city too. The other magistrates would want to get involved now.

“Don’t fret, Miss Annabelle.” Lord Flores stood, every inch of him exuding the authority of head magistrate. “I’ll go talk to your father and the magistrates of the city. We’ll find your sister.” His eyes were hard. “Whoever is responsible for this will pay.”

Grace watched her father leave, her mind racing. She’d planned on waiting until Bran came to her, but there was no time. She shivered again, thinking of the redheaded rover, but then put him out of her mind. She was going to have to go to Bran herself.

16

Grace

T
his was a bad idea.
Grace was utterly lost. She’d done well enough leaving the city and finding her way to the woods, but once she’d crossed the forest threshold, it was only a matter of minutes before she’d lost her way.

“Perhaps this will lead me to his camp.” She urged her horse to the left, down what she assumed was a hunting path of sorts. She couldn’t be quite sure. She continued talking aloud. “This looks right, I think.” She was already feeling decidedly spooked and her voice was the only thing keeping her from losing her nerve completely.

Her father would be furious if he found out what she’d done. She sighed, slumping in her saddle. Not ‘if’ he found out;
when
he found out. Father was no fool and would ferret an answer out of the city’s gatekeepers before too long.

It began snowing again, the last remains of daylight fading quickly. Her white mare, Blossom, picked her way through the damp foliage while Grace drew her cloak tighter around herself, unsuccessfully trying to ward off the cold.
Drat that man, the things I do for him.

A man appeared in front of her, so suddenly her horse snorted in alarm, prancing backward a few steps. Grace had brought her parasol. It held a concealed blade, and Grace clutched it like a lifeline. She peered anxiously at the dark figure before her. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t see his features well enough to tell.

“Who are you?” The man’s voice was familiar, but not Bran’s. He lifted a hand, fire springing from his fingertips to make light.

Grace almost fell off her saddle in relief. It was Adaryn’s father, thank the heavens! She hardly knew him, but enough to know he was safe as far as nomads went.

“You there,” she said, trying to sound dignified. She was all too aware of the dampness of her clothes and the way her wet hair stuck to her face. She must look dreadful. “I remember you. You’re Adaryn’s father. Senric?”

“Kenroc.” The voice was expressionless, and by the light, his face held as much emotion as a stone. “And you’re the Oppressor woman.”

That was hardly a flattering title. Grace drew herself up, chin in the air. “I am Miss Grace Flores, daughter of Lord Flores, head magistrate of Ruis, thank you very much. I request an audience with Bran. At once, in fact.”

“Go away.” Kenroc was already turning away, walking back into the trees. “Bran is better off without you.”

“See here,” Grace protested, heeling her mare forward. “You can’t just ignore me like that. This is a matter of most importance. Come back!”

“I said,
leave.
” There was no mistaking the threatening tone in the man’s voice.

Grace switched tactics immediately. “Senric, please—”

“Kenroc.”

Whatever.
“Kenroc. Please.” Grace slipped out her saddle. She’d tried to land lightly on her feet, but got tangled in the wet undergrowth and fell. The wretched rover didn’t even offer her his assistance.

Getting to her feet she stepped closer to the older man. Kenroc watched her warily, the blue flame still flickering in his hand. Grace wanted to touch it, to see if it held warmth, but restrained. “Children are disappearing in Ruis. My father thinks you are to blame.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Kenroc snorted. “We’re not so barbaric as to keep slaves, especially children.”

“I know that, but the magistrates in Ruis sure as fire do not.” She tried not to fidget, looking up into the older man’s face. Blast it, why did men have to be taller? “If they decide the nomads are to blame, Ruis will fall on your camp like an avalanche.”

“Why are you here?”

Grace stared at him. She couldn’t tell him the obvious reason—that she was head-over-heels in love with Bran—and spluttered for a moment. “Well, I believe in fairness. Your people deserve the benefit of a doubt until proven guilty.” She
really
didn’t want Bran to get hurt.

Kenroc’s lips quirked in a mirthless grin. “So Bran isn’t the only bad liar, it seems.” He took Grace’s mare by the reins. “Stay close to me. You’re lucky I’m the one who found you. Not all of the nomads are as tolerant of Oppressors as I am.”

Grace shuddered and took his advice, walking as close to him as she could without being improper. She studied the man out of the corner of her eye. Tall, but with narrow shoulders, there was definitely something in his movements and facial features that reminded her of Adaryn.

“Have you heard from Adaryn?” she asked, hesitantly.

“No,” was Kenroc’s curt reply. In the flickering light of the enchanted flame, Grace saw his jaw tighten. He worried about his daughter.

Grace kept silent after that. She hoped the nomad camp wasn’t too far.

17

Bran

T
he clan chief lay in his tent, stripped to the waist, reading a book. Trying to, anyway; his mind kept drifting from the story. Blast it, but being a chief was hard. Bran had always been willing to do anything for his people, and was loyal. But there was a big difference between being the clan chief’s son and being the actual clan chief. And ever since the destruction of the tower, the majority of the nomads had come together as one big tribe.

Bran tossed the book aside. He was too tired to read. He wondered how his father had managed to run things so smoothly. It felt like every time he solved a problem, two more popped up in its place. The details and preparations that needed seeing to in order to leave for Sen Altare seemed endless.

Sen Altare. Bran winced. Going south was really the last thing he wanted to do. He knew Grace occasionally visited her aunt, but that definitely wasn’t the same as seeing the slim beauty every week.

He grunted, irritated. Seeing her only once a week wasn’t what he really wanted either, but if the clan knew he wanted to marry an Oppressor, he’d be tossed out on his nose.

Would that be better, maybe? He didn’t enjoy the heaps of responsibility. Kenroc would be much better suited to be the clan chief. Perhaps Grace was right; running away looked like their only shot for a life together. She said women in Ruis didn’t need their father’s permission to marry, but Bran had seen a glimpse of the head magistrate at the social, and he looked like a man who wouldn’t allow his daughter to settle for someone less than blasted royalty.

Bran thought fleetingly of Aaric and Adaryn. They hadn’t let anything come between them. They’d faced each obstacle as it came and defeated them. Nothing had been more important to them than their love. He ran a hand distractedly through his hair. Problem was, he loved Grace, but he loved his clan, too, and he didn’t know which was more important. But by leaving the north, to go to the southern city, he was beginning to think he’d made his choice, however much it hurt.

“Bran.” Kenroc stuck his head through the tent flap. “We need to talk. Someone is here to see you.”

“Come in,” Bran sat up, and motioned the older man to enter with a wave of his hand. The chief’s tent was large enough to fit several people inside. “Who needs to see me?” The question stuck in his throat as a young woman with blonde curls, damp from the snow, crawled inside. She was wearing a loose-fitting white shirt—big enough that he suspected Lord Flores might be missing a shirt from his wardrobe—and form-fitting black trousers that were definitely
not
Lord Flores’. They fit her like a glove in all the right places. His face warmed when she caught him looking, and he averted his gaze. “Miss Grace.”

“‘Miss,’ is it?” She frowned at him. “Why haven’t you come to see me?” She had stood, and now frowned fiercely down at him, hands on hips. “It’s been nearly two weeks!”

“We’re leaving, Grace.” Bran kept his eyes on her face, worried his gaze would wander. If only she could have been born a nomad. “We’re finishing up preparations and we’re going to travel to Sen Altare.”

Grace plopped herself down on the blankets beside him, pulling her heeled boots off. They were full of water and she dumped them unceremoniously on the canvas floor in front of her. “I never thought you a coward, Bran, yet here you are playing the chicken.”

Bran blinked at her. “What?”

She glanced at him, her expression wry. “I’m going to venture a guess and say the clan found out about us, and you couldn’t take the heat.”

“That’s not it at all.” Bran scowled at her. He folded his arms across his chest, and froze when he saw her gaze rove appreciatively over his chest. He grabbed the shirt he’d discarded earlier and pulled it on, ignoring her laugh. He dimly recalled a memory where he’d found Adaryn standing in nothing but her shift. He’d found it amusing, then. “I have a duty to my clan, Grace. And it’s time we’ve traveled south again. We’re nomads. We’ve been up north too long.”

“That’s codswallop, and you know it. You’re leaving because of me.”

Bran shrugged. “Donell found us together. At the social.”

“Who’s Donell? The redhead?” Grace’s face paled, but her chin rose, jaw firming. “He’s little more than a boy, Bran. He’s got to be, what, sixteen?”

“Nineteen.” He frowned. She was making him look like a coward, and she couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than Donell herself. “He told everyone, and, well, they didn’t take it so well.”

“You said you had important matters to discuss with Bran,” Kenroc growled, still standing by the tent opening. “Discuss.” He lit the tent with a ball of glowing light held in his hand, adding to the light of the lamp sitting on the floor.

Grace’s loud sniff spoke volumes, but she let the matter drop. “Something bad is happening in Ruis.”

Bran’s eyes widened with incredulity as Grace explained matters in the city. When she finished, he put up his hands in a gesture of peace. “It wasn’t us, Grace. I can promise you that.”

“
I
know that,” Grace said, rolling her eyes. “It’s the magistrates you need to convince. How, I have no idea. But I wanted to let you know what you’re going to be up against.” She was silent a moment, her pale brow furrowed before speaking again. “They think you’re responsible, and will act accordingly if you can’t prove it wasn’t you.”

“Not our problem,” Kenroc said. “We’re leaving in a couple of days.”

“You can’t.” Grace spun around to face him. “We need your help, Kenloc. How could you turn your back on the children?”

“
Kenroc,
” Adaryn’s father corrected with a grumble, but he didn’t answer her question.

She looked up at Bran, her eyes luminous in the magic’s light. “If you say it isn’t you, then of course I believe you. But you’ll help us, won’t you? Annabelle’s sister’s been captured, Bran. It’s getting personal.”

Bran bit his lip, considering. He didn’t know what to do. Looking down at his hands, he could feel Kenroc’s and Grace’s eyes on him like hot coals. He loved Grace, but. . .

“I can’t.” He finally looked up at the young woman. “I want to, but I can’t. My loyalty needs to be,
must be,
first and foremost to the clan. I need to do what’s best for them, and that’s getting them out of here, away from Ruis. I’m sorry.”

Grace stared at him for a long moment, her face expressionless. Then, pulling her boots back on, she stood, briskly brushing off her trousers even though there wasn’t any dirt on them that Bran could see. “Well. You had best get away then. The magistrates will bring the entire city guard down on your heads before long, I suspect. I have to go, my parents will be sick with worry.” Getting to the tent opening, she glanced back at Bran, eyes filled with unshed tears. “Shame on me for thinking you valued
us.
What we had.”

“Grace!”

“Don’t follow me, Bran. I can get home by myself.” She practically fled the tent.

Bran half-stood as if to follow her, then slumped back down. He felt defeated. “That woman’s impossible.”

“All women are,” Kenroc said, but he said it absently, frowning at nothing, arms folded across his chest.

“Did I make the right choice?”

“The clan will think you did.”

“Please see her to the edge of the forest, at least,” Bran ordered, “and to the city, if she’ll allow it.”

Kenroc nodded and left, leaving Bran alone to mull over his miserable choice. Throughout his entire life, he’d always picked his clan first, so why did it feel wrong now?

He froze, a thought coming to him. He thought of the fight he’d had with his father. He’d gone against clan orders then, risking his life to protect a bumbling, fool-of-a-man whose head was in the clouds more often than not. When the clan was ready to kill him, he’d defended him.

“I was protecting him for Adaryn’s sake,” he said aloud to himself, but he knew that wasn’t true. He’d considered Aaric a friend and was willing to defend him. Grace, too. He threw himself backward to lie on his blankets, frustration lining his face. Ever since getting tangled in the lives of Oppressors, Bran’s moral compass didn’t know which way to turn.