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

11

Aaric

A
daryn filled Aaric in on the discussion she’d had with Fyrsil after Dahlia fell asleep. The toddler lay between the two of them, nestled in warm furs.

“Do you know what it is they are taking from the children? How is it killing them?” Aaric spoke softly, not wanting to wake Dahlia.

Adaryn shook her head. “They may be magic users, but they are obviously twisting the magic. I’ve never heard of ‘extracting’ anything from anyone.” She grinned ruefully. “Though if I’d known how, I could’ve dealt with Kingsley before he became an issue.”

Aaric patted Adaryn on the shoulder, sympathetic. Adaryn’s gaze had turned inward, thinking of her past. “It’s all right, Adaryn.” Aaric spoke in what he hoped was a soothing manner. “He’s not here.”

Adaryn blinked and shuddered. “I know.” She took a deep, shaky breath. She fixed Aaric with a blue-eyed stare. “I think I need to go to back to Bleaksdale.”

“What? No!” Aaric hissed. Dahlia stirred and they both paused. She snuggled closer to Adaryn and became still. “No, Adaryn,” Aaric whispered. He felt his temper rising. “Who gave you that fool notion? Fyrsil? I won’t allow it. You could be killed!”

“No one did, calm down,” she whispered back just as fiercely. “I was just thinking about it. We came here hoping to make a new life for ourselves, but things sound just as bad here as back in Ruis. We can’t just sit back and allow this to happen. What if the Twyli come for Dahlia? It’s the safest place for her.”

Aaric looked down at the toddler. She had only been with them for a few short days, yet she’d managed to wrap her little finger around Aaric’s heart. “We could go back,” he said. “Back over the mountains. We don’t have to go to Ruis. We can travel to Sen Altare, or settle in a village.”

Adaryn shook her head. “We’re here, Aaric. We can’t just abandon these people. They need us.”

Aaric clenched his fist. “You’re pregnant, Adaryn. You and the unborn child are my first concern. And Dahlia.”

“Aaric . . .”

Aaric recognized the tone, and immediately switched tactics. “It’s late, Adaryn, and we don’t want to wake the child. We’ll discuss this in the morning.”

Adaryn harrumphed and rolled over to face the tent wall. Less than five minutes later, her breathing had slowed to the breath of sleep. Aaric grimaced. He wished he knew what the right thing to do was. He could see Adaryn’s point, but it was his responsibility to make sure she stayed safe, especially now that she was pregnant. Going back to Bleaksdale was crazy. He would not agree to that.

His own breathing slowed until he fell into sleep, his dreams filled with thick fog and a voice calling him through the mist.

12

Adaryn

“
S
o you’ve been hired by Bleaksdale to track the Twyli?” I asked. “I heard some men in the city mention the mayor hired some people to do so.”

“Yes,” was the brigand king’s reply. “Their weapons don’t come close to being enough to protect from the Twyli. I’m surprised they’re still around, actually.”

Fyrsil and I were seated on the same log by the fire pit from last night. I’d woken and quietly slipped out of the tent without waking Aaric or Dahlia. I eyed him skeptically. “It seems like it’d take a fair amount of luck to be in the vicinity when the Twyli happened to strike.”

Fyrsil shook his head. “They don’t need to call enchantment in order for me to sense them, so they’re not hard to track.”

I nodded, well aware of his ability to sense magic, even before it was cast.

“There’s something I want to know.” I fixed him with a stare. “It’s been bothering me ever since I discovered you were behind the brigand attacks in Sen Altare.”

Fyrsil watched me, but remained silent, and I continued. “You were once a brigand named Fyrsil, but became a king named Matias. How?”

Fyrsil’s blue eyes took on a faraway look as he mulled over my question, silent. When he spoke, his voice was heavy. “I never knew my father. He died before I was born. But my mother told me he was a magic user, who led a band of brigands. He was strong, and remarkably skilled with the sword. Mother said it was love at first sight.”

“Who was she?” I wondered.

“She was Aleta, princess of Sen Altare.”

My mouth dropped. I stared at him, surprised.

Fyrsil shrugged his shoulders. “They met in the palace. My father was a skilled thief and had claimed he could steal anything. He was there because some fellow rogues challenged him to steal the King’s greatest possession.”

“The princess,” I said wonderingly.

The brigand laughed bitterly. “You would think, but actually it was the sky jewel. He wore it around his neck day and night. The king didn’t wield magic, of course, but apparently the sky jewel had been passed down from generation to generation as the emblem of Sen Altare’s royalty. There’s speculation that the Lord of Omniah wielded the sky jewel himself, but no one really knows.”

I nodded eagerly, wanting him to continue the tale. “Did he steal it then?”

“No. He met my mother first. It sounds like a fairytale, really. As he scaled the castle wall—” I stared, dumbfounded. The castle walls looked as slick as ice. “—he heard my mother singing. He climbed to her rooms, and after convincing her that he meant her no harm, they talked the remainder of the night. She promised him to keep their visits secret, and from that time forth, he went to see her nearly every night. At some point,” Fyrsil coughed self-consciously, “I entered the picture. My mother managed to keep it a secret for several months, but it became obvious with time that she was with child.

“Her father was furious when he found out,” Fyrsil continued. “He forced her to tell him who the father was, and that night, when my father climbed over the balcony, the king and his guards were waiting for him.” Fyrsil’s mouth twisted, as if he could recall it from his own memory.

“My mother was devastated. Not only did she lose her lover, her father banished her from the city. Her younger sister, Elerith, would succeed the throne.”

“What happened then?” I couldn’t help but be completely drawn into the tale.

The once-king smiled grimly. “My mother stole the sky jewel and fled. She couldn’t wield magic, but I think she took comfort in taking what she knew her father prized above all else. A small comfort, but one nonetheless. She fled to the Tyrko Ruins, and the brigands took her in, knowing what she’d meant to Fyrsil.”

“Fyrsil was your father’s name?” I asked. “I thought it was yours.”

“It is.” Fyrsil stood, towering over me, and I scrambled to my feet, seizing the magic in my alarm. He merely stood there, however, his arms crossed, chin jutting out proudly. “My name is Fyrsil Matias Aleta.” He glared at me. “I may not have been the kindest ruler to Sen Altare, but I am their rightful king.”

“I assume your mother told you all of this?” I asked, watching him warily.

He frowned. “Of course. She and the other outlaws.”

He started pacing through the trampled snow, hands behind his back. “She told me the story countless times. The other brigands confirmed it, and once I was old enough to occasionally venture into the city, the rumors there confirmed it as well. Aleta had been cast out by her own father. And for what?”

“For loving a brigand?” I said wryly.

He cast me a bitter look. “For loving a magic user.”

I was speechless, my eyes wide in shock. He smirked at me. “You jumped to the wrong conclusions back in Sen Altare, sweetheart. You thought I was the villain, and it’s now being run by a bunch of discriminating idiots, that fool Sirius Archer at the head.”

“Hold on, Fyrsil,” I growled. “You are far from being innocent. You had your soldiers plundering travelers, merchants, and farmers. How can you justify that?”

“Because they deserved it,” he spat. “They deserved everything they got. The taxes, the persecution, anything, everything. Everyone hates our kind, Adaryn, and the reason? Because we’re different. We wield magic. You admitted yourself that it’s far, far worse in the north. I don’t understand how you can sit back and take it.”

“The people in Sen Altare weren’t that bad.” I thought back to our time at the Dancing Cat inn. “The innkeeper was kind.”

“If Aaric hadn’t been there with a handful of gold, you would’ve been thrown out,” Fyrsil retorted. “If Aaric hadn’t been rubbing elbows with the Scholar’s Guild, chances are very good they wouldn’t have helped you. Though who knows?” He rubbed his chin, thinking. “Sirius Archer looked like a man who knew opportunity when he saw it. He possibly wouldn’t let his prejudice get in the way if it benefited him.”

The brigand king turned to face me, still frowning, his deep blue eyes expressing indignation. “Besides, I wasn’t all cruelty. I healed those who needed it from time to time.”

“So they knew you were a magic user.”

“The rumor was that my healing was more of a . . . clerical ability.” Fyrsil smirked at me, one eyebrow cocked. “That makes it different.”

I held up my hand, cutting him off. “We’re getting off topic. How did you gain the throne?”

His smile was cold. “I killed the fool king and Elerith, of course. Once I reached adulthood.”

I sighed, frustrated, trying to keep everything straight. “So your mother was a princess, and your father a nomadic brigand.”

Fyrsil arched an eyebrow. “Close, but not quite.”

“Where am I off?” I tilted my head in puzzlement.

“My father was a Twyli.”

“What?” I reached up, gripping matted strands of my hair in amazement. “Matias, you can’t be serious.” The old name slipped out in my shock.

Fyrsil smirked, pleased at my reaction. “I’m completely serious.” His smirk turned to a puzzled frown. “All I know though, is what my mother told me of him. She said he’d traveled through the mountains alone, and started his band of rogues in the Tyrko Ruins. That is all he told her. I don’t know why he left.”

“None of the brigands knew anything else?” I asked, and he shook his head. “So do you look more like your mother or father?”

Fyrsil chuckled, amused by the question. “My mother was a tiny wisp of a thing, with large brown eyes and light blonde hair, so I’m going to guess my father. Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” I admitted. “I just like to know those sorts of things.”

He rolled his eyes and I laughed. “Thank you for allowing us to stay for the night,” I said. “But we need to move on.”

“Where to?”

I opened my mouth to speak when I noticed Aaric and Dahlia had woken and were walking toward me. “We haven’t quite decided,” I admitted. “Aaric and I haven’t come to an agreement yet.” I smiled warmly at Aaric as he came to sit beside me, and smoothed Dahlia’s hair out of her face. Aaric was probably right. While I wanted to help the people here, I also wanted to keep Dahlia safe. Maybe we could go back to my clan.

13

Aaric

“
S
o why did you come here then?” Adaryn asked Fyrsil. “To learn more about your father?” She now held Dahlia in her lap, and was running her fingers gently through the child’s hair, detangling it. Spectacles perched on his nose, Aaric scribbled in his book, reminding himself to buy a brush at the next village they came across. Adaryn’s hair was a hopeless rat’s nest, but the girl’s white-blonde hair looked fine enough that it would brush a little easier.

“Not in particular.” Fyrsil looked up as a young, willowy woman glided over with a tray of hot drinks. He took one from the tray and continued speaking. “After my escape from Sen Altare, I hid myself in the Tyrko Ruins. Many of my men, when they discovered I had escaped, came and found me. Their loyalty ran deeper than I realized, but I shouldn’t have expected any less, I suppose. We’re a close-knit bunch, us outlaws.” He gave Adaryn a roguish smile, ignoring Aaric’s glower. The brigand woman holding the tray walked around the morning campfire and handed a mug to Aaric. He thanked her and took it, smiling at the tendrils of steam rising from the dark liquid. Breathing in the rich aroma, he pushed down the wave of disappointment he felt discovering it wasn’t coffee.

Fyrsil noticed his expression and grinned. “They don’t have coffee on this side of the mountains. Can you believe it? Chocolate is almost as good though. Almost.”

Aaric took a tentative sip. Fyrsil was right. It was quite delicious. Adaryn tried to gulp hers and choked in her haste to swallow when it burnt her tongue.

“We stayed in the Tyrko Ruins for a while,” Fyrsil said, “but after being a king for over ten years, it didn’t have the sense of home it once held for me.”

“So why not Harbor?” Aaric asked sipping his drink slowly. “Seems like that'd be closer than coming all the way over here.”

He frowned at the twin withering looks both Fyrsil and Adaryn shot him. “What?”

“Harbor is closed to magic users,” Adaryn explained. “I would have thought you knew that already.”

Aaric shrugged. “I’ve never been there.”

“I decided to take my chances and travel east,” Fyrsil said. “And if I learned anything about my father, so much the better. Though with things as grim as they are, it might’ve been better to stay in the Ruins.”

Adaryn shook her head. “I don’t know how you can say that,” she protested, her arms going around Dahlia. “These people need us, Fyrsil. We could possibly be the only two magic users who aren’t with the Twyli.”

Fyrsil grimaced. “I help the Denali—that is what the non-magic users are called here—” he interjected, “because we are paid handsomely to patrol the perimeter of their remaining stronghold and keep it safe. They’re desperate, and pay in gold.” He shrugged. “Whether they live or die is really no concern of mine. Gold holds value anywhere you go, you see. When I’m no longer needed here, I’ll move on.”

“Why haven’t you gone to Twyarinoth,” Aaric asked, “if you despise our kind, so much?”

“Because of what they do,” Fyrsil said irritably, as if explaining something obvious. “Even a hardened brigand such as me can’t stomach the way they warp the magic.” He grinned. “And I’ve slaughtered enough of them that I don’t suspect they’d be very welcoming toward me if they knew how many of their kind I’ve killed for gold.”

“What do they do?” Aaric asked. Fyrsil and Adaryn exchanged looks. They must have already discussed this.

“Let’s talk about that later,” Adaryn said firmly. She looked pointedly at the child.

“Attack!” someone yelled. “We’re under attack!”

“What in blazes?” Fyrsil stood, his expression incredulous. “It’s broad daylight!”
Several figures darted into the camp, slashing and hacking with long blades, some of magic and some of steel. They swarmed over Fyrsil’s men, shrieking war cries in a tongue that was unfamiliar.

Aaric leapt to his feet and grabbed Dahlia, throwing her over his shoulder. “To our horses!” he bellowed at Adaryn. The nomad woman’s face had gone white, but without any hesitation ran to where Sorrel was tied at the pickets.

Aaric followed, unsheathing his sword with his free hand. He needed to get his wife and Dahlia out of danger. Fyrsil had sprinted to meet the danger head-on, face contorted with fury, lightning crackling from his upraised hands.

Something whistled past Aaric’s ear and fell on the ground. A dart of some sort; the liquid that coated it stained the snow a dark blue.

Aaric set Dahlia down in the snow. “Run to mother,” he said before he could catch himself, and the toddler turned and struggled through the drifts toward Adaryn.

Aaric turned to face whoever had thrown the dart and nearly got his head taken off by the horizontal swipe of a blade. He threw himself backward, and did a quick roll, leaping back onto his feet, sword up on the defensive. He could have groaned with frustration; his attacker was a woman. An angry woman, face contorted with blood lust, a wild light in her pale blue eyes, but a woman, regardless. Aaric defended himself from her onslaught. Skies above, but she was fast. She nearly skewered him through his middle. He stayed on the defensive, unable to bring himself to fight back. He couldn’t kill a woman. He wouldn’t.

A ball of fire streaked past Aaric’s head from behind him, slamming into the woman. She screamed in pain and rage as the fire took hold of her clothes and flesh. She dropped her weapon and rolled on the ground, trying to put out the flames. Aaric looked behind, and saw Adaryn, anger etched in her features, the magic roiling around her hands and wrists in its intensity. She obviously had no such qualms about harming another female. She ran to him and tried to pull him to the horses. “I’ve put Dahlia on Sorrel. We need to go, Aaric!”

Aaric nodded, and after one last look at his attacker—the flames were still going strong, he didn’t think she was going to make it—ran after Adaryn.

They got to the horses, and Adaryn gasped with shock to see Sorrel’s saddle empty. “No!” She frantically looked around her. “No! Where is she? Where’d she go? Dahlia!”

Several figures ran out from the trees by the horses, bearing down on them. Adaryn faced them with a snarl and raised her hands. Magic exploded from her fingertips, rolling in waves over the approaching Twyli. Some were caught in the flames, others ducked to evade it, or cancelled it out with magic of their own, and advanced. Fyrsil ran past them to meet the closest Twyli, magic against magic.

Adaryn joined him, her face a mix of anger and frustration. Aaric sighed with exasperation—he hated fighting—and leapt into the fray, silently thanking Bran for his combat lessons.

Aaric fought against a tall Twyli. They scuffled, meeting their blades several times before the Twyli stumbled and slipped in the snow. Aaric felt relief that his opponent was male as he thrust the sword through the man’s chest, all the way up to the hilt.

Yanking it free, he turned just in time to see another Twyli kick out, causing Fyrsil to stagger. The Twyli raised his sword for a killing blow, only to get a face full of blue fire cast from Adaryn. Fyrsil regained his footing and slew the Twyli.

The battle seemed to last a lifetime; Aaric’s limbs felt like lead, and his breath came in gulping gasps, but just when he thought it’d never end, the fight was over.

The remaining Twyli melted into the trees, leaving their wounded and dying. One of Fyrsil’s men, the man with pale eyes, ran around the site, stabbing each of the fallen Twyli in the heart. Dead or alive, it didn’t seem to matter to him. He stalked over to a fallen Twyli by Fyrsil, raising his blade to strike.

“Wait.” Fyrsil spoke, and his servant lowered his blade immediately, stepping aside. Fyrsil bent down and rolled the Twyli over. It was clear the Twyli didn’t have long to live. The snow around his body was stained red with his blood. He coughed, looking up at Fyrsil. “Master?” he gasped, his eyes wide with shock. He blinked and gave a rattling gasp. It took Aaric a moment to realize he was laughing.

Fyrsil knelt down, grabbing the dying man by the arms. “Why did you call me that?” he said, urgency in his tone. “Who do you think I am?” But the Twyli didn’t speak again. Fyrsil let him fall, wiping his hands on his trousers. “That was odd.” He tried to sound lighthearted, but his face was troubled.

“No!” Adaryn staggered through the snow to Aaric, her face was flushed and tear-stained. “She’s gone, Aaric, they took her!”

“Who?” Fyrsil asked, confused.

Adaryn looked at him and her face crumpled. She sat in the snow, crying. “Dahlia!”

Aaric spun to face the horses, and his heart sank seeing the empty saddle of Sorrel. Dahlia had been captured.