Page 46 of The Crown of Moonlight
Ailean’s mouth twitches.“With pleasure.Peace to you on your journey, my lady, and to your mother on hers as well.”
“Peace to us all,” I say.“Stay safe, Ailean.”
The route I mapped turns off the military road beyond the village, climbing a track into the wilder hills.Two strange cuts scar the terrain above, one atop the other like a pair of ghostly roads.No one remembers their meaning, and an unsettled energy stirs within them.Not power, but the memory of something powerful, as though the land remembers more than those of us who live here.
Chyr’s face is white and drawn.He can scarcely keep upright in Bramble’s saddle.I pull Eira to a stop as soon as we’re out of sight of the village and tie her behind Bramble.With some awkward wriggling, I settle myself into the saddle in front of Chyr so that he doesn’t need to dismount.
Frost laces the heather, and patches of old snow linger in the shade higher up the braes.A red deer startles at our approach, vanishing through the yellow blooms of furze.
Chyr leans on me more heavily, and I’m soon exhausted from trying to hold his weight.We’ve ridden only a couple of hours more before I spot an old turf-roofed bothy tucked low against a rise.
If we’re to be sure of reaching Muilean on time, we should ride several more hours before we stop.But I decide to take a chance.
Chyr is too weak to argue much as I help him dismount.
His breath comes hard and shallow, and his lips are pale.He’s shivering, and the heat of his skin makes it clear his fever has returned.The hut’s stone walls are half-collapsed, but it’s hidden beneath a pine overhang, and the inside is cold but dry.
I unroll two of the extra plaids we brought and lay them out on the ground to protect against the chill, then I set the remaining plaids nearby to use as blankets.
“I gave you my word, so I won’t ask how you are,” I say.
“Why does that seem like a question?”His eyes lock onto mine, and his lips curve into a tired half-smile that’s pulled crooked by the scar at one corner.
Everything about him knocks me off balance.His vulnerability makes me want to take care of him, but beneath that, there’s a flush of heat and want that’s been building the whole time I rode with his arms around me.
“Look how well you avoid the subject,” I say a little hoarsely.“We can stay here until dark, so you should try to get some sleep.”
I pour him a cup of willow bark tea from the flask I brought, and he sips while I build a fire.Once a few of the larger pine branches are burning, I descend the hill in search of peat.
My boots sink deep into soil still slick with rain, and my mind is full of disjointed thoughts.Too many decisions must still be made, and too much has happened.I focus on the immediate task, trying not to think at all as I find a good section of peat bank and unsheathe my dagger to slice through layers of black-brown sod.Pulling the first slab free requires both hands, but I finish and set it aside to carve out another.
The air shifts, tainted by something sour.Something that raises the hair on my arms.
I have the feeling of being watched, and the attention doesn’t feel curious or benign.This is a creature with malice—and patience.Then faint dots of red appear in pairs behind clumps of brush above me on the hill.They glow like embers, but they’re shaped like eyes.As soon as I try to look at any of them directly, they disappear.
I move farther downhill, hoping to draw whatever it is away from Chyr, but I don’t see the red eyes again.If they were ever there at all.
After retrieving the peat blocks, I return to the bothy as quickly as I can and find Chyr asleep.His weapons lie within reach beside him, and he’s fully clothed, curled on his side with the covering plaid pulled low.
The fire has dwindled to embers, and I find myself staring at him while I wait for the peat to catch.Rory’s shirt pulls tight over Chyr’s biceps and wide shoulders, the white linen stark against his sun-drenched skin.Even in sleep, there’s a furrow between brows that, like his lashes, are darker than usual in someone with pale gold hair.But then, there’s nothing usual about him.
Chyr is Siorai, and I should be afraid.
There’s another plaid still folded beside him.I could take it and put some distance between us.Instead, I watch him until the peat finally begins to glow and a thin reed of blue smoke wafts upward.Then I lie down beside him, my back pressed against his for added warmth, and I draw the remaining plaid over both of us.
He rolls over in his sleep and wraps an arm around my waist.Grief, fear, and rage still roil within me, and the warmth and strength of his arms provide some comfort.
I know I should pull away.But I’ve never been held like this.Never been as aware of the difference between muscles and curves, of the silent reassurance of lying beside a man.I breathe in the sweet-salt of his scent, and I think of the seer Lannraig, who traded her visions for a single hour of human connection.
Chyr’s heart beats in a quickened thud where my head falls back against his chest, and I can feel the whispered hum of magic coming through the Veilstone rings.The lure of the magic was easier to ignore as we rode.It’s amplified now, and the power feels different coming through Chyr than when I was carrying the rings myself.It’s hotter, brighter, as though something within him is changing it, tempering it.The feel of it, of him…They’re both addictive.
I should move away, but I don’t.At some point, I drift into sleep, lulled by the heat, the hum, and the patter of rain outside.
Then Chyr jolts awake.He lurches to his feet, groping for his sword.Breath rasping, he staggers towards a low growl coming from outside the bothy door.
Chapter 20
Hounds and Blades
