Page 123 of Echoes of the Raven
“Yes,” he saysin that authoritative tone he has—the one that makes him sound like someone used to being obeyed… a king. “Valeria is recovering from a mortal wound.”
“Mortal wound?” Jago puts a hand on my shoulder and peers into my face. His expression is both worried and appalled. “Why didn’t you say something?”
I huff. “When? Between the sword fight and running for our lives?”
“Rífíor is right,” Jago says. “You need to rest. You look pale.”
“And you sound like Nana.” I shake his hand off. “I’m fine.”
“So are those huge circles under your eyes,” Jago puts in. “Mighty fine.”
Rífíor turns toward town. “We have a room in the inn. We’ll go there.”
“Are you crazy? They’ll find us.” I shake my head. “Let’s join the troop instead.”
“Galen will take care of it. Your betrothed won’t find us,” Rífíor says.
The sorcerer makes a face, affronted by the implicit order.
“What?” Rífíor gives him a once-over. “Do you want your old post back? Or not?”
Galen raises his eyes to the sky and rubs the back of his neck. “For now, I guess. I may have to reconsider later.”
“Please do.” Rífíor begins walking, headed in the direction of the inn.
I catch up with him. “Don Justo isn’t my betrothed anymore.”
His gaze flicks to mine, and I swear I see relief in his expression, but it quickly turns to indifference.
“Are you sure Galen will keep Don Justo from finding us?” I ask.
“Yes,” he responds dryly.
“Walking in the open is unnerving,” Jago pipes in from the side, glancing back at Galen, who is a few steps behind.
“Yes,” I agree, feeling as jumpy as he looks.
A few people have ventured back outside now that the commotion has passed. They glance tentatively in all directions, but their inquisitive gazes seem to pass right over us, as if we’re not there.
“It’s like we’re invisible,” Jago whispers.
“No need to whisper,” Galen says in a perfectly audible voice. “They can’t see us,norhear us. Stealth spells are one of my specialties.”
There is something about Galen that makes me nervous. He is too self-assured, too… I can’t put a finger on it. He seems carefree, but something about his exchanges with Rífíor makes me think it’s all an act, a barrier he puts up to hide his true self. What is with all these fae and their unknowable personalities? I thought I knew about their kind because of Mother and my half-fae blood, but the more of them I come in contact with, the more I realize I shouldn’t assume.
Perhaps it’s impossible for a human being to understand a race with lives as long and vast as the fae.
Living for centuries may grant them profound wisdom that a shorter lifespan cannot afford. On the other hand, it may also dispense heartbreak that would cripple a human spirit.
Time erodes and time hardens.
I don’t have to guess what it has done to Rífíor.
Either way, who am I to tangle with him? I’m decidedly out of my depths.
We’re across the street from the tavern when a dark shape swoops down and lands in front of me. I’m startled only for an instant because I immediately realize it’s Cuervo.
“Friend, friend, friend!” he croaks, jumping from one talon to the other.
