that had knocked him flat off his feet, storming out of the room before he could take it in. And that night—a night that was mostly list to him.
He had Irian to thank for that, he had no doubt. He cursed silently at the sword, a sword that had remained all but silent for many months.
Bloody hunk of enchanted metal, I ought to throw you in the fires of Itherri Bogs.
Not only had his best friend up and left him, the Soul inside the enchanted sword that had become a companion who had all but ceased talking to him.
If there wasn’t a job that needed doing, Irian was nothing more than a brooding silent presence in the back of Aryn’s mind.
As if summoned by Aryn’s thoughts, the enchanter stirred, a low, husky chuckle escaping him.
It was the most Aryn had heard from Irian in months outside of their work.
“So she just left? Didn’t say anything other than she’d meet up with us in Bentyl?” Kel raised and lowered his ale without drinking, his black eyes serious and concerned. “If Tyriel had said she was going to meet up with us, she would. Something must have happened.”
“I know. That’s my fear, too. Tyriel being who she is, only the Lost Gods only know what sort of trouble she found—or what trouble found her,” Aryn said dryly, using humor to cover his very real fear. “Why don’t you spread the word through the caravan? I’ll ask around and we can meet up in Bentyl. Somebody surely has seen her.”
When they met at the Bentyl Faire some weeks later, it was with grim faces. Nobody had seen or heard from Tyriel in months.
Word came winging in from Wildling clans scattered far and wide. Tyriel seemed to have dropped off the face of the world.
If a Wildling hadn’t seen her, then she wasn’t around to be seen.
Clad in somber browns, his fair hair secured in a queue at the nape of his neck, Aryn listened as Kel finished talking. Absently shifting the sword harness he wore, Aryn rose to pace the confines of the small tent.
“Now what?” he asked.
“You don’t need to concern yourself, Aryn. We’re her family and—”
“Don’t.” He turned on his heel and advanced on the shorter man, backing him up against the wall. In a low threatening growl, he repeated, “Don’t. We were partners for six years; we shed blood together, nearly died saving the other countless times. Anything that concerns Tyriel concerns me. Everything that concerns her concerns me.”
Not bothering to hide his small, pleased smile, Kel relaxed. “I’d hoped you would say that. Something tells me Tyriel is going to need all the help she can get.” Rising, Kel wandered over and picked up his harp, absently strumming a somber tune. “The best thing to do is go back to where you two were when you split, since that seems to be the last time anybody saw her. That would be the first place we ought to try.”
“The first thing we need to do is contact her father,” Aryn contradicted, turning to face the suddenly still Wildling.
“Her father.”
“Can you think of a person better equipped to find her?” he asked dryly.
“Her father.” The forced laughter didn’t quite hide the nerves in his eyes as he ran a hand through his short cap of black curls. He offered, “We could just send him a message through the courier guild.”
“Since when did Wildlings trust the guild?” Aryn asked. “Send one of your own.”
“Right.” Rubbing his sweaty hands down the sides of his saffron trews, Kel tried to figure out if any of his kin would look upon it as an adventure. How many Wildlings got to see the enchanted kingdom?
Thousands, probably, he thought, sighing dramatically. And none lived to tell the tale.
“And maybe we will be lucky. Maybe Tyriel has been with him all this time,” Aryn offered, trying to cheer up the younger man.
Not likely though. The elvish kingdoms would drive her mad within a month. Be her father a prince of the elves or no.
Aryn tossed restlessly, tangled in the rough linen sheets. He’d gone to bed wearing his leathers, ready to leave at a moment’s notice, save for his boots. It was a muggy, humid night and the summer air coming in through the open window barely stirred the air. The sheets clung to him, twining around him like ropes as he fought the scenes playing out inside his head.
Trapped in dreams, he flung his arm out. “Tyriel.”