“How does an elf survive such a loss?” Lorne murmured to Alys some time later as she entered their chambers, her body aching and weary.
Her mind was troubled, very troubled. The girl had suffered too many torments, and she could not tell her father all. Alys knew Tyriel, had watched her grow from babe to child to strong young woman and she knew without asking that Tyriel wouldn’t want her beloved Da to know all that had been done to her.
Lorne would want to know.
Alys smiled, although there was no humor in it. Her Healer’s vow would allow her to keep Tyriel’s secrets at least. And this concern, her magic, it was no betrayal to address that.
“Her mother’s bloodline is what saved her, love. The iron poisoning alone would have killed a full-blooded fae. And then to rip out her magic…that was an of such desperate courage, I can’t imagine the fear she must have felt to take such a step.” She sighed and sat beside him, taking his hand in hers.
After they’d helped Tyriel to her quarters—along with the brooding, quiet mortal swordsman who wouldn’t be removed from her side—Lorne had retreated so his Consort could do whatever Healing she could.
But he’d known when she came to him that she didn’t expect her efforts to bear much fruit.
“She’s dying,” he said in a flat tone, the words all but ripping through a heart still bruised from the loss of his Wildling wife.
Alys took his hand, saying nothing.
Friends since a childhood that had long since faded into the past for both of them, they’d come together nearly three decades earlier, both of them grieving for loves forever lost to them. Theirs wasn’t a love match, but they did have love for each other, and a respect born of both time and shared experiences.
“The human,” Lorne said. “What did you learn…”
The words stopped as both of them sensed the new presence—someone who’d invaded their private chambers.
Alys drew the dagger from her waist while Lorne pulled a blade that he carried at his back, hidden by a small personal glamour. The moment he touched the hilt, black flames leaped to life along the blade. He whirled, placing himself and the blade between the intruder and the slim figure of his consort.
What he saw took him sent shock reverberating through him.
Prince Lorne of Averne, Prince Regent of the High Kingdoms and Protectorate of the Western Gate, had seen many oddities in his lifetime and very little took him aback.
But the spectral form of a Jiupsu warrior, who ached with the weight of age, standing in his personal sanctum had him momentarily at a loss.
He’d seen his second millennia come and go, and yet, in this being’s presence, his own age felt like nothing—he was like a stripling in the presence of a forest giant, one so old, its age seemed immeasurable.
The figure glanced at the sword, then back up, quirking a brow. “A blade forged in Myrsae, imbued with the magic of the First Guardians. Impressive. It might even hurt if you were to run me through with that.”
Lorne narrowed his eyes. Myrsae, a land forgotten by time to much of the world and attributed to myth by the few who still remembered it. Yet this man spoke of it with easy knowledge. “You’re the one who cast the enchantment over the blade carried by the mortal swordsman.”
The specter inclined his head.
Slowly, Lorne lowered his sword. “Who are you…and how did you so easily step past my protections?”
“I am Irian.” He smiled, a brief flash of his teeth in a craggy face. “And your protections are impressive, princeling. But they aren’t as effective as one who no longer relies on the trappings on flesh and blood.”
“The trappings of flesh and blood,” Alys muttered as she moved to his side. “Such small, inconsequential things.”
The warrior gave her a small smile.
Taking his Consort’s hand, Lorne looked the enchanter over with a jaded eye. “Now we know the who and the how. Tell me the why.”
Irian’s eyes fell away and the eerie luminescence of his form dimmed. “Tyriel.”
Chapter 19
Tyriel felt so empty inside.
The painful, vicious aches from so many beatings was gone, thanks to Alys’ wondrous healing abilities.
Her father’s consort had also purged the lingering effect of iron sickness lingering in her system and after a long night’s rest and a light meal, the pounding in her head had retreated somewhat, letting her think clearly for