apologize for me?” Jaren said, breaking the eye contact with Aryn to look at her.
“You used magic on a friend of mine,” Tyriel snapped, each word coated in ice. “I shouldn’t have to apologize for you, you big oaf.”
At that, Jaren rocked back on his heels. Then, with a heavy sigh, he bowed his head, long black hair hanging like a veil around him. “Well, damn me.”
He stooped and rooted through his clothes, closing his hand around something before rising—not bothering to pick up the clothes, either.
Aryn had never considered himself particularly modest but he wished the bastard would clothe himself. Standing here with Tyriel’s lover still naked and smelling of her was…awkward.
“I already offered to kill him for you. You said no.”
Jaren cocked his head, eyes narrowed. “What’s…that?”
Aryn felt Irian withdrawn from him and knew without a doubt the elf had sensed the same thing Tyriel had—the enchanter’s presence.
“What’s what?” Aryn asked politely.
Jaren’s gaze sharpened, but instead of asking questions, he stepped forward, hand outstretched. In it, he held an unsheathed blade, presented hilt first. “For the insult given.”
Puzzled, Aryn eyed the dagger. “Do I get to stab you?”
Jaren’s lips twitched.
Tyriel cleared her throat. “It’s an old custom among the People, Aryn. Jaren’s use of magic against you was an insult—you’re a friend of…mine.”
He caught the faint hesitation and wondered at it, but knew she wouldn’t answer questions.
“Normally, he wouldn’t care about insulting anybody,” Tyriel continued, giving the other man a dry look. “But he does value certain bonds. I just reminded him of one. He seeks to make amends.”
“By letting me stab him?” Aryn wasn’t put off by the idea.
“No…” Tyriel cleared her throat. “In ancient times, such an insult would strain bonds like the one between Jaren and my family. Such bonds, if broken, could lead to betrayal, death, war. The People take bonds seriously, and insults against them just as seriously. An iron blade, such as that one, used to pierce the skin for a blood offering, was once used to forge an alliance between two warring factions within Eivisia just moments before the sun would have risen on the day of a battle that likely would have annihilated easily half the race. He’s offering you the blade as a symbol.”
Aryn liked his own idea, but he got the point. Giving Jaren a short nod, he said, “There’s no harm done. Apology accepted. Why don’t you put some clothes on so we can talk about the…situation?”
* * * * *
The situation was simple to explain, more complicated to deal with, and the plan…well, if it didn’t end with several people dead and more than a few townspeople calling for blood, then Aryn would consider them all lucky.
And if the bloody townsfolk did try to call for blood—or their heads—he’d wring their fool necks. They’d invited the murdering sot behind this into their homes—and none had realized it.
Tyriel had sent him back to the street after they’d put together a quick plan and told him to watch for any changes while she and Jaren gathered up supplies. Whatever they needed, he had no idea, but he was no magic-worker.
Impatient, he fought the urge to pace while Irian groused in the back of his mind, as edgy and restless as he.
Jaren appeared first, moving out of the shadows like he was one of them, coming from a different direction than the pub, his dark clothes and hair all but lost to the night while the pale oval of his remained set in those hard, impassive lines. Cat-bright, gleaming eyes assessed Aryn without a blink and he settled next to him on the wall as they both waited for Tyriel to join them.
“It’s an unusual blade you carry,” Jaren said softly.
“Is it? I never noticed.”
He could feel the fae watching him and trying to decipher the meaning behind his words. Turning his head, he met the man’s gaze. “That is called sarcasm.”
“Is it? I never noticed.” Jaren’s lips curved faintly and he went back to the leaning lazily against the rough wood of the pub’s outer wall. “Hope the magic in it is good enough to protect your thick, fool head.”
Aryn scowled and looked away. He was tempted to just leave the arrogant prick and head to the blood house on his own.
“No, Aryn, brother of my soul. You’ll wait,” Irian said, his mental voice sour with irritation. “Y’ would hate for that one t’ have t’ take you down if y’ took off before it was time. And