Benilo dragged himself over to Pryseis, brushed the glistening hair back from her face. Long shimmering strands, like iridescent silk, caressed his hand. Her skin was so soft. No bruising marred the pearly glow. He ran a hand down the curves of her body, checking for internal injuries. She seemed fine—except for being unconscious. Blurring vision warned him to conserve his strength. Dracken rue, he had once been able to do so much more than this! He reached out to the earth, to the water in the hot spring, to the deep fire making the water hot, to the air around him. Each in turn, drawing a bit of strength from each until his vision cleared and he stopped shaking. His headache dropped to tolerable. Deciding it worth the risk, he drew Pryseis into his arms and held her close, reaching out with his own mind to brush hers. “Pryseis?” He waited a moment. “Can you hear me?” Pryseis stirred. “It worked. You’re still alive.” She opened her eyes, and gasped. “You look terrible!” she whispered, reaching out her hand to trace his lips. He fought the temptation to drown in her misty amethyst gaze and reached out with his mind to touch the pain she bore—part overreaching with her own gift and part the sorcerer’s attack. He pulled it from her, much as he had the nightmares of the women and girls in Shamar. Then it had poisoned him. One more now would not make much difference. But it would help Pryseis. “What did you do?” she mind-sent. “Cease. Heal yourself first.” “I did.” He pulled some more power from the elements until the double-headache receded. “I imagine I look worse than I feel.” She snorted. “Somehow I doubt it.” “Food would help.” Benilo spoke this aloud. Pryseis grimaced. “Brace yourself. They have a meat-based diet—roasted bats and even the porridge has grubs or maggots in it. I wouldn’t recommend it.” “You have eaten naught?” “I’m not that hungry.” Benilo considered their options. He could sustain himself for weeks if needs be on elemental power, but her situation was much more precarious. If she didn’t return to the sun and the pool… “I met Dax.” Pryseis jerked at that statement. Tears welled. “He’s alive?” Benilo nodded. “I found him in the cave and healed him. He made it to my people with the amulet.” She started to shake, and Benilo found himself holding her closer. Part of him marveled at how right she felt in his arms, the ease with which they were able to speak mind-to-mind. How they had connected, how he had been able to find her through fathoms of the unkenned, almost as if they were…she was… He rejected the idea. She was not his life mate. Surely the Lady would not be so cruel? But even as the possibility registered, his body stirred. The words of the vow crept into his mind. He swept them aside. What had he done to merit such an extraordinary person? He was the last thing Pryseis needed. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear. He frowned. He did not want her gratitude. “Shh, now. Easy. You must rest.” She shuddered. “Sleep brings me closer to his nightmares. He’s here. He’s right outside. I can sense him. But sleep brings me closer to everyone’s nightmares. They’re worse here. There’s something about this place. The sorcerer. Even—” She stopped, her cheeks flaming. “What?” he asked. “’Tis naught.” Pryseis refused to meet his gaze, but his mind caught an image of the two of them entwined afore she could censor the thought. Ah—so it had been both of them there in the dream-mist. Even now he felt the silken slide of her skin against him, the soft curtain of her hair wrapped around them. Her legs wrapped around him. “Cease!” she hissed. “’Twas just a dream.” “Was it? We both had the same dream?” He raised a brow, daring her to negate the fact. An adorable blush spread all the way down to her toes. Her skin heated against his. “Now is not the time to bring that up.” She was right. Benilo removed himself from temptation and sat up. “What goes on here? What do they want with you?” Pryseis ran a hand through her hair. It shimmered in the dim light. “The sorcerer wants something from me, but I don’t ken what. Communication is a serious problem. I can’t ken them when I’m awake. When I’m asleep, he keeps asking if I feel it too, if I sense it too.” “Sense what?” A shadow crossed her face. “Just wait. ’Tis a darkness creeping in. Fear. Doubt. There’s something here that magnifies every bit of negativity. Fear to terror. Anger to violence.” She hesitated. “Desire to lust.” “And the lad?” “’Tis all but crippling him. He looks like he hasn’t eaten for days. I made them feed him my portion.” She grimaced. “Apparently, they like grubs. Either that or he was too hungry to care.” Pryseis held out her hands, studying them with a frown. Benilo tensed. “What is it?” “They’re fading. ’Tis not noticeable yet.” He recalled Dax’s warning. “Elixir.” “He told you?” She bit her lip. “How long’s it been? ’Tis impossible to keep track of time down here.” “I’m not sure.” Benilo shook his head. “Pryseis, what happens after seven days?” “Remember what happened to Shallan when she tried to travel to Poshnari-Unai with that elven mage, Anika?” Hallar had said. “Shallan scoffed at the pool legend, and when Anika brought her back, she was barely alive. You can’t leave, Pryseis. It’ll kill you.” Pryseis gasped and shuddered, running her hands over her arms to stave off the chill in her heart. “I’ll fade and weaken. They taunted me, said Dax was coming along to carry my body home when I fell.” Anger flashed in his blue eyes. “Who said that?” “The faerie council, in an attempt to change my mind.” She offered a wan smile. “I should have listened to them.” The chain attached to her ankle scraped with her every movement. Benilo staggered a bit as he stood, pulling her up with him. “We are not dead yet. You cannot lose hope.” He looked terrible, probably felt ten times worse. Every bruise shone dark against his fair skin. Shame flushed her cheeks. That he encouraged her! Pryseis paced to the doorway and peered out. The lad stared up at her from where he sat weaving. She saw dark clouds obscuring the full moon, shadows stretching from giant boulders across the barren ground. Cheery piece. One shadow in particular caught her attention. It almost looked like the monster in her vision—that same spiky profile. It loomed over a prone shadow that resembled the body of the goblin slain earlier. He returned to his work. Pryseis ducked back into the tent. Benilo peered out a crack in the cloth on the opposite end. “What are they doing?” she asked. “Half of them are passed out, snoring,” he reported. She shivered. “I should join them.” He crossed the floor to pull her into his arms. His mind brushed hers. “It is not safe.” “But ’tis the only way to ken what’s going on, if things are getting worse.” Pryseis didn’t look forward to it, but what choice was there? “Well, you shall not go alone.” Benilo clenched his jaw, looking rather fierce for a healer. “Where you go, I go. You could use the support.” She searched his face. “You don’t want to do that.” “What? Leave you to face them alone? I think not.” Her heart tripped at his words. Of their own volition, her fingers brushed his lips. Swollen, not yet healed from the beating. His eyes darkened at her touch, and he curled a hand behind her neck to draw her closer. Pryseis barely had time to gasp afore he swallowed it in a light, tender kiss. The wet velvet of his tongue brushed over her lower lip, and she heard a moan. His or hers? She stiffened and tried to pull back, but he was having none of that. His other arm slid around her waist, and he deepened the kiss as if he felt no pain at all. Desire, yearning, rose hot and swift. She trembled, remembering the taste of him, the feel of him under her hands. But this was no dream. He was real. Hot skin over hard muscle, solid warmth. Strong hands with calloused fingers glided across her skin. She raised her arms, slid her hands up over his shoulders to anchor in his hair. Long, silken soft where everything else was so hard, it spilled across his shoulders, across her own like a cloud of winter sunlight. Almost binding them together. “You are not alone, Pryseis. You do not face the dark alone.”

Trystan awoke to sunlight blazing through a window. He struggled to drag open salt-encrusted lids. His eyes burned as he focused on that streaming light. Not a porthole—a real window. He lay in a four-poster bed that did not swing. His mouth felt as dry as the sand from the hold of the Sunrisen. His body screamed with thirst. But his leg no longer pained him. The nauseating smell of decaying flesh was gone. He held his breath as he reached beneath the quilt and ran his hand down the back of his thigh, relieved to find intact skin over muscle. The bandage was gone. He’d shifted under the full moon and healed. He frowned. His memory returned in splintered fragments, like shards of broken pottery. He remembered Doc trying to convince him to permit surgery afore a storm hit, then bits of the tempest itself—an insane, raging beast of screaming wind and surging waves. The Sunrisen had shattered around him on jagged rocks. Men had scrambled about in the dark, trying to save their own skins. He relived freezing water closing in around him, over him, and shivered even now. Then the miraculous appearance of a dog built like a bear, the shadow of a fish with long green hair and the sharp stones of a shoreline digging into his skin. He recalled a woman’s dark eyes in the moonlight. He stared at the colorful design that graced the white quilt covering him, vivid interlocking circles of red and blue, and took a deep breath. A woman’s bed. His body stirred. The pillows, the sheets were ripe with her rich, musky scent. There was no scent of a man at all. Where were Niadh and Ealga? Where was he? The door opened and a dark-haired woman strode into the sunlit room. Her scent hit him first—day over night, clean sunshine and the sharp briny tang of sea air over warm woman. The lethal sway of her hips got the attention of parts of him he’d nigh forgotten existed on the long celibate journey westward. She carried a pitcher and a cup, and smiled. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?” His body hardened at her sultry voice. “Thirsty.” He stared into familiar brown eyes. The soft liquid eyes of a doe. Bedroom eyes. ’Twas her—the woman from last night. He’d not been dreaming. She poured water into the cup and handed it to him, then set the pitcher on the bedside table aside a basin. “You must have swallowed some seawater last night. Drinking lots of fresh water will help.” “Where am I?” He frowned at the rough, rusty edge to his voice and drank. She poured him another. “You’re in Lighthaven, in Rhattany.” She sat down aside him, on the edge of the bed. “Do you remember anything from last night?” “Bits an’ pieces.” Lighthaven. So the Sunrisen had made it after all, afore foundering on the rocks. “How many asides me?” “Living or dead?” He took another sip. Fresh, cold, with the tang of minerals, a tinge of iron. Never had plain water tasted so good. “Either. Both.” The corners of her mouth twitched. His gaze locked on those plump lips. “I went down into the village to check. We lost four of the crew and two of the rowers you rescued after the corsair attack. Captain Reed, Mick and Doc are fine.” “What o’ Giles an’ Toby?” “Giles survived. I’m sorry, I don’t know who—” “The cabin boy, Toby.” “Oh.” The woman blinked. “He’s fine. He’s resting at Madame Jasmine’s, along with the rest of the crew who don’t have families here. The girls there spoil him rotten.” Relief eased the tightness in his back. She leaned over to rest the satiny inside of her wrist against his brow. “You don’t have a fever. That’s good news. With that leg I feared I’d find the worst this morning. But the moon did Her part, and your black-furred companion was right. You’re a fast healer.” Trystan frowned. She knew? She knew what he was? She communicated with Niadh? Niadh survived? He glanced over at the doorway. A bright silver eye peeked around the door. “Glad t’ see ye this morn’, too, laddie.” “Where’s Ealga?” “Shreddin’ a rabbit for breakfast. She’s as sick o’ fish as the rest o’ us.” Trystan studied the woman, for the first time catching a sense of “Other” from her, along with a deep well of sadness, of desolation, she held locked up tight. ’Twas reminiscent of Niadh’s darker moments, the feeling of a Shifter caught in a single phase and unable to escape. “But whilst mine was imposed, a punishment, hers was stolen. ’Twas no fault o’ hers.” She placed cool fingertips against the pulse in his neck. He scrubbed at his eyes. Delicate but work-roughened hands stopped him. “It’s dried salt, from seawater. You’re covered in it. Don’t rub them. You might scratch your eyes. I’ve water heating for a bath.” She poured water into the basin, wrung out the wet cloth within and placed it over his eyes. “Here, this should help for now.” Trystan wiped the gritty crust away and twisted to put the cloth back into the basin. He relaxed against the pillow, relieved. “It does. Thanks. What’s yer name, lass?” “Finora. Yours?” Finora. “Trystan. Me companion out there is Niadh.” “Where are you from? Forgive me, but you don’t sound either Rhattan or Arcadian.” “The mountains north o’ Arcadia.” “Long way from home, mountain man.” Finora grasped the edge of the quilt and tugged it down to his waist. He tensed as she bent down to lay her head on his chest. Sun and moon, her hair was soft. He held very still, so stiff he ached. “What’re ye—” “Ssh.” She reached up to rest her fingers against his lips. “I’m just listening to your heart and lungs. Now be quiet and let me listen.” She could lie there all day if she liked. Or slide her face farther down, wrap her lips around him and ease the discomfort… Of their own volition, his fingers threaded through the sable strands. They slid over his skin like silk. He wondered where she’d slept last night. Too soon, she rose. “Sounds good. No lingering effects from last night. Roll over.” He frowned. How could he be so aroused and she be so oblivious? “What for?” Finora rolled her eyes at him and fisted her hands on her hips. “Stars, you’re suspicious. I want to look at the wound.” She was all business. Pity. “’Tis gone. There’s naught t’ see.” “Don’t be such an old lady. Humor me.” Mayhaps she preferred women. Now that’d be a shame. He did as she bade, felt cool air on his bare skin as the quilt was ripped away. Her hands slid down the length of his left thigh with thorough but quick efficiency afore she replaced the quilt. Trystan rolled over and captured her hand, curled his fingers around her wrist. “Naught else ye cared t’ ogle this morn’?” She blushed. Awareness sparked in her eyes. Optimism stirred. Mayhaps she liked men after all. “Spoken like a man who’s been at sea too long,” she retorted. “For your information, I’m an old widowed mother of two and hardly a lass. You don’t have anything I’m not already well acquainted with, and if you’re looking to get ogled this morning you’re in the wrong house. Sounds like you could use Madame Jasmine’s. I’m sure they’d spoil you rotten, too.” Trystan grimaced. “Sorra t’ disappoint ye but I dinna frequent whores.” He far preferred sexual encounters based on genuine attraction and liking to the simplicity of women who doled out their favors to all and sundry for the shine of hard coin. But never afore had attraction flashed so immediate, so hot and fast.

“I’m nothing but nerves,” she confessed. “I’ve felt like a bowstring forever, ready to snap.” Maleta tucked her knees under her chin and stared through him, into the flames. Were she any other woman, Cianan had a solution for releasing that tension. If not for the presence of her brother, the scene could have been the perfect setting for seduction. The mere thought made him burn. He snorted to himself at the irony of being with the one woman oblivious to her surroundings. He realized the twisted compliment that she didn’t view him in that way, as she still viewed sex as a threat, but it was small comfort when he wanted her so. The few chaste kisses she’d dared return made him yearn for more. He had to think on something else. “There is hope for your brother,” he told her. “The healers have already been here, on Tzigana’s order.” She turned bleak eyes to his. “They said there’s nothing they can do, that he’s beyond all aid.” Cianan stared at Jovan’s still form on the bed. Jovan breathed. His heart beat. But his mind and spirit were gone, withdrawn away from the world, hiding deep within his body. Cianan had seen such collapses afore, from overwhelming trauma and stress. “Not all.” He turned to Maleta. “Eat. Drink. Get some rest. Jovan is not dead. He is not going to die. Come morning, we shall start looking for a solution. But not now, not when we are both exhausted.” She finished the food in her hand in silence. “Do you think Dara can help him?” “I think Benilo, our Minister of Healers,” Cianan mused. “He is the most powerful spirit healer we have.” He felt the king’s presence. “Loren?” “Are you both all right?” Loren asked. Cianan sent his memory of Sunniva’s trial and Jovan’s collapse. “I hoped Benilo might have a suggestion.” “Let me get back to you on that,” Loren said. “I shall let you know what he says by morning. You both should rest.” “Cianan?” Maleta’s voice masked Loren’s withdrawal. “What?” “Where did you go?” she asked. “You seemed so far away.” “Finding the person to ask the right questions,” he replied. “Loren is going to ask Benilo and get us an answer by morning.” “Dara’s husband? You communicate with him?” “Always. He worries when his people wander far afield.” Cianan smiled. “Now he knows how his father felt all those years while he ran all over the land.” “And you remind him of that every day.” “Well, mayhaps every other or so,” he admitted. Her own smile wobbled a bit. “He’s your best friend?” Cianan nodded. “We grew up together. It never mattered he is a royal prince and I am a nobody. We went through warrior academy, ranger school and were chosen together. Our war mares are sisters. We are brothers by all but blood.” “You’ve never spoken of your real family,” she said. “I have none,” he replied. “I was an only child, and my parents died when I was but a youngling. Lord Elio raised me, Loren’s former weaponsmaster and now Minister of Defense.” “I’m sorry,” she said. “How did they die?” “My father Daneal was plain infantry, a regular soldier killed in battle,” he replied. “My mother died in an accident a year later.” To his shock, she scooted forward to wrap her arms around him. “What is this for?” “No one should be alone in life,” she declared, her voice rough with unshed tears. “It was a long time ago, elingrena, and I have a new family. Family is not blood ties.” He stared down at her. “I am not alone. Lord Elio, Loren and Dara are my family. You and Jovan are also my family. You are not alone anymore, either. We now have each other.” He captured her hand to place a kiss in the palm. She glanced up to search his eyes. Hers shimmered in the firelight. “You came here for me?” “Aye. You know of the dreams. I was not about to let you die.” “I don’t understand. You didn’t know me.” “I knew your courage, your spirit.” He brushed his lips against her inner wrist. Her skin was so soft. “You were meant to live free.” She gasped at the contact, but did not pull away. Her fingers curled around his other arm, slid up to his shoulder. Her touch was feather-light, hesitant, barely there – it burned to his soul. The warrior gave way to the woman within. For him. Words failed him. He released her hand, searched her eyes. Shock and confusion flared in her eyes, but no fear. Only her fear would have stopped him. He leaned forward to capture her mouth with his, in a slow, gentle kiss. He touched her with his lips alone, giving her every chance to pull back, move away. He prayed for her to stay. Maleta stiffened for a moment. He felt her tremble with indecision. Then the hand on his shoulder slid up to cradle the back of his neck, and she relaxed into him. Her mouth opened under his, and her fingers tangled in his hair. Her kiss soaked into him like rain after a long drought, heated his blood quicker than a brushfire. Many times in the past had he unwound with a woman after a battle. Now his body burned for release. With his true life-mate’s kiss, the vow screamed anew for him to start the binding ritual, not to let her get away. Hedda and Tzigana be damned. He fought for control, not to let passion slip its tether. Her trust was too new, too fragile. Seducing a virgin was easier—she knew nothing. Maleta was much more difficult—all she knew of sex was horror and abuse. All she knew of soul-binding was Hedda’s possession. But in this moment she trusted him to show her a gentler way. They kissed for long moments, until he caught the first hitch in her breath and she moved closer, both her hands anchored in his hair. He stroked her lower lip with his tongue. She started, whimpered into his mouth, then—miracle of miracles—she touched her own tongue to his. It was like being struck by lightning. Cianan went rigid with the holding back. Slow, dark, sensuous, drugging kisses, over and over, again and again, that had Maleta shaking and clinging to him. He dared not touch her, dared not fall back onto the quilt afore the fire, although he could barely hold himself upright. All he wanted was to lose himself in her touch, in the taste of her, the feel of her, the scent and sound of newly awakened passion. The blood pounded in his ears and in parts of him a great deal lower. He was lost and pulled back from the precipice to prevent himself from taking that final leap. It almost killed him, but he gentled the kiss, stilled her hands, and was the first to pull back and open his eyes. Her skin was flushed, her lips glistened. She dragged her eyelids open, and the sultry, smoky look in her eyes stole his breath. He saw the exact moment clarity returned—her cheeks flamed scarlet. He turned away to pour them each a cup of mead, to give her a moment to compose herself. She took the cup from his hand with a shy smile, and took a sip. “Are you all right?” Cianan asked. Maleta nodded. “I feel…almost normal, I guess. Hopeful. If I can come back, there has to be a way for Jovan to come back too. Sunniva didn’t win.” “Nay, she did not.” Cianan paused to take a drink—and a deep breath. “We shall meet with Tzigana and Wolf tomorrow. They shall move to solidify their hold on Soto, march to Marcou.” He hesitated. “They need to send a force to the south, to secure the fortress at Kunigonde. Dara’s family lives in the south, and her father wished to send an ambassador here to check out the situation because he knew of Sunniva’s invasion plans. He wants to be sure Tzigana and Wolf have no similar ambitions. You and I are the logical choices to greet them. You know Kunigonde better than any, and I am a familiar face to any clansman or Arcadian sent to Shamar. Are you prepared for that?”