“I told him you would rid the Dale of them,” said Shan, so quietly she almost missed it.
“You what?”
“You weren’t intending to leave a Fellna nest here behind us, were you?”
“Well, no, but I—” What had she intended? Damn him, nothing got past him. “But you had no right to make such a decision for me,” she hissed low, hoping no one else beyond the immediate group could hear. Naul’s ears flattened back against his head and he whined. Even Vertigern looked shocked. Only Shan appeared unsurprised. He didn’t flinch, just stared at her with a shadow of darkness filtering through his silver eyes.
“Did you, Jeren? Were you going to just ride on and leave them to their fate?” He paused, studying her. “What did you intend, my lady, Scion of Jern?”
The title was like a slap to the face. Emotions roiled inside her—anger, shame, regret, outrage, all tangled together.
“Make camp,” she told Vertigern, deciding it was better to block Shan from her consciousness entirely for the moment. Before she did something she really would have cause to regret.
“No need,” called Elayne as she rode up and heard the order. “He came back with a new message. The burghers will swear fealty to you if you can do what Shan promised. In fact, the message that just came back was that they’d follow you to Andalstrom itself if you can free them of this curse.”
The town council were all that remained of authority in Brightling’s Dale and though they clearly wore the remains of their finery, the effect was less than impressive. Aged furs and moth-eaten silks hung on frames too thin to carry them well. Their food stocks had dwindled with their safety.
Three men bowed as Jeren stepped down from the carriage in the market square. The rest of the townspeople—ragged, emaciated—stared open-mouthed at her. Or rather, at Shan on one side and Vertigern on the other, with Elayne, Indarin and Leithen forming a guard.
What must we look like to them? Jeren smiled graciously and listened to their greetings.
The leading burgher, a man who had lost less body weight than any of the others, oiled his words. “If Lady Jeren would like to take her ease in the town hall, some of the ladies have prepared a feast in honour of her presence.”
What with? Though the first thing that jumped into her mind, it could hardly be said out loud. Jeren glanced at Vertigern. He seemed to be thinking the same thing. And besides, there were many others in need of food here. She’d eaten heartily, if simply, only hours before.
“You are too kind,” she replied graciously. “But the food should be distributed amongst your people.”
He stared at her, with a little more anger in his shock.
Vertigern coughed, hiding laughter. The burghers, however, interpreted it in a different way.
“We should perhaps discuss the defence of the town with Lord Vertigern, if you will give us leave, Lady Jeren.” He tried to smile encouragingly. “I’m certain the ladies are keen to hear of your many adventures.”
It struck her like iced water. Run along, little girl. Thrill the women with your exaggerated tales. Leave the serious deliberation to the men. They were trying to get rid of her.
Her chest contracted as anger swept through her but she fought not to scowl. Nevertheless, her expression made him pause. “And why would you talk to Lord Vertigern?”
This was a man well used to dealing with Scions of Jern. He’d spoken to Gilliad and probably their father as well. He instantly registered her darker mood, and knew that in some cases that would spell disaster. If he’d done this to Gilliad though, he’d no longer have a head on his shoulders.
“Well,” he blustered, good-naturedly, humouring the little woman, “as your betrothed, Lady Jeren, your husband-to-be, we naturally—”
She cut him off as if she wielded a blade instead of her voice. “Vertigern is neither my husband-to-be, nor my betrothed, gentlemen. I lead this company and I will handle this affair. Address your discussions to me. Besides...” was it devilment that made her do it? She wanted this put in its box as soon as possible and couldn’t imagine a neater way to do so. She reached out for Shan, felt his fingers enfold hers and smiled in triumph. “...I already have a husband.”
Their eyes slid towards him, over him and back to her, as if searching for a denial, praying for one. They couldn’t, or wouldn’t, accept what they saw or heard. Certainly there was no reconciling the two.
Jeren pushed the need to laugh deep down inside her and turned her smile amiable instead.
“Now gentlemen, shall we talk? Or should I just leave?”
“But... my Lady, he’s...”
Insult Shan or his honour in her presence, and these stupid, biased townsmen were going to have more than the Fell to worry about, that she swore. “What?” The edge of her gentleness turned to the ring of sharpened steel.
“He’s a Fair One,” someone hissed. No compliment that. Fair One around these parts was a by-word for demon. She wasn’t quite sure who said it but it didn’t matter. Every one of them was thinking the same thing, or worse.
Shan’s hand squeezed hers and he spoke, his voice lifting with the breeze and carrying to them all. Calm, certain, rational, in a way she could not have managed at that moment. Jeren’s heart blossomed with pride and love, but all she could do was smile and let him speak.
“Who better to help you defeat the Fellna then?”
No one offered a reply.
Chapter Eight
The room in which they quartered the Scion of Jern and her husband was luxurious by the standards remaining in Brightling’s Dale, but the pavilion Vertigern had given her was a palace in comparison. The drapes around the bed and over the narrow window had certainly seen better days. Jeren tutted to herself as she drew them closed and dust billowed out. For a moment it seemed she could hear her mother in her voice, ready to call for a servant and admonish them. She had always taken on a certain tone with servants, and with her daughter. Less than the best was not acceptable. And her father had laughed, and humoured her, and teased her in private.
Jeren sighed. That was a long time ago. How strange to think of it now.
“It’s not like they had notice of your arrival,” said Shan, his voice gentle, his tone conciliatory.
“Still...” She didn’t finish. What was the point. “It wasn’t always like this. They were prosperous, rich. And now... Gods, it’s like their spirit has already died and is just waiting for their bodies to catch up.”
He sat on the bed, which sank beneath him, but thankfully didn’t elicit another cloud of dust. Soft with down, that bed, and a moment of longing swept through her. Once upon a time all her nights had been spent in such a bed. She’d slept on hard ground for so long now this didn’t feel right. Naul sniffed each corner of the room and then settled himself down beside the meagre fire.
“He’s content, at least,” she said.
“Where’s your owl?”
To Jeren’s surprise Shan stretched his arms out to her and she went to him, grateful to feel the warmth of his touch through the heavy brocade of her gown. The dress smothered her. She wanted it off. She wanted his hands on her skin. But how on earth could she tell him that after everything that had happened.
As if he sensed her need, Shan started to unlace the bodice.
“I don’t know where she is,” said Jeren, struggling to concentrate on her answer. “She doesn’t like crowds, or the camp. She prefers to be alone.” Jeren knew how she felt for the owl’s feelings mirrored her own. There was only one person she longed to be with and he was here. For now. She stretched out her mind, feeling her way across the space between herself and her totem bird. Kiah was coming, even now, catching the fastest wind to reach her, worried, and angry. She shuddered. The owl was trying to show her something, something vital, but the distance made it indistinct. She saw a pale figure, almost like Shan, and shadows, so many shadows, clustering around him.