“But you could.” She whispered the words like a confession. “You went with Ylandra.” It chilled her to say the name. Shan had sounded so final when he referred to the former Sect Mother, in a way he had never been before. “You.”
His grip tightened. “I did not go willingly. I never betrayed you, my beloved. Please, don’t doubt that.”
But that was not it. She couldn’t put her finger on the problem. Even as she groped towards a solution, the mark on her skin burned like acid again and she winced, recoiling from Shan.
“Let me see,” he said, his touch soothing once more.
Jeren stepped into a doorway, to hide from prying eyes. Her fingers trembled so hard she could barely undo the laces at the top the fresh tunic someone had scrounged for her. But suddenly, they came free and she pulled back the material to expose the tattoo. She wanted to call it that, to refer to it as a work of mortals, rather than of dark magic. That made it easier, didn’t it?
Shan sucked in a breath at the sight of it. His pupils grew larger as he stared and he parted his lips, his tongue moistening them slowly. They gleamed. Shan reached out, but this time he didn’t make contact. It was almost as if he feared to lay hands on her.
And why shouldn’t he fear? She’d been marked by their enemy as the property of an evil god. She was damned, even if she was still walking around and breathing. It was just a matter of time.
The mark robbed her of a future. Of her love.
“I wish the Ariah was here.”
Shan cleared his throat in an attempt to disguise his shock. His eyes went tight with suspicion. “The Ariah? Why?”
Jeren pulled back, hastily pulling the tunic closed again. “She might know what to do.”
His breath shook as he exhaled and he dropped his hand to his side. It curled into a fist, so tightly his knuckles went white.
“What about Indarin? Can he not help?” The weight of sorrow in his voice made her heart ache. She wanted to comfort him, as he comforted her, but she couldn’t. Nothing she said would work.
“It’s not that I don’t need you, Shan.” She reached for him, but he pulled away. “Shan, please. I didn’t mean that.”
“I know,” he said, but he still retreated. “Come and talk to Indarin, Jeren. At least try. He’s wise. He can help.”
But he can’t comfort me, she wanted to say. Not like you. He can’t hold me until the shadows are gone. And I can’t help him. But she didn’t say it. And Shan didn’t touch her again.
Shan had to tear himself from her presence. He left her with his brother and waited outside, his back pressed to the wall, his legs coiled beneath him. Sweat coated his flesh and every instinct screamed him to go to her, to throw himself at her feet and worship her.
This isn’t me. Dear gods, this isn’t me. I love her, but this—
It wasn’t love. It was obsession.
“It is what you will be.” The Enchassa laughed, and the sound ripped through his head. “This is how we feel, Shan, when it comes to our master and his bride. This is the Fellna inside you coming to the fore, recognising her destiny and your place in it. Making itself known. Rejoice, my child, and embrace it.”
His head pounded. He clutched at it with both hands, as if he could squeeze silence back into it, as if holding it was the only way he could keep from dashing it against the wall.
“I won’t do this. I won’t let this change happen.” He spoke out loud. If he let go and replied to the voice in his mind, it would loosen another thread of reality. He had to keep a grasp on what was real, what was not, and if that meant talking aloud to no one, so be it. If anyone heard, if anyone dared say anything to him—
“You won’t have a choice, my love. And being near Jeren will just make it run faster. She draws you now, makes you want to worship her and your love for her only amplifies that. But if you leave her, who will protect her? Who will keep her safe?”
His throat closed, tight and painful. “I can’t leave her. Not again.”
“No, of course not. But if you don’t—” She laughed again, the maddening mocking sound that had haunted him ever since the caves north of Sheninglas. “—if you don’t leave her, you’re ours. If you do, she is. Or else her brother will have her, to kill her, or play with her, to enact whatever sick little fantasies he’s concocted for her now. He has such an imagination. One might think he was born of the Fellna.
Or our Master will take her anyway. Your Master now—”
“No!”
“Shan?”
Vertigern stood at the other end of the corridor, concern like a veil pulled over his features. Once Shan had thought him plump and soft, more a popinjay than a warrior. The man who had sought Jeren to be his wife, the man who thought to use her to gain power. But no more. He was a warrior now, a threat, and he still sought to use Jeren, though he claimed instead to follow her.
Sudden realisation made the hairs on the back of Shan’s neck rise like hackles. How he knew this he wasn’t sure. Instinct, perhaps? Some insight lent him by the changes sweeping through him. Vertigern wanted Jeren, or at least her power.
“She’s busy with Indarin.” His voice filled with the growl of the wolf, and Vertigern, used to civil tones and pleasant exchanges of cultured people, took a step back, his eyes widening. His hand strayed towards his weapon, but didn’t close on it.
No. Vertigern was not quite that much of a fool.
“I came to see how she is. What she wants to do.”
Did you now? Shan didn’t let his gaze waver. “She’ll let you know when she’s ready.”
Vertigern gave a curt nod of his head and turned, fleeing as graciously as he could.
Shan waited in silence. The Enchassa was gone, but that didn’t matter. Her words, her taunts, still rang through his mind. To drive them away, he concentrated on the sounds around him, closed his eyes and listened.
Jeren wept and he longed to comfort her. But he couldn’t. It was too dangerous. She was too dangerous. To be close to her now made him burn and made that thing inside him, that other, tear at his innards in an effort to be set free. Indarin spoke in soothing tones. He had so many ideas on how to free her, how to make the curse depart, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced about any of them. He was reaching, trying every thought that came to mind, seeking a miracle.
Leithen, forgotten watchman outside the door, was praying. He prayed for Doria and the children, for their safety, and he prayed for Jeren, that she stay safe, that he could be strong enough to keep her so, that she would take River Holt and become its lady for the safety of them all. He asked forgiveness from the gods, forgiveness for failing her. For failing to stand against the god of shadows himself.
No one could have done it. Yet still, Leithen had tried and failed.
Two others passed by outside, their voices carrying to Shan. They were both Holters, one was Vertigern, the other a River Holter from his accent.
“More and more every day, they shut her away from us. The Fair Ones want complete power over her.”
“That isn’t so,” said Vertigern. “Not the way you put it. She’s wed to one. She joined their Shistra-Phail.”