“What?” said Indarin. It was the first word he’d uttered since she began.
“He looked like one of the Fell. His eyes were black. I—I didn’t know him. And he didn’t know me.”
The ghost of a frown ribbed Indarin’s smooth brow. “He was unharmed when he escaped their caves with the Rohs. Such a transformation should be rapid.”
The last words carved the hope right out of her. “Then it— it’s possible.”
“I’m afraid so. We call the Fellna our cousins when really we’re the same. But they chose to indulge their magic, to let it consume them and serve Khain whereas we control it. Those of us who still have it.”
His bitterness surprised her. She’d hoped he had come to terms with losing the magic that had made him Shaman. Not so, it seemed. And why should he? Magic was a vital and integral part of the Fair Ones. It flowed in their blood, permeated their skin and hair, filled them and completed them. Even when they chose not to use it, to lose it was unthinkable. Like a warrior losing his braids.
Jeren reached out to Indarin and cupped his shoulder. He flinched for a moment, but then smiled ruefully at her. “I’m sorry. Self-pity is not becoming. Especially when my brother is in such danger. It must have happened when he left us. They must have caught him then and the Enchassa worked a spell, akin to the one she cast on you. That’s why he couldn’t fight her in Brightling’s Dale. That’s why he collapsed.”
“What can we do?”
He paused too long. “I don’t know.”
Jeren stared at him. He knew just about everything. If he didn’t know, who would?
“What about the Seers?” she asked.
Indarin’s face turned white. “Don’t tell them. Whatever you do. They’ll kill him at once.”
“Then what can we do?”
“I can send word to the Ariah, ask for her to contact me. But it will take time.” He clenched his jaw, its line hardening, and he frowned. “In the meantime, we have a problem. If the transformation happens any faster we’ll have a Fellna on the loose in the heart of your camp with all the training of a Shistra-Phail and none of the self control. There’s no telling what he might do.”
“But... but it’s Shan.”
“No, that’s the problem. He won’t be Shan anymore, not the way you know him. He’ll be a monster, wearing a semblance of Shan’s face. But not the man you love or trust. Not your mate. Do you understand me, Jeren? You can’t trust him anymore. Not for an instant. Shan is gone.”
She pushed herself up to her feet. “You’re wrong.”
“I only wish I was. He’s Fellna, or soon will be.”
“So what do you think we should do?”
“We need to secure him and get him away for his own safety and yours.”
And everyone else’s. Jeren bit down on her inner lip until she tasted blood. “There has to be another way.”
“I can’t think of one. Shan has been trained to kill for years. There was a time when it was all he thought of—a way to kill your brother. Until he met you it was all he knew. And now he’s lost the ability to control himself. Anger and rage will feed the Fellna soul inside him. And when that takes over... he’ll kill without compunction, without remorse. He’ll live just to kill. Just to serve Khain and feed him the blood of Holter and Feyna alike. Just like them.”
Jeren sighed. The future was written, the one she had seen in the pools at Aran’Mor the first time, where she ruled River Holt, with Vertigern at her side and their child in her arms. Not the one Shan had shown her, where they had grown old together, even if he never looked it. And this was how she would lose him. Not just to their enemies, but as one of their enemies. And there was nothing to be done. The ache inside her worsened, like a mortal wound, like she was dying.
“Then we have no choice.”
Shan moved like the shadows, fluid and silent, blade bare and mind keen. They were everywhere now, Holters talking, snoring, belching from their dinner. The Shistra-Phail clustered around Indarin’s tent, silent, attentive to duty, alert.
Could he trust them?
He had to—they were his own kind, but still— He couldn’t be certain. If they recognised the changes in him, they wouldn’t spare him because of that. They knew what one turned by the Fellna could do, the damage, the agony, the destruction. He had to reach Indarin and Jeren. He had to warn them.
Holter guards passed in pairs, sentries. More of them now. They circled the Feyna section of the camp.
Shan paused, watching from the shadows. He bared his teeth. Were they keeping his people there? Were the Shistra-Phail captive?
And what of Jeren?
As if his mind called to her, she stepped from Indarin’s tent, lit by the firelight’s glow. Thank the gods, she was safe.
Indarin followed her, bowed to clear the entrance, standing tall at her side as friend and equal. They hadn’t got to him yet. He too was safe.
Another prayer answered.
Now he just had to reach them and warn them. The hard part.
Indarin spoke to the other Feyna, gathering them close. Did he suspect the Holters as well? Good. His brother was wise and canny. He wouldn’t let them take Jeren. Like Shan, Indarin had never fallen for Vertigern’s charm.
The Feyna began to disperse, back to their own tents, their camp clearing quickly and silently. They did nothing to arouse suspicions then. Just as he would have had them behave. The Holters couldn’t know their suspicions or they would strike.
Jeren stood alone, facing the night. She looked sad, exhausted, her cheeks hollow and her mouth tight. When she bowed her head and scrubbed at her eyes, he knew she’d been crying and the urge to go to her, to comfort her almost brought him right out of hiding before he could stop himself.
“Be still.” The Enchassa’s voice hissed through his mind like boiling water on ice. His body obeyed. He couldn’t help it. And that was just as well.
Vertigern stepped out of the Holter’s camp, Elayne at his side in her gleaming metal shell. Shan stifled a growl and watched.
“Jeren? Are you well?” the Grey Holter called. “Where’s Shan got to?”
“Tracking, I believe. Checking the area ahead for the morning.” She lied too well. A smile twitched his lips. He’d forgotten that.
“Ah, ever-devoted to the cause.” Vertigern grinned at her, showing far too many teeth.
“Yes. Well don’t let me keep you,” Jeren replied and turned aside to face Indarin.
“Won’t you join us for supper?”
“No thank you. I’ve got so much to do. You understand.”
They accepted that. Indarin and Jeren watched them go from the corner of their eyes, but Vertigern glanced back and Shan saw the disgust in his face as they passed his hiding place.
Elayne took Vertigern’s arm in hers. “What was that all about?”
Vertigern signed. “Nothing to worry you, love. Just don’t want to let Jeren feel unwelcome, do we?”
She looked more confused than anything else but she didn’t argue with him. Elayne never argued with him. Shan was positive Vertigern counted on that.
They carried on, back to the central section of the camp, back to their own people and their plots. And Shan waited, knowing that sooner or later Jeren would come. She had to.
She stood looking out at the night, her quiet conversation with his brother finished now. And then she reached down to Naul. The wolf-cub sniffed her hand, licked her and yapped. Shan hadn’t even seen him there. He must have been inside until now.