On to whatever was inside.
The magic writhing in the air between them detonated in a silent explosion of power and darkness. It took Jeren’s legs from under her, throwing her back like a leaf in a hurricane.
She slammed into the ground, all breath knocked from her body.
Chapter Two
Jeren’s shout echoed across the camp. Shan shouldn’t have heard it, not over weapons training and the general noise. But he did.
His name. Her voice.
And terror.
Shan broke into a run without a word to Indarin. He leaped over the cook fire’s ashes, the tent-stays and water points. He tore past those just turning to wonder at the burst of raw energy which rocked the entire camp.
Jeren lay sprawled on the ground and Shan’s heart stilled in his chest. It couldn’t be. Not Jeren. Not like this.
Others were scattered around her, some bleeding, some still, but he could only see Jeren. So far away from him.
She stirred and his heart beat again. Pushing herself up, she shook her head as if dazed, the braids of her chestnut hair sliding across her back. But she didn’t turn around or look for him now. She crawled forward, heading for the crumpled body some feet away from her.
A column of light rose from the spilled pack as she neared it, like dust motes dancing in a beam of sunlight. The height of a human, and a little bigger around. It looked like a wonder, so beautiful that no one could resist stopping to stare at it. Shan slowed, his fear draining away, while Jeren got to her feet and reached out with one slender hand. She touched it. He heard her sharp intake of breath, even though he knew that was impossible. She was too far from him. But he felt her pulse quicken too.
Magic.
Dread flooded him, chill water in his veins. It was magic, a magic that called directly to her, and through her to him.
Like a serpent within her, no matter how many lives it saved and suffering it spared, he could not trust her magic and neither could she. Jeren never accepted that. She might seek to use it only for good, but it would always betray her.
The light fell on her hand and she froze at its touch. He saw her shoulders stiffen, her whole body tense.
“Jeren! No!” Indarin yelled from behind Shan’s wondering, horrified body. “Don’t touch it!”
The column of light surged forward, even as she tried to turn, tried to pull away. It engulfed her and she twisted in its embrace, struggled, turning to face them. Her mouth opened wide, her eyes staring in shock, in agony, and she screamed. The magic holding her distorted the sound so it came out high and wavering, unnatural.
Devyn Roh reached her first, his young face white with horror. He tried to grasp her, but with a noise like a thunderclap, the column of light repelled him, throwing the youth back into one of the tents. It collapsed beneath him, a tangle of material and broken wood. He lay still.
Shan pushed forward, determined to free her where the boy had failed, but Indarin hauled him back. Two warriors seized him, holding him and containing his struggles.
“It’s a Shimmering,” Indarin said, his voice clear despite Shan’s rage. Indeed, the whole camp fell silent, but for Jeren’s terrible cry which just went on and on, maddening him. Finally, it trailed off to a series of low moans. She jerked helplessly in the light, her arms pinned to her side, her body held upright by a strength she no longer possessed. He watched as her eyes rolled back in the sockets and pain etched creases on her face. She struggled weakly and each effort brought another ever waning whimper of pain.
“We have to get her out!” Helpless, Shan forced himself to go still so the Shistra-Phail would release him. When they did he lunged forward, but Indarin was quicker, using that wretched staff to trip him. He was seized again, more firmly this time.
“It’ll kill you. It’s magic, Shan. You can’t fight it.” Indarin heaved out a breath and his long fingers tightened around his staff until the knuckles turned ivory. “And it’s dark magic at that.”
“What is it?” Leithen Roh arrived, Doria not far behind. Devyn didn’t move, though some of the Holters had pulled him clear.
“It’s a spell designed to attack those born with innate magic. People like Jeren. It’s stripping her magic from her, stealing her powers, using them... I don’t know what for.”
“And then?” Shan spat out the words. Magic was a curse. If it stole that from Jeren, freed her of it, even so painfully, why call it dark?
“If we don’t get her out, she’ll die. And every second it will feel like someone is flaying both her body and her mind.”
Tears streamed down her face, gilded by the unnatural light. Jeren sobbed a word, only one but Shan knew its shape on her lips. His name. Then she went still, her head lolling down to her chest.
“Do something! Break the spell, Shaman. Help her!”
His brother pursed his lips. “I don’t know if it can be broken. It’s a Shimmering. Blood made it. It will want blood. And more.” He kicked the old man’s lifeless body aside and ground the butt of his staff into the earth.
“It’s going to kill her.”
This couldn’t be happening. Not right in front of his eyes. Not again. Anala had died because he couldn’t save her, the wolf taken down by a spear as she tried to defend Jeren. His guide and friend dead, the contact of soul to soul torn apart in an instant. In truth every torture he’d endured after that was a pale shadow of agony. It had almost destroyed him. He couldn’t lose Jeren too. Couldn’t and wouldn’t.
“That’s—” Indarin’s voice cut off as he choked. “That’s what a Shimmering does.”
“How did it get here?” Leithen dragged the old man’s corpse up, shook it as if it might provide an answer if he could just rattle it loose.
“It was summoned, by him. It’s a thing of death, of the darkest magic.”
Jeren whimpered and Shan bared his teeth. There had to be a way to get her out of it, to dispel it or even just to knock her free.
His guards had loosened their grip and he seized his moment, tearing himself free. He snatched Indarin’s staff, even as his brother cried out a warning. But Shan didn’t heed him. Light danced around Jeren’s face and body, sparkling in her tightly braided hair, and against her skin. But beneath the beauty of the Shimmering’s embrace, she was dying, caught in a web of sun kissed dewdrops. He hefted the staff and thrust it towards her, striking her in the side and hoping his blow hurt less.
She staggered like a drunk, but didn’t fall. Held like a puppet, she lurched to the side and glistening tears crept down her face. The thing moved with her.
Shan lifted the staff to try again, but Indarin grabbed it from him with a growl.
“What are you trying to do? Maim her for it?”
“There must be a way.”
“There is,” said Indarin grimly. “Stay still. Be silent. No matter what.”
He spoke as Shaman rather than brother. Of that there was no doubt. The tone would brook no argument.
Slowly, Indarin advanced on the Shimmering. His lips moved, but Shan could hear no words. All around them a breeze rose and everyone, Feyna and Holter alike, shivered. Indarin moved onwards, staff in hand, the butt striking the ground in a slow rhythm. Jeren gave a soft moan. She couldn’t have much time left, Shan feared. He shifted anxiously, not used to waiting, not used to feeling so powerless and cast out a prayer for her. To give her strength, to remind her of their love, anything to keep her going. A sharp cry brought his attention to Jeren’s totem owl. It plummeted down, a whirl of feathers and terror. Kiah fell from the sky and landed in a tangle between them. She flailed around, weak, angry, hurting. If she was suffering this—