Well? What do you think you’ve been doing? They can probably smell Shan on you. You probably reek of him.
She choked on a sob and heard cruel laughter. Something hit her face, hard on impact and then wet and sticky. Egg slid down her cheek and into her hand. Incredulously, she stared at it.
Up here, they didn’t care for wilders. They treated their livestock better.
Roars of laughter and more makeshift missiles followed her as she fled. They weren’t going to leave her alone, though. Jeren heard the sounds of pursuit, a gang of them. She made for the trees, hoping to lose them there, but they were outpacing her.
How many? You have to know how many!
She skidded to a halt where the trees descended into a gully, hoping the edge might offer an advantage. She grabbed a hefty branch from the ground and faced her pursuers. Five of them, all men.
“She’s waiting for her Fair One friends to drop out of the sky and save her!”
The wind stirred the leaves overhead.
Drop out of the sky, Shan. Please! Do as he says and save me!
Nothing happened. She heaved in a breath.
“Leave me alone.” She clenched her teeth, her knuckles white where she gripped her makeshift weapon.
Their laughter roared in her ears. They couldn’t imagine that anything could hurt them, least of all one small woman, so outnumbered. The first walked forwards, a knife in his hand. The irony of it twisted in her stomach—Jeren, sister of the Scion of Jern, heiress to River Holt, killed by a bunch of drunken louts from a hole like Brightling’s Dale? It wasn’t going to happen. She would not allow it!
Jeren lashed out. The impact of the wood on his arm jarred through her. His bone shattered.
She didn’t pause. They weren’t going to line up and politely attack her one by one. The other four scrambled forwards, a ragged pack who, sensing danger, would rely on their numbers. She crouched low. There were too many, despair told her. The foremost caught her arm and she saw the flash of a knife. Pain exploded in her side.
An unearthly shriek came from above her and something white plummeted into the face of the third man, beak and talons rending his flesh. He fell beneath the screeching owl, flailing wildly. Anala hurtled into the one with the bloody knife, her whole body her weapon. They tumbled down the gully, man and wolf, a cacophony of screams and snarls.
The other pair faltered. They were staring at Jeren in horror now, their faces pale with dread. No, not at her…past her, above her…
Shan unfolded silently from the tree branch and dropped to the ground, his sword already drawn.
“Run away,” he told them. His voice rippled like the breeze through the leaves. “Run away, now.” Anger flared within him again. He knew what they had intended, knew what they would have done, and death was too good for them. Honour demanded he give them this one chance. After that, they were his.
They didn’t need to be told again. They fled.
Shan caught Jeren when her legs gave out beneath her.
“I knew you’d come,” she said.
“I only just got here in time. What am I going to do with you, Jeren?” Shan murmured into her hair. He could not let her see the relief he felt at holding her close, of being with her again. And yet, he could hardly deny it. He thanked the Goddess for her safety. Walking away from her had felt like turning his back on his family and home all over again. It was a mistake he did not intend to make a second time. “You can’t stay out of trouble for more than half an hour without me.”
He meant to bring a smile to her face, but Jeren wilted against him. Hot stickiness coated his hand. Blood welled from her side like a spring.
The sound of hooves and metal reached them from a group of armed men riding in haste. Shan cursed and gathered her against him, ready to run. But to move Jeren now, with the gods alone knew how much knife damage—it could kill her. He saw the knowledge in her face.
“Leave me,” she told him.
“And let them hang you for a wilder? No.” He would die before he left her again.
“They won’t hang me, Shan. Ah gods, I should have told you from the start…”
The horsemen thundered into the narrow clearing. Shan raised his head defiantly, looking straight into the face of Gilliad of River Holt. Recognition stabbed him, sharp as Feyna forged steel, and the old hatred welled up within him. Cursing luck and fate, and whatever had brought the new Lord of River Holt here at this moment, Shan hugged Jeren to him, struggling to find a way to draw his sword and still protect her.
But the True Blood Scion barely paid him a scrap of attention. Fearlessly, Gilliad leaped to the ground before his horse had come to a standstill and rushed towards the girl, anxiety draining his face of blood.
“Jeren! What happened? What did they do to you?”
He reached out to pull her from Shan’s iron grip.
Anala’s fury detonated first. The wolf leaped at him, her teeth bared.
It all happened so fast that Shan could hardly keep up. The spear punched through Anala’s body, knocking her off her course. Someone cried her name, and Shan recognised his own voice, wrenched from his throat. Jeren tore herself from his arms, diving towards Anala, but her legs gave out beneath her. Shan scrambled across the vast, empty space between them, but even as he reached the wolf and lifted her head, even as she tried to turn to him, Anala breathed her last.
“By the Avenger, what a beast!” Gilliad exclaimed. “Your finest kill to date, Maldrine.”
“Then I’ll give it to Jeren.” The voice raked like claws against Shan’s bewildered senses. “The pelt will keep you warm all winter, my lady. A wedding gift.”
Flint-eyes sat astride his stallion, his smirk taunting them both. Shan wrenched the spear free, intent only on the vengeance within his grasp, for Falinar and now for Anala. Crossbows snapped to but he didn’t care. Anala was dead.
A small hand stopped him, the grip weak, her pallid skin smeared with her own blood.
“She was defending us, defending me…” Jeren said.
Gilliad captured her shoulder in a harsh and unyielding grip. “Why would you need defence against your own brother?”
Brother?
It felt like something solid slammed into Shan’s stomach. He gazed into Jeren’s face and tried to think of something to say, something that could articulate the sickening irony of the situation. This woman, the woman he had saved, befriended, begun to love…this woman…
“You’re True Blood.”
Pain and heartache hollowed her face, made her eyes huge. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I lied. I had to…”
Gilliad’s voice broke with laughter. “Did she neglect to tell you her identity, Shanith Al-Fallion? My sister has a devious streak, you know. Forever playing her games.”
Shan stayed where he stood. To move would be suicide. The guards were just waiting for an excuse to bring him down. They’d probably mount his head on the walls of River Holt. He remembered Gilliad all too well, and he appeared to have shaken his tentative sanity looser in the intervening years. Death had not worried him seconds ago, but now, with Jeren touching him, he froze. He didn’t want to die. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to live either. Jeren shared Gilliad’s cursed blood. That explained the magic, he supposed. And he couldn’t leave her now, to Gilliad’s mercy. Even though she too was what they called True Blood.
Jeren breathed hard, sweat beading on her face. Her grip on his arm tightened, as if Shan alone held her up.
“Of all people to throw in your lot with,” Gilliad sneered. “Gods, Jeren, it seems you’re a fool as well as a traitor.”