Chapter 2 #2
Soren followed Briseis’s gaze, expecting to see a young woman resembling Orek’s wife Sorcha. Instead, what he found was all the colors of the sunset.
The most beautiful human woman he’d ever seen walked—no, glided toward him, her smile radiating warmth.
Soft waves of reddish-gold hair had been tied back with a blue fillet ribbon, a few stray locks escaping to frame her heart-shaped face.
Pinkened cheeks and lush, rosy lips, arching gold brows and long reddish lashes, radiant skin with just a hint of freckles on her nose and chest, glittering light brown eyes that sparkled in the afternoon sun—she was loveliness incarnate.
The embroidered flowers of her blue skirts nearly looked alive as they swayed with her comely figure; a set of stays had been tied around her middle, binding the soft, ample swells of her breasts. Those lifted as she took in a breath to say, “Good day, Mister Soren. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Those perfect lips curled around the words, around his name, but Soren could hardly hear above the sound of blood rushing past his ears.
His heartbeat gained momentum and volume, striking against his ribs.
She lifted one slender hand for him to take. His vision caught on that hand, not tipped in claws but perfectly rounded nails. Soft. Pink.
Instinct jolted through him, and a mighty itch crackled down his right wing. He knew without looking that one of the long primary feathers had just come loose, fluttering to the ground between them, declaring for everyone to see that—
Saba em pash-ket.
The feather has fallen.
His turuk roared in his head, a possessive glee nearly overwhelming him. Finally!
Soren did the only thing he could think to do—he got a running start and leapt into the sky, winging away as fast as his remaining feathers could carry him.
The stories thought the loosing of a feather when finding one’s kigara was symbolic—a clipping of one’s wings. It forced new mates to stay near, to learn and claim each other.
That was all well and good, perhaps, but Soren fought his way through the sky anyway, managing to soar over the trees to his secret place.
The Darrowlands were all rolling hills, most of them densely forested. However, there was the occasional escarpment, where a hill had grown too large and the wind and rain sheared away its face. Soren made for one such shorn hill, hurtling toward its gray facade as though it were sanctuary.
His heart battered him from the inside worse than the wind against his hide, making his landing inelegant. He stumbled onto the small flat near the top of the escarpment, the mouth of a cave opening before him.
He should check for predators first—many things in the forest enjoyed a good deep cave—but his mind couldn’t comprehend anything past kigara.
Soren clawed at his throbbing chest, the sharp points sinking into his shirt and skin. The sting of pain offered no respite, though, his mind a messy whirl.
Go back! his turuk roared. The bestial side of him, that intrinsic part of all mantii that allowed them to shift into great beasts, was furious with him. It raked the inside of his skull, demanding out, demanding control. It wanted to go back.
She’s there! Our mate!
Soren groaned. That’s exactly why he couldn’t.
Falling to his knees, he dug his claws into the stone to anchor himself in place. Wind and instinct assaulted him, but he held strong.
No, no, this couldn’t be.
He wasn’t meant to—the goddess would never—how could she ever want—
Don’t care! howled the turuk. Want her!
Soren’s stomach rolled, a partial shift overcoming him. His roar carried across the treetops, sending flocks of birds jumping into the sky with fright. The fur across his back shivered, his muscles bunching as the shift loomed.
No! he denied. “No!”
“Soren!”
“Kiri—” he groaned through a throat that wasn’t entirely his.
He lifted his head just enough to watch Kiri land at a run. The cub jogged up to him, consternation writ across his young face.
“What was that?” demanded Kiri.
Soren waved him off. “Stay back. Turuk—”
“Oh, I’m sure your beast has plenty to say.” Huffing, Kiri rolled his eyes—a very human gesture he’d picked up that Soren wasn’t fond of. “What were you thinking? Saba em pash-ket.”
Soren groaned, fighting off another volley from his enraged turuk. “No,” he told all three of them, “can’t.”
“Why not?” Kiri scoffed, watching on with a type of disdain only youths were capable of as Soren suffered. “I know you were hoping it’d be Miss Briseis, but Miss Maeve is wonderful. She’s kind, beautiful, and very smart. She sings to us—she has such a lovely voice—and she’s teaching us all about…”
Soren fell onto his back, rolling around on the rocks in agony as Kiri went on and on, describing every single one of Maeve Brádaigh’s qualities.
She’s so clever. She’s so lovely. She can play the mandolin.
She’s teaching us arithmetic. She likes novels.
She’s promised to read to us. The sun shines when she smiles.
Kiri had the gall to snicker at Soren’s pain as he writhed, just barely holding back the shift.
“So accomplished,” Kiri crowed, “and only twenty-three. She’s Miss Sorcha’s younger sister, did you know?”
Soren groaned again, the sound echoing down the cave. Twenty-three. Barely older than Kiri. Far younger than his thirty-one years.
“You’re so lucky,” Kiri sighed. Crossing his arms over his chest, he gave Soren’s throbbing chest a poke with his foot. “Actually, you’ll be lucky if she ever speaks to you after being so rude.”
“Can’t—can’t have—”
“This again?” Kiri rolled his eyes once more.
Soren loosed his greatest roar yet, drowning out Kiri and his turuk and his breaking heart.
“Enough! Must you twist the knife?” Soren spat. “She cannot be my mate. I cannot have a kigara.”
“Seska-ab.” Taking a handful of Soren’s mane, Kiri pulled his head back so he had to look at his young, serious face when he said, “Only you think that, hurum-tu.”