24. Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
Callan stifled a groan as Bryn and Riven volleyed opinions across the faded map he held open between them.
“We need to go north,” Riven insisted from his right, jabbing a finger carelessly against the icon of the burial mounds etched on the ancient parchment.
“I agree.” Bryn nodded on his left.
“Then let’s head in that direction,” Riven huffed, throwing her hand behind them, indicating what she believed was north.
“I disagree.” Bryn unfolded an arm from across her chest, pointing in the opposite direction, which she insisted was north.
“Look,” Riven began, widening her stance and settling her heels in for a fight. “Perhaps I don’t look to you like someone who knows her way around, but I promise you . . .”
Callan quickly lost interest in their squabbling, glancing over his shoulder to where Nova had been standing a moment before. Only now, she was gone. He shoved the map against Bryn’s chest and spun around, pulse quickening. His heart sank when he completed his turn and she hadn’t materialized.
“Nova!” Callan bellowed into the swirling mist, narrowing his eyes as if she might be hidden just beyond the reach of his sight. His voice didn’t travel far, deadened by the thick fog and masked by the wailing of the wind.
Bryn appeared at his side. She, too, peered through the fog.
“She’s gone,” Callan said, the words tinged with a creeping panic. He turned, head snapping between the two Wyldlings. “Did either of you see which direction she went?”
“We’re all grown, are we not? I wasn’t aware I needed to keep track of anyone.” Riven’s mouth curled up on one side in a casual smile.
“It’s not a fucking jest.” Callan turned his back on the others and pressed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply, trying to catch Nova’s scent above the oppressive smell of sodden earth. He thought perhaps a trace of her lingered straight ahead, though it was so faint, he couldn’t be certain. “This way.”
He broke out into a run, not caring whether the others followed. Bryn kept pace with him, her head bobbing at the edge of his vision to his right.
“Slow down!” Riven’s shout came from a good distance behind, but he refused to reduce his speed.
The next instant, Callan hit a wall.
Or at least it felt as if he had. The fog seemed to have solidified ahead of him, the impact knocking the air from his chest. He stumbled backward a few steps, clutching at his breastbone as he struggled to breathe.
When he finally managed to swallow a sharp intake of air, he realized they’d been transported.
Gone was the persistent prickle of unease that had clung to the back of his neck from the moment they’d set foot in the Wylds. He whirled around at Frost’s agitated whinny.
Gods be damned! They were back where they’d left the horses.
He growled, charging toward the rippling wall of mist marking the edge of the Wylds again, heavy footfalls squelching in the coarse grass underfoot. And there he halted. No matter how much he willed himself forward, he could walk no further.
“Damn this cursed place,” he snarled. The land was toying with him, ancient magic fencing him in against his will.
“So eager.” Riven’s chuckle came from behind, the light-heartedness of her taunt sending his hands clenching into tight fists.
The wyld magic that permeated the air, causing outsiders to lose all sense, goaded him, kindling his anger.
“Too eager,” Riven chided, clicking her tongue. “The Wylds sensed what you wanted most and wouldn’t allow you to have it. It’s a game, don’t you see?” She laughed again.
Callan tensed at Bryn’s hand on his shoulder.
“Nova is his mate,” Bryn explained, her tone matter-of-fact. “And they’ve only just claimed the bond. So, as he said, it’s not a fucking jest.”
Riven’s laughter dried up in an instant. She cleared her throat. “Well, that is serious,” she said, quickly adding, “Apologies.”
Callan glanced at Riven. The sincere understanding in her expression was almost enough to douse his rage. But not quite. He nodded once before crossing to the horses.
“She’ll turn up,” Riven offered as she jogged alongside him, clearly trying to make amends. “I’m certain of it. Or, if you calm yourself, perhaps we can enter the moors again and search for her.”
Callan grunted, busying himself with checking every buckle and strap on Frost’s tack, despite everything already being in fine shape.
“She’s right, you know.” Bryn stood in front of Frost, gently running a hand along the animal’s muzzle. “Take a seat. You’re making the horses nervous.”
Frost snorted, seemingly agreeing with Bryn’s assessment, and Callan lightly swatted the horse’s rear for the betrayal.
“Very well,” he grumbled. Finding a stone nearby, he lowered himself to sit, willing his heartbeat to slow. The worry and anger flooding his chest to ebb. If it was a game as Riven said, he intended to be the victor.
Nearly an hour passed before Callan wrangled his emotions enough to make another attempt to enter the Wylds.
Rising to his feet, he approached the taunting mist with Bryn and Riven trailing behind him.
But before he could set foot on the other side, Nova came limping out of the fog a few strides away, looking like a rough gust of wind might blow her over.
Dried blood painted the side of her face, moss and mud caked her boots and breeches.
Callan rushed to her, draped her arm over his shoulder, and led her to the same stone where he’d been sitting.
He set to work, checking her over, but she had no wounds apart from a gash on her head already partially healed. Despite her lack of obvious injuries, she looked as though something pained her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head tightly, not turning it too far to either side.
“The shard,” she ground out. “Take it.” She eyed the pouch at her hip.
Callan opened the flap and gingerly removed the length of broken blade before depositing it in his saddlebag beside the one they’d found in Tundara.
With some distance between her and the pieces of her father’s sword, Nova relaxed a bit, exhaling sharply through pursed lips.
“I suppose you saw the mounds then,” Riven said, a bit petulantly, indicating with a flap of her fingers for Nova to share the details of her adventure through the Wylds.
Callan glared at the Wyldling and waved her off, but Nova nodded.
She spun an exciting tale of sly sprites and cursed elves, a faint smile on her face as though she fancied herself the heroine of one of the faerie stories he knew she had adored as a youngling. As he listened, his chest swelled with pride at her bravery, her cleverness.
“I’m starved,” Nova sighed when she’d finished the story. “Did you all make camp?” She cast her eyes about, as if searching for evidence of a cook fire.
“Love, you’ve been gone no more than an hour,” Callan replied.
“Oh,” Nova said, her brows knitting together. “It seemed a great deal longer to me.”
“Seems to me,” Riven interjected, annoyed, “we missed out on all the fun.”
A roar rumbled overhead, and the four of them tipped their faces to the sky.
A winged beast swooped into view, nearly invisible against the darkness.
A handful more followed close behind, dipping low enough for Callan to identify them as repera.
One of the beasts flapped its great, bat-like wings, slowing its approach and reaching its clawed feet toward the horses.
All four mounts startled, rearing up before bolting into the fog.
Three of the creatures pursued the horses, while the remaining three doubled back.
“Repera!” Bryn shouted, turning to Riven, the two of them seemingly entering into a silent agreement.
Breaking into a run, the Wyldlings leapt into the air, their enormous raven and falcon forms quickly climbing into the sky and disappearing from view as they pursued the frightened horses.
Callan scanned the starless sky and pulled his sword from the sheath at his back, guiding Nova behind him with his free hand.
“Stay close,” he instructed, eyes flitting from one spot to the next as he waited for the beasts to strike.
“Callan—” Nova gripped his left forearm and brought her body flush with his.
When another roar sounded from behind them, Callan spun, his sword raised, but the creature was already upon them. He bent his knees and braced himself for the fight. But before the repera could attack, Nova’s arms wrapped around his middle, and he was plunged into darkness.
An instant later, the dark shroud lifted from his vision. Callan whirled around, sword ready, but the beasts were gone.
Nova—they’ve taken her.
Callan frantically searched the area around him.
Only seconds before, she’d been clinging to him so tightly.
Finally, he spotted her, lying on the ground a short distance away.
Relieved, Callan raced to her side and fell to his knees.
Her chest heaved, beads of sweat dotting her forehead, her body trembling faintly as if she were suddenly feverish.
Callan tugged off his glove and wiped her brow with the end of his sleeve before running his hand down her cheek. Her temperature was normal.
Beneath Nova’s panting breaths, the rush of a stream reached his ears.
Callan looked over their surroundings a second time.
They no longer stood at the edge of the Wylds.
He recognized the soothing murmur of water, the small copse of trees, and the charred ring of stones marking a recent campfire.
Somehow, they had returned to the spot where they’d made camp the night before.
But they’d ridden nearly an entire day without stopping for rest since then.
Callan’s mind whirred, attempting to make sense of what had happened.
Nova propped herself up on her elbows and surveyed the scene, her breathing having slowed some.
“Oh,” she remarked. “We’re at the campsite.”
“Why does it seem you’re only mildly surprised at this?” Callan asked, gripping her by her shoulders and helping her to sit up.
Nova winced and blew out a breath.