CHAPTER ONE
Fog drenched the stone walls of Norhels, awaiting their return. Evylin couldn’t decide if the unchanged sight made her feel welcomed or threatened. She knew what lay ahead for them here.
Their troop had pressed hard that morning, knowing they couldn’t take the horses with them on the continuation of their journey. Norhels was the end of the line, and the horses had handled the mere hour of hard riding with ease.
They’d done this for ten days, wearing on Evylin’s already frayed emotions—ten days of walking, riding, hunting, and sleeping.
The monotony of travel did little to distract her from the grief that hovered over her like that fog over the gray-blue ocean.
The waves rolled beyond the city. They churned with the same agitation and coldness that enveloped her every mood.
Evylin turned her eyes to the craggy cliffside on the west side of the beach.
Hidden amongst those rocks lay the entrance to the Day Keep.
She tried to feel the spike of adrenaline lighting up her nerves, to anticipate the coming action with eagerness.
They hadn’t had a proper, pulse-pounding fight in over a week.
Her Warrior’s sensibilities should be thrilled to see battle once again.
Yet, all she could think as she stared at the jagged cliffs was that they were all flirting with death.
“Everyone knows what to do once we enter the city?” Deckard asked, his black mare carrying him into Evylin’s sightline as he moved to the front of the group.
Her heart gave a disgruntled patter. She couldn’t determine whether its agitation was due to her guilt for accusing him of killing her uncle or bone-deep dread over the rising attachment she felt for him.
Though they’d reconciled after Hewitt’s death and burial, she’d not regained her comfort with her husband.
How could she when her whole being ached with her loss?
So, while they maintained a companionable regard, it had grown more professional than marital, more that of officer and soldier than of husband and wife.
In the dim light of the morning, Deckard’s hair looked more brown than red, its ends curling just over the tips of his ears.
They’d traveled so long, he almost didn’t look like the same man she’d met two months ago in Whickam Village.
Like the other men, he wore a beard now, littered with bright copper strands.
Though he had shaved daily while they traveled with the Ephrian Army, their fast-paced travel had disrupted his routine.
He’d also grown more muscular, his lean frame firming up through his training with Hewitt.
Evylin tightened her jaw, forcing herself to pay attention as Deckard reminded them of their orders. “We’ll have to travel light in Wauld,” he said. “Once we make it through the Night Keep, we’ll restock. Until then, sell what you can. We’ll need the money.”
Over the last several days, the Calder siblings had informed them of the intricacies of Waulden culture, mainly how regulated everything was.
No weapons could be purchased without express written permission from each province’s nobility.
Merchants had to follow exacting laws and complicated practices on where and when to sell their goods, making the prices almost twice what they were in Ephria.
Heavily armed guards monitored each settlement, even the villages.
And perhaps most concerning, they had to pass through checkpoints when entering and leaving the Reaches, the provinces that belonged to the Mages, bestowed upon them by the King of Wauld himself.
These barricades were designed to prevent the Mages from usurping the non-magical king.
Anyone wishing to enter or exit these territories needed an endorsement specifying their exact purpose for crossing the border.
“I still don’t see why we have to sell the horses,” Rafferty lamented, his ghostly complexion and white-blond hair making him look like a wraith in the fog. Even his dark gray coat helped him blend into the scenery.
Thom tossed him a dry grin as they rode toward the city. “Do you want to be on horse duty while we’re in the Keeps?” he asked. “Keeping them alive will be the easiest part. It’s getting them down those stairs that worries me.”
“We can purchase new horses once we leave the borders of Verlund Reach,” Auden said, his deep brown coat worn from their travels.
“And how long will it take to leave said Reach?” Rafferty countered.
Looking at his sister, Auden raised his dark red eyebrows. Ilain quickly calculated and said, “About two and a half days.”
“Two and a half days of walking,” Rafferty grumbled.
“At least we won’t be carrying much,” Ethenn offered from the back of the group. “That’ll allow us to move quickly, won’t it?”
Ilain passed a wry look over her shoulder at the young man.
Her silken red hair cascaded down her back with the motion.
“True, but speed only does us so much good. We must take caution everywhere in Wauld,” her lilting accent made her words sound teasing rather than ominous, “even in the forests. It would behoove us not to enter any settlement unless we absolutely must.”
“And even when we do,” Auden added, “it would be best to keep the party small.”
Rafferty frowned at Evylin, his horse keeping pace alongside hers. “Sounds like we’ll be sleeping under the stars from here on out, then,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “Life as a soldier in King Ephren’s special Order isn’t as rewarding as I’d hoped.”
“Did you expect the lap of luxury, Raff?” Evylin asked, tossing him a half-felt smirk.
“I expected a bed, at the least,” he returned. “No inns or taverns for however long we’re trekking through that Allore-forsaken country. How will I ever survive?”
Evylin tipped her head in his direction, lowering her voice. “Let’s just hope Auden’s spice box doesn’t run out.”
“Heavens forbid!” Rafferty lifted a hand to his forehead, feigning a swoon.
Though Evylin would have normally laughed at his theatrics, she could only smile ruefully.
She appreciated Rafferty’s company, particularly these days.
He never asked her questions or treated her in any special manner.
He was, for good or ill, his wily, irreverent self.
And he’d instituted himself as a personal companion for her ever since they’d left the forest near Virwoud and the grave that haunted her memories.
A twitch tugged Evylin’s lips downward. Her mind retreated, crawling into the shadows that plagued her every thought. Back to the shock and pain. Back to Hewitt and his grave.
“Evylin,” Deckard said, drawing her reluctant attention. As they approached the city, he’d pulled back from the front to ride at her side.
She kept her gaze drifting somewhere around his shoulders and where the high collar of his coat rose onto his neck. “Yes?”
“Due to the restrictions in Wauld,” he began, his voice steady and calm as though speaking to a soldier rather than his wife, “I thought it would be a good idea to visit a smithy for repairs and possibly more weapons. Do you agree?”
Adjusting in her saddle, Evylin forced herself to shut off her emotions and focus on the question.
Deckard had begun doing this days ago—seeking her advice on tactics and giving her strategic tasks.
Usually, he’d have relied on Hewitt for such things.
With him gone and her as the sole remaining Warrior of the troop, it was only logical that the charge of weaponry and strategy should fall to her.
But Evylin knew the real reason he’d transferred the responsibility into her hands.
He didn’t care about her qualifications or her magical predisposition for strategy. He knew she needed the distraction.
As Rafferty had instated himself as Evylin’s companion, it seemed that Deckard had become her guardian, always watching, always alert.
The instant she began to feel the void of sorrow sucking on her thoughts, Deckard would notice.
Before that void could leach her dry, he would step in and give her a job.
Something more tangible and distracting than Rafferty’s jests could provide.
Deckard’s ability to read her pain annoyed her at first. Whenever despair attempted to latch onto her mind, he would inevitably be there, reminding her of his goodness.
Each time, a surge of anger shot through her, desperate to wallow in her misery—to forget his very presence.
Then, just as quickly, she’d find herself impossibly grateful to him for saving her from herself.
Her heart was in constant turmoil. After losing Hewitt and Ryen, she was broken beyond repair.
Despite the feelings she’d begun to foster for her husband, despite the yearning that had grown within her, the soil of her soul was barren.
It could nurture no more affection for any man, not when he would inevitably leave her too.
Yet, with the weight of her grief, Evylin had somehow come to require Deckard’s help for the most basic of functions.
Even rising from bed often required his order to get up, reminding her of their task to save their people.
“You are a Warrior, and the people of Ephria and Wauld need you. You’re supposed to save them.
” His charge didn’t hold the same sway over her moral conscience the way he expected, but it did give her a sense of resolve, a goal.
She’d already lost everything in the pursuit of Ryen’s dream; she might as well see it through to the end.