15. Chapter 15
Isla’s body ached, throbbing from a tree root that had wedged its way into the small of her back as she’d slept.
Though she’d been riding since she was a girl, riding for an entire day with few breaks was a different experience — the muscles in her legs and back ached sharply.
Begrudgingly, she already found herself looking forward to the prospect of a mattress in Brackenford, just as Vaelin had predicted.
She glared at the fae warrior across the clearing, where he stood sword in hand, working through a series of practiced motions.
He moved like water, his footwork precise and smooth, the sunlight glinting off his spotless blade.
A thin sheen of sweat formed on his brow as he spun and struck, pausing the sword a hair’s breadth from meeting the trunk of an ancient oak.
Isla’s eyes roved over the weapon. It was narrower and nearly twice the length of her own blade.
It had a longer hilt to accommodate a two-handed grip and a larger cross guard to counterbalance its weight.
It sharpened to fine point, the tip deadly, designed to penetrate armour.
Short swords like hers were lighter and simpler to use, but larger blades like Vaelin’s offered a reach advantage, more useful for duelling and self-defence.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He paused, dropping his sword arm as he glanced over at her. “Training.”
“Why?” she asked, her eyes drifting over his broad shoulders. “Aren’t you basically made of granite?”
His cocked his head. “Practice helps maintain muscle memory.”
She nodded, dropping her eyes to lace up her boots.
“I could teach you.”
Her fingers slipped on the laces as she looked up, surprised. “Why?”
His eyebrows climbed slightly. “Because it’s good to know how to defend yourself.”
She pressed her lips together, annoyed. “I already know how to defend myself,” she said.
“I don’t think playing at swords with your brother counts,” he drawled.
Her annoyance flared hotter as she narrowed her eyes.
“Oren’s not my brother,” she said, “and we did more than ‘playing at swords.’ I spent half my life growing up in that forge — do you really think Oren’s father would have let us anywhere near real blades without knowing how to use them safely?”
“Even still,” he said, unmoved, “practice is important. Especially with an unfamiliar blade.” He gestured with the tip of his weapon to where her sword lay next to her, snug in its leather scabbard.
A muscle near her temple twitched. Of course he had immediately taken her freshly forged weapon as proof that she was helpless — no more capable than a child with a wooden practice sword.
“No thanks,” she said dryly.
He shrugged, “There’s a world of difference between learning the basic stances and fighting in battle.”
She scoffed, shaking her head as she turned away, unsurprised that his thoughts would immediately go to warfare. Typical fae.
“What? You think humans don’t fight?” he asked.
She turned back with a glare. “We only fight the fae’s wars — and even then, only when given no reasonable alternative.”
His expression didn’t change, not really. If it did, it was so subtle, she’d almost missed it. But something in his eyes cooled the grief-tinged anger that had begun to claw its way up her throat.
“Your parents,” he said, “they’re dead.” It was less a question, and more a statement.
She suppressed a wince, trying to force back the threatening tide of grief. “Two years ago. In the border wars,” she said tightly. “My mother worked with the fae healers, and my father was a soldier. In their youth.”
In their youth. Not in their fifties, when they should have been left alone to grow old together, to raise their three children in peace.
Vaelin held her gaze, unblinking. Did he know that the fae regiments had moved from village to village throughout Terravern, rounding up retired military personnel?
More humans, to use as fodder for the Askeldrathian Shifters?
Feeling suddenly exposed, she crossed her arms, as though she might hide the broken parts of herself from his view.
“Why do you even care if I can defend myself?”
He paused, eyes roaming over her, as though she were a knot he couldn’t untie. She held herself still, refusing to shift under his gaze. Finally, he shrugged and said, “It would be inconvenient for me if you died.”
“I’m not going to die,” she said flatly.
He said nothing, but looked unconvinced.
She broke eye contact, and turned to pack her belongings. Behind her, she heard the sound of Vaelin resuming his exercises. Her eyes snagged on the short sword as she rolled up her thin bedroll, memories of sparring with Oren flickering in her mind’s eye.
The day Blake had found the two of them tentatively swinging a pair of practice swords in the yard as kids, he had been apoplectic.
From then on, they’d trained with him every day, until he was confident they wouldn’t kill or injure each other by accident.
Before long, they’d been sparring. Oren was bigger and stronger, but Isla was quicker.
As many times as he’d put her on her ass, she’d knocked him off balance by cleverly evading his strikes.
She ran her fingers carefully over the groove of the blade Oren had gifted her, momentarily startled as she realized just how long it had been since she’d last swung a sword.
She glanced over her shoulder, to where Vaelin spun and slashed with artful precision.
A lifetime around weaponsmiths had taught her the length of blades like Vaelin’s could make balance and controlled striking difficult.
Annoyingly, he made the weapon look like an extension of his arm, each strike and swing intentional.
There was a slight sheen of sweat across his face and chest where his tunic had come unbuttoned.
Her eyes snagged briefly on the strip of deeply tanned skin.
“What?” he asked, dragging a forearm across his sweaty brow.
“Nothing,” she said as she shrugged her harness on, wincing at the burn that shot down her arms as the leather straps found their home on top of the blisters they’d rubbed into her shoulders yesterday.
Vaelin’s brows knitted with something like concern.
“Don’t we need to get going?” she asked.
He nodded, sheathing his sword.
As they readied their horses for the day’s travel, he inclined his head to the sky and frowned.
Isla felt her lips curve into an amused smile, dropping her eyes to where she tightened her mare’s girth.
“Why do you keep doing that?” she asked him.
“Staring at the sky. Checking to make sure it’s still there? ”
He glanced at her, then swung up onto his gelding in a smooth motion. “What sky?” he asked, lip curling as though he’d smelled something foul. “You can hardly see it in this realm. In Vaelora, the sky is wide open. The wind can move, can flourish freely — wild, as it’s meant to be.”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, revealing the barest hint of a dimple near his mouth.
Her eyes caught on it, lips parting slightly.
The way he spoke of his realm, his magic, was the way most spoke of their loved ones.
She had never imagined the fae to be sentimental, or thankful for the gifts they possessed.
She cleared her throat, swinging herself up into her own saddle.
The next hour passed quietly. Isla rode in the lead, Vaelin trailing silently behind.
He wondered idly just how many more days of hostile silence he had to look forward to.
She shifted her weight in the saddle, failing to suppress a wince, and Vaelin shook his head.
Her shoulders were surely rubbed raw by now.
Suddenly, she was turning, guiding her mare toward the edge of the trail, a look of satisfaction on her face.
Vaelin looked skyward, begging the Gods for patience, as she swung one leg over her saddle and landed neatly on both feet.
It wasn’t the first time she’d delayed them by stopping to dig up some plant or another, and his patience was wearing thin.
He watched as she gently pushed back some lower-hanging tree branches to reveal a sizeable grove of vibrant yellow and orange flowers.
As the stems snapped, a strange, spicy aroma drifted into the air. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“Is this necessary?” he asked, his voice flat.
“Yes,” she said, without hesitation.
Gingerly, she added the harvest to her saddlebags, glancing up to find him staring at her.
“Calendula doesn’t typically grow this far inland,” she said, as though that was an explanation.
She swung back into her saddle. “Usually, it grows closer to the mountains, where the forest is less dense - it likes full sun and cooler climates. It’s good for—” she paused then, as she met his eyes again.
Whatever she saw there was apparently enough to dissuade her from providing any further explanation.
She huffed humourlessly, shaking her head.
“Never mind. Let’s go.”
That evening, Vaelin had found another small clearing off the main trail where they would make camp for the night.
Leaving Isla to see to both horses this time, he had stalked off into the trees, returning ten minutes later with a pile of firewood — pine, Isla had noted, with no small amount of satisfaction.
As they sat around the blazing fire, Isla chewed the stale bread she’d packed, her mind drifting to her patients. Had the healers had any luck with harvesting more willowbark? Had anyone else died? What if —
“Please stop that. You do it constantly.”
Isla jumped as Vaelin’s hand came to rest on hers, snatching it back as though he’d made to rip the ring from her finger. His eyebrows lifted a fraction as he raised his palms slightly in a gesture of peace.
“Sorry,” she said, glancing down at the ring. “It was my mother’s. A family heirloom.”
“Ah,” he said, something like confusion crossing his face.
“What?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It just doesn’t look like something I’d expect to be a precious heirloom.”
Isla felt a prickle of irritation as she glanced down at at her hand, even though he was right.
It was the plainest ring she’d ever seen — smooth grey stone without any embellishment or shine to it.
Truly, she had no idea why her mother would have wanted her to have it, or her mother’s mother before her.
Nonetheless, it was all Isla had left of her own mother, and she felt strangely protective of it.
“Just because it isn’t ostentatious doesn’t mean it doesn’t have value.”
Vaelin’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, something passing behind them. For a moment, it looked like he might respond, but then he seemed to think better of it, shifting instead to add a log to the fire.
“And I don’t,” she said. “Do it constantly.”
“Yes, you do,” he countered without looking up. “Whenever you’re nervous, or anxious, or mildly annoyed.”
She blinked, stunned to learn she had a nervous tic obvious enough for him to take notice after spending only two days in her company. He glanced up at her silence. She looked away, staring stubbornly into the fire, the heat she felt rising to her cheeks surely owing to its roaring flames.