Rangar swallowed hard. “She is.”
He didn’t know how to explain that he justknewBryn even though they’d spent so little time together. Aya had never been a part of afralenbond, so there was no way she could understand how two souls, even far apart, could be intertwined so fatefully.
Aya pulled her cloak’s hood over her head and whistled for Hurricane, who flew down from his branch onto her arm. Rangar watched as the girl and bird disappeared down the hill toward Barendur Village.
The sun sank fast. A chill spread over the woods. One by one, lanterns were lit in the windows of Barendur Hold and the surrounding village. It beckoned him home, and yet he didn’t quite feel at ease.
His heart told him that he’d made the right decision—and yet it wasn’t easy to have blind faith that he belonged with a girl he barely knew.
He dressed quickly in his linen shirt and bearskin cloak. Sheathing his sword, he sauntered down the hill toward the village.
He spotted The Whale tavern and wondered if Valenden was there, as he often was this time of night, warming his belly with ale instead of bread from the castle’s kitchen and warming his lap with yet another girl. Rangar shook his head, briefly wondering if Valenden would ever find a girl and settle down. Perhaps…what if Valenden and Aya were to pair off…but no. Aya was too grounded for his brother. Valenden would forever have his head in the clouds—or a wine barrel—and Aya needed someone who matched her ambition.
As Rangar neared the village, he began to spot townspeople preparing for nightfall: the soldiers on patrol, the shepherd leading the last of his flock into the Hold’s great hall.
He was surprised to catch sight of Trei outside the draw bridge, helping to unload a cartload of split wood. It was nothing out of the ordinary for Trei to pitch in with the villagers wherever he was needed, but Rangar knew that Trei had been planning on speaking with Saraj that night about their future—he should be screwing her senseless right now.
Ah, well, the night wasn’t over.
As Rangar entered the village, he nodded to the soldiers who wished him a good evening and then crossed the draw bridge into Barendur Hold and made his way up the winding stone stairs to the mage quarters.
The smell of herbs and potions enveloped him. He’d always felt at home here, where the mage apprentices were quietly hard at work, and nature’s gifts filled baskets along every shelf.
Calista and Ren, two of his aunt’s apprentices, were busy grinding dried mushrooms with mortars and pestles at the worktable. When Rangar filled the doorway, Calista glanced up from her work.
“If you’re looking for your aunt, she’s in the back room.”
Rangar gruffly thanked Calista, then made his way through the dark, narrow passages to the rear chamber used for experimentation. His aunt, Mage Marna, had her back to him as she stood before a stone altar draped in velvet. The rhythmic sound of metal on metal reverberated through the air. Thick white streaks ran through her otherwise reddish hair—she’d seemed ancient to him for as long as he could remember.
“What brings you here at this late hour, nephew?” she asked, not looking up.
Rangar stepped closer to the altar, where she was sharpening her many knives with a stone. The rhythmic sound continued as she finished sharpening a knife with a long, thin blade, then picked up a finer blade.
“The same reason I came last time,” he said.
“Ah. I see.” She finished polishing the fine-bladed knife, then set down the sharpening stone. “What hex shall it be tonight?”
Rangar shifted his weight from one foot to another. He was glad for his bearskin cloak—it was always frigid in the mage quarters. He wasn’t sure why he was reluctant to confess to his aunt that he had come about Bryn. It was hardly the first time he’d sought magic to cure his interest in her.
She met his gaze with a flicker of understanding as though reading his mind. “Ah. The fair-haired princess. I told you already that the translation hex requires more skill than you possess.”
“I haven’t come for that. I’m learning Mir on my own.”
Mage Marna gave an approving nod. Though she was the kingdom’s chief mage, she advocated for the sparse use of hexes, preferring that tasks be completed the old-fashioned way instead, with two hands and no whispered spells.
One never knows when magic will turn on its caster, she always warned.Use hard work if one can and save magic for special occasions.
“But it is about the girl, isn’t it?” she pressed.
Rangar lifted his chin. “I want a hex for scrying.”
His aunt’s eyes narrowed briefly at the request. “There are many scrying hexes.”
“One that will let me see her,” he clarified. “From afar. I have no wish to trouble her, but I want to see her. To know that she’s safe.”
Mage Marna’s eyebrows lifted, but she didn’t scold her nephew for wanting to spy on his Saved. As one of the kingdom’s top advisors, she knew how strong the pull of thefralenbond could be as much as anyone.
“Scrying spells are secondary; they require a caster to first have a hex for improved vision.”
