“Stars above. Was that a laugh, Shivaria?” I’ve never heard him soundquite so intrigued.
“No.”
I don’t laugh. Not that I need to tell him that. He knows. His attempts to provoke a chuckle from me were irritating at first, but throughout the months I’ve become accustomed to them. Though I’ve never seen him bristle at his failure on this front, the longer it goes on, the more power I’ve begun to feel from my stoic nature.
I hate to admit, even to myself, that recently his jokes and quick wit are becoming a bit of a problem for me. I almost laughed last week when in the middle of an exercise on stealth he decided to do a studied imitation of Bront. His lack of grace and clumsiness as he moved through the shadows was spot on. He had obviously been watching the general closely and knew just how to exaggerate his movements to paint a perfect picture of a failed attempt at subtlety. I feigned a tickle in my throat and coughed over the giggle that bubbled up unbidden, rather than allowing my true amusement to surface.
Maybe laughing wouldn’t be the worst thing but it’s gone on so long that at this point I would feel like I lost a battle, like I’d given something up. Thanks to Leanna’s careful tutelage, I am always thinking about my interactions with others in terms of trade. It’s a safe stance to take and helps me maintain a powerful position in most social situations. If the shadow master seeks my laughter, then my laugh is the commodity, it is the thing I have that is of value to him. Nothing of value should be given away without price, another of Leanna’s lessons, and yet everything I want from the man he gives freely and in abundance.
My little bundle of moss finally begins to smoke, and I quicken the pace of my palms, rolling the stick with fervor. At last, a tiny flame springs up in the midst of the loose bunch of tinder sitting at its base.
“Shivaria. Come with me,” the shadow master says sternly.
“But I have it,” I insist, bristling at the demand.
The inflection in his voice is one that I am unaccustomed to hearing from him.
“Now.” He is deadly serious, his voice barely more than a whisper.
My head snaps up in annoyance. I haven’t done anything wrong,and I stiffen under the weight of his murderous tone. But when my furious gaze lands on him, his eyes aren’t on me, they are on the forest, a darkening glower creasing the lines of his brow.
A tingling mass of nerves skates through my body. I didn’t hear him unsheathe any weapons, but he fists a dagger in each hand and my skin prickles as I note the coiled tension throughout his body. Abandoning my dying ember, I slowly rise to my full height, the top of my head barely cresting his shoulder. I scan the edge of the clearing where his eyes are narrowed on a dense patch of trees.
“It’s too late to run,” he whispers, “Say nothing and do not interfere.”
I nod once, even as a foreboding chill runs through me. I have no idea what he is talking about or what I have just agreed to. What in all of La’tari would the master of shadows run from?
He moves like the wind, swift and silent, until he is positioned in front of me, as if to shield me. I strain my ears but hear nothing. I will my eyes to focus on the shadows cast by the ancient oaks surrounding us but see nothing. It occurs to me that this may be a simple test, and I find myself wondering if I am searching for a nonexistent threat in the quickly darkening woodland. Some of the tension begins to leak out of my body.
And then, I hear them. Masculine voices filter through the trees—I count four that I can tell apart. They haven’t realized we are here, or they would have quieted their voices as they move toward us. My brows pinch together. It doesn’t make sense.
Tension radiates from my companion. Surely, he would have removed us from their path if they were unaware of us. And what threat would dare venture so near the keep? My skin tingles, dread saturating my veins, when one simple word skits along the forest floor like a flat stone atop the mirrored surface of a lake and lands on my ears.
“…durah…”
I will my breathing to steady and the muscles winding in my shoulders to relax while my mind grasps at any possible reason for hearing the feyn speak. The strange voices and the word alone may not have put me on edge, we are supposed to be living in peace after all, but the posture of the man standing before me reeks of violence.
A deep laugh echoes through the trees before the voices fall into abrupt silence. The moment is unmistakable and my subconscious tucks it away as vital information. It’s a simple mistake on their part, their voices faltered the moment they realized we are here. Their quiet, a simple unintended acknowledgement that they’ve become aware ofus.
Long before I see them step out from under the dark canopy, I feel their eyes on me. Five males emerge from the shadows. They are the first of their kind I have ever seen, far from the nightmarish monsters I conjured in my mind as a child. Their features are almost human, but sharper and more defined with an odd and unmistakable otherworldly beauty that, despite the danger, beckons me. I have always assumed the pointed tips of their ears would be the easiest way to tell them apart from humans. I understand now that there is no veil in Terr in which they could be mistaken for mortal, tipped ears or no.
There is a deadly grace in each step they take toward us, and I have never felt more like prey. Even with their pinched brows and the deep lines accentuating their scowls they are lovely, and I have never felt less worthy of the title Fea Dien than I do in this moment.
“Shivay lathrek.” These words coming from the master of shadow startle me.
Even the feyn falter in their approach, obvious in their discomfort as he speaks to them in their own tongue.
“Shivay thien,” the large male leading them replies, his scowl deepening.
They exchange a look among themselves before their leader tips his head in our direction, and as one, they continue toward us. I suppress a tremor as a bead of sweat drips between my shoulder blades. There is no mistaking the intent on their faces. As easily as I can tell that these are battle hardened soldiers by the way they move across the small clearing, I can tell that they have no intention of letting us leave this place alive.
“Ma’hi vey’ruh lie’an ca’var di’esh na’vey,” the shadow master says in that unfamiliar tongue. It takes every bit of willpower I possess not to shift my gaze and stare at him as he speaks.
This time there is no hesitation in the males’ steps when the largefeyn at the front of their procession replies with a sneer, “La’tari durah, vie’di thiara vey’na en valtour.”
My mind tumbles over itself, and I quickly wrangle it back into the peaceful comfort of the space it occupies in the sparring ring. I will myself to calm and examine the situation, but there is no time to think as they fan out, strategically positioning themselves around us. They are careful to remain outside of striking distance as they surround the master of shadows.
My heart threatens to rupture within my chest as the world slows. The shadow master lunges forward, shifts to the right, and lands a crippling strike to the chest of a tall, broad male. The body crumples to the ground with a thud and all haliel breaks loose around me.
