Page 24

Syrie awoke long before sunrise, an odd, buzzy feeling of constriction gripping her chest and spreading up into her throat. Nightmare, no doubt. Anxiety over the task she’d set for herself. Anxiety over the allies she’d chosen.

What she needed was to see for herself what was going on. What she needed was to speak to someone who had experienced it all firsthand. Someone she trusted.

She rose from the bed and lit the small lamp next to the fireplace before she dressed, wishing she could speak to Patrick before she did what she’d already decided she was going to do. But Leala had made sure to place them in bedchambers on the opposite sides of her own. For propriety’s sake, she had claimed, delivering the clear message that there would be no… togetherness …in her home.

Syrie smiled at the memory of the little woman’s pink cheeks as she’d addressed their sleeping arrangements.

Just as well. If they had shared a room, Patrick would have insisted upon coming with her, and his presence would have stifled any attempt at her connecting with her old friend.

She carried the lamp with her from her bedchamber to the front door. There, she blew out the flame and slipped out into the still morning air leaving the lamp on the bench beside the door. A less impetuous woman would have remembered to bring a cloak along, but that would have required her asking her hostess for the loan of one.

And that would have defeated the whole purpose of her slipping out into the dark.

With a shiver, she hurried across the open space of the Al’ Lyre homestead and slipped into the woods. A look back showed her the house was still darkened and quiet. Good. She’d made it this far successfully.

The woods of Wyddecol were like no other place Syrie had ever been. The foliage here was perpetually green, and the smell was one that lived in her memory no matter how long she’d been away. She knew these woods as well as she knew the lines on her own hand, so traveling to her destination, even in darkness, was no hardship.

When she arrived, she hunkered down, making herself as small as possible as she watched for any movement. It didn’t take long to spot the guards she had suspected she’d find. After all, having taken the Goddess prisoner, it was unlikely the High Council would leave her Temple untouched.

Precisely as the sun began to rise, Nalindria appeared on the steps of the Temple, buckets in hand. Syrie had counted on this. After so many years of repetition, she had hoped that, in spite of the guards, her friend would still be following her usual routine.

The dark-haired woman crossed the open area, headed for the nearby stream. As she passed each guard, the man would nod a silent greeting, allowing her to pass unmolested.

Thank the Goddess that the respect shown to the attendants of the Earth Mother’s Temple hadn’t waned.

After making sure that none followed Nalindria, Syrie quietly made her way through the forest to the stream where her friend headed so that she could be there waiting when Nally arrived.

Her friend had moved more quickly than Syrie expected, and was already bent over the water, scooping it into her buckets, when Syrie stepped from the cover of the trees.

“Nally?”

Nalindria Re’ Alyn dropped her bucket as she turned, a gasp on her lips.

“I’m so sorry,” Syrie exclaimed, rushing to her friend’s side to catch her up in an embrace. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Not frightened,” Nally said, her voice hushed as always. “It’s only that I thought never to see you again. Not after what we heard had happened.”

Syrie pulled back from the embrace, her hands still on her friend’s shoulders. This was exactly the sort of information she’d hoped to learn when she’d sought out her friend.

“What did they tell you? I want to hear everything about what’s going on at the Temple.”

Nally’s teeth worked at the corner of her bottom lip before she bent to retrieve her bucket. “I haven’t the time to recount all that has passed since I saw you last. The guards watch over every move of the Temple Maidens. If I don’t return very soon, they’ll come looking for me. Can we meet later on? Tonight, perhaps? I’m sure I can slip away unseen and come to wherever you’re staying.”

Except that Syrie had no idea where she’d be tonight.

“That won’t work,” she said, stepping back as her friend refilled the buckets she carried. “If you can get out of the Temple unseen, perhaps I can get in?”

“Perhaps,” Nally agreed, turning her head to cast a glance back in the direction of the Temple. “Yes, that should work. I’ll meet you inside the entrance leading to the old baths. When the moon rises to its peak?”

“Agreed,” Syrie said, watching as her friend disappeared into the trees.

She should have guessed where Nally would choose to meet. They had used that ancient doorway more times than she could count on full-moon nights when they’d wanted to slip out of the Temple unseen.

Retracing her path, Syrie stopped for several minutes to observe the location of as many guards as she could find. Knowing which areas to avoid would be helpful tonight. After she was satisfied that Nally had re-entered the building safely, Syrie quickly made her way back to the Al’ Lyre homestead.

Sunlight sparkled off crystal decorations that dangled from every window, sending jeweled rays dancing into the air to welcome her back. An unfamiliar wave of happiness flowed around her like a beautiful new cape as she neared the front door. She’d made it safely to see Nally and back again, all undetected. All she needed to do was slip back into her room before anyone noticed her gone and she could chalk up a perfect adventure. Everything was as it should be in the world, if only for a moment or two.

And then she opened the door to find Patrick staring down at her, accusation burning in his gaze.

Perhaps she’d been a bit hasty with the as-it-should-be declaration.

* * *

Patrick had searched everywhere. Every possible chamber, every outbuilding and stand of trees. Syrie was nowhere to be found. An unwelcome emotion began to bubble in his gut, the dreaded fear he had rarely known before discovering himself in love.

“If she’s allowed herself to be harmed,” he muttered, not finishing the dire threat as he entered the main chamber of the little house to find their hostess humming to herself as she stirred a large stick in the pot bubbling in the fireplace.

“Good morning, Patrick,” she chirped, her face crinkling in a smile as she spotted him. “First up and in here this lovely day?”

“First in here,” he confirmed, not wanting to alarm Leala. Not yet.

“I’ll have our wonderful porridge prepared for you in short order,” she said, stirring furiously. “And then, once I’ve carried the feed out to the chickens and the goats, we can wake your little friend and have ourselves our morning meal.”

“Allow me,” Patrick offered, none too keen on the smells wafting from the pot. “I’ll see to yer animals this morning. It’s the least I can do to repay yer kindness in allowing us to stay the night.”

“Oh, my,” Leala said, her free hand fluttering around her in the general direction of the door. “So good of you, lad. You’ll find the feed sacks just inside the stable.”

Outside, Patrick sucked in a deep breath, shoving the fear into a little box and putting it to the side. He’d concentrate on the task at hand. If by the time he returned to the house Syrie was still missing, he’d have no choice but to alert his hostess and plead for her son’s help.

Chores finished, he’d been inside only long enough to check Syrie’s chamber one last time before he returned to the main room, his mind made up. It was time to ask for help.

“Leala,” he began, just as the front door opened.

Syrie had returned and the growing ball of fear rumbling around in his guts began to change to anger.

“Where have you been?” he demanded as she entered, surprise coloring her expression.

“I was…just out in the stable. Visiting the horses.”

Lying! To him, of all people!

“I didn’t see you get past me, my dear,” Leala said, still bent over her pot. “But I do tend to put all my attentions into cooking.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you when I went out,” Syrie said. “It smells very…fresh.”

Patrick tried to unclench the muscles that held his jaw tight, but it felt beyond his control. Not only had he feared the worst but then, when she returned, Syrie lied to him. This wasn’t something he could simply let go.

He scooped up a couple of buckets from the stack by the doorway and tossed one to her.

“Come with me. We’ll replenish Leala’s water for her so she doesn’t have to do it later.”

“So helpful,” their hostess said, to no one in particular. “Such lovely young people.”

Syrie hesitated, but only for a moment, resignation coloring her expression as she stepped out the door he held open for her.

“Where were you?” he asked as soon as he pulled the door closed. “And why did you lie to me?”

“Lie to you?” she said with mock innocence. “Whatever—”

“I was just in the stables. Feeding the goats and the chickens and the horse you claimed to be visiting.” He worked the handle on the pump, filling her bucket as he attempted to compose himself. “In the stables for the second time this morning. The first time was when I was frantically searching for what had happened to you.”

“I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d just get upset with me,” she said. “And sure enough. Look at you. You’ve gone all indignant warrior mode, just like I knew you would.”

No matter the anger, no matter the fear, he wouldn’t allow her to distract him so easily, though he knew well enough it was her intent to do exactly that.

“Where were you?” he demanded again, blanking the emotion from his voice.

“Oh, very well.” She huffed and leaned over to set the bucket at her feet, no doubt stalling for time. “I’ve nothing to gain by hiding it from you now. I went to the Temple. I waited in the woods until my friend Nally made her daily visit to the stream to collect water. We talked and then I came back here.”

A bright red haze filled his mind, forcing him to fight his way through it to even think upon the foolish actions she’d taken.

“Have you no idea what a risk you took?”

It was all he could voice at the moment.

“Not so much of a risk,” she said. “It was something I needed to do and I was very careful. It wasn’t as if I were going to walk into a trap, Patrick. No one knew I was coming. And even if they had, I’m quite sure I could have dealt with whatever came up.”

This was the old Syrie. The one he’d verbally sparred with so many times. The impetuous, overly confident Faerie he’d fallen in love with. He just didn’t love that she thought nothing of the danger to herself in what she’d done. Or to… That was it! That was the one thing she wouldn’t have considered.

“Were you followed when you returned here?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she answered, but she sneaked a quick look over her shoulder nonetheless.

Just as he’d thought.

“Even if you care naught for the danger to yerself, we gave our word that we would do nothing to jeopardize our innocent hostess. Do you think Dallyn would look upon your morning escapade as harmless? Especially if yer carelessness brought the Council’s guards to his mother’s door?”

He could see almost immediately he’d hit his mark as her expression changed.

“I never considered…” She paused, looking first to the woods and then back to him before taking a step closer. “I’m sure I wasn’t followed. Had I been, I’d think they would have stormed the house by now.”

He shrugged, his anger fading in the face of her worry. He pulled her into an embrace and ran his hand over her unruly curls.

“Doona be so foolish in the future, wee Elf. I’d have yer word upon it.”

He needed to hear her swear to it. Swear that she wouldn’t slip away again. Swear that she wouldn’t take such foolish risks again.

“You’ve my word,” she said, her voice muffled as she pressed her forehead against his chest. “I’ll never again slip out in the early morn without letting you know first.”

Good. Perhaps she’d learned a lesson. Although, now that he thought upon it, her vow had been a little more specific than he would have liked to have heard. He would have questioned her on that, but the sound of a throat clearing just inside the trees brought them both to attention. A moment later, a tall woman wearing the uniform of the Palace Guard stepped into the clearing.

“I hope I haven’t interrupted at a bad time,” she said, though her expression indicated no such qualms at all. “I am Darnee Al’ Oryn, sent by Dallyn to provide you escort. It seems I have arrived earlier than our agreed-upon time.”

“So you have,” Syrie said, stepping away from him and clasping her hands behind her back. “But none too soon for us. We’ll gather our belongings and be ready.”

“It would seem Leala is preparing a meal for you,” Darnee said, lifting her nose to the air and sniffing. “I’ll await you in the woods. Feel free to take all the time you need.”

Patrick didn’t blame the Fae for fading into the trees. The thought of eating one more meal prepared by Leala made him want to run away, too.

“The sooner we’re away from here, the safer it will be for our hostess,” Syrie said.

Perhaps she’d read his mind.

“Agreed.”

He’d be the first to admit to taking the coward’s way out as he went directly to collect their things, leaving Syrie to make their excuses to Leala. Within minutes, they were on their way, waving their farewells to their hostess before slipping into the forest to find their guide.

Darnee waited well back out of sight within the shelter of the trees. As they approached, she once again sniffed the air, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

“I could swear I smell that woman’s cooking even out here,” she murmured as she turned to lead them to three horses tied in a clearing.

The Faerie captain was right. Even he could smell it.

“The odor does carry,” he said.

Next to him, Syrie sighed and held up a bag she carried. “Leala insisted on sending some along,” she said. “I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, since she’d been working on it all morning.”

“We leave it here,” Darnee said, already sitting on the back of a large white horse. “We take nothing that could implicate anyone.”

With a growing respect for their new companion, Patrick took the bag from Syrie’s hands and tossed it into the woods before helping Syrie up onto the back of her mount.

“You ken she has the right of it,” he said, forestalling any argument Syrie might be preparing. “The smell alone would leave a trail any could follow.”

“I know,” she said, obviously fighting the need to disagree. “It’s just that she was already so disappointed. I’d hate to think of her finding this and believing that we threw it away. Which we did.”

“You’ve a soft heart, Elesyria A? Byrn,” Darnee said. “Not what I expected at all.”

Syrie accepted the judgment without comment, something that surprised Patrick. Either her tolerance for her own kind was much higher than her tolerance for Mortals or she was beginning to learn the value of keeping her thoughts to herself.

Whichever the case, he was grateful. Should the two women disagree, he’d be forced to Syrie’s defense, and, quite frankly, the idea of taking on the formidable captain was more than he was prepared for without a good night’s sleep under his belt.