Page 10 of The Sundered Blade

“I am not yet prepared to sleep comfortably in your presence, Princeling.” Kyrion sounded neither angry nor apologetic. “I will not be terribly far away, but I suggest you look well to your own protection and do not concern yourself with mine.”

A sobering reminder of where they stood. “As you wish.” Vaniell somehow lurched to his feet and picked up his pack from where the wyvern had dropped it. He was not particularly fond of the woods, let alone sleeping in them, but his fugitive lifestyle had demanded that he learn at least the rudiments of woodcraft.

Which was to say, he could magic a fire, toast bread, and not panic every time he heard rustling in the dark.

Though that last part could be hit or miss.

“We will set off again at nightfall?” He was most definitely not asking because he did not want to be alone in the woods at night. It was more that he was in a hurry to reach their destination. Yes, definitely that.

But before the question had even left his lips, the surrounding woods were empty, without a single sound to mark the night elf’s departure.

Just as well he hadn’t hung around to chat, Vaniell reminded himself. The sooner they relayed their news to the Queen of Eddris—or whomever might be acting in that capacity at the moment—the sooner they could be on their way to Arandar.

Though now that he thought of it, Vaniell wasn’t sure exactly what sort of welcome he would find there, either. He had not seen his brother—now King Danric of Farhall—since the two of them had been enemies in more ways than not.

There had been some degree of contention between them for almost as long as he could remember. Danric had believed in their father to the point of obsession, and worshiped at the altar of duty and responsibility. He’d wanted nothing more than to be like Melger in every way—to make him proud by someday following in his footsteps. So, as Vaniell had recognized the man’s twisted ambitions and begun to distance himself through mockery and rebellion, his relationship with his brother had suffered as well. Danric had always been particularly irked when Vaniell made a point of shirking both duty and responsibility as a part of his dissolute facade.

And as if that were not enough, it had also been Vaniell who set in motion the events leading to Danric’s disinheritance. Given the whole of their history, it was entirely possible his brother would not be able to forgive him. For the secrets, for the lies, for the years of believing them to be enemies… Even if Danric had finally discovered the truth of Vaniell’s activities over the past few years, there would be no knowing how he would respond until they were face to face once more.

Striding back and forth along the bank of the stream, Vaniell swung his arms, rotated his neck, and tried to loosen the various knots that had taken up residence in his muscles during that harrowing flight. Kyrion might need him too much to drop him, but he had seemed to take great pleasure in flying erratically, dodging around treetops at the last moment, diving through low-hanging clouds, and generally finding as many reasons as possible not to travel in a straight line.

Once his muscles were warm and somewhat functional, Vaniell eyed his pack, but decided against eating. His stomach wasn’t entirely settled yet, and the last thing he needed was to lose his lunch somewhere in the air over Eddris.

So instead, he reached into his pockets and set about renewing several of his more useful enchantments.

Enchanting, he’d discovered early on, was a nearly perfect blend of art and science. He had to understand what he wanted a spell to do, envision how it might be done, and then focus his magic with pure intention. Any visible etchings were a product of the magic itself, inscribing his will and creating pathways for activation.

But should he waver on even a single step or allow himself to be distracted at a crucial moment, the entire process was likely to go wrong.

Fortunately, the weather was calm, and the woods seemed quiet. The sound of the stream covered the usual creaking and rustling sounds of a forest, and created a—probably false—sense of security and peace that enabled Vaniell to slip into a state of deep focus.

The string was one of his trickier enchantments, as it carried multiple intentions—target, tangle, bind, in that order. The soft fibers of the string could not hold etchings, so there was a filament of pure magic that wound along its length. Over time, that filament was prone to fray, creating unpredictable results if he did not repair and renew it regularly.

Once the string was finished, he turned his attention to his collection of marbles, perhaps his favorite discovery of his entire magical career.

The tiny orbs had such endless possibilities. They held etchings well, much like spell gems, but they were cheaper, and the etchings neither smudged nor frayed. On this occasion, he’d had an idea for a new enchantment that might prove useful when he was left to his own devices in the woods…

As was usual when he was enchanting, his eyes closed and his conscious mind slipped away to a place where there was only focus. Only the vision of what his magic would bring into being. Only pure intention and strength of will. The steel marble warmed between his hands, glowing brightly as the enchantment took shape on its surface in curls and whorls of power.

Vaniell was so intent that he barely noticed the first time something nudged his foot. Then something poked at his chest and jolted him back to the moment.

He returned to awareness under the dappled shadows of evening.

And under the scrutiny of round, startled brown eyes that stared intently into his from only a few inches away.

Vaniell yelped. Flailed. Tried to scramble away.

With a hiss, the creature on his chest leaped off and scurried back towards the water, giving sharp little barks of annoyance and alarm.

It vanished with a quiet splash, and Vaniell ran his hands through his hair with relief as he recognized his assailant.

An otter. He’d been terrified by an otter.

There was really nothing left to do but be thankful there had been no one else present to witness his embarrassment.

“Terrorizing small furry creatures now?”

The tall, broad-shouldered form of Kyrion strode out of the trees to look down on Vaniell with unmistakable amusement. “It seems I dare not leave you alone, even in the middle of the forest. You might well leave a trail of enemies from here to the frozen north.”

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