Page 69 of The Demon Tide

It’s not safe for them to be with me, I consider guiltily as I scan the hostile wilds.Vogel knows where I am and how I’m glamoured. But if I leave them, Nym’ellia will soon be an orphaned refugee.

“Rest a moment longer,” I offer Emberlyyn and Tibryl as I rise, then resheathe the blade and pull my tunic over it, deciding to keep my weapons hidden. “Let the Meadowsweet draw your fever down. We’ll move faster once it does. I’ll watch over everyone.”

Emberlyyn nods, a mixture of gratitude and foreboding in her amethyst eyes—eyes that soon flutter closed. Everything is quiet save for the occasional rumble of thunder, storm-wary birdsong in the trees, insects chirring. Something brushes my thumb and I look down to find two violet spiders there, the spiders here crawling over me with disturbing frequency. So many spiders here I find myself increasingly shaking them off. At one point, a gauzy band of webbing stretched out over the forest so widely, we had to paw our way through it to keep advancing east.

I brush them off my wand hand, the purple-camouflage hues of so much of the forest wildlife here a surreal change that keeps surprising me.

“They’re going to hate me in Noilaan.”

Surprised, I look up and meet Nym’ellia’s piercing green gaze. She’s leaning against a plum-purple tree, her expression jaded—much too jaded for her young age. “They hate Roaches,” she says flatly. “And I look like one.”

I inwardly recoil from the slur. I don’t want to believe her, but I fear there’s truth to her words.

“I don’t think they’ll all hate you,” I say, wanting to will it so. “There’s always some people like that, but they won’t all be that way.”

Her mouth twists into a frown. “You don’t understand. You don’t look like a Roach.”

A bitter, incredulous laugh almost escapes me.Oh, Nym’ellia. You have no idea.

“No one wants me anywhere.” She draws herself in protectively, sparing a quick look toward her mother, both Emberlyyn and Tibryl asleep against the mossy stone.

“Well,Iwant you here,” I say, meeting her tortured gaze. “And so will my family and friends.”

Her brow creases. “You’ve friends in Noilaan?” There’s a fragile trace of hope in the question.

“I do.” I glance east as a rush of longing for my brothers and other loved ones washes over me anew.And Yvan...

Emberlyyn’s eyes flutter open, breaking into the thought. She gives a start and blinks dazedly at our purple surroundings as if she’s unsure how she wound up here.

“We need to go,” I say, offering her my hand. She takes it while coaxing Tibryl awake with a gentle nudge, and Nym’ellia and I help them both up as the brush to either side of us rustles.

Alarm leaps through me as dark figures emerge. I move to draw my blades but freeze when the Wand sizzles warningly against my calf. My hands poised over my hidden weapons, I face down the four Vu Trin soldiers before me, their runic swords raised, charged sapphire runes marked on steel.

Holy Ancient One.

“Halt where you are,” the most severe-faced soldier orders. The image of a dragon has been shorn into her close-cropped hair.

My heart slams against my rib cage as the Vu Trin draw closer, blades raised, and Tibryl clutches her mother’s tunic, whimpering. My fists twitch as I ready myself to wield my weapons and that’s when I notice it—the Vu Trins’ eyes aren’t focused on me at all, but on Nym’ellia.

“State your name, Gardnerian,” the severe soldier barks in the Common Tongue and Nym’ellia flinches like she’s been struck.

The terrible realization swoops down—They think Nym’ellia is the Black Witch.

“Please, Noi’khin, leave us be,” Emberlyyn implores as Tibryl starts to cry, which seems to rouse Nym’ellia from her momentary stupor.

“Stop scaring her!” she demands.

My own outrage flares. “Nym’ellia’s not Gardnerian,” I insist, even as fear of discovery grips tighter hold.

“Look at her ears,” Emberlyyn manages as she pulls in a wheezing breath.

The sorceress stalks forward and roughly pulls up Nym’ellia’s hair. Nym’ellia recoils from her unkind touch, and I resist the urge to throttle the soldier.

“She’s been cropped,” another soldier pipes up in the Noi language, looking concerned. She’s young and striking, her long black tresses loosely tied back. Her willowy posture slackens as she lowers her sword. “Heelyn,” she says gravely to the harsh soldier, “do you understand what’s been done to this girl?”

Heelyn’s narrowed eyes flick over Emberlyyn and Tibryl, and I can see the situation falling into place in her mind—the girls part Gardnerian, part Urisk. She grimaces, then glares at Emberlyyn, and I can almost hear her thought.Consorting with a Mage.

Her gaze slides to me as my fear ramps up.

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