Echoes of the Raven (The Eldrystone #2)

48. CHAPTER 48

48

VALERIA

“On the charge of treason, you are hereby exiled from Tirnanog until the hells devour you.”

Korben Theric - King of Tirnanog - 1971 DV

A s soon as we dash out from under the wreckage, Galen lets the charred bulk drop. I flinch, expecting a deafening crash, but the sorcerer waves a hand, and there is barely a sound as the weakened beams snap and the rest of the building collapses into the cellar that served as our hiding place.

So naive of us to think we could hide from his espiritu. It was only a matter of time before he found us.

Rífíor squares his shoulders, stepping protectively in front of me. Galen smirks, dusting his cloak. He doesn’t look the least bit intimidated.

“For our people’s sake, Galen,” Rífíor says, “help us or get out of the way.”

“Who is this guy?” Jago leans in to whisper in my ear.

I ignore his question, trying to think of a way to escape, but I don’t see one.

“Help you?” the sorcerer asks, as if it were the most foreign concept he can imagine. “Help you, how? ”

Rífíor fists tighten, but they’ll be no match for espiritu. If only we had our fae-made blades, but Rífíor’s is lost in the forest and La Matadora is back at the inn, reclining against the wall.

Galen sticks his hand under his cloak. Rífíor tenses, his entire body coiled to spring. The sorcerer pulls something from a hidden pocket and holds it out for us to inspect.

The Eldrystone!

As if frozen by espiritu, Rífíor stands mutely.

I step from behind him, driven by a slight glow of the opal. Seeing it, I realize how much I’ve missed its weight around my neck, its warmth over my chest. Mechanically, I lift a hand and reach for it. When Galen pulls it away, my heart lurches and anger fills me. It takes all my strength to reign it back in, but I prevail.

“Nah ah ah.” He shakes a finger. “I have conditions for the king.” His sharp green eyes drift over my shoulder to Rífíor.

“The king?” Jago echoes. “Puta madre! I have a feeling I missed a lot.”

“Anything.” I turn to Rífíor. “Right?”

I sense his disappointment at my thoughtless answer. I haven’t the faintest idea what history exists between them, and what the sorcerer could possibly want from the Fae King. It isn’t for me to decide if Galen’s conditions are met. Yet, we’re talking about The Eldrystone. Surely, Rífíor will agree to any demands.

“What do you want, Galen?” Rífíor asks.

“You know what I want.”

“You already have it in your hand, do you not?” Rífíor’s tone is heavy with contempt.

“The damn thing refuses to work for me,” he complains. “Also, you could show a little gratitude. I took the amulet back from that dolt, and I diverted their attention in the wrong direction.”

“Thank you,” Rífíor says, but it sounds more like fuck you .

The sorcerer crosses his arms and presses his lips, looking like a stubborn child who refuses to talk unless he gets the sweets he has demanded.

Rífíor runs a hand through his hair, an ocean of frustration in his sigh. “Fine. Your exile is lifted. You may go back to Tirnanog.”

Galen perks up. “Aaaand?”

“I do not know. What more could you possibly want?”

“My old post back.”

“What?!” Rífíor asks incredulously. “You think I would bring a known traitor back into my inner circle?”

“And I also want you to stop calling me that.”

What the male is asking doesn’t seem unreasonable—not considering the reward.

I step forward to take control of the situation. “And if he does what you demand, you will give us The Eldrystone?”

Galen raises one eyebrow. “I will give him The Eldrystone. He’s the rightful owner, milady. Not you.” He bows with exaggeration.

“The rightful owner. The Fae King,” Jago whispers in awe. “Saints and feathers!”

Ignoring Jago, I nudge Rífíor’s arm. “He isn’t asking for much. Considering.”

“What a smart princess you’ve got there, Rífíor .” Galen mocks the name.

I can’t bring myself to call him Korben. Or King Theric. Or whatever else he goes by. So Rífíor it is.

“Fine,” Rífíor growls with irritation. “You can be the Master of Magic again.”

“ And? ”

“And I won’t call you a traitor. ”

“You swear?”

“Why are you being such a child?!” Rífíor demands.

“Do. You. Swear? ”

“I swear. For fuck’s sake!”

“Very good. You can have it.” Without warning, Galen tosses the amulet. It sails through the air, the chain trailing behind like a comet’s tail.

I’m tempted to snatch it out of the air, but I press my hands to my sides and refrain. Rífíor catches it, and as his fingers close around it, his expression seems troubled rather than relieved.

Galen dusts his hands. “Now that’s settled… let’s go. No time better than the present to open the veil. Faoloir’s bollocks! I can’t wait! The first thing I’ll do is drink twenty bottles of feyglen.” He points at Rífíor and winks. “Wanna join?”

Rífíor shakes his head and places the amulet around his neck, hiding it under his shirt. It is his , however, and when he asked for it back, I didn’t give it to him. Of course, he doesn’t trust me now. A bitter pang shoots across my chest. Something occurs to me: What if he has regained access to The Eldrystone’s power? Has Niamhara decided to return her favor to him? That bitter pang intensifies, but there’s another feeling that overshadows it.

Fear.

Fear of what he might do after what he heard from Enrique.

The events the guardia recounted are nothing short of a nightmare. Deep down, I still hoped Amira’s consciousness would reawaken once faced with the final decisions of her cruel plan, but she has truly lost her way. What she’s doing is unforgivable. The veilfallen have been at war with us for a lot less. I shudder to think what horrors their leader might be concocting in his mind at this very moment, a brewing tempest of vengeance. A part of me fears his wrath, another part wonders if we deserve it.

Yet, my loyalty lies with my people, not his.

“I think we should rest,” Rífíor says.

“Rest?” Galen sounds as if Rífíor has suggested self-immolation.

“Yes,” he says in that authoritative tone he has—the one that makes him sound like someone used to being obeyed… a king. “Valeria is recovering from a mortal wound.”

“Mortal wound?” Jago puts a hand on my shoulder and peers into my face. His expression is both worried and appalled. “Why didn’t you say something?”

I huff. “When? Between the sword fight and running for our lives?”

“Rífíor is right,” Jago says. “You need to rest. You look pale.”

“And you sound like Nana.” I shake his hand off. “I’m fine.”

“So are those huge circles under your eyes,” Jago puts in. “Mighty fine.”

Rífíor turns toward town. “We have a room in the inn. We’ll go there.”

“Are you crazy? They’ll find us.” I shake my head. “Let’s join the troop instead.”

“Galen will take care of it. Your betrothed won’t find us,” Rífíor says.

The sorcerer makes a face, affronted by the implicit order.

“What?” Rífíor gives him a once-over. “Do you want your old post back? Or not?”

Galen raises his eyes to the sky and rubs the back of his neck. “For now, I guess. I may have to reconsider later.”

“Please do.” Rífíor begins walking, headed in the direction of the inn.

I catch up with him. “Don Justo isn’t my betrothed anymore.”

His gaze flicks to mine, and I swear I see relief in his expression, but it quickly turns to indifference.

“Are you sure Galen will keep Don Justo from finding us?” I ask.

“Yes,” he responds dryly.

“Walking in the open is unnerving,” Jago pipes in from the side, glancing back at Galen, who is a few steps behind.

“Yes,” I agree, feeling as jumpy as he looks .

A few people have ventured back outside now that the commotion has passed. They glance tentatively in all directions, but their inquisitive gazes seem to pass right over us, as if we’re not there.

“It’s like we’re invisible,” Jago whispers.

“No need to whisper,” Galen says in a perfectly audible voice. “They can’t see us, nor hear us. Stealth spells are one of my specialties.”

There is something about Galen that makes me nervous. He is too self-assured, too… I can’t put a finger on it. He seems carefree, but something about his exchanges with Rífíor makes me think it’s all an act, a barrier he puts up to hide his true self. What is with all these fae and their unknowable personalities? I thought I knew about their kind because of Mother and my half-fae blood, but the more of them I come in contact with, the more I realize I shouldn’t assume.

Perhaps it’s impossible for a human being to understand a race with lives as long and vast as the fae.

Living for centuries may grant them profound wisdom that a shorter lifespan cannot afford. On the other hand, it may also dispense heartbreak that would cripple a human spirit.

Time erodes and time hardens.

I don’t have to guess what it has done to Rífíor.

Either way, who am I to tangle with him? I’m decidedly out of my depths.

We’re across the street from the tavern when a dark shape swoops down and lands in front of me. I’m startled only for an instant because I immediately realize it’s Cuervo.

“Friend, friend, friend!” he croaks, jumping from one talon to the other.

“Cuervo!” I crouch to rub his neck. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“Stupid chicken! You’re going to give us away,” Jago hisses.

“No, it’s fine,” Galen says. “No one can hear him. He’s within our aura of silence. ”

Galen crouches next to me. “He yours?”

“No, he’s not mine . He’s my friend.” I glare at him.

The sorcerer stretches to his full height and huffs. “Women.”

“Let’s go inside,” Rífíor urges.

“I’ll see you later, Cuervo. I missed you.” I wish he could go inside, but I doubt the owners would like it.

The inn’s tavern is quiet with only Francisca and her husband standing behind the counter. He rests his chin heavily on his hand, looking bored, wiping the counter with his free hand, going over the same spot over and over. Next to him, his wife sews a pair of old pants while she hums a tune.

We walk in, the thick wooden door whining on its hinges. They don’t look in our direction and continue with their tasks none-the-wiser.

The steps creak as we climb.

“Damn guardias!” the man harrumphs. “They ruined business on one of the best days of the year.”

“At least no one’s dead,” his wife replies.

“Yet,” he puts in.

We enter the small bedroom. It is as we left it.

Jago glances around. “There’s only one bed. We can’t all sleep here.”

“We’ll make do,” Rífíor says.

“I’ve been sleeping on the ground for two weeks,” Jago protests. “Tonight, I plan to sleep on a bed and on a full stomach. I’ve had quite the day, as I mentioned. Anyone else with me?”

“Now,” Galen says, “a man after my own heart.” He thumps my cousin’s back.

“Galen,” Rífíor complains.

“Don’t worry, Your Majesty, ” the sorcerer says . “This entire inn has been erased from existence. No one will disturb us.”

“Fantástico!” Jago exclaims. “This guy is like Gaspar imbued with strength from San Christopher.”

Galen throws an arm over Jago and starts leading him out the door. “I think you and I are going to get along. Jago, right?”

My cousin grins and nods.

“Besides, I have a feeling these two have a lot to talk about.” Galen hooks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at us.

“You have no idea,” Jago says.

I want to smack him. He’s supposed to be on my side, and instead, he’s making friends with the fae sorcerer? Traitor.

Not that Galen is wrong. Rífíor and I have to talk. A momentous decision lies ahead of me. If he still needs my help, is it wise for me to reopen the veil? Or should I refuse and protect my realm from his wrath?

In the end, Jago redeems himself. “If you hurt her again, fae,” he tells Rífíor over his shoulder, “you’ll answer to me.”