Broken Enchantment (Unbreakable Force Book 3) (5 page)

“
I
’m glad to be back on the road,” Adaryn said happily to Aaric, riding next to him. She beamed at him, sighing in contentment. “The open sky, the dirt road, the smell of grass. Being outdoors is for me.”

Aaric nodded in agreement, but he wasn’t really listening, his mind dwelling on the city they’d just left. Somehow Matias escaped his prison. Sirius Archer had been furious to discover that, and nearly turned Sen Altare on its head trying to find him, but the once-king had completely disappeared. The collar the Guild members had been working on was destroyed as well. Sirius didn’t make it a secret that he strongly suspected Adaryn. She’d fiercely denied it, but Aaric decided it was time to leave the city.

Bran rode his black stallion up ahead, scouting for trouble, though with Matias out of power, the brigands were gone, and the roads safe. Miss Grace rode next to him, perched on her milky-white mare, leading a pack pony that was so laden with packages it was a wonder it could walk at all. The young woman from Ruis stuck to Bran like a burr to a coat. The nomad welcomed her company. A lot had changed since they left Ruis.

Adaryn frowned at the two figures riding in front of them, her brow creasing. She didn’t remark on it, however, until that evening.

Miss Grace had left the camp to fetch water. Aaric and Bran were setting up camp, and Adaryn was getting dinner ready. It was quiet until Adaryn broke the silence, staring after Miss Grace. “Odd that she offered to help. She must have a motive.” Her gaze turned to Bran. “You seem rather attached to Grace, Bran.”

Bran smiled, not making eye contact with anyone as he erected a tent pole. “Do I?”

Adaryn peered at him, her eyes narrowed. “You spend nearly every waking hour with the woman. What do you see in her?”

Bran shrugged. “Guess I like a pretty face. Plus, she has a good heart, though she tries to hide it.” He grinned. “She does have a temper as fierce as yours. Nobody’s perfect, though.”

“She’s an Oppressor.”

Bran looked at Adaryn, his dark eyes hard. “And Aaric isn’t?”

Adaryn stared stonily back. “No, he isn’t, actually. He’s one of us now. He has proven his character and loyalty to the clan.” She glanced in the direction Miss Grace had gone, but the blonde woman had walked down the slope and out of their line of vision. “Be careful, Bran. She may collar you yet.”

Bran rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what happened between you and Grace, but you might put aside your prejudice and try to get to know the real Grace before making assumptions.”

“The real Grace is probably even worse,” Adaryn sniffed. “How can you be so blind?”

“Your hypocrisy is astounding, Adaryn.” Bran stood and with a dark glare at the slim nomad woman, stalked off in the direction Miss Grace had gone, leaving Aaric to finish setting up the second tent.

Adaryn threw her hands up and turned to Aaric. “Am I being unreasonable?”

Aaric merely shrugged. Adaryn was in one of her moods again. He chewed his lower lip, pondering what had transpired.

Bran was probably right, that there was more to Miss Grace than her vanity, but Aaric could also see the signs. Bran was falling for her hard. Miss Grace’s father was a magistrate of Ruis, however. A more unlikely match Aaric couldn’t fathom. What would it entail for the nomads and for Ruis?

G
race walked down the hill toward the stream, a bucket in her hand. Bran padded after her silently. Adaryn had indicated surprise over Grace’s willingness to help and was suspicious.

Bran smirked. Grace probably just didn’t want to be outdone by a nomad.

Grace knelt by the stream, filling the bucket with water. Mud soaked the edge of her dress. Bran started in surprise and grinned hearing the string of curses that followed.

“Let me help you with that.” Bran stepped forward to take the bucket.

Starting, Grace fell with a squawk into the stream, splashing water up on the bank and Bran’s boots.

“Grace!” Bran leapt forward, and unceremoniously hauled her, dripping wet, onto the bank. She sputtered in shock and indignation.

“Don’t scare me like that,” she pouted, glaring daggers at him. Her hair was a wet, tangled mess, and a smudge of mud streaked across her nose. She handed the once-again empty bucket to him. “Get yourself some water, if you want it so bad.”

“Wasn’t that your job?” Bran arched an eyebrow at her, smiling.

Grace tried to toss her blonde curls over her shoulder, but they stuck to her neck and shoulders. She plopped herself down on the bank. “I can’t let Adaryn see me like this,” she groaned. “I’ll never hear the end of it.” She unsuccessfully tried to wipe some of the mud off her dress.

“Why does her opinion matter?” Bran sat down on the bank next to her, watching her face.

“Because it does,” she snapped. She sighed, turning her glare toward the stream. “You must think I look awful.”

Bran grinned. “I think you look downright smashing.”

Grace snorted. “That’s hardly a compliment for a lady.” She paused a moment, regarding him. “But I thank you.”

Bran looked up at the sky. The sun was setting. In another hour it would be dark. “It’s going to get cold,” he said. “You need to get back to camp to change before you freeze.”

Grace looked at him frostily. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first time. I can’t go anywhere until it’s too dark for Adaryn to see me. She’s my rival,” she explained.

“Ah.” Bran nodded solemnly, an idea coming to him. “Perhaps it would help if you had a fire, here by the bank, to help you dry.”

“That would be marvelous.” Grace wrapped her arms about herself, shivering.

“Wait here.” Bran jumped up and ran around, picking up twigs and small branches. He brought the small bundle back. Calling the magic, he started a small fire by the stream.

“There.” He sat next to her again. “That should help keep the cold away until dark.”

Grace’s gaze shone in the firelight, and she drew closer to the crackling flames. “What’s it like?” she asked softly. “The magic?”

Bran frowned at the flickering flames, considering her question. “I don’t know that I ever stopped to think about it before,” he said. “It’s something we’re born with. It’s part of who we are. Having enchantment is as natural as breathing. It’s . . . life.”

Grace looked puzzled, so he tried to elaborate. “Losing the enchantment would be like losing an arm, or more. It just comes to us.”

“Do all nomads wield magic?” Grace asked.

He nodded. “As far as I know. We start learning how to use it around four or five years, though I think we can all sense it before then.”

Grace was quiet for a moment. “I wish I knew what it felt like,” she said quietly. “Just for a moment.”

Bran blinked, surprised. He held up a hand, palm facing up, and closed his eyes, forming a picture of his stallion, Star, in his head. He opened his eyes at Grace’s delighted laugh. There, on his palm, made of light, was a miniature form of Star, galloping in place. With his free hand, he took Grace’s and carefully slipped the horse onto hers. Her eyes sparkled with delight and a small laugh escaped her lips. “It feels . . . it feels alive.”

“It is,” Bran replied. “Flick your wrist.”

Grace obeyed, and the stallion galloped through the air before it shivered and disappeared. Grace sighed regretfully. “That was wonderful, Bran, thank you for showing me.” She looked up at him and Bran shifted to sit a little closer.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered. Night was coming on fast; he should try and get her back to camp. Only, he didn’t want to. Adaryn was right. Oppressors could be positively irresistible. He lowered his face until their noses touched. His lips brushed hers, sending a wave of heat through his body.

“Ah, Bran, there you are.” Aaric’s voice sounded behind them. “Adaryn wants to know where the water for dinner is, and I am having a devil of a time trying to get the other tent up. Oh. Am I interrupting something?”

Bran wanted to strangle the idiot, but sighed and looked over his shoulder. “We were on our way.”

Grace looked flustered, and she patted her curls self-consciously, standing. Bran hurried to stand as well, and kicked out the flames. When Grace refilled the bucket with water from the stream, he took it from her. “Allow me.”

Grace arched a slim eyebrow. “Aren’t you the gentleman?” She was herself again. She squinted up at the sky. “I don’t suppose anyone will notice how I look with the sky this dark,” she stated and trudged up the hill after Aaric.

Bran watched her a moment, then followed with a regretful sigh.

“
W
e’re here!” I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice, wrapping my arms tighter around Aaric’s waist. We had recently returned my horse Russet, to the field from where I had borrowed him, and I now rode with Aaric. It was dawn, and we finally entered the woods. I closed my eyes, breathing in the rich scents of the earth and trees. I’d missed my forest home.

Bran urged his stallion, Star, to follow us, until he realized Grace had reined her mare to a stop on the dusty road. He turned to face her. “Aren’t you coming, Grace?”

Grace bit her lower lip, indecision on her face. “I’m . . . I don’t know. I should probably go home.”

Bran rode back, taking her mare by the reins. “You should come, Grace. At least for a while. After everything you did for us down in Sen Altare, you’ll be a welcome guest.”

“If you’re sure,” Grace replied, but she eyed the woods nervously.

We traveled through the forest for the next few hours, riding on small deer trails. We would’ve moved faster but Grace insisted on dismounting every half hour or so to pick flowers. I tried not to snap at her in my impatience, as Bran seemed to find her behavior endearing. He liked her. I wondered if she returned the feeling. I doubted it.

Our clan was in the same spot as when we left. That was odd. It was rare for us to stay in one place for more than a couple of weeks or so.

The nomad sentries saw us about the same time Bran and I saw them. No welcome was made as we were traveling with outsiders. They melted into the foliage, no doubt to alert the clan of our presence.

We dismounted on entering the camp, and passed the horses’ reins off to two young boys. Tents were pitched without any order to them. Children chased one another, squealing with laughter, while women did camp chores. The men who weren’t guarding the camp were either out hunting or lounging around, talking to each other. A few clan members waved to Bran and me when they saw us.

We found the clan chief Oisin, in the middle of the encampment, sitting crossed-legged on the ground, hunched over an aged, tattered map with my father, Kenroc.

My father leapt to his feet when he saw me, and, covering the distance between us in a few strides, wrapped me in a tight bear hug.

“I thought I had lost you a second time.” He choked on his emotion. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I’m sorry, father.” I buried my face in his chest, trying unsuccessfully to keep back my tears. I’d missed him.

My father released me, taking a step back to look down at me. “I hope there is a good explanation.”

I smiled. “Very.” I turned to Aaric, who came forward hesitantly. Oisin was standing now as well, watching us curiously.

Aaric held out the sky jewel to Oisin. “I have proved my love for Adaryn. Here is the sky jewel.”

Oisin took the jewel, his brown eyes widening in surprise as his fingers touched it. It was clear he could feel its power. “In all of my days, I never dared hope to think I might one day possess one.” His brow furrowed in concentration as he summoned the magic. The sheer force of the power he could call on was almost overwhelming, and my father and I staggered back.

Oisin released the enchantment and grinned at Aaric. “Looks like we have a new clan member.”

“
Y
ou brought an Oppressor to our camp?” Oisin kept his voice mild, but Bran detected the anger under it. It’d been close to a week since Bran and the others had returned from their quest.

“She can hardly be called that, father,” Bran replied in protest. “She’s been an immense help in our travels. We wouldn’t have been able to reclaim the sky jewel if not for her.”

Oisin didn’t reply, but glanced sideways at his son, a questioning look in his gaze. Bran coughed self-consciously. “She’s just a friend of Adaryn’s.” By all that was holy, what possessed him to say that? The two women acted like two wet cats in a bag when together.

“Aaric may be a clan member now,” Oisin’s mouth twisted; he was happy to get the sky jewel, but was less than pleased at the clan’s new addition, “but I won’t accept any other Oppressor into our clan, son.”

Bran bit his lower lip. He knew it wasn’t the time to argue. “I don’t think you have to worry about Grace turning on us. She wouldn’t betray Aaric.”

“I see.” Oisin didn’t look convinced, but let it drop, switching the subject. “There was another attack on our clan while you were away.”

Bran exhaled, clenching his fists. “How many were taken?”

“Five.”

That was more than usual. The Oppressors usually only claimed two or three on their raids, striking fast and hard, retreating before the clan could go on the offense. He glanced at his father. The clan chief looked outwardly composed, but his jaw was firmed, and there was a tightness around his eyes. Oisin was angry. He was better at keeping his temper than his son. Bran could only remember one time where he’d completely lost all control of his temper, and that had been when Bran’s mother was killed during a raid by the Oppressors.

“Do you intend to continue with the plan we discussed before I left?” Bran asked.

Oisin nodded. “Now that I hold the sky jewel, there’s nothing that can stop us. I will have my clan whole again.” He stared at Bran, his dark eyes expressionless.

Bran shifted uncomfortably. Aaric might be safe, now that he was considered to be a clan member, but Grace had no such protection. He turned and walked away. He needed to keep her close until all of this blew over. He hoped his father would come to accept her, in time.