The Invisible Ring

Damn you, he thought as he felt the wild stranger pushing at him.Damn you. Help me !



It exploded from its hiding place. He wanted to howl as its savagery filled him, flooded him, as razor-edged instincts blinded his ability to think. A moment later, it retreated, leaving him feeling raw and viciously clear-minded.



Sweating heavily despite the cold and the rain, Jared created a large ball of witchlight.



On the facing sides of the posts, someone had carved the thirteen ancient symbols of power deep into the stone—six on the left post, seven on the right.



How was he supposed to choose the right three?



Jared paused, then shook his head. Of course it was three.



He found the symbol for male on the left stone. His finger hesitated over it before moving to the triangle beneath it. Using Craft, he traced the triangle’s deep lines with one finger, filling them with witchlight.



In a court, the male triangle of Consort, Steward, and Master of the Guard formed the tightest bond with the Queen. They were companions, advisors, protectors.



None of the other symbols on the left post pulled him, so he turned to the right. His finger traced the outline of the symbol for female.



The male triangle was the core of a court, but the Queen, the female, was always its heart.



He sank to his knees and traced the last symbol carved into the post, the Blood’s most revered symbol—the symbol for the Darkness.



The Blood honored the Darkness because it meant endings and beginnings; it was the fertile dark of land and womb that nurtured the seeds of life; it was the psychic river the Blood came from and returned to; it was the abyss the Self descended into to reach its own strength; it was the vastness that contained the spiderweb-shaped psychic roadways called the Winds. It was all those things, and more.



As the last line filled with witchlight, Jared felt the jolt of power funneling into the stone posts. The witchlight in the symbols became so bright he had to squint. It flashed once and then faded, the little bit of power he’d used to create it already expended.



In that moment after the flash, Jared saw a pale triangle form between the three symbols before it, too, faded.



The protection spells quieted. The psychic storm quickly dissipated. Rekeyed, the illusion spell turned a wood pole strung with vines into thick, unpassable undergrowth.



Jared stayed on his knees, too tired and shaken to stand up. He sank back on his heels, his head bent, his hands resting loosely on his thighs. This exhaustion wasn’t caused by draining too much of his power. He used more than that for everyday living. It wasn’t even caused by the sharp fear he’d felt.



For a few moments when the wild stranger had filled him, he had felt so alive and whole. Now he felt empty and hollowed out again, and it cut at him. But he wasn’t sure he was ready to fully embrace that part of himself, to bind himself to that kind of responsibility, and until he was . . .



Strong hands gripped his arms and pulled him up. Blaed smiled solemnly. Brock looked respectful.



“Let’s get you inside,” Brock said.



“The horses.” Jared’s voice sounded thick.



“I’ll help Thayne and Randolf with the horses.”



“I can—”



“You’ve done enough,” Brock said sharply.



“You’ve done enough,” Blaed agreed quietly.



Jared gave in, needing their support more than he wanted to admit.



As they walked toward the one-story stone building, Garth hurried up to them, stopping just short of barreling into Jared. The big man studied Jared’s face for a moment, then made a sound like a grunt of satisfaction, and hurried away.



Thayne smiled shyly and raised his hand in a casual salute.



Randolf stood by the corral, watching Garth, his expression unreadable.



Jared was too tired for Randolfs moods, but he couldn’t quite dismiss the man’s animosity for the broken Warlord.



“We should pay more attention to Garth,” Jared said quietly as they neared the building.



Brock made an exasperated sound. “Garth’s not that bad. It could’ve happened to any of us.”



“He knew about those protection spells before the rest of us did.”



A brittle silence followed Jared’s words.



“He was the last one,” Jared insisted. “Nothing started to happen while he was still on the path, so I’d guess there’s something built into those spells to make sure all the rogues have time to get into the clearing. It’s the last person in who has to rekey the illusion spell in order to stop the defensive spells from triggering. If I’d paid attention to his distress, we would have had more time to figure out the key before the storm came down on us.”



“You don’t know that,” Blaed protested, keeping his voice low.



“All I’m saying is Garth seems to understand some things. Maybe it’s a holdover from his training. Hell’s fire, I don’t know. But we’d be fools not to pay more attention to what sets him off.”



“All right,” Brock said. “I’ll—”



The door opened.



Brock and Blaed released their supportive hold on Jared’s arms.



Jared walked toward the Gray Lady, alone.



In the light coming through the open door, her gray eyes looked almost black from exhaustion. Her voice quavered when she quietly asked him if he was all right. She looked frail, and he suspected her pride was the only thing keeping her on her feet.



Her frailty made him want to push her until she struck out and proved she was still strong and powerful.



“Thank you, Warlord,” she said solemnly.



“I live to serve, Lady,” he replied, his voice lightly laced with bitterness to hide another emotion he didn’t want to acknowledge.



Tears filled her eyes. She turned and retreated into the room as quickly as she could manage with her injured knee.



Jared rocked back as if she’d slapped him. Shame filled him until he wasn’t sure he could stand beneath the weight of it. He tried to dredge up enough anger to burn away the shame, but it wouldn’t come.



Swallowing hard, Jared looked behind him. Brock and Blaed had discreetly disappeared to finish the chores.



“Jared?” Tomas stood in the doorway. “You coming in or you going to stand there letting the rain in until Thera gets mad enough to hit you with a skillet?”



“Maybe it would help,” Jared muttered as he followed the boy inside and firmly closed the door.



Silence strained tempers already frayed by fear and exhaustion, broken only by the scrape of utensils against plates and murmured requests to pass something that couldn’t easily be reached. They choked on the food that had been bought with a young witch’s life, but they ate it. Their bodies needed fuel. Landens might envy the Blood’s magical powers, but they didn’t understand the price that went with it; didn’t understand how fiercely that inner fire could burn, especially in those who wore the darker Jewels; didn’t understand how quickly it could consume the body that housed it if no other fuel was available.



So they ate in silence, never meeting each other’s eyes, each one wondering whose life might pay for the next meal, the next shelter.



Jared sighed with relief when the meal finally ended.



Thera picked up her plate and walked over to the kitchen area of the large single room to begin cleaning up. Within moments, the only ones left sitting on the benches on either side of the long wooden table were Jared and the Gray Lady.



He’d deliberately sat at the opposite end on the opposite side, as far away from her as he could get. Now, with the others dallying with the last chores in order to stay away from her and nothing but the long table separating them, he looked at her for the first time since she’d met him at the doorway and thanked him.



After a minute, she raised her head and met his cold stare.



There was nothing in her gray eyes. Nothing at all. As if all the fire in her had been doused.



Then she flinched and fixed her eyes on the chipped blue jug filled with autumn wildflowers that sat on the table.



Why? Jared wanted to ask her. He could understand that Sapphire-Jeweled bastard riding back here ahead of them to create the psychic wire in order to make sure they found the clearing. But why had the man taken the time to fill a jug with flowers? Because he was certain the Warlord Prince had done just that.



He understood the rogues giving up the shelter and providing supplies in exchange for Polli, even if that son of a whoring bitchhadn’t given them the key for the protection spells. But the flowers gnawed at him. They were a sign of affection, something a man gave a woman to lift her spirits. Was the Warlord Princethat grateful to get a female? Or was there another reason for the gesture?



Jared watched her reach out and delicately touch the petals of a dark-orange flower. He didn’t ask.



His bitter reply when she had thanked him had wounded her deeply. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did—because a rogue who should have hated her for owning slaves had given her flowers.



She rose slowly, her hands braced on the table to support her.



Jared clenched his fists and forced himself to stay seated as she slowly, painfully, limped toward the door.



The other men glanced at her, glanced at him, and quickly looked away. He was the dominant male. His refusal to help her amounted to an order for the rest of them, and only a direct order from her would countermand it.



She had reached the door before Tomas spoke up. “Lady? Aren’t you going to tell us the next part of the story?”



Jared turned to look at her. Her eyes were closed. Pain deepened the lines in her face.



“Not tonight,” she said in a husky voice. She stepped out into the rain, hobbling over slippery ground to the wagon.



Guilt stabbed at Jared. As glad as they were to get away from her, she was even more relieved to get away from them. A Queen should never feel that way about the males who served her.



Jared shook his head. Hedidn’t serve her. She had bought him. He owed her no loyalty. No matter how many back roads they traveled, they’d have to come close to the Winds sooner or later. That’s when he’d try to slip the leash. To go home long enough to see his family, and talk to Reyna.