Page 44 of Fate Promised
The inevitable end to her time on land was why Triska had never considered taking a mate. Every time she looked at her father and his haunted, pained expression when he thought of her mother, she saw the agony of what she might put a mate through herself. She would never do that. Even if it meant living a lonely life. Sure, she had friends, and her father, but she always kept them at a distance, afraid of how they’d feel when she left, never to return.
She rubbed her chest. She couldn’t let Juri close either. He’d only get hurt.
The tightness in her chest loosened, signaling Juri was close by. She sighed in relief, the ache gone. She’d grown used to his warm presence at her side.
Sure enough, Juri strode down the path from Koschei’s house, something slung over his shoulder. As he reached them, the lumpy bundles proved to have feathers.
“I killed a couple partridges for dinner,” he said. “You’re not going to tell me they’re from some prized flock and chase me around the island, are you?” Juri rubbed his ears.
Koschei raised a brow. “I hunt occasionally. Those birds are good eating.”
Juri glanced up at the sky. “It’s not raining, and the night is warm. I’ll make a fire on the beach and cook here.” He slung the birds onto the sand. “Don’t let that dragon eat our dinner.”
18
Juri dragged the remnants of a tree trunk over beside the blazing fire. His claws lanced out, and he shaved off the damp outer bark, then dug out a small seat, leaving a bit of wood remaining as a back. “Here.”
Koschei stepped forward. “Ah. Not as nice as one of my thrones, but—”
Juri growled. “It’s for Triska. Get out of here.”
Triska grinned and settled into her chair. “Not bad.”
“I don’t work with wood much, but I thought this might be nicer than sitting on a wet rock. Are you warm enough?”
She nodded. Earlier while he’d prepared the birds to roast over the fire—knowing the others wouldn’t want to eat them raw—she’d waded into the water and gathered some wide, fat clams with black shells. She’d wrapped them in seaweed, and now he moved the bundle to bake in the coals at the outer part of the fire.
They’d fallen into an easy rhythm, Triska scraping off bits of bark for kindling so the fire would catch as he’d gathered larger pieces from the woods. It felt like he’d traveled with her at his side for years.
If he ignored Koschei, and the snoring dragon lying on its back a few steps away, he could pretend he and Triska were back in Ryba, enjoying a night on the beach. Many times, when he’d journeyed home to check on Ryba—and Triska—he’d seen couples sitting together on the beach. Holding hands or getting frisky on a blanket in their courtship activity.
Fergal shuffled down the beach into the light of their fire. “Any hint of the necromancers?”
Juri shook his head as he poked at the fire with a stick. “Nope. All I found was a small rift where the harpies must have come up, but it was already closed again. And more green smoke is floating from the charred circle up on the cliffs. Other than an old badger who chased me away from his hollow, the island is quiet and safe.”
Fergal settled on a rock. “Good. We need to be ready when they show up.”
Koschei crossed his arms and huffed. “If they’re using shuwt as their power source, it won’t be easy. When I was a guardian, no one could overtake me.”
Juri frowned. “They aren’t guardians. They won’t have the same power you did.”
Triska stood and put her hand on Juri’s arm. The warmth from the contact flooded through him at once, as if instead of the fire as the source of warmth, it was her. “Hoyt’s power is strong, I felt it.”
“Necromancers are the rejects of the magicwielding world.” But even to his own ears, what he’d meant to say as a statement, came out as more of a question.
Fergal waved a finger back and forth. “Rejects from their family, not from the magic world. That’s a huge difference.” Fergal glanced at Triska. “You know Hazel. Is her power weak? Poor?”
Triska shook her head. “No. She’s one of the most skilled magicwielders in Ryba.”
“Exactly. Her family is from a long line of sorcerers. When she was born a spellcaster, it didn’t matter that she was probably the most gifted spellcaster alive, she wasn’t a sorcerer, so they didn’t deem her acceptable to continue the bloodline of her family. Hoyt is the same. He was a skilled spellcaster, just not what his family wanted, and he was one of nine children. They chose another as the heir.”
Triska’s hand tightened on Juri’s arm. “And that’s why their families cast them out?”
“As if they never knew them.” Fergal turned toward the fire. “Back when I was dean and had some influence, I worked to change the ways of the elite. To help them see nothing but harm will come of this.” He shook his head. “It created a schism, and they rousted me from my position.”
“You were right,” Triska said. “It’s causing harm now.”
Fergal nodded. “Many magicwielders have been mistreated.” He waved his hand. “That’s why we have a bunch of necromancers running around seeking revenge. And this Dark Cabal.”