The Shadow Soul (A Dance of Dragons #1)

Chapter Four

Rhen

~ Northmore Forest ~

For a third time that day, Rhen thought he was going to die.

The first, perhaps obviously, was when he had been knocked unconscious. Always check behind you—the lesson had been drilled into him since infancy, and still he had forgotten in his excitement. Idiot, he cursed as the pounding in his skull continued—the pain a constant reminder of his stupidity.

But then he woke, bound and bruised, yet somehow alive. And he cursed his awareness, because he knew his entire family and kingdom were at risk, yet there he was, powerless to stop it.

The second time was when the boy had been seized by the neck, his weightless body dangling from the ground as the two remaining Ourthuri tried their best to kill him. And Rhen, trained as a knight by the best Whylkin had to offer, could do nothing but watch and wait for his turn on the sword.

But then Ember, beautiful horse that she was, swooped in to save them both with the most perfect head-bashing stomp Rhen had ever seen.

And the third was now as the boy knelt, staring at the blood on his hands with emptiness in his eyes. He was young and the Arpapajo were a peaceful people—those four men were most likely the only he had ever killed. And sometimes, that feeling could swallow a man, could make him lose his sanity, could make him lash out at the nearest living being…which just happened to be Rhen, still bound like a babe on the ground.

He sighed, wriggling his wrists one more time.

If his brothers saw him now, Rhen shook his head—he didn’t even want to imagine the endless banter, the ceaseless taunts. 

Ember knelt, nudging Rhen's shoulder with her forehead as if to ask, "What is taking you so long?"

"Well fought, girl," he whispered, returning her nudge with one of his own. Pleased, Ember neighed softly and stood alert at his side.

When he turned, the boy was staring at him. As their eyes met through the flames, the boy winced, jerking back ever so slightly, but not breaking contact. And then those dark brown eyes, flecked with gold, illuminated by the fire, jumped wildly around Rhen's figure, circling him.

Rhen watched, unmoving, not wanting to break the trance. What did the boy see? What had him so wide-eyed? So intrigued?

For a moment, Rhen's eyes flashed to the fire. But it was at least a foot away, and he had not touched it, despite the pull he felt in his bones. No, he mentally shook his head. There was no way the boy could know about that. It was his own paranoia sneaking up on him.

Movement caught his attention. Rhen pulled his gaze from the flames back to the boy, who had stood. His features had hardened, resolute. He gripped the knife, stepping closer to Rhen, who leaned into the log at his back. Did he need to sic Ember on the boy? Or was he being freed?

Sad, really, that he couldn't tell, but the boy was iron, hard to crack. Either that, or Rhen had simply lost his touch—a very poor spymaster in the making.

No, Rhen sat up and shifted his feet. He had saved the boy, and the boy had saved him. There was trust there, thin maybe, but existent.

And a second later, the binds around his ankles had been slashed. Leaning forward, Rhen moved to give the boy access to the ropes tying his wrists behind his back.

Free at last.

Rhen sighed, rolling sore bones, and stood to stretch his muscles.

"Thank you," he said, sounding loud against the quiet night.