Wild heart of the storm, p.3
Wild Heart of the Storm, page 3
Where it had pierced his heart.
Ffion rolled her shoulders. Perhaps what she was feeling was a sympathetic reaction to the pain the unfortunate animal had felt when he’d been so cruelly cut down.
Her eyes traveled along his prone form. The girth of its barrel chest was as wide as a tree trunk, and it looked to weigh nearly one hundred pounds.
Ffion fought her need to touch the wolf, to grant him a small amount of peace. Even as every nerve in her body urged her to reach for him.
As the humming between her ears rose to a near deafening level, she sucked in a strained breath and gave in, reaching her hand forward. Her fingers grazed his soft pelt.
The air rushed from her lungs, nearly toppling her as relief swept through her body.
The animal stirred.
Ffion yanked her hand back, holding it tight to her side as the ground seemed to shift beneath her. She swayed, her vision darkening at the edges as shrieks and cries went up around her.
But by the time knives were drawn and the hunter’s arrow nocked, the giant beast had rolled swiftly to his feet. A flash of white and gray fur vaulted past, disappearing into the woods.
A strong arm came around Ffion, tugging her back. She stumbled into Carrick’s chest, feeling as if every ounce of energy had drained from her body.
With effort, she lifted her head. Across the square stood a man, untouched by the chaos as onlookers fled or readied more weapons.
The metalsmith. Watching her. His eyes boring into her.
Ffion struggled to look away as Carrick wrapped an arm around her shoulders and ushered her toward his shop. She trembled, glancing back to where the wolf had vanished into the woods.
Though it wasn’t the wolf Ffion feared.
He’d most certainly been dead before she’d touched him.
Chapter Four
THE CRUNCH OF dirt and Ffion’s pounding heart muffled the frenzied uproar that still reached her down the road.
But she was alone, as she needed to be. Even as her thoughts kept repeating.
It wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been me.
After the wolf fled, Carrick had led her quickly toward the safety of his shop, misinterpreting the trembling of her hands as the same fear the townspeople held—that the wild beast could have easily turned on them instead of bolting back into the woods.
But the only thing Ffion feared was herself.
Her breaths quickened as her home came into view in the distance. She tugged her skirts higher, lengthening her strides.
Visions flitted through her mind. Her hand reaching out. The wolf reanimating.
She shoved them aside, tightening the grip on her skirts as she remembered the sensations that had streaked down her arms, into her fingertips. Would it happen again? Would something else trigger her power?
Ffion’s breath grew shallow, her mind spinning with inquiries no one could answer. Because she was alone in Periwen.
“Good afternoon.” A deep male voice startled her.
Ffion pressed a hand to her stomach, her heart rioting faster. She’d been ruminating so intently that she hadn’t noticed the man’s approach. And that voice…
She stifled a shiver, angling her down-turned face slightly to take in his heavily muscled, leather-clad legs, and the black-stained creases on his broad hands that hung loosely at his sides.
The metalsmith.
His eyes stared down at her intently—the same eyes that had watched her from across the square. Up close, she could make out their true color. Not the deep shade of roasted cocoa, but darker, with glinting amber near the irises.
She dipped her chin without uttering a word or breaking her pace.
“Miss Ffion Ainsley, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” He matched her strides with slow, long ones of his own.
How did he know her name? She’d never spoken a word to the man.
She didn’t respond, trying instead to discern the reason for the unusual encounter. The metalsmith’s workshop was at the other end of town. There was no feasible reason for him to be heading in the opposite direction. Her small property was the only destination at the end of the lane.
Unless…he was there to see her. The thought crept up her spine, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck.
Ffion felt the heat of his body as he kept pace beside her. Close. Too close. Even out in the open, she felt trapped beside him.
“The name’s Tearlach,” he offered.
“I know your name,” she lied. And didn’t he have a surname? Perhaps he felt entitled to informality, even with a woman he’d only just met.
He veered closer as they continued down the road. The sharp metal scent that surrounded him singed her nose. Though it was blended with a familiar, wild note—something earthy and bracing. Something not of that world. She tried to place it, if only to distract herself from the voice in her head that warned her to stay away from him.
“That was quite the spectacle, wouldn’t you say? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Was he truly making polite conversation? He didn’t seem the type to enjoy exchanges that lasted more than a few words.
“You’ve never seen a wolf?” she mocked, hoping her irritated tone would convey her lack of interest.
“I could have sworn it was dead.”
She turned to see his dark eyes contemplating her.
“And the next moment, it was as though its heart had never been pierced by an arrow.”
Ffion forced her attention back to the road.
“It was almost like…” He inhaled slowly, as if considering his thoughts—though Ffion would bet he knew exactly what he was about to say. “Like something had ensorcelled the animal, giving it new life.”
Ensorcelled? Did he mean magic? She resisted the urge to glance over at him, sensing his gaze upon her. It felt as though he was towering over her.
She needed to get home. Or cut back toward town so she wouldn’t be alone with him.
Ffion gritted her teeth against the uneasiness he evoked and replied, “I might believe something like that were possible, sir, if you weren’t referring to the stuff of folklore and storybooks.”
He pressed on as if she’d said nothing. “Never heard of a human having that kind of power though. Magic.” He spoke the last word with careful enunciation.
Ffion swallowed, trying to calm her nerves as every muscle in her body screamed for her to run. Trying her hardest to sound uninterested, she told him, “Magic doesn’t exist,” then hurried on ahead.
For a split second, she thought he might not follow, but he met her stride a moment later. He turned and walked in front of her when she wouldn’t stop, then cocked his head to the side and arched one of his dark eyebrows. “Oh, it certainly does, Ffion.” He said her name like he wanted to devour it. “Just not in these lands.”
Without another word, he strode away, disappearing into the woods.
A gust of wind whipped the hem of Ffion’s dress. She reached her door just as lightning fractured the sky. She looked back once more—still disconcerted that the metalsmith had been able to sneak up on her—then slid her silver key into the lock.
Her secluded home had always been her refuge, a safe haven. But in that moment, the nearest residence down the road seemed uncomfortably far away.
After lighting the candles in her small sitting room, she went to bolt the back door—its heavy thud relieving a bit of her worry. She checked the front door again, then stared up at the dark loft, pondering the window tucked between the eaves. It had never latched properly, but Ffion decided it was unlikely anyone would climb the exterior of her home. Unlikely.
She banished the image from her mind, blaming the metalsmith for unraveling the last of her nerves.
She released her clenched hands and moved about with purpose, setting her kettle to boil, and stacking a new log atop the blackened ones in the hearth. The felled branch from the last storm smoked a bit before catching, but once Ffion slipped into a nightdress and returned with her nettle tea, the fire was warm and crackling.
She cradled the cup in her hands, letting the warmth seep into her skin as she watched the flames flicker along the charred wood, hoping that if she stared long enough she might forget the troublesome truths lurking at the back of her mind.
“I should eat something,” she reasoned, knowing she’d feel better, that things would seem less dire if she could only manage to get something in her belly. But food sounded less than appealing. Even the thought of it made her stomach churn—a feeling all too similar to the sensations she’d felt right before…
Before her touch had brought a dead wolf back to life.
Ffion gripped her cup, smoothing her thumbs against the glaze. She refused to think of the pulsing sensations that had slithered beneath her skin as she’d reached out for the prone animal.
Magic.
She could no longer deny it.
She might have been far from the land where magic was intrinsic, and even though she was well into her twenty-fourth year—four years past the age when magic revealed itself in her kind—it had undoubtedly begun to manifest in her blood.
Ffion closed her eyes. The tree. The wolf. The incidents didn’t seem connected. Earth magic, she guessed, though she couldn’t recall ever hearing about the ability to renew life.
All she knew was that she needed to keep her power hidden. Couldn’t let it slip again.
But how could she hide something that she hadn’t a clue how to control? Ffion was completely alone in the human realm, without anyone to guide her through the bewildering and often severe transition of coming into one’s magic.
She glanced out the rain-doused windows, wanting to pray to the gods for help—though they’d never answered her pleas before. Staring through the blurry pane at the grayness beyond, her heart skipped a beat.
“No,” she breathed, as a more daunting realization hit. Lightning flashed, illuminating the trees against the darkening sky. Shimmering light coated the branches and leaves, lingering for a moment before fading away.
If she had magic—delayed or not, it had started to awaken—then she was inescapably locked into her immortality. From that day forward, she wouldn’t age. The fragile mortality of her early life—the short life she’d gratefully welcomed since arriving in Periwen—was gone.
It wasn’t fair. She clenched her jaw as anger swelled. Lightning struck closer, the trailing thunder shaking the ground.
Ffion had crossed the sea—breached the fog of glamour that divided her homeland from the mortal realm. Her appearance had shifted. She looked human. And when her twentieth year had come and gone without a trickle of power, she’d believed that crossing the barrier had not only blocked the ability for her magic to manifest, but had lifted the gods-blessed gift of a long life as well.
Only at that moment it seemed more like a curse than a gift.
If Ffion was forced to remain in the mortal realm, forever separated from her home and her people, a very real part of her had believed she could avoid the fate of her kind. She didn’t want a life that would stretch on for centuries. She wanted to remain mortal, to grow old, to pass the years as the people of Periwen did. Instead, she’d be forced to watch generations of families live and die as she remained frozen in her youth.
Which meant…she couldn’t remain in Debarrow.
Her heart sunk. Outside, the winds stilled as the wildness of the storm weakened. The rain persisted, its heaviness hanging over the land.
How long could she stay? She never partook in activities around town—barely encountered anyone during her weekly trips to Hawthorn’s.
Carrick. Ffion cursed her foolishness. After so many years of avoiding any unnecessary interactions, she’d gone and agreed to a date. “A date,” she muttered.
She knew better. Since the morning she’d woken on the fishing boat in the harbor, from the moment she’d beheld her glamoured reflection in the mirror, Ffion had known she could never reveal her true identity.
She sipped her tea, not caring that it had gone cold and bitter. Her thoughts strayed to her orchard, her garden. She didn’t want to leave. She liked her secluded plot of land. Liked growing things. It was something she was good at, something she’d chosen. Something other than the role she’d been born into.
For the first time in nine years, Ffion felt like she belonged somewhere.
Perhaps she could stay a bit longer. It would take another six years, maybe seven, before her eternally youthful appearance began to draw suspicion. Then she’d move on, start a new life in a new town.
Until then, she’d avoid everyone save for Carrick. Even with him she’d need to be careful to keep their interactions impersonal.
An image of the metalsmith forced its way to the front of her mind. Tearlach.
She remembered his intimidating presence on the road—could still feel him beside her. Her eyes darted around the room as she shook the prickling sensation from her body.
What else did she know of him? Before that day, they hadn’t spoken to one another. Even at the shop, he hadn’t said a word to her. “Why today?” she wondered aloud. Had he seen her touch the wolf? He’d been all the way across the square, beyond the crowd.
Ffion pressed her lips together. It was possible he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. Possible. And yet, she couldn’t deny the inescapable shift in the air each time he was near.
If she wished to remain in Debarrow—and she did—it was time to learn more about the mysterious metalsmith.
Chapter Five
FFION VENTURED INTO the woods beyond her property, feeling determined. She wouldn’t be scared off, or forced to leave before she was ready.
The harvest festival had begun that morning, offering the perfect cover. She’d hike one of her foraging paths to the other end of town and sneak a peek through one of Tearlach’s shop windows.
High-pitched notes from a flute trickled through the commotion in town, reminding Ffion of her home in Tremaene and the Festival of Tahra. The decadent foods and elaborate decorations. Feasts and parties that lasted until dawn as her people honored the goddess of land and fertility.
Ffion imagined the sunset-colored gown she’d worn during her fifteenth year. The silk had been dyed a perfect gradient of buttery yellow, pink, and orange through the fitted waist, with the hem dipped in a red so deep it looked like the color of crushed berries. She glanced down at her worn cotton dress. “Hmm,” she mused. Far from fashionable, yet quite a bit more comfortable. She pulled her skirts close to avoid some low-hanging branches, then halted mid-step.
The branches curved away, forming a clear path.
Ffion stared with a mixture of fear and awe at the forest’s response to her presence.
It took several moments before she dared another step, continuing cautiously through the newly formed passageway, while doing her best to ignore the unnatural sway of branches.
As soon as Tearlach’s property was visible through the tree line, Ffion hurried toward the workshop, pressing her back against the rough slats as she listened. There were no windows or doors along the back wall. When she heard nothing coming from inside, she crept around the corner and peered in the only window. Finding the dusty pane covered on the opposite side by a dark cloth, she moved toward the front of the shop.
One of the large doors was slightly ajar.
This was not the plan, she reminded herself. But there was no indication that Tearlach was in his workshop or anywhere on his property, so Ffion quickly slipped inside.
Her heart rioted in her chest as she took in the space. A massive forge occupied an entire wall—a few embers still glowing in its depths. But the rest of the workspace seemed rather small, much smaller than it’d appeared from the outside. Noticing a door along the back wall, she picked her way through the room and pushed it open.
Her eyes widened as she scanned the large, secret room—for it certainly wasn’t meant to be seen. Swords lined every wall. She beheld each one, counting as she went, until her gaze landed on what seemed like a wooden replica of a man tucked into the far corner. It was splintered and covered in deep grooves, as if each sword had been tested on it. Why would anyone require such an apparatus? There was no military presence in the Winslow province, and the only fort she knew of was at the southern edge of the continent, in the Heilyn Desert. Had Tearlach spent time there? She’d assumed he’d always lived in Debarrow. Or perhaps he simply…enjoyed sword fighting…as a hobby.
She didn’t want to think about the alternative.
Ffion hovered at the threshold of what could only be described as a training room, afraid to take another step. But the sword nearest caught her eye. It wasn’t shiny or new like the others. It looked as though it had seen battles. The hilt was carved with whorls and inlaid bronze. It was beautiful. And strangely familiar. She couldn’t recall seeing something so refined in the mortal realm.
Aware that she’d lingered too long, Ffion stepped away and slowly pulled the door shut. Thankfully, the workshop was still empty. She hastened through the maze of tools and implements, looking for anything else out of the ordinary. A long table was covered with rows of blades—knives, daggers, some were serrated or curved, each terrifyingly deadly. Her hand hovered over them, and she felt a strange twinge of discomfort, warning her not to touch.
She needed to leave, but hesitated a moment longer, curious. The metal seemed cold and…wrong, as if it would burn her skin if she risked touching it.
Ffion pulled her hand away, curling it at her side. Now. I need to go now.
She turned from the table and collided with the metalsmith’s unyielding body.
