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A cheer went up from the troll brigade, from Lorelei and from Quinlan.
A portion of the brigade went down the back trail to gather the remains of those trolls who had died in the fire attacks. The rest resumed the trek northeast toward the Snowfields of Rayne, and Ferrenden Peace beyond.
* * * * * * * * *
Quinlan held Batya against him, her head resting on his shoulder. She lay limp in his arms, asleep while he moved them both mile after mile, through the increasingly frigid night air.
Her peaceful slumbers gave him a lot of time to think. With her vibrations stowed, he was more himself than he’d been over the past several days.
Yet he felt restless and uneasy, not because he thought Margetta might suddenly reappear around the next switchback, but because he felt changed.
He’d finally realized something critical, though he hadn’t yet mentioned it to Batya, but his stomach no longer cramped as it had for centuries. The state of chronic blood starvation for every mastyr vampire, had been his painful companion from the time that he’d arrived at mastyr status. Like Ethan and most of the mastyrs, he kept a stable of doneuses to take care of his blood needs. He’d needed constant donations, sometimes more than once a night when battling the Invictus,
And in all those decades, year after year, with a regular changing of his doneuses as one century moved into the next, he’d never been without the cramping in his stomach.
Until now.
Batya’s blood had satisfied him, nourished him, and eradicated what had been horribly painful for most of his adult life.
To his knowledge, this extraordinary experience had only happened to two other mastyr vampires in all the Nine Realms, Mastyr Gerrod of Merhaine Realm and Ethan of Bergisson.
Sweet Goddess, if everything he understood was correct, then Batya was a blood rose, his blood rose.
Which at least explained why he’d been unable to stay away from her.
On some level, he must have known. Ethan had talked about his experience at length, about his erratic behavior, his craving for his woman, his need to protect Samantha as though his own life depended on her survival. Quinlan had also been drawn to Samantha to the point that he and Ethan had essentially fought over her in the Bergisson Guildhall.
But if Batya was his blood rose, then why hadn’t he understood it sooner? Or maybe he had, but he just hadn’t been able to face the truth until now.
Sweet Goddess, a blood rose. And his stomach didn’t hurt.
But what the hell was he supposed to do with her? He didn’t exactly respect her life choices since she lived as an ex-pat and had no desire to return to Grochaire Realm. In his view, realm-folk should have a commitment to their homeland above everything else, including family and personal happiness.
He’d lived by these values, so opposite to what Batya held dear. Although he did give her credit for seeing to the well-being of realm-folk in Lebanon. She wasn’t a selfish person, just badly misguided.
But what was he supposed to do with her?
He had no room in his life for a relationship with a woman, any woman, even if she proved to be his blood rose. Maybe he could visit her occasionally in Lebanon, maybe she’d be willing to become one of his doneuses. Yes, that made sense.
With that much settled, he pulled her closer. The air had grown freezing cold, but he produced a lot of heat which he hoped kept her body temp at a reasonable level.
When he rounded a wide bend in the mountain range, suddenly a vista opened up before him, something he’d only read about in ancient fables, the Snowfields of Rayne.
Batya, wake up. You have to see this.
Hmmm?
She lifted her head and drew in a soft gasp. “Oh, my God.”
He slowed his speed and one by one the troll brigade, with Lorelei, spread out in a single line to either side of him.
A soft, exquisite layer of snow, as far as the eye could see, rolled out before him, unbroken by trees or shrubs. The name made perfect sense. In the glow of his night vision, the snow sparkled beneath a black, star-studded sky. But it wasn’t just the spectacular visual sight, but the essential power that emanated from the field.
“Do you feel it, mastyr?” Henry levitated beside him, head erect, eyes narrowed.
“Yes, a flow of power like nothing I’ve felt before.”
“What do you think the source is?”
Quinlan shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“Okay, so which way to Ferrenden Peace?”
Without even having to think about it, as though the map lived in him now, he pivoted slightly facing northeast. “That way.”
“Can you reach Mastyr Seth? If Margetta finds us again, it would help to have reinforcements.”
“Good question.” He dropped to the snow and set Batya down, waiting for her to find her footing.
Her booted feet sunk just a few inches through a delicate crust with soft powder below. She leaned down and ran her hands over the surface. She even chuckled, like she was amused and delighted at the same time.
What do you feel, Cha? He needed to know. Batya, like Lorelei, had an unusual connection to the land. Maybe the snowfield would speak to her as well.
She rose up and met his gaze. I’m just savoring this soft vibration of energy. It’s lovely, even beautiful. Untouched.
He felt it as well, that realm-folk had not walked in this land for a long time.
He withdrew his cell from the pocket of his leathers and found he had enough bars. Dialing, he was relieved when Seth picked up immediately.
“I’ve been waiting for your call, Quinlan. Do you have the woman?”
“Yes. The ancient fae gave us quite a bit of trouble and we’ve lost some warriors from my troll brigade.”
“Very sorry to hear it.” Seth spoke in a soft, clipped, careful manner. Of all the mastyrs, Seth held himself in tight control. He was extremely disciplined and though lean as hell, he had as much muscle mass as Quinlan. The vampire worked out with a passion and it showed.
He also had an organized mind that functioned like a computer, always analyzing. And he had one of the largest doneuses stables in all the Nine Realms and fed twice a day, rain or shine. He also had secrets. Some said he killed his brother in a rage over a thousand years ago. Of course, few still lived who could corroborate the story one way or the other. Maybe his sense of discipline came from keeping a volatile temper in check.
Whatever the case, Quinlan trusted Seth with his life. He gave him a rundown of all that had happened and that he now stood on the edge of the snowfields. “By my calculations, we’re fifty miles from Ferrenden Peace. Do you have your map with you? Have you seen the enthrallment over this region roll back?”
