Shattered Souls (Guardians of the Maiden Book 3)

The enchanted tent must have been warded against sound because no one came running at Tarn’s screams. But the amethyst crystal continuously spun, announcing that either Von or the spies stood guard outside. With his immunities already compromised from the poison and cleanse from Witch’s Brew, Dyna couldn’t risk giving Tarn more Dreamshade oil. The only way to quiet him was either to put him in a deep catatonic sleep or direct his dreams.

Cognitive magic came easy to her once she understood it. At any signs of a bad dream, she moved him to a memory he didn’t mind. Mostly ones where he trained with Dale. She liked those. He was different with his brother, calmer somehow. Sometimes she would join in the training with them and learn a few things, too. She should get herself a sword.

Dyna reached for Tarn’s face to move him from this nightmare, but he woke and snatched her wrist, his bloodshot eyes furious.

A growl ripped from behind his clenched teeth. “Give me the potion.”

She pulled her hand free. “No.”

“Von!”

“No one is coming, Tarn. There will be no more Witch’s Brew. You have to let it go.”

He got up and she tried to push him to lie back down, but he snatched her neck and strangled her. The Mood Rune blazed red then flashed several colors as they struggled. Blue. Purple. Black. Rampant with every emotion he had contained until now. From his rage and anguish, she knew Tarn would kill her to stop the dreams.

Dyna’s body lit up green with her magic.

His eyes widened. “Don’t—”

She grabbed his face and put him to sleep. He fell on the bed, dragging her down with him, and the black smoke plunged her back into his memories. It wasn’t by choice now. Almost as if it needed her to see.

The past took her to a land covered in snow. Tarn was a young man now, about seventeen or eighteen, his body filled out with lean muscle. Features sharp in a way that made him striking, and his face bore no ugly scar yet. He helped his younger brother push a cart full of firewood through the thick slush from the barn across a courtyard she didn’t recognize. The air here was colder, and the trees were pines. A massive manor casted shade over them. It looked newly built, with five floors high and towers on each corner like a crown.

They were now living in Troll Bridge.

“Stupid snow.” Dale kicked at a mound blocking the wheel. He’d grown into a handsome boy with pretty blue eyes and features that resembled his brother’s, yet his father was in there, too. “It’s always so cold here. Everything is covered in ice.”

Tarn jerked the wheel free and pushed on. “In the ice we mold our truth, even whence hidden by the snow.”

Dale huffed. “Did you read that in a book? Admit that you hate it here, too.”

The courtyard doors opened, and a servant called them into the manor at their father’s behest. Dale jogged ahead as Tarn trekked up the hill with the cart. Each step was slow, delaying whatever inevitable punishment was waiting for him. The scene changed to place Dyna in a grand hall she hadn’t seen yet as Tarn entered. The stone walls were cruder than the ones of Old Tanzanite Keep, bearing the large flags with the crest of the Morken House: a circled frame with elegant lines, and a jagged snowflake sat in the center with twelve points.

Tarn bowed to Lord Morken and to Lord Conaghan. There was a third man there with a narrow face and sharp nose that reminded her of a hawk. His bald head shone beneath the tall white windows of the hall. What caught her attention was the golden badge on his left lapel, bearing the sigil of the white phoenix.

Their muffled voices spoke of duty and the family line. Something Tarn had no interest in. He let them drone on, the words blending in a dull hum.

“Do you understand?” Lord Morken barked at him, his voice clearing.

Tarn lowered his head in compliance.

“Good. You will wed next winter once your estate has been built.”

Wed?

Dyna felt Tarn’s shock, though his face didn’t change. Lord Conaghan gave thanks for the honor, then excused himself.

“Garent shall see to the plot of land,” Lord Morken said, glowering at the bald man. “I trust you will choose wisely.”

“Of course, my lord.” Garent glanced at Tarn, before he bowed and also excused himself.

“I don’t like that man. Even after four years, the King insists on having his viceroy decide where we build, who leads troll assaults, overseeing every decision I make. It’s an insult.” Lord Morken’s glare turned to Tarn. “As for your bride, she is a plain girl. Scarred and by no means a picture of beauty, but from noble stock. The Conaghan House is a prolific family.”

Tarn said nothing. He was going to marry into the Conaghan family? Dyna didn’t know anyone else part of that House other than…

Lord Morken scowled at his lack of response. “It’s more than a bastard deserves.”

As if giving him a wife he didn’t want was a gift he should be grateful for.

Tarn didn’t protest. He didn’t make any comment on it at all. It was merely another punishment to have him marry someone Lord Morken considered of barely adequate caliber.

“You must have met the girl. She’s Von’s sister.”

At that, both Dyna and Tarn stiffened. Von had a sister?

The memory whisked them away outside on a spring day. Tarn stood on a tall hill that looked over the town of Azurite. Behind him were the cornerstones of a new house for him and his bride to be. But the only thing he seemed interested in was the wooden wall that surrounded the entire circumference of the town. Dyna thought she heard the distant rumble of roars.

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They turned to see Von climbing up the hill. He had also grown into himself. Taller and lean, his once jubilant face now a little harder from having lived in such a dangerous place.

“It’s odd to see my mother and father excited about a wedding when I’m sick to my stomach of the Horde coming again. She says life must go on, and we must be proud of the one we were given.” There was a sullenness to Von’s words. He scowled at a field on the right side of the village that was filled with graves. “This isn’t life. Since when is dying for lord and land a grand honor to be proud of?”

Tarn glanced at him coolly.

Realizing he was speaking to his lord’s son, Von flushed. “Disregard my ramblings. You know I never thought much of the vows we were made to hold. We’re not children anymore, Tarn. Now you’re to wed. You must be thrilled.”

“Indeed.” The sarcasm in Tarn’s voice was thick.

“Do you enjoy nothing else other than swinging a sword?”

At his narrow stare, Dyna didn’t think Tarn was capable of finding anything a source of joy.

Von cleared his throat. “Well, I think you and my sister will get along fine. Aisling’s a little unconventional, but you can’t help smiling around her. She might be the one to thaw that ice cold heart of yours.” He chuckled at Tarn’s confused frown. “You don’t remember? I introduced you to her at my squire ceremony.”

“That was two years ago,” he finally said.

“Ah, that is true. Then come meet your bride to be.” Von led Tarn down the hill to another smaller mansion below the rise. He waved to a young woman riding a beige horse in a fenced pasture. His sister’s face was lit with a wide grin as she led the horse into a wild gallop. Her mauve dress, and chestnut brown curls flared behind her.

“Aisling!” Von called through his cupped hands. “You’re supposed to be inside tending to your embroidery, not riding.”

She threw back her head and laughed freely. “Don’t be so pompous, Von. Come ride with me!”

Tarn’s expression was aloof, though his gaze tracked her across the field as he watched her ride.

“Later,” Von said. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

Pulling the reins, Aisling turned her horse around and rode back. When she saw Tarn, pink seeped through her sweaty face. The horse slowed to a canter and stopped before them. Her fingers drifted to the scar above her brow, and she subtly adjusted some strands of hair to cover it.

“Aisling, this is your betrothed,” Von said, helping her dismount. “Tarn Morken.”

“Yes, I know.” A smile rose to her soft lips. Her eyes were a warm honey that turned to gold in the sunlight. Lord Morken was blind, Dyna thought. Aisling was lovely. Taking the ends of her dress, she dipped in an elegant curtsey. “Hello, Tarn. It’s a pleasure to meet you again.”

The image of her faded, and Dyna found herself at the day of the wedding. When Tarn took Aisling’s hands during the handfasting, she gasped at his ice cold touch and flinched away. She didn’t mean to, but shadows crossed Tarn’s face, and he didn’t touch her again.

In their new home, he arranged for them to sleep in separate rooms. He ignored her for the most part, and went on with his days, training in the courtyard with a blade or strengthening his body with rigorous drills. But Aisling found a way to always be near her cold husband. She would sit beneath the shade of an apple tree with a book, and every now and then, peek at him past the pages with a light flush on her cheeks.

Neither of them had asked to be in this marriage, but something was blooming there, Dyna found. Perhaps not love from him, but every now and then, Tarn would be watching her, too. As though she was a curious thing he didn’t quite understand. Mostly when she was distracted with a book or humming to herself as if she was the happiest person alive. Aisling was always the same, even in the presence of Tarn’s stiffness. Her smiles were endless. Her happiness constant. When she laughed, there was something contagious about it that brought a smile to Dyna’s lips. And she thought, almost to Tarn’s. It drew him. That profound, untainted happiness that he never had. Found in a dark place where none was expected to be.

The memories continued to fade and solidify into others as they passed through the seasons. Pockets of time that held significance to Tarn. The graze of her arm unintentionally meeting his in the garden without her flinching away. Aisling tending to his wounds after a summer troll attack. His eyes meeting hers across the dining table holding autumn’s harvest. Sitting by the fireplace as it snowed outside, listening to her read to him.

Then one night in the hall leading to their chambers, Aisling wished him goodnight at his door. Tarn’s hand lifted to her face bathed in moonlight, but hesitated. She cupped his palm to her cheek, and his forefinger landed over the tiny scar above her brow, slowly tracing it.

Neither spoke a word, at least not aloud. He only gazed at her in silence. Perhaps, at last accepting of who she was to him or what she had become. In their time together, with nothing more than a smile, she had thawed a piece of him. And maybe, Dyna thought he wondered, this was joy. Taking her waist, Tarn drew her into his bedroom and the door closed behind them.

Then the memory spiraled away into a wisp of smoke, and it was no longer dark.