Shocked, the teacher stepped back, the flower still in her hand, still blooming. Then the stem began to grow, extending, wrapping around the teacher’s fingers and palm. Their teacher finally dropped the flower, but the stem was now attached to her hand and steadily winding its way around her arm and up toward her shoulder.
“I have to go,” Talwyn announced to no one. Of course, none of them were actually shocked. They’d never really thought she’d be spending the next thousand years living among the Kyvich until she died in battle and was honored the Old Way.
What did surprise everyone was when she looked over her shoulder at Gisa and Fia and asked, “Want to come with me?”
Gisa and Fia glanced at each other, then looked behind them to see if she was talking to someone else.
“Oy. You two. In or out?” the royal pushed, not really sounding like a royal.
“You don’t even know our names,” Fia said.
“Isn’t that something I can learn . . . eventually?”
Frowning, Gisa and Fia kept staring at Talwyn until they heard a scream.
Gisa watched in horror as the stem from that small flower—now nearly the size of a ten-year-old tree trunk—covered most of their teacher’s body, dragging her to the ground. The other students were trying to help, desperately cutting at it with their swords and daggers or trying to pull it off with their hands.
“Come on,” Talwyn said with a toss of her head. She walked off, assuming, it seemed, that Gisa and Fia would follow.
“We’re not going, are we?” Fia asked.
“I . . .” Gisa shook her head. “I feel a pull,” she finally admitted. “As if somehow our lives are with her rather than here.”
“Perhaps she cast a spell to make us feel that way.”
“Perhaps.” Gisa studied Fia. “Do you feel she cast a spell?”
“No.”
Again, they glanced at their teacher. She was now pinned to the ground, the stem digging into the soil around her, trying to drag her down with it.
That was power. Gisa knew that much. Power and strength poured off Princess Talwyn like sweat.
“She’s hated,” Fia noted.
“That’s true.”“Which means wherever she goes, battle and mayhem are sure to follow.”
“Excellent point.”
Together they jumped up and followed after the royal. As they ran, they could still hear their teacher and the other Kyvich struggling with whatever Talwyn had cursed them with.
They caught up with Talwyn quickly, finding her standing and waiting by her horse. A breed of horse given to her by the Kyvich. The only horned horses with burning red eyes that any of them knew about other than undead demon animals from one of the hells.
Standing beside Talwyn’s horse was the dog Talwyn had been given by the Kyvich as a puppy. The dog was another horned beast that would charge into battle beside the Kyvich witch that had trained it from nine weeks old. Every Kyvich received a horse and dog when she turned sixteen.
But before Gisa could think too much about the horse and dog she’d be leaving behind by going with Talwyn, she saw that both her horse and dog and Fia’s were also there—waiting for them. The blankets they used on their horses instead of saddles already rested across their backs along with packed travel bags.
“We don’t have much time,” Talwyn said as she mounted her horse. “That flower won’t distract the Elders long and then they’ll be coming after me.”
“How did you know we’d agree to come with you?” Gisa asked.
The royal shrugged. “I just knew.”
Then, without another word, she turned her horse and charged off.
Confused and wary, Gisa and Fia stood their ground another minute or so until they saw that the stem from that damn flower was now spreading throughout the forest like wild vines. They could hear the calls from the other Kyvich, as they hurried to stop whatever magicks Talwyn had unleashed.
“Well?” Fia pushed.
With a deep breath, Gisa walked to her horse and mounted him. Fia did the same and, together, they set off after Princess Talwyn.
It would be hours before they both realized that they had no idea where the hells they were going.
Chapter Ten
Celyn woke up with his headache gone and feeling much less cranky. Yawning, he sat up, scratched his scalp, and looked out the window. The suns had gone down and his stomach was clearly telling him it was time for evening meal.
Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, Celyn stood and stretched. Now that he’d had some sleep, things weren’t looking nearly as awful as they had a few hours earlier. He was grateful for that, too. He hated when he felt nothing but angry. He left snarling and snapping at all times of the day to his uncle Bercelak and royal cousins, Briec and Fearghus. He didn’t understand being angry all the time. What was the purpose? What did it accomplish except to give him stomach acid and make everyone avoid him?
Pulling his black hair back and tying it with a leather thong, Celyn went down the stairs. By the time he reached the second floor, he could hear raised voices. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but he could tell there was yelling involved.
As he reached the final set of steps that led into the Great Hall, he stopped and stared at the long dining table. That’s where all the yelling was coming from.
Well, yelling might be the wrong word. Yelling suggested anger, and Celyn saw no anger. Instead, he saw . . . passion. A passionate discussion that involved very loud talking.