Soul of Flame (Imdalind Series #4)(4)

“No, My Lord.” Another voice, this one different from the first, cut through the night. My mind tried to place it while fighting the fear its unfamiliarity caused me.

“We have to be missing something!” Ilyan’s voice was hard, as a loud bang echoed in my ears, triggering a million memories of clanging pipes and haunting footsteps.

The nightmare jumped through my nerves and my body crinkled together like balled paper. My hands moved to claw into my shoulders as my knees came into my chest. I fought the panic, pushing away the gasps that tried to snake from my lips as I forced away the anxiety.

I tried to keep my breathing level as I kept the fears at bay, pleading with myself that I could open my eyes, that I was brave enough to face my fears. I exhaled a stuttered breath and opened my eyes, waiting to see the blood-stained walls, only to be met by darkness.

My eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, the heavy darkness of night seeping through the open windows and covering the room in shadows that my mind distorted all on its own. The only light came from a small lantern and several small, colorful orbs that had nestled into the ceiling. The colorful rays cut through the long, dark shadows of night. Everything was as it had been for the last few days—the wall of open archways that led to the balcony, the large ornate furnishings. It was just our room, no nightmares.

Ilyan stood in the dome of dim light, his hands stretched over a table that had been pushed against the wall. He looked intently on the wooden top below him with his hands balled into fists against the wood, making it clear where the loud sound had come from.

The two other men stood across from him; one with long, dirty blond dreads that hung over a leather jacket in stripes of monochrome. Their backs were to me as they, too, hovered over the large table. The other man hunched next to the first, as if he were about to fall asleep. Everything about this man, from his clothes to his posture, was worn and disheveled, as if he had just been caught shoplifting. Hair the color of pitch tangled around his ears and stuck to the back of his neck, making it look like he hadn’t combed it recently, if ever.

Thom and Sain.

Their magic flowed through the air around me, alerting me to the security that the height of my anxiety had hidden.

It was foolish to have gotten so worked up; it scared me that it took so little to trigger the demons Cail had infected me with. However, it had only been hours since Ilyan had rescued me from that prison. There would be no quick recovery from my insanity.

I wanted to be patient; I just didn’t know if I could be.

“One group would not move so far away. Trpaslíks are too cowardly for that.” The lines in Ilyan’s face deepened as he took a few steps around the table, his fingers trailing over the surface as he focused on it.

I watched him move as I tried to figure out what the three of them were doing in the first place, the strength of Ilyan’s determination almost answering the question for me. The odd connection we now shared sparked. Flashes of his memory, flickers of their arrival, flitted over to me as he focused on the table.

The two men had arrived at our room minutes before, where Ilyan, in his frustration, had ushered them in. He hadn’t even considered that I had been sleeping in the bed. No surprises there. His mind had been solely focused on what Sain and Thom had come to tell him, his need to solve the problem, and on protecting his people.

What was left of them, anyway.

I tried to understand what they were talking about, but it was like they were speaking in code. I could ask the question into Ilyan’s mind, but something about the way he was focused on the table set my hackles up, making me question whether I wanted to know in the first place.

“Chances are high that there are more between them, My Lord,” Sain said, the unfamiliar voice I had heard before now making sense. Sain shifted toward Ilyan, his body still leaning over the table as if he couldn’t stand straight on his own.

“Are there any camps here?” Ilyan asked, pointing to a spot on the table as he moved back to his original place.

“There is one here, My Lord,” my father answered, his fingers pressing into a spot not far from the one Ilyan had indicated.

“How many?” Thom asked, the familiar agitation in his voice rippling through me.

“I don’t know,” Sain admitted, his voice somehow dejected, like he had failed.

I stared at the back of Sain’s head, his hair as unkempt as it had been in that nightmare so long ago. I wanted him to turn around so I could look at him with my own eyes for the first time since I was five. I wanted to see his smile; I wanted to hear him laugh.

His magic flared abruptly as I looked at him. His signature was so different than the others, deep and calming with an underlying violence and pain that scared me. My desire to reconnect with him vanished as my shoulders tightened.

“Existují zde?” Ilyan asked in Czech as his finger slid over the table to stop at another point on the flat surface.

“Unless they are really good at pretending to be trees,” Thom said, his gruff voice low as he leaned over to look at the place on the table Ilyan had indicated.

Ilyan’s lip twitched at Thom’s comment while his hand moved over the table, one piece of the picture suddenly making sense. They were looking at a map, their attention on the placement of Trpaslík that surrounded us.

It made me uneasy. I could still feel the angry waves of the Trpaslíks’ magic from where they hid among the trees, waiting for us. Why they were there was something I was already sure I didn’t want to know.