The Heir of Ariad by Niki Florica

Author:Niki Florica
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Juvenile Fiction/Religious/Christian/Fantasy/Fiction
Publisher: Elm Hill
Published: 2019-06-24T16:00:00+00:00

Fourteen

Now the priest of Midian had seven daughters: and they came and drew water, and filled the troughs to water their father’s flock. And the shepherds came and drove them away: but Moses stood up and helped them . . .

-Exodus 2:16–17A

His eyes were dark as onyx stones, gleaming from a pale face half-coated in mud. He was staring at her, filth encrusted to his lashes. Staring, and not moving. Why in Guilyra’s name was he not moving?

Elillian wondered if she had misspoken. The Skyad speech had not crossed her tongue in many long years; perhaps she had forgotten more than she had first thought. Perhaps he could not understand her pronunciation through the dialect of the Naiads, or perhaps the Nelduith had damaged his mind, or perhaps he did not speak in the Skyad tongue at all . . .

“Death, my lady?” he said suddenly, softly. His gaze dipped to her bare feet. “I do not understand.”

“Listen to me, Skyad.” She spoke before he could finish his thought, before he could hold her there, upon the bank of the Nelduith with a knife in her sash and a Skyad—a Skyad—standing in the flesh before her eyes. She was committing treason. She was committing treason. By the moons, the Peace Council would have her imprisoned for eternity. “A shepaard haunts these shores each night upon the rising of the third moon. It approaches even now from the east; its wind is upon us already. If it finds you here, it shall kill you and drink of your blood upon this very bank. No one shall come to your aid.”

He stared at her, expression unreadable. He wore a black leather tunic embossed with a silver insignia over dark silks, still sopping with Nelduith waters. A sky-cloak rested upon his shoulders, just as Elillian had so often imagined from her father’s tales of the wild, fierce race that dwelt in the Skies and killed without thought—the savage race whose battle upon the Bloodmours had made the heavens rain red with Skyad blood. She swallowed, felt the knife in her belt bite into her spine. Prayed that he would not give her reason to draw it, even as she willed herself to turn away, to disappear, to leave.

The Skyad came to himself, his eyes darting to the bank, to the river, one hand rising to a slender silver chain tucked into his collar. “Robin . . . ,” she heard him whisper. His attention snapped to her. “The Robin. There was a Robin. The river claimed him with me. What became of him?”

Elillian felt the air grow hot with his sudden, burning intensity, like a flame blazed to life from dormant coals. She stared at him, uncomprehending. “Do you not hear me, Skyad? You must leave this place, now, before the shepaard—”

“What became of him?” He took a step nearer. Elillian stepped instinctively back. “Does he live? Can you save him? Surely you know whether the son of Robinsdwel is dead or alive.”

She drew a shallow breath.

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