Wytchfire (Book 1) by Michael Meyerhofer

have the courage to do. Forgive me.” He thought of the Nightmare and shuddered. Is that what you’ll become, when—if—you finally wake?
    He shook his head. “No,” he whispered into the stillness of the tent. “Sleep as long as you can, my love. Wake as anything… but don’t wake as that. ” He straightened the sheet and leaned in to kiss her forehead.
    The jolt drove him backward, nearly blasting him off his feet. For a moment, stunned, he could only stare. Above him, the twin spheres of wytchfire he had conjured earlier began to flicker, as though some other wild, angry magic had just swept over them.
    “Silwren?”
    Before him, she lay as she had, breathing faintly, her face still pale as bone.
    Slowly, he touched her forehead again—not with his lips this time, but his hand. Igniting his magic, he tentatively probed her thoughts, searching for her familiar spark of life. Nothing…
    Shade closed his eyes, his hopes dashed. Fadarah had warned that Silwren and the other initiates might show false signs of recovery from time to time. He was just about to withdraw his hand when she scalded him again.
    Stronger than the first, the jolt nearly blasted his mind into ruin. Shade reeled, recovered, then knelt beside her. His hands shook. Carefully, he extended his hand again. He did not touch her skin this time, but merely held his open palm above her forehead. His eyes widened. Deep within her mind, frail as a candle under thick ice, she was there. From the depths, still deep in that bottomless well, her mind was returning.
    “Silwren!” he shouted joyously.
    The sound of rustling cloth made him turn around. All six Shel’airushed into the tent. Shade stood to face them, the rarest of open smiles on his face. “It’s Silwren! I felt—”
    “We felt it too,” Nariel said. “Even from out there.” She cautiously splayed her fingers inches above Silwren’s heart. Silwren’s bosom rose and fell with slow, even breaths. “It’s true. She’s waking!”
    In disbelief, another Shel’aitook her place. His fist uncurled over Silwren’s body.
    As rare as it was for Sylvs to flaunt their emotions, it was rarer still for Shel’ai. Their harsh lives did not permit it. But Shade felt no shame as tears of joy ran down his face.
    Another Shel’ai said, “We must tell Fadarah!”
    But Nariel scowled. “Wait. Something’s wrong.”
    “I feel it too,” said another. “Shade, she’s waking too quickly!”
    Shade pushed his way past them, fearfully probing Silwren’s mind again. He had to know for himself. The tiny flicker that had been her deepest essence became a roaring blaze. Her mind was alive but wrought with ragged, incomprehensible energy. Her body shook.
    “No,” Shade whispered. “Not again, not her…”
    “We have to stop this,” someone said.
    “Combine magic,” Nariel suggested. “We seven can keep her asleep until—”
    Harsh screams and the clatter of steel reached their ears. Shade knew at once what was happening. While the other Shel’ai swore and raced to the tent flap to confirm what they already feared, Shade was extending his consciousness beyond the tent, through the camp, seeking out the mind of his master. Unhampered by as ungainly a thing as verbal speech, their mental conversation required only the space of a few seconds. Then Shade broke the contact.
    “Fadarah’s on his way. We have to guard her until he arrives.”
    The other Shel’ai exchanged grim looks. They did not argue. To renew Silwren’s magic-induced coma required their combined magic and concentration. But they had no time. Outside, men were dying.
    Shade gritted his teeth. “Follow me.” He strode from the tent. Wytchfire flared to full, terrible life at his fingertips.
    At once, his eyes drank in the chaos. All around them, a pitched battle raged. The black-garbed fighters of the Unseen formed a tight circle around the tent, pikes and shortswords facing a full company of horsemen. Hundreds strong, they