Free Elyon by Ted Dekker Page A

started to speak, then thought better of it. What could she say? She climbed over Sucrow’s meager supplies, trying not to gag on the smell of the incense.
    She saw a bag, reached for it. Started to dig. “What happened, Silvie?”
    Icy silence.
    Reaching deep into the bag, Darsal felt something cool and round. The medallion. So the rat had managed to somehow get it from Marak. Interesting. Who took it? Warryn, perhaps?
    Or was Sucrow working some magic? If that were the case, he could have made Marak give it to him himself, and Marak wouldn’t necessarily remember a thing.
    Frustrated, she shoved it in her pocket and stood. Glanced at Silvie. Her hands and ankles were tied, and she was lying on her stomach on the wood. She was bruised and had a nasty gash on her neck. She glared, then turned her head away.
    “Sil—”
    Movement. When she turned to the door, two Throaters stood there, torches in one hand, swords in the other. One wore an eye patch.
    Warryn.
    “Looking for something?” the Throater sneered.
    Where was Johnis?
    Darsal scanned the tent for a weapon. “Orders,” she snapped.
    “Really? Marak’s?” Warryn spat.
    “It isn’t your concern.” She raised a brow. “What should be your concern is what will happen when Marak discovers you holding me at sword point.”
    A gentle, invisible tug reprimanded her. Love Warryn too? He was Horde, wasn’t he? No. Not Warryn. Marak was one thing, but this monster . . .
    Warryn snorted. “What does Marak care about an albino?”
    Darsal chose her answer carefully. “I should ask him for you.” She raised a brow. “You want me to ask him?”
    The Throater didn’t quite know what to do with that. She got a good look at him. Sucrow had taken his eye. Now the quiet sorrow poured in. Elyon, they were all so deceived . . .
    No time.
    “Let me pass.” She started forward.
    Warryn caught her at the door. Yanked her back by the hair. His sword touched her throat. “What did you take?”
    “Kill me and find out.” Darsal lifted her chin. Her heart pounded. Elyon might not want her to harm this Scab, but she was about to have no alternative. “I’m under orders not to talk.
    What do you make of that?”
    “Whose orders?”
    “Are you deaf? Let me pass, or I’ll take your other eye out.”
    Warryn hesitated.
    Darsal ducked free of the blade. He barely missed her neck. She somersaulted, landed on her feet, and ran for the other tents. Servants scattered. She grabbed one and flung him in Warryn’s direction.
    Several more Throaters came after her.
    She ran for open desert, slid down the far side of a dune, letting the sand cover her. Darsal held her breath.
    “DARSAL! SILVIE!” JOHNIS’S HUSHED WHISPER ECHOED OVER the dunes. Shaeda overpowered him, made him stagger like a drunk.
    “The albino betrayed you,” Shaeda kept insisting. “Seek her not . . . Your mate is yet within the priest’s claws; resist no further.”
    “Her name is Silvie , you bloody vampire!” Johnis continued his search. Darsal would have hidden out here someplace, away from the chaos their ruse had created.
    She’d used him. The bloody albino had used him. He’d find her and—
    Darsal, covered in sand, came out of hiding to face him. He drew his sword, ready for the kill, but Shaeda was there . . .
    He was vaguely aware of Darsal speaking to him, saying his name. But before his eyes she became Shaeda. Slender fingers with clawlike nails tipped his chin up. He shuddered at the rush of power the contact sent roaring through his veins.
    Tasty, like copper and salt.
    “Johnis.” He knew Darsal was talking to him. Knew she’d come out of the sand dunes and stood in front of him. But he saw the Leedhan.
    Her long, white-gold hair spilled over her shoulders like a wedding veil. Perfectly smooth skin, so delicate a scratch might break through to the veins. A seductive smile spread across her face. Her haunting gaze drank him in.
    “Johnis, I had to do it,” Darsal was saying. “I