Marin startled at Neve’s sudden movement. “Neve, what—”
Neve held up a hand and moved to face Phelan, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t lie to me, Phelan O’Credne. I know you far too well to buy that there’s not a damned thing wrong with you just now.”
There was a part of him that didn’t want to meet her gaze, but he did anyway, letting her see the naked fear in his eyes, the uncertainty, the restlessness and pain. Neve’s hand covered his, squeezed hard.
“This is home,” she whispered in their native tongue. “You know that, Phelan.”
He nodded mutely, throat so tight he couldn’t speak. This was home, and he knew that there wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be. But the wanderlust…
This is where you belong, Wanderer, the place where you stay and wander no more.
The voice was his and he knew it was right.
He buried his face in his hands. He felt Marin’s palm against his spine, felt his cousin’s hands on his shoulders.
“Damnation,” he whispered raggedly. “What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know,” Neve answered, stroking his hair. “But we’ll figure it out.”
“Seems he’s being affected by something,” Anselm observed softly. “Perhaps you’d best get him back behind the safety of your wards.”
Could that really be the problem?
Is something targeting me in specific, or is there more going on here than meets the eye? And will getting me on the other side of the wards really going to help?
Phelan shuddered and the next thing he knew, he was being walked back toward the walls and the wards that were embedded in them, Marin on one side and Neve on the other. He couldn’t remember getting up, or leaving Anselm. He shook his head, hard.
What’s wrong with me?
