by Remi Black
The knight no longer looked for Grim. He watched her. The absolute silence chilled more than the water had. Orielle shifted. “Those are our horses.”
Something flickered in the knight’s eyes. His smile came slowly. “I found them.”
“Finders, keepers? The child’s charm only works for objects, not living beings.”
His smile widened, revealing teeth as white as bone but not sharply fanged like the Lady’s. Dark, dark eyes glittered black and blacker in his snow-white face, no longer statue-still. His focus wasn’t her, though, but something beyond her. “Do they still say that then?”
The words jarred, especially that still. They sounded displaced, neither here nor there, now nor then. She didn’t ask. She didn’t want to engage in his present or past. An abyss waited there. “A wyre scared Ghost.”
His gaze re-focused. Whatever had amused him had vanished. “Wyres don’t come to the Wilding.”
“You’ll find the body of one an hour downstream. We buried them and covered him with river rocks. The Rho killed him. The one who attacked me escaped. He’s still in the Wilding, I would think. Partially-shifted.”
“Partial shift is not possible outside of moon phase.”
She riposted that with Grim’s shared knowledge. “Sorcery makes it possible. His eyes were silvered green, not amber-gold.” She nodded at the minute lift of his eyebrows. “Yes, I was close enough to see. Silver tipped his claws. Sorcery helped him shift. The Lady should know who travels her realm. You should tell her.”
The bone-white horse tossed his head. She backed a step. Her fascinated gaze watched the slow lift and fall of the silvery mane, an unnatural slow motion in the still, still air. She heard no birds. She barely heard the water cascading from the little pool. Here, hollowed out, surrounded by evergreens, she warned of sorcery and wondered if the Crygy Lady used it on her knights and their horses.
The man’s black eyes narrowed. “Do you dare to give orders to a Crygy?”
“The Lady gave me a gift. I give her one in return.”
The horse advanced a step, close enough that she could touch it. She didn’t want to. She could feel its breath, cold as icy winter, cold as snow-bound mountains.
The knight stared until Orielle had to look away. Her breath came rapidly, her heart pounded. She curled her fingers to make fists and pressed them into her thighs, hoping to hide her trembling. When she realized that she could not, she sidestepped the steed’s nose and dropped down to slide off the rock. She felt for her boots with her toes. When she stood booted once more, she gathered up her cloak and draped it over her arm. Then she flicked her hair behind her.
And looked up to see him watching.
He leaned forward and stretched a hand toward her, closing the distance she had gained. “Your cloak is torn, Lady Wizard.”
Orielle remembered the rents torn by wyre claws. Without taking her gaze from the knight, she searched for the rent. Finding them, she lifted the cloth to display how close the claws had come. “The wyre struck at me. He missed.”
His brow contracted minutely. One hand dropped to his sword. As he touched it, the round pommel began to glow the eerie blue of a glacier, when the light shining through the fissures offered false hope. “The Lady will learn of the wyre. I return these horses to you and the Rhoghieri. The bow has his tang.”
“I thank the Lady for her gift.”
“The gift comes from me to you. Lady Skuld has dipped no claw in this exchange.”
“And what will I owe you, Sword Knight?”
His minute smile returned, the briefest sign that he liked her name for him. “Only your good will, Aiwaz Solsken.” He nudged his horse forward.
Orielle crowded against the rock as the tall horse loomed. Its first steps shifted it to one side and brought the knight’s left hand to her. He held out the reins of the dutifully following mundane horses. Yet when she grasped the reins, he didn’t release them.
“Where do I find the grave of this wyre?”
“Just past the bend of the river, above the flood line. Look for the rock-covered grave.” He’d had three questions to her one. Surely that put him in her debt.
He released the reins but didn’t urge his mount forward. “The Crygy lady dislikes wyre, and sorcered wyre most of all.”
Court life had taught Orielle that lesser people did not mention the debts that their betters owed. “You honor me, Sword Knight.”
“You will have need of me, Aiwaz Solsken. Call my name three times into the wind. Your element, yes? It is the Rho’s, and you are his. Call for me. For Sangrior. Say it.”
“Sangrior.”
Thunder rolled across the sky, dotted with the first stars.
His frown was a minuscule crease of his marble-smooth brow. “My ears delight to hear my name from living lips. A living name is often forgotten.”
With his true name, he offered a great gift. She wasn’t about to return the favor. “The Lady knows, doesn’t she? That you gave me your name. Will she punish you?”
“The Lady will not punish for personal gifts freely given.”
“You honor me,” she repeated. Her curtsy deepened, and the bone-white horse seemed taller as she dipped and straightened. “Fair journey, Sir Sangrior.”
“Fair journey, Lady Aiwaz.”
He urged the horse forward. It passed her. The tail swished, as silvery colorless as the mane. The black hooves found purchase on the forest-littered slope. His path twisted through the trees. She watched the descent—but the ghost-white hide vanished long before the trees would have obscured it, paling like mist then disappearing.
Without the intimidating Crygy steed, Ghost pushed back the bigger chestnut. His hooves slipped on the leaves and moss, then he shoved his nose into her hair.
“Don’t try to make friends,” she warned him. “You abandoned me to that wyre. I was lucky Grim came.”
Ghost nudged her shoulder. He wanted his forelock rubbed, a sign that he was forgiven. The chestnut, a hand-span taller than her horse and muscled for war, gave a white roll of his eyes, but he came forward when she chirruped to him.
She led the horses down to the shore then upstream. A trickle of smoke hung over the water, faint, dissipating even as she sniffed it. Orielle scattered more of the scent as she led the horses along the shoreline. The glow ahead leaped with bright flares. The silhouette crouched beside the fire had to be Grim, cooking his catch.
While they worked along the shore, in and out with the curve of the river winding around boulders, Orielle considered the Sword Knight. He gifted the horses to her. He’d given her his name. This man dealt in names, for last night he’d gifted her with Aiwaz Solsken, going beyond his Lady’s command. And today, he gave her the Crygy Lady’s name, Skuld, greatest of all those gifts.
She had no doubt he would check the grave of the wyre that Grim had killed. She wished she had evidence of the ensorcelled wyre.
She wished most of all that she understood more about the Crygy. The Sword Knight acted without the Lady’s permission, breaking Orielle’s assumption that the companion knights and all the riders were bound to the Lady’s will.
Her only certainties were that she hadn’t offended the knight or the Lady.
But his backward-looking gaze, that word still when he asked about the children’s charm, that haunted her.
~ 9 ~
With full night rapidly approaching, Orielle headed for the leaping firelight. The horses, surer-footed in the dark, followed without hesitation. Ghost kept shouldering forward to nuzzle her loosened hair. When she stopped to pick out her next steps, cautious of ankle-turning rocks in the near-dark, he shoved his nose into her neck and blew warm air.
She shoved his head away. “Don’t think that’s an acceptable apology for running off without me. I know you were scared. So was I.”
Ghost snorted and tossed his head.
The chestnut watched from the full length of its reins, keeping well back, a sign of distrust.
“And you—.” She pointed a stiff finger. “The both of you, going off with that Crygy without a nicker of protest, I daresay. You both should know better.”
The grey stretched out his nose. She obligingly scratched his chin. His long lashes half-closed when she transferred her scratching to his forelock.
Grim’s horse sidestepped. His head came up, then he shied, straining at the reins.
“Whoa, whoa, boy.” Then she caught the smell and gagged at the sweet sickness of it. Sparkles of light in a rainbow spectrum danced over the swiftly running river.
Escaping the smell, the big chestnut crowded forward. Orielle jumped in front of Ghost as the big horse plowed past her. Her arm wrenched forward, and she forgot the smell and the flashing lights as Grim’s horse towed her behind him. She dropped Ghost’s reins, yet the grey followed without urging.
She stumbled over a rock and twisted her ankle. “Whoa! Whoa!”
The horse stopped several feet beyond. Grabbing the stirrup, she staggered into his shoulder. The grey stopped behind them. When she caught her breath, she reached back for Ghost’s dropped reins. She peered past him, but whatever the lights and smell meant, she saw nothing.
Getting a better grip on the reins, she maneuvered around the big chestnut. The fire remained ahead, enticing with light and warmth. The river’s rush was a muted roar. They had an easy walk to the camp. “And let’s make it an easy walk,” she warned Grim’s horse, which flicked his ears at her.
She puzzled over the sparkling light while she led them along the shore.
The crunch of iron-shod hooves on the pebbly shore alerted Grim. He stood, arms akimbo as they came along the edge of the river.
The flames licked around a skewered fish. He glanced up and down the shore, then bent to turn the fish.
Orielle faltered. Do I tie the horses to a nearby tree or let them crowd around the camp? Ghost nudged her, so she led them past Grim and the fire and the fish and to the water.
The horses dipped their muzzles into the water. While they drank, she unhooked the waterskin and refilled it. Then she dug into the food bag and came up with two cakes of bread and pinches of salt for the fish. She turned and held them out to the Rho.
He extended his hand. She poured in the salt then handed over the journey cakes.
“We’ll sleep better with full bellies” was his first comment. “I’ve got trail oats in my off-hand saddlebag. The horses will need it. Give them a handful then tie them under that hickory.” He pointed to a tall tree with a curved trunk. Its golden leaves gleamed in the firelight.
She hadn’t crossed any wards. “Are we camping here by the water?”
“Farther upstream. I’ll take a torch from the fire.”
She thought of linking protective wards in the full dark but said nothing. She slipped Ghost’s bit before she fed him the oats. He snuffled her hand, wanting more. She shoved him away, dipped into the oak sack, and went to the chestnut, offering oats with her palm flat. He nosed her hand. Remembering the bit, she reached for it, but the grey nudged her arm. The oats scattered. The big horse backed up, tossing its head. She crowded with him, grabbing the reins at the bit and drawing his head down.
“My fault,” she murmured and slipped his bit. “But if you bite my fingers, we’ll have more than words.” She held the reins tight as she fetched more oats. Smelling them, the chestnut stopped pulling away. She opened her hand. “Good horse,” she praised as he lipped carefully over her palm. “Good horse. I haven’t forgiven you for back there, you know. You hurt my arm. You’ll need to make it up to me.”
The horse snorted. Finding no more oats, he pushed for the water. She let him pass, keeping the reins as she bent to wash her horse-nipped hand.
“What happened ‘back there’?”
Grim stood by the fire, testing the fish with a knife.
“I think we surprised a nest of sprites on the move. Whatever it was, your horse wanted out of there, and he towed me and Ghost after him.”
“Hunh. How did you find the horses?”
The question she had dreaded. “I didn’t. The Crygy knight, the one who named me, he gave them to me. He said we owed him nothing but our good will.”
That slanted Sangrior’s actual words, but Grim’s scowl, fiercer in the leaping fire-glow and shadows, didn’t ease.
“And the Lady?”
Ghost dropped his head to her hand and nuzzled, clearly wanting more oats. Orielle idly rubbed his nose then patted his neck before draping an arm over his shoulders. “Now that was curious. He said that Lady Skuld had dipped no claw in the exchange.”
“Skuld? He gave her name to you?”
“Yes. I was shocked, too. I understand what he meant, but why did he say ‘no claw’? She has ‘dipped no claw in’.”
“If you saw her claws, you would know.”
“I thought the Crygy were like the Fae.”
“Dark Fae, aye. Dark appetites, dark dealings. Less likely to show mercy, more likely to enjoy cruelty. They play games with humans. And not your friend, for all that this knight seems to be courting you.”
He used the Lady’s word which reminded her of the Lady’s displeasure. And that roll of thunder when he shared his name. Did the Lady know that he’d also given her true name? Aligned with that revelation, his return of their horses seemed insignificant. “Me? I doubt that. It’s more likely a Crygy game with a human, just as you warned me.”
“You may make him remember being human.”
“Me?” she squeaked again. “No. No.” But she remembered Sangrior’s comment about the finders keepers, the children’s charm. “We have the horses. Does it matter how?”
“We have them,” he agreed, “and whatever bargain you made with the Crygy knight, we’ll figure a way out.”
Orielle liked that we. Whenever trouble crashed onto her from pranks with her friends, she had borne the punishment and penance alone. To have someone offer help, to know he stood beside her—a sparkling joy seeded within and grew quickly. Bravely, she confessed more. “He knew the horses were ours. He said the bow has your tang.”
A tricksy dance of the flames flickered in his eyes. “Tang—scent, same thing.”
“That sounds like a predator tracking a scent.”
“I did say the Crygy aren’t friends.”
“But—he returned the horses. He only wants our good will in return, Grim. He said the horses are a gift from him to us.”
“Us? Or to you?” He snorted. “I doubt this knight considered me. The Crygy ignore the Rho. He’s courting you. A wizard of the mighty Enclave. Courting you at the Lady’s behest.”
Orielle crossed her arms. “She called me Not-Wizard.”
“When he named you Aiwaz Solsken, she didn’t blast him.”
“You said she was displeased. You said the Crygy give no gifts. But here are the horses, a gift from a Crygy knight. Not a bargain.”
“Leave the horses and come eat.”
He had the fish divided and the salt sprinkled on the steaming white flesh. Her mouth watered; her stomach rumbled. She started to lead the horses back to the trees.
He snapped up. “Where are you going?”
“To tie the horses.”
“Mine will stay ground-tied.”
“Unless we’re attacked again.”
“He’ll fight first.”
“Ghost will wander.”
“He’ll stay with his new-made friend. Come on. You can have the rock.”
The rock was scarce ten inches high, yet her bum would be out of the damp. And a flat surface capped pebbles. “You?”
“I can stand.”
Abandoning the argument about the horses, she dropped the reins and entered the fire’s sphere of warmth. She kited her skirts so the hem wouldn’t soak up the damp shore.
The fish was excellent. Neither spoke as they ate, picking out bones before scarfing up the salty flesh. Orielle flicked the tiny bones into the fire where they vanished with a sparky flare. The oat cake c
rumbled. She caught each crumb.
“Jam,” she sighed and licked her fingers.
“What?”
“I miss jam.”
“What kind?”
“Strawberry. Peach. Apple conserve. Blueberry. Grape.”
“Not blackberry?”
“Seeds.”
He offered a hand up. While she dabbled her fingers in the river, he retrieved a long stick lying behind her rock. In seconds it flamed for a torch. “Come see our camp.”
The fire cast a welcome warmth. The broad shoreline gave a good view of any approaching predators. “Are we not camping here?”
“We’re farther upstream, well away from the smell of fish. We don’t want predators drawn to the smell.”
“I’ve never set camp wards in the dark.”
“I have.”
Orielle caught the horses. Ghost had strayed back to the water. Ears flicked forward, he stared across the stream. Darkness cloaked the world beyond the firelight. The big chestnut drowsed, ignoring even her hold on the reins. Whatever had snared the grey’s attention, he came willingly when she tugged the reins.
Damp as the shoreline was, she still asked, “Aren’t you going to put out the fire?”
“What’s to burn?” he countered. “Rock and sand?”
She wasn’t ready to abandon the dispute about the Crygy. While she had only the barest knowledge gleaned from tomes written hundreds of years before, Grim had active knowledge. Yet he’d said they were Dark Fae, and Fae lived centuries. The writer of Creatures of the Hinterland might have met Lady Skuld. Didn’t that make the tome active knowledge of the long-lived Crygy?
Trailing behind, a horse at each shoulder, she called up to Grim. “I told the knight that we killed a wyre. I said that was a gift for the Lady Bone.”
He swung about. The torchlight cast a golden glow, making him the sun’s kin along with her. The world had shrunk to him and the horses and herself in the sphere of light. The pebbly sand crunched at their passage. The river’s constant voice, dimmed by the night, seemed muted. “What else?”