Fana had suggested that Rhinne face the back of the cart, to keep a lookout on the road behind them through a crack in the slats. At first, Rhinne had nothing more to do than contemplate her immediate surroundings. The clothes that surrounded her were imbued with myriad conflicting scents both foul and sweet. A crackly bag of some dried plant kept sticking her in the leg, and something hard pressed into her rib cage. But these minor discomforts faded with every horse that rode by, causing her to start and sweat until her nerves grew taut enough to snap.
Morning was still fresh and the sun not quite above the trees when a different caliber of horse came up behind, pounding the earth in measured rhythm. It was a fine steed, black as crows and large, like a war stallion. It neared the cart, slowed and swung around as if to pass them. Rhinne didn’t see the rider’s face or upper body, but his legs were lean and powerful. He wore a gray cloak, tall leather boots and a fine sword. The deep blue pommel of a knife glinted at the top of one boot. Silver hardware decorated the stirrups, edges of his saddle, and the bridle with strange patterns.
No ordinary warrior, this. Rhinne’s heart started to pound in long, solid beats as he slowed and hailed Fana to stop.
The cart creaked as Fana rose and jumped to the ground. As slowly and quietly as she dared, Rhinne turned her head to see through the boards.
Fana dropped to her knees before the black burnished hooves of the rider’s steed. “Milord,” she said, her voice shaking with fear.
“Rise,” replied a voice as smooth and beautiful as a cool autumn afternoon.
Fana got up and stood with her hands clasped at her breast. Rhinne felt sick. She didn’t think this man was a Keeper of the Eye. Fana wouldn’t kneel to a wizard; Rhinne had gathered that much about her. This man felt more like Ascarion, noble, lofty and not of the world. At the same time, his presence had more force than Ascarion’s, like the difference between waking and dreaming realities.
He said, “I am looking for someone.” In his dark, seductive voice, he went on to describe Rhinne right down to her new clothes and the wounds in her body. She closed her eyes and lay there, ravaged by an irrational desire to jump up and declare herself. Anything would be better than huddling here like a wounded rabbit under a log.
When he finished, Fana was silent for a moment. Then with a matter-of-fact air she said, “I seen no pretty girl like that. I’m heading south, to the harbor. My boy is in the good Lord’s army. His name is Artrec. Third under a high commander, he is.” Rhinne peered up and saw her nod with ostentatious maternal pride, then fling a crooked thumb towards the cart. “I’m taking him some gear.”
“Are you.” The warlord leaned down on the pommel of his saddle as if to study her. A thick, glossy braid of his black hair hung down by his hand, a perfect hand, strong and fair as a marble carving. “Why does Artrec not have his gear with him?”
Rhinne’s heart jumped into her throat. Good point: no warrior worth his pay would ever be separated from his leather and his blades. “Let me see this gear,” the warlord demanded. Fana jumped and moved out of sight. Rhinne stiffened as the door on the front half of the cart opened.
“See here, Lordship?” Fana piped. “My lad, he’s not been in battle for a time and he—”
“Stop this tale,” the rider interrupted her. “You are a thief. These things belonged to men who now have need of them. The Keepers of the Eye will learn of this.”
Fana dropped to the ground again as the entity pressed his heels into the flanks of his steed and thundered up the road. When his hoofbeats faded to silence, Rhinne pounded her fist on the inside of the cart. Fana ran around and opened it. Rhinne thrashed a soft garment away from her face as the woman peered over the edge.
“Some shelter you are!” Rhinne snarled. “A thief? And trying to lie to a bloody god?”
A brief, worried smile fled over Fana’s face. “He stopped askin’ about you, didn’t he?”
Rhinne laid her head back against the cart with a long exhale. “And you call me mad. He could have killed you then and there.”
“Na. Everybody knows immortals can’t do just anything. There’s a balance.”
“Some of them can,” Rhinne snapped back. “For all that, look around. Plenty of bad things happen despite your so-called ‘balance.’ You took a chance.”
Fana spread her fingers apart and held them to her clover-colored eyes. “He’s riding blind, girl. The old Lords don’t question the likes of us unless something is blocking them. He’d have found you already, otherwise.”
Clever, Rhinne thought. But she dared not take the woman’s claim for granted. For all her bravado, Fana’s voice shook and her flesh was pale. She was scared.
They turned as hoofbeats sounded in the distance behind them. Rhinne cowered down, and Fana made a show of personal business as a company of riders thundered by on the road. After they passed, she snapped, “Raptors. Get back inside before somebody sees you.”
Rhinne pushed herself up and started to climb out. “Forget it. I’ll not have you lying to gods on my account, and now you’ll have Keepers after you. I’ll take my chances in the woods along the road.”
“Foolish girl! That black Lord may not be able to see with his mind, but his eyes could spot a flea in a summer meadow.” She nodded grimly. “Aye and why such a one is lookin’ for you, that’d be a tale worth hearing, aye it would!”
Rhinne threw aside the clothes and things around her and angrily climbed from the cart, holding her belly as she dropped to the ground. “I don’t know what he wants. But I won’t...”
Fana silenced her with a hiss. Then she clutched Rhinne’s arm with enough force to bruise her. “Here’s a thing,” the older woman breathed, her lips trembling.
Rhinne followed her attention to the other side of the road. At first, she saw nothing; then, she caught movement in the forest, subtle, natural movement, like a deer when one looks and does not see. Cold thorns closed around her heart as she spotted a man in the brush, watching her. A hint of red bloodied one of his arms.
“Do you know him?” Fana whispered.
The pain in Rhinne’s womb rose up like a wave, causing her thighs to weaken. “It’s an assassin, and the end of my good fortune.”
“Wizard killer?”
Rhinne shook her head. “He’s from my homeland. But they know magic.” She looked over her shoulder into the forest and then ran around the far side of the cart. The pony shook its mane and turned its head as Rhinne opened the front compartment where she had seen the stolen weapons. She found a sword sheathed in a cracked leather scabbard and a knife sheathed in green velvet. She handed it to Fana as she came to her side.
“Och! I can’t use that,” the woman growled.
Setting the knife aside, Rhinne studied her companion. “How did you spot him? I didn’t feel him there right off, and I usually do.”
Fana shrugged. “Thieves a sense for these things.” Her eyes widened as Rhinne strapped the sword to her body with knowledgeable ease.
“If you had that much sense you’d not have taken up with me.” She picked up the knife, shook off its pretty sheath and slipped it into her boot. “C’mon.”
“Wait! We’d be safer from that sort on the road.”
Rhinne grabbed the woman’s hand and half-dragged her over the bank into the trees. When she reached the shelter of a low-hanging hemlock, she hunkered down and peered over the bank.
The assassin was no longer there.
She got up and moved deeper into the woods with Fana trailing behind. They reached a large outcropping that towered up and leaned over, forming a shelter on the side of a rise. Rhinne pulled Fana beneath the shadows.
“Why is he after you?” Fana said.
Ignoring the question, Rhinne moved her gaze over the wooded terrain dappled in morning light. A breeze stirred the trees, sending drops of water cascading to the ground. As the wind stilled, a chill crept over the right side of her scalp. She dropped her voice to a low whisper. “Stay here. If I don�
��t return, go back to the road and get out of here.”
“He’ll kill you, girl.”
“That’ll happen anyway if I don’t deal with this.” Not waiting for a reply, Rhinne crept from the stony shelter and moved through the brush. If you are outmatched, she heard Wulfgar say in the calm voice of swords and reason he always used in their lessons together, rely on more than your skill. Your physical senses will deceive you if driven by doubt.
I killed a priest, Rhinne said to herself in an attempt to comfort her nerves. I escaped a hunter at sea. She frowned. Sort of.
She dropped to the ground as a rash of thorns crept over her flesh. With a whirring sound, a flash hit the air above her. She turned as a knife buried itself into a tree not three paces away. If she hadn’t knelt just then, it would have hit her.
Trust the water.
“No water here,” she breathed, her heart racing. Pain chewed across her abdomen. Something had killed a man on the road last night. She didn’t think Ascarion had done it; he had never helped her like that before. But something had protected her.
Where was it now?
Her attention stopped on a dull blur in the glinting green. The assassin stood on an outcropping sheltered by the bough of a maple tree. His dark cloak stirred on the wind as he raised his hand, palm facing up. A cloud of moths fluttered into the air, dingy as cobwebs. Rhinne gasped as her stomach moved, sick and brown, swirling like a wing soaked in a pool.
The warlock leapt off the rock and strode towards her with maleficent confidence. Haunted by moths, Rhinne grabbed the knife from her boot, hefted it by the tip as Wulfgar had taught her, and threw it. The warlock casually ducked aside to avoid the blade as it hurtled by him, end to end, before clanking against a rock.
As he approached, Rhinne splattered the ferns with vomit. The warlock knelt by her side as she retched. He smelled like a stagnant pond, causing her to throw up again.
“Where is the book?” he asked simply.
Clutching her stomach, Rhinne sat up. She couldn’t help but laugh. “In the library,” she rasped, glowering at the thorny branches on his arm. His dirty blond hair clung to the edge of his hood like a root.
“The queen tried telling us that,” the warlock said. “She died for it.”
Rhinne looked into his eyes, dark with the knowledge of a killer. “You lie.”
“She died at the hands of the Eldest with the name of the Mistress on her lips.” He stood and paced back and forth with patient deliberation. “Her watery goddess didn’t hear her.”
Rhinne considered the sword on her back. The warlock would never let her get to it. Though she knew better than to believe anything he said, his claim infuriated her. It was an obvious attempt to weaken her with shock. Everything about him infuriated her.
Arrogant, superior, hateful son of a bitch.
She leaned forward and launched herself at him with a cry. He swung around and struck her in the face, but her momentum as she crashed into him brought him to the ground. She grappled for his throat. With the strength and agility of a weasel, he avoided her hands and drove a fist into her gut. Agony tore into her mind as the warlock got up and towered over her.
Rhinne had landed on a heavy branch. Pretending to be paralyzed by pain—close enough to be convincing—she grasped it in her hands, feigned curling up, and then rolled over and swung it around with enough force to crack a skull. It splintered in two as it struck the warlock in the leg. As he stumbled, Rhinne rolled over, drew her sword and held it before her, breathing heavily.
His blade struck hers before she gained her balance. He could have stricken her down with magic, but clearly preferred weakening her personal worth by besting her in a fight. It brought to mind Wulfgar’s voice: Every fight contains an advantage to be used. Wait for it, and do not hesitate when it presents itself.
Arrogance. He moved his sword in a volley of thrusts and parries that pushed Rhinne back a step at a time. He was toying with her, driving her down; somehow, he believed the answer to his question lay in the depths of her despair. But Rhinne had seen those depths already.
“If your god had power over me, he wouldn’t need the book,” she panted with a girlish laugh.
Baring his teeth, the warlock deftly knocked her sword from her hand and slammed his fist into her face, knocking her to the ground. He came down and grabbed her neck, shutting off her air. His arms and hands were like steel; nothing she did moved them.
When he put a knife to her throat, she stilled. “Where is the book?” he asked quietly.
I don’t know. She closed her eyes and waited for death.
Suddenly, his grip loosened. He slumped forward upon her, his eyes wide with mortal astonishment as his chest landed on her face. Rhinne groped at his body to shove him off, but her strength had left her.
Footsteps pattered on the ground. Gasping for air, Rhinne opened her eyes as something crowned with a mass of red hair dragged the warlock’s body off of her. “Ealiron!” Fana swore. “He almost had you, girl!”
Rhinne brought her hands to her throat. It was damp with blood where he had pressed his knife into it. Her cheekbone throbbed and her belly hurt so badly she didn’t know how she would ever stand up again. She pushed herself away from the dead warlock and saw a knife buried near the top of his shoulders. The black iron shaft contained an onyx stone in the shape of a talon.
“Thought you couldn’t use a knife,” Rhinne croaked.
“Well...” Fana trailed off. She helped Rhinne into a sitting position, her expression closed. As air flowed into her lungs, Rhinne blinked in the morning light, her gaze creeping repeatedly to the dead assassin. Fana pulled the knife from his back and threw it deep into the woods. A clumsy throw for someone who had just killed an oborom warlock with a single strike.
“We need to move,” the woman said.
Rhinne could have curled over her wounded body like an animal until night fell over the wood and the sun rose again. But Fana was right. Two assassins now, looking for an accursed book that didn’t exist.
As Rhinne got to her feet, she thought again of Scot, Ascarion’s scout. Twenty miles, two arrow wounds and an army after him. She and Fana had three times that to reach Caerroth if they had a day.
The women dragged the warlock’s body into a damp, ferny hollow and covered it with brush. Rhinne retrieved the oborom sword from the ground where he had tossed it just before trying to strangle her. The grip was wrapped in plain black leather, but every detail of its construction hummed with the care of a skilled smith. “Want this for your stash?”
Fana frowned. “I’d be strung up quick if I tried to pass a blade like that.”
Rhinne tossed the sword into the ferns. “It’s probably enchanted, anyway.”
Leaning on each other, the women returned to the road. As they neared the bank, Fana broke off and moved a short distance away. She leaned down and picked up a pack with something rolled up and tied to the bottom. She flushed as Rhinne approached. “We have a problem.”
Rhinne moved to the edge of the bank where they had left the pony and cart. She saw neither.
“You didn’t come back,” Fana blurted. “I thought he got you so I did as you said and left. But when I got here, somebody’d already been. Thieves, ruffians, I dunno, they ransacked my cart and took poor Auntie.” She lifted the pack. “This was all I could salvage.”
Rhinne let out her breath as she climbed up and saw the shambles of Fana’s cart scattered on the edge of the road, tangled up with old clothes, baubles, broken jars and whatever else didn’t interest thieves—which was most of it.
“We’re not far from the forest path,” Fana offered. “I have dressings for your hurts, some food and cookware. A blanket. Be easier to hide, this way.”
Rhinne withdrew into the shelter of the forest, a cloud of gloom settling over her heart. She wouldn’t have a chance if another assassin came upon her.
Gulping, she stumbled after her guide.
*
Stars
shone faintly through stone-black clouds driven by a rising wind. The night was old; soldiers, innkeepers, and woodsmen had found their beds, animals rested in their barns, and the dogs had stopped barking. Only owls and cats prowled the darkness.
Owls, cats, and assassins. Lorth sniffed the damp air as he reached a gap in the woods on the western side of the road. He dismounted and stretched. “This way,” he said. “There’s an abandoned barn out here that’ll shelter us from the coming rain.”
Wulfgar slid from his mount and followed him into the thicket. “I’m still not clear why we didn’t stop at that inn two hours ago,” he said with a yawn. “Looked a nice warm place.”
“Aye. Food’s good, too. Unfortunately, your sister channeled a loerfalos in there and tried to kill me.”
“A what?”
“You know her as the Mistress of the Sea.”
Silence; then: “You told me Rhinne tried to kill herself.”
“She did that next. I carried her out with blood on my hands and they thought I did it. I didn’t have time to explain before they set their hounds on me. Anyway, it’ll be some time before I’ll be welcome in the Shapeshifter again. Just as well, the inns are full of soldiers. I’d rather stay out of sight.”
Wulfgar grunted in agreement. “Didn’t Eyrie vouch for you?”
The Riven God Page 20