They increased their pace, making for a way house Byrne knew of at the southern end of the pass that would provide shelter against wind and drifting snow. Raisa rode in a kind of frozen stupor, her hood pulled low over her face, drawing what heat she could from Switcher.
The wind began to rise long before they reached their destination, swirling the fine, powdery snow up from the ground, raking it free from the trees and flinging it into their faces. Soon it was full dark, and then darker than that, as the racing clouds devoured the stars. They never saw the rising moon. It began to snow, lightly at first, and then more heavily, tiny ice pellets that stung their exposed skin and increased their misery.
In Oden’s Ford, Raisa had never needed anything heavier than kidskin gloves. She tucked first one hand, then the other under her cloak, guiding Switcher with her knees alone. But Byrne, who did not miss much, handed her a pair of long woolen riding gloves with deerskin palms. Clanwork, no doubt. Raisa pulled them on gratefully.
The horses were now mere shades in the swirling darkness. Byrne strung a rope between them so they would not lose each other. He seemed to find his way by instinct. They had no choice but to go on—they had to find shelter from the growing storm.
It was oddly reminiscent of the day the previous spring when Raisa, her mother, her sister Mellony, Byrne, and Lord Bayar had gone hunting in the foothills. A forest fire had rushed down from the mountains, and they’d taken refuge in a canyon. They’d ridden, roped together, through the smoke and ash, scarcely able to see the horse in front. Then, it had been blistering hot, the air too thick to breathe. Now the air seemed too thin, lacking sustenance, crackling in their noses. It was numbingly cold.
Last spring, the wizards Lord Bayar and Micah, and Micah’s cousins, the Mander brothers, had saved their lives, magically putting the fire out.
Had it really been less than a year ago?
Switcher plowed forward doggedly in the gelding’s wake, her nose and mane crusted with ice, her flanks steaming in the frigid air. The snow was so powdery fine and deep that it seemed at times the horses were swimming, flank high in a milk-white ocean.
Finally, amazingly, they broke out of the trees and into a small clearing in the shelter of a vertical rock wall. Crouched against the rock face was a sturdy wooden building with a stone chimney and a shake roof layered over with snow. And next to it, a crude lean-to for the horses. Raisa’s mare slowed to a stop of her own accord, as if sensing that relief was at hand. Scrubbing snow from her eyelashes, Raisa stared dumbly at the buildings, afraid they would disappear as quickly as they had appeared.
All around her, the relieved guards were dismounting, shaking off the accumulated snow, and leading their horses toward shelter.
Switcher stamped her foot impatiently, but Raisa made no move to dismount. She squinted at the cabin, thinking there was something out of order about the scene before her. She caught the faint scent of wood smoke, though the air was so cold as to be almost painful to breathe.
And then she saw them. Out of the swirling white, they loped toward her, faces and ruffs crusted with snow, eyes blazing out a warning. Wolves, what seemed like dozens of wolves, the forest boiling with gray-and-white bodies that poured into the clearing, led by the familiar gray she-wolf with gray eyes.
They were her ancestors, the Gray Wolf queens. A warning that the line was in danger.
Still mounted, Byrne edged his gelding up beside her. “Your Highness? Shall I help you down?” The captain was fixed on her, his head tilted as if he were about to ask another question.
She put one hand on his arm to stay him, and with the other pointed toward the cabin. Her teeth were chattering so hard she could scarcely get the words out. “Byrne. No snow…the chimney…in front of the door.”
He followed her gaze, took it in quickly. No smoke curled from the chimney, but the snow had melted for a distance all around it. The snow drifted undisturbed against the cabin, but it was gone from in front of the door. Meaning someone was inside, or nearby. Only, no one would willingly leave shelter in such a storm. Nor put out his fire, either, unless he was trying to hide his presence.
Byrne shouted a warning as the first crossbows sounded from the surrounding woods. The soldiers on the ground looked up in surprise. Some of them fell where they stood, their black blood steaming as it splattered into the snow. A few managed to scramble back onto their horses, spurring them into the trees, wrestling weapons out of their saddle boots, struggling with gloved hands to string their bows. But not many.
Raisa sat frozen, watching all this as if it were a drama and she a spectator, until Byrne pushed her head down with his gloved hand. “Lie flat and follow me!” he growled, demonstrating by leaning close into his horse’s neck and slamming his heels into the gelding’s sides. They twisted and turned as they crossed the clearing, Byrne leading the way. Raisa flinched as something whined close to her ear, burning the skin at the back of her neck. She pressed her face into Switcher’s neck, her heart clamoring in fear.
As they reached the first of the trees, a large shape materialized out of the swirling flakes, a man on foot swinging a great sword. Switcher screamed and reared back, and the blade missed taking off Raisa’s head and bit into the mare’s shoulder. Raisa caught a glimpse of a grinning, bearded face as the man reached for her, grabbing a fistful of cloak.
Their eyes met, and a look of startled recognition passed across the man’s scar-puckered face. He looked oddly familiar to Raisa, too.
There was no time to dwell on it. Raisa twisted Switcher’s head around, stood in her stirrups, and slammed her boot into the attacker’s chin. His head snapped back and he disappeared from view as they charged on into the darkness.
The sounds of fighting faded behind them, but Byrne pushed the exhausted horses forward relentlessly. The wind howled, and the swirling flakes reduced the world around them to the space of a few yards, broken by the gray skeletons of trees. Off to the left and right, Raisa could see gray bodies loping through the trees, easily keeping pace with them. So they were still in grave danger.
Raisa prayed. “Sweet Lady in chains, deliver us,” she whispered. It was odd how an attempt on her life could snap her out of her funk.
The weather was a blessing and a curse. It fought them every step of the way, yet between the wind and snow, all traces of their trail would be obliterated within moments of their passing. As the snow deepened, their forward progress slowed as the horses plunged forward through mammoth drifts. Switcher plowed along behind Byrne’s gelding, her head at the other horse’s flank.
Finally, Switcher’s slow plodding stopped. Raisa straightened and pushed back her hood. Byrne had reined in. He peered into the darkness on all sides, listening with his head cocked. Finally he nodded as if satisfied, and turned off the invisible trail into the deep snow to the left, floundering through drifts that were chest high on the horses in some places.
They ended in a grove of snow-covered pines whose weeping branches brushed the ground on all sides. Byrne dismounted on the lee side of one of the great trees and motioned for Raisa to do the same. Sliding her travel bag over her shoulder, she attempted to do so, but found her frozen limbs would no longer obey her commands. Murmuring an apology, Byrne slid his gauntleted arms under her and lifted her off her horse. Using his shoulder, he bulled his way through the drooping branches and into the shelter of the tree.
There, in the pine-scented darkness, it seemed almost temperate, the unrelenting shriek of the wind muted by thick branches with their layering of snow. Byrne set Raisa down on a carpet of pine needles.
“I’ll see to the horses,” he said, and shoved back outside.
Raisa looked around. No wolves in evidence. So they were safe—temporarily, at least.
Resisting the temptation to curl up and go to sleep, she tugged off her gloves and boots and began working her fingers and toes, conscious of the risk of frostbite. The pain as the blood returned was stunning. Using a fallen branch, she swept a small s
pace clean of pine needles and debris, then centered it with a pile of dry twigs and a bit of fireweed. Reaching into the traveler’s bag, she pulled out flint and iron. By the time Byrne returned with the saddlebags and an armful of weapons, she had a hot, smokeless fire going, and was hanging her socks and gloves to dry.
“Were you able to find shelter for the horses?” she asked, sitting back on her heels.
He knelt, pushing the bags into a dry corner. “Aye, I hobbled them out of the wind, under another overhang. Gave them plenty of grain, but we’ll need to melt some snow to—”
“Bones!” Raisa said, sitting up straight. “How is Switcher’s shoulder? I’m sorry. I meant to look at it.”
“It’s not too bad,” Byrne said. “I cleaned it out some, but she wasn’t very patient with me. I’ll take another look when it’s light out.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Raisa said. “I should have seen to it myself.” After an awkward pause, she added, “And thank you for saving my life. Again.”
“I’d rather you held off on thanking me, Your Highness,” Byrne said dryly. “We’re sheltering under a tree in the middle of a blizzard. And if we get out of this, there are lots of other ways to die between here and the capital.”
The Byrnes were pessimistic sorts.
“All right,” she said briskly. “Consider my thanks withdrawn. In the meantime, give me your wet things, and I’ll hang those as well. In the off chance we survive the night, we don’t want to wear wet again tomorrow, with the temperature dropping.”
Byrne shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” he said. “I had forgotten how capable you are.”
“I spent three years with the Demonai,” she said. “They travel light. If you don’t pull your weight, you’re left in camp with the toddlers and old people.”
“Some would prefer to stay in camp than ride with the Demonai,” Byrne said. He yanked off his gloves and handed them across to Raisa. Pulling off his boots, he peeled off his socks also. Raisa noticed, however, that he replaced them with dry socks from the saddlebags and thrust his feet back into his boots. Obviously, the captain did not mean to be surprised bootless.
Raisa hesitated, rubbing and stretching her recently freed toes, then followed his example. As she leaned forward to lace up her boots, Byrne suddenly gripped her shoulder. The presumption was so out of character that she looked up, startled.
Byrne swore softly. “Blood and bones! You’re wounded! Why didn’t you say anything? What happened?”
Raisa reached up and fingered the wound on her neck, which she had completely forgotten. Her hand came away sticky. “A near miss is all, Captain. It’s not serious.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he growled. “I’d better take a look. Assassins sometimes daub their arrow points with poison.” With that, he pressed his lips together as if he’d said too much. He turned her so the heat of the fire was on her back, brushed aside her hair, and poked at the back of her neck with thick fingers. “How d’you feel? Any dizziness, double vision, creeping numbness?”
Raisa shuddered. Given time, she was sure she could conjure any of those symptoms. “Do you know who they were?” she demanded. “You seem to have your suspicions.”
“Valefolk, from what I could tell. Not clan. But I didn’t get a good look at them.” Byrne produced a small iron pot, which he filled with snow and set to heat on the fire. “I don’t see any signs of poison, Your Highness. But we’ll wash it out good, just the same, and apply a poultice to draw it out, and then—”
“You said assassins, Captain,” Raisa snapped, interrupting the medical report.
Byrne released a long breath. “I don’t know for sure,” he admitted. “But I think that’s what they were. Highwaymen don’t come up here. The clan wouldn’t stand for it. Besides, there aren’t enough travelers this time of year to keep ’em in business, not a band that size. Highwaymen wouldn’t attack a triple of soldiers. We don’t carry much money, and there’s easier meat and better weather downslope. They were well fed, well mounted, and well armed. I believe they were expecting us.”
Byrne leaned over the fire, and the flames illuminated the grim planes of his face. “If I’m right, they’re still looking for us, or will be when the weather clears. And they have the advantage of knowing where we’re headed.”
The water had heated to Byrne’s satisfaction, so he lifted the pot off the flame with a heavy stick. He dropped several clean rags into the water, let them steep for a few minutes, and lifted one out with the same stick. When it was cool enough to handle, he squeezed out the excess water and applied it to the back of Raisa’s neck.
“Ow!” she hissed, startled by the heat. “Sorry,” she added, gritting her teeth. Byrne ignored the complaint, kneading her skin and scrubbing away the blood that emerged. He exchanged the bloody cloths twice more, then emptied a pouch of vegetable matter into the water remaining in the pot. Their sanctuary filled with a pungent scent. Snakebite root, Raisa thought. Used to draw poisons of all kinds.
Byrne thrust his stick into the pot and lifted a steaming mass of stinking root. Allowing the excess water to drip away, he dumped it onto a clean square of cloth he’d spread over the pine needles. Folding the cloth over, he pressed out the excess water.
Byrne plastered it over the back of Raisa’s neck. It stung at first, but then felt soothing. He finished by wrapping the whole mess over with linen. “There. We’ll leave that in place for a few hours, then see how it looks.”
Raisa swiped futilely at a trickle of water running down her back.
Byrne scrubbed out the pot with snow, then refilled it and set it on the fire to melt. “I’ll take water out to the horses and have another look around,” he said.
“Will the rest of your triple be able to find us here, do you think? Should we wait for them once the weather clears?”
Byrne shook his head. “We’d better hope they don’t find us, because if they can find us, so can those that ambushed us.” He busied himself packing up his medical kit, avoiding her eyes. “We’d better go forward on our own. Any survivors…that are able…will continue the fight and delay them. We’re seriously overmatched, so we’d best avoid them if we can. Two will be harder to spot in these mountains than a triple.”
And then she understood. No one else survived, she thought. Their orders were to stand and fight, once she was away, even though they were outnumbered.
“They’re all dead?” she said. She thought of them, tumbled all around her on the floor of her room in Delphi. “But…they were so young, most of them,” she whispered.
“This is our job, Your Highness.” Byrne lifted his wineskin, sloshing it gently as if to judge the contents, and offered it to Raisa, who shook her head.
She dug the heels of her hands into her temples, wishing she could grind away the guilt. “No,” she whispered, half to herself. “I will not allow my best soldiers to be wasted like this.”
“We’ve not much in the way of food and supplies,” Byrne said, as if she hadn’t spoken. Obviously, Raisa wasn’t going to be allowed any time for hand-wringing. “Just what you and I were carrying. Our best bet is to get through the pass and push on to Marisa Pines Camp as quickly as we can.”
And that is just what those hunting us will expect us to do, Raisa thought.
“Now, about weaponry,” Byrne said. “As I recall, you are a fair shot with a bow.” He put his hand on Raisa’s bow, which was laid out next to him.
Raisa nodded. It was no time for false modesty. “I’m good with a bow, though I’ve not tried that one. It seems a good size and weight for me, though.”
“Are you any good with a sword?”
“I…Amon’s worked me hard at swords these past months,” Raisa said. “But it’s not my strong suit.”
“Try this one.” He extended his sword toward her, hilt-first.
Raisa stood, gripping the hilt with both hands. It was fashioned to represent the Sword of Hanalea, the sig
nia of the Queen’s Guard. The cross-guard was cast in heavy metal, to resemble the rippling tresses of the Lady, and the pommel was the figure of the Lady herself.
It was nearly too heavy for her to lift, even with both hands. Shaking her head ruefully, she handed it back and sat down again. “I’m much safer with this in your hands than in mine. It’s lovely, though. The workmanship is exquisite. Is this a family heirloom?”
Byrne cleared his throat. “The queen—your mother—had it made for me when I…at the time of her coronation. When I was made captain. Marianna said it signifies that I hold Hanalea’s true line in my hands.”
His face, weathered by decades of pain, revealed more than he probably intended.
Raisa stared at the captain, her mouth slack with surprise. Byrne looked away quickly, as if he hoped to extinguish that knowledge in her eyes.
He’s in love with her, Raisa thought. I’ve been stupid blind not to see it.
Raisa recalled what her mother had said when she’d explained why there could never be anything between Raisa and Amon.
He’s a soldier, the queen had said, and his father’s a soldier, and his father . . . That’s all they’ll ever be.
Raisa had come close to making the same mistake herself—about her mother’s captain. She’d thought of Edon Byrne as steady, calm, capable, and practical above all else. Not a romantic bone in his body. The Captain Byrne she knew was bluntly honest, not a keeper of secrets.
She’d been wrong about that. She’d been wrong about so many things.
The Gray Wolf Throne Page 5