LOST IN A tangle of blankets, Khoury could almost convince himself he was alone. Nalia lay sleeping nearby but only her mussed hair was visible from his vantage point. Guilt stabbed at him for treading so roughly on Cara’s feelings. He shouldn’t have kissed her in the first place, but it would have been crueler to let her assume it meant more than it did. He comforted himself with the notion that she was inexperienced and her attachment just a crush. Nalia, on the other hand, offered him a much-needed release without concern. He knew as well as any man in the village that she gave everything but her heart.
He had lingered in the hall for a few more drinks to make sure the girl would be long gone before he left with Nalia. Once they’d arrived back at her hearth, he gave himself over to those primitive urges he blamed for his misstep with Cara. What began as heated kisses soon turned to a passion that seared the memory of feminine laughter from his mind. Nalia was every bit the rousing bed partner he remembered, and in the press of willing flesh and primal rhythms, Cara and his memories were forgotten.
But Khoury woke in the deep of night from a nightmare that left him full of dread and searching for his blade. In his dream, Cara was lost and fighting for her life. The protective urge swelled, waking him with the almost irresistible urge to cross the village and make sure she was safe. But he didn’t. He stayed under the blankets, frozen between the need to find her and the desire to be free of her. This is silly, he chided himself. She’s probably with Gar. No harm could come to her there but the dread lingered.
The furs were clenched in his hand, reminding him that he was weaponless. He’d liked his previous swords. Good weapons, well-balanced and sharp, but they’d been taken when he was captured in Telsedan. He was shocked that he’d been in Bear Clan a whole week and still hadn’t replaced them. It wasn’t like him to be so complacent, and he cursed himself for ignoring the possibility of pursuit. He wasn’t usually so sloppy. In the morning, he’d visit the smithy and get a couple of blades for himself. And one for Archer. He needed a good sparring match. His unsettled mood was eager for battle, even a mock one.
His mind chattered on as he lay there, ruining any chance of sleep. He needed to get back to work. Work always settled his pains. Sitting still had never been good for him, physically or mentally. He’d been gone almost a month now: Nearly three weeks in the Keep and one more week here. Traveling south would take them a few more days without horses, and he could only hope he hadn’t lost his best men to another captain.
But there was nothing to be done about that right now and since rest was impossible, Khoury rolled over to Nalia and woke her with gentle hands on her curves and kisses in her hollows. As usual, she awoke with an eager smile for him. But even as her legs wrapped around his hips, haunting laughter bubbled in the corners of his mind.
THE SOUNDS OF the day pierced Cara’s awareness, clearing away the misty sensation in her head. Someone was moving around close by, but she couldn’t focus. Her tongue felt as dry as shoe leather, and her body ached. Still groggy, she groaned and sat up to find she was naked.
“Ah, you’re awake.” The voice behind her sounded relieved.
She clasped the blanket to her chest and craned her head around to find Bradan puttering about the hide tent where she’d met him. Was it only last night? The details were still muddied in her mind.
“Do you remember the forest now?” he asked.
The shocking deluge of memories disoriented her and waves of nausea crashed against her throat. Unprepared, she could do little but lean over before she vomited on the floor. Breathing heavily through her mouth, she fought to keep from passing out again.
“Breathe easy.” Bradan rushed to circle her with a strong arm, leaning her head on his chest. He caressed her face with a damp cloth, bringing back some semblance of balance. Ealea came in and, with a motherly glance at the mess, took the soiled fur outside for cleaning.
“I’m sorry,” Cara mumbled, embarrassed.
“Hush. You’ve been through a lot,” Bradan said softly.
“The journey. The fight. Where did you take me last night?”
“We never left this tent.”
Cara’s hand went to her shoulder and felt the bandage. “But this.”
“That is something out of legend. What do you remember?” He settled in next to her and waited.
She tried to straighten the disjointed images in her head. “You asked to be shown my soul and a wind came, like a storm.”
“I remember.”
“It took me to somewhere. It was night. I was hunting.” Her mind rebelled at the idea.
“Hunting?”
“Yes. An animal, like a big cat.” Darting shadows and moonlight flitted through her mind, unsettling her belly again. She shied away from the memories. “I don’t really want to talk about this.”
“You know how to hunt?”
“No. It wasn’t me.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was like a dream and I was someone else. My clothes were different. Somehow, I knew how to fight. The knife felt…good in my hand.” She shuddered, disgusted with herself. More death. Always more death.
“And then?”
Cara’s throat felt suddenly thick as she remembered the cat leaping and the pain. “It attacked.” She remembered her knife slipping into the animal’s throat and the warm blood running over her arm making her jubilant. Her hand went to her shoulder even as she hated herself for howling in victory.
Bradan whistled in amazement. “I’ve heard stories of dreamwalkers. Shaman so powerful they transport their bodies elsewhere. But Ealea said you didn’t leave; the wounds just appeared.”
“I’m not powerful,” she whispered. Hadn’t years of helplessness proved that?
“Oh, but you are.”
Cara wasn’t ready to take his word for it and let the matter drop. “Did you find my missing piece?”
Bradan shook his head. “No. But something is definitely going on.” Discouraged, she looked up with a frown. He smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. Those wounds are minor. Get dressed. Eat something. You’ll feel better by afternoon.”
Bradan stood up and handed her the clothes she’d worn the night before. Then he ducked out of the tent. Grateful for the privacy, she dressed, pulled on her gloves, and then ventured out to where Ealea crouched over a pot of what smelled like stew. Bradan whispered something to his wife and then, kissing her, left for the village.
“Here you go,” said Ealea in her dulcet voice. She handed Cara a small bowl and spoon, pointing to a mat near the fire. “I’ll fetch you some fresh water.” Lifting a bucket, she walked off toward the river.
Cara sat on the mat in the soothing silence and stared absently at the bowl in her lap. The stew smelled good, and she lifted a tentative spoonful to her lips. It proved to be as hearty as it smelled and after a few slurps, she felt better. She nibbled the vegetables while running through the dream in her mind. It wasn’t like any other dream she could recall. The details were so vivid, the smells, the sounds. They felt more like memories. She could almost believe that she had killed the beast with her own hands.
And I have the scratches to prove it. A strange feeling of power filled her and she rested cross-legged, eyes closed, her face lifted to the sun until Ealea returned.
“Here’s the water. Would you like more stew?”
“Thank you, but no.” She took a deep breath of the cool morning air. “I feel good. If you want me, I’ll be at the kitchens.”
“A return to routine is always good medicine,” she said, nodding.
Cara stood and left Bradan’s home, but her feet automatically turned toward the bear pens rather than the kitchens. Others would have tended her bears for her, but they were her family. Caring for them had been her job every morning for as long as she could remember. Gar was waiting for her at the gate. She fed them and brushed them and scratched each bear’s itchy spots, lingering in the contentment she always felt with them. As the sun climbed
higher, she reluctantly left for the kitchens stopping by Maura’s hut to change clothes.
While there, she removed the bandages and inspected her wounds. Three scabbed tears ran over the front of her shoulder and four ran down the left side of her belly. Bradan was right, the cuts weren’t deep. Her shoulder ached a little but it was nothing that would keep her from working with Ingrid. Feeling strangely buoyant, she took extra care with her appearance, choosing a pale blue shift that matched her amulet with a dark blue over tunic embroidered with delicate images of doves about the neckline. She brushed her hair until it gleamed, braiding her luminous mane into a thick cord, and tied it off with a dark blue ribbon. Satisfied, Cara left to find Ingrid and tell her all about what had happened.
The kitchen was bustling, even more so than usual, and Cara joined the round of activity with uncharacteristic ease. Archer and some of the other men had gone out hunting and had returned shortly before with two elk. The meat needed to be cured and stored, and Cara was so busy she didn’t get a chance to speak with Ingrid before midafternoon.
During a lull, Cara steeped a small pot of chamomile tea and brought it and a cup to where the old woman rested before the fire. Setting the cup down on a nearby stool, she smiled at Ingrid.
“A lovely child you are,” Ingrid said. She was pale, her eyes bloodshot.
“You looked like you could use it.” Cara pulled a small afghan from near the hearth and laid it over Ingrid’s legs. So much of the day had passed already, the urge to tell Ingrid about the journey had faded. Cara just sat staring into the fire, sharing a quiet moment in their busy day. “I meant to ask you, how is the little boy?”
“Thomas?”
“Did the tea help him?”
“Not enough. I was up with him through most of the night. The fever has him tightly. I don’t think I’ll be able to save him this time.”
The brightness drained out of Cara’s day. “You mean he’ll die?”
The crone put a hand on Cara’s sleek hair. “Sometimes even the best of us fail. Who can tell what is truly meant to be?”
“Meant to be,” Cara echoed, remembering Archer’s words in the Keep.
“No life lasts forever,” the old woman sighed, sipping the hot tea. “You must be wise enough to know when nature should take its own course.”
In her heart, Cara couldn’t accept that. Death was the enemy. As she sat, staring into the fire, the years of feeling helpless welled up inside her. Whatever power had buoyed her through the day faded beneath the weight of those memories.
“Taking a rest, ladies?” The voice pulled Cara from her brooding. Bradan walked over and pulled up a chair, sitting on the other side of Cara from Ingrid. “Cara, I’ve been thinking over what we talked about this morning. How much do you know about the history of magic?”
“Nothing really.” Again, she was daunted by how little she really knew about the world everyone else lived in.
“Those who have power like Sidonius are born with it. You cannot acquire it any other way.”
Ingrid straightened in her chair, her eyes intently on Bradan, but she said nothing.
“Which means one or both of your parents had power,” he said.
“Does that mean Sidonius really is—”
“Your father? No, but there must be power in your family somewhere.”
A strange look passed between him and the herbalist, and Cara thought she saw the old woman nod.
“We believe that all powers originally came from the Far Isles,” Bradan said. “Relations between men and women are forbidden but new apprentices are young and often hot-blooded. They wait upon their masters, the Magi who serve crowns across the continent. Undoubtedly these young lads would have found themselves the object of interest, being forbidden fruit, as it were.”
Cara didn’t understand what he meant exactly but refused to pursue that line of thought. “Then is your power also from forbidden fruit?”
He shifted uncomfortably.
Ingrid cleared her throat and answered for him. “Not directly. No Islander has ever come here. But the Clans travel great distances to trade for goods. Dowries of trade rights are commonplace and make solid alliances. We believe that Far Isle half-bloods have married into the Clans, giving us our talented bloodlines as well.”
“Over time these powers could have become more commonplace,” Bradan explained. “But generally they show up in nobility. The backlash of its misuse led to the violence of the Tangoran raids,” Bradan continued as if Cara knew the history he spoke of, “driving us farther north and into isolation to preserve our way of life. No more marriage alliances were permitted. This isolation, however, has caused talent to run thin. I am one of the few with power left in the North,” Bradan admitted as if it were something to be ashamed of.
Only a few Northerners had power? From what she had seen, their powers were nothing compared to what Father could do. She looked back and forth between Ingrid and Bradan, sensing something unseen. Then, she noticed a resemblance she hadn’t before. “How many more are there, besides you two?”
Ingrid sighed. “Only two others. One in Seal Bay and the other in Eagle Falls.”
Only two? Which meant Sidonius’s magic was rare as well as strong. “And what does all this have to do with me?” Cara asked.
“If you have power, and after last night there can be no doubt…” Bradan said, pausing.
“Then you must come from one of these noble bloodlines,” Ingrid finished, her piercing eyes resting on Cara.
“You’re saying I have royal blood?”
“Yes,” Bradan said.
Cara laughed. “No, that can’t be right. I’m nobody.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what Sidonius wanted you to think. Your heritage may be the reason the spirits are interested in you. Then again, maybe not. It’s hard to say. Still, we can arrange for you to go south to search for your real parents if you want. But I warn you, you might not like what you find.”
Cara stared at him, trying to digest what he was saying.
Bradan stood. “You don’t need to decide right now. But I believe you’re far more important than you’ve been led to believe, and in such situations, ignorance is dangerous.” He strode out of the kitchen, leaving Cara shocked and wondering.
“What did he mean: I might not like what I find?”
Ingrid finished her tea and set the cup down. “Not all nations are honorable. Better to be orphaned than be from the bloody mountains of Barakan. Dunhadrar, we call them. Brother-slayers.”
“Brother-slayers?” Cara didn’t like the sound of that. “Why?”
“There are no ties the Dunhadrar respect in their search for power, not even those of blood.”
“Why would he think I’m one of them?”
“He doesn’t, but each familial line has only one type of talent. If Maura develops any magic, it would be talking to the spirits. Barakan nobles wield mind magic.” Again, Ingrid’s eyes seemed to see through to Cara’s very soul. “The power to command others is very seductive.”
Cara looked away. A guilty stone lay heavy in her belly. Thought-reading didn’t necessarily make her a Dunhadrar, did it?
“I don’t really know what power I have,” she said defensively. “Bradan said I might be a dreamwalker.”
“Your skills are ambiguous then, which is itself unusual.” Ingrid’s expression softened. “You have a good heart, child. Trust in that.”
But in the silence, Cara’s mind whirled with self-loathing. As if thinking Sidonius was her father wasn’t bad enough, now she might be from a royal line of murderers. “Ingrid, what would you do? About finding out…”
“Where you’re from?”
Cara nodded.
“Nothing,” the old woman said gruffly. “Decide who you want to be and be that. Bloodlines and power be damned.”
Then Ingrid took a deep breath and pushed to standing. “It’s time we got back to work, girl. There’s gathering to be done.” She held out her han
d for Cara to touch.
Cara hesitated, wondering if her power condemned her in Ingrid’s eyes.
The old woman smiled reassuringly. “I’m weary of talk. Take my hand, and let me show you want I want. And no swimming this time, you hear?”
Cara smiled and did as she was asked. She spent the rest of the warm afternoon wandering the forest in search of the plants Ingrid had shown her: Arrowroot and savory and rosemary, wild onions and cabbage. On the way back, she noticed a group of young men gathered near the smithy. Shouts echoed through the fading light and the occasional clang of steel. She was curious but her sacks were full to bursting and she was late, so she didn’t stop. If it was important, she was sure she’d hear about it during the dinner hour.
At dinner, Maura had taken the night off and was sitting with Archer. But unlike previous nights, when Cara would see them laughing, Archer was unusually serious and a bandage covered most of his left hand. She would have gone over to visit with them but Nalia was there, apparently waiting for Khoury. Cara decided she’d ask Maura about Archer before going to the bear pens for the night.
The hall was busier than usual or maybe the villagers were just restless, but Cara spent most of her time dodging bodies and trying to avoid spills. So it was inevitable that she would run into Khoury. Literally. Luckily, the four ales on her tray only sloshed, but the sharp jolt to her shoulder made her gasp.
Khoury froze at the sound. “Are you all right?” he asked. Strong hands wrapped around her biceps, steadying her.
“I’m fine.” She pulled away from him still angry about the night before. But out of courtesy she schooled her features into a pleasant mask. He silently took the tray, allowing her a moment to wipe the ale from her arms with the towel that hung from her belt.
He must have recently bathed as the scent of soap wafted off him. His dark hair, that had lengthened since she first met him, curled wetly over his collar, and his beard was thick and dark. He waited, watching her with unreadable eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the tray back, balancing it on one hand and offering him an ale with the other. She decided not to mention the night before, either Nalia or her journey with Bradan, mainly because there was nothing to be said. As he took the ale from her, she noticed cuts on his hands, fresh and bright red.
Quest of the Dreamwalker (The Corthan Legacy Book 1) Page 12