Quest of the Dreamwalker (The Corthan Legacy Book 1)

by Stacy Bennett

  “You,” he said with sudden recognition. She wasn’t sure what he meant.

  “Yeah, me. Now get everyone up. I have packs outside for you.”

  He pushed to his feet and extended a hand. “Name’s Mason Khoury.”

  She eyed the hand warily, suspecting a trap. “Falin.”

  The girl approached, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “I’m Cara.” Falin was startled to find that she and the girl actually stood eye to eye. Somehow, the Huntress thought she’d be the taller one.

  “Archer,” said the young Northerner. “And that’s Bradan.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the older man who eyed her suspiciously.

  “Well met,” Falin said formally. “Let’s get moving.” Falin ducked out the door while they gathered their weapons and followed. She shouldered her own pack and shoved a spare at each of the younger men. The older man and the girl were given the sleeping rolls to sling across their backs. They followed her wordlessly into the dark.

  She said nothing more to them as they circled west. Her mind was running through the coming ritual. Sorchia had called for a false Culling and Falin knew the true ritual. But she had a better idea, one less deceitful. That’s what she thought made it better. Still, her sweating palms revealed a distinct lack of confidence.

  KHOURY GRIPPED CARA’S small, gloved hand in his as they weaved through the forest. Their guide set a grueling pace that Khoury hoped she didn’t expect to keep up for long. Still, he was glad they were out of the village and back on the move. Cara hadn’t been clear on whether they were going through Foresthaven or just back out the way they had come. Either way, he was content that they’d be able to stay off the roads. That meant no inns with spying eyes.

  He was surprised when they stopped after little more than a quarter of an hour at a large bowl-shaped clearing. On one side stood a huge blackthorn tree, its roots like fingers digging into the ground. Two small torches cast dim shadows across the clearing, a stack of branches between them.

  Khoury stopped short and pushed Cara behind him as he recognized the pyre. On it were old bones, a hastily butchered carcass, and a young buck tied down so tightly by feet and horns it didn’t have enough leeway to thrash. The hairs on Khoury’s neck tingled.

  The Huntress didn’t break stride but sauntered in, dropping her pack in the center of the clearing. She untied a large sack Khoury hadn’t realized she was carrying and dropped it by the pyre. Then she retrieved a machete that was almost too large for her and a long thin dagger, both of which hung from the tree. The clean well-cared for blades glinted in the firelight.

  “What are you doing?” Khoury called.

  “Shh,” the Huntress hissed, motioning for them to stay quiet. She double-checked the knots and the bones and the wood, and felt the sloshing weight of an earthen pitcher that sat nearby. Then, leaving the machete at the pyre, she walked back to their small group, dagger in hand. Khoury’s hand went for his hilt.

  “Stop,” she said brusquely. “Spill no blood, or you all die.”

  Cara crept out from behind him, craning her head to see better. “The priestess said we could trust her,” she whispered shakily.

  Khoury released his sword.

  Falin gestured to them. “Give me a piece of clothing, a shirt or cloak from each of you men.”

  “Why?” Archer asked, dropping his pack and removing the long vest he was wearing.

  “No questions.” The Huntress’s clipped tones left little room for argument. She took the vest and held her hand out to Khoury and Bradan impatiently. Khoury dropped his pack and slipped out of his leather jerkin and shirt, handing her the white undershirt and keeping the heavier garment to wear. She turned to Bradan who separated the shorter hide cloak from the longer woven one he usually wore and handed her that.

  She strode back to the pyre and covered the buck in the garments.

  “Wait,” Cara cried, rushing closer.

  The Huntress turned, impatient anger looming on her brow.

  “You’re not going to kill it, are you?” Khoury could hear the futile tears in Cara’s voice. He moved in behind Cara, careful not to upset their volatile guide.

  “It’s the buck or the boys, little rabbit,” the Huntress said.

  “What?” Cara looked confused, but Khoury’s breath caught as the pieces fit together in his head.

  Falin sighed. “I said, you can save your men or you can save the deer. I don’t care which way it goes. Just decide.”

  He looked more carefully at the pyre. There was a second fresh carcass below the live buck. And now that he was close, he could tell the other bones, the older ones, were human. He was stunned. He hadn’t really believed the worst of the rumors but here he stood facing gruesome truth. “Cara, let her work.”

  Falin caught his eye. “Keep her back.”

  He pulled Cara away, tucking her close to him. “Don’t watch,” he said, trying to save her soft heart from what he knew was coming.

  The Huntress took a steadying breath, her face grim in the flickering lights, and then she struck with the swift violence of a true predator. She stabbed the long dagger through their clothes, straight to the buck’s heart once, and again, so that the fabric quickly soaked with blood. Cara, who had been peeking through her fingers, cried out softly and he felt her sob into his chest. She didn’t try to look again.

  The Huntress moved swiftly and efficiently without sentiment. She dropped the dagger, threw the bloodied clothes to the side. Then she took the machete and lopped off the deer’s head with a single powerful stroke. The feet came next. She dropped the feet and head in the sack and reached back in to pull out three skulls. Three human skulls smeared with fat and blood. It took her a moment to match jaws to crowns, but very quickly, there were three effigies on the pyre and a pile of bloody ruined clothes at the foot of it.

  The counterfeit was impressive. There were enough real human bones and fresh flesh to convince anyone on a cursory examination. Bradan caught Khoury’s eye and gestured to the pyre, his meaning clear. That could easily have been the three of them.

  But Falin wasn’t done. She cleaned the blades, quickly and efficiently and returned them to their places. And then, she began to sing. Her voice was low for a woman but surprisingly pleasant. It was obviously a prayer of some kind, the sweet melody in stark contrast to her grisly chore. She poured the oil from the earthen pitcher over the effigies.

  She picked up a torch and then turned back to the four of them. The torch cast a flickering light and in the near-dark with blood spatters on her face, her hair wild and a strange earnest gleam in her eye, she looked almost mad.

  “There’s no turning back after this. I have made a promise to watch over you and get little Sister to Iolair. But while we are within the Thorn Gates you must do what I say, exactly as I say. No questions. Is that clear?”

  The three men nodded, unable to find any words for the tenuous situation they found themselves in.

  “The primary rule is no blades. Do not draw your swords or knives or bows for any reason. There is nothing in this forest I cannot defeat single-handed and your steel will only anger the Mothers. No bare blades. Ever.”

  “Understood,” croaked Bradan, the first to find his voice. Cara had stopped weeping and turned her head to watch the Huntress with wide, fearful eyes.

  “If you’re considering slitting my throat, know that you cannot make it past any of the Gates without me. Go wait at the edge while I finish.” She pointed to a small grassy path that opened from the clearing, leading to a trail. The four of them waited there as Falin finished whatever ritual was required and lit the pyre. The stench of hair and flesh filled the air. Then she took up the full sack and her pack and, using her cloak, whisked their footprints from the ground before her, leaving only her own.

  “Single file,” she murmured as she squeezed past them and started along the path.

  THE SUN HAD cleared the horizon by the time the Huntress offered to stop. They rested a short distance from
a clear brook that gurgled placidly through the dense underbrush. The grisly nighttime offering seemed unreal in the morning light. Had Khoury believed the worst stories about Foresthaven, he would probably have risked the main road. Bradan was smug but had the grace not to rub it in too much. Still, they were on their way and Khoury was sure Sidonius had no way of knowing where they were.

  The brutal pace was a push for the shaman and had worn Cara completely out. So much so that when Falin called a halt, she simply dropped in her tracks and leaned against the nearest tree. Khoury found the waterskins and took some to Cara. Falin disappeared into the foliage with the sack and returned with it empty.

  As she walked up to them, Archer smiled in greeting and then tentatively pointed at her face. “You’ve still got a little something right there.” He mirrored wiping his own face. In truth, there was blood spatter all over her.

  She wiped her face and looked at her fingers which themselves were still brackish. Twisting her mouth with displeasure, she dropped the sack and her backpack, and headed back to the stream to wash. Khoury leaned up against the tree next to Cara and she drifted off to sleep with her head nestled in his shoulder. He was growing dangerously used to it.

  Archer sat nearby. “How long before the White Mountains?”

  “Can’t be more than a week.”

  Archer nodded. “I’ll be glad for a bed in Wallace’s castle, I can tell you that.”

  Khoury chuckled. “Me, too. These old bones aren’t what they used to be.”

  “Bah.” Bradan snorted. “Wait twenty years, then talk to me about old bones.”

  Falin returned and stood awkwardly in their midst, her face still damp. She seemed to be waiting. Her jaw was tight and her fists slightly clenched. She almost looked as though the danger had not yet passed.

  “Something wrong, Huntress?” he asked.

  Her green eyes momentarily clouded with worry but she lifted her chin and answered with a confident, “No.”

  “If I may, what was that place?” Bradan hadn’t shifted from his laconic slump against a tree, but Khoury knew the man well enough to know when his interest had been piqued.

  “The Culling pit,” she said with caution.

  “Interesting tree,” Bradan continued.

  “Was it?”

  “It had power.”

  She looked more closely at him, a faint admiration surfacing. “You noticed. That is the First Thorn. The oldest blackthorn in the wood.”

  “Why the pyre? I thought the Elders let us go,” Khoury said.

  “The false Culling was the high priestess’s idea.”

  “You lied to your gods?” asked Bradan.

  Affronted, Falin’s face hardened. “Wake the girl. We should go now.” She stood and resettled her pack on her shoulders.

  Khoury gently shook Cara’s shoulder.

  “Already?” she groaned reluctantly, though her face was less pale. The rest had done her some good.

  “Yep,” he said and helped her to her feet. Khoury slung his pack onto his shoulders and watched Bradan approach the Huntress. He shook his head at the old man’s persistence and hoped she was more patient than she looked.

  “Why would your priestess risk angering the spirits?” he asked in hushed tones.

  The Huntress’s nostrils flared with indignation. “If Sorchia told me to blaspheme, it was for your sake, Outsider.

  “Are you godless as well as bloodthirsty?”

  The Huntress’s hand tightened on her sword hilt. “I kept the Mothers’ Covenant.” Her lowered voice held a warning.

  “You just said…”

  “That a false Culling was suggested. What you saw was a simple burnt offering.” She shifted her pack on her back. “It just happened to be in the Culling pit.”

  “But—”

  Her patience at an end, the Huntress grabbed the front of Bradan’s tunic. Even with her slight build, her anger gave her enough strength to pull him off balance. “No more questions. Do as I tell you and you’ll survive. I owe you nothing more.” Then she shoved him away from her and started into the forest at a rapid pace.

  THE SMOKE FROM the Culling pit had certainly alerted the Sisters by now. Whether they’d believe the farce or not, it was hard to say. It was certain they’d never dreamed men might one day walk the paths of Foresthaven unscathed. Still, with a Sister gone rogue, they’d be thundering down the roads searching for justice. Though the southern wood would be a hard trek for Outsiders, Falin didn’t want to risk the easy paths. If caught, the men would be slain on sight, and maybe the rabbit, too. Falin was fairly confident they hadn’t been followed but history reminded her not to underestimate Rebeka.

  Her mind wandered back to her last meeting with Sorchia, bringing a sadness Falin never expected. For years, she’d thought of little except leaving to see the world. But something inside ached when she realized she’d never see the priestess again. She sent out a soft prayer for Sorchia’s safety. Though it was almost certain Rebeka would lay the blame on Falin, the chief scout liked trouble, and Falin didn’t trust her.

  Footsteps approached, and she glanced over her shoulder to see the captain.

  “You have to slow down. We can’t keep up this pace.”

  “Sure you can,” she teased. “But if little Rabbit is tired, we can rest.” As she stopped she noted his lips twist slightly at the nickname, though she wasn’t sure he shared her humor.

  “Thanks,” he said and turned back to the group. “Time to rest,” he called. She watched as Bradan lumbered to a halt, followed by an exhausted Cara. Archer slowed, grabbed the captain and pulled him toward the rear. Falin perched on a nearby fallen tree and watched them put their heads together. She turned her head to stare off into the trees, though she could still make out their mutterings.

  “We’re not making good time,” Archer said.

  “They can’t go any faster.” Khoury glanced at the girl and the old man slumped against the trees.

  “Five days’ walk to the mountains and then four more east to Iolair?”

  “If we can’t pick up the pace.”

  Archer sighed, looking up into the trees nervously. “But we are safe here.”

  The captain snorted. “Safe enough. Unfortunately, the more time we spend, the better Sidonius can set his net and then whatever comes after will be that much harder.”

  “And after Iolair?”

  “Depends on what news Wallace’s Islander can give us. If it’s bad, head for Cortland and run out to the Eastern Isles.”

  Archer nodded thoughtfully. “As good as anywhere I suppose. Let’s hope for good news.”

  “Always.” The captain clapped a hand on the Northerner’s shoulder, his face heavy with the weight of command. To Falin, he looked like he’d love to be anywhere but in the middle of this mess.

  Then why is he here? He didn’t seem like the kind to be easily swayed. He dropped his pack and dug out his waterskin for a drink. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Falin watched him scan the little group. There was a moment as his eyes lingered on the girl when a shadow rippled through the stormy blue, and Falin knew where his weakness lay.

  Archer cast a surreptitious look at Falin who feigned interest in her own pack. “Thoughts on our guide?”

  Falin kept her eyes focused on her hands.

  “As brutal as any Huntress I’ve ever met.”

  He’d known other Huntresses? Shock and a twinge of jealousy thrummed through her. She’d never been even as far as the Nest since coming to the Haven.

  “Why the interest?” Khoury’s eyes narrowed.

  Archer shrugged. “We’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

  “We don’t need her kind of help. That one’s trouble.”

  Falin scowled. What was he talking about? She’d been absolutely saintly.

  “How much farther?” Cara interrupted Falin’s thoughts with a whine. She watched the captain bring her the waterskin.

  “At least a week, girl. So get u
sed to walking.” Her lower lip pouted until he sighed indulgently and sat down next to her.

  Falin considered the Outsiders for a moment longer. She’d been right about the old Northerner; he was their Sorchia, praying and whispering as he trudged through the brush. Archer and Khoury had the easy camaraderie of long-time companions she so envied among the Sisters. And the girl was soft, not just physically but mentally. She fawned over the captain like a foundling pup until Falin squirmed with embarrassment. Sure, he was handsome, in an overbearing sort of way, but he was only a man after all.

  The wind shifted bringing strange unease, though she recognized no specific threat. She turned her face into the breeze that caressed her cheeks like an oncoming storm. She’d known Sorchia’s task wouldn’t be easy, and she was determined to succeed. She shrugged off the disquiet and got up intending to put more distance between her and Rebeka only to find the girl was fast asleep leaning against the captain’s shoulder.

  She’s not his equal, she thought. Not like I am. The appalling thought surprised her, coming out of nowhere. But like any crazy flight of fancy the idea took root and she found herself studying him: Broad not bulky, battle-scarred, thick dark hair, calloused hands, and eyes that were deep and wild and proud. Irritated, she shook her head to clear it. He’s only a man. And I am ever a Huntress.

  Her sudden irritation with herself demanded action. “Get her up, Captain,” she called. “Let’s go.” She hopped down from her perch and strolled south, letting the others scramble to catch up. Ever the Huntress, she repeated as she willed his stormy eyes from her mind.

  She pushed the Outsiders as hard and fast as she could throughout the day. Rebeka would assume it was a race to the Last Gates, and would send Sisters to each. But the old man and the girl were in no condition to outrun them. Falin decided it was better to lead them over an indirect hard-to-track path that took them past the Nest. There she could gauge the heat of the Sisters’ fury. If it died down enough, they could sneak out without notice. Aside from the Last Gates, the Nest was their only way into the Outsider’s world.