Quest of the Dreamwalker (The Corthan Legacy Book 1)

by Stacy Bennett

  Through the thinning trees she saw late afternoon sun bouncing off flaxen roofs. Children’s laughter bubbled through the branches. The Nest was just ahead. Stopping to let her breathing calm, Falin surveyed the canopy for a likely roost. She edged closer to the village and found a handful of thorn and oak trees clustered together. Shimmying up the rough trunks, she found a comfy perch in the elbow of two branches that overlooked the whole village clearing and showed her a short bit of the road leading to the harbor.

  The Nest was far enough west that it sat at the foot of the White Peaks where they curved inland. A river started there, in the lake fed by mountain runoffs, and wended its way through steep cliffs out to the ocean midway between Seal Bay in the north and the southern cities. The mountains and the heavily guarded docks limited access to the town but should the Nest fall to attackers, two Thorn barriers and a Gate still separated it from the rest of Foresthaven.

  Falin always thought the Mothers callous in their design—the Sisters’ own children weren’t cloistered within the protective Thorn circle. But, roughly half were male and would forever be Outsiders. Not even in their infancy would these children know the safety of Haven. Never would they suspect that druid magic thickened their blood. Even some of the girl children wouldn’t be chosen either, if they were sickly or had the wrong temperament for a Huntress.

  Falin herself had been elevated from the Nest to Haven sooner than most. Rebeka had loudly blamed it on Sorchia’s favoritism, but Falin knew she’d earned it. And with more blood than sweat.

  Falin waited and watched, surveying the people below. There was no sense of alarm or wariness in the village. Guards changed in routine fashion. Children ran in packs. Her attention was snagged by two blond-haired boys, obviously twins, racing straight toward the tree where she perched. They were old enough that she knew they wouldn’t be here much longer, but the sight tugged on her nonetheless. She knew what it was to be yellow-haired in the Nest. And she had been the only one back then.

  Unfortunately for the boys, the gang pursuing them had split up and they were outflanked. A cadre of older kids stepped out from the brush beneath her hiding place just as the boys reached the safety of the trees. The brothers were surrounded and, as Falin well knew, about to get a thrashing.

  The boys skidded to a halt, resigned to the battle they faced. They pressed their backs to each other and raised dirty fists, each one secure in the knowledge that his brother stood with him. Falin saw Archer and his captain in those stern young faces. Close as brothers, sharing a bond that went deeper than any she’d ever been graced with. Falin’s grip on her bow tightened until her fingers ached. There was nothing she could do for them and besides, she wasn’t about to give herself away over a scene that was all too commonplace.

  Their dilemma was quickly forgotten when she saw Rebeka herself riding across the village. What was she doing here? It didn’t make sense.

  The chief scout barely gave the boys a glance as she rode past them beneath Falin’s perch and down the road toward the port. Sliding her bow back over her shoulder, Falin crept through the branches, following as best she could without leaving the canopy. In her haste, a twig broke off and tumbled to the forest floor. Falin froze, listening to the silence.

  In the distance, she could still see Rebeka but not for long. With more care than speed, Falin continued after her. Where the road started to curve north, the chief scout stopped and scanned the road behind and ahead of her before she dismounted and led her mount into the forest. Falin scrambled down to the brush and crept with cat-like stealth, circling wide of Rebeka’s path. It wasn’t long before she heard voices ahead.

  “What are you doing here?” Rebeka’s angry hiss reached Falin before she could see the scout’s companion.

  “The boss got impatient.” Falin froze. The deep male voice was the last thing she expected to hear.

  “I don’t have her yet.”

  “Problems?”

  Falin crawled closer, finally catching sight of a grubby man about Khoury’s height though his middle ran to fat and his lanky hair hid much of his stubbled face. His features weren’t important. What was significant was that Rebeka tolerated him.

  “The Sisters gave up the search. Sorchia convinced them that Falin killed the Outsiders.”

  “Did she?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “So when you gonna get me the white-haired girl?”

  “I’ll get her.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.” Rebeka’s angry growl carried a threat the man didn’t seem to understand.

  “Flesh is my trade, girl, and so far you haven’t given me any.” He stepped closer and raised a hand to the scout’s face.

  Heat flooded Falin’s cheeks as his thumb stroked Rebeka’s chin with indecent intimacy.

  Then, like a snake striking, Rebeka’s blade was out. She thrust the man up against the nearest tree, hard. The sharp edge of her blade pressed into his jawline. “And I deal in blood.” Rebeka twisted her wrist ever so slightly, shaving off a section of the man’s bristly scruff. The bare skin winked in the light like a pale scar.

  He smiled a crooked smile and chuckled. “Fair enough.”

  Unappeased, she pressed the blade harder against his face, her jaw muscles jumping with murder. A thin trickle of red glazed the blade’s edge. “After this meeting, you are never to set foot here again. Am I clear?”

  He nodded cautiously and she released him with a shove, stepping back. He wiped the blood from his jaw with the back of his hand and eyed her with caution. “Where will you deliver her then?”

  “Bring your men to the eastern Tangle road. You can collect the white-haired girl and the three men.”

  “And the other?”

  “Is mine.”

  He nodded. “We will be waiting at the Vine and Thorn.”

  “I know the place,” she said.

  Hearing more than enough already, Falin scooted backward, her heart pounding so loud she wondered how Rebeka didn’t hear her. She needed to get the Outsiders out of Foresthaven and soon.

  Clamping sense over the hurry that screamed in her head, Falin crept carefully south. As soon as she was sure Rebeka wouldn’t hear her, she broke into a run. She’d let the Outsiders rest today. But tomorrow. Tomorrow, they had to travel in earnest. Surely with the threat of capture, they’d make better time. The captain’s scowl swam in her head at the thought. She could picture it perfectly and reconsidered her plan. It wasn’t fear that made her decide in the end not to tell him but something else.

  It didn’t matter anyway, she reasoned. With any luck, she wouldn’t have to mention Rebeka or her unsavory guest at all.

  CARA’S HAND TINGLED where the Huntress bumped it, even though she’d had the gloves on. A spark like static lingered on her skin, and with that spark came an idea too wonderful to relinquish. The tingling spread up her arm and expanded until a rumbling ember of restlessness burned in her chest. She had nurtured her plan in silence as they walked. Now, she tilted back to peer through the trees, careful not to wake Archer snoring softly in her lap. The captain and Bradan were deep in discussion by the stream; she was forgotten. Though she hated feeling as inconsequential here as she’d been in the Keep, right now it was exactly the opportunity she needed.

  She’d been rubbing the burn on her palm daily since the night she’d shared Khoury’s cloak. The tingling warmth had returned each time and now the wound was merely a silvery band of mature scar. She smiled as the shaman’s voice rose in argument, knowing her privacy was secure for a short time at least.

  Cara surreptitiously stripped the gloves from her hands, hiding them in the folds of her skirt. Then she closed her eyes and pressed her palms gently to the sides of Archer’s head. A weighty silence loomed in the space between her hands, and faces appeared in her head.

  She frowned. The laughing woman was still a sore point between her and Khoury. She didn’t want to ruin this friendship as well. She tried to push the images away,
but as long as she touched Archer the visions came whether she wanted them or not. She took her hands away and stared down at the young Northerner’s serene face. She so desperately wanted this to work. Deciding his healing was more important than her reservations, she pressed her hands to Archer’s ears once more.

  The injury she sensed was a dry, empty place and the warmth from her hands pushed at it gently. Images of Maura washed through her, and in those visions, Cara saw through Archer’s eyes. She recognized the dress that fell from Maura’s curves to the floor, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She wanted to pull her hands away, but she forced herself to continue. Ignoring the memories as best she could, she concentrated on the healing energy infiltrating the injury like water over thirsty ground, small rivulets of warmth dissolving the silence. As the glow spread between her hands, the images in her mind shifted.

  This time a much younger Maura stood before her, tears of anger streaming down her face.

  “I know he’s your brother, but am I supposed to just wait around until you’re done gallivanting?”

  “No,” Cara heard herself say in Archer’s voice, a lump of emotion crushing her chest. “No. You shouldn’t wait.”

  “Shouldn’t wait?” Maura’s eyes went huge and round. “Are you saying…?”

  “I was wrong, Maura.” She felt Archer’s words choke her own throat. “It’s not right, you and me.”

  “That’s your father talking,” Maura hissed.

  “No. I don’t want you to wait.” Cara pulled her hands from his skin and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Her stomach roiled in distress. Archer’s words had been a lie; Cara knew it. But why would he lie to Maura? Cara didn’t want to see any more, but she knew her job wasn’t done yet. She glanced at Bradan and Khoury. It seemed they’d settled their differences. She didn’t have much time.

  She placed her hands on the sides of Archer’s face one last time. The warmth came quicker and the memory that followed was murky with age. She was in a dark room stagnant with sickness, kneeling by a low bed.

  “I’m here, Tarhill,” she/Archer said. The man’s eyelids fluttered. When they opened, milky blue eyes stared out.

  “Maclan,” his weak voice quavered, “is that you?”

  A pang shot through her. “It’s Reid.”

  The wrinkled face twisted with disgust. “Come to see me off?”

  Awkwardness held his words prisoner. Archer knew there was no response that would please the old man.

  “Ha, and where’s that silver tongue of yours now, boy?” the old man wheezed with venom.

  “Did you want a song?” she asked through a tight throat.

  “Song? Bah.” The old man spit. “You may have charmed the chieftain’s daughter to your bed with that foolishness but that doesn’t give you the right. You’re no leader.” A clawed hand groped up her arm, latching on with surprising strength. “For the sake of the Clan, boy, set the girl aside.”

  “I will marry Maura.” Her jaw set stubbornly.

  The hand shot up and slapped her cheek. “I’m still your father, boy, and I say you won’t.” The milk-white eyes seemed to see right through her. “You are not worthy of that mantle. Disregard my dying wish at your peril. I curse you that all who follow you will suffer for it.”

  Archer’s fear sliced through Cara’s heart like a frozen knife. She let go of his head, covering her mouth with both hands to stifle her sob. His anger and bitterness lay upon her heart like a stain. She wanted nothing more than to scrub it away.

  Khoury interrupted her thoughts, coming over and dropping onto a nearby log. She quickly wiped her eyes a final time and schooled her features smooth. Hiding her bare hands under her legs, she wondered how best to retrieve her gloves without drawing notice. She needn’t have bothered. His attention was elsewhere. Sadness deepened the blue of his eyes as he stole sidelong glances at Archer. Bradan stacked kindling and branches in the firepit.

  “You’re back,” Bradan said as the Huntress strode out of the forest, her leathers dusty and an enormous brownish-black bird slung over her shoulder. Her left cheek was swollen, the skin tight and shiny and already a blotched blue-black.

  “So I am,” she said, dropping her pack across the firepit from where Cara sat. A distracted frown hardened her features as she perched on a convenient tree stump.

  “Need help?” Bradan offered.

  The Huntress gave a quick shake of her head, dismissing him. Then she slid her knife from her boot, and spread the poor bird over her thighs, wings outstretched. Cara turned away before the Huntress began to carve.

  Bradan squatted next to Khoury, his eyes intent. “You need to order him to go.”

  “I’ve already told you. It’s not my decision,” Khoury murmured back.

  “It’s for his own good.”

  “You know it’s impolite to talk about someone when they’re right here,” rumbled a voice from her lap.

  Cara squeaked in surprise as all eyes flew to Archer. His gold-brown eyes stared up at her, shining with emotion. “I thought I was dreaming,” he murmured, his relief obvious. He pushed himself to sitting.

  “You can hear us?” Bradan asked with the first smile she’d seen on the old man since they left the Clan.

  “I don’t think you were trying to be all that quiet,” Archer quipped.

  The captain stood up and reached out a hand. Archer grabbed it and Khoury hauled him to his feet, thumping his shoulder with good-natured roughness. The captain’s eyes were bright as he held Archer at arm’s length. “Loafing again, were you? I’ll have to dock your pay, boy.”

  “Didn’t realize this was a paid tour, captain. But damn glad to hear it.” He winked broadly.

  Cara couldn’t stop the smile that creased her cheeks. She took their distraction as an opportunity to fish for her gloves.

  “But how did you…?” Bradan was about to ask, then looked down at Cara. He caught her arm and pulled her bare hand into view. “Was it you, child?”

  Cara blushed at the accusation, if that was what it was, acutely aware that she was now the focus of attention. Everyone including Archer turned to stare. “I…I’m sorry,” she stuttered at Archer. “I just wanted to help.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and she couldn’t meet his gaze.

  “Oh, you helped, Snowflake.” Archer laughed. “You helped.”

  She squeaked as Archer suddenly lifted her to her feet, enveloping her in a bearish hug. His warm solidness felt good against her cheek. “Thank you,” he said into her hair.

  She couldn’t stop smiling. When he released her, a sudden wash of dizziness had her teetering against him.

  “Steady there,” he said, lowering her back to the ground.

  Bradan offered her water from the skin. “You have to be careful, child. Healing is tiring work. But what made you try it?” Bradan’s eyes narrowed.

  Cara swallowed hard and showed them her burned hand, the scar across the palm silvery and flat. Without hesitation, Bradan grasped it and inspected it closely. As if the time spent working on Archer had intensified her senses, Bradan’s sorrow hit her the moment her hand touched skin. Ealea’s death had left a hole inside him, but there was something else there as well. Something she hadn’t noticed that day in the dining hall. A web of golden strands surrounded him, each one humming with a different voice.

  “You healed this?” He gestured to her hand.

  “While we walked.”

  “I say again, Cara of the Black Keep, you have power, make no mistake.”

  Cara dipped her head to avoid the intensity of his face and quickly slipped on her gloves. Strangely, she felt a chuckle bubble up from somewhere deep inside.

  “It’s good to hear you laugh,” Archer said, taking the waterskin next and drinking deeply.

  “I’m just happy,” she said, treasuring the warm kernel of pride in her heart. “After talking with Ingrid, I was so worried I was a Dunhadrar.”

  “Not much chance of that now.” Bradan chuckled and patted h
er head.

  “Dunhadrar?” Khoury’s voice was rough and angry, his delight of a moment before gone. “Who told you about that?”

  “I believe Ingrid mentioned it,” Bradan said coolly before Cara could respond.

  “And what does she know of it?” Khoury challenged.

  “Only what anyone would.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Barakan brutality is well-known. And that of the Dunhadrar, legend.” He fixed the captain with a more measuring stare.

  “It’s an unflattering term and not one to use lightly.” Khoury growled, fingering the hilt of his sword.

  “Cara will be careful, I’m sure.” Bradan lit the kindling with a few strikes of the flint, coaxing the tiny flames to life with patience.

  The tense undercurrents made no sense to Cara so she was relieved when Khoury let the matter drop. He turned, snatched up the waterskins, and headed toward the stream.

  Bradan watched the captain for a moment and then settled himself at the foot of a nearby tree. With an exaggerated yawn, he winked at Cara before closing his eyes.

  “Archer,” the Huntress called with a small cough. Cara had quite forgotten she was there. She turned to see the girl holding the severed wings out to the Northerner. Luckily for Cara, the carcass already looked less like a bird and more like dinner. “Start plucking,” she commanded.

  Archer took the grisly gift and sat down next to the Huntress, examining the long black feathers with skilled fingers. He smiled broadly. “Very strong. They’d make excellent fletching.”

  Falin shook her quiver of black-feathered arrows. “Better than yours by a long shot,” she boasted. “You can have them if you do the plucking.”