by Lisa Jackson
“Oh, dear God . . . ,” Vala wailed.
Crash!
The latch of the door broke free. Heavy footsteps pounded into the tiny cottage.
“Where’s your prisoner?” Deverill’s voice now. Gavyn edged to the front of the hut. The door hung open, horses stirring nearby.
“Me what?” Dougal repeated. “A prisoner, ye say? As ye can plainly see, there’s no one here but me and me wife. I’ve no—”
Crash!
Something, mayhap a stool, was flung hard against the wall. Vala screamed.
Gavyn risked peering around the edge of the building. The one guard left outside was astride a tall steed, leaning toward the open door to observe the confrontation inside. The other animals shuffled restlessly but remained close.
“Where the hell is he?” the baron hissed as chickens clucked and the woman began to mewl. Gavyn didn’t want to consider what kind of force his father and the men might use to get to the truth as he eased from his hiding space and slipped between two of the horses in the darkness. The animals were nervous, but the guard didn’t notice as Gavyn loosened first one cinch, then another.
“Ye need some help, Lord Deverill?” the guard called as the scuffle inside escalated. Gavyn slunk away from the horses, far enough that he had room to swing, and just as the guard turned . . . “Hey—what the devil?”
Gavyn struck. Rounding, he swung the shovel hard and bashed the guard across the midsection.
“Oof!” The soldier grabbed wildly. “M’lord!” he cried. The horse squealed, rearing, and Deverill’s guard toppled to the ground, hitting hard. “Hey!” he cried, but Gavyn had already swung into the saddle of his father’s dark steed. “Thief!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Nay! Halt! Oh, bloody Christ! Lord Deverill!”
Men shouted and boots thudded as Deverill and his company filed out of the hut. But the sounds were already fading as Gavyn leaned over the big stallion’s neck, pushing the horse forward.
Gavyn urged the stallion into a gallop. The beast responded with a quick surge of speed, long legs bunching, then straightening, neck extended as he ran full out, his strides smooth and steady. Leaning into the whistling wind, Gavyn squinted into the darkness, the air cold and frigid. He felt the power of the animal, his father’s favorite mount, as they thundered north along the road, using moonlight as a guide.
Certainly a few of the men would follow, but the others— his father without a horse, and the two who would have to tighten the cinches of their saddles—would be left far behind.
They would never make up the distance.
He had no doubt that stealing the horse had just added insult to injury, but so be it. He had sealed his own damned fate and knew the names by which he would forevermore be branded.
Traitor.
Murderer.
And now horse thief.
The irony was not lost on Gavyn as he rode upon his stolen steed: the once unwanted child was now a very wanted man.
CHAPTER SIX
Upon his bed, Hallyd dared not move. His eyes, if he had any left in his head, burned so painfully he thought he would never see again.
’Twas as if all the embers of hell had been stuffed into the sockets of his skull to sear away the flesh and scorch his pupils. No amount of cold water or compresses or poultices from the physician alleviated the pain. And he could release no tears. The witch had seen to that. ’Twas part of his curse, and this searing sensation would be with him for hours, until dusk had given way and the shadowy night, forever his companion, returned.
So he had to trust in others.
Those who had their own gnawing hungers.
“I know not how to treat your condition,” the physician said, frowning. Cedrik had taken some of Hallyd’s urine to check it, but frowned at what he found—as if there were a vial of piss somewhere that would actually make the stern man smile. ’Twas all nonsense. Just as Vannora had said. If only he’d listened to her and held on to his unraveling patience, he would not have gone riding and risked the dawn. Now ’twas too late to second-guess himself. The damage was done, and no doubt the old hag in the basement would berate him for his foolishness.
Through the haze of pain, Hallyd caught a glimpse of the perpetually scowling Cedrik. Short of stature and slightly built, the physician had little hair upon his pate. What was left was gray and matched his thick beard. Cedrik’s nose wrinkled when he was deep in thought, as if he were forever coming upon a bad smell. “Leeches might help.” He scratched at his chin thoughtfully and his scowl deepened as he studied his patient.
Hallyd lay upon his bed and tried to ignore the agony screaming through his skull. “Bleeding? Nay.” Closing his eyes, he held a cold compress to his face and bit down hard. The pain would eventually go away. It always did. He’d been foolish, drawn into the woods before day had broken, hoping to find her, but the dark clouds had given way to sunlight and he’d had to trust his horse to take him back to the keep. No amount of shading from his hood could protect his vision. In the end he’d ended up here in his chamber, lying upon his bed, hoping blessed darkness would arrive and he would find comfort once again.
At the thought of his crippled state, bile rose in the back of his throat. Silently he berated himself.
You became too anxious, were not willing to be patient. You’ve waited sixteen years and you cannot wait a few more days? She is coming; you feel it.
“Bloodletting is known to cure some ailments. I would place the leeches carefully in the areas of the body that affect the eyes,” the physician said, his voice holding the merest trace of superiority.
’Twas like salt in his wounds.
“I said no bleeding,” Hallyd ordered. “Did you not hear me? And the same goes for purging. God’s eyes, I’ll not be in the latrine all day.”
The physician sighed as if the weight of the castle had fallen upon his already overly burdened shoulders. Cedrik did not pander to anyone, let alone a stubborn, ill-advised patient. “Then I can do nothing for your vision.”
Of course you can’t. ’Tis part of Kambria’s damned curse, Hallyd thought, though he held his tongue. Cedrik’s craft was of little use; he needed a witch to raise this curse. Only those closest to him knew of the dagger, of Kambria, and of the curse she cast upon him before she died. Those who had kept his secret were still in his company, though his trust in them had faded with time. Already some who had gossiped of that day on the ridge had died.
Quickly.
Hallyd accepted no excuses.
He held the compress over his eyes and ground his back teeth together. Eventually, the night would come and the excruciating pain pounding through his body would subside to a dull throb deep in his skull, behind his owlish eyes of mixed color. He could endure it. He had in the past. And then he would wait, just as Vannora had instructed, because, he knew, within a fortnight Bryanna would arrive.
Gavyn’s breath fogged the air as his horse slowed. Every bone in his body ached, but he pushed onward, determined to put as much distance between himself and his father’s soldiers as he could.
For two days Gavyn rode northward, passing through sleepy villages, where he bartered the prey he’d managed to kill. A duck or pheasant or hare could be traded for a hot meal and a measure of grain, even a cup or two of beer. He always ate in a dark corner of an inn, keeping to himself. He was always looking over his shoulder to make certain he wasn’t followed.
He guided his horse along roads seldom used, past millponds and through streams, urging the stallion ever deeper into the mountains. Though he had no evidence that his father was giving chase, Gavyn knew it was only a matter of time before he heard the anxious baying of the castle dogs mingled with the excited shouts of soldiers as they tracked him, their quarry.
The Lord of Agendor would not rest until he’d hunted his bastard down. Deverill would watch without emotion as Gavyn was led to the gallows. Only when Gavyn’s spine had snapped would his father be satisfied, glad at the sight of Gavyn’s corpse swi
nging from creaking timbers, relieved that the thorn in his side whom he’d sired would no longer disobey or embarrass him. His father would delight in seeing Gavyn’s irreverence punished.
Unless he could outfox the old man.
Which was exactly what he intended.
There was still time.
Gavyn wasn’t dead yet.
So he rode the big black steed as if Satan himself were breathing down his neck. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the fever that sometimes swept over him, he rode on, his bones jarred by each long stride the stallion took.
If he were clever, he supposed, he would sell the steed for a good price, then buy a smaller, less visible mount and some different clothes. On a more modest horse, he could play the role of a pauper, using flour to gray his beard and hair, attiring himself in plain peasant garb.
But he wasn’t about to sell the black destrier.
Not only did he admire the sleek stallion, but the fact that Rhi was his father’s pride and joy only made it that much more satisfying to ride him.
So he risked recognition and felt that the farther he was from Agendor, the less likely anyone would take note of the black horse with the peculiar long-tailed star upon his forehead and the irregular white stocking.
Near twilight on the third day of his trek, fine flakes of snow coated his shoulders as he searched for a campsite. In no time at all, a light dusting of snow covered the ground and undergrowth, and icy patches glistened under the darkening sky.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement—a silver-gray shadow that darted into a thicket. His horse snorted and minced, ears flicking nervously.
“Shh, boy, ’tis all right,” Gavyn said, though the hairs on the back of his neck had lifted and he felt an icy warning in his veins. “Hold on, Rhi.”
Too late!
His mount shied and reared suddenly, his sturdy legs pawing the night air.
Gavyn started to slide backward.
Quickly, he grabbed the pommel of his saddle with his free hand and sheathed his knife in one quick movement.
Pain shot up his arm and ripped through his shoulder.
The steed’s front legs hit the ground again. With a frightened whinny, Rhi lunged forward. Bit in his teeth, he tore through the woods, hooves kicking up dirt and striking rocks. Clenching his teeth, Gavyn leaned over the frightened stallion’s neck, pulling back on the reins, riding low to avoid the branches that swiped and scraped at him.
He felt the black’s muscles bunch, then release as he sailed over a fallen log to land hard on the other side. Pain screamed through Gavyn’s rib cage. Wrapping the reins around his fists, Gavyn fought to control the big beast, pulling hard on the reins, all to no avail. Lather appeared on the horse’s wet coat as Rhi galloped wildly through the trees, somehow avoiding tree trunks and briars and badger holes.
“Come on, come on, slow down,” he said, feeling the big horse tiring at last.
The ground rose slowly. Rhi, nostrils distended, charged up the hill, but finally began to slow, his long strides becoming shorter, his breath coming hard.
“That’s it,” Gavyn whispered. “That’s a boy.”
Still nervous, Rhi eased into a trot that rattled every bone in Gavyn’s body before finally the horse slowed into a steady walk.
“See there, not so bad, is it?” Gavyn asked.
Gavyn glanced over his shoulder. Through the undergrowth, lingering a stone’s throw behind them, was the silvery gray fur of a wolf.
No wonder the horse had shied.
Gavyn kept a wary eye on the beast, but the shadowy creature hung back, visible occasionally, but never too close. As he rode, Gavyn searched for a glimpse of other snarling wolves. Where there was one, there was sure to be more—the rest of the pack, ready to circle and attack or waiting for the slightest sign of the flagging or faltering of the quarry.
But no other wolves showed themselves on this night.
This one appeared to be alone and slightly crippled, for though she was fast, her gait was uneven and she limped.
On the third night since his escape from the hut of Dougal and Vala, Gavyn chose to camp by a stream. The wolf lay just out of the circle of light of the campfire, her eyes glowing in the darkness, reflecting the flames. She was a shaggy beast, silver with a fringe of black fur around her neck. Gavyn wondered where the rest of the pack was and thought that this one may have been cast out, perhaps for attacking the leader and losing.
Not so unlike his own fate.
“So why are you following me?” Gavyn asked, speaking for the first time to the animal as it settled against a fallen log, its gaze unwavering as Gavyn roasted an unlucky rabbit and squirrel on a makeshift spit. “Where’re all of your friends, eh?” he asked, as if the animal could respond. Fat dripped onto the embers of the fire, sizzling loudly and sending black smoke curling upward through the trees.
Gavyn sat on a flat rock, knife in hand, scraping the inside of the rabbit’s pelt. He’d already cleaned that of the squirrel and added them to the few he’d collected over the past couple of days. He hoped to sell the sleek hides to a peddler or tailor in the next town, though rabbit, squirrel, and polecat were plentiful and worth very little.
The wolf’s silvery-gray coat would fetch more money.
He eyed the beast as hungrily as it stared at him.
’Twas not a large animal, not compared to some of the wolves he’d seen, but not scrawny either. He rotated the meat over the fire, finished cleaning the pelt, then removed the spit and gingerly placed the hot charred carcasses on a rock.
All the while, the wolf’s eyes never stopped watching him.
“Hungry, are you?” Gavyn sliced up the squirrel and pulled the small carcass apart. Though he did not trust the wolf, he wondered why it had strayed from its pack. Perhaps it had been in a fight with another wolf or a boar or other wild creature. Or the cur could have been wounded in a trap.
Though he was probably encouraging the beast, which was just plain stupid, Gavyn tossed half the squirrel into the woods and the shaggy creature pounced upon the charred delicacy as if she truly were starving.
“ ’Tis all I can spare,” Gavyn said as he finished the smaller rodent, then tore into the rabbit. The succulent meat was heaven, and he tried not to notice that the damned wild wolf had edged closer to the fire, head raised, gaze fastened to Gavyn as he took each bite. “You’ll have to kill your own damn food.” He tore off another bit of seared flesh and chewed while the wolf stared hungrily. “I said no more.”
Why had he fed the beast to begin with? ’Twas only asking for trouble. He sucked on a bone and the wolf lay down, paws outstretched, head lying on her front legs. “Don’t you consider it for a second. I could kill you. Turn in your tail for a reward, or maybe tan your hide so that your fur could trim a lady’s winter mantle, eh?”
So now you’re talking to a wild animal? First the ridiculous dreams and now speaking to a wolf? Christ Jesus, Gavyn, you’ve gone round the bend!
Disgusted with himself, he picked off a good portion of meat from the roasted rabbit, then tossed the remains to the wolf, which barely chewed the small bones before swallowing as much as possible.
“That’s it. There is no more,” Gavyn said, then silently told himself he was not like the beast, wandering the forest alone, cast out by his own family. That was not his true fate.
Wiping his hands, he tucked his mantle around him and lay on the horse blanket. He stayed close to the fire, his stallion’s reins knotted around one hand, his knife in the other. If the steed was the least bit disturbed, either by beast or human, Gavyn would feel it.
He planned on sleeping but a few hours and then riding northward, to the realm of his mother. He had lived in Tarth with his mother, moving north when he was twelve. At the time he’d thought his mother was trying to escape Deverill; later he’d learned that it was Deverill’s wife, Marden, who was the real problem. Her voracious jealousy had sent Gavyn’s mother scurrying all over the country
side, from Agendor to Penbrooke to Tarth. He had not visited his mother’s last home since her death, and if Deverill decided to search that area, well, then, so be it.
The Lord of Agendor could bloody well come find his bastard.
He drifted off but slept fitfully, only to awaken at dawn to find his campfire nothing more than the blackened remains of sticks and ash. The black horse stood relaxed at his side, stirring only as Gavyn arose and stretched, his eyes searching the surrounding trees and ferns for any sign of the wolf.
The beast appeared to be missing, which was just as well, Gavyn thought. He relieved himself against the rough bark of an oak, then worked his muscles. His side still ached and the arm that had been wounded hurt like bloody hell. His fever had passed for the moment, but his ribs ached and it would take some time to regain his strength. Not that it mattered. He was free now, at least for the moment.
Swinging into the saddle, he winced as he pulled on the reins and left his small camp. He’d ridden nearly a mile when he noticed the wolf again, a slinking shadow keeping its distance, but never far out of sight. “Not so lucky as to be rid of you, eh?” Gavyn said, but he decided the furry creature was no threat and would probably tire of following along.
When he took the main road, the wolf disappeared and Gavyn was certain the creature had turned back. After trading his pelts for an ill-fitting pair of breeches and a mantle from a rotund peddler on his way to Wybren, Gavyn once again rode northward. Soon, through the rising mist heralding dusk, he spied the silvery cur once more.
Smiling to himself, Gavyn headed deep into the mountains, and without fail the shaggy wolf with its hungry eyes and uneven gait followed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Perhaps his luck had changed.
Through the trees, the shifting light of a campfire danced in this night that was blacker than black, the sky heavy with thick clouds promising rain or worse. Tired, the pain in his shoulder throbbing, Gavyn turned toward the distinct glow. Time to move in on an easy mark.