by Lisa Jackson
“You have drunk more than a cup of my wine and have been paid for your work, which may have been a mistake, as you have yet to tell me what you learned.”
“I was attacked,” Cael grumbled, rubbing his leg. “By a wolf. This witch . . . she must’ve trained the wild dog to do her bidding. A huge creature she was, bigger than a horse, I tell ye, wilder and fiercer than any natural creature that walks this earth. She had glowing red eyes, she did, a shaggy mane ’bout her devil of a face, and fangs yea long.” He held up his gnarled hand, his thumb and forefinger spaced three inches apart. “Blood and spittle rained from her mouth, and her roar was unlike any bestial cry I’d ever heard before. ’Twas the dog of the devil, I tell ye. Nearly had me down, she did, that beast from hell.” He held up his leg and, sure enough, his breeches were torn and slashed, blood evident on the tattered edges.
“So how did you escape?”
“Me courage, that’s how! I looked the beast square in the face, I did, and swore at her. Then I tried to slide through her ribs to her black heart with me knife, but she was too quick for me, she was. Grabbed me by the leg and shook me about and I was able to slice at her snout.”
“And she ran off?”
“Aye.”
“Must’ve been the swearing at her.”
“Do not mock me, m’lord. The wolf, she was a terrible, fearsome creature. I’m lucky to have escaped with me life. These coins, they are hardly enough for me to sacrifice me life, now, are they?”
“You survived,” Hallyd said dryly, irritated that the man was obviously trying to collect more money than what they’d agreed upon. Hallyd hated the fact that he had to rely on fools, charlatans, and imbeciles to do his work during daylight hours. How he’d love to ride after her himself. He would if she weren’t three days’ ride from here—a torturous journey for one who could not bear the light of day.
“I’m wounded, I tell ye,” the spy went on. “Perhaps crippled fer the rest of me days. I’ll be lucky if I don’t have to use a walking stick.”
“Then you’re saying you cannot go out and follow her again?” Hallyd lifted his eyebrows in question and fingered the pouch in his hands. The coins within jingled, and Cael nearly salivated as his eyes slid to Hallyd’s purse. “You have told me nothing, except about an attack by a wolf.”
“Not just any wolf, m’lord, but—”
“Get on with it.” Hallyd was tired of the pathetic spy’s excuses and stories. “What did you learn?”
“The girl . . . she is not only with a beast from the fires of hell, but she’s traveling with a man.”
“A man?” His head snapped up and sudden rage roared through his veins. “What man?” Did this rodent of a spy need to have every word prodded from him?
“He called himself Cain of Agendor, and he looked like he’d been beaten by ten men. His face . . . I saw it in the firelight and—”
“Let me guess. ’Twas the face of a devil?”
“Aye, a demon, with red eyes.”
“And you saw him with Bryanna?”
“Aye.” The weasel nodded his little head rapidly.
“They are traveling together?”
“To Tarth,” he said, and that, Hallyd thought, was the first valuable nugget in the spy’s tale. Had he not seen it himself? Had Vannora not foretold that Bryanna would be drawn to the very place where the curse had been born?
“Do you know anything else about him?” Hallyd asked, irritated at the thought of any man with her.
“Only that he called himself Cain, and he rode a black steed that was as big and strong as any of your own horses. A prize stallion, I be thinkin’.”
“A beaten man with a destrier? A horse thief, this Cain of Agendor?” The name was unfamiliar, but he would find out the truth about the man, his wolf, and warhorse.
“I . . . I know not. He claimed the horse was once his father’s.”
“An easy lie,” Hallyd said, tenting his hands and leaning back in his chair. Who was this interloper? Why had Vannora not spoken of him? He didn’t like the sound of it and sensed there was a falsehood within the tale. From the spy? From this Cain? ’Twas easy enough to find out. He read the hesitation in the spy’s worried expression. He was holding back, not saying everything that he knew. Now why was that?
Hallyd decided to test the vile little man. “I might be willing to pay for further information,” he suggested, watching Cael’s reactions carefully. Was it possible he was turned? Paid more by one of Hallyd’s enemies and was, in fact, here gathering information rather than reporting it? Hallyd thought not; the man was just not that clever. “If you’d like to earn more,” Hallyd said, “you shall ride to Agendor and talk to the peasants and servants who work for Deverill. Find out what they know of a black stallion, and a man beaten within an inch of his life.”
“Agendor is a long ride,” the weasel said, already sharpening his bargaining skills. “And me leg . . .”
“If you cannot do it, then send up Frydd. I’m certain he would be glad to earn a few coins for an easy task.”
“Frydd! Oh, fer the love of God, m’lord. What are ye thinkin’? Frydd is too big, too loud, his red beard far too noticeable. Now, me, I blend in. I can sneak through cracks, listen at doors, disappear into a crowd and no one notices. Frydd!” He twisted his face into a knot of disgust and snorted. “Nay.”
“Then don’t argue with me. If you want the job, then you shall have it and I will pay you the usual fee. Take it or leave it.”
“Well, because I feel such loyalty, of course I’ll ride, if I’m able.”
The spy’s pledges of dedication were nearly as sickening as his complaints. “Have the physician look at your wound and stitch it, then be off. I’ll expect you to report back to me from Agendor within the fortnight.” He leaned forward again. “Now, tell me, was there anyone else with Bryanna, aside from the devil himself and his demon dog?”
Cael caught his cynicism and was not amused. He defended himself quickly. “I am not lying, Lord Hallyd. ’Twas just as I said.”
“But there is more, isn’t there?”
Cael chewed on his thin lower lip, as if he were afraid to reveal something. Which was rot. Hallyd had paid for all knowledge.
“Was there?”
“I . . . I know not, m’lord,” he admitted, and suddenly there was no guile in his big features. “’Twas an eerie night. Cold. But without a breath of wind and I felt . . . I mean, I saw no one else, but ’twas as if there were a presence, a dark spirit within the forest. Something that could not be seen nor heard, only sensed.”
“So you’re telling me that a man, nay, mayhap Satan himself was traveling with the witch? And with him was a demon wolf.”
The spy was nodding.
“But beyond all that, there was also a dark spirit lurking within the forest.”
“Aye,” Cael whispered and made the sign of the cross over his birdlike chest. He swallowed hard and glanced up at Hallyd. “’Twas the very force of evil, I swear.”
The man believed it to his very soul.
As did Hallyd.
Bryanna wasn’t certain how it happened, how she gave herself up to slumber, but sometime during the morning hours she dozed. When she awoke and glanced over to the spot where Gavyn had been sleeping, she found both him and his steed missing. Her mare, however, was still leashed to Bryanna’s hand.
Stretching in the cold of the gray dawn, she wondered about the events of the night before. A wolf? A black horse? A boy, now a man, from her past? Bryanna had nearly convinced herself that she’d dreamed it all, that her imagination had run wild.
And yet, she hadn’t. Boot, hoof, and paw print were etched into the mud around the campfire, telling her differently. The cup she’d used to brew her potion was where she’d left it on a rock near the fire, which now burned brightly. Late last night the campfire had dwindled to the barest of red embers, so she had to assume that Cain—nay, Gavyn—had found firewood and stoked the dying coals to new life before he’d
left.
Why? To make her more comfortable? Then why leave without waking her?
A horrid thought struck her. Had the liar stolen off with her possessions? Her heart clutched in fear, as she searched frantically for her talismans, amulets, herbs, and money. Surely he would not have stolen from her? Then again, he might think it some form of twisted justice for the punishment he’d endured.
A quick search allayed her fears; she found everything where she’d left it, including the dagger still clutched in her hand. She let out her breath. How long had she slept? How deeply? Though she’d thought she had barely closed her eyes, it appeared that she had been near dead to the world for some time as the wintry morning sky was light.
And now, Gavyn was gone.
After he’d been so insistent that he stay with her and accompany her to Tarth.
If that was where she was supposed to go.
She checked her things again and found the map—a lot of good it would do her now.
Well, if she was heading to Tarth, so be it. It seemed from the map, if Gavyn had been telling the truth, that she should keep following the old overgrown road that ran ever northward.
But why to Tarth? Just because Gavyn had interpreted the map a certain way? For all she knew, he could have been lying once more. He may not have had any idea what the etchings on the piece of doeskin meant.
Stretching, feeling her cramped muscles loosen in the cold morning, she stared up at the sky. The clouds overhead were gray and ominous, their great underbellies swollen. ’Twas only a matter of time before rain or sleet or snow would fall from the heavens.
Shaking her hair loose of the braid, she walked to the stream. On the bank, she twisted her hair behind her back, knelt on a flat stone, and searched the depths of a pool for a fish. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. She’d gotten quick enough with her dagger to impale a trout or eel if she was lucky, though it usually took more patience than she possessed this morning. She’d also learned how to block a part of the stream and create a dam with sticks that trapped fish in a smaller pool. The temporary dam had been useful in snagging trout, pike, and eel—enough to last her several meals.
Today, she saw no flash of silver scales, nor did she spy an unlucky toad near the stream for her breakfast. She’d have to wait until she reached the next village, where she would use some of her rapidly dwindling money to buy food for both herself and her horse. She had a fleeting thought of Gavyn. Aye, she almost missed the miserable lying son of a cur, but that feeling was just plain foolish. He’d left, and good riddance. The last thing she needed was a man, nay, a patient who needed tending.
She thought again of the boy he’d once been, so near manhood with his long muscles, taut skin, and first bit of dark hair sprinkling his chest and abdomen. She’d spied upon him whilst he swam and chopped wood, and one day by the stables she’d come upon him working with a horse. She could still see him leaning hard against the lead rope of that unruly colt, muscles straining in the sunlight, sweat staining his hair and running down his face to where beard shadow dared touch his jaw.
“Silly woman,” she muttered to herself as she splashed water upon her face, then checked the far bank of the creek where the wolf had crouched last night, eye to eye with her. Although the silver beast had ample opportunity, she had not harmed her. She had probably just gone off chasing something in the brush. A roe deer? Or had it been something worse? Something shrouded in the dark night?
Shivering, she told herself to forget whatever she’d thought had been watching her. ’Twas only her imagination, fed by Isa’s warning and the wolf’s actions. Had she heard the animal snarl and fight some other beast? Nay, she’d disappeared into utter silence. Even now, just thinking about it made the flesh of her arms tingle eerily.
“Forget it,” she ordered herself. She dried her face on the hem of her mantle, then considered leaving this morn and riding for hours, stopping only to feed herself and the horse.
Tonight, if she reached Tarth, she would pay for a room for herself and a stable and feed for the mare. If it took one night, so be it, but before she scoured the village in search of . . . what? A child? Before she went about her quest, she would eat plum pudding or eel pye or roast goose or baked apples with cinnamon. Her stomach rumbled at the thought, but even over its hungry growl, she heard the sound of hooves pounding against the ground. She looked up sharply and squinted through the oak and fern.
She almost smiled as she caught a glimpse of a tall rider upon a big black stallion.
Gavyn!
So he’d come back. He hadn’t stolen away in the night and left her. Foolishly, her silly heart leapt at the sight of him, bruised and battered though he was.
Though she should have cursed his return, she felt a lifting of her spirits, a sense of relief and, mayhap, something more. Something she didn’t want to examine too closely. She half expected the wolf to be with him, but the wild cur was nowhere to be seen.
As Gavyn rode into the clearing and dropped onto the ground, she noticed two squirrels, a hare, a stoat, and a pheasant strung upon a thin pole and lashed to the back of his saddle.
“You killed all these this morning?”
“ ’Tis the best time, if you know what you’re doing.”
“So you’re a huntsman, Gavyn of Agendor.”
“When I have to be.”
Bryanna remembered that about him, how the boy who was so good with the horses was just as agile with a bow and arrow. Often he’d joined the hunters and had always returned with a fat goose, boar, or stag.
“And you’re feeling better?”
He nodded. “No doubt it was that foul-tasting potion you insisted I drink.”
“No doubt.”
At the stream, he gutted and skinned his kills as she stoked the fire. Two crows appeared, landing on high branches, cawing loudly and greedily staring at the dead animals. Other birds appeared, fighting and twittering, hoping for scraps of forgotten carrion.
Bryanna plucked the feathers from the pheasant, then singed the shorter hair feathers and rubbed the bird with bits of rosemary she’d picked a week earlier. She helped Gavyn roast the carcasses upon a wooden spit supported by two forked sticks. The livers, heart, and pheasant’s stomach were cooked upon the same flat rock she had used to heat water.
She turned the meat often while he scraped any remaining flesh from the skins, which he told her he hoped to sell. Gavyn saved most of the pheasant’s feathers to repair his arrows.
She had hoped that Gavyn would look heartier than he had the night before, but ’twas not to be. With the daylight, his wounds were all the more visible, his skin discoloration more distinct. The whites of his eyes, no longer softened by the night shadows, looked raw and red. Then there was the bloody patch showing on his tunic. It seemed larger than it had been the night before, as if his injury were bleeding again. Had she not touched him the night before and caught a glimpse of a vision, she would not yet recognize him.
Once the meat had cooked and they were eating, she said, “Your wounds need tending.”
“They’ll heal.”
“I could help.”
“How? Another cup of boar piss?” One dark eyebrow arched, almost daring her to try and make him swallow so much as a drop of the potion.
“You admitted it helped.”
“Mayhap.” He sucked on a small bone from the pheasant.
“You felt good enough to go out riding and hunting, and it seems your aim was true.”
“Due to the potion?”
“Nay. Of course not.” She took a final bite from the coney’s leg. “’Twas only your good eye, strong bow arm, and perfect aim that saw you through.”
“You’re making jest of my skills?” he asked, one dark brow rising as he tore off one of the pheasant’s legs and bit into the crispy meat.
“Oh, nay, Gavyn, I would not.”
He skewered her with a disbelieving glare.
“It’s just that I know of herbs and medicines and—�
�
“And runes and witchcraft. No, thank you.”
Frowning, she tossed her clean-picked bone into the fire and licked her fingers. “You expect me to ride with you, to accept you as my bodyguard, when you’re half dead as it is.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She didn’t believe it for a second.
“So where are Isa and her husband. . . . What was his name? Payton?” he asked, obviously trying to change the subject.
“Parnell,” she corrected quickly. Had he not listened to her lie? Had he forgotten? Or was he testing her? Should she trust him with the truth? . . . Nay, not yet. For she was certain he had not been completely honest with her. If she had not called him Gavyn, he would still allow her to think that his name was Cain.
She used some of the hot water in the cup to clean the grease from her fingers. “As you can see, they did not return, so I’d best be off soon to search for them.”
One side of his mouth twitched as he tore off a pheasant wing and bit off the morsel of meat beneath crisp skin. “You’d best,” he agreed, chewing and trying to hide his grin. “What if you don’t find them?”
“Then we’ll meet up in Tarth.”
“That was your plan?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you didn’t know where you were going? Had no idea where Tarth was?”
She bristled a bit and suddenly recalled that even as a youth he had nettled her, gotten under her skin. “We all were heading northward and a little to the west. We had agreed that if anything happened, we would find each other in the town.”
“Of Tarth?”
“Yes, though I knew not its name.”
“Do they?” he asked, wiggling the wing bone at her. “Isa and Parnell. Do they know where they’re going? Do they, too, have some kind of pathetic drawing guiding them?”
Oh, dear Lord, this lie was getting more difficult by the minute.
“ ’Tis Isa who gave me mine.”
“Does she have the rest of it?” When Bryanna didn’t respond, he added, “’Tis obviously only part of a larger map. Where is the rest of it? Who has it?”