A well-placed kick to her body knocked her to her knees. She collided with the dying man. Grasping his arms, she rolled. The thud of metal hitting flesh vibrated through the air. The Rugian body protected her from the impact but sent her sprawling onto the road. Stars swam in her vision. A mace. Great. Rising to her feet, Ilythra picked up some dust and small rocks and threw the handful in her opponent’s face. He hesitated just long enough for her to slice him across the thighs. She rose to her feet and turned in time to deflect a blade. Ilythra gasped back a scream. Definitely some broken ribs this time. She twisted her arm, and the sword flew from her opponent’s grasp. He flew backward with a solid kick to the chest. She charged after him and pierced his neck. She pulled her sword free then turned. Every breath felt like fire in her lungs but she couldn’t seem to get enough air. Four Rugians lie on the road, bleeding and moaning. She walked up to the nearest. His eyes widened. “You dare to challenge Thira?” she asked and brought the pommel down on his head.
She limped to Melior and cut the leather holding him down. The stallion snorted then scrambled to his feet. “You okay, boy?”
He shook his head, sending his mane flying around his face, and snorted.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she ran her hands over his legs anyway but detected no swelling or even abrasions. “You got off better than me again.” She tried to take a deep breath and her vision swam.
She rubbed the side of her face. The reopened abrasions stung. Her hip burned as though it were on fire. She eyed Melior’s back. Mounting suddenly seemed like too big of a challenge. She leaned against his warm flank. “Well, at least we’re alive. Right? How many more could there be?”
She gripped his mane, ground her teeth together and pulled herself up. Dark spots danced in her vision as it tunneled. She held on to Melior’s mane with the last of her strength. “Get me out of here, boy,” she muttered. She was afraid the answer to her question was Too many.
* * *
Mohan checked the message stick wedged in the tree and a weight fell from his shoulders. It was from his own troupe and from not too long ago. He glanced at the rising sun. He would be home today. They were close. He whistled, and the dog raced between the trees toward him. It was only recently that the dog would let Mohan out of his sight and even now not for long. His habit of trailing Mohan and his gray coloring had inspired his name: Shadow. The dog skidded to a stop before Mohan and licked his hand. Now that he was recovered, he somehow managed to wag his entire body instead of only his tail. Adoration lit his dark eyes. Mohan patted the dog’s shaggy head. Shadow still had a slight limp but more than enough energy. “We’ll be home in a few hours. Are you ready to meet your new troupe?”
Shadow wagged his body. Mohan mounted the horse. He wished he were as enthusiastic as the dog. Although he longed to see his troupe, to see for himself that they were okay, he brought news that would cause sorrow and fear. He thought back to the decimated troupe and tears pricked his eyes. In this case, ignorance of the danger was deadly. Ilythra had been right to send him away. How many more troupes would Bredych try to destroy?
He stared north. Another sorrow pricked his heart. Was she well? Danger seemed to follow the healer like flies did food. He hated that he couldn’t be there to help her. Would he ever see her again? He wiped tears from his eyes. “I’m getting sentimental in my old age.” Shadow panted in apparent agreement.
He turned toward the west. Taliba would know how best to prepare and to warn the other troupes. She might even know a way to help Ilythra. He glanced down at Shadow and patted his lap. With an awkward jump, the dog landed there and curled into a ball, shoving his nose between Mohan’s vest and shirt. He was a little too big to carry on the horse, but speed was of the essence and the dog’s limp slowed him down. He urged his horse into a gallop. His mind was already churning with the burden of how to prepare his troupe for war.
* * *
Dogs barked in the distance. The scent of meat cooking over an open flame kindled his hunger. Mohan dismounted and placed the dog on the ground. Shadow wove between the horse’s legs, irritating the animal but further convincing Mohan he was one of the dogs raised to guard the horses.
Before the first wagon came into view, shouts of “Mohan!” traveled to his eager ears. He stopped his horse as the clearing opened. The familiar wagons stood in a haphazard circle. Children ran around the camp, scattering flocks of geese and chickens in their wake. Women in brightly colored dresses tended to a pot in the middle of the wagons. Men, outdoing even the women in colors and textures, sat on stoops, chatting with one another. They were his family. His home. Faces turned to him and smiled. A few men waved. Only one woman stood on her wagon’s narrow porch, a look of sorrow etched in her face. Taliba, the wise woman.
As he passed, smiles fell from mouths and laughter died. He made his way to Taliba. His steps were heavy when he climbed the three stairs to her porch. She stretched out a wrinkled hand and touched his face. “You have much to tell me.”
He nodded, blinking back tears.
She waved a hand at the camp, which had frozen behind him. Activity resumed, but was now subdued. She looked down at the dog. “And you have a new friend.”
Shadow hid behind Mohan’s legs, watching Taliba with imploring eyes.
“His name is Shadow.”
Taliba stared at the dog for a while. “You have a tale to tell too.” She opened the door to her home and whistled for the dog. Mohan stepped in after Shadow and then shut the door behind them.
* * *
A son shouldn’t have to sneak in to see his father. But shoulds and shouldn’ts were no longer part of his world. He needed to deal with things the way they were and that meant sneaking into his father’s rooms. Aclan glanced at Hendrik and mouthed, “Stay here.” He took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.
He stormed down the hall.
The guard standing in front of his father’s door stood at attention. “My prince.”
“I am here to see my father.”
“It is forbidden.” The guard at least looked embarrassed.
“By whom?” He feigned surprise and used his most haughty tone. Thank you, cousin Lucin.
The guard’s face reddened further and he shifted nervously. “By Bredych.”
The outrage wasn’t hard to fake. “And a counselor outranks a prince?” He stepped closer to the guard.
“I—” The guard paled and cleared his throat.
“I thought so.” He pushed past the guard and into the room then sagged against the closed door. He took several breaths to slow his racing heart. That would only work once. He’d better make this count.
He walked past the sitting area and into the adjoining bedroom. His father hadn’t wanted his grandfather’s rooms. Instead, he’d had several walls torn down and created a three-room retreat. Aclan hadn’t understood why Erhard would go to such lengths to avoid using his father’s rooms. Until now. If he ever became king, he wouldn’t want to set foot in these rooms again. There were too many bad memories. Which prompted the question, What bad memories had his father tried to avoid? Too late, it seemed as if he never knew his father.
Erhard sat on a chair near his bed. He looked up when Aclan entered, an expression of confusion clear on his face. His face was gaunt and he seemed to have aged a great deal in the last few weeks. Aclan’s stomach hollowed. His father looked vulnerable, fragile, so unlike the force of life he’d been not too long ago. Someone had brushed his silver hair into a queue and he wore a loose-fitting tunic and leggings. He was cleaner than the last time Aclan had seen him too. As he watched, a vacant expression shuttered Erhard’s eyes. The king stared across the room as though seeing nothing.
“Father.” Aclan swallowed back a hundred questions he knew weren’t as important as this one message he had to deliver.
“Son?” Erhard smiled and turned t
oward him. “Aclan. You’re here.”
Aclan sniffed. An herbal scent permeated the room. He walked to his father’s teapot and thought of throwing the entire thing in the fire, then second-guessed himself. He wasn’t a child. He had to stop thinking of simplistic solutions. He took the pot.
“What are you doing?” Erhard asked, but his tone suggested the answer wasn’t terribly important to him. He was fading again.
Ignoring his father’s question, he dumped the pot’s contents into the flames, then walked to the water pitcher and filled the pot with water. “Your tea has been tainted. Just like the fragrance you used to wear was tainted.” He faced his father. “Your life is in danger. If you value it, value your kingdom, you will listen to me now.”
Erhard blinked several times. Confusion drew his eyebrows together and he shook his head.
Aclan kneeled before him, reached for his father’s hand and squeezed. “I don’t have much time. Do not drink this tea again.” He put as much authority in his voice as he could.
Erhard patted Aclan’s hand. “But Bredych said—”
“Bredych is after your throne. Do you understand?”
Erhard’s blue eyes widened. “That’s treason.”
Aclan didn’t know if his father referred to his accusation or Bredych’s actions. In the end it didn’t matter.
He took both his father’s hands in his. The pale blue gaze followed the motion. “If you ever loved me. Ever held me of value. Do not drink the tea and do not let Bredych know about it. If I’m wrong, then no harm has been done. If I’m right, you will have saved your life. Do you understand?”
Erhard stared at Aclan. For a moment, he saw reason return, but then the gaze dulled again. “I understand.”
“Good.” Aclan rose to his feet and left the room. He hoped his father understood and believed him. All their lives might depend on it.
* * *
Mohan finished his tale. Tears ran freely down his face. He wiped them with the back of one hand. Shadow pressed against his legs as though he shared Mohan’s sorrow or sought to comfort him. Taliba sat silently, staring into her tea. The creases on her face suddenly appeared deeper. “There are times I think I’ve lived too long.” She shook her head and took several deep breaths. “We will warn all the troupes. It is right, but that is only partially what we must do. We will call a council.”
He shook off the stunned silence. “That hasn’t happened in my lifetime. Will they listen? Will they come?”
Taliba stared into nothing. “It hasn’t happened in my lifetime either but it will now. They will listen because you will tell them.”
Shock traveled Mohan’s body. “Me?”
Taliba turned the full brunt of her dark gaze onto him. “Yes, you. War is on our doorstep. It will not knock or give warning. Alone, we will be like kindling before a great fire. Together, we will survive.”
Mohan shook his head. “But it isn’t our way.” The Benai didn’t gather. There wasn’t often animosity between troupes, but that was because they rigidly kept to their own territories. A council would require all the troupes to meet. The logistics of that alone baffled him. Where would they meet?
“Our way is to survive.” Taliba’s chin rose.
“Who am I to them? They won’t listen to me.”
“You will make them.” She reached for his hand. “You are the one who saw the devastation. You were with the Wanderer. You will make them.”
Mohan swallowed. “How?”
“Go as soon as you can. It will take some time. We are the people of the wind. You may end up chasing it.” Taliba’s silver earrings flashed in the light.
Mohan swallowed hard.
“Furthermore, I would have you select a man to take word to the southlands.”
He blinked and then stared hard at the wise woman. The Benai never traveled to the southlands, or alone.
“I have had a dream of a horsed people,” Taliba pronounced. “They must come.”
“Ilythra spoke of them. They are her kin.”
She smiled, her dark eyes almost disappearing in deep creases. “This is good. They will listen.”
“But they are far away. It will take years.”
Taliba sat straight, her dark gaze sharp. Her voice took on the tone that no one in the troupe dared oppose. “Then why are you still sitting in my kitchen, Mohan?”
Chapter Eighteen
After days in rolling deeply forested hills, the plains stretched to the horizon, naked under the turbulent sky. She didn’t remember much about the ride from the battle with the Rugians except a haze of pain. She’d woken in a small clearing, with Melior standing nearby. She’d wrapped her ribs and limped to a nearby stream, only to lose everything in her stomach for the effort. After she’d collapsed on the bank, she’d allowed herself a day of rest, during which she’d eaten almost all her provisions and slept most of the day and night before dragging her aching body back onto Melior’s back.
She was moving mostly on instinct. Her days were spent in a blur. She’d ride until the weariness couldn’t be denied and then find a shelter and fall into a deep sleep. It had been four or five days since the battle with no sign of more Rugians, but she knew better than to relax. They were still out there.
She took a deep breath, wincing at the sting, and stared over the plains. At least out here, she could see them coming. But of course she was visible too.
Her body was a maze of purple and yellowing bruises. Riding jarred her ribs and slowed the healing down, but the alternative wasn’t acceptable. Every instinct in her body drew her north as fast as possible, and the song of wisdom grew in strength, drawing her to it. Ilythra yawned. Despite the progression toward summer, this far north the nights were cold and amplified every ache in her body. She wished she would have thought to cut the fur from the body of one of the Rugians. The warmth would have been welcome on the cold nights.
She longed for a little comfrey, arnica or even willow bark to ease the pain, but there wasn’t time to search for herbs. Danger weighed her down like a damp cloth. She urged Melior forward but let him set the pace. The horse seemed aware its rider was wounded. Melior moved quickly and smoothly onto the grasslands.
Clouds gathered in the northwest, dark and turbulent against blue sky. A cold wind buffeted her face, whipping hair into her eyes and mouth. Melior moved restlessly beneath her. Ilythra patted the stallion’s neck. “Yes, I see it too. That’s going to be one intense storm. Let’s find shelter.”
Melior whinnied.
Free of darkness, the eastern sky contrasted with the west’s deepening gloom. The sun, defying the storm’s strength, edged the turbulent clouds with silver and cast long shadows as Ilythra and Melior moved across the grasslands.
A group of trees stood darker green against the surrounding meadows. Ilythra leaned down toward Melior’s head. The stallion raced across the meadows. The clouds were quicker, speeding across the heavens at an alarming speed, dwarfing the open plain. The small copse of trees grew against the unbroken grasslands. It was the only shelter in sight. Thunder crashed overhead, followed by an arc of blinding light.
Melior slid to a stop under the trees, his sides heaving. Ilythra slid to the ground, grinding her teeth against the expected pain, and patted him. “Good job, buddy.” Outside the thicket, the light faded. The sky grew dark and low and the wind howled across the land.
A crumbling mud wall rose from the ground between two of the trees. Thick branches intertwined just above the structure. She circled the wall. Pieces of wood and broken pottery littered the ground. Someone had lived there—she glanced at the tree—probably when these trees were young. She pushed against the wall. It gave a little, but it kept most of the wind out. She led Melior around the wall and pulled a cloth from her pack. Reaching up, she ignored the pain in her ribs to tuck the cl
oth between some branches and the wall and secured the ends with stones. The effort wearied her more than it should have.
Lightning traced patterns across the sky; the wind increased. Ilythra slid down the wall under the cloth and closed her eyes. She rubbed Ilydearta. “Just get me to the Siobani, okay?” Thunder roared, vibrating deep in her chest, as the heavens opened and released a downpour. Rain beat staccato against the cloth and pummeled the trees. The dirt churned into mud. Melior moved closer to the shelter, his head down. Water dripped from the tip of his nose. Ilythra removed the packs, stowing them under the greased cloth, gathered several sticks and sat back down, blinking rain out of her eyes.
“Sorry boy, you don’t fit.”
Melior snorted, water spraying over the drenched ground.
“Hey, at least you’re out of the wind and most of the rain. Best I could do. One day, I’ll make sure you have a barn and a stall of your own with plenty of oats. Sound good?”
The horse didn’t make a sound.
She shivered as the wind touched her wet clothes. Striking a flint, Ilythra guarded a small ember from the wind until it caught, consuming the kindling. It was the first fire she’d taken the time to light since she began the race north.
She probed her hip. The muscles were bruised but healing. Her ribs were slowly healing too. She was still in pain, but it was tolerable. Not like those first few days after the fight. Every battle with the Rugians had cost her, each one leaving her weaker than the one before. Would the next one be the last? She swallowed against the thought, but it refused to go away. She was in no condition to fight again. She could barely walk. Maybe the last set of Rugians had been the last part of the gauntlet. But she didn’t really believe it.
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