Daughter of the Wolf (Pathway of the Chosen Book 2)

by Cat Bruno

“What was it that Nahla whispered to you?” he asked as they walked.

  Distracted by thoughts of Litusia, she absently told him, “Nahla blessed the babe, and although her words were her own, I understood. And she told me that when I was ready to find Otieno that I should return to the piers, and she will see that we get to the Southern Cove Islands.”

  “Caryss, really, is that wise?” Aldric asked, trying to keep the disapproval from his voice.

  “Perhaps not,” she mused. “But when I finish here, doing the work of others, then for once I will allow myself a choice. I have had much time to think, Aldric, and I wonder when my life was ever my own. Even as a child, I must have been watched. For how else would he have found me? I was but an Eirrannian girl, nothing special and with no powers or mage-skill. I am a gift, little more than that.”

  “A gift?” Aldric stuttered beside her.

  “Are there not tales from the North of sacrifices to appease the gods?”

  “In generations long dead, Caryss,” he hurriedly replied.

  A half-smile crossed her face as she answered, “And yet still there is peace between Eirrannia and Tribe. Such peace is never without cost, Aldric.”

  “Who would offer such a gift?”

  “I know not,” she said, “But the child did not seem surprised when Conri arrived.”

  He reached for her then, grabbing her arm and whispering through clenched teeth, “What child do you speak of?”

  In a voice she hardly knew as he own, she explained, “Myself. I have recalled much of late, although most times I do not even who I was or who I must become. The Academy was my home, but what if I should have never been there? Who is Caryss? I only know Bronwen, yet I feel less like her each day.”

  Aldric pulled her toward him, strongly, more than she would have thought him capable of, and held her by the shoulders. With his light eyes clear and sparkling, he said to her, “You might not have chosen this path, but you are here now and must walk it fully and freely. To hear you speak so makes me want to turn back. You have a skill that very few have. Learned or god-touched, it matters not; you are a talented healer. How dare you seek to waste it?”

  Never before had Aldric addressed her so, and Caryss was startled by his words, and shaken by his hands on her.

  “I am no longer Bronwen, that girl who spent half her life as healer.”

  “Then be Caryss. Find her path,” he pleaded, loosening his grip.

  “Coming from you Aldric, I find those words to mean little.”

  He shrugged, dropping his hands from her. “Do you think I have learned nothing? I will not let you become like me. I will not have you destroyed as I once was.”

  She pushed her blazing hair from her face and walked away, unsure of where she was heading, but unwilling to face the look of disappointment in Aldric’s eyes. Caryss knew that for the last moon she had been withdrawn and snappish, speaking little with Aldric and Sharron. And, as their concern grew, she attempted to avoid them as much as she could. Whether it was the babe developing inside of her or the knowledge that her returned memory had given her, Caryss knew not. But she felt uncertain and less like herself each day. Her life at the Academy was over a moon gone, yet at times it felt as if she had never been there at all. Since Conri’s last visit, much had changed, and with her returned memory of her parents’ death, her past had started unraveling.

  “I will be neither Bronwen nor Caryss if I do not heal the King, Aldric,” she mumbled, to none but herself.

  3

  Much like any other morning of late, Crispin had been up before dawn and seated at his large desk, examining reports concerning the state of the nation’s coffers. It was a job that he liked little, yet one that was necessary as the King’s health worsened. His brother was little help, although, mercifully, he was occupied at the northern border, investigating a recent death among his troops stationed there.

  Recently, Delwin and he had argued often, especially since their father had become bed-ridden and unable to communicate. To keep the peace between them, Crispin had taken to trying to avoid his brother, which was difficult to do when they both occupied the palace, despite its size. With his father’s condition worsening, Crispin feared what would happen if the King died, knowing that Delwin had still not accepted that the right of rule should go to the elder brother. Out of desperation, Crispin had sent word to the Healer’s Academy on the other side of Cordisia, seeking help.

  Crispin closed the ledger that he had been trying to make sense of and pushed his chair away from the paper-strewn desk. Rising, he paced about the room, unease settling onto him. Crispin rolled his neck to and fro, stretching his back and shoulders and closing his gold-rimmed eyes in a moment of escape.

  Rubbing at his forehead with ink-stained fingers, the prince sighed, “The coffers must wait.”

  After grabbing a large robe from a hook near the door, he raced from the room. As he walked the silent hallways, Crispin realized that it was nearly time for his evening meal and his stomach rumbled in hunger. Yet he walked past the kitchens and toward a vacant wing of the palace, one he often used when he sought privacy. Few knew the Grand Palace as he did, not even Delwin. As children, Crispin and his cousin Willem had explored all corners of the palace and beyond; a game that Delwin had never enjoyed.

  This evening, he chose to exit through a back courtyard, one filled with raised garden beds filled with sweet-smelling herbs. The courtyard was used mainly by kitchen staff, and, at this hour, he knew that none would be there. Once free from the palace, he headed toward the Lower Streets, slipping the oversized robe atop his clothing and lifting the hood until his head was fully covered. The sun had not yet set, although it hung low on the horizon spreading a dusky orange glow across the bricks and stones.

  As he walked, briskly and with his head down, Crispin’s thoughts cleared. The night felt damp and the multi-colored cobblestones beneath his boots were smooth and slippery as he hurried along. With each step, he thought less of the crown’s coffers and more of the woman. Her hands, despite the thin, delicate fingers, were strong. Her hair was as pale as snow, hanging loosely down her back and falling in soft waves. Her eyes were green, yet of a shade he could not describe, although often they seemed to be as dark as pine. Her skin, which she kept covered when he would visit, was speckled and streaked, he knew, the markings of a cross-breed. Still, Crispin thought her beautiful, yet he told none of her existence.

  Each time he visited, Crispin was awe-struck by the woman, so unlike anyone else. Unlike Nicoline even. Once, during his first visit to her, she had explained that she came from the North, but was not Eirrannian. Her mother’s people, she told him, were ancient ones, and while she did not know her father, she believed that he was Rexterran. Moon years before, she had come to find him, although she never had. Instead, she stayed in the King’s City, rarely leaving the Lower Streets. Cross-breeds were rare, even near the piers, and she kept herself well-masked.

  If he wanted to see her, Crispin had to travel to the Lower Streets, and, tonight, he had need of her and quickened his pace.

  Nightfall approached, and the air turned thicker, stained with amber and red. The scents of the piers wafted on the wind as it ruffled his hood. Again, his stomach rumbled, and he remembered how he had eaten nothing since a light meal before the sun had fully risen. Realizing that he had coin in the pocket of the well-worn robe, Crispin slowed his pace and looked about, hoping to find a fishmonger or food vendor.

  A group of people around a large cart caught Crispin’s eye, and he wandered over to the crowd, inhaling the scent of battered and fried fish as he neared. Taking his place in line, he waited, as any other would, listening to the conversations of his people around him. When he raised his head to see how much longer he would have to wait, Crispin noticed a woman standing between two large men.

  Her hair, fire-streaked, fell across pale cheeks, and her gown was a costly one. Eirrannian-born, he knew, and wealthy as well. Of late he had been too distracted
to recall all that his aides told him, although he remembered something of a visiting Northern statesman. Perhaps the woman was his daughter, he wondered.

  Crispin was just steps from the woman now and, with his hood still drawn, stepped closer.

  “Are you kin to Seinn MacAllister?” he asked, mentioning the Eirrannian official.

  When the woman looked at him, he noticed how eyes shifted shades, from gray to green. He had but a moment to look at them before her guards stepped forward.

  Her hair, polished like copper, shined more vividly than the setting sun and fluttered as she backed away from him.

  Following, he called, “My lady, might I have a moment of your time?”

  As he asked, Crispin watched a dark-robed man approach, wearing a heavy fabric, despite the mild weather. Into the woman’s ear, he whispered. He was no guardsman, yet he spoke to her with purpose and intimacy.

  The prince knew that he should leave, yet something kept him there, rooted to the stoned street, as if his legs had hardened into stone or marble.

  When she spoke, Crispin shivered, his body covered in prickled flesh.

  “Sir, I am new to the city and do not believe it possible that we could have been acquainted previously. I’m sorry to rush off, but we have somewhere we must be.”

  Unaccustomed to being dismissed, Crispin addressed the man.

  “It is admirable and right how you protect your lady, yet you have nothing to fear from me. Might I just have a moment of her time?”

  For a moment, the two men looked at each other, and even though they both were hooded still, their eyes met. Recognition crossed the eyes of both, and they stood unmoving and unspeaking once again, the silence seeping across the stones.

  It was the woman who finally intervened. “We must depart at once.”

  When neither moved, she looked toward the prince with curious and clear eyes, yet he knew that she did not recognize him.

  The dark-robed man whispered, “We have somehow stumbled upon what it is that we seek. How strange this all seems.”

  Noticing her puzzled expression, Crispin asked her, “It is me who brings you to Rexterra, my lady?”

  “I do not know you any more now than I did moments ago,” she answered, reaching for the mage.

  Crispin nearly laughed at her response, appreciating her ability to speak her mind, a trait that few had when in the presence of the King’s Heir.

  “Follow me,” he told them both.

  Pulling at the mage, the woman began to object, but he shook his head and motioned for her to follow. Crispin knew not what their presence meant, nor did he recall the mage’s name. Yet he knew enough to want to keep them close.

  *****

  Caryss walked alongside Aldric, steps behind the disguised man, and hoarsely asked who the man was.

  Without slowing his step or turning to face her, Aldric replied, “That man is the next in line to be King of Rexterra.”

  Stumbling, Caryss reached out and braced herself on Aldric, stunned at his words. Shaking her head softly, she tried to respond, but, after several attempts, she gave up and followed along. The girl had not been wrong, she realized. So far, the trip was far easier than Caryss had imagined it to be.

  But with that ease came more worry.

  *****

  4

  By the time that the group reached the palace, the sun had fully set, and mage lights reflected off the neatly cobbled streets. On the way, Aldric had explained why they had come. When Caryss handed him the letter that Willem had sent, the prince hurriedly read it, then tore it into pieces, which he threw into a large iron-covered drain. She had not read the letter’s contents herself, but the prince asked little else of them.

  The darkened sky masked their entrance as they followed Crispin past an unlocked metal gate.

  “Is it so easy then to enter the palace? Surely a first-year in the mage-guild could offer better protection than an old, iron gate,” Caryss stated.

  “Oh, I’m sure that one could. Yet, sometimes simple is best, and really, no one but me comes to this side of the palace. Few even know of this gate’s existence,” the King’s Heir interjected.

  Her cheeks flared red, as if he had scolded her, and Caryss said nothing more. Instead, she stared at her feet, the straps of her sandals muddying as they walked through a large garden. The prince resembled Willem only slightly, Caryss thought, watching him as he led them through the courtyard. Crispin was of a smaller build than his cousin, although he too wore his hair cropped short. She thought often of Willem, remembering his promises of freedom, ones that she dared not accept.

  Moments later, she asked, “Why did you not send word to Willem of the King’s health?”

  They were near an exterior wall of the palace when he paused. Graying stone covered by sprawling ivy revealed an unkempt section of the Grand Palace. The others were still steps behind them as he looked at her, his gold-rimmed eyes examining her. His eyes were akin to Willem’s, and she did not look away.

  “My cousin has risked much for me and has lost more. It has been half a lifetime since he left here, but still my brother does not forget. He lives because Delwin does not know where to find him. The risk was too great to contact him directly and the message too important. I did what I thought best.”

  After a moment, Caryss, unsatisfied, prodded further. “Does merely speaking against the King or his sons warrant exile in Rexterra?”

  With a laugh, he answered, “Is that the story he tells? That his exile came from a disagreement with my father?”

  Shaking her head, she swiftly added, “He talks little of his time here, and when last he did, we both had much wine between us. But I do recall him mentioning a fight with your brother.”

  The others were now close enough to hear their exchange, and, without looking behind her, Caryss knew what Aldric’s expression would be. He had warned her to talk little of her past and to trust no one, not even the prince.

  Crispin still watched her, paying little heed to the others, as he told her, “It was more than just a quarrel between kin. Willem had a choice: exile or imprisonment. The choice seemed an easy one. Other than that, I will say no more. Healer, perhaps you have been too long sheltered at the Academy, but you are in the King’s City now. My city. Do not forget your place.”

  The prince turned away from her then. Caryss raised her hand, but before she could reach for Crispin, Aldric slapped her hand away, and muttered low enough that only she could hear, “Leave it be!”

  Caryss nodded, holding her stinging hand to her chest.

  In front of them, Crispin shoved the ivy aside and placed his hands against the wall and held them there. Moments later, a door appeared, where there once was none. The group followed him inside, although Caryss noticed looks of surprise on the guards’ faces.

  Slowly, the group continued through a nearly dark hallway, and, when Aldric would have called a mage-light to guide them, Crispin shook his head. Soon after, Crispin stopped abruptly and pushed open a wooden door, entering it, and gesturing for the others to follow. When they were all in the room, he slammed the door closed, leaving the room in total darkness. Before Aldric could summon a mage-light, Crispin had a large orb pulsing in his hands, which he then set on a small, round table, the light spreading a soft, moon-like glow over the room.

  Caryss stood near the back corner of the room, listening with her head down as Crispin addressed them.

  “You must first understand that I am the only one who knows why you have come and it must remain so. When I sought a healer, I had not thought I requested a dark mage, however, and, even with my cousin’s words, I know not what he is doing here.”

  Her throat burned with words, yet Caryss waited, still listening.

  “My father is near death, despite both healer and mage at his bedside. If he had died in battle, or of just cause, I would find either possible. But his illness is not a just one, nor is it one the healers recognize. That is why you are here. For a moon year or mo
re, I have suspected that his illness is being caused by something. Or perhaps someone.”

  He cleared his throat before he continued, “Few know of the King’s true condition, and it must remain so, as I stated in my letter. If word spreads of his frail health, I will know that is has come from one of you. Just as if his health worsens, you will be responsible. Be so warned.”

  Finally, Caryss could no longer stay silent. “I am healer-trained and have vows, Prince Crispin. I need not be reminded of them by you.”

  “You are young and cannot be long in Master robes,” he retorted.

  With anger edging her words, Caryss told him, “I am no Master yet.”

  “The king is dying and the Academy, one that would not exist without the support of Rexterra, sends a student?” Crispin roared, his eyes erupting as if aflame.

  Before she could answer, Aldric called, “You know nothing of her, prince. She is more healer than those who have worn the robes for half their lives.”

  “You look as if you are here to see the city, as any moneyed Northern girl would do. This is the King we speak of!”

  Walking toward him, she laughed, “Was that not your request, my lord? You did not want any to know that you had sought a healer, and now you complain that I do not look the part?”

  He said nothing.

  Stopping just in front of him, Caryss gazed up, noticing still how his eyes burned, red and gold, as if the heat of the sun lived there.

  Without looking away, she said to him, “Within the moon year, I will wear my Master robes. For half my life I have studied the healing arts and for half of that, I worked in the clinic, where I have saved more than I can count from death. With me is Sharron, another senior healer, as well as Aldric, who you seem to already know as a mage. Sharron, as I do, has vows that we hold sacred, and neither of us will seek to further harm the King. Aldric once was mage, well, still is I suppose, but he has sworn his services to me and offers no threat to you or the King. The two at the door are hired men, hired by your cousin I should mention, to see us here safely, as they have done.”