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

by Cat Bruno

Next, he reached for the rapier, parrying with the scimitar as he pulled the thinly bladed sword from its scabbard. When he lunged forward, the children gasped, scrambling back from him, their eyes filled with fright and mirth.

  Placing the scimitar in an etched leather scabbard hanging from his belt, Otieno held the delicate rapier as if was a ray of light. Sun streaks cut across his dark clothing when he moved. Again he jabbed, thrusting the sword into an invisible foe. Red-stained leather wrapped around the hilt of the rapier, part warning and part reminder. Where hilt met blade hung a thin metal chain, and, from the chain, hung an ivory figurine carved into the shape of a large-eared, tusked and wrinkled animal. As Otieno swung the blade, the small figure moved as well, spinning and twirling.

  In a slow sweep, he sliced through the air, left to right, down and back up, fast and concise. The sword hummed, and, as he continued slicing downward with it, the air stilled around him. The tip of the sword led the strike and Otieno’s feet did not move. This was the gentleman’s sword, graceful and silent.

  Just as quickly as he brought the blade down, it rose, crossing his body until he swung a backhanded stroke, opening up the throat of his imagined enemy.

  The rapier was soon replaced with the broadsword, and the diauxie exchanged turns and parries for two-handed hacks and swings. There was no mercy with the broadsword, for it was the warrior’s blade. The fight was over quickly and without style, forgettable, but deadly nonetheless.

  The boy who had first approached tugged at Otieno’s tunic as he sheathed all of the blades. “What of the Greatsword? Will you dance with it as well, aba?”

  The boy, no more than seven moon years, stood just to Otieno’s knee, and suddenly seemed to be without fear.

  “Not while the sun shines, child,” Otieno told him.

  “Is it a moon blade, then?” the boy asked, unaware that the diauxie was readying to leave.

  After a moment, and with the boy’s fingers still pulling at his shirt, Otieno answered, “It is not of the moon or the sun, but is nearly as old. It comes from a place where the mountains reach for the stars and are covered in snow year-round. Where the rivers run cold and brisk for nearly the full moon year. Where the people are pale-skinned like ice. She is no dancer, that sword.”

  When the boy opened his mouth to speak again, a tall girl with thickly curled hair and flashing eyes grabbed him and pulled him back toward the others.

  With his hand still in hers, she called to Otieno, “My brother talks too much, aba. He is always telling tales and asking questions even when mama tells him hush.”

  Otieno, pausing, told them, “It is never wrong to seek answers to what we don’t know. Never stop asking. There are more powerful weapons than those that I use. A sword is not the only path to victory. Finding your path and walking it as fearlessly as you can is the mark of a true warrior.”

  Breaking free from his sister’s grip, the boy ran toward Otieno. He stumbled through the sand, nearly falling, but he reached Otieno quickly and reached up to again tug on him.

  “Aba!” the boy cried until Otieno slowed. “I live near here, and mama always cooks more than we need. Would you join us for the midday meal?”

  The boy was a determined one, and Otieno slowly nodded, nearly admitting to him that he had not eaten well in a quarter-moon. “Lead the way and I shall follow, as long as your sister here approves.”

  His words were light, and even the girl laughed, “Mama always does make too much food.”

  As they walked, Otieno asked, “What is your name?”

  “Davon. And my sister is Laila.”

  Otieno had traveled far in the last quarter moon, and the chance to enjoy a full meal had been too tempting. The boy was a likeable one, but it was the girl whom he could not take his eyes from. She reminded him of another girl, one he tried often to forget. A girl who haunted him still. A girl whose blood still stained his hands.

  *****

  It was nearing midday when he slammed the door behind him. Rubbing at a throbbing cheek, he paused, wondering if he should retrieve the salve that she had left with him. The bitter taste of mint remained sharp on his tongue, souring his mouth. Heading toward his father’s room, Crispin decided that it would be unwise to further trust anything from the woman.

  Once he reached his father’s door, Crispin abruptly stopped. The door was still unwatched, despite his instructions the previous night that the guards return within in the hour.

  With shaking hands, he pushed at the door.

  The ward was gone, and the door fell open as if it was no longer made of wood and steel. Around him, the room blurred red and murky. Staggering to the bed, Crispin reached for the down-filled blanket. Yet, before his vision cleared, Crispin knew what he would find.

  Collapsing onto the bed, he sat, trying to decide what to do next. When he remembered the others who had accompanied the healer, he jumped up and rushed back down the hall. Flinging open the dark mage’s door, Crispin searched the room.

  “Hells,” he screamed, quieting only when he heard footsteps nearing.

  Hurriedly opening the door of the other healer, the prince closed his eyes. She too was gone. The sound of heavy boots increased, pounding and drumming. For a moment, he thought of running, knowing who came. Before he could, his brother’s voice roared.

  “Crispin!” his brother shouted, “Where is father?”

  It was not long before Delwin was beside him, several of his men trailing behind.

  “What in the hells happened to your face?”

  With moon years of practice, Crispin lied, “I was struck at the docks last night and spent the rest of the night being tended to.”

  His brother’s eyes were edged in gold fury. “When will you learn to keep away from the filth of the Lower Streets?”

  Crispin said nothing as Delwin continued, “You should find your wife and let her know that you are safe. She was quite worried about you when we visited her this morning. My men spent hours searching for you.”

  “I’m a man grown, Delwin, and need not permission to do as I wish,” Crispin wearily replied.

  “So be it,” Delwin waved. “We have more pressing matters. What of father? Where has he gone?”

  It was then that Crispin knew that his brother had been informed that the King’s Heir was the last to be seen with him.

  “I was with him last night. Before I went to the docks.”

  “And you have not seen him since?” Delwin pressed, his voice growing deep.

  “Not since last night. Have you checked the courtyard? Perhaps father woke and was taken outside. He has asked to do so often in the past.”

  “My men have already been there,” his brother said, pushing by him and back into their father’s room.

  As he followed, Crispin thought of the previous night, trying to remember what had occurred. His thoughts were slow, addled by the tonic no doubt. He had visited his father before knocking on Caryss’s door and had dismissed the guards soon after, not wanting the King’s Guardsmen to see him with the healer. He wondered if she had assumed as much and had seized the chance to gain access to the King with none around. Yet, he realized, she still would have had to get through the heavily warded door.

  “Delwin, send men to the gates!” he cried, thinking of the dark mage who traveled with her.

  “You think it is so urgent then? He could not have gotten far in his condition, Crispin,” Delwin told him, as if in scolding.

  Distractedly, Crispin answered, “He must have had help. You said that your men have searched for him without luck. I know not where he has gone either. That merits some urgency, Delwin. Meet me near my rooms at the next bell.”

  Appearing more concerned now, Delwin hurried off, back down the hall. Once he and his men were gone from sight, Crispin ran back to Caryss’s room.

  As he pulled blankets from the bed and kicked over a small side table, Crispin turned to find the door being opened.

  “Where is she?” he screamed at the two m
en staring at him.

  Both men paled until the shorter one stuttered, in stilted Common, “We have not seen her since last night. Nor can we find Sharron or Aldric.”

  “You have not seen her since last night?” he asked, more quietly as he walked toward them.

  “Aye,” the both nodded, in unison.

  “What of her clothing and bags?”

  The two men looked at one another.

  When neither answered, Crispin warned, “You both must realize how this looks. She comes here with little and leaves abruptly under the moon’s watch. Do you not think that you both will stand accused if anything is amiss?”

  He watched their sun-darkened skin yellow, and added, “For your safety and because I do not think you were involved in her disappearance, I will take you to my own private quarters. Once there, you must tell me all that you know, or I will not be able to protect you.”

  “We know nothing about her, my lord,” one of them told confessed. “We were hired to see her here safely. For most of our journey she was withdrawn and quiet. It was not until we came upon the whore that she showed much interest in anything around her.”

  The taller man, who had stayed silent mostly, reached for his sword, a thick broadsword that hung heavy at his belt.

  His sight burning red, Crispin growled, “Keep your hands from your weapons and come with me.”

  Once the man’s hand released the hilt, both followed as Crispin fled. Just outside his office, he hesitated until his hands felt the soft pulsing of his warded door. Sighing, he waited for the ward to release as his fingers warmed.

  When all three were in the room, he closed the door and turned back to the men.

  “Tell me all that you can about the healer.”

  The taller of the two now spoke. “Like Niko said, Caryss was quiet much of the time. We were hired to escort her here safely, which is what we did. Truth be told, we thought we would soon be dismissed. When we woke here today and could not find the others, I assumed that we were no longer needed. We are owed coin, though, and need to find the mage before we depart. Once paid, we will return to Arvumia.”

  Shaking his head forcefully, Crispin said, “I will see that you are paid. Now what of this whore? Was she known to Caryss?”

  “It did not seem so. I know not how they met, but Caryss tended to an injury the woman had.”

  “Tended to her how?” Crispin demanded, losing patience.

  With a twitch to his shoulders, the man answered, “She was lying on the ground, and Caryss was stitching a gash on the back of her head, I believe. The mage kept them warded, and we kept them safe.”

  Two of his guards now stood just outside the door. Crossing the room, he opened the door again and called the men in.

  With his men behind him, Crispin fumed, “She is a healer! I would expect her to do nothing else. Tell me what else you know of this woman.”

  “Caryss followed the woman to her rooms,” the smaller man cried, as if to free his brother from the prince’s interrogation.

  “And what of it?” Crispin asked.

  Neither answered.

  “Now is not the time to grow silent,” he told them, the threat unhidden.

  “Forgive us, my lord, but we have our orders.”

  “She is not returning!” he screamed at them. “You have two choices. Answer my queries or you will become well acquainted with the inside of a Rexterran jail cell!”

  Again, the men looked to one another. The younger one nodded.

  “What more would you like to know, Prince Crispin?”

  “Tell me everything that has happened since you first arrived in the King’s City.”

  For more than an hour, the men told him of their movements over the last day, including time spent with the Islander. The woman was like many others who came to the King’s City, and while it surprised him that the healer would visit her so eagerly, it also reinforced his belief that Caryss was unfit for life in the King’s City, especially life at the palace. The smaller guard remembered Caryss asking the woman about her homeland. Crispin pressed the men further, until he decided that, soon, he himself would need to visit the Islander, for she had been one of the few in Rexterra to speak with Caryss.

  *****

  The wooden box sat between her crossed legs, and she took a long breath before opening the lid. Nahla traced her fingers over the red-orange leaves of a lush flower that had been carved and dyed atop the box. It had been a gift from her mother many moon years before, and there was little that she prized more, having brought it with her to Rexterra. Around her, the slanted rays of the midday sun entered through the small windows of her bottom-floor dwelling.

  Gently, her long fingers pushed open the lid. Nahla rested her chin against her chest, softly rocking herself back and forth as she eyed the box’s contents.

  With a soft moan, she reached into the box, pulling out a silver coin. Streaks of sunlight struck the coin, sending glimmering lines across her bare arms. Her fingers flipped and twirled the coin before setting it on the floor beside her. One by one, she removed coins from the box and piled them neatly beside her.

  “Thirty!” she sang, as she laid the last one down near her.

  Since shortly after arriving in the King’s City, Nahla had saved every copper that she could. And, for the last few moon years, her services had been in high demand, and she had been able to increase her stash of coins rapidly, especially since she had never moved out of the cramped bottom-floor room. Staring at the pile of silver coins, she nearly wept.

  She had long dreamed of having her own inn, and, now, with the five coins, given to her by the mage, she could again meet with Horace, who had moons before asked her if she was ready to buy his building. It was on the edges of the Lower Streets, but he had kept it well-maintained, as she should know, having spent many nights there. When Aldric had handed her the bag of coins, she knew that it was more than necessary to book passage aboard Hector’s boat. Yet the mage insisted that she keep it, although they both knew that his act was not one of generosity, but one of necessity.

  Even without the coin, she would have said nothing of the girl, but had not admitted as much to the mage.

  A loud knocking jolted her from her thoughts, and Nahla hurriedly threw the coins back into the box. As she hurriedly rose, her skirt tangled around her foot, hurling her back to the floor. Gathering the coins again, Nahla listened as the pounding grew more insistent. When the silver was once again in the box, she tucked it into a small hole hidden behind a tapestry.

  When she opened the door, despite expecting to be visited, Nahla struggled to keep her face free from expression. Clenching a well-worn brass knob, she looked up at the man who stood just steps from her.

  “Prince Crispin,” she said, bowing her head slightly.

  For a moment, they stared upon one another. She noticed a large, stitched gash across the side of his face and wondered how he had come to have such a fresh injury.

  Without taking his sparkling-gold eyes from her, the prince called to someone behind him, “Is this the whore?”

  Stepping forward were the two men who had been hired as guards for Caryss.

  Before they could answer, she laughed, “Few call me whore in my own home.”

  “Will you permit us to enter?” he curtly asked, waving the men away.

  “Have I much choice, my lord? You may enter, and your men as well. But not those two,” she answered, pointing at Caryss’s guards as her words hardened.

  The prince watched her. Nahla stared back. Finally, he motioned to his men.

  “Tonnio, have the rest of the men wait here. You will enter with me,” he ordered.

  When the man nodded brusquely, Nahla stepped back, finally releasing her hand from the knob. Behind her, the door remained open, and, moments later, the prince entered. Nahla watched as he scanned her room, and noticed that his cheeks did not redden as he looked upon the tapestries. His guard kept his eyes on her and his hand on the sword, much as she exp
ected.

  After he had completed his check of her room, the prince asked, “Why did you deny entrance to the Arvumian men?”

  Her words accented but clear, she told him, “When last they were here, they were with a Northern girl. She was an unusual woman, my prince, and I would just as soon not welcome her back.”

  Crispin stood within an arm’s reach of her, and she watched his eyes darken as she mentioned the healer.

  “What do you know about the girl?”

  Nahla had expected his words as well and replied, “She is a healer, my lord, as I’m sure you well know.”

  “I have no time for games,” he hissed. “Answer me true or my men will drag you through the streets and throw you into a cell.”

  “Why ask what you already know?” Nahla hummed at him, unfazed by his threats.

  “Once more, tell me what you know of her.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, she stated, “My lord, you came here under a full sun in the middle of the day. The Lower Streets are filled, as are the piers. You traveled freely and under no guise, with five of your own men in full uniform trailing behind you. Your men stand outside my door, and have been seen by hundreds already. Word has surely already spread that you visit Nahla the whore. If you had wanted to imprison me, you would have done it already and without so many to witness it.”

  “I am King’s Heir, and answer to none,” he fumed.

  Crossing to stand just in front of her, he yelled, “I could burn the streets behind me as I walked and none would dare stop me. I could have my men drag you into the market square and slice your pretty neck from ear to ear and, still, none would stop me.”

  His words crashed around her, forceful and loud, but Nahla stood in the storm, unmoving and unafraid. She watched as his guard drew his sword, but looked back at Crispin in time to see him wave the man off.

  When he reached for her, Nahla did not waver. She licked her lips as he grabbed her shoulders. Laughing, she threw her head back, exposing her long, sleek neck for him.

  “Why take me to the piers, my lord? Have your man slit my throat now,” she purred.