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

by Cat Bruno

  As the sun beamed yellow-orange rays upon her and the silver blade, she lifted it above her head, and, while her arms shook, she did not lose control, striking down in a diagonal slice that would have cut a man from neck to knee. Without speaking, she set the sword at his feet.

  With a tip of her head, she said, “Let me have the scimitar.”

  “You have shown me enough, leeta,” he breathed, unable to say more.

  The girl walked toward him, away from her mother and the other man, who were staring wide-eyed and entranced behind her. When she was near enough to him that the others could not hear, she looked at him, sparkling and fading.

  With tears in her eyes, she whispered, “My mother has never seen me fight. Let me have the scimitar please. I will show her how I dance.”

  Otieno looked at her, the girl, maybe sixteen or so moon years, and understood. With nothing further to say, he nodded and reached for the curved sword. Without hesitating, he dropped it to the sand, remembering her earlier words.

  Her back was still facing her mother, and the sun reflected off her silvery dress until it was nearly translucent. She glowed, as if the moon stood in human form before them, fallen from the sky and with no stars as companions. Otieno noticed her body trembling, but by now he knew it was not with fatigue. Emotion swept over her, and she struggled to control it before turning to face her mother. He nearly intervened, but, as he stepped toward her, she grabbed the scimitar and turned.

  What followed brought tears to his hardened eyes and a smile to his scarred face. Her mother had not lied. The girl was like none other. In her hand, the sword was not just weapon.

  It was a flower, as she plucked it from the ground, bringing it so close to her face that he held his breath in fear. The curved blade tucked near her pale neck, the girl flipped through the air, landing on steady feet, the sword now in front of her, ready to strike. She brought it near her face, inhaling its delicate scent, then slashed backward so abruptly and fiercely that he scurried away.

  Next, she danced as if made of water and flowed, slicing and twisting, a coiling stream of movement. A deadly rush of water. She ended with a fluid stroke, letting the blade carve a pattern into the air, whistling, like a fast-flowing river, free and furious. Her hand etched with such speed that the mist around her dissolved.

  Otieno reached for his face, for suddenly he felt as if the skies had opened up and showered him in rain.

  The girl continued on. Where once she streamed and swelled, now she seemed to be weightless, as if made of air. She became nearly invisible, shifting and tickling his skin with a kiss from the blade. Each time she neared, he shivered, yet he stood as if he was stone.

  Otieno had never seen a sword move as quickly as it did in her hands, as if she held the wind by its hand. Again and again, she swung and struck, up and down, from left to right, faster each time, until the blade hummed, spiraling under her control. The girl kicked her feet out in front of her, without sound, and threw herself backward, rolling sideways in the air as she held the sword aloft. As she tumbled, the scimitar cut a new pattern, so close to Otieno that he did not dare breathe.

  She played with him, slicing at his tunic, tearing it from neck to hip, yet the sword tip had not once touched skin.

  When she backed away, he reached for his tunic, holding it closed as his eyes stayed on her. The blade now glowed gold, as if she fought inside a storm, lightning held tightly between her fingers.

  Moments before she had moved delicately, swirling and dancing. Now, she was all power and force, deadly and vengeful, as she raised the scimitar above her head, striking down, over and over, until her arm grew tired. Each time the blade crashed toward the ground, he leaned into the tree, half-expecting thunder to roar overhead.

  When the skies quieted, he thought her to be done as her arms burned with fatigue. Even her dress had come loose, and strands of the sheer fabric hung from her, glittering in the high sun and trailing behind her like falling stars. Dark hair, scattered waves, came free too, yet she noticed nothing, moving as if she could not stop.

  Suddenly, she was ablaze. Not water, nor air, nor lightning. Now, she burned with flame, and his skin burned to be so near to her.

  Frenzied and with abandon, she fought, half-crazed, leaping and cutting, with little care to whom or what was around her. Like flames, she knew no direction and had no aim. She only sought to destroy, to burn, to kill. Falling to the ground, rolling from attack, rising again, the girl fought.

  Her dress dirtied and torn, she still did not stop, weaving the scimitar with the thread of fire until it burned red in her hands.

  Finally, falling to her knees, she paused. Dropping her head to the ground, she rested, breathing deeply as the image flickered with each exhale.

  It was enough.

  Otieno stepped toward her to reclaim the weapon, but before he could, she leaned back. With one quick slash, she ran the tip of the blade across her palm, like her mother had done earlier. Blood fell heavily onto the ground.

  Otieno needed to see nothing else.

  “You thank the Great Mother for your life,” he whispered, his words empty of artifice.

  “As you have taught me,” she whispered, her breath still coming in spurts.

  “Leeta, I will be honored to call you student.”

  “As I always am to call you master, Akkachi,” she sighed, the words no more than an echo.

  When he looked at her again, the girl was nearly invisible, the power fading. It would not be long before she was gone altogether.

  As the two talked, her mother rushed forward. The man trailed behind, with a look of pride on his face. The girl was well-loved, Otieno knew then.

  Yet, he watched as the girl kept her eyes low and her back toward her mother, and heard her say, “I must go, mother. Aldric, keep her safe. You have done what you must here. It is time to head north.”

  Her mother nodded and would have said more, but the girl disappeared, vanishing as if she had never been. All three watched until there was nothing left of her to see.

  With a deep sigh, the diauxie sheathed the scimitar.

  “I had not thought to ever step foot onto Cordisia,” he told them, knowing not what else to say.

  “Eirrannia is of the North. Cordisian in name only,” the mage explained.

  The woman nodded, as if she could not speak. In her eyes, he saw knowledge, and he dropped his own, swallowing the words he would have said. As he walked, toward the direction where they had first come from, his eyes were wet. Under the warm watch of the sun, the tears dried on his cheeks before falling to the ground. The Great Mother’s mercy, he thought, thankful.

  *****

  By the time the trio arrived outside of Keva and Asha’s inn, the sun was nearly even with the horizon, and a dusky orange had settled across the sandy streets. The walk had been a quiet one, and the distance had spread before them as a welcome distraction. Aldric walked behind Caryss, who trailed a few steps behind Otieno, who seemed to know where they were headed. Caryss had been silent the entirety of the walk, which had not surprised Aldric, as she was often so after contact with the girl.

  It had been his first time encountering the girl as she time-walked. Each time before, she had kept herself hidden, and her presence hours before had affected him more deeply than he would have once believed. She had the look of her father to her, but her eyes were Eirrannian. Her clothing, nothing he had ever seen before, had caused his mouth to gape until he had the wherewithal to close it. Yet, it was the tattooed lines across her face that had caused the most surprise.

  She had the look of a barbarian about her, wild and untamed, even as striking and graceful as she was. She appeared unlike any he had met in his travels. She was, he now knew, an outsider. Aldric could not stop himself from wondering if Caryss had noticed, and what her thoughts were, yet he did not ask. He doubted that she would have heard him anyway, so lost in thought she was.

  For his part, Otieno respected her silence as well, wal
king on fully certain in his destination. Aldric had doubted the need for the Islander, and, more than once, had tried convincing Caryss to alter her plans. Yet, once he saw the way the girl moved with the swords, he knew that he had been wrong. There was no one, not in Cordisia or elsewhere, that could teach the girl as Otieno had. Especially once they knew who she was.

  There was a saying among the Lokaada people, who lived near Concordia Lake, on the southern border of Planusterra, that Aldric suddenly remembered as he thought back to the girl.

  He who keeps company with wolves will learn to howl.

  The girl, with the help of Otieno, and, from her brief words earlier, he as well, was learning to howl. Again, he looked toward Caryss, struggling to understand how she might feel as healer as she watched her daughter dance with weapons of death. Later, he would ask, but, for now, he walked on, grateful to see the blue-tinged roof of the inn just steps ahead of them.

  *****

  15

  “Leseda, you must hurry! The babe comes!”

  Caryss had been lying on the small cot, taking a break from gathering her items. On the morrow, the group planned to depart.

  Asha’s words had woken her and it took a moment for them to make sense. As she sat up, rubbing at her eyes, Asha cried, “There is blood in the water and Keva is sick with pain.

  With still-shrouded eyes, Caryss rose, and told the woman, “Take me to her at once.”

  It did not take long to find Keva, at the other end of the inn, in a group of rooms that she and Asha shared. Caryss entered and found the laboring woman lying on her side, sweat-covered and moaning.

  As she rushed to the girl’s side, she called, “Find Sharron. And the diauxie.”

  From the door, Asha cried, “Diauxie men cannot put hands on women who are with child!”

  She had not known such was the case and said nothing as Asha hurried away. Throwing her braided belt onto an oval table, Caryss neared Keva.

  Reaching for the woman’s hand, she asked softly, “Keva, can you tell me what happened?”

  The woman’s brow was damp and her hands and feet swollen, much larger than when last Caryss had examined her. Keva’s dress was damp, too, and stained with blood at the edges, Caryss noticed as she rubbed her back.

  When Keva answered, Caryss leaned closer, listening as she whispered, “I was readying the evening meal when I felt my waters dripping. By the time Asha returned from the market, the pains had come. It was not like this before.”

  “Moon years ago, I began giving women a tea blend that eased some of the pain and helped move things along more quickly. When Sharron arrives, I will have her set about making the tea. It is not so bad that the babe has decided to come early,” Caryss told her as she again placed her hand on Keva’s forehead.

  “The room is dark, leseda,” Keva mumbled, rolling onto her back, her eyes half-closed.

  It was hours from nightfall and the room glowed orange. Caryss looked to the door as Sharron and Asha rushed in.

  “Shhh,” Caryss whispered as she nodded toward Sharron.

  When the other healer neared, she stepped away from Keva. Near the window, she told Sharron, “She is too hot by far and thick with fluids. I have yet to examine her, but I’m nearly certain that we will have to speed things along. I should have all that you will need in my pouches to make the birthing tea.”

  “Tell me what to include, Caryss, and I will ready it.”

  “Equal parts sassafras and angelica, and a few drops of poppy milk.”

  While Sharron searched the pouches, Caryss instructed Asha to fetch boiling water and clean linens. As the two women set about their tasks, Caryss pushed a small chair toward the end of the cot where Keva moaned, rolling from side to side.

  “I need you to lie still on your back while I check for the babe,” Caryss told her, keeping her voice soft, yet firm.

  Keva made no reply, but ceased moving for long enough for Caryss to feel for the babe. She had hoped that Keva’s body was readying for birth, but was disappointed to find it not so.

  Again Keva rolled onto her side, her eyes closed tightly now.

  “Life pulse is weak and slow. No indication that she is opening.”

  The woman on the bed made no notion that she had heard or understood.

  “What of a tea of wort?” Sharron asked.

  Rising, Caryss answered, “I thought the same. In my large pouch, you will find mint vinegar. Add some as well. The combination of the three will circulate her blood more freely and will induce contractions. If she begins to bleed more than normal, we will need to brew a tea of yellow dock leaves and apply a poultice of fresh aloe leaves, which are abundant here, mixed with plantain oil. We can ready all while we wait for the tea to take effect.”

  Asha entered then, carrying a tray laden with a steaming pot and bleached towels. Sharron crossed the room for the water, while Caryss searched through two small pouches. When she had found a small container of long, lance-shaped leaves, Caryss handed them to Sharron and returned to the cot.

  “Can you help me remove her dress?” she called to Asha.

  As the women worked to roll the dress up, Asha quietly asked, “Have you given her something to make her sleep?”

  “Not yet,” Caryss told her, shaking her head. “Tell me of the last two.”

  Keva did little more than groan as her sweat-soaked dress was removed. Caryss watched as the woman’s stomach tightened and another low moan rumbled from her lips. Asha had not been wrong to think that her sister was under the effects of poppy milk. Yet, Sharron had only just steeped the tea.

  With a hand on her sister’s head, pushing the woman’s thickly braided hair away from her face, Asha told the healers of how her sister had labored long both times, nearing on two days. Both times, midwives had given her herbs to bring on the birth, yet little worked. And by the time the babes had arrived, it had been too late, the woman whispered, although Keva, now dosed with tea and poppy milk, was asleep and could not hear her words.

  Caryss was at Keva’s side, feeling again on the woman’s stomach in an attempt to determine how the babe was situated. Several times over, she ran her hands along Keva’s abdomen, rubbing and pushing. It was as it had been days before, with the babe’s head high.

  To Sharron, she called, “The babe presents with feet out. And, more, Keva is weak and her limbs loose, even though she has not yet opened. Even if we were able to dose her with the mugwort, she might not progress, as her past suggests.”

  In Eirrannian, Sharron asked, “Does the babe yet live?”

  Hastily, Caryss told her, “Aye. But it is not the babe I fear for. Keva is too weak to be of much use.”

  “What of Keva?” Asha cried, hearing her sister’s name mentioned, despite understanding nothing else of the Eirrannian.

  Caryss was fond of both women, and it had long been her approach as healer to keep little from those she was treating. It must be no different now, she told herself.

  Switching back to Common, she explained, “None of our choices are good ones, Asha. There are herbs that might bring the birth faster, but your sister fares poorly even now, and the added blood loss would only make it worse. Yet the babe cannot linger long awaiting birth, as you have witnessed with the others.”

  Reaching for a tall bottle, she sighed. “It is a choice that none should have to make, but I must ask nonetheless. If one is to survive, who should it be?”

  Caryss uncapped the bottle and the scent of mint filled the room. On the other side of the cot, Asha sobbed. Sharron crossed, placing an arm around the weeping woman while Caryss waited, keeping her eyes downcast.

  “Is it not possible for both to survive?” Asha pleaded, her words broken and stuttered, her face wet and her eyes lined in red.

  Sharron glanced toward Caryss, and she knew what the other healer silently suggested. She had thought it herself, but it involved more risk than any other option. Both mother and babe could die.

  Corking the bottle and placing it b
ack among her pouches, Caryss told Asha, “In my moon years as healer, I have twice birthed a babe by cutting it from its mother.”

  When Asha paled, Caryss hurriedly added, “At the time, there was little other choice. It is not without risk, nor is it a guarantee that both will survive.”

  Asha said nothing, shaking her head repeatedly, as if to shake free from what Caryss suggested.

  In another time, she might have tried to comfort the woman, but Sharron was still near enough, and her time on the Cove was growing short. But, more, Caryss knew that she had not misspoken.

  “A decision must be made and since her husband is at sea, it must be you who makes it.”

  Caryss did not look to the woman. She was healer now, and not friend. The choice was Asha’s alone.

  Through tears, Asha slowly asked, “Would Keva be able to survive such an act?”

  “I will do all I can to ensure that both live. But, yes, your sister would face the greater risk. I was able to feel the babe and know exactly where it lies, which is of significant importance. The babe will live, Asha.”

  “And Keva?” the woman gasped, leaning heavily onto Sharron.

  After drawing a deep breath, Caryss told her, “She will bleed heavily. There are ways to attempt to slow it, and I will stitch her quickly after. But she is already ill, and the risk of infection will increase greatly.”

  “How must I choose then?” Asha cried, her eyes swollen with fear.

  “I cannot tell you that. If we wait, the babe will surely die, just as the others, for your sister’s womb will not open, by some defect of the bones, I fear. And, in truth, the babe is sickening her. The longer she labors, the more ill she will become.”

  “Asha,” Caryss called, knowing how little time remained, “Any longer and both might not survive.”