by Cat Bruno
“No more than two hours, he thinks.”
Otieno said nothing, but gently tightened the leather straps that he held in his wide, calloused hands.
“What do you know of Cossima?” she asked suddenly, thinking on how often the Islander knew more than he let tell.
“Would the mage not know it better after his moon years spent in mercenary work?”
Shrugging, Caryss replied, “I suppose. But tell me what you have heard. Will a group as odd as ours stand out?”
“Not so much, I would think. I knew of several Islanders to visit the city-state, and none complained after returning. What are your plans once there, leseda?”
“To let Willem handle it all,” she laughed, the sound crisply ringing across the empty valley.
The babe, whom Gregorr had been carrying, cried aloud, in tune with her laughter. For one who wailed so rarely, the noise disturbed Caryss, and she turned in her saddle to see where the fennidi rode. She spotted the slight man, the infant strapped to his small chest, nearing.
Pulling at her gelding, Caryss noticed a stream ahead, dotted with rocks and running fast.
Jumping from the horse, she threw the reins to Otieno. “The babe grows hungry.”
He and Jarek trotted toward the stream, and, when she turned back to the others, Gregorr was beside her, holding the now-quiet infant in his arms.
Reaching for Syrsha, she softly said, “If I did not see the tears on her cheeks, I would not have thought I heard her crying. You calm her better than I, Gregorr.”
With a pleasant snort, he told her, “Among the fennidi, children are passed from one hand to another.”
“Is it true that ofttimes the babe’s father is unknown?”
He had dropped his hood and his long fingers, lighter than when she had first met him it, combed through his silver hair, which hung down his back. Watching him, Caryss suddenly realized how beautiful he was, like a sliver of moonlight reflected on wet leaves.
Before he could answer, she added, “I never asked if you had to abandon those you love to follow me.”
Dropping his hand to his side, he chimed, “I have no child of my own, although you are correct that we do not view parentage in a way that others might. The fennidi lay with whom they please, Caryss, and when children come, they are welcomed by all.”
“How do you know that you have none, then?”
With a deep laugh, he exclaimed, “I do not lay with women.”
She joined him in laughter, and, shaking her head, told him, “I have been too long at the Academy. We learn little there beyond healing. Cossima might seem like another world entirely to me.”
The two of them walked toward the others, who were enjoying a respite from the riding near the stream. Sitting down, Caryss brought the babe to breast, no longer hurrying. Days of travel had left her weary and, as she nursed the babe, her eyes closed.
So she stayed until a shiver ran through her. When she opened her eyes, mist clouded her vision, dropping a soft haze on her surroundings. Looking down at the babe, Caryss shook her head.
“How can it be?” she whispered aloud, scanning for the girl.
But when she did not appear, Caryss grew frantic, hurriedly unwrapping the blanket and putting her ear to Syrsha’s chest. With a heavy sigh, she felt the babe’s life pulse beating hard beneath her ear. Awake now, Syrsha gazed up at her.
With dark eyes.
Bundling the babe up with twitching fingers, Caryss jumped from the ground and ran toward the others.
“Something is not right!” she screamed, her words echoing, shrill and frightened.
Sharron was nearest to her, tending to the King who was awake as well. Handing the babe to the other healer, Caryss rushed toward Willem.
When she stumbled into him, she grabbed at his tunic and cried, “The babe’s eyes are black!”
“What are you saying?” he gasped, pulling her toward him.
“Give me your dagger,” she begged.
Roughly, Willem grabbed at her hands, holding them in his larger, stronger ones, and called, “Caryss, what is the meaning of this?”
Unable to free herself, she sobbed, “Her eyes were green when we stopped, and now they have darkened. Willem, we must leave this place! Something is amiss.”
Dropping her hands, he turned to the others.
“We ride!” he yelled, the order thunder-filled and echoing as his words trumpeted across the valley, commanding and forceful.
Jarek and Aldric raced to their mounts, while Sharron quickly handed the babe to Gregorr so that she could see to the King. Gregorr, the babe cradled against him, hurried toward Caryss. The fennidi said nothing, but his eyes told her much.
With shaking fingers, she pointed to the babe, and, with tears on her cheeks, dripping into her mouth and down her chin, she begged, “Do what you must to keep her safe.”
Nodding, he backed away from the healer, then turned and headed for the wagon. Caryss watched as he climbed in, disappearing beneath the large leather cover.
In a pouch at her waist, the dagger burned, and, with fingers like ice, she grabbed it.
The others, except for Otieno who stood near the stream, gathered their horses. None spoke as they readied to ride.
*****
“Why are you here, faela?”
When the child did not answer, he said, “Nothing will change. You must go.”
The girl was younger than when he last saw her by several moon years, her body that of a child still, small and thin. She was dressed in what looked to be nightclothes, her hair, dark and full, scattered about her face in tangles, as if she was a child who had just stumbled from bed, her cotton gown hanging to her naked feet. Her cheeks were red, flushed with emotion, even though her eyes were clear when he had expected to see tears.
Green eyes. But he knew that she would have darkened them if she could have.
He thought her to be fading, yet when she spoke, her voice high and accented, her image appeared solid.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she mumbled, as if in explanation.
“She cannot see you this time?” he half-asked, realizing that Caryss was still with the others.
When the girl did not answer, Otieno tried to reach for her, yet his fingers passed through the air as if he was alone.
“How many times have you come back here?” he finally asked, knowing that he could not embrace her, nor could he force her to flee.
Lifting her shoulders and without taking her eyes from where her mother stood, the girl told him, “Too many, or so Aldric tells me.”
Her words, much like the child herself, were distant, and Otieno understood why she still came.
“Why come to me?”
Without pause, she answered, “To watch you fight.”
The scimitar was in his hand before she continued, “I have been having trouble mastering the repartee, and you suggested that I pay closer attention to how you block. There are few who challenge you, and so, when I couldn’t sleep, I came here.”
He did not need to tell her of Caryss’s warning. The girl knew, as she always had, what would happen here, Otieno realized.
Flickering under the rising sun, the girl began walking toward the wagon, slowly, as if she was made of stone, not air or mist.
Over her shoulder, she called, “They will be here soon.”
The girl with the messy hair and the sparkling eyes slowed and stopped at the edge of the wagon, waiting, and Otieno rushed to join the others. He did not look back toward her, but he knew where she had gone.
*****
When she looked again, Otieno had his curved sword in hand and he was rushing toward her. The meadow was empty, yet Caryss did not doubt that his sword would be needed. In her own hand, she held the atraglacia dagger, its black blade etched with star and sky. To her right stood Aldric, fire burning in his palms. Jarek was just behind Otieno, who now stood to the right of Willem, who also had sword in hand. His face was cold, no longer the Master that she had lon
g known.
Had they not had the wagon, Caryss thought that Willem would have suggested that they ride from the meadow. But, with it, and the King and babe inside, they would not get far.
Standing near Otieno and Willem was Jarek.
Caryss called, “The boy should not be here.”
With the wind, Otieno’s voice carried as he cried, “For half a moon year and more he has trained with me! He will fight.”
“With sword or sky?” Aldric asked.
“Both,” the diauxie told them all.
Lowering her voice to an almost whisper, Caryss gasped, “I was a fool to forgo Conri’s help.”
“Can you call for the epidii?” Willem asked, having heard her words.
With a stutter, she said, “I would not know how.”
Pointing to her trembling fingers, he told her, “Your blade.”
Around her, the meadow was clear. For how long it would remain so, she did not know. Biting her lip, she lifted the dagger and brought it to her outstretched palm. Dragging it across, like she had done each time before, Caryss called upon the blood magic. With closed eyes, she begged for help, her hand stinging with pain. Falling to her knees, she watched as her bloody palm dripped red, splattering the tall green grass with shining droplets.
Aloud, she whispered, “Come to us, please.”
Her words sounded as if someone else had spoken them, yet her throat ached as if she had screamed. Looking up at Willem, Caryss cradled her bleeding hand to her chest.
With a nod, he said, “When they arrive, take the babe and the boy and go.”
“And what of the rest of you?” she cried.
“Take Sharron and Gregorr too, if there is room. I will see the King safely returned. Otieno and Aldric will find you in Cossima.”
He had spoken in haste, yet she did not argue.
Cutting a strip of fabric from her tunic, she wrapped it around her hand, tying it clumsily. Before she could finish, Caryss heard pounding. Even the soft grass could not dull the unmistakable sound of hoof on ground.
Each time she had ridden an epidiuus, she had been awed by their silence. Her life pulse heavy and fast, Caryss looked across the narrow stream, fearing what she would see there.
With a longing glance to the empty sky, she stood, just behind Willem. If Crispin came, no blood would be shed, she thought. If it was not he, Caryss knew not what would happen. The babe’s eyes had darkened, she remembered, giving her the answer.
*****
The Crow and the Prince rode at the head of the group, a smaller one, after Delwin had decided to leave many of his men at the camp in order to make haste. Pietro counted twenty men, armed with sword, shield, and bow, along with the two robed healers. Unlike them, he was in riding clothes, having given up the robes in a pique of anger at his captivity.
As he followed, he thought of his time at the Healer’s Academy, remembering most of it fondly, despite his battles with Bronwen. For moon years, he had hated the girl, yet now even that had faded as his anger shifted elsewhere. She had never been as experimental as he, yet she was more skilled than most, he could admit. Perhaps between them, they would have learned much about the healing arts, he thought. Instead, he was aiding Delwin, who would never use her well-learned skill, and, instead, would imprison her.
Behind Pietro’s eyes, the red fog spread, until he fought against it. With little choice, he rode on, trailing the others and hoping that Delwin’s men would never reach her.
*****
As the army neared, and the sound of riders loudened, Willem called, “Circle the wagon! We will fight from there, if necessary.”
Aldric and Otieno, both well-tested warriors, nodded, and repositioned themselves until they formed a small circle about the wagon. Caryss stood in between Otieno and himself, while Jarek was between the mage and the Islander. A brief glance to the now cloudy sky showed no sign of the epidii. Without them, he knew not how the battle would end. Herrin was their only weapon now, he thought, hoping to use the King as both protection and safety.
Between glances toward the sky overhead, Willem stood without moving or speaking, as did the others, and waited, swords readied, for Delwin and his men to approach.
Perhaps he has only come for his father and will depart once Herrin is handed over.
When the blue and gold banners of the Royal Army became visible, Willem hastily looked about for Delwin. Atop a large, silver horse sat the Prince. He looked no different than when Willem last saw him, many moon years before.
As he opened his mouth to call out to his cousin, Willem realized that Delwin’s eyes were already upon him. He had known he would find him here.
“Have your men back down, cousin!” Willem cried, his hand tight on his sword. “Your father fares well.”
With a laugh that Willem remembered well, Delwin spit, “Your word means nothing. Sheathe your sword and stand aside.”
Behind the Prince were his men, all of them more heavily armed and guarded than Willem, Otieno, Aldric, and Jarek.
“No one needs to get hurt here, Delwin,” he pleaded. “Let the others pass, and I will return with you to the King’s City, with the King as well.”
“You are not welcome in the King’s City!” Delwin fumed. “If you return, it will be as a dead man.”
Anger growing as he recalled who Delwin was and all that he had caused him to suffer, Willem shrieked, “Would you kill your own father? What next? You will kill your brother as well? This woman tried to help heal the King and has done him no harm.”
Spittle dripped down his chin and, when he reached his hand to wipe at it, Willem’s gazed turned to his left. Behind the army, too high for them to notice, soared three epidii, nearly indistinguishable from the clouds. They were far enough away still that none else saw them, he realized. For a moment he thought of informing Otieno, but he would not yet risk having them seen.
Looking back to the prince, Willem saw doubt, and he turned to Caryss and hurriedly said, “Wake the King.”
He would have said more, but he could see understanding in her eyes alongside fear.
As she turned slowly toward the wagon, Willem called, “Your father yet lives, and improves each day. Delwin, I daresay he is better now than he has been in moon years.”
While Willem spoke, Caryss had climbed into the wagon. Her back was toward him, but he knew that she was rousing the King, although he was not certain how. The babe was quiet, which, although strange, was a blessing. When he heard Herrin coughing, Willem turned and saw the King sitting up, with Caryss beside him. The king’s eyes, even from a distance, seemed clouded with confusion. But, he needed more time, for the spirit animals had done yet come close.
Herrin had forgotten much during their stay in the Tribelands, and while his health had improved, his memories had not. He sometimes did not recall Willem, forgetting too how he had come to be with Caryss. Yet, he remembered often that he was king, and Willem wondered if he would know his own son. While his mind had not cleared, his body had gained strength during their stay, and each day he had walked more, regaining use of his weakened legs. No longer dependent on milk of the poppy, the King was faring better, and he would improve, although perhaps not in the King’s City.
Behind him, Willem could hear Caryss whispering, coaxing Herrin awake. The wagon was still half-covered, yet he listened as Caryss pulled the King toward the edge. Sharron was beside her before he could move, and, together, the two healers held the ailing king between them.
After a few moments, they walked him toward the front of the wagon, and into full view of Delwin.
Herrin’s eyes were shaded with fog, the gold rims no longer visible, yet he hoarsely cried out, “Delwin, what is the meaning of this?”
Willem had not thought that the King’s words had been heard, but when next he looked, Delwin had jumped from his horse and was running toward them.
When the Prince was within arm’s reach of Willem, he spit, “My father rides as if he is swine! Has your
exile made you forget who is king here?”
“I forget nothing, cousin,” Willem hissed, keeping his eyes on the prince. “The King has had a long recovery, and he is still not able to ride. It was a mercy to let him rest as we traveled. Your father is well, better even than when last you saw him.”
He did not look around at the others as he addressed the Prince, but Willem knew all watched and listened, even the King, although he would understand little, Willem feared.
As if he had not heard Willem’s words, Delwin strode past him, toward Herrin. Willem followed, listening as Delwin called out to his father.
“I have long searched for you, father, and shall see you returned to Rexterra within a moon. Can you walk or should I call for my men?”
When Herrin said nothing, Willem interjected, “He has only recently regained some movement. You have no cart, Delwin, and he can’t yet sit a horse. Once we ride free, the cart is yours, as is the King.”
With a snort that might have been a laugh, Delwin spewed, “Your men are two against twenty. On my word, my men will strike. You have nothing to negotiate here, cousin.”
Anger began to heat Willem, his hands burning and his eyes aflame.
Before he could control the red haze from spreading, he saw Caryss, hued in colors of the sunset. She was just steps from Delwin.
Sharron, having heard the exchange, rose from the back and embraced Herrin, whispering into his ear, which caused a wan smile to cross the frail man’s face.
As Delwin’s men neared, the Prince called toward Caryss, “The others will be allowed to leave, but you must come back with me to the King’s City and answer for you crimes.”
Addressing him for the first time, Caryss stated, “I have been to the King’s City once, and I have no need to see it again. I notice that you travel with healers, Prince Delwin, and I would speak to them on how best to care for your father before your departure.”
“You are not even full Master, I hear,” he taunted, his face reddening. “Your advice is not needed. I have seen that my father is well, and, because of that, I will allow the babe to stay with your men. But you will be coming with me. Either willingly or not. If you choose to fight, my men will spare no one.”