by Cat Bruno
Master Ammon, wearing leather armor, looked nothing like he had remembered. More warrior than healer, the man fought to free himself as Pietro watched. For a moment, he considered kicking at the sides of his horse, yet he knew that he would be no match against Delwin’s men.
Above, another battle flared, loud cackles and roars causing prickles to erupt across his skin. The night-feathered bird chased the lone spirit animal, closing ground as Pietro watched Caryss and the boy cling to the animal’s back.
Much had changed for her since she had left the Academy, he had learned over the last few moons. Pietro could not help but wonder if the woman herself had changed, as well. It had been nearly a moon year since they had last spoken, and even her appearance had changed. Her hair was still as streaked and colored as a setting sun, yet her eyes, even in just the brief glance he had gotten, were unlike what he remembered, as if she had seen much since she left. She was of an age to him, yet appeared older, and, now, he knew, she was a mother.
Suddenly, the sky darkened, and Pietro looked about wildly for the spirit animal, losing it in the heavy clouds. The storm that flashed unexpectedly felt unnatural, and Pietro wondered if the warrior-mage that Delwin traveled with had the mage-skill to control the skies. Yet, as he looked across the field, the Prince appeared just as surprised as the others when heavy rain fell upon them.
With the rain came clanging thunder, pounding and shaking the ground beneath his trembling horse. It began to kick and spin, and Pietro jumped to the ground, nearly thrown from the mount, as it ran away from him. Stumbling, he hurried after the horse, knowing it was his only way to escape, but slipping on the sleek grass. His hair, newly cropped short for the journey, dripped warm rain onto his face. With an unsteady scramble, he listened to hear if anyone gave chase.
Out of the gray sky came hot, glowing lightning that cracked and screamed, falling so closely to him that he stumbled. Once recovered, Pietro threw his hands over his head, as shield. Up ahead, he could see the horse standing, with its head shaking about, at the edge of the treeline. The storm continued to strengthen, until lightning came all around him and his ears drummed with the heavy thunderous beats.
On he ran, occasionally looking back. Pietro tried to look for Caryss, yet he could see nothing through the rain. Shards of lightning smashed from sky to ground, and he could hear screaming, but little else, as he hovered beneath the towering pines.
The horse was just steps from him when a sudden shriek filled his ears. Looking to the sky once again, he saw the spirit animal, shining white against the dark clouds, falling fast. Against the blackened sky, the creature plummeted, near enough to him that he could see patches of red staining its silver-tipped feathers.
Not far from him, the animal slowed, landing with a thud against the high grass.
Just behind it came the Crow, diving toward where the creature had fallen. His mount, twitching and nervous, was steps away, but Pietro hesitated, his gaze on Caryss, who lay unmoving beside the bleeding animal.
His hands clenched and taut with indecision, Pietro ran to her, unaware that the lightning had ceased. The skies had quieted, although a steady rain still fell and the ground was slick and soft, running now with mud. His legs had never moved so quickly, and Pietro was upon her before the others had even moved.
“Bronwen,” he gasped, shaking her shoulders gently before placing an ear to her chest.
“Open your eyes!” he begged, nearly sobbing with relief as her life pulse thumped against his cheek.
When he lifted his head, he stared upon her face, freckled and fair, as he had remembered it. Yet, across her left cheek were four gashes, as if she had been clawed, the skin sliced open and bleeding heavily. Her jacket, too, was blood-stained. Pulling it from her, he searched for its cause, yet her chest was unscathed, rising slowly under his gaze.
Beside her, the epidiuus languished, moaning and still. Then he noticed the boy, who was kneeling, spitting blood from his mouth.
With his hands under Bronwen’s shoulders, Pietro called to him, “Help me carry her to the horse!”
Nodding, the boy crawled to him, and, together, they lifted the healer, who had not woken. The boy was only slightly smaller than Pietro and strong, making it easy work to carry her to the panting horse. In the distance, he could hear screaming, and, above, the Crow circled, unsteady, as if he too was injured.
“They’re coming!” Pietro cried, urging the boy to hurry.
By the time they reached his horse, Bronwen’s eyes flitted open, and she haltingly choked, “Jarek, call the lightning.”
As they lifted her to the back of the horse, the boy whispered, half-crying, “I can’t control it!”
Her breathing was shallow, no doubt from the impact, Pietro realized.
Yet, she told the boy, “We have no other way out, and we will die here.”
Bronwen’s words were harsh, yet he did not think she was wrong.
Breathing slowly, she sobbed, “Jarek, if we are taken, they will torture us until they learn of the babe. You must never tell them where she is, or who you are. Do you understand me?”
There were tears on the boy’s face, but he nodded. His eyes shimmered like glass, and Pietro noticed the rims of gold around them.
When she turned toward Pietro, his throat was thick and his eyes burned with sight, yet he did not look away. Neither of them spoke, but understanding came.
“Go!” he yelled, slapping at the horse.
The gelding began to run, but Bronwen grabbed the reins, and turned it back to where Pietro and the boy stood. As the horse bucked and reared, she clung to its back, wrapping her legs tightly about its sides. When the mount settled, she jumped from its back, holding onto the leather straps.
“I cannot leave the boy,” she said, simply. Then, raising her voice, she called to him, “Now, Jarek. Call the storm.”
Pietro watched as the boy lifted his arms, his eyes bluer than the sea, the rims of gold now streaking with fire.
“His eyes,” he mumbled, reaching for Bronwen.
She said nothing, but shook her head, as if to quiet him.
Thunder beat heavy and dense around them as the storm formed. Next, the dark skies lit up with flashes of light. This time, the streaks seemed nearer, jagged and aflame as they stretched from sky to ground. Across the field, Delwin’s men came, some on horseback, some on foot, but all aglow under the halo of lightning.
“Let sky be sword!” Pietro heard Bronwen call.
Pietro watched with a gaping mouth as a streak of lightning angled out of the sky and struck one of the Rexterran men, dropping him to the ground. When he did not rise, Pietro knew him to be dead. As the second man fell, the others hesitated, trying to avoid the storm. Fear paled their faces, yet, behind them, Delwin hurried, barking orders for them to seize the healer.
When the third man fell, Pietro jumped back, feeling the ground shake beneath his feet, vibrations causing his teeth to slice through his tongue. With his mouth filling with blood, he watched Bronwen struggle to control the horse, as she jerked at the reins in her hand. Kicking and throwing its head, the gelding tore the reins from her and ran off, yet none offered chase.
“We will find other horses,” Pietro said weakly.
His words were interrupted by a scream, high-pitched and pained. He and Bronwen looked at the same time as the boy fell to the ground, clutching at his arm. She was beside him before he had even moved, her face still bloody, half of it covered in talon gashes.
From the boy’s right upper arm hung an arrow, its point buried deep. As Bronwen fell to her knees, Pietro stepped toward them, watching as she broke off the shaft of the arrow.
With a black-bladed dagger she cut through his sleeve, exposing the arrowhead. “Pietro, hold him while I work.”
She needed to say no more, as he knew what she intended to do, yet as he grabbed the boy in a tight embrace, Pietro looked across the field to see several bows pointed at them and the rest of Delwin’s men rushing towar
d them, swords raised. When the boy had fallen, the storm had faded. Only mist remained.
Anew, the Rexterrans attacked.
“It is too late,” he told her, his voice unrecognizable as his own.
When she looked up, it was as if the skies had darkened again. Her gray-green eyes fell upon the Prince and his men.
In a booming voice, Delwin called, “If you continue to fight, my men will shoot!”
Beside him stood the Crow, his left arm hanging limply at his side. Just past him stood Willem, bound and gagged, forced to watch.
Whispering, Bronwen begged, “Pietro, please take him and run for the forest. It is me who he wants.”
“What do you mean to do?” he asked hurriedly.
“I will go with them,” she replied flatly, before reaching for the boy. “Jarek, if you escape, find the others. If the Prince’s men take you, tell him you are an Elemental, but do not tell him any more than that. He will want you alive, and will keep you so until we can return for you.”
The boy nodded, and she hurriedly added, “Do not despair. I will send Conri for you. Give this to him or to Otieno. Hide it from all others, Jarek.”
Again he nodded as she handed him the black-bladed dagger. The boy tucked it beneath his boot, a spot that none would think to look, Pietro guessed.
Rising and shielding the boy as she did so, Bronwen mumbled, “Now, Pietro. Take him and run.”
As he grabbed the boy, he looked upon Bronwen, the dark cape around her shoulders, the hood hanging at her back, blazing hair afire and free. If he had time, he would have apologized, yet the words were many and the time too short, so he nodded. And ran.
If he had looked back, he would have noticed her walking toward Delwin, arms raised and hands empty.
In surrender.
*****
Had his legs not been chained, he would have gone to her, despite the guard at his side. Instead, he watched as she walked across the field, thinking her never more enchanting than she was now, with a blood-covered face and mud-covered clothing.
She walked as if she was a queen.
None could take eyes from her, and Willem wondered if she had been mage-touched. If, with all the other gifts that Conri had given to her, he had blessed her with mage-skill as well. He knew not what she had planned, but Caryss walked alone, and Willem knew not where Jarek had gone. When he looked around the field, pulling his eyes from her with difficulty, he saw none but Delwin’s men, who all stood as he, awed and unmoving. With urgency, he looked around again, searching for the boy. Without Jarek, escape would be impossible as the skies cleared.
Caryss and he would be returning to the King’s City with the Royal Army, he realized, his body quaking with anger at his failure.
There was so much he wanted to say to her, to call out, yet his mouth was still tightly bound and, even distracted, the guards at his sides kept a hold on him. When he looked toward Herrin, the old king was lying still in the wagon, nearly asleep. Willem’s only hope was that Herrin would soon remember Caryss and all that she and Sharron had done for him. Only Herrin could offer them safety, he knew.
If he could have begged Delwin for mercy, he would have, yet the Prince’s eyes had not strayed from where Caryss walked.
When she was in the center of the field, Delwin called out, “Find the boy!”
Willem watched as two uniformed men kicked at their horses and rode toward the wood, and, looking at Caryss, knew that she had heard Delwin’s command as well. Her face, half of it blood-covered and slashed, was not the same face of the girl he had known at the Academy. He almost wept for her then.
And, now, the babe was gone. Nearly all was lost. Her eyes, empty and dark, showed him the truth.
Yet, she did not slow as Delwin and one of his men approached her, nor did she struggle as the soldier grabbed her, clumsily pulling at her arms. Just steps from him, Caryss finally lifted her eyes. Tearlessly, she smiled, and all breath escaped from him.
Through a reddened haze, he listened as she whispered, “Roim a faidh, an taoh se eirgh.”
The words, Northern ones, echoed through the valley as if riding on the wind and skipped across the bubbling stream.
Again, Caryss called, louder this time, “Roim a faidh, an taoh se eirgh.”
Her words, her last weapon, again rang through the air, “Roim a faidh, an taoh se eirgh.”
Willem beamed, his legs straightening beneath him until he stood tall. Overhead, the sky remained gray and light rain dampened them, yet his face glowed as if warmed by the Tretorian sun he had known for so long. For a moment he thought of his time with Caryss under that warm sun, seated in his courtyard with little worries.
He listened for the gentle flapping of wings, but heard nothing. He searched for the glowing eyes of wolf kin, yet saw no one. They were but two, he and Caryss. Willem could not think of another moment when he had loved her more. She stood, as she had always been, just out of his reach. Had she not walked with her head high and her eyes clear, he would have given up. Instead, he did not take his glance from her, memorizing the way her gray-green eyes angled at their corners. The way her fire-kissed hair hung in waves, clinging to her sun-dotted, blood-streaked cheeks. The way her tunic fell, half-opened, beneath her dirtied cape. Her hands, one wrapped in bloodied linen, rose, wiping the rainwater from her face.
That, too, Willem watched, wanting to forget nothing.
For a moment, Caryss was all that he saw.
Until Delwin rushed toward her, his face reddened with rage and his lips pursed open. The Prince grabbed Caryss by the hair, and, yanking her head back, screamed, “You think to entrance me with your spell, foolish girl? Your words are no more than the barking of a bitch!”
With her head angled back, her pale neck spattered with blood, Caryss told him, “It is no spell, Prince Delwin. But it is a warning, one that you would do well to remember.”
Her words were loud enough for all who remained in the field to hear.
Pulling her head closer to him with a forceful jerk, he hissed, “The words of the North mean nothing to me. Am I to fear you, healer?”
The prince’s laughter crossed the meadow, striking at all who watched; his hand still laced through Caryss’s blood-streaked hair.
Willem listened as, once again, she chanted, “Roim a faidh, an taoh se eirgh.”
Before she had finished, Delwin pushed her to the ground, her hair still clasped in his hand. Having fallen to her knees, Caryss whimpered, yet did not cry out. Willem stepped toward her then, but was quickly restrained by the two guards beside him. Just as Caryss had been, he was thrown to his knees, with two booted feet pressed to his backs of his legs. Unable to rise, Willem could do nothing but watch.
Under the stormy sky, gray and thick with clouds, Delwin pulled his sword from his scabbard and thrust the tip of it against Caryss’s pale neck.
“If you seek to live, you will tell me of your words!”
Her mouth hanging open, as if she could not breathe, Caryss cried out, “In time, the North will rise!”
The soft hush of falling rain blanketed the field. Willem’s hands, tied at his back, clenched into tight fists, his knuckles white and large. His eyes, no longer shaded in red, were orbs of gold, yet he could not move. Not even when Delwin’s arm lowered and the blade fell from her neck to hang innocently at his side. Not even when Caryss’s head dropped, her chin falling to her chest, trembling.
As if a statue of marble and not blood and bone, Willem watched, unmoving and breathless, as the black-clothed Crow leapt forward, grabbing the sword from Delwin. Before any could move or shout, the Crow lifted the sword, swiftly, soundlessly.
Caryss, he realized, had closed her eyes.
When metal met neck, Willem’s world darkened.
*****
28
Hands slick and shaking, Jarek struggled to control the panicking horse as it reared in fear. Behind him sat the healer, who was noisily clicking and trying to calm the mount. The two ha
d run into the woods, just as Caryss had instructed. When they had found the horse, he had nearly cried aloud, but the other man’s presence stopped him from doing so.
It had taken several tries to settle the gelding, even once the lightning had stopped. His experience helped, but controlling it was proving to be difficult for Jarek as he jerked hard at the leather straps.
Behind him, the healer called, “We must hurry! I hear riders.”
Kicking at the mount, Jarek gathered the reins in his hand and pulled, his arms tightening and burning as he yelled, “Hiya!”
Again he kicked, over and over until the horse had stopped circling. Without loosening his grip, Jarek leaned forward until his cheek was beside the gelding’s white muzzle. He could feel the healer pressed into his back and knew that the man had copied his stance. Nearly bent in half, they rode, wincing as branches struck them and the horse galloped blindly.
The arm that had taken the arrow hung limply in front of it, unusable and throbbing. The healer had hurriedly wrapped it for him, yet they had no time to do aught else. Caryss had removed what she could, but she too had had little time.
Thinking of the woman made Jarek’s eyes sting, and he kicked harder at the horse.
Without turning, he asked in a quaking voice, “What will happen to Caryss and Willem?”
In a voice as unsteady as his own, the man answered, “They will be jailed most likely. If it is true that the King went with her willingly and he is well enough to take back the throne, they will be freed.”
Shaking his head to clear his eyes, Jarek told him, “The king does not remember much. Most days, he knows nothing of how he came to be with us.”
The crunch of leaves beneath the horses thumping hooves nearly drowned out his words, yet the healer must have heard because he sighed, “She is a healer, boy. They will not harm one who has vowed to do no harm herself.”
Both quieted, although neither was comforted.
Nor did either believe that Caryss would escape harm.
*****