A hiss shook the branch over Lyssanne’s head, silencing the knight.
Her eyes snapped to the limb. Black against the moonlight, the ends of a rope dangled, its middle hanging sling-like just above her face. Then, it hissed again. Not a rope, a snake!
“Don’t move,” Sir Brennus said, his voice low. “Sudden motion could provoke it.”
Lyssanne flinched despite her attempts to become the tree trunk behind her.
The serpent dropped onto her shoulders, its middle forming a loose coil around her neck, draping down her back. “Greetingss, Light’ss Daughter,” it hissed in her left ear.
Then, the serpent spoke into her right ear. “We wissh to aid you.”
“It has two heads!” Jarad said. “Can everything in this wood speak?”
“It is an amphisbaena,” Sir Brennus said. “Heed not its words. It can’t be trusted.”
“Iss it we, who can’t be trussted?” asked the snakehead over her right shoulder.
Then, the other hissed, “One of uss musst always sspeak truth. The other may deceive, but at leasst we are honesst in our deception. Unlike humanss.”
“Yess,” said the right-side head. “We would be a good companion for you. We can ssensse deceit in any creature.”
Shivering, Lyssanne whispered, “How can one know which of you speaks true?”
“That iss the price.” The head to her left wriggled, pinned beneath its coil. “You cannot be ss-certain which iss which.”
“You need uss,” said the other end of the creature, its voice soft, lulling. “You are too trussting. Your dessire to ssee the besst in otherss blindss you to their true natures.”
“Beware falsse friendss,” said the head on the left. “For, to trusst these, your companionss, could mean your life.”
"My friends would not betray me thus," Lyssanne said, her voice growing heavy.
"No more than would I,” said the head to her right.
As the creature spoke, something slid up her back. The tickling sensation relaxed her tensed muscles and sent a pleasant shiver along her skin. Her eyelids drooped.
“Ssleep…” hissed the serpent.
Had the creature’s voice spoken near her right knee rather than in her ear? Its cold coil suddenly tightened around her neck. She gasped, lethargy evaporating. Breath refused to squeeze through her throat. She clawed at the icy coil with numb fingers, then her hand fell, limp, to her lap. Reina’s distant whinny faded beneath the roaring in her ears.
7
The Nature of the Beast
Dark spots danced before Lyssanne’s eyes as she widened her jaw in a frantic bid for air.
With a sudden hiss, the serpent’s head still pinned to her left shoulder struck at her throat—and missed. Its constricting coil stopped it just short of its goal.
A swift, metallic ringing pierced the roar in Lyssanne’s ears. Air gusted past her cheek, an icy droplet slid down her collarbone, and the pressure at her throat eased. The cold body of the serpent, now two serpents, slid down her arms to the forest floor.
Gasping to fill her starved lungs, Lyssanne raised a trembling hand to her bruised throat. As involuntary tears spilled down her cheeks, she parted a rip in her collar that hadn’t been there moments before. Cold moisture met her fingertips, and her breath hitched. Blood? She swiped at it with her sleeve and found the skin beneath unscathed. Not her blood, the serpent’s.
She blinked up at Sir Brennus, who stood scant paces away, sword outstretched. So swift had been his blade, she hadn’t seen it move. “Th-thank you,” she said.
He remained silent, his gaze and the tip of his sword trained on the ground at her feet.
Lyssanne glanced down. To either side of her, lay the halved body of the creature. The next instant, the severed serpent slithered away from the tree!
A sudden, green glow engulfed the two segments of serpent, and they slid toward one another. The heads reared, tails writhing, and the green light flashed between them. The light dimmed, and Lyssanne blinked. The amphisbaena lay at her feet, intact.
“Beware your hero, Light’ss Daughter,” it hissed. “Lesst it be your head nexst he sseverss.”
“Yess,” said the creature’s other half. “And your head will not sso easily reattach.”
“You should be dead!” Sir Brennus said, raising his sword for another blow.
The serpent took its body into one of its mouths, forming a circle, and rolled out of reach. “We can only be sslain beneath the eye of a full moon,” said its free head, dangling like a charm. “By a man with pure heart and noble intention.”
“The moon is full,” Jarad said.
“Notice, we are sstill alive.”
“You were cut asunder,” Lyssanne said, heart pounding. “I felt your blood. How—?”
“Magic,” Sir Brennus said between his teeth, the word a curse upon his lips.
He chased the rolling amphisbaena around their campsite, his sword gouging up tufts of grass with every swing. Serena joined the hunt, diving in to peck at the serpent then fluttering out of reach of the knight’s blade. Lyssanne forgot to breathe as the dove narrowly escaped the flailing sword. The chase might have been comical, were it not so deadly.
“We are ssorry to have harmed you, Light'ss Daughter,” the amphisbaena said, dodging the flashing blade as Sir Brennus swung from a different direction. “You are the truesst human we have met, though you are not alwayss honesst with yoursself.”
“Then why’d you try to kill her?” Jarad shouted, letting fly an arrow. It sailed through the middle of the serpent-ring, only to plant itself in the grass.
“No one can change his true nature,” said the amphisbaena. “Not even we.” As the sword came closer than ever to striking, the serpent uttered a long, indignant hiss, then rolled into the nearby shrubbery. “Let thiss be a lesson to you, Light’ss Daughter,” it said. “Trusst no one.”
After a fizzing sound and another flash of green light, the bushes grew still.
“It vanished!” Jarad said. “One second it was there, then…nothing.”
Serena pecked at the shrub then fluttered to the branch above Lyssanne.
“Infernal magical beasts,” Sir Brennus muttered, sheathing his sword. He stared at the bush where the serpent had disappeared then flung his cape back over one shoulder as if tossing away an unpleasant thought. “Should be blotted from the face of the realm, the lot of them.”
“I am considered a creature of magic, Sir Knight,” said Reina.
He stilled then turned to her. “Your pardon, Shining One, but you are the sole exception.”
Reina snorted.
Jarad ran to Lyssanne, dropped his bow, and knelt beside her. “Are you hurt? Did it bite you?” He gave her time only to shake her head. “I’m sorry. Everything happened so fast. I didn’t dare shoot it in case I missed and hit you.” His voice shook. “If Sir Brennus hadn’t been here…”
“But he was here.” She rested a hand on Jarad’s shoulder then pushed to her feet. “Sir Brennus,” she said in a small voice, “I—I know not how to thank you. You saved my life.”
“Well, the unicorn appeared a bit distressed watching that serpent make a meal of you.” He turned to Reina. “It seems I’ve acquired new linguistic skills since last we met.”
“Such a worthy deed as you performed tonight deserves a reward,” said Reina.
“Yes,” Lyssanne said. “Gratitude may be a poor offering, but mine shall be eternal.”
“Just don’t expect a repeat performance.” He stalked off toward the trees beyond the fire.
“Perhaps I was a bit hasty,” Reina said. “Still, if you insist on hanging about, my speaking to you directly does make things easier.”
“Touché.” Sir Brennus swept Reina a deep bow. “You seem to be traveling south. A town lies a few days’ journey in that direction. As I have business there, perhaps it would be prudent to pool our resources for the remainder of the trek.”
Lyssanne stared at him, eyes wide. “You wish to tra
vel with us?”
He nodded. “Bandits are rumored to lurk about the fringes of this forest.”
“I have heard such rumors,” Reina said. “Perhaps what you suggest is wise.”
“After that snake,” said Jarad. “I’d sure sleep better with an extra pair of eyes around.”
“Doubtless, I shall find sleep elusive tonight,” Lyssanne said. “I can assist in the watch.”
“And risk exhausting yourself as you did last time?” Reina said. “Or worse, trigger a recurrence of that head pain? Absolutely not. The young men and I shall do well enough.”
“It is settled then,” Sir Brennus said. “I shall ride ahead each day to scout the terrain. What with one of you afoot at all times, my greater speed shall be to our advantage. I am skilled in blending into my surroundings and can avoid notice, should I come upon outlaws.”
Before anyone could respond, he slipped in among the trees. Moments later, he emerged, leading a massive horse. He passed Lyssanne and Reina, guiding the dark steed to the spring.
Lyssanne suppressed a shudder. She would have found Reina’s height imposing if not for her gentleness, but Sir Brennus’s horse…Doubtless, such animals were bred to intimidate as well as bear the weight of armored knights into battle.
Why had she not seen the steed when they’d met Sir Brennus the previous night? The limits of her sight notwithstanding, surely even she couldn’t have failed to notice something as large and clamorous as a horse.
Sir Brennus looped his reins over a low branch. “You will see little of me during the day,” he said, “but I shall leave signs to indicate whether the way ahead is safe.” He turned to Jarad. “Come, boy. Let us catch our dinner, and I shall teach you the rudiments of tracking.”
Jarad glanced from the knight to Lyssanne, unmoving.
She nodded. “Go on.”
He shouldered his bow but still hesitated.
“All is well, Jarad,” Reina said in that rippling voice which, even now, eased Lyssanne’s tight muscles. “The amphisbaena is far from here. We are quite safe.”
The following evening, Noire stood in the shadows of the forest just beyond Lyssanne’s campsite, his form that of neither bird nor man. Would he ever accustom himself to this wispy body the absence of the sun’s touch forced upon him? At least the effects of Venefica’s botched spell were confined to the hours of daylight.
“Have you seen Sir Brennus?” Lyssanne asked, grasping Jarad’s arm.
“I caught a glimpse of him from far off this morning,” Jarad said. “He was in the shadow of some trees, but it had to be him. That horse of his is enormous.”
She nodded then gathered up the dry limbs and bits of wood Jarad had dropped in the center of the clearing. As the boy disappeared into the trees for his evening hunt, she sighed, setting her burden next to the fire he’d started.
“Something troubles you, child,” said the unicorn.
“I think I offended Sir Brennus somehow,” Lyssanne said. “He seemed so aloof, almost angry, all last evening.”
“I sense our noble friend has fought many battles,” Reina said, “not least of which, the one he fights within himself.” She tossed her head. “I am no seer, nor privy to any creature’s precise thoughts, but I suspect his anger had little to do with you…at least, not with anything you’ve said or done.”
Lyssanne eased a splintered limb onto the dwindling fire. “Why did that serpent attack me?” she asked, backing away as the flames licked at the wood, consuming their newest prey. “I did nothing to threaten or harm it.”
“I suspect, only part of the amphisbaena meant you harm.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lyssanne said, “a great portion of it was intent on choking me, and the rest thought it quite amusing to bite me. Thank the King, that didn’t go as planned.”
“It was not you the amphisbaena tried to strike,” Reina said. “Rather, that head was aiming for its brother, but the weight of its own midsection hindered it. I believe, in the last instant, the creature attempted to protect you from itself.”
“How could it have two utterly opposing wishes at once?”
Reina tossed her head. “Is such not the very bane and nature of mankind? Why should a creature of legend be any different?”
Noire slipped a pace closer, but they’d lapsed into silence, Lyssanne resuming her work on the fire. Holding her breath, she eased a shard of wood toward the burning logs as if unsure just how close her hand was to the flames. Sparks shot upward, and she snatched her hand away. The wood balanced on the stack of logs for a moment, then slid off.
“Try that long limb,” Reina said. “Lay it atop the others a little to the right…No, too far.”
Lyssanne repositioned the limb as directed. When she released it, this one remained in place. “Thank you,” she said. “I just can’t stand near enough to see where the logs should go.” She dragged a sleeve across her brow. “How do you know so much about building fires?”
“I have watched Jarad.”
Lyssanne smiled. “I know not how I would manage without the two of you.”
“It is unnecessary to wonder such, for you are not without us.” Reina’s fathomless gaze rested upon Lyssanne for a long moment. “Something more weighs upon your spirit, child.”
“I can’t stop thinking of that strange mist. You know, the darkness I told you of?”
The unicorn nodded.
“It may sound foolish, but I cannot erase the feeling they are all in danger, Aderyn and Mr. DeLivre, and…everyone. That mist,” she whispered, “’tis not natural.”
“There is nothing you can do for them at present,” Reina said. “You do well to think of others, but you must see to your own needs, else you will be of help to no one.”
Lyssanne sighed. “I’m certain you are right.” She walked over to her cart, where the dove had perched. Gazing off into the distance, she stroked Serena’s head. “I’m having the dreams again,” she murmured. “Two nights, now. That probably accounts for these dark thoughts.”
Noire folded shadowy arms across his chest. She should heed the unicorn, unless she wished to endure much worse than she had thus far. “Forget the Shadow Mist,” he whispered, “and pray it forgets about you.”
Lyssanne’s head swiveled, as if she sensed someone near.
Noire slunk deeper into the shadows. He needn’t have concerned himself, though. She wouldn’t be able to see him at this distance, even should she look in his precise direction.
She hastened back toward the perceived security of her fire’s increasing brightness.
Increasing? Noire glanced up at the sky and tensed. Sunset approached. The boy would soon return from his hunt, and so must the knight who traveled with them.
Noire slipped from the shadows, unseen and unheard. The moment waning sunlight fell upon his travesty of a body, he took to the air, feather-clad and again in possession of all senses.
Lyssanne lowered her ceremonial shawl from her hair while Jarad struggled to read a difficult passage in the Kingsword. After hours of travel, she longed to pass this Kingsday evening in prayer and rest. If only she hadn’t come to dread the awkwardness of night.
Sir Brennus sat on the other side of the fire, as he had each evening for the past week, sharpening his sword or tending other weapons. He spoke little upon his returns from scouting, and that, often in mocking tones. Though Lyssanne insisted Jarad read aloud each night, she refrained from doing the same, lest she give the knight further fuel to ignite his sarcastic tongue.
“Why do people make words so long?” Jarad asked, sighing. “Everybody knows, if you string up too many fish, your line’ll break. So, why stick so many letters together?”
Hiding a smile, she folded her shawl. “Sometimes, a long word can say much more than several short ones.” A thought struck her. “Jarad, how long has it been since you’ve written?”
He handed her the Kingsword. “Don’t think I’ve wrote anything since…well, since you got sick.” He looked of
f toward the fire. “Yeah, ain’t had a reason since then.”
Lyssanne frowned. “Well, we must remedy that.” How could Niklette have neglected such a vital skill? “We have no parchment,” she said, “but a good stick and this loosened dirt will suffice. Why not begin with that inconveniently long word? See if you can better convey its meaning with others of your choosing. I shall return in a bit to admire your progress.”
She stood and strolled between the thinning trees. After several successive nights’ poor slumber, privacy and prayer might restore her spirits. Though she struggled not to show it, especially in front of Jarad, fatigue was draining more than her physical strength. Yet another reason to thank the King for Jarad’s presence. If pretense prevented her giving in, so be it.
“Always the teacher, even in this uncivilized place?”
She jumped at the sound of Sir Brennus’s voice so close behind. Her right heel landed on a root, folding her ankle like the pages of a book. Sir Brennus caught her arm, interrupting an unintentional curtsey that doubtless would have been less than graceful.
“You startled me,” she said, breathless.
“Obviously.”
She pulled away. “H-how do you know I was a teacher? I don't recall speaking of it.”
“Perhaps the boy mentioned it,” he said, glancing toward their camp. “Or was it the unicorn?” He turned to face her. “What does it matter?”
“It doesn't, I suppose,” she said, her voice steadier. “I was only surprised you’d learned of it, while I know next to nothing about you.”
“There is next to nothing to know,” he said. “I am as you see me.”
“A lone knight,” she intoned, as if reciting an ancient tale, “wandering the wilds, searching…For what? Himself?”
“Perhaps, in a way,” he said. “Though, my life is far less than the grand adventure your words would make of it.”
“Oh, I don't know,” she said, enjoying their conversation’s light turn—and, for once, his presence. “You narrowly escape crossing swords with a unicorn, run afoul of inept travelers, save me from a two-headed snake—a talking two-headed snake,” she amended, “and endure the torture of evenings spent listening to my dull stories. Surely, such is the stuff of legend.”
Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 11