by Jenna Rhodes
Bregan doubted that last, but he knew those Vaelinars who had traveled far more swiftly cross-country than even their hot-blooded tashyas could carry them, so perhaps there might have been an inkling of truth to that assertion. Perhaps. If so, he needed the Ferryman now. His body ached and his belly growled with hunger and his lungs wheezed with every step. Then Bregan realized he’d broken into a run, an easy run that his body resisted but answered to, anyway.
The Eye grew ever closer.
If he kept running, his rib cage heaving and rasping, he’d die before he reached it.
Bregan dug in his heels and clenched a fist. “Take me there in my own time, or I’ll drop dead. Then where will you all be with your plans and prophesies?”
His run staggered down to a walk, a long-striding, quick walk, but a walk nonetheless. He muttered gratitude to the thin air, not caring if it was heard or well-received. He was Bregan. He knew what he was about, what he’d gone through to get here, but not what he’d go through to get out. The memories, painful and harsh, crowded him, and he’d bat them away if he could. Better to go on as he had been, obstinate and odd, but clouded. Whatever he must do, it seemed his reason was needed. He realized he had the great war hammer, Rakka, in his belt and laid one hand across the hammer end of it, against his chest. He remembered not only himself now, but also the crazed Mageborn he was, and that the time had come to break the world.
Dayne crouched by his small and meager fire, warming the palms of his hands because it seemed that that would be the total output of all the warmth to reach him. He’d had a cup of hot klah—the last of his store—and porridge made from some of his grain and a half handful of the horse’s. He hoped the horse wouldn’t miss it because he’d been hungry, terribly hungry, and the horse had grazing, after all, ample grasses just now bending to cold nights. He squatted closer, spreading his hands wide, hoping that if he warmed them before he shoved them into his gloves, the warmth might spread through his entire body.
Brista had given up and returned to Larandaril, her quest to find the children failed and her confidence eroded. He alone stayed out, searching, weaving across the countryside, hoping to eke out some clue, some sighting, some evidence that Evarton and Merri had been taken this way. He had one last journey to make, and wasn’t certain in his mind if it would do any good, and what his brother and Queen Lariel would think of it, but he’d decided to storm Fort ild Fallyn itself and demand answers. And not in a diplomatic way. It would probably disgrace the Vantane name and he doubted the ild Fallyn had an honest tongue among them, but he wanted to know what they would say to his face. He would get some satisfaction, if poor, because he was the son of Bistel Vantane, and that bloodline they had to respect even if they cared little for his half-breed son. But they could not spit outright in his face, and he thought of himself as a good reader of what was not said, as well as what was.
He’d at least glean if they’d taken the children. At least that.
His throat ached with the thought there might be little else he could take back to Nutmeg.
Verdayne rocked back on his heels, letting his rump hit the cold and stony ground, putting the heels of his hands to his face and holding them there for long, quiet moments in which he might have cried or at least tried. Despair fell upon him, a deep dark cloak from which he didn’t think he could emerge. To have lost Merri with her bubbling laugh and mischievous eyes, and Evar, with his curiosity and determination. To never see them again . . .
Dayne forced a long breath down his throat and shoved himself to his feet. Another day and then he could turn his trail toward the coast, toward the nest where Tressandre ild Fallyn curled. He kicked dirt over his fire and then poured the last of the klah on it. Little smoke wafted up, for he’d barely had more than a few sparks there to heat the rocks which had warmed his cooking pan. He’d have to find a homestead or village soon and buy whatever supplies he could—little enough on him to barter or trade with, but he might be able to beg some credit on Tolby Farbranch’s name. His wouldn’t be believed. With a sigh, Dayne stirred the ashes to make sure they’d cooled and gone damp. No sense having a wild fire on his heels as well.
He scratched his mare under her chin as she raised her head to take the bridle, and she shoved at him a bit, though whether in affection or irritation, he didn’t quite know. Probably irritation from being kept from her meal. She’d lost little enough flesh, though, over this ordeal, unlike himself who’d had to punch a new belt loop just last night. He rubbed her head as he gathered his reins and prepared to give the half leap that would gain him the stirrup and then up and over.
That’s when he saw the smoke, a thin trail he might have missed, but the mare had her head raised and her ears outlined the wispy white trace. Dayne froze in his tracks and shadowed his eyes against the morning sun. The squeak and rattle of small beasts in the grasses and shrub did not abate, so the fire makers weren’t terribly close.
Neither were they awfully far away. Nor were they shy about revealing themselves as the smoke grew thicker and higher. A good fire for a morning’s breakfast of people who undoubtedly thought they were all alone.
At first Dayne thought that he might get some supplies, if they were well stocked. And then he wondered who they could be at all. A tic in his throat grew painful and he rubbed a chilled hand over it, reminding himself that he’d forgotten to pull on his gloves. He did so, hurriedly, without urging the mare to take a step.
Whose fire?
Tolby might have ridden back out, hoping to cross paths with him, and resume the search. Brista was days gone, so unless she’d doubled back, she hadn’t made a camp. She’d gone south, and this fire lay north of him. North and west, a bit.
He put a gentle heel to the mare’s flank, urging her forward, at a steady walk, and reined her through the terrain over the least noisy path. He wasn’t sure he wanted to sneak up on the campfire, but he wasn’t certain he wanted to ride in, assuming courtesy. Not after the massacre of a trade caravan on a public road. Not after the taking of Lara’s heirs. Not after the general breakdown of rules he had once assumed to be inviolable.
When he drew near enough to the fire that he could smell it, he dismounted and pulled the mare into shade between trees, its branches sparse but still covered in foliage, and let her drop her head to graze again which she did willingly. As he moved, he caught the lay of the land and realized—how could he have not known?—that he had circled south as well, with the hills that marked the boundary of Larandaril immediately to his south, a ride of only a day or two. He was likely to have come across a few of her huntsmen, then, although the bounty of the valley should have provided all of their needs. Perhaps someone riding down to Larandaril, then. Perhaps someone spying on it from the ridges, which gave him pause because the only Vaelinars he knew who would keep such a surveillance wore black and silver. If that was the case, it was fortunate he’d been cautious approaching and should remain that way.
He unlaced his bow from the saddle and took the quiver. Less than half full, it had provided fresh meat now and then and he’d regained his arrows whenever he could, but in the way of things, he hadn’t found every arrow shot. He had enough to hold off a few men. More than a handful would cause him a great deal more trouble than it would be worth starting a fight.
Dayne sucked on his teeth a moment, deciding. Then he slung the quiver over his shoulder and advanced with bow in hand. Because the season had begun to close in on what would become winter, leaves had fallen and dried. The odd twig here and there. Even entire tree limbs, weakened by beetles or storm. He moved as quietly as he could, trying to make no more noise than a nut wrangler might do among the roots and grasses, a poor effort unless it was a terribly big-footed nut wrangler. When he finally went to ground and lay, listening, he could tell that those at the campfire had not detected him and seemed particularly unworried that they might not be alone. It was, after all, a big patch of wilderness they w
ere riding in from, and they rested on the border of a kingdom with civilization and a militia. He dropped his chin and pitched his pointed ears a bit with the effort, in order to hear better.
“There’s ridge runners hereabouts. Keep your yaps shut before you draw their attention.”
“Ridge runners?”
“It’s not only wards Queen Lariel uses to keep her borders safe. There’s creatures. Never seen one, but I’ve heard of them. They run loose on these hills and cut down anyone who crosses their path.”
“Old wives’ tales. You’re worse than an old Dweller blowin’ smoke. No such things hunt along here, nothing other than the creatures we all know about.”
“There’s been deaths up here no one can explain.”
“Those are from the wards, if anything, but she’s weak now and so are the boundaries. Our Lady got across them slicker than snot on a slime dog and we’ll get across, too.”
A rude noise cut across the arguments.
Dayne lifted his head and crawled closer, cautiously, near certain what he’d stumbled over, and not liking it. He knew the banter of troops, the friendly scorn they held for each other, and the vitriol for the energy. Before he rode down to Larandaril manor, though, he wanted to be sure.
A horse whickered. Not a noise of greeting though, more like an irritated “shove over” from one grazing mate to another. He froze in place. The horse line seemed to be upwind of him, on the other side of the campfire which meant they hadn’t winded him. No one suggested that the horses be checked. He elbowed himself closer another stride or two. A faint breeze rose up, whispering over the ridge and its twisted grasses and shrubs and leaning trees that attested to far stiffer winds. It brought a scent to him, a musky, sweated, and dried blood animal scent that would be far stronger if he sat at the camp site. For a moment, Dayne did not quite recognize it, and then it hit him between the eyes.
Rufus.
Dayne mulled over his options. He decided he didn’t like the idea of Rufus with troopers who followed a Lady with movements “slicker than snot.” He could back off and go on his way, and send a party back to investigate or he could go in now to free Rufus. He flexed his hand about his bow several times the way Bistane would drum his fingers on a tabletop, thinking. It came down to the numbers and odds.
Then he heard a high-pitched and peevish voice declaring, “That is not right. That is lying!” A chill slid down his back. Merri. It had to be, not so babyish as she had been, but then it had been months since they were taken. Months in which to get steadier in her steps and words and thoughts. Months without her mother and the family that loved her.
Another voice responded, also in higher tenor, “It’s not lies if they believe.”
“Then they’re ignant.”
“Ignorant.”
“That’s what I said!”
“Shut your mouths, both of you. And keep them shut or your dinner bowls stay empty.”
A low, muttered, “Lying liars.”
He could picture Merri folding her arms across her chest and settling back with a stubborn look on her face. He knew that look, although he usually had only encountered it assigning chores. And nap times. And yes, bath times, too. The corner of his mouth pulled back in a smile, in spite of himself.
They were alive.
First, to free Rufus. Then, get the children. And he needed to plan his action very carefully to ensure they stayed that way.
Chapter
Fifty-Seven
Trevalka
SHE COULD HEAR the patter of rain off and on during the night. It had started sometime after the moon’s zenith, and she’d kicked off her covers, finding the small hut oppressively warm. Sevryn did not rouse, for which she found herself overly glad. He was up more and more now, terribly weak but gaining strength each day, and during the nights as well, and she’d hoped for a sleep straight through. His mental restoration far outpaced his physical, although hard to discern for he was either ill-tempered or remote. Only in her dreams did he even approach the old Sevryn she remembered and loved, and Rivergrace found herself losing hope that he would come back to her this time. She woke herself up, unhappy and unsettled, and lay on her back staring up at the dark ceiling and listening to the rain. The snows would melt if it kept on all night, a false thaw, because within the week or two, winter would be back with all its cold wolfish intensity, at least on the mountain. As soon as the wind came up and the storms came in, the cold would settle in and bring back the snow and ice.
Rivergrace closed her eyes after a bit and tried to go back to sleep, listening to the rhythm of the rain dripping on familiar outside objects: the cooking stones, the communal benches, the hard-packed ground near the horse lines, and even off the roof of the vast hide tent where they wintered the horses, their own body warmth and blankets keeping them fairly comfortable down the hill. She thought she could hear the soft trill of a perimeter guard whistling to another as shifts must be changing. She’d stood her share, shaking in the cold, eyes stinging from the expanse of whiteness shining the moon back at her. She’d handled the night shifts, the hunting, the skinning and more. Everything that Sevryn would have done, if he’d been able, she’d done. Her body ached when she went to her small cot and it hurt even worse when she rose, if that was possible; the pain of waking reminded her that she was still alive. But she wouldn’t have it said that their presence in this colony was a burden, that wintering them was something that should not be allowed.
Because she had awakened, she began to pull carefully on the threads of every soul she had bound to her, counting their numbers and found them, to her relief, the same. Quendius was quiet then, as quiet as his hibernating Undead, and their shade count did not differ nor had he added to them. If he added souls that she had not been able to anchor as well, their numbers could overwhelm her, inundating and drowning her. She loosened her touch on her anchors, finding their dreams bleeding into her, uneasy dreams of great hunger for blood and pain, terrible, harsh visions that she could not stand to have wash up against her. She shivered under the onslaught of their desires and wondered if the same dreams haunted Sevryn. Neither living nor Undead, he existed as a shade, an essence in between, and drifting every day farther and farther from a man she could reach.
A drop of water fell on her forehead and slid down the bridge of her nose. Grace threw her head back and stared into the ceiling at a leak she felt but could not discover. She reached out with her water sense, and turned the rivulets of rain aside from the top of her roof, at least until sunlight when she would see what needed to be patched. Another drop fell and then the wetness halted. She swung her feet out and quickly shoved them into a warm pair of boots as the winter tried to seep in through the cold floor. Pulling the door open and then the insulating flap aside, she could see a few lone figures moving about outside.
The nearest one paused. “Rivergrace? Are you coming with us, then?”
“Checking the traplines so early?”
“Yes. We need meat for the soup pots.”
“Wait for me. I’ll finish getting my gear.” She dropped the flap down and retreated long enough to layer herself for the morning which felt as cold as it was damp. When finished, she threw a look back at Sevryn who either had not awakened or played dead on his cot across the hut.
His hand streaked out from under the blanket. “Aderro.”
For a moment, she melted, and he grabbed her wrist, dragging her down to the cot. As she fell awkwardly across him, his hot mouth went to her neck and bit down, holding her in place while he wrapped his arms more tightly about her.
“What are you doing?”
“What comes naturally.” He gripped the edge of her shirt in his teeth and pulled it open, then raked the edges of them down the hollow of her throat and across the mounds of her breasts. He growled as the soul chains snapped and bit at him, little zaps of energy, and gave him pause.
“They’re waiting for me!”
“Let them. You’re mine.” His rough chin forced the front of her shirt open further and now his teeth were on her nipple, biting and sucking. Her back arched. His attention thrilled her and she wanted to respond, but she couldn’t. Others waited for her. The meat larders lay nearly bare after what had been a long, harsh winter, with more bad weather on the horizon after this respite. The animals would be out hunting for their food, and they should be out to cull those ranks for their own needs.
“I can’t.” Her words came out muffled and then he elicited a soft moan from her. She got a hand up and in between them, pushing. “I. Can’t.”
“What a cold fish you’ve become. More water in your veins than blood.” She couldn’t see it, but she could hear the disdainful curl of his lip.
She pushed more firmly. “I want to be able to meet you, like the partners we are. But the hunting party is waiting to leave.”
“I don’t want a partner. I want a mate!” And his mouth left her breast hot and throbbing, his sharp teeth nipping at her ear, drawing blood. As he spun her away from him, she lost her footing, landing on one hip on the floor.
Rivergrace’s hands went to her shirt, doing up the buttons as well as she could, feeling her face warm with anger, words stuck in her throat. She got up, ready to answer blow for blow, but Sevryn turned over on his cot with a snort, putting his face to the wall.