by Deborah Hale
She almost tripped over the outstretched legs of the bound, slumbering soldier nearest the door, but she managed to right herself and drag Gristel over him. Staggering backward, Maura gave one last heave to haul her burden out into the night.
Then a vast, black shadow reared up. The faint, flickering light that spilled out the door glinted off a raised blade.
The cry that rose in her throat began as fright, but quickly exploded into defiant anger. Escape had been snatched away from her at the last instant, before, by the bandit lord, Vang. Damned if she would let it happen again tonight!
In a rush of desperate strength, she heaved Gristel up and pushed her toward the bladesman. He uttered a hoarse grunt of surprise as dead weight of the village woman toppled against him.
That instant was all Maura needed. She turned and darted back around the corner of the house, her fingers fumbling in her sash. Please let it be there! The tiniest wisp would do.
Once she had rounded the corner, Maura dove down, listening for the footfall of her pursuer. It did not follow as quickly as she had expected. That gave her an extra moment to probe the depths of her sash pocket and come up with a few delicate strands. And to begin a breathless chant of the binding spell.
By the time she heard the approaching tread, gathering momentum with every step, she was ready. Pinching the precious threads of spider silk between her thumb and forefinger, she lunged out, tackling her pursuer around the ankles. His blade whistled through the air above her head as he flailed to keep his balance. But the speed of his own headlong charge sent him pitching to the ground.
Planting the cobweb fibers on his clothes, Maura gasped out the final words of the binding spell.
“Slag!” As he hit the earth with a muted thud, the bladesman gasped a curse. “Fuming, sucking slag!”
Maura recognized the voice.
“Rath?” She staggered to her feet. “Is that you?”
“Who were you expecting—the Kyrythe of Dun Derhan?”
A bubble of panic had been swelling in Maura ever since she glimpsed the death mage. Now it shattered in a burst of frenzied laughter.
She lunged at Rath again, giving him a cuff on the head so light it was more like a fond ruffle of his hair. “Not the Kyrythe, perhaps, but one of his servants, you rogue! What are you doing here? You are lucky I did no worse to you.”
His hair felt so good beneath her fingers, his voice sounded so sweet to her ears, even when he was spewing curses. His familiar, welcome scent rose to beguile her. They had only parted that morning, yet it seemed much longer.
Far too long.
Before she realized what she was doing or could begin to stop herself, Maura kissed him. Not once but over and over—on his brow, his cheek, his nose, his chin. Some feeble scrap of prudence kept her from straying too near his lips.
Perhaps it was only her overwound emotions breaking free, as they had back in the bandit’s lair after they had fought Turgen. Or perhaps she needed to convince herself beyond any doubt this was Rath Talward on the ground beneath her. If something more than either of those compelled her, she dared not acknowledge it.
One day, perhaps, but not now.
“What are you about, you daft wench!” Rath growled, but his lips whispered over her face as he spoke. “Tie me up and have your way with me—I’ll be willing enough, but not with the stench of Han in my nose.”
Though his tone conveyed more fond exasperation than true displeasure, Rath’s words brought Maura to her senses all the same.
“Your pardon!” she gasped “I did not mean to... Here, let me unbind you.”
“That would be a fair start,” said Rath as Maura chanted the spell of release. “I do not fancy the Han finding me all trussed up like this.”
“Do not fret too much.” In the darkness, Maura fumbled for Rath’s arm and helped him to his feet. “They are all trussed up, themselves, and still fast asleep, I hope. Still, neither of us had better linger here.”
“Agreed.” Rath reached for her hand. “Let’s go!”
Maura froze. “Wait. We cannot leave Gristel behind.”
“You mean that body you heaved at me? It was alive?”
“The sleep spell is still on her.” Maura tugged him back toward the house. “What good fortune you are here. You can carry her.”
“Carry her where? And why? Who is this Gristel creature that you and the Han have all taken such an interest in her?”
“She is the woman we asked directions from last night when we rode into town. She was Exilda’s neighbor and she is...”
She grasped for an explanation of how Gristel Maldwin might know about the map to the Secret Glade. An explanation Rath might stand a chance of believing.
“Gone,” said Rath.
“Gone?” Maura shook her head. “What gone? Where?”
“How should I know where?” Rath pointed toward the ground near Gristel’s doorstep where they had left her lying.
He had spoken the truth. The woman was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
RATH’S FACE STILL tingled from the drizzle of kisses Maura had rained upon him. A rain as welcome as any unexpected shower after a long drought. It had taken him as much by surprise as the rest of her ambush. Though he doubted she’d meant anything by it, at least it showed she was not displeased by his sudden reappearance.
That pleased him... far more than cared to admit.
Now he wanted to get them both to a place of relative safety where they could talk. But Maura had other priorities, the highest of which seemed to be the village woman who had disappeared.
“She cannot have gone far.” Maura peered about, but the shadows were too thick to penetrate. “Do you suppose she got confused and went back inside?”
She started for the door, but Rath grasped her by the arm to stop her.
“I will check.” Not for anything did he want Maura going back into that house, no matter what kind of spells she had cast on the Han. “You search out here. Start from this point and walk in widening circles. It is the best way to search in the dark for something that may be near at hand.”
“Very well, but do not stay inside long or the dreamweed smoke may overcome you, too.” Maura pressed something small, smooth and cool into his hand. “Chew on this quickfoil. I picked it fresh from Exilda’s garden. It will help keep you awake. And pull your cloak over your nose and mouth.”
Rath popped the leaf into his mouth. As the invigorating tang tickled his tongue, he marveled at how readily he had come to trust Maura’s brand of magic.
“Can you whistle like a willow-wing?” he asked her.
“I reckon so. Why?”
“To find each other again. We cannot waste time blundering around in the dark, and it could be dangerous to call out.”
“Clever thinking.” Maura gave his hand a squeeze, then set off on her search. “Take care!”
“I always do.” Rath drew his dagger and charged into the house.
The mellow, soothing aroma of dreamweed enveloped him the moment he crossed the threshold. Remembering Maura’s advice, he drew up the edge of his cloak to muffle himself against the seductive lure of sleep.
A quick glance around the room revealed no sign of the woman. But three Hanish soldiers and one black-robed death-mage lay where they had fallen.
“Bravely done, lass,” Rath whispered.
His excuse of looking for the missing woman had been just that—an excuse. Rath’s true intent was to finish what Maura had started so well.
He bent toward the unconscious Han nearest the door, his dagger whetted and ready to warm with Hanish blood.
The soldier’s helmet had fallen back when he’d swooned from the sleep spell. Rath’s throat tightened as he stared at the smooth, full face of a youth. Suddenly his blade hand felt as if it were in the thrall of Maura’s binding spell.
He told himself the boy would not hesitate to slit his throat, or worse, if their positions were reversed. He reminded himself of the old Hith
erland adage that only a fool ever walked away from a wounded foe. The thought that any mercy he showed this young viper might endanger Maura almost freed Rath from his daft hesitation.
Almost.
Maura would not thank him for such help. He could picture the look in her eyes. A mixture of revulsion and disillusionment that should not trouble him one whit, much less put his survival at risk to avoid it.
Fie! If he stayed there much longer the sleep spell would overcome him. He must do what he had come to do, or move on. With a convulsive movement, Rath pounced and his sharp-honed dagger slashed.
Then he snatched up his trophy—a long plume of pale hair he had cut from the helmet of the bound, sleeping young warrior. One day, perhaps, they would meet on a field of battle, and Rath would show no mercy, nor would he expect any. But that would be a fair fight, not cold murder. His decision made, Rath strode around to the other two soldiers and swiftly claimed his prizes.
When he came to the Xenoth, Rath hesitated again. He had heard the old woman’s screams. To take pity on a fiend like this would be more than softness, more than folly. It would be a kind of wickedness.
To convince himself this was no youth he should spare, Rath twitched off the mage’s black hood. What he saw made the bile rise in his throat.
Apart from the proper placement of features, the Xenoth’s face hardly looked human. The skin was pale as ash, except for dark smudges beneath the eyes. And that skin was stretched so tight over the skull, it looked little better than a clean-picked corpse. The death-mage was perfectly bare of hair, not only on top of his head. He had no brows, no lashes, not even the feeblest thread of a whisker to suggest that a beard could grow.
It looked less like the face of one who inflicted torture on others than one who had suffered torture day after day, for time beyond reckoning. To kill it might be mercy after all.
Just then, Rath heard a faint noise overhead.
His gaze flew to a steep, narrow set of stairs that ran up the left-hand wall of the room. Might the woman Maura was seeking have had wit enough to hide under the very noses of her captors... or above their heads?
Thrusting the long coils of Hanish hair into the death-mage’s black hood, Rath tucked it into his belt and made for the stairs. His foot knocked against something. He glanced down to see a copper wand with a fire-gem flickering on its tip.
“Well, well.”
With only the briefest hesitation to touch an object of such menacing power, Rath snatched the wand from the floor and thrust it into his belt as well. How fearsome would the death-mage be now, without his weapon?
When he straightened up again from stooping to retrieve the wand, Rath’s head spun. If there was anyone or anything upstairs, he had better find out quickly and flee the house before he ended up on the floor, snoring beside his enemies.
He galloped up the stairs, three at a time. Then he groped about in the darkened room. He hit his head more than once on the low ceiling and tripped over several pieces of furniture before he decided he must have imagined the noise that had drawn him up there.
Fumbling his way back to the head of the stairs, he tripped yet again. Rath cursed.
Then the thing he had tripped over stirred and groaned.
A rush of excitement overcame his growing weariness long enough to grapple onto one scrawny arm and hoist whoever he had found over his shoulder. Somehow, he managed to stumble down the steep stairs without breaking his neck or dropping his burden.
He found the young Hanish soldier nearest the door waking from the sleep spell, too. The boy struggled against his invisible bonds the way Rath had when Maura cast that same spell on him. When the youth heard Rath coming down the stairs, he craned his neck to shoot a glare of icy outrage.
“Release me at once, lowling!” He barked the order in Comtung.
Rath glared back. To think he had taken pity on this young lout!
He raised one booted foot and brought it to rest on the boy’s neck. “Take care who you order about, whelp, or I will cut off more than your pretty hair next time!”
The whelp’s eyes widened in dismay, though whether on account of the foot poised to crush his throat or his lost hair, Rath could not tell.
Convinced he’d made his point, Rath withdrew his foot and headed for the door. Then something made him turn and fling a final threat at the arrogant pup and the whole arrogant empire of which he was a willing tool.
“Do not fret about your hair, boy. You will not need it when the Waiting King sends you and all your kind packing from our shores.” A hollower boast Rath Talward had never uttered in his life. But how sweet that lie tasted on his tongue!
Well-nigh intoxicating.
He had the satisfaction of seeing a flicker of fear in Hanish eyes. That alone was almost worth the folly of letting the young slag-spawn live.
“So you have heard of the Waiting King, have you? Well, his patience is waning. He will not wait much longer. And when he wakes, mind, the Hanish Empire will tremble.”
For a priceless, fleeting instant, as he spoke those words, Rath felt himself swell in size. His weariness fell away and his body grew stronger. His senses sharpened and something quickened in his spirit that might have been his lost nobility.
As quickly as it came, the bewildering power deserted him, leaving him smaller, weaker and more disreputable than ever. He swung about, hoping the young Han would not glimpse the change. Then he strode out into the night, pursed his lips and blew the distinctive, swooping whistle of the willow-wing.
When Maura heard Rath’s bird call, she ran toward it. Hot on her heels scurried the kind neighborman who had buried Exilda.
Maura had blundered into him during her search for Gristel. Fortunately she’d recognized his voice before she’d had time to cast a spell. She’d just begun to explain what had happened when Rath’s willow-wing call trilled through the night air.
After giving an answering whistle, she caught the man’s hand. “Come. That’s a friend of mine. I hope he has had better luck than I, finding Gristel.”
She doubted it, though. No matter how confused Gristel might have been when she’d woken from the sleep spell, Maura could not imagine her willingly going back into that house with the Han. Still, it relieved her to hear Rath’s signal. He had been inside for quite a while. She’d begun to worry the dreamweed might have overcome him, too.
Another whistle sounded, from very nearby. Maura heard footsteps approaching.
She slowed so they would not collide in the dark. “Rath?”
A large shadow detached itself from the surrounding ones. Large and strangely misshapen for a man.
“I found her,” said Rath in a loud whisper. “The wily old bird.” In a few terse words he explained how Gristel had sought to hide on the upper floor of her house.
Maura could not help admire the woman’s quick thinking, and Rath’s cleverness at finding her.
“I have someone here who may be able to help us.” She hesitated, realizing she did not know the man’s name.
He seemed to understand. “Boyd, mistress. Boyd Tanner. My shop’s just down this way a piece. You’re welcome to bring Gristel there. I heard someone crying out from her house a bit ago. Fair gave me the chills, it did. After things quieted, I came to see if I could help.”
“Many thanks for your aid, Goodman Tanner,” said Maura. “A place to bide awhile would be most welcome. Pray lead the way.”
Rath muttered his thanks, too. He sounded as though he would welcome a chance to lay down his burden.
Now that the most immediate danger had passed, Maura wondered what she and Rath would do next. Go their separate ways again? It would be even harder to walk away from him this time.
Fortunately the Han had not seen who’d put them to sleep, then trussed them up with invisible bonds. Still, after what had happened tonight, Maura knew Prum would not be a safe place for strangers in the coming days. If Gristel Maldwin could not or would not provide her with some clue to the whereab
outs of Exilda’s map, she would no longer have the luxury of roaming around town in search of it.
“Through here.” The tanner pushed open a wide door at the rear of his premises. “And up the stairs.”
The pungent smells of hides, smoke and animal oils made Maura’s nose twitch.
“I have a little room where I sometimes hide folk who run afoul of the Han.” The tanner plucked a small candle from a sconce just inside the door. “The smells around this place, throw their cursed hounds off.”
Once they reached the top of the stairs, he hurried past Maura to what looked like a blank wall. He slipped his fore-finger into a knot in one of the boards. A hollow click sounded from behind the wall, then a section of it pivoted inward.
The tanner slipped through the secret door.
Maura motioned Rath to go next. “I will close up behind us.”
After pushing the door shut and refastening the clever little latch above the knothole, Maura followed the others past a heavy dark curtain into a tiny, windowless room with a straw mattress on the floor. Rath eased Gristel Maldwin off his shoulder to lie on it.
Maura squeezed past him to kneel beside the woman who was beginning to rouse from the sleep spell again.
Gristel’s eyes flew open wide. “Where am I?” She cowered on the mattress, raising her hands as if to fend off a blow. “Where are they? Who are you?”
“Hush,” said Maura. “We mean you no harm. You are somewhere safe. Are you in any pain, still?”
“Some.” The woman looked from Maura to the familiar face of the tanner. When her gaze strayed to Rath Talward, a fresh look of fear twisted her sharp features.
She grabbed Maura’s hand and squeezed it tight. “Do not let them find me again! I do not know the things they want to find out about Exilda. They will hurt me again.”
A violent trembling shook her.
“Shh.” Maura made no move to retract her hand from Gristel Maldwin’s desperate grip. “We will not let anyone harm you.”
She glanced up at the tanner. “Can you fetch me a cup of hot water? I will make a draft to soothe her.”