Tal moved then, releasing Kane’s shoulders. For a moment he seemed to reel slightly, but Kane thought it must be just his own unsteadiness. Although Tal did look rather pale; his skin had taken on the ashen color of blood loss Kane had seen far too often.
“Tal?”
Kane thought he saw him shudder in turn. Then Tal lowered his head slightly, his hair fell forward, shielding his face from Kane’s view, and Kane decided he was probably mistaken; there wasn’t enough light to really tell. Of course, there wasn’t enough light to account for that golden gleam in Tal’s eyes, either.
Then Tal lifted his head, pushed his hair back out of his eyes, looking as he always did, and Kane was sure he’d been wrong.
“I think,” Tal said in his usual, mocking voice, “getting out of this water would be wise.”
Questions rose in Kane, but one look at Tal’s face told him he would be getting no answers. Whatever had just happened here would stay unexplained.
Kane staggered slightly as they made their way up the bank. And shivered as the breeze chilled his wet clothing even more than the water itself had.
“Come, sit by the fire,” Tal said.
“What fire?”
Tal gestured ahead of them. “That fire, of course.”
Kane raised his head. A blaze just short of a bonfire danced merrily just a few yards away.
“That . . . wasn’t there before.”
“You were probably too . . . distracted to notice.”
Kane opened his mouth to say he would have to be dead not to have seen this roaring fire. And closed it again; he’d been close enough to dead, inside at least, that Tal could very well be right. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to push Tal for an answer; while he wasn’t the kind who felt those thought to have . . . unusual talents should be executed—how could he, when he did not even believe in such things?—he didn’t want to hear Tal lay claim to such skills. Tal was his friend, in truth his only friend; he did not wish to risk that.
“Convenient,” Kane muttered as he did as Tal directed and sat by the fire, welcoming the heat, “that you chose to camp here.”
“Not really,” Tal muttered. “Here, use this blanket.”
Kane blinked as Tal held out the heavy cloth he seemed to have produced out of nowhere. “Where did that come—never mind.” He took it, then eyed Tal up and down. “You were nearly as wet as I.”
“I’m fine. I wasn’t in so deep as you, and these”—he gestured at his leggings—“repel water nicely. Rest, my friend. Just rest. You need it.”
Kane pulled the blanket around him, thinking it surprisingly warming, even as heavy as it was.
“Sleep for a while,” Tal urged.
Kane shook his head. “I . . . cannot.”
“The dreams will not bother you,” Tal promised.
It was as close as he’d come to talking about what had just happened. And Kane knew it was as close as he would come. He also knew Tal did not make promises lightly. Still, he hesitated; he had no wish to confront the nightmares yet again. Asleep or awake, they were no less ugly, no less barbarous, and the self-condemnation he felt no easier to bear.
“Sleep, Kane,” Tal put his hand on Kane’s shoulder. “Take what peace slumber can give you.”
Perhaps he could sleep, Kane thought. Just for a while. Lightly. Lightly enough that he could wake himself if the dreams threatened. Just for a while.
SHE HAD FAILED. She had come all this way, only to fail at her sacred duty as the Hawk. There was only one man who could help them, and she had at last reached him, only to be turned away without hesitation. She hadn’t made the least impression on him, hadn’t been able to even begin to convince him. So the Hawk clan would end, because of her failure. They would die, all of them, because of their foolishness in entrusting her with their future.
The only thing left for her to do was to go back and die with them.
Why had they thought she could do this? When she’d told them what she was going to do, that she would bring back the mythical warrior Kane to lead them, they had cheered, certain in their desperation that she had found the answer. She had tried to credit the storyteller, but the old man had demurred, insisting it would be she who carried out the task.
“Your faith was sadly misplaced,” she said to the old man, as if he were there to hear.
“No, Jenna. It was not.”
She whirled, staring into the darkness. She saw nothing. She noted vaguely that her ankle was much improved, although it mattered little to her anymore; if she died on her trek home, at least she would be spared the humiliation and agony of telling her people she had failed. She held her breath, her certainty of what she’d heard fading as the moments silently passed, broken only by the distant sound of some night creature moving, and the slight rustle of leaves in the shifting air.
She sank back onto her log seat, stirred the fire, and added a log. She tugged the blanket closer around her. After a few minutes, she felt oddly drowsy. She slipped down to sit on the ground, using the log as a rest for her back.
Her eyelids drooped.
“You must give him time, Jenna.”
Her head snapped up. She was dreaming. She must be, she told herself, although it was uncommonly vivid. But a dream it had to be, for here beside her sat the storyteller, his eyes glinting gold, his hair glinting silver in the firelight.
“He keeps his heart well veiled, well protected. He is hiding, child.”
She would speak to him, Jenna thought. That would prove that this was a dream; dreams were never sensible.
“Hiding from what?”
“Himself.”
She blinked. He’d answered her. As if he were real, as if this were not a dream at all. She tried again.
“But why?”
“He has much to regret. Much to hate himself for. So he hides from the pain.” The storyteller looked inexpressibly sad for a moment. “But this means he must hide from the joy, as well. From everything.”
She forgot for the moment that this was a dream, and spoke from her heart. “You speak truly. I have seen Kane’s eyes.”
The storyteller nodded. “Then you know he is a man tortured by memories.”
She studied the man for a silent moment. “If he is so tortured, why did you send me to him?”
“You are the only one who can help him.”
Jenna was suddenly reminded this was a dream. “Ah. There is the nonsensical turn I’ve been expecting. You have it backward, do you not? ’Tis Kane’s help I came seeking.”
“Yes. But he needs yours as badly.”
“Mine?” She stared. “What in the name of the heavens could I do to help such a man as Kane?”
“You can give him salvation.”
“I? How?”
“He believes himself beyond redemption. You can show him it is not so. But you must be gentle with him.”
“Gentle?” An image of Kane, tall, broad, powerful, rose in her mind. The idea of having to be gentle with him seemed ludicrous. But then, sitting here talking to an illusion was ludicrous. Yet it seemed so very real. . . .
“He has so little faith left, in anything, but most particularly himself. ’Tis like a candle on a windy night, a very fragile light.”
Jenna was becoming confused. And the tiniest bit suspicious. “You guided me here to help my people. Now you speak only of helping Kane.”
“The one will result in the other.”
“Make sense,” she said sharply. “Thus far I have seen no sign that either is about to happen.”
“Did you ever wonder why a warrior like Kane would abandon all and retreat to these mountains?”
“No. I know only that Kane wishes me gone, and has unreservedly refused to help us.”
“He has too many ghosts
haunting him, Jenna. He has caused the deaths of many, and they plague him ceaselessly. He has no wish to cause more. He will not fight again.”
“But I want him to save lives!”
“And how is he to do that, except by taking other lives?”
“I—” She broke off, unable to counter that unerring logic. “I didn’t think of it that way.”
Perhaps it wasn’t a dream; how could a dream made up of her own imaginings have produced something she had never thought of? She shook her head as the storyteller spoke again.
“You thought only of the needs of you and yours, nothing of what it would cost Kane.”
“But you told me he would help.”
“Do not mistake me, child. I said he was the only one who could.”
He had always been annoyingly precise, Jenna thought. Except when he was being so mysterious nothing he said made sense. But he was right. She had only thought of the needs of her people, and nothing of what it would cost Kane. She hadn’t even thought of him as quite real, hadn’t thought of him as a man with any kind of feelings.
Slowly, feeling a bit abashed, she asked, “What am I to do, then? You know that I will do anything, whatever I must. But what? If he is the only one who can help us, but he will not fight . . .”
“He will not, because it would cost him what little remains of his soul.”
Jenna sighed. “That is too much to ask of any man.”
The storyteller looked oddly pleased. Then, almost briskly, he said, “Because he will not fight does not mean he has forgotten how.”
Her brows furrowed. “You are being obscure again.”
The storyteller smiled. “You are a very clever girl, Jenna. You will reason it out.”
Her mouth twisted doubtfully. The fire flared up suddenly, and she looked that way. For a moment she gazed at it as if the answer were hidden somewhere in the dancing flames.
When she looked up again, the storyteller was gone. She had no sense of rousing from a dream, no sudden start of awakening. The fire had returned to normal and he was simply gone. And she was not sure she was any better off than she had been before.
It took her until morning to work out what the storyteller had meant.
KANE BLINKED, squinting against the morning sun as he looked at Tal.
“Aren’t you . . . grayer than you were yesterday?”
Tal looked up quickly. “Grayer?”
“Your hair. ’Tis distinctly grayer.”
Tal’s eyes rolled upward as if he could see his tousled locks. He grasped a strand of hair and pulled it in front of his eyes, fruitlessly since it happened to be a dark strand. At last he reached for the dagger sheathed at his narrow waist, and peered at himself in the polished blade.
“Damnation,” he muttered. “I never could get that right.”
He ran a hand over his hair, brow furrowed as if in great concentration. He repeated the motion. And peered into the blade again. And sighed.
“It will never be as it was again. I should have paid more attention to that lesson.”
Kane stared at his friend, who seemed to suddenly be reminded of his presence. He gave Kane a wary look. His hair, Kane noticed, was back to normal, at least the normal he was used to seeing; raven dark shot with moonlight silver. He said nothing, only looked.
“ ’Twas merely the light,” Tal said.
“Of course,” Kane said.
Tal looked surprised at having his own common phrase turned back on him. After a moment he grinned widely. Despite himself, Kane smiled back. He’d had a more restful night than he would have believed possible; most times when the visions came, it took days for the effect to wear off.
But they’d never hit him when Tal was around before.
“So,” Tal said cheerfully, “do you believe your flame-haired visitor has given up by now?”
“I can but hope,” Kane said wryly.
“She seemed . . . quite determined.”
“She is.”
“What will you do if she is still there when you return?”
Kane sighed. “I don’t know.”
Tal looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you could simply frighten her away. You’re intimidating enough.”
“I don’t intimidate you,” Kane pointed out.
“That’s different. I know you won’t damage me.”
“You do, do you?” Kane said mildly.
“I do.” That certainty again.
“Has anyone ever told you that habit of yours is quite . . . irksome?”
Tal laughed. “Many.”
Kane’s mouth twisted. “And it had little effect, I see.” Tal shrugged. Kane sighed again. “She may be young, but she is no shorter on courage than you, my friend. I doubt she’ll give up easily. Unless I can determine what would frighten her, I fear myself doomed to endless importunings.”
“I leave that to you. I must find Maud. That silly bird has flitted off somewhere, no doubt to wreak havoc on some unsuspecting innocent.”
Kane watched as Tal gathered his few belongings, rolled them up in the blanket Kane had slept in, fastened them with a strap he then slung over his shoulder, and turned to go.
“Tal?”
He looked back.
“Thank you.”
Tal smiled, a gentle smile quite unlike his usual mocking grin. “Good luck, my friend. Whatever you decide to do.”
He vanished into the woods as if they had welcomed him with open arms and the trees had folded around him protectively.
Whatever he decided to do.
What could he do? He could not help her. No matter how she might pester, no matter how tenacious she might be, last night had proven beyond a doubt that he could not take up weapons again. Yet she refused to accept his answer.
So he must find some other way of ridding himself of her.
’Twas too bad; she really was quite lovely.
But she had to go. And he would do whatever it took to see that she did.
Chapter 5
“A BLOODSUCKING gnat could take lessons from you,” Kane muttered wearily. “I have never encountered a more persistent creature. Can you not see my answer is final? Will you not give up?”
“I cannot give up,” Jenna said simply, staring into the fire.
He knew that her persistence was driven by desperation and fed by her love for her people, but he told himself firmly it mattered not to him.
“ ’Tis pointless.”
“Even so,” she said.
He tossed the bone he’d cleaned of meat into the fire. He had returned late this afternoon, knowing he looked like a man who had passed a night in hell. He had passed a night in hell, a personal hell of his own making. Jenna had given him a look tinged with an unexpected compassion, a look that made him very wary because of his own equally unexpected response to it. And because he had no idea why she would have the slightest bit of kind feeling for him.
Without speaking, she’d set about preparing a meal of the remaining rabbit. He’d not commented upon her industry, had merely sat and eaten in silence.
She, on the other hand, had used his silence to her advantage, trying once more to persuade him to help her save her people.
“They cannot hide in the village, relying on the glade’s protection forever. Many of our fields are outside the protection. We must plant crops soon, or there will be starvation this winter.”
“Does not your magical forest take care of all your needs?” he asked, a tinge of derision in his tone.
“It helps those who help themselves,” she retorted. “It does not do the work; it merely provides a greater yield from a smaller amount of land.”
“Can they not simply hunt in bands, for protection?”
“We do not hunt. Not wit
h weapons. We have none. We build traps, snares, for the game we need. There was never a need to store more than a winter’s worth. There was always more.”
Kane shook his head. “Helpless flock. No wonder some warlord saw them as easy prey.”
“Only because they have never needed to deal with such things.”
He shrugged. “Leave. Flee to safety.”
“We cannot leave our home place.”
He grimaced. “Life is precious and short. The land is eternal, and cares not that men die for it.”
“But Hawk Glade is a sacred place, the history and very heart of our people resides there.” She saw in his expression what he thought of such foolishness, but she went on doggedly. “But soon they will have to venture out past the safety of Hawk Glade. And when they do they will be slaughtered.”
“I will not fight again. For you, or anyone else.”
She looked at him for a silent moment before she asked, “Even for yourself?”
“Especially for myself.”
She shivered, as if something in his voice had made her feel the coldness he carried with him every day of his life. She turned away from the fire to look at him.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “But I cannot give up. The lives of my people depend on me—”
“That is your problem.”
“Yes. And my responsibility. Don’t you see, that is why I must convince you—”
“You will not.” He looked at her. She met his gaze steadily, determinedly. After a moment he shook his head wonderingly. “I will confess, although you are tormenting me to distraction, I admire your tenacity. That you are even here in this place speaks well of you. ’Tis not an easy place to find or reach.”
“I know,” she said ruefully. Then, sliding him a sideways glance, she added, “And I must thank you for your care of me. Feeling as you do, it was most . . . generous.”
It was not hard to follow her thoughts. He could almost see her thinking that surely a man who could be generous about such a thing was not yet lost to humane feeling. Thinking that she could yet convince him to help her.
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