“A few melodies, my love. No more.” Archer wrapped a strong arm around her waist, tugging her tight against him. “After that, I’m all yours.”
Maura’s smile faded a little. “I have…chores tonight.” They traded looks back and forth, and Maura glanced at Cara. It didn’t take long for Cara to figure out that she was their dilemma.
Seeing their awkwardness, Khoury stepped forward and took Cara’s gloved hand in his. “I’ll entertain our guest, Maura. You two go…have fun.” He winked broadly at Archer.
Maura was easily convinced and gave Cara’s arm a brief squeeze as she joined the group of musicians with Archer. But Cara wasn’t sure she wanted to be left alone with the brooding captain. He had an unsettling way of looking at her. Placing a light hand on her shoulder, he turned her toward the bonfire.
“I have just the seat for you,” he murmured. She allowed him to guide her to where Bradan sat.
“Ah, Captain,” Bradan said when he saw them. “Come. Join us. Cara, you look lovely.”
“Thank you,” she said as she perched on the bench next to Bradan. Khoury remained standing nearby.
“May I introduce my wife, Ealea,” Bradan said, gesturing to the older woman.
“Hello, child.” His wife’s voice was gentle but vibrant. Her dark hair was streaked with gray and braided into multiple strands interwoven with leather and feathers. Ealea turned back to the storyteller who was standing by the fire. Cara hadn’t noticed him earlier. The foreign cadence of his speech was soothing. Ealea’s head dropped against Bradan’s shoulder and his arm tightened for a moment. Such contentment wafted from the two of them, Cara could almost pretend she was sitting with her bears. Together, they listened to the stories and songs until late.
Cara didn’t know exactly when Khoury slipped away but one moment he was there and the next he was gone. She shouldn’t have felt slighted, but she did. By the time the bonfire had burned low and the villagers were heading home, Cara wanted nothing more than to find Gar and sleep. It had been an exhausting day. Bradan and Ealea escorted her to Maura’s empty house where an extra cot had been set up. Cara told them she was fine there alone. But once they were out of sight, she slipped away down to the bear pens and Gar’s furry company.
CARA AWOKE TO the sweet scent of dew and the chirping of birds. Stretching in her straw nest next to Gar, she smiled. It had been nearly a week since they’d arrived at Bear Clan. Her nose, chin, and knuckles had completely healed. She continued to wear the gloves though spring had brought clear skies and mellow temperatures. She scrubbed Gar’s shaggy head, trying not to notice how grizzled his fur was becoming, coarser, and thinning around his dark lips. Archer had said that Gar looked surprisingly young for his years. But he was definitely aging now, and Cara couldn’t help but wonder if there had been something about the Keep that had kept them stagnant. Frozen. She even thought she could see a bit of age in her own face reflected in Maura’s mirror.
Pushing the worries aside, she kissed Gar’s head and stood, brushing a few tenacious bits of straw from her tunic. Then she tended the bears with a quick brushing, fresh water, and some fish from the nearby shed. The sun was just beginning to rise above the tall pines by the time she finished and headed to Maura’s house.
The house was empty when she arrived, which was just how she liked it. She quickly changed into clean clothes, braided her messy hair, and set out for the village center. Since her arrival, Maura had worked tirelessly to help her fit into village life. But the thing Cara was most grateful for was her job. It felt good to be useful, and Cara loved working in the kitchens.
The village was just rousing as she passed through the creaky door. The kitchen occupied the back of the dining hall. It was a large, warm room with an enormous hearth at one end and a roasting pit at the other. The walls and shelves were hung with all manner of pots and pans and utensils. The other cooks hadn’t arrived yet except, of course, for Ingrid the village herbalist. A kind woman with craggy cheeks and gray hair kinked with age sticking rebelliously out from her long thick plaits. She knew more about plants and tinctures and teas and potions than any book in Sidonius’s library, and Cara was eager to learn it all—anyway she could.
“Good morning, Ingrid,” she said, still feeling a bit awkward.
“Potatoes this morning, girl,” Ingrid rasped, handing Cara a stiff brush and pointing to a full barrel in the corner. Cara already loved the old woman’s gruffness, wry smile and sharp eyes that twinkled with secrets. Her hair was almost as white as Cara’s.
“Okay.” Cara fetched a bucket of water, tucked her gloves in her belt and perched on a stool in the corner where the potatoes waited. As she set to work with the brush, she found herself humming a tune she’d heard the night before and realized she was actually happy. What could be better than a toasty room, vegetables to cut, and the wise stories of aunts and mothers? She had learned a great deal, not only about food and medicine, but also about what passed between men and women. Frequently blushing, she found it hard not to think of the captain’s piercing eyes as the women told their raunchy tales.
It was nearly mid-morning and the kitchens were full and bustling when the door screeched open. A woman rushed in, worry etched on her face. “Thomas is sick again,” she blurted out, wringing her hands, breathless in the middle of the room. Work stopped as all heads turned to her. Cara’s among them, her wet hands still holding the pot she’d been cleaning.
“He caught a fever in the night, Grandmother,” the woman whined, craning her neck to find Ingrid, her pale face framed with disheveled russet curls.
Ingrid looked up from a stew pot hung over the fire and shuffled up to her. “Is he coughing, Siobhan?”
“Yes. Spitting blood.”
“It’s the lungs again.” The gruff old woman shuffled to the pantry, tipping clay jars and poking around the shelves. “And I’m out of willow bark.”
Siobhan wrung her hands in silence as Ingrid puttered with her jars. “I can brew a soothing tea for now. The willow tincture I’ll make by nightfall.” Ingrid tapped some dried herbs and flowers from her stock into two cups and pushed a pot of water over the fire’s heat. “Have a seat,” she gestured to the long workbench in the center of the room, “you look like you could use a bit of tea yourself, mother.”
Cara remembered some of the cooks talking about Thomas. He had been born sickly and, though he had reached his eighth year, he had suffered three bouts of lung fever since winter began each one worse than the last. As the water warmed over the fire, Ingrid pulled Cara from the dish tub.
“Leave off washing, child. I need you to find me some willow bark. Do you know which tree it is?” Cara reached out a wet hand and touched Ingrid’s arm. Images flooded her mind of drooping whip-like branches and red buds. She knew what the old woman needed and how to harvest it. Ingrid’s eyes narrowed, but if she were upset about the intrusion, she never said.
“There’s one beyond the bears, by the river,” Cara said.
Ingrid nodded. “That’s it. Bring me as much bark as you can, and some buds, too.”
Cara nodded, swooped up a small reed basket, and headed out the door. Her new boots crunched in the shallow snow that still covered the shadiest parts of the forest. Following the river that flowed behind the bear pens, she reached the bend where a willow leaned far over the water, its branches trailing delicately along the glassy surface.
Cara laid her bare hand on the willow and felt a slight thrumming just at the edge of her awareness. The tree seemed very old, reminding her of a grandmother, reminding her of Ingrid.
Its bark peeled away from the thick trunk in large patches that she gently scraped into her basket wherever she could find it, remembering not to force the bark off. Looking in the small basket, the supply seemed rather pitiful. She closed her eyes and tried to remember Ingrid’s memories. The dangling whip-like branches caught her attention as they dipped in the looking-glass river. She could take the ends with the rosy buds as well and peel the bark from the twigs whe
n she returned to the kitchens. She started on the side farthest the water but because of its leaning, most of what she needed hung in the river. Peering into the water, she saw some large stones just under the surface.
Stepping cautiously out onto the stones, Cara felt the flowing water seep through her boots, chilling her toes. She took a portion of twigs from the nearby branches, tossing them back to the shore to keep her hands free. She tempted fate by walking out a bit farther, and then farther still until her boot slipped and she toppled into the cold water with a splash.
KHOURY HEARD THE splash before he saw her white head go under. It was a long moment before she surfaced. The stream was moving quickly, swollen from the spring thaw, and he knew from experience the placid-looking surface of the bend by the willow hid dangerously deep currents. The girl was either reckless or stupid. He watched as her head bobbed in the water, not high enough to get good air.
Damn it, she can’t swim, he thought with irritation as he raced to the edge and slipped the wool cloak from his shoulders. In one fluid movement, he dove into the water, bracing himself against the shock of ice that pierced his bones. He loved to swim but not in early spring in the Northlands. With practiced strokes, he reached her quickly, fighting the cramping of his muscles against the cold. Grasping her bodice, he propped her on his shoulder, face out of the water, and dragged her toward the shore. She coughed against him, violently expelling water from her lungs. By the time he dragged her out of the water and stood her next to him, she was breathing hard but not coughing anymore. Shaking, water dripping down her face, she stared up at him in surprise as his arms drew her closer to his body for warmth.
“Are you all right?” he asked, trying to quell his own shivering.
She nodded, but he could feel the hammering of her heart, its pounding shuddered through her whole body.
“You sure?”
“Y-y-yes,” she chattered.
“Good. Then what the blazes were you doing out there?” His voice came out harsher than he intended.
She pulled back from him, shy of his anger, hands splayed on his wet shirt. “Getting willow for Ingrid.”
“Willow for Ingrid,” he mimicked. “You’re damn lucky I was here.” He led her to where his woolen cloak lay crumpled in the brush, still dry and warm from his body. Lifting it, he wrapped it around her shivering frame. She snuggled her nose in the furred collar. He rubbed her arms vigorously to warm her up, using the activity to warm himself. He shook his head and felt a strange urge to smile.
“What?” she asked defensively, her lower lip still a bit blue and sticking out petulantly.
“You,” he murmured. His need to keep her in sight still puzzled him but when he’d seen her leave for the woods, he’d followed her. And a good thing it was, too.
“What does that mean?” She snuggled deeper into the cloak, her eyes wide and moist.
“You just,” he paused to look at her, “have a knack for getting in trouble.” And dragging me after you, he thought. Bradan’s comment about magic calling magic rolled around in his head. Was that why he’d had to follow her, or was she just young and pretty? She had a pleasant face, certainly, with large eyes, though pale, and long lashes. Her cheekbones were thin, her lips soft, but nothing special really. He couldn’t fathom why she drew him so strongly, but even now, he could feel the pull. It was like standing with his feet in the ocean’s outgoing tide.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He shook his head dismissively.
“No, really. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Captain.”
He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure what he wanted. The intensity of her gaze drew him in, and his arms slipped around her small frame of their own accord. He tried to decide again if this was simply the call of magic blood or something else, something deeper.
When her eyes flickered to his mouth, he realized she felt the pull, too. It wasn’t just him. The curious longing blossomed into desire and he lowered his mouth to hers, quickly before good sense got the better of him, pressing her lips with his, their breath mingling.
Khoury didn’t have time to decide if her lips were soft or her breath sweet because with that kiss a buried memory burst upon his mind. A beautiful woman danced, spinning within a cloud of chestnut hair, laughing. He remembered that laugh. How he had loved it—that cherished sound shattered him with grief. The bittersweet memory froze the breath in his chest, suffocating him. Stung, he shoved Cara away from him and staggered back a step.
“Sorry,” he muttered, turning to face the water with hands clenched and a tight knot of despair squeezing the core of him.
“Why?”
Her innocence aggravated the raw emotions that seethed in him. He needed distance from her softness and time to compose himself, to shove the memory back where it belonged—in the past. “It was wrong.”
“Wrong?” He heard her disappointment.
“It’s cold and we’re wet,” he snapped. “And you are…” He turned to see her wide doe-eyes staring at him. “Very young.” Khoury picked up her basket of bark near the tree.
“Not that young,” she murmured almost under her breath. “Boys kiss younger girls than me here.”
He turned, startled. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve seen them. Down by the river, near the bear pens.”
He wondered what else she had seen and then decided he didn’t want to know. “I’m no boy and you’re too young in experience if not in years. We should go.”
“I still need more twigs.” She pointed to the ends of the branches that swayed over the water.
“Is that what you were doing out there?” He picked up a long branch that had fallen nearby and used it to pull the wispy branches closer to shore. Chagrined, the girl retrieved enough to fill her basket.
“Enough?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Then come on,” he commanded, taking the basket and striding down the path without a backward glance. They made the trip back in silence.
When they reached the edge of the village center, she took the basket from him. “Thanks for fishing me out of the river,” she said stiffly.
He dipped his head, not trusting his voice. The memory had faded for now but he felt it, waiting in the back of his mind to haunt him. Through sheer willpower, he kept his face placid despite the ache in his heart. He waited, letting her take the path to the kitchens alone.
When the memories came wrapped up in sorrow, the rage was never far behind. And that rage would consume all of the Mason Khoury she thought she knew, leaving behind only a selfish monster. He needed to stay away from Cara. In fact, he decided it was time to leave the warm welcome of Bear Clan.
WHEN CARA REACHED the kitchens, Ingrid eyed her soaked clothes and borrowed cloak with amusement. She took the basket from Cara’s dripping hands. “Decided it was a good day for a swim?”
“No,” Cara grumbled, “I fell in.”
Ingrid laughed out loud. “Go home and get dry, clumsy girl.”
“I’ll be right back to strip the bark,” she offered.
“No, no. You go change and then find Bradan. He was asking for you.”
Cara was about to open her mouth to argue that the willow bark needed to be done first, but Ingrid put the basket next to three women sitting at the long center table. They immediately set to stripping the bark and collecting the buds, as Ingrid waved Cara out the door.
Feeling dismissed, both by Ingrid and by Khoury, Cara ducked out of the kitchens and headed to Maura’s house to change, her boots squishing. Once inside the door, she dropped the cloak on a chair and stood frozen for a moment, resisting the urge to press it to her nose and inhale Khoury’s scent again. Her mind swirled in confusion. It happened so suddenly, the fall, the rescue, that kiss. Cara hadn’t known she wanted him to kiss her until his lips were against hers. And when he did a dark-haired woman flashed through her mind like a ghost.
She raised her fingers to her lips. Somethin
g else had flared inside her, too, with that brief contact. She didn’t understand any of it: his anger, the ghost, or her own heart. Shaking off her confusion, she stripped off her wet things, hung them by the fire, and changed into dry clothes. She left Khoury’s cloak where it lay draped over the chair. If he wants it back, he’ll have to come get it, she thought petulantly.
A WARM FIRE was burning in Bradan’s hearth when she arrived and the grizzled chieftain was sitting cross-legged, eyes closed.
“You wanted to see me?” She took a step farther into the room.
Bradan didn’t stir. He seemed to be sleeping, sitting upright. Not sure what to do, Cara waited and wandered the room, fascinated by his collection of clutter. She cringed at the bear’s foot, claws and all, that hung in a circular web of leather, tied with feathers and colored stone beads. Bits of nature adorned every surface from the rafters, where herbs and roots hung drying, to the floor covered with furs from creatures Cara didn’t recognize, even from her books in the Keep’s library.
With a sudden deep breath, the old man’s eyes fluttered open. “There you are. Did you have a nice swim?”
“How’d you know about that?”
He laughed. “I have my ways. Come, sit by me.” Cara walked over and sat on the woven mat he indicated. He didn’t speak for a long moment as she basked in the fire’s warmth. “Do you know what I am?” he asked finally.
“You’re the village leader.”
“Not who. What.”
“You’re a sorcerer,” she said, hazarding a wild guess. Did she need to fear him, too?
“No,” he said, chuckling. “I don’t do sorcery.”
She gave him a confused look. “But you do magic?”
“There are many types of magic. Sorcery changes what is, destroying life even as it transforms it. What I do is different. I’m a translator.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I communicate between our world and the Otherworld. We are surrounded by spirits.” He gestured all around them, and Cara felt the hairs on her neck stand on end. “They exist in the Otherworld and, even though they are close, most people can’t see them. I talk to them like you talk to the bears.”
Quest of the Dreamwalker (The Corthan Legacy Book 1) Page 10
