And he could not allow himself to be distracted by a queer young woman with sea-deep eyes and a soul that seemed to beckon to him.
God's love, a soul that seemed to know his ugliest truths with a single look, the briefest touch.
He was not sure why he'd let Serena believe his family was alive and awaiting him back home. Safety, perhaps--his own, as much as hers. The knowledge of what he was about could only put her in jeopardy, should his enemies come looking for him, as he dearly hoped they would.
More than that, however, he wished to maintain a measure of distance from Serena. Mayhap he wanted to keep the reminder of his mission fresh in his thoughts, foremost, lest he be tempted to let his eye linger too long on the many intriguing riches of the unspoiled forest grove, not the least of which being the lady herself, who championed the creatures of her woods like a stalwart knight sworn to protect her domain.
Peculiar, indeed. And too intriguing by far.
Rand cleared the edge of the trees and found himself on the long strand of pale brown beach. His bare toes sank into the warm sand, a small but soothing comfort after the rough ground of the forest. He breathed in the crisp, briny air, clearing his head with a deep-pulled draft. The tide was low, rolling in slender curls far below the head of the shore. Driftwood, seaweed, and other sundry debris were left in the path of the receded waves. Rand strode down the length of the beach, scanning the empty stretch of sand. Mayhap luck would smile upon him just a little, and lead him to the missing treasure he had lost.
Aye, a bit of luck was what he needed sorely. That, and a quick mend of his injuries, so that he could end his delay with Serena and her mother, and be on his way toward the vengeance he so craved.
Chapter 6
Farther north on the same stretch of coastline, low tide delivered something more remarkable than seaweed and ocean debris. An Egremont fisherman hauled in his net, astounded at the weight of his day's catch. His luck on the water had been poor of late; but, he thought, no more. Huffing and straining, he gleefully anticipated the pile of coin he would collect when he sold the fish in town. With one last groan of exertion, he dragged the heavy net up over the side of his fishing skiff, stumbling back onto his rump in the shallow boat.
The fisherman stared at his catch, perplexed.
No mass of silver scales and fins writhed beneath the crosswork weave of the net. Nay, not one fish. Nothing stirred at all in the sodden black lump he had retrieved from the water. The stench hit him at once--foul, putrid. Death gone ripe a couple days. Repulsed yet morbidly intrigued, the fisherman dashed off his cap and held it to his nose. Carefully, he crept toward the center of the skiff for a closer look.
He thought the beast a dog at first, seeing the stiff legs and large black paws jutting out from within the net. But he had never seen a dog so large. A wolf, then, he hazarded to guess, although he could think of no reason an animal such as that would meet its demise in the ocean.
A bloody demise, at that.
Its gut was sliced clean as though by a blade, ragged where the flesh had been nibbled away by sea scavengers and the continuous toss of the tide. The wolf's dark head was massive, its jaws fearsome, frozen in an open-mouthed, animal sneer. And its eyes. By the Saints, its clouded eyes stared open and hellish, like no beast of this earth.
That thought put a cold lump of fear in the fisherman's belly.
He crossed himself in haste, and was a moment away from tossing the corpse back over the side of the boat when he realized it might be of some worth to him after all. He had no fish to sell in town, but he could think of one or two folk who might pay him a farthing to gape at the dead wolf. Mayhap more, if he embellished his tale of discovery with a few lively details over at the tavern.
* * *
Rand had managed to keep to himself for the rest of that day and well into the next. He took his meals outside the cottage, preferring not to get comfortable around the table, or to be subjected to more of Serena's probing questions and unsettling observations. He had even slept outside that previous night, and his bruised, muscle-sore back was complaining loudly for it now as he scoured the beach on what was becoming a ritual bordering on obsession.
A light rain had begun not long ago. It misted in a fine sheet of wetness and ankle-deep fog that chilled him despite the reasonable warmth of the June afternoon. He was tired and aching, his fatigued body feeling as abused as it would after a bout of heavy combat or rigorous training. The ocean storm he had battled and nearly lost that night at sea had taken more out of him than he cared to admit. The raw slashes of the shifter beast's claws yet burned where they had raked over his torso and limbs. He was likely half beaten already in his private war against Silas de Mortaine. Still, he kept searching the beach, kept looking for any sign of the Chalice treasure.
He had found nothing thus far. It was as though the golden cup had simply vanished from within the satchel he carried ashore. He was beginning to think it might never turn up. Without it, he would have to find an alternative lure for the vengeance he sought. Nothing would be as powerful, for there was nothing the villain wanted more than the four pieces of the Dragon Chalice restored and in his possession.
As soon as he was able--another couple of days, at the most--Rand would have to press on for Scotland, to the chapel where Kenrick of Clairmont believed the last portion of the treasure resided. It was his best chance of getting close to de Mortaine. Close enough to kill.
Rand continued his search of the shoreline, heading up the beach to where the land began to slope upward, a grassy hill that covered an overhang of dark gray rock. The rugged stone jutted out into the water and around, creating a small hollowed cove when the tide was out, as it was now. As he drew closer, he saw someone standing in the curved protection of the rock.
Serena.
She stood calf-deep in the shadowed tidal pool, the hems of her faded red skirt and cream-colored undergown rucked up, knotted in an attempt to keep them from getting wet. A thick black braid swung over her shoulder as she bent forward to peer into the water around her feet. Some of the glossy strands had come loose in the breeze; they lifted around her head in a feathery riot of ebony silk. Curiously, she was singing. The sweet, dulcet tones of her wordless song drifted toward him, and for a moment, Rand wondered if he had come upon an ocean siren, for the vision she presented was something rare, wise, otherworldly.
She glanced up and spied him on the approach. He felt her aqua gaze cut through the flatness of the overcast day, but she did not hail him. She turned her attention back to the pool in which she waded, all her focus centered there. Carefully, still singing her soothing song, she withdrew a small mass of dark, looping material from where it draped at her hip. Seaweed, he wondered at first, but as he got closer he realized it was human-made, not seaborn. She took the ends of the net in her fingers and held it out before her, displaying it almost ritually, as though presenting the fine woven net to the sea for approval.
Rand said nothing as he came to stand nearby the little cove. He waited outside the shelter of the rock, feeling in that moment as if to intrude would be to tread on sacred ground. He listened to her softly whispered song, then watched as she gently released the net from her grasp. It descended onto the water with a bare sigh of sound, then fell, its web of fine knotted squares engulfed at once by the ocean's lapping waves. At Serena's feet, a school of tiny silver fish darted out to safer waters, making a swift escape. Two other fish, larger ones that would make a hearty meal, remained beneath the delicate weave of the net.
Serena's song was but a hum now, she all but ignoring Rand as she bent to retrieve her catch. She took the ends of the net and brought it together, tenderly drawing the fish out of the water. The net dripped as she carried it toward a basket that waited in the shade of the rocky outcrop, the two fish flapping about, splattering water with their frantic struggles.
"I take it that will be our dinner."
"Yes," she replied, sparing him only the most cursory glance of ac
knowledgment. All her focus--all her regret, did he not miss his guess--was reserved for her task at hand.
Solemnity dimmed her usual bright gaze as she withdrew a small dagger from a slender leather sheath on her girdle of braided linen. She sighed, very softly, then removed the gloves from her hands and tucked them into her girdle. The words she whispered were inaudible, but apologetic in tone, as she bent down to catch one of the fish in her other hand. The slippery creature eluded her grasp but did not get far, its silver fins beating air as it flopped on its side within the beached net. Serena drew in her breath and shuddered slightly, staring down at her empty hand. Her reaction seemed an odd mirror to that of her quarry; at Serena's feet, the fish gasped for air, convulsed.
"Let me," Rand said, hunching down to spare her the unpleasantry of the chore.
"Nay." She tried to refuse his offer, frowning now. "This is mine to finish. I want to do it."
But Rand's old instincts to protect a lady from any ill--his code of chivalric honor, rusted and battered, buried deep now--could not permit her to endure the task. And he could see that despite her argument otherwise, this was likely the last thing she wanted to do. Her face was pale with remorse, in spite of the firm set to her jaw. What he glimpsed in her face was not mere squeamishness, but something unreadable. What she felt ran much deeper than missish revulsion for a task she had no doubt done countless times before, based on the skill and ceremony with which she worked her net. But the dread was there, swimming in the cobalt-green of her eyes.
"Let me," he said again, and took the knife from her agile fingers.
He finished quickly, cleaning the two fish and sweeping the waste into the sea to feed the rock crabs and other scavengers. He placed the fish in the basket, then rinsed his hands and cleaned the knife in a swirling tidal puddle near his foot. When he rose, he found Serena standing solemnly still next to him. She held her face out toward the sea beyond, eyes closed. The ubiquitous gloves of hers were once more covering her hands, which were clasped before her in prayer.
"What are you doing?"
"Thanking the sea for feeding us. Thanking the fish for letting me take them in my net today."
Rand was tempted to chuckle at the sentimentality of such a notion--the mild blasphemy in crediting any but God the Almighty for such gifts--but it was clear that Serena meant it deeply. No doubt she had been schooled in old ways, pagan ways, forbidden by the church yet practiced quietly by a daring few. Rand's own forebears had been less than pious, wild rogues and scoundrels and wandering gypsies being the more respectable of the lot, so he could find no offense in such elemental worship as that which Serena seemed to practice now.
He gave her the moments of peace she required, and found himself staring thoughtfully out at the vastness of the ocean in silence alongside her. A prayer to any higher power did not seem so out of place in those reverent instants, but he could summon no words of praise or thankfulness for a world that was, for him, so empty and unkind.
Lately, on those rare occasions that he bent his head to pray, he merely begged for time and opportunity, for bloody recompense. In truth he would have bargained himself to the devil if he thought it might give him an advantage over his enemy. He hadn't totally ruled out that prospect, regardless of its certain damning outcome. He was beyond salvation anyway, and he would walk willingly to his fate when that day came.
Beside him, Serena finished her thoughtful silence. She slowly lifted her head and turned her extraordinary gaze on him.
"All life is precious," she said. He could not help but feel she somehow suspected he could not see as much on his own, and that she pitied him for it. She gestured caringly toward the two fish in her basket. "Even these simple creatures' lives are noble and worthy."
Even yours, her long-lashed eyes seemed to say, holding him in an unblinking, tender regard.
There was a time that Rand would have agreed with her. He had embraced life once, had long been the one with a ready laugh and a giving hand for anyone in need. But no more. He could ill afford joviality or compassion when there was no telling who might be friend or foe. To Rand, everyone was suspect now. Silas de Mortaine's reach was long; his ability to corrupt was unparalleled. And it did not take much to recall the depth of his Anavrin sentries' magic, a witchy glamour that allowed them to shift form in a blink of time, from beast to man and back again--at their most dangerous, they could project the illusion of a familiar, friendly face, the deadliest form of their trickery.
Nay, Rand could never go back to the way things had been. He had seen too much darkness to think he might ever reclaim any part of the life he once knew. He had lost too much to foster that foolish hope. His family was gone. His keep was in ruins, miles behind him. All he could do was keep moving forward, alone.
Serena's voice was a softness that drew him out of his grim reflection. "What is it like...out there, where you come from?"
"Bleak," he answered without thinking, hearing the word tumble from his mouth before he could stop it. A pitiful admission, but there was no saving it now. He held Serena's hopeful gaze and watched it dim with each word he spoke. "Out there, is a lot of turmoil and greed and death. Dark things exist in the places I have been. Things you should not wish to know. No one should."
"Surely there is some goodness, too," she said, worry creasing her elegant forehead and reducing her voice to a troubled whisper. "With your family, at least? 'Tis clear you love them. You said you were eager to be with them."
Ah, yes. His half-truth of yesterday, stretching back to trip him up. He dodged it with a considering shrug of his shoulder, turning his gaze to the endless blanket of ocean that rippled out to the horizon, steel gray waves reaching to eternity.
"My family is everything to me," he told her, no lie there, only cold, empty truth. "They are all that is good and pure in this world." A twist of guilt formed in his gut, knotting hard at the recollection of his last hours with his wife. Final moments, wasted on anger and accusations, all of it come too late. "I would give anything to be with my wife and son now."
"Why did you leave them?"
"I had no choice. There are things I need to do--a score I must settle--before I can return home."
"I see," she said, soberly, but Rand knew that she could not possibly understand.
The night of the attack, Silas de Mortaine had taken his life, and left him holding naught but charred rubble and ash. Somewhere, in the midst of that decay, was Rand's honor. There could be no more than a scrap of it to survive, but he would reach for it. He would have it back, one day.
"Your enemy must be a very bad man, to have earned such devoted scorn."
"He has earned a war," Rand answered, not bothering to deny that his vengeance centered on a single name. "I will destroy him, and all who serve him."
"At what cost?"
Rand replied without hesitation. "At any cost."
"If you mean that, Rand," Serena said, her voice calm with clarity and reflection, "then I pity this man you seek. I pity you, too."
"Pity me?" Rand swung his head around to glower at her, scoffing at the notion. "You waste your sentiment, lady. Pity, indeed."
She held his angry gaze, unfazed. "To destroy another is to destroy a part of yourself. I think you know this. I think you feel it, already happening in your heart."
"And what do you know of evil?" he demanded, the sudden harsh edge of his tone bouncing hollowly off the rock and water that surrounded them. "What do you know of men's hearts, Serena, who has scarce ventured beyond the grove line of these woods? Tell me, what could you possibly know of my heart?"
She looked away from him now, and down, to where her gloved fingers laced together anxiously before her. "More than I want to," she answered, so quietly he could nary make out her reply.
Rand tore himself away from her strange remark with effort, flicking an impatient glance up at the sky overhead. A cover of gray clouds muted the afternoon sun. A building storm fringed the horizon in dark charcoal shadow,
bleak as gathering smoke. The light misting rain that sheened his skin would not long from now become a downpour.
"Rand," Serena said, his name sounding too familiar on her tongue, too comfortable, even in his present state of irritation. "I did not mean to offend you. If I have--"
"Your dinner waits," he said, abruptly cutting her off. His curtness made him all the more aware of her queer effect on him, his growing awkwardness around her. "Take your things and go on. Head back before the storm comes."
He dried the blade of her little knife on the thigh of his torn hose, then held it out to her along with the basket of cleaned fish. She took both in silence, sheathing the knife and hooking the handle of the basket over her arm. But she made no move to leave.
"What do you wait for, Serena?"
"You," she answered simply. "Will you not join us?"
He looked at her a moment, his will briefly tempted, but, ultimately, denied. "Go on," he said, dismissing her with a mild jerk of his chin. "Save your pity and your meal, lady. I have no need of either."
* * *
"Where is he? Do you see him out there, child?"
Peering out a corner of the cottage window, Serena lifted her shoulder in a shrug. "I do not see him, Mother. I suspect he is walking the beach, or learning the lay of the forest."
"Skulking around as if he rules this place," Calandra groused. She stood at the table cutting vegetables. Her fine-boned hands made quick work of her task, the small blade of her knife flashing in the mid-morning light of the room. She cleaved a turnip with overmuch zeal, the staccato thunking of the blade meeting wood punctuating her words. "I do not like this man, Serena. His presence here is a sign, a very bad one. He will bring only trouble to us."
"He said he will not remain here long. Just until he is hale enough to continue on."
Calandra brandished her knife as she spoke. "Aye, and until then, he will consume our food and take our shelter...don't think he will stop at that, should he decide there is more here that he might want."
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