by Deborah Hale
She half expected him to make some comment, but he did not.
Instead he rigged a frame of sticks to suspend the kettle above the fire. Then he picked up the bowl of liniment, sniffed it and made such a face that Maura burst into nervous laughter.
“It may not have a sweet perfume,” she said, “but you will not grudge the smell when you feel how it eases your back.”
Rath gave the liniment a dubious look as he scooped a generous dollop onto his fingers. “One thing I will say for it. Lank wolves and barren cats would never want to eat creatures smeared with this stuff!”
While Maura laughed at the notion, he daubed the balm on her back. She flinched when the cool compound landed on her skin. Or perhaps it was the provocative touch of Rath’s fingertips on her bare flesh?
Immediately the liniment began to work, sending delicious loosening, comforting warmth deep into her flesh.
“Down a bit farther if you please,” she bid Rath, “then up between my shoulders and on my neck.”
He did as she asked with a touch that felt strong and deft, yet deliberately gentle.
“How is that?” Rath asked.
Maura searched for a word to describe it. “B-better.”
She had started to say blissful, then stopped herself.
“My turn, then.”
She glanced over her shoulder to see Rath pulling off his vest and shirt. Her breath caught as she glimpsed the firm, lean perfection of his bare torso.
“A moment,” she gasped, pulling her tunic over her head.
Then she turned and scooped up a dab of the pungent compound to smear over his back.
“Ah! You were right, lass.” Rath chuckled. “This stuff feels so good, I do not care if it stinks clear to the Hitherland.”
As good as it felt for her to touch him? Maura rubbed the liniment in deep, making the movement of her hands the kind of caress she would never be able to give him any other way.
“Where did you get this scar?” She ran her finger over a puckered seam below his ribs.
“Oh, that one. Escaping from a Hanish roundup of lads for the mines. Almost did me in, but I wouldn’t let that slag spawn have the satisfaction.”
“I’m sorry,” Maura whispered.
“Sorry? Whatever for? It is long in the past and hardly your fault.”
“Sorry for making you remember.” The liniment was well worked in, now, but Maura could not bring herself to pull her hands away. “Sorry you’ve had such a hard life while I had such a sheltered one. Sorry I judged you ill for doing what you needed to do to survive that kind of life.”
“No harm done.” Without any warning, Rath rose and tossed another stick on the fire, though it was burning well.
He flexed his shoulders. “That is good stuff. I feel like I could walk another five miles.” He grinned at Maura. “Well, perhaps not five. There, the water is boiling if you want to brew that tea of yours.”
They took turns through the night, keeping watch and tending the fire. Rath gave Maura his dagger in case of attack.
Sometime in the thick darkness before dawn, Maura thought she heard the faint pad of paws and saw the menacing glow of the firelight reflected off watchful, hungry eyes. She fancied she heard something else, too, a soft distant chant of unintelligible words. Then the eyes disappeared and all was quiet.
She sat there admiring the flicker of firelight over Rath’s features, as stark and rugged yet strangely beautiful as the wild land around them. Of its own accord, her hand stretched toward his stubbled cheek for a stolen caress.
Then the sound of deep, fierce growls flared from nearby. The sleek pelts of several large lean beasts gleamed in the firelight.
“Rath!” Maura’s hand diverted from his face to his shoulder to shake him awake. “Lank wolves! They are at our packs!”
“Slag!” Rath grabbed his sword and leaped to his feet.
Roaring a rolling thunder of curses, he charged the clutch of beasts. They scattered, but did not flee. Instead they drew back, circling with their teeth bared, threatening growls rumbling from deep in their throats.
Then, a large one, perhaps the pack leader, launched itself at Rath. His blade whipped through the air to meet it.
The big beast fled yelping in pain. But not before it knocked Rath’s weapon from his hand. Another of the wolves lunged between Rath and the blade.
While Maura had been watching all this, her heart hammering in her chest, she had begun to fumble in her sash for her spider silk. Would the spell work on other creatures as well as it did on humans?
“Maura!” Rath cried. “Toss me my dagger!”
His dagger, of course! She was so unused to carrying a weapon, she had forgotten it. Now she hurled the weapon through the air, while silently begging the Giver to let it reach Rath, without taking his hand off when he tried to catch it.
The dagger hissed through the air. A shriek of vexation rose in Maura’s throat when she saw it would fall wide.
It landed among a small clutch of wolves. One let out a yelp of pain and bolted off into the night. That left three—the one standing over Rath’s sword, snarling, and two that had backed off a little from the packs when the dagger had landed in their midst.
Again Maura wondered if her spells would work on animals. If not, she had better have something else to fall back on.
But what? The wolves had both of Rath’s weapons.
The beast standing guard over the sword bared its teeth and growled at her. Its haunches tensed, ready to spring. Maura took a step back, then jumped when her foot hit the fire.
The fire! With her free hand, she reached down and grabbed a burning stick by its end. Then she advanced on the lank wolf, chanting her binding spell.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rath pull something from one of the packs and swing it at the other two wolves, while bellowing a loud cry. The beasts let out a chorus of howls that sent chills down Maura’s neck. Then they turned and ran.
The retreat of its pack mates distracted the last lank wolf for the vital instant Maura needed. She lunged forward, planting a wisp of cobweb on the beast’s pelt as she spoke the last word on the incantation.
Perhaps she had blundered the words in her haste and panic. Perhaps she had not used enough spider silk for so large a creature. Or perhaps her spells only worked on humans.
Maura had no time to care about the reasons when the beast sprang toward her.
She thrust the stick from the fire in front of her, but it looked pitifully small to ward off a creature of that size. Besides, the flame had all but died out.
Maura braced to be knocked backward by the animal’s charge. Instead she found herself flying sideways as Rath dove to knock her out of the beast’s path.
The lank wolf hurdled past them, landing on the fire. Burning sticks flew everywhere as the creature followed the rest of its pack mates, yowling in pain.
Rath and Maura lay where they had sprawled, gasping for breath.
At last Rath hauled himself to his feet. “I doubt that lot will be back tonight. But in case something else decides to try its luck, I had better repair our poor fire.”
Maura rose, too, though her knees felt like they were made of jelly. Staggering to where Rath’s sword lay, she picked it up. “You had better keep this nearby, too, though that stick you took from your pack did well in a pinch.”
Her gaze fixed on Rath as he rebuilt the fire. One tip of the “stick” flickered with an eerie flame of its own. “By the Giver, Rath, where did you get that thing?”
“This?” He glanced down. “Came in handy, didn’t it? I—”
Before he got the words out, Maura knew. “You took it from that death-mage when you went looking for Gristel Maldwin?”
Rath nodded. “I picked up a few little keepsakes. Did I not mention it? I thought I had.”
“I would have remembered if you’d told me you had that... that... abomination! Get rid of it at once!”
“No.”
�
��Rath Talward, do you know what that thing is?”
“Stop shouting,” said Rath. “I am not deaf. And I am not daft, either. Of course, I know what it is. A sight better that you do, I’ll wager. I have been on the wrong side of one of these things. That scar you saw on my back was like a splinter in my finger compared to the pain I took from this.”
“Then why in the Giver’s name would you want to keep such a thing around you?”
Rath shrugged. “The same reason I steal anything, my lady.” He seemed to relish reminding her he was an outlaw. “Because it might come in handy.”
“This has.” He gave the copper wand a little toss in the air and caught it again. “You said so yourself.”
“I said that when I thought it was just a wooden staff.”
“A wooden staff would not have sent a pair of lankwolves turning tail like that.” He stared up at her and something harsh looked out of his eyes. “I mean to keep it, so save your breath arguing. I have a feeling we may need it again before we reach Everwood.”
Maura quivered with indignation. Was it not bad enough the man did not believe in the Giver, the Elderways or the Waiting King? Did he have to embrace the evils of mortcraft, too?
Part of her wanted to march off to Westborne on her own. But she knew what madness that would be. Rath Talward had made her dependent upon him—curse his hide!
Her tardy sense of fairness protested. She had not put up any great protest when he’d insisted on guiding her to Everwood.
“In that case...” She said the only thing she could say. “Make certain you keep that vile thing away from me!”
“Fair enough.” Rath strode to where their packs rested and planted the copper wand between them with its fire gem pointing to the sky. “It can stand guard over our packs, since wild things seem not to like it any better than you do.”
Maura grumbled her reply, but Rath hardly seemed to notice.
“Get some sleep if you can. I will finish this watch.”
“What? Do you not trust me to keep watch while you sleep?”
“You need not be so prickly.” Rath planted himself on a rock near the fire that gave him a good view. “You did well just now, waking me so quickly, then taking your part against those lank wolves. But I am used to going with less sleep than most folk. I know I will not be able to get any more rest, so it is foolish for both of us to stay awake.”
Maura wanted to nurse her grudge for a while, but he made it so hard. “I doubt I could sleep, either, after all the excitement.”
“There is still some water in the kettle.” Rath pointed to it. “Put it back on to heat, then brew yourself a cup of that dreamweed tea. I reckon you will sleep sound until morning.”
Why did he have to talk such good sense, the rogue?
As Maura put the kettle on and added more fuel to the fire, the lank wolves prowled the borders of her thoughts, stirring vivid, haunting images of what had happened such a short time ago. Her quarrel with Rath about the copper wand had distracted her. Now it all came back—the latest of too many brushes with danger she had suffered since her fateful birthday.
She began to tremble.
“Maura?” Rath stirred from his perch to kneel beside her. “What is it? Are you all right?”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “I will be.”
“That is not what I asked.” Before she could stop him, Rath gathered her close. “This has all gotten to be too much for a sheltered lass from Windleford, hasn’t it?”
That was too close to her own thoughts for Maura to deny. She nodded.
Rath cupped the back of her head with his palm and urged her toward his broad shoulder. “I wish I could promise you it will get better.”
Maura gritted her teeth. She would not weep.
“There is one thing I can promise you, though.”
She trusted her voice just enough to ask, “What is that?”
A gust of his breath, half-sigh, half-chuckle, whispered through her hair. “I can promise that if the two of us stick together, we will best whatever other dangers we meet between here and Everwood. I almost pity the poor fools who try to stand in our way.”
Maura chuckled at the thought of all the Han in Westborne trembling before their advance.
“Rath, will you promise me one other thing?”
“I reckon. Depends what it is.”
She doubted he would agree, but she had to ask for it weighed on her mind. “If anything should... happen to me between here and Everwood. If I should be... killed...”
His arms tightened around her. “That is not going to happen. I will not let it.”
“But if it should,” Maura persisted. “I want you to do the passing ritual for me.”
“Maura, you know I do not believe in all that foolishness of the afterworld and dead folks talking to the living.”
“It is not foolishness!” Maura pushed out of his embrace. “How would we have ever found the map to the Secret Glade if Gristel Maldwin had not heard Exilda speak to her? And do not try to persuade me she thought up that business about the pickles on her own. Who would think of such things at a time like that? It was because it sounded so queer that I knew it must be a true message from Exilda.”
“Fortunate chance. Happens all the time.” A shadow of doubt lurked in Rath’s dark eyes.
About the passing ritual? Maura wondered. Or about his stubborn refusal to believe in anything he could not see, hear, smell, touch, taste or understand?
“You will not think so when you have a chance to experience it for yourself. I heard Langbard speak to me, that night he died. He told me things and showed me his memories, which then became a part of me, as if I had experienced them for myself.”
“You were in a bad way, that night. Not that I blame you. But a mind that is wrought up plays tricks on a person.”
“How is this for a trick?” She described the view of Tarsh from Bror’s Bridge on a foggy day. The headland rearing up, dark in the mist. The peculiar keening screech of the dawngulls. The rolling drum of the waves as they scooped tiny pebbles off the shore and flung them farther up the strand.
For a moment Rath looked surprised—even haunted. Then his lip curled and he laughed. “I believe Langbard told you about it. But how am I to know it was in the few hours after he died and not some time in all the years before?”
Maura sprang to her feet. “You are to know it because I tell you it is true. If that is not good enough for you after all we have been through together, then I do not know why you have followed me the length of Embria!”
Rath looked like he might be asking himself the same thing.
“Please?” She had one last appeal to try. “The night Langbard was killed, you gave me time to observe the passing ritual with him, even though it might have put us in danger.”
“We all do daft things now and again.”
“You told me it did not matter whether you believed, so long as I did.” From that moment she had begun to fall... that is... to see him in a more favorable light.
Rath’s features creased into the scowl of a man beaten with his own weapon. He heaved a put-upon sigh and asked in a sullen tone. “So what is there to this passing ritual, anyway? No dancing or any foolishness like that, I hope?”
“It is not difficult.” Maura settled herself down beside him again. “You just sit with me. And you say a few words of twara—Old Embrian—as you anoint parts of my body with a little water. It will wash away the cares of the world and purify my thoughts, words and actions for the afterworld.”
“Aye.” He sounded leery. “Then what happens?”
“Then, you will hear me talking to you and you will see things in your mind that I have experienced.” A strange peacefulness wrapped around Maura to think of sharing her memories with Rath. Achieving a kind of closeness that was forbidden them in this world. Bequeathing him memories of her happy, sheltered childhood with Langbard.
“And we will say goodbye...” Her voice trailed off in
a whisper.
“We will not have to,” said Rath, “because no harm is going to befall you.”
“But—”
“But—just to humor you, mind—you can teach me this ritual of yours. It will pass the time while we walk.”
“Thank you, Rath!” Maura started to throw her arms around him, then pulled back awkwardly at the last moment.
There had been too much touching between them tonight already. It only whet her appetite for more.
Chapter Three
RATH HAD HOPED Maura’s insistence on teaching him the passing ritual would ease once day returned and danger no longer stalked the boundary of their fire light.
But he was wrong.
“You put a drop of water on my brow,” said Maura in a voice breathless from the weight of her pack. They had been walking for several hours, mostly uphill. “Then you say...”
“Do not say ‘my,’” growled Rath. The weight on his back was not nearly as bothersome as the weight on his mind.
“Your pardon?”
“Do not say ‘my’ as if you expect to die soon.” A cold, slimy force squeezed his entrails whenever she did, the way a lake viper wrapped around its prey. “It is bad luck.”
“Rubbish.” Maura rested for a moment, leaning on her staff. “It is just a way of talking, nothing more.”
She did not look appealing in a womanly way, this morning. At least she should not to a man in his right senses. Her face was flushed, from exertion and the growing heat. She had dark hollows beneath her eyes from scant sleep the night before. Her lips were parched from the dryness, and the pack she carried gave her a misshapen look. Still, the thought of any harm coming to her made the marrow of his bones ache. He had never felt this way about a woman before and he hated how vulnerable it made him.
Perhaps that weakness showed somehow, for Maura relented, as if taking pity on him.
“Oh, very well, then. The companion puts a drop of water on the brow of the sojourner and says ‘Wash the cares of this world from your thoughts and let them be made pure for a better life in the next.’ Only it is said in twara, of course. ‘Guldir quiri shin hon bith shin vethilu bithin anthi gridig aquis a bwitha muir ifnisive.’”
