by Lisa Jackson
“I said I’m fine. Leave it.”
She held her tongue for the moment but noticed that he favored his right arm, transferring Rhi’s reins to his left hand.
She knew all about men and their false pride. While she was growing up, her brothers had taught her about the silent prowess of men in dealing with pain or discomfort or embarrassment, how they preferred to hold their tongues and pretend not to suffer while the women would cackle and cluck about any little thing. And so it was with Cain. She knew she should tread carefully with him, but she found it impossible, because he irritated the hell out of her.
“Why did the wolf run off?” he asked her.
“Because she’s a wild wolf,” she said, exasperated. She threw the hand holding her dagger toward the sky. “’Tis not as if she’s a rational being.”
“Did you hear or see anything that would have caused her to run into the woods?”
“Besides my heart pounding harder than an armorer’s hammer? No,” she said quickly, but then added, “Well, I did . . . I did have the sense that there was something—or someone—watching me. But ’twas most likely just the beast. The wolf was right across the stream from me.”
Frowning, he glared into the dark, silent forest and slapped Rhi’s reins into her hand. “We’ll see,” he said, unconvinced. “Stay here with the horses.”
“What?” she cried, her fingers curling over the leather straps as he slipped his quiver and bow over his back, then headed into the forest. “You’re not going after her?”
“I’ll be back soon.”
“Cain, do not leave,” she insisted, but her words fell upon deaf ears as he jogged off, vanishing into the gloomy, night-dark thicket. She stared after him. “Fool of a man,” she muttered under her breath. She hadn’t wanted his company, had not invited him to stay with her, but now that he’d run off, she felt a sudden odd sense of loss.
She tended to the horses, stoked the fire, and scratched out a rune for his protection, drawing three overlapping circles in the earth. Then she said a quiet prayer for both the man and beast. In truth, Cain was right. The shaggy wild wolf had done nothing to harm them.
Watching the moon rise, she huddled against the bite of the wind and the whir of bat wings overhead as the fire’s flames crackled over moss and pitch. When he didn’t return immediately, she tried not to worry, her eyes wandering to his saddle and the leather bag. Glancing over her shoulder as if she thought he might be watching, she ventured over to the place where he’d been sleeping and opened his pouch. Maybe she could find something in his personal belongings that would reveal more about him.
She opened the pouch and withdrew its meager contents: a small whittling knife, tips for arrows, a whetstone for sharpening his weapons, and nothing more. Nothing personal. ’Twas as if she were looking in a soldier’s pack.
“Find what you were looking for?” His voice rang from the darkness on the other side of the fire. She dropped the pouch and felt heat climb up the back of her neck.
“Aye, you carry a whetstone with you. My knife is dull.”
“You could have asked.” He walked out of the woods, his gaze stern.
“You were not here and I wanted to stay awake to wait for you. The wolf?”
He shook his head. “Missing.”
“Mayhap gone back to her pack.”
“I think not.” He pushed the hair from his eyes and frowned. “What’s that?” He pointed to the earth where she’d scraped her rune into the dirt. His lips twitched in amusement. “Practicing your magick again?”
“’Tis for protection and it worked,” she said. “You returned.”
One side of his mouth lifted as the campfire popped and sparks rose into the air.
Oh, he was a pain in the backside and, aye, she didn’t need him about, but there was something a little endearing about him. As she tilted her head to look at him again, she was certain she’d met him somewhere before. The feeling, though fleeting, was bittersweet, a little pleasure mixed with a little pain. It didn’t last long enough so that she could examine it and truly remember him, but it was there, that feeling of recognition.
“You care?”
What was he asking? The night seemed suddenly close. “About your safety? Yes.”
“And why is that?”
Her gaze found his and for a second her breath was lost, her mind wandering into dangerous territory. “I don’t know.”
“You’re attracted to me.”
She almost laughed. “Ah, that is it,” she said, shaking her head. “Have you any idea what you look like?”
“It matters not.”
“Of course it does.”
His gleaming eyes accused her of the lie. “Aye. Of course it does.” He walked to his horse and once again wrapped Rhi’s reins around his palm. This time, though, he tethered the horse to his left hand, and as he settled back against his saddle again, he grimaced.
“Your shoulder,” she said. “It bothers you. You’re in pain.”
“You bother me,” he retorted, closing his eyes. “Good night, Bryanna.”
As if she could sleep! With the wild wolf roaming the woods and the eerie sense of a dark presence nearby, she felt certain sleep would elude her.
She settled on the ground by her own saddle and wrapped her mantle about her to ward off the cold of the night, but her restlessness made the night sounds seem exaggerated. The frogs were croaking again and an owl gave off a lonely hoot over the hiss of dying flames.
Her mind teased her with thoughts of the warmth of Calon until she chastised herself by recalling the reasons she’d left. She glanced over at Cain, who was already sleeping, and somehow the sight of this strange man eased her guilt about Morwenna’s husband.
Cain was wrong, of course. She was not attracted to a self-proclaimed liar who looked as if he’d been trampled by an army. She wouldn’t think twice about the man if he hadn’t offered up information about her quest.
That mysterious quest, elusive even to her.
Oh, Isa, what is this quest I’m on?
’Twas folly, she thought, sliding lower on the saddle as weariness took hold of her muscles. She closed her eyes and heard him moan, his first small cry of pain.
Well, too bloody bad.
She hadn’t invited him to be a part of her camp and she certainly didn’t want a wolf skulking in the shadows on the other side of the fire. She didn’t know much about this man who called himself Cain, but she was fairly certain he brought trouble with him.
As if she didn’t have enough of her own.
He moaned again, more loudly this time, and she tried to close her ears to it. She reasoned that the pain couldn’t be that bad if he could manage to sleep through it.
Again, he let out a miserable groan.
She couldn’t stand it a second longer. She rose to her feet and circled the fire, moving close to him. His face in repose was still strained, as if he were in agony. God’s teeth, he was battered and suffering.
There was a chance she could alleviate some of the pain.
With deft fingers, she sorted through her pouches and horns, finding some powder that Isa had used. She filled Isa’s iron cup in the stream, then placed it on a flat rock that jutted over the embers of the fire. As the water warmed she sorted through her dried herbs and seeds, deciding on willow bark, flax, and Saint-John’s-wort. Once the water was steaming, she tossed in her powder and waited until the herbs had steeped.
She worked in silence but for his continual laments of pain, and she couldn’t help but feel empathy for the man. Using the hem of her mantle to protect her hands, she carried the steaming potion to the spot where he lay.
“Cain,” she whispered. “Cain, wake up.”
He didn’t move.
“Cain . . . ,” she said more loudly as she knelt beside him. When he didn’t rouse, she touched him gently on the shoulder.
Still nothing.
She moved her hand to his neck and there her fingers brushed against th
e spot where she could feel his pulse, the lifeblood pounding through him.
The instant her fingertips touched his bare skin, she saw an image, a brief, vibrant portrait of a boy on the verge of becoming a man whose hair was dark with sweat, his head twisted to look over his bare shoulder as he braced himself. Two faceless men held him steady.
And then she saw a black whip snake forward and bite into his tanned flesh.
His body jerked.
A red welt appeared as the whip slid backward over the dry grass. The sky above was dark as death, the clouds parting and roiling over the scene, the barebacked boy taking his punishment from the Penbrooke stable master.
“Gavyn,” she whispered.
The whip snapped again. Hissing through the air, it slashed into his back.
“Gavyn,” she cried.
The image of the beaten boy disappeared and she was in the forest again, her fingers upon a stranger’s throat. No, not a stranger. Gavyn.
His eye opened groggily, the light within alert and knowing.
“Holy Mother,” she whispered, pulling back her hand as if she’d been burned.
How had she not recognized him, this man who had once been her friend?
His dark gray eyes focused hard on her and she felt tears gather at the back of her throat as she recalled the brutal punishment he had endured.
“I wondered if you’d remember,” he said.
“By the saints, why did you not tell me?”
Frowning, he pushed himself upright, leaned forward, and draped his arms over his bent knees. He watched her thoughtfully and shook his head. “’Twould be better if you did not realize who I am.”
“Why?”
“Because there is much you don’t know about me, Bryanna,” he admitted, rubbing his chin. “Some things you’re better off not knowing.”
“Nay.”
“Aye.” He nodded, staring into the fire. Somewhere far off, a night bird called, his song nearly drowned out by the rush and gurgle of the stream.
“You should have told me,” she insisted.
He cocked his head, as if considering all the implications and consequences of revealing the truth. “Mayhap, but what would have changed?”
I might not have lied. Mayhap I would have trusted you.
She didn’t utter the words aloud.
“Hmmm. See?” he said, his gaze unnerving as he glanced back at her again. “Nothing. So . . . ’tis your turn for the truth. What is the spoiled daughter of a baron doing alone in the wilderness casting spells, calling to a woman who isn’t there?”
She wasn’t about to answer, realizing that the truth would have made her sound crazy. Could she tell him that Isa had been killed, yet the dead woman still spoke to Bryanna? Could she admit that she was on this quest to save some child she’d never met? Could she acknowledge that she’d stolen amulets from a dead woman and escaped Calon for fear she was in love with her sister’s husband?
Of course not. “There’s truly nothing to tell,” she said, “and I was never spoiled.”
“Aye, your father’s favorite.”
Oh, for the love of the saints, now she knew he was a half-wit. “My father’s favorite was my brother Kelan.”
He snorted and shook his head. “While your older sister tried to outdo her brothers, you had but to smile at your father and he would allow you anything.”
“ ’Tis true,” she admitted. Their eyes connected and something in his quicksilver gaze sparked the memory of another time, when she was but a child riding across a dusky meadow, her little brown jennet struggling to keep up with the rangy dun-colored gelding and the boy astride the taller beast. The boy had turned in the saddle, flashed a gorgeous smile, slapped at his horse’s withers, and then bolted off on his dun. Leaping ahead, the horse had scattered grasshoppers and butterflies and even pheasants as he raced across the tall grass at sunset.
“Gavyn of Agendor,” she said, shaking her head as he dropped his hand. How had she not seen it? Not recognized him?
Three years older than she, he’d had long and lean muscles starting to show sinew as he worked with the horses. His hair had been dark but streaked with red in the late summer. She’d watched him as he leaned against the reins of a particularly headstrong black colt, the sweat running down his neck, the muscles bunching in his shoulders and arms, his hair nearly curling into black ringlets.
She’d felt the first stirring of womanhood looking at him, the odd swelling feeling deep inside that had made her flush and babble whenever he was near. She’d found that her mouth was often dry, her tongue wetting her lips as she watched him work.
And then they’d begun to talk and laugh. She’d often made excuses to wander to the stables or be around the horses. She’d readily agreed to sneak the horses out and ride in the twilight. Of course, when they returned and the stable master realized what had happened, Gavyn had been blamed.
Gavyn was the boy from whom the stable master’s whip had drawn blood. Gavyn was the boy who had been banished from Penbrooke forever.
Because of her.
She swallowed hard, nearly dropping the hot cup. God in heaven, could it truly be him?
His mouth twisted in a smile without a trace of humor. “So you remember.”
“Aye,” she whispered, though she had trouble believing it. This broken, battered, bullheaded man was the boy with whom she’d stolen honey from the beekeeper? The lad who had dared her to pick up an asp? The freckled-faced youth who had taught her to skip stones on the millpond and challenged her to scale the walls of the abandoned ruins of a crumbling cathedral? The very same boy who had ridden over the fields with her and been flogged for it, right before her terrified, guilt-ridden face. “Why . . . why did you not say who you were?” she asked, seeing him with new eyes. And old eyes. Her vision split between that of the boy she’d known and the man before her.
“I thought it would make a hard situation more difficult.”
“And lying would be easier?”
“Aye.” He yawned and stretched, then grimaced. “Now,” he said, “was there a reason you woke me?”
“Oh. Yes. Drink this.” She held out the cup.
He looked at her as if she’d gone mad.
“You were moaning in pain. In your sleep. This will help.” She handed him the cup and pushed it upward toward his lips. “Careful. It’s hot.”
Watching her over the rim, he took a sip, then scowled and tried to hand the cup back to her.
“Good?” she asked.
“It tastes like boar piss.”
“Which you’ve drunk?” she asked, pushing the cup back to his lips.
“I’ve smelled.”
“But this brew will help. I promise,” she said, coaxing him to drink.
“Did you ever drink it?”
“Many times,” she lied. “I think it tastes like Berthild’s, the alewife’s, mead. You remember her?”
“Aye, the big woman with red hair and . . .”
“Huge breasts. I know.”
“I was going to say freckles.”
“Of course you were,” she said, disbelieving.
“Well, if her beer tasted like this concoction you created, trust me, there would be no sots at Penbrooke Keep, and Berthild would be drawn and quartered.”
“Drink it and stop complaining.”
Scowling, he tossed back the foul-smelling concoction and emptied the rest of the cup. When finished, he handed the iron vessel back to her and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “The least you could do, sorceress, is chant or pray or cast a spell to sweeten that foul-tasting brew.”
“I promise, you’ll feel better in the morning.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” he said, and smiled at her.
Stupidly, she felt a warmth steal through her blood just as she had all those years ago when they were little more than children. As if he read her thoughts, he looked away.
’Twas all she could do for him for the time being. Tomorrow, she’d tend to his wo
unds, if he’d let her, and then . . . sweet Mother, they would ride together to Tarth, she supposed. Although she suspected Gavyn had a cache of secrets.
Did he not create a false name for himself? Aye, he was Gavyn, ’twas true. And once he was your friend. But did he not take your beating for you? If you feel guilt, and you do, what do you think he feels? Anger? Resentment? Rage? Remember, Isa told you to be wary and this man lied to you. Even when he recognized you, he kept up his falsehoods.
She was too tired to think about it now. She picked up her amulets, horns, and pouches of herbs, then returned to her place by the fire. Exhausted, she lay against her saddle, intending not to sleep but to rest her eyes while her ears strained to hear anything out of the ordinary. As Gavyn did, she wrapped her horse’s reins through the fingers of her right hand, as in her left, her strong hand, she held Isa’s dagger. Even though she now knew that the man lying a few feet from her was a friend from her youth, she still wasn’t certain she could trust him.
Soon his worrisome moans eased into a gentle snore, and Bryanna concentrated instead on the sounds of the night— the flap of bats’ wings, the rush of water in the creek, the gentlebreathing of their horses. Overhead the clouds oozed their way across the sky, obliterating the stars and moon.
Trust him not, she told herself. He is not the boy you knew. He is a grown man and, most likely, a dangerous one.
CHAPTER NINE
In the great hall of Chwarel, Hallyd’s keep, the spy counted his coins, clinking them together as if he hoped the rubbing of silver would somehow create more.
“Tell me,” Hallyd said impatiently. It was late. They were seated before the dying coals of the fire, the castle dogs curled up and sleeping, the bitch letting out soft little yelps as she dreamed. One guard stood at attention near the main door. The others, Hallyd suspected, were dozing at their posts.
The scrawny little man with his large hooked nose and bulbous eyes glanced up, though his fingers still rubbed the coins greedily, as if touching them fed some insatiable need deep within him. ’Twas as if he were mentally calculating how far he could push Hallyd, how much more money he would be able to extort if he said the right words.
