Daughter of the Wolf (Pathway of the Chosen Book 2)

by Cat Bruno

  Shaking her head, she answered, “He said nothing to me, but knew that I could see him. The boy seemed surprised that I could, I think.”

  Even in the dim light, Caryss could see disbelief on the prince’s face.

  “I will ask again if you are mage-trained, healer.”

  “I am no mage, Prince Crispin,” she sighed. “Nor can I recall any mage-sight. But I know what I saw, and I know the boy noticed me as well. The skill here is not any of my own. It is your son who is so gifted.”

  “You have not told me why you think him my son!” Crispin roared.

  Looking around and expecting to hear another knock on her door, she slowly answered, “He resembles you, even though his eyes are nothing like yours. Nor his hair, truly. There is an air about him that feels thick with the blood of kings.”

  “What madness this is!” he shouted at her, striding toward where she stood and grabbing at her arms where they held the blanket.

  His hands were strong, holding her nearly immobile as he hissed through clenched teeth, “You say you are no mage, yet you woke my father as if he was not near death. You say you are no mage, yet you tell me that you have seen my son. A boy who few know exists. You say you are no mage, yet you stand before me without fear or weapon.”

  With eyes flaming gold and orange, he demanded she answer. “Who are you to know so much?”

  For a moment, she thought of pushing him from her, knowing with little doubt that she would be able to do so, as she had once done to Pietro. Instead, she looked up at him, her gray-green eyes dull next to his blazing ones. Even with his blood hot and his eyes afire, Caryss did not fear the prince. Her weapon, unseen and unborn, was more than even she could explain.

  Her gaze and voice steady, she explained again. “I am a healer, no more than that, prince. But you came here to ask what I saw, and so I will tell you. I saw the boy, your son, and although he told me naught, I recognized him for what he is.”

  “And what is that?” Crispin fumed.

  Only then did she hesitate. The boy’s path was his own, one that he had long walked alone.

  Into the silence, she cried, “A future king.”

  His hands fell from her so quickly that Caryss stumbled backward, landing on the thickly feathered bed with a soft thump.

  “I heard you offer him a warning. What risk is he taking?”

  The prince’s words were hoarse and low, as if he had not meant to say them.

  Caryss, seated on the edge of the bed, told him, “I have heard it named time-walking. It is not unrelated to mage-sight, yet it is a skill that few can master. I told the boy to take heed to not be trapped.”

  “Time-walking causes one to travel to the past, is that not so?” he asked.

  “I suppose that is the case. I know so little of it all.”

  Before he could speak again, Caryss, with a rising voice, asked, “But the boy does exist, Lord Crispin?”

  The room stilled, and neither moved. Caryss, with her hair falling long and wavy against the blanket and her eyes more green than gray under the glimmer of the pulsing orbs outside, stared at the prince. He did not trust her, she knew, although she blamed him little for it, especially after all that Willem had told her of life in the King’s City. And then she remembered what else Willem had told her. About Crispin’s two sons, and their Rexterran-born mother. The boys were much younger than the one that she had seen. And, even in the darkness of the hallway, Caryss had noticed the boy’s light hair and blue eyes, which were nothing like Crispin’s. Except the gold that rimmed them.

  Into the silence, she rasped, “He is light-haired, as if he spends much of his day playing in the fields under a bright sun, and his eyes are not Rexterran. On the edges of those eyes were rings of gold. The same ring of gold that greets me when I look upon you.”

  “Jarek,” the prince whispered, walking away from her.

  On the other side of the room now, he called to her, “His mother named him Jarek. I have not seen him since he was a babe.”

  Drawing a long breath, Crispin continued, “Few know that the boy lives. And it must remain that way.”

  Caryss nodded, but it was not enough.

  Crispin again rushed to her, and, when near enough, he hissed, “I will say no more of him until you have sworn it to be so.”

  Before she knew what she did, she grabbed the prince’s hand and placed it between her own. When he turned, their eyes met, gold and green and gray. Neither moved.

  “A mi onoiur, a mi mohour’s onoiur, san la sliahs fairann, ghaellam,” Caryss whispered, watching him. “On my honor, on my mother’s honor, with the mountains watching, I promise. In Eirrannia, we call it the Woman’s Vow.”

  With a laugh that was not a pleasant one, Crispin answered, “You seek to reassure me with words of the North?”

  Dropping his hand, she shrugged, “I seek to reassure you with my word. The boy knows it to be so already.”

  “He is a boy, no more, and one untrained. His life is a simple one, and he knows little of who would harm him.”

  As she spoke of the boy, of Jarek, Caryss knew that there was much to him that his father did not know, that there was power in him, just as with her own child. Yet, she told him little more.

  “Where is the boy?” she asked instead.

  “When last I knew he was in Planusia.”

  His reply had come quickly and had surprised her, thinking he would lie.

  “He is Nicoline’s son.”

  Jumping up from the bed, Crispin backed away from her, his eyes dark with anger.

  “What do you know of her?” he cried accusingly.

  Still seated, she raised her hands to him, the dagger beneath her leg, tucked behind the blanket. With a calmness she did not feel, Caryss told him, “Willem feared we would not be able to seek a meeting with you. He told me to use her name to beg for an audience, but only with members of your own guard.”

  “My cousin has become a fool in his exile!”

  Shaking her head, Caryss answered, “I have known Willem half of my life, yet I knew nothing of him, of who he is, until a few moons ago. Even then, he only told me what he believed was necessary. Your cousin has done nothing to earn your wrath, Crispin.”

  While the prince thought on her words, Caryss added, “He never mentioned the boy.”

  Between them hung a silence, one that spoke of mistrust and doubt, yet in it too was a desire to believe, Caryss knew.

  Finally, Crispin seemed to temper his fire. “I can have a letter to my cousin in less than a quarter-moon. What would he say of you if I inquired, Caryss?”

  His threat was a light one, and she hastily replied, “He will not know me as Caryss. While I was at the Academy, I was known as Bronwen, a name that my foster mother gave to me.”

  The prince was ready to interrupt, questions written across his sun-darkened face, but she again raised her hands to him.

  “As a child, I was brought to the Academy with grave injuries. My parents, it was believed, had died while I had survived some accident or attack. None knew who brought me into Tretoria, but I was found by some Tretorian Guards and brought to the Academy. When my injuries healed, which did not take long for they were more serious in look than in truth, I was asked of my past. I remembered nothing and had nowhere to go. So the Academy became my home, and I became one of its best students.”

  “And now?” he asked.

  With a laugh, she said, “I am here, and others are not. I may be of the North, even though I remember little of it, but I am as well-trained as any.”

  “Yet you are no longer named Bronwen. Why?”

  A fading smile across her face, Caryss explained, “I was never Bronwen, Prince Crispin. I am a healer, true, but I bore a name of my own before that one was given to me. It was only in the last few moons that I learned of that name. It is the one I use now.”

  With her words came memory. And, soon, her eyes were wet and her throat thick. Caryss could feel the prince studying her. Her ha
nds fell back to her lap, long and pale, like tapered candles. She did not look up at him, swallowing hard as she struggled for control.

  “Have you ever found yourself lost, Crispin?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

  After a moment, he told her, “My life has been set since my birth, and I have little choice but to follow. It is near impossible to get lost on such a path.”

  “And Nicoline? Was she not of your choosing?”

  Sighing heavily, he stated, “You see what came of that, Caryss. A son I will never know. I suppose it was then that I learned, as my father had wanted it, that my life is not my own choosing, but what is best for Rexterra.”

  His eyes, lighter now, still watched her. “How did the dark mage find you?”

  He would tell her no more of himself, she knew then.

  “Aldric seemed necessary,” she lied.

  “How so?”

  “No other Healer Journey has started here, prince. Even knowing as little as I do of Rexterra, I was not fool enough to believe that two simple-minded guards would be enough to keep me safe.”

  Doing little to hide his mocking, Crispin told her, “Only one from the Academy would believe a dark mage the key to safety.”

  “He has sworn an oath to me.”

  With a bitter laugh, Crispin said, “Oaths mean nothing to one such as him, girl. They must teach you nothing of the world at the Academy.”

  “I have reason to believe that he will never break that vow.”

  “You must tread carefully and trust few, Caryss.”

  Smiling broadly and matching his mockery, she answered, “Now you sound like your cousin.”

  “He is a wise man,” the prince shrugged, “And I owe him much. So much that I will never be able to repay him. But, if he has sent you here, and cares about you the way I suspect he does, then I must do all that I can to keep you safe.”

  In a move that seemed to surprise them both, Crispin dropped onto the bed next to her, rubbing at his cheek with ink-stained fingers. Caryss stiffened, feeling the prince’s thick leg next to her own. His pants clung to him tightly, wrapping muscle in taut cotton while she was still draped in the blanket. A few times she had caught Crispin watching her, while she spoke, and she half-expected him to ask her about the babe.

  “When did you last hear from Willem?” she asked in haste, suddenly worried that the prince already knew of the girl.

  His fingers, tipped in black, fell to his lap. “It has been several moons I believe.”

  Several moons. He does not know of the babe then.

  Beneath her leg, Caryss could feel the dagger, unsheathed, the blade cool against her bare skin.

  “Tell me of Nicoline,” she asked him, pulling at the blanket.

  When he hesitated, Caryss worried that she had asked too much, having known the prince for less than a day. Yet, with the orb-light’s glow in the otherwise dark room, she felt as if she had known him longer and wondered if it was because of Willem. Not for the first time, she thought of his promise to take her to Eirrannia.

  She was still thinking of Willem when Crispin muttered, “I met Nicoline by chance, you know. We had been out riding, Willem and I. We were younger then, and although we both had some responsibilities, we had a certain amount of freedom. Much more than I have now or will ever have again. Ofttimes, we would leave in the morning and ride for hours. On the day we met Nicoline, we had gone farther north than ever before. To Shantora, a coastal town across the Planusian border. It was long past midday when we arrived. I was not even twenty moon years at the time, but I thought I knew much. But I soon realized that we would not be able to make it back to the King’s City before nightfall.”

  His cheeks puckered with a smile. “Once I knew that we would be gone for the night, we found the nearest inn. None knew us there. And we had coin to spend. And ale to drink.”

  Realizing that he had talked of Nicoline in many moon years, Caryss listened, trying to learn more of his son.

  “Before long, Willem and I were quite drunk. And somehow ended up in the Eastern Sea. Fully clothed. When it came time to make our way back to the inn, we had no coin left and dripped with salt and sea.”

  Crispin’s hair was cropped short, his eyebrows dark. His lashes, when Caryss glanced at him, were long and shining black, rimming eyes that glowed gold. His face was long and square, his chin strong, his cheeks high. Her own cheeks burned as she examined him, but the prince did not notice. He was younger than Willem, by several moon years, she knew, but there was still a resemblance between the cousins, even though Willem had Northern blood in him, while Crispin’s lineage was all Rexterran.

  As she watched him, he continued, “There was a clothier, a small shop I believe, and we hurried to it, although it was nearly dark. We had hoped to sell or trade our clothing for coin, for even as salt-stained as it was, it was Rexterran still. But the shop was closed.”

  With his eyes on the wall across from them, Crispin laughed, caught in the gleeful memories of his youth, before the feud with his brother embittered him.

  “Willem had the ease of the North in him, despite having been raised in the King’s City. Before I could object, he was stripping off his boots. With rolled-up pants, and a bare chest, he banged on the doors of the clothier, yelling for the shopkeeper. As it turned out, his plan worked, and, soon, we were ushered inside. Willem explained our need and offered up his boots for sale. We only needed enough coin for a night at the inn and lodging for our horses. His boots, hells, even our tunics, were worth more than anything he had in his store. But we were drunk, covered in sea and sand, making a mess of his store as I recall. It was there that Nicoline found us.”

  Finally, Caryss interjected, “Why not explain who you were? Surely you would have been given a room or clothing?”

  When he looked at her, it was as if her words made little sense to him, and his smile dropped, his jaw clenched.

  “You are a healer and must have no thought of how it is to be always watched. We had ridden far enough that few knew us. Yes, I could have proclaimed myself as King’s Heir, but, rarely, did I get to be anything but. There comes a certain peace when none know you, and neither Willem nor I desired betraying that.”

  Her words came fast, before she could think of their impact. “I lived in that same peace, or thought I did, for most of my life.”

  “And now?” he asked, his eyes upon her, his face grave and drawn.

  I should have said nothing.

  Silence covered the room again, until Caryss finally explained, “A few moons ago I would spend my evenings in my rooms alone or at the Healer’s Clinic. Now, I am alone in a room with the next king of Rexterra. One’s path is often not what we once thought it might be.”

  Her words were hot, although she had spoken them more in reflection than in accusation. His eyes still watched her, and Caryss’s face reddened, her hands wet and warm in her lap. Unable to return his gaze, she looked away, although her life pulse raced, as if she were no better than swooning girls.

  “Nicoline is Planusian,” he told her, “And at the time, was an acolyte serving in the Temple of the Moon, I later learned. She had followed us into the shop, although she was there for reasons of her own. It was naught but chance that the owner had unlocked his door. When I first noticed her, she was just inside the doorway, dressed simply, in a poorly fitting robe of cotton dyed a pale blue. It hung just past her knees, as if she had outgrown it the moon year before, and on her feet were sandals like one would wear to bed. Her hair, hanging loosely, fell near to her waist, the color of sun-whitened silk. But it was her eyes that I will never forget. So blue that I thought she had been born of the sea, like the myths of old, a tailed and scaled fish-girl come to lure me from land. Willem knew that I was enchanted before I had time to even call out to her.”

  “It was she who spoke first, and, in a voice that sang of field and farm, asked if we needed aid, having heard the earlier exchange between Willem and the tailor. She did not know who I was, Car
yss, yet offered us clothing for nothing in return. She gave us coin too, all that she had, which was just enough to buy boarding for the horses.”

  “What clothing did she offer?” Caryss asked.

  “Rough-spun robes and pants made at the temple. Once a moon, the acolytes would travel to nearby cities offering food and clothing to those who were in need. We took what was offered. And invited her to join us.”

  Caryss noticed a slight upturn to the prince’s smooth lips. His hands, too, were smooth, as if he had not touched weapon in moon years.

  “A few moons later, I asked her why she had joined us, yet she would say little more than she was fulfilling her duties as an acolyte and making certain that we were well.”

  “So you think that she knew who you were?” Caryss interjected.

  His smile disappeared as Crispin shook his head. “That first night? No. Later, in the King’s City, she discovered who we were. But that first night, she knew me as a horse trader. She drank no ale, although Willem and I continued to do so. And, before long, I was professing my love for her.”

  Caryss laughed then, although she knew that she should not. “How much of that was the ale talking, Crispin?”

  As if he was unused to being teased, Crispin huffed, “As we rode home, I thought of nothing else but her, and for moons after.”

  Biting at her lip to quell the words on her tongue, Caryss said nothing.

  “I was young, but no fool, and I did not need Willem to remind me, as he did often, that my father would never approve of Nicoline. To my father, she was nothing but a plaything for me, which he tolerated. It was not until moon years later that he forbid me from seeing her further.”

  The prince’s story, as often happens with memory, was not linear, she realized. His thoughts had become scattered, although she knew enough to make sense of them.

  “My father told me that I could keep her as a toy, to get my passions out, as men of my line have done for many generations. I was reminded that there are women we marry and women we take to bed, and, ofttimes, the two are not the same. I know not what you have learned of my kin, but we are an old line, older than most in Cordisia, and in our blood runs the blood of gods. So it has been, and so it must be. Cordisia was gifted to us to rule when our line was cast out from the skies, forced to live among the mortals. As King’s Heir, I must be both Rexterran and god-born, as must my recognized heirs.”