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

by Cat Bruno

  “No. You have not,” she answered, grabbing another white linen from the pouch and holding it to his cheek.

  Little else did she say, but for the next hour, Caryss cleaned and stitched his wound, carefully and with a steadier hand than she had thought possible. She kept her stitches tight and used a fine thread, hoping that the King’s Heir would have little scar to remember what she had done.

  “I will heal your father, Crispin, for that was the task I was given. Other than that, I will do and say nothing, as I want no part of your fight.”

  He nodded, the tiny, black crosses beneath his eye marring an otherwise handsome face.

  With her hands in her lap, she sighed, “I suppose I should apologize for striking you.”

  With a weakened shrug, he told her, “If you had not struck me, I would have struck you. You have learned fast the ways of the palace.”

  Caryss pulled a small, amber-colored flask from the pouch. She placed it into Crispin’s hand, closing his fingers around it. “If the pain is too much, place a few drops on your tongue.”

  His smile widened until he was laughing and asked, “Am I to trust what you give me? What poison hides in the bottle?”

  Shaking her head, she answered, “There is no poison. Hand it to me and I will show you.”

  After the prince had given her the bottle, she pulled the topper off and placed the end of her small finger into the deep brown liquid. While he watched, she placed her finger onto her tongue, as she had instructed him to do. After he nodded, she placed the cork back onto the bottle, and set it on the cot between them. When Crispin did not reach for it, she said nothing. A small bowl of a creamy salve sat near the flask, and, silently, she dipped her fingers into it.

  With fading orb-light surrounding them, Caryss looked to the prince, his eyes softly calm.

  I will not survive here, she thought, watching him and remembering his words.

  The left side of his tunic, near his shoulder, was speckled with blood, as red as the streaks of blood that lay across the bottom of her dress. With the same fingers, wrapped and throbbing, that she had used to stitch him, Caryss again reached for his cheek, letting her fingertips gently rub the lavender-smelling paste over the row of crosses.

  A sweet smell of flower and mint filled the room, and her hand lingered on his face.

  Her chest rising as she breathed deeply, Caryss traced a path from eye to lip. Neither spoke. The glow in his eyes told her much, and Caryss leaned into him, dropping her hand as her lips found his.

  A slow burn filled her, and no words were spoken. Another game, she thought, but did not say.

  Later, as the prince slept angled next to her, Caryss slowly reached for her healer’s belt. After a few moments spent searching, she pulled another flask from a pouch, a rose-colored one, smaller than the others. When the topper was removed, cherry laurel and apple scented the room.

  Slowly, so not to wake the prince, Caryss filled a glass dropper with a greenish liquid. Pressing her body into his back, she leaned near to his face, watching as he slept. With his eyes closed, his fires extinguished, he seemed at peace, as mortal as those he sought to rule.

  Earlier, the prince had boasted of his god-blood, yet, beside her, in slumber, he was as any other man would be.

  Her hands, healer’s hands, pale, Northern hands, did not shake or tremble as she brought the dropper to his half-open mouth. When the glass was clear, free of the laurel and geranium tonic, Caryss placed her fingers on Crispin’s neck. With each beat of his life pulse, her fingers twitched.

  Rolling away from his, Caryss stood, unclothed. The prince did not move, as she knew he would not. With little light to guide her, Caryss dressed, gathering her clothing from where it lay across an ornate chair. Making little noise, she filled her pouches with the dagger and flasks. Lastly, she sat back on the edge of the bed to lace up her sandals, one of the few things that remained of her time in Tretoria. Before she rose, she once again felt for Crispin’s life pulse as the soft sounds of his sleep filled the room.

  Dressed and ready, she hurried from the room.

  *****

  6

  “Wake up!” she begged, shaking his shoulders.

  The sun had long set, and a purple haze fell over the room. The night was cool and skin prickles spread atop her skin.

  When he hadn’t responded, she slapped him across the face, and the clang of the strike echoed off the walls of his small bedroom. Clutching a worn, faded shawl that had nearly fallen from her shoulders in one hand, the woman raised her other hand. Even though it trembled, she brought it to the boy’s cheek again, slapping him with enough force to redden his skin. This time, he shuddered, reaching his skinny fingers to rub where her hand had just been.

  “Did I not tell you to leave him be?” she sighed, watching as he opened his sea-lit eyes.

  The boy nodded as he hurriedly sat up, leaned against the wall, and cried, “The most wonderful thing happened, mother!”

  As her face paled, Jarek noticed the darkness outside the window across from his bed, and, when he spoke again, his words were hoarse and his stomach grumbled loudly, “I did not mean to be gone so long.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Nicoline told her son, shaking her head as she sat down next to him.

  “A woman saw me! As I walked down the hall of the palace, she noticed me and asked who I was.”

  She gasped, her mouth suddenly dry and her chest heavy. At the edges of her eyes, sky-blue and shining, hung tears.

  “Mama,” he stuttered, “The woman has a daughter like me, one that can time-walk. And I never told her my name.”

  Nicoline said nothing.

  “Please don’t cry, mama,” he pleaded, wrapping a long, lanky arm around her.

  Since he was a small boy, Jarek had told her that he could visit other places while he slept, and, after nearly a moon year, she had finally understood that he was not just dreaming. He could tell her of places where he had never gone and of his father, who he not seen since he was still at the breast. As he got older, he grew stronger in his skill, able to travel farther distances and with less time needed to recover. Still, she feared for his safety, and had often begged him to stop, afraid of what would happen if he was discovered in the palace. But he was a curious child, different than his most, and he longed to know his father. When Jarek had been old enough to realize that he was unlike the other Planusian boys, she had told him of his father.

  Nicoline had never known her own, and she had long vowed that her son would not be able to say the same. Since then, nearly all of his time-walking had been to Rexterra.

  “Jarek, you must tell me what happened,” she said, explaining again the dangers of being seen.

  With a voice still sweet with youth, he told her, “It was not father who saw me; he never does. It was a woman with hair the color of fire! She saw me as soon as I walked toward her, even though I had not called out to her. But, I could hear all that she said as if I was really there with them.”

  With a deep crease in her forehead, Nicoline asked, “Her hair was not dark?”

  “No. It was red, but not the color of blood.”

  Distractedly, Nicoline mumbled, “It was not Lillia then.”

  “She did not tell me her name, but she seemed to know who I was.”

  “What did she say to you, Jarek?”

  Smiling, as if he did not sense any danger, he answered, “She told me to become strong, and that I must learn how to fight. And she told me that father was not ready for me, but he would send for me when he could.”

  “Was there aught else that she said to you?” she asked, the words coming in short bursts.

  Looking serious now, Jarek pushed his straw-colored hair, long and wavy, from his face, and told her, “She yelled at me, mama. And told me that I must not time-walk so often or where I could be found by those mage-trained.”

  Liking the unknown woman already, Nicoline laughed and said, “She is right, Jarek. You must stop. It is not
yet time for you to be in the King’s City, and you are but a child.”

  “Mama, can I learn to use a sword?” Jarek begged, jumping up onto his knees.

  “Silly boy,” she joked, swatting at him. “What need do you have of a sword when you have air and sky as weapon?”

  “I must be able to use a sword as well, as they do in Rexterra, if I am to return there someday. You have told me that some skies will never answer, mama, as much as I may call.”

  Nicoline looked at the boy, still nearly half her size, and shook her head. His mage-skill was sharp, stronger than her own, she often thought. He would spend hours in the fields, far from anyone, and, even though she could not see what it was that he did, Nicoline could feel the clouds shift and knew who had commanded them to do so. Jarek, she knew, rarely acted on impulse. His actions were often well-considered ones, even though his time-walking carried great risk. Until now, he had not been seen.

  “We will compromise. You must tell me when you are going to spirit-walk, and will only do so with my permission from now on. If you can promise me that, then I will find you one who will teach you the ways of the sword.”

  Jarek jumped from the be with a whoop, before rushing back to hug her, pulling his lanky arms tight against her thread-bare shawl.

  “I will not disappoint you, mama. I will be a warrior like Cordisia has never seen before. I will open the skies above on my enemies and knock them to the ground with my sword,” he vowed, waving his arms about as if he held both sword and lightning.

  As he danced and played, Nicoline thought on their past. For nearly eleven moon years, he had been her son only. The two of them lived alone on the large farmstead, allowing them the freedom and space to explore and expand their Elemental skill. None suspected that they were anything but a widowed mother and her beloved son. Yet if Jarek had his way, all would one day know him as the rightful heir to the Rexterran throne. A boy’s dream, she thought.

  Nearing midnight, he fell asleep. Seated at a small desk in the main room of the farmhouse, Nicoline reached for parchment and ink. With no one else around, she began to write, calling in a favor that was long overdue.

  *****

  7

  For the last few moons, Pietro found himself as the most senior healer at the Academy. Word soon spread that he would be named as the new Master Apprentice, or so Master Torino had informed him. Pietro himself could only wait, although he often thought of his Healer Journey and where it might take him.

  Over the last moon, Pietro had spent more time with the Masters and less at the Gull House. He rarely saw Talia, or her cousin Louissia, and only occasionally saw Kennet, who spent even more time alone in the library since Bronwen had departed. Tonight, though, he decided to forgo his studies, and hurried to an inn near the Litusian piers. The sky had already darkened by the time that he arrived, and he quickly entered, letting the heavy, whitened wood slam closed behind him. He had replaced his robes with a simple tunic overtop fitted trousers. For the next few hours, he would no longer be healer.

  A leather-covered stool near the end of the long sandstone bar stood empty, and he rushed toward it and ordered an ale from a heavily bearded Tretorian. Watching as the man poured the honey-colored ale into a stout mug, he noticed a woman sitting alone at a small table near the main door. Dark hair fell across her face as she stared at her mug. Her bodice, Pietro saw, fit snugly and was dyed a blue so deep as to be black. Her lips and cheeks were flushed red, the kiss of the ale, he knew.

  Grabbing his mug, he hopped off the stool, walking slowly to where the woman sat.

  “Might I join you, my lady?” he asked, with only the hint of a smile on his face.

  When she glanced up at him, her eyes a stormy gray, Pietro’s lips parted further, his teeth gleaming and straight.

  In the low, husky voice of one used to long days at sea, she called to him, “Yes, but I will need another ale.”

  With a nod, Pietro returned to the bar, motioning to the innkeeper to send him two drinks. As he waited, he thought on what to say. Soon, with two foaming mugs, he returned.

  “My name is Alonzo,” he told her as he swiftly sat down, presenting her with the mug as if in tribute.

  “And I am Neena,” she answered, without smiling, and looked at him from the corners of her eyes.

  “What brings you to Litusia?”

  Shaking her head as the bitter ale dripped from her lips, the woman told him, “I am a cook aboard a merchant ship out of the King’s City.”

  After another sip, she said, “You are far from home, are you not?”

  He glanced at her again, understanding that she was not like the girls he had often dallied with at the inns. She was older than he, perhaps by as many as ten moon years. Lines creased her brow and edged her gray-black eyes. He would not be surprised if she was not a cook at all, for she had the look of a warrior about her.

  “I have been at the Healer’s Academy for nearly half my life,” he finally explained.

  “You are Rexterran, are you not?”

  Shrugging as he downed much of the ale, he told her, “I was once.”

  After a moment, he added, “How fares Rexterra?”

  While he would not have guessed the woman to be Rexterran, that she recognized him to be suggested she knew the city well.

  “I have been gone from Rexterra for over a moon, and news is slow to reach us while at sea. The king lives last I knew, although he must not be well, as few see him. The city itself is much the same, although you might not recognize it for all the building that the King’s Heir has done.”

  Warmed by the drink and more relaxed than he had been in a moon, Pietro teased, “I hear something else in your words. And your hair is far too lovely to be Rexterran.”

  Her slate-colored eyes looked at him, questioning and unsure, as if she was unused to such scrutiny. He knew then with certainty that she was more than what she pretended. For a moment, he considered whether she was Tribe. Her skin, even rose-tinted from the ale, was not as pale as the Tribesman’s, nor were her eyes as dark. Yet there was something to her that was unlike all else in the tavern.

  Before he could speak on it, she stated, “I was born east of here, in a land where women are kings and fighters and men are little more than breeding stags.”

  Having never heard of such a place, he inquired why she had left.

  Neena only answered once her mug had been drained. “I believed that I was in love with a Rexterran man and followed him to the King’s City. You seem to know enough about the ways of men to know what happened next.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, but pushed for more information on where she had been born. “I have never heard of this land that you speak of, where women rule as kings. How far east must one travel to reach it?”

  “Another ale and the tale is yours,” she laughed, the sound deep and throaty.

  When two more pints were in front of them, Neena told him of Sythia, of the women she called kin, and how they had warned her that she would not be allowed to return if she followed the Cordisian man. But she did not head those warnings and had remained, even after the man married another.

  “Do you miss your homeland?” he asked, thinking of his near return to his own.

  “I was once a sure shot with bow and arrow,” she sighed, her eyes looking past him. “Yet have not had one in my hands for nearly seven moon years. I would return if I could, but Queen Makeena will not welcome me, I fear.”

  Thinking on his brothers, Pietro inquired if she thought to find a place among the many mercenary groups throughout Cordisia. As both woman and foreign-born, she would not be able to join the Royal Army, but skilled fighters were needed always. And the mercenary groups paid well, he had heard.

  Shaking her head, Neena explained, “I have a daughter. Her presence is tolerated aboard the ship. Elsewhere, it would not be, I think.”

  Understanding more of her plight, Pietro pushed her mug toward her, while reaching for his own. Once they were empty, he lea
ned back, rubbing at his hair.

  “My name is not Alonzo,” he told her, his words fast and pitched.

  When she smiled, he laughed in return.

  “I am healer-trained,” he explained.

  “I did not doubt you were, although you do not seem old or ugly enough to be so.”

  His life pulse had quickened and his hands warmed.

  “I will be visiting the King’s City soon,” he slurred, yet his vision was clear. “Mayhap we could meet for another drink.”

  Pushing her thick hair from her face, Neena gazed back at him, her eyes wrapped in mist. She was as unlike Louissia and Talia as any could be. She was untamed and strange, yet Pietro wanted little more than to wrap his fingers through her hair. Her lips, long and wide, parted, and his eyes grew fire-touched.

  “Come with me,” he begged.

  Her nod, slight and silent, caused him to shake as he rose. Dropping coin on the table, he reached for her hand. As his fingers burned, hers, rough and cool, joined his as they hurried from the tavern.

  I will see her again, he thought, blinded with reddened lust.

  *****

  Once outside of her room, she leaned against the wall, trembling. She did not think her legs would carry her across the hallway, but she noticed the King’s door remained unguarded and hurried to Aldric’s room. As she suspected, his door opened for her, although her ears buzzed and her skin prickled as she rushed inside. The ward had been a strong one.

  Standing over his bed, she quietly cried, “Wake up!”

  Her fingertips, stained yellow, pushed on his chest until his eyes opened.

  “We must leave at once,” she hissed.

  Jumping up, mostly unclothed, Aldric ran for the door and closed it. “Did the girl visit you again?”

  As he searched for his clothing, she told him that it was the King’s Heir who had visited her.

  With an unlaced tunic and pants slipping from his thin waist, Aldric called, “Are you in danger or has he harmed you?”