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

by Cat Bruno

  *****

  A dark haze stained her eyes until she saw nothing but obsidian shadows. Her knees ached until she could support herself no longer, and her head fell to the floor. There, forehead pressed into dirt and blood, she stayed, as if in supplication.

  Nahla did not know how long she slept. When the darkness lifted and her vision cleared, she rolled to her side, rubbing at her eyes with tingling fingers. Dim orb-light filtered through her curtained windows, telling her the hour was late. A sharp burn pierced her hand, and she drew it to her chest, cradling the sliced palm. Her hands, like most of her, were mud-covered, her skirt dirtied and her tunic blackened. With a moan, Nahla pushed against the tiles with her uninjured hand until she was standing on wobbly legs. Bent in half, she hobbled to the bed.

  The Great Mother had answered her call. But the toll had been a heavy one, and she ached as she had never done so before. With shaking fingers, she reached for a tinder box, lighting three tall candles next to her bed. In the soft glow, she examined herself.

  Dried blood covered the slice across her hand, but it was not as deep as she had feared. An oval-shaped mirror lay next to her and she reached for it, half-smiling as her dirt-smeared face reflected back. Her cheeks were dotted with mud and a clump of dirt clung to the side of her forehead.

  Nahla pulled the tunic, stained with blood, over her head, then used it to wipe at her face. Her eyes, lined more than when last she looked, stared from the mirror, scanning the room. In the center sat the large fern, and, around it, dirt had spilled and smudged. Streaks of blood stained the floor, crimson and jagged.

  Her steps were slow as she rose, but her legs soon steadied. Across the room, Nahla found a straw-edged broom, and she carried it to the mess. With dirty hands, she swept, slowly for her arms felt heavy and bruised.

  Until a pounding at her door caused her to jump.

  Putting a hand to her bare chest where her life pulse fluttered fast, Nahla waited, uncertain as to who would come at such an hour. She knew the prince’s men hovered close, and knew, too, that had they wanted admittance, they would not be knocking.

  Grabbing a faded blanket from her bed, Nahla crossed the room. With a silent prayer to the Great Mother, she slowly turned the handle.

  Leaning against the door, Nahla stared at the man. Mist circled him, as if he had come from the sea.

  “Praise be the Great Mother,” she whispered, moving aside to let him enter.

  His words were sharp and lilting when he spoke. Deep and as old as the sea, his words echoed through the room.

  “Is she so named? The one who aided you in finding my brother?”

  Swallowing hard as she backed away, Nahla told the man, “She has many names, yet is nameless. So we address her as she is. The mother of us all.”

  Across from her, the man smirked, his pale face surrounded by graying hair.

  “I have not been to the Southern Cove for many moon years, yet when you speak, it is as if I am there once again. Your kind are fond of such answers, I recall.”

  “And what answers are those?” Nahla asked, with a hint of defiance.

  “Ones that make the asker more confused rather than less,” the man laughed, a strange sound that seemed out of place in her small room.

  Glancing at the door behind him, Nahla hastily said, “What of the guards? Are they no longer watching me?”

  With a wave of his hand, the man told her, “You need not worry about them. Tell me of the girl. When did you last see her?”

  It was near sunrise, Nahla knew, which meant that Caryss had been gone nearly a day, which she told him.

  “Where has she gone?” he demanded of her.

  Instead of answering him, Nahla asked, “Are you the babe’s father?”

  She recognized the man to be Tribe, yet she feared him less than she should, Nahla mused.

  “I am father to none. The babe you refer to will be my niece, if all comes to be. It was my brother who sent me, for he is the father, as well as my lord.” Stepping toward her, he asked, “Where is the girl?”

  “She is no longer here,” Nahla sighed, knowing that she should fear the man but too weakened to care overmuch.

  “I can see that. Where has she gone?”

  The man was just steps from her, and Nahla gazed at him fully. He was tall and lithe, muscled tightly underneath his light brown tunic. His hair was a light shade of brown, yet edged in gray, although his skin was unlined and smooth. When her eyes reached his, she drew in her breath.

  Yellow eyes stared back at her.

  “Did you not hear my question?” he called to her.

  Stumbling for words, Nahla mumbled, “I will not see her harmed.”

  Again he laughed, his light eyes shining.

  “The girl is kin to me. Why would I harm her?”

  “Give me your word,” Nahla pleaded, “Promise that she will not be harmed. There are others who seek to find her as well.”

  “What others?” he demanded, sweeping upon her with speed and force.

  She hesitated. His face, eyes now rimmed with black, lashes long and thick, was so close to her own that she could feel the warm hiss of his breath.

  With a stutter back, she told him, “The Rexterran Prince. He and a few of his men visited me, searching for Caryss and asking what I knew about her and when last I saw her. Just as you have. It is his men outside my door.”

  Snorting, he replied, “The prince visited you here? In the Lower Streets? Do you think I’m a half-wit?”

  “I know nothing of you, not even your name. I only know that I speak the truth. Caryss is being hunted. But, after what she has done, it is no surprise.”

  Nahla’s words were sharp. A slight tremble rocked her body, yet she would not step back from him.

  “I tire of these games,” he told her, stepping back. “You called for help, and now I have come. What trouble is the girl in?”

  As he waited for Nahla to answer, the man walked toward the edge of her bed, running his fingers along the large, lined blanket. She knew not why he did so, yet she called to him, “When the girl came to me, she was not alone. Under the mask of night, she knocked on my door. With her were the dark mage and the other Northern girl. But that was not all. In an old garden cart sat the Rexterran king, drowsy and weak.”

  The man looked at her again, dropping his hand from the blanket.

  “Herrin was with her? Are you telling me that she has taken him from the palace?”

  Nodding, she replied, “I’m telling you that she has taken him from Cordisia.”

  “And his sons knew none of this?”

  To his credit, Nahla noticed, the man’s face betrayed nothing.

  “When Prince Crispin visited, he questioned me about her. It seemed as if he knew none of what she had planned. But, aye, he knows now that the King is gone.”

  “How did he know to seek you?”

  “When Caryss first came here, she had two guards with her. When next I saw her, they were not with her. It must have been them who told the prince of me,” Nahla explained.

  With a quick nod, the man asked, “Why would she want to take the King?”

  For the first time since the man had entered her room, Nahla smiled, “Have you met Caryss? I only knew her briefly, yet understood that she is unlike most. I think she wants to see him well and believed that she would not be able to heal him in the King’s City.”

  “And she came to you for aid,” he stated, starting to make sense of her words.

  They had been long talking, and outside her rooms, the skies lightened.

  “My lord, I am not safe here. Nor are you, I fear.”

  With another wave of his long-nailed hands, he smirked, “I have little to worry about here. But perhaps you are right. We have little time.”

  Nahla nearly wept with relief, but before she could react, he was speaking again.

  “What of these guards? Is there much that they could tell?”

  “They have been with her since just out
side Tretoria, I believe,” Nahla answered.

  Before he looked away from her, Nahla noticed how little yellow remained in his eyes.

  “You know where the girl has gone.”

  With a nod, Nahla told him, “You will too if you promise to take me from here.”

  “What did you tell the prince when he came?”

  “Just enough. But he knows not where she has gone.”

  Before he could ask more, Nahla added, “She sails for the Cove. Once there, she hoped to find a man my people call the Prince of Swords.”

  “Why would she do that?” he asked, doubt edging his words and darkening his eyes further.

  “He is unmatched in battle, but, more, he is an unusual sort. We call his kind diauxie. Not only is he well trained with the blade, but he is a type of healer as well. I think the girl feels a kinship with him.”

  The man sighed, unsettling Nahla as it made him seem more human. And less like he was, which she still could not understand.

  “My brother will want to know where she has gone. And all else you can recall. For now, it seems as if Caryss should be safe and well away from the King’s City.”

  His eyes, finally fading, met hers, and he said, “Gather what you need, but you must be able to carry it. First, we will visit the palace. Then, we find my brother.”

  The man moved to the door, waiting as she scanned the room trying to decide what to take with her, although she still did not know where they were going. There was much that she wanted to pack, including the tapestries that her mother and mother’s mother had made for her, yet they were too big to carry.

  Before gathering a few items, Nahla dressed. On her feet, she tied the only boots she owned, lacing them under the long-flowing skirt. A clean tunic replaced the one that she had used to wipe the blood and dirt from her face. Her hands were still stained, so she hurriedly scrubbed at them while the man watched, a slight curved smile across his face. Once clean, she wrapped a scarf around the injured palm.

  With no choice, Nahla walked to where the coin was hidden. Grabbing the coin and another pouch, which contained a dagger, she crossed the room, tying the two pouches to the belt at her waist.

  “Hold my hand, until I tell you it is no longer necessary,” he stated as they exited through her door.

  She nodded, unable to speak, and did as he requested. His hand was warmer than she would have guessed, much like any other man’s would be. The sky was red-edged as the sun rose. Walking away from the Lower Streets, they passed stalls and carts, voices raised in barter and greeting. Yet, none seemed to notice them.

  Suddenly, she understood.

  Whispering, she cried, “They cannot see us.”

  He rushed on, and she thought he would not respond, but, then, he added, “A simple magic, but a difficult one to maintain for long. We must hurry.”

  The man said no more, and neither did Nahla. She focused on keeping up with his long strides, as he bounded toward the palace and out of the Lower Streets. His hair flowed behind him, just to his shoulders, and his legs were long and lean. In the foggy orange of the morning, his shirt looked like soft fur, and his light boots like hooves. Above his head appeared pointed ears, triangular and twitching, as if they listened.

  As her own legs ran hard and fast, she wondered what she would see if she were not trailing behind him. If, instead of his high cheekbones and sharp nose, she would find a tan and cream muzzle. If, instead of his full red lips, she would find jagged teeth.

  It was then that she remembered the healer’s words.

  Squeezing at his hand tighter, she asked, “What is your name?”

  “I have many, yet am nameless,” he told her.

  Just behind him, Nahla could not see his face, yet could hear laughter in his words.

  Before she could object, he added, “Most call me Conall.”

  With his name silent on her lips, Nahla understood. She knew Caryss had not been wrong.

  *****

  12

  The rider had found him at the clinic, and, by the way the man’s clothing was wet and dirtied, Willem knew that he had traveled with little delay from Rexterra. When he had handed Willem the letter, the pain of exile flared strong. The orange seal of his cousin, a flame-tipped sword, greeted him as he flipped the letter over.

  Not looking at the man, Willem told him, “There are a few inns just down the street. Take this for your troubles.”

  The man nodded, reached for the bag of coin and hurriedly departed.

  Rushing to the rear of the clinic, Willem found an unused room, dropping the curtain behind him. He ripped open the letter, breaking the seal, hardened wax falling to the floor around him.

  By now, he easily recognized his cousin’s script.

  Cousin,

  I will keep my remarks brief. A few moons ago, I requested aid from the Academy. I had hoped to keep you as far from this as possible, especially since my brother’s hatred for you has not lessened. However, through no act of my own, you were made aware of the request. Father had grown worse. And his own healers did little but supply him with poppy milk. Excuse the mess of these words, but much has occurred. The Northern girl arrived in haste and brought hope. Yet, this girl has done something we will soon all regret. She has taken father. With no word to me, or any other, she departed under the cover of night. I was last to be seen with her, and she, in order to escape I now realize, fed me something to cause a great sleep to come over me. When I next woke, at midday, she was gone, as were the two others. Her guards remained.

  My brother has sent men to find her, to the Academy, as that seems where she might have gone, although, in truth, I do not know where the girl is. He has given me a moon to find her before he sends nearly all of his men to Eirrannia, for if she is not at the Academy, she must be there. I do not need to tell you what that means.

  We must find her. You must send me word in haste as to where you think she has gone.

  It had been unsigned and without names, yet there was little doubt as to what the letter meant. Willem stared at it, reading it thrice over before striding from the room.

  As he rushed toward the library, a full midday sun shining high, he struggled to make sense of what she had done. Bronwen was as true a healer as any he had known, and he could not imagine that she would break her oath.

  Unless the babe was in danger.

  When he reached the library doors, taller than any in Rexterra even, Willem threw them open as if they were little more than the curtains that the clinic used. He bounded up the stairs, remembering where Kennet kept his office.

  Without knocking, he entered.

  Behind a desk strewn with paper and ink, Kennet sat, his metal-rimmed spectacles nearly falling off his face. When he saw who had come, the librarian dropped the quill from his black-tinged fingers.

  “Have you had any word from Bronwen?” Willem demanded, pulling the door closed behind him.

  With a stutter, Kennet told him, “She promised to send word from the King’s City, yet I have heard little.”

  “Kennet, if you are lying, I will see that you are banned from the Academy. I will ask one more time. Has Bronwen contacted you?”

  The thin man stood up from behind his desk and slammed his hands down, sending papers spilling over the sides. His face was red with rage, and he opened his mouth to speak.

  “I have heard nothing!” he called out, surprising them both.

  The two men looked at one another for a long moment.

  “Has something happened to her, Master Ammon?” Kennet whispered, his voice cracking with strain.

  Willem shook his head from side to side and, rubbing at his forehead, explained, “She arrived in the King’s City a few days ago, without incident. She even met with the King. However, it seems that she is no longer at the palace. And my cousin does not know where she has gone.”

  “Is my uncle still with her? And Sharron?”

  “I believe they both are,” Willem sighed, regret bitter on his tongue o
ver how little he could help Bronwen.

  “Is the King healed so soon, then?” Kennet asked.

  Without looking at him, Willem answered, “I do not think so.”

  “It does not seem like Bronwen to abandon the King before trying all that she could to improve his health.”

  The boy had failed as a healer, yet he was brighter than most and had been sent to Master Tywinne as an assistant. Soon, Willem knew, Kennet knew more than even the aged master. He was not without usefulness.

  “Can you give your word that what I next say will go no further than these walls?”

  Kennet’s face whitened, but he nodded.

  After a moment, Willem stated, “Bronwen has left the King’s City, as I mentioned. And without word to any as to her plans. But, more, she did not leave alone. She kidnapped the King.”

  Kennet’s hands reached for his face as a loud gasp escaped his mouth. When he would have spoken, Willem lifted a hand.

  “I do not believe that she means to harm the king, and there must be some explanation for what she has done. But, Kennet, this changes everything for her.”

  Through tight lips, Kennet muttered, “But what if the King wished to go with her? Then it is not kidnapping.”

  Nodding, Willem said, “I thought the same. She would not act so rashly if not for the King’s health. Still, she must be found. Before the Royal Army is set upon them.”

  “Would it really come to that?” Kennet cried.

  “She has kidnapped King Herrin! Willingly or not, he is gone, and his sons do not know where he is. Her crime is punishable by death, Kennet!”

  “There is no crime if he went willingly,” the librarian mumbled again.

  “To his son, it will not matter whose choice it was to leave,” Willem told him, knowing his words to be true.

  Pale and green-hued, the boy stared at him. “What would you have me do?” he finally muttered.