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

by Cat Bruno

  As if sensing her confusion, he added, “I must tell my brother of what has occurred.”

  “The babe’s father,” Nahla uttered.

  Beside her, the man said nothing, breathing slowly, his eyes half-open. Thinking again on what Caryss had said, Nahla looked upon him, with new eyes.

  Under a clear sky and a warm sun, the Great Mother showed her the way. She reached for Conall’s hand, as a woman might a man.

  Let it be so.

  *****

  “You know what she has done?”

  “Yes. Although I do not know why. It does not seem like something that she would do.”

  “Which girl? Bronwen or Caryss? Bronwen was naught but a healer, devoted to the healing arts and little else. I know little of Caryss.”

  The words were spoken without accusation, and Willem had not lied. Even her name had come as a surprise to him. Yet he noticed that it had done been the same for the High Lord.

  The two men were seated on rattan chairs with cushions the color of a clear Litusian sky. After speaking with Kennet, Willem had decided to contact Conri, but before he could do so, the High Lord had arrived at his door. Under normal circumstances, he would have been concerned about such a coincidental arrival, but given the nature of the trouble that Caryss faced, Willem thought little more of it. Although he could admit that having the Tribesman so near unsettled him.

  “She is not safe,” Willem explained, keeping his voice clear. “My cousin has asked for a quarter moon to find the King. But, after that, he will not be able to stall his brother any longer. Even now Delwin searches for her. And, if I know Delwin at all, he will use the situation to his advantage and will send the whole of his army after her. Word will spread that he has saved the King, while Crispin did little. In truth, Crispin might be accused of aiding her. If the King does not recover and is unable to speak on Caryss’s behalf, her life will be forfeit.”

  Toward the end, his words were high and taut with emotion. It would do little good to try to convince the High Lord that Bronwen was safe.

  “That is why I am here,” Conri stated. “I have learned where she has gone. And I need you to find her for me.”

  “I had hoped to do just that,” Willem replied.

  Conri looked beyond him, his gaze distant and unreadable. He was dressed in black leather, yet it was soft and supple, unlike armor. Despite the warm Tretorian breeze, Conri wore a tightly weaved cape across his back, which he had pulled over his head, sheltering him from the bright midday sun.

  “Where are your loyalties, Willem? With the Rexterrans or with Caryss?” Conri called.

  Without pause, Willem answered, “Must it be one or the other? I want her safe. I want the King’s health restored so that Crispin will rightfully sit the throne. And I care little what happens to Delwin.”

  “If, after the quarter moon expires, Caryss has not been found, what will you do? The Rexterran Army will hunt her, and your cousin, as you have admitted, will be able to do nothing to stop it.”

  His words had sharpened, and Willem struggled to find an answer. He had not thought of what would happen if he could not find her.

  When the silence lengthened, Conri again asked, “Which side are you on?”

  With as steady of a voice as he could manage, Willem told him, “I will do what I must to protect her from Delwin’s men.”

  “You will raise weapon against your kin?”

  “I have done so before and have this life to prove it,” he sighed, waving his hand about.

  Paying little heed to his reply, Conri further questioned, “What if it is not Delwin that is the threat? Crispin is heir and will sacrifice much for the throne. Including a woman who means little to him.”

  “I will not draw my sword against Crispin,” Willem cried.

  His eyes darkened, yet his voice remained clear and calm as Conri stood. “I will not tell you where she is.”

  “Will you kill me then?” Willem asked, trembling hands reaching for his wine goblet.

  The High Lord waited to answer, hovering across from Willem. With burning hands, Willem watched him, knowing that even his flames could do nothing to one such as Conri.

  Finally, Conri shrugged and the air around them cooled.

  “Caryss has few allies, and I would be a fool to kill off the ones that she does have.”

  His words were clipped, as if he had been reluctant to admit them. When Conri stared at him, his eyes light, his dark hair shining under the high sun, Willem recognized the look on the man’s face. As if he had seen it before.

  “There is something I must show you,” he told the Tribesman.

  When Conri objected, Willem pleaded that he needed but a few more moments. For a long moment, Conri did not move, but, then, in two long strides, he was beside Willem, silence striking a barrier between them as they walked. Despite the moon years that the two men had been acquainted, Willem had never shown Conri the painting, as if it had been his secret. His fingers trembled slightly as they neared the room.

  Stepping back, Willem let Conri enter. On one side, the curtains were open, allowing yellow rays to shine and streak across the room. On the far side, the mural glowed, as if bathed in starlight. Willem watched as the High Lord of the Wolf Tribe stepped close to the wall, raising his hand toward the mural and pulling it back just before he touched it.

  Conri’s eyes moved across the painting.

  Without turning around, he mumbled, “She visited you.”

  “Only once, but it was enough,” Willem told him.

  “She risks too much, yet I have never known another who could time-walk as easily as she does.”

  “There is much that she will do that others cannot,” Willem stated, without any uncertainty in his words.

  “Will you be ally to her, Willem?” the High Lord demanded, although he still had not turned from the painting.

  For many moments, Willem could not reply. Finally, his voice low, his throat burning, he said, “Forgive me, High Lord, but she is like the daughter that I will never have.”

  “What of your Rexterran kin?” Conri half-growled.

  “I will draw sword against them if I must.”

  The words, new ones, were true, Willem now knew.

  With a nod, Conri then turned to face him. “She is the only daughter that I will ever have. The Wolves will answer to her, the Crows will fly from her, and the Bears will hide from her. Cordisia will be hers when she is ready.”

  The Tribesman’s eyes were dark now, as dark as wine.

  “She will need ally and army to take the throne,” Conri warned.

  Willem did not need to ask what throne the High Lord meant. There was only one in the whole of Cordisia that was so heavily coveted.

  “Your kinsmen exiled you,” the High Lord continued. “Yet, she will see you returned to your homeland, in full glory. Teach her the ways of the King’s City. Teach her what I cannot.”

  “You suggest war will come to Cordisia,” Willem stammered, stepping toward Conri.

  As they both looked upon the painted girl, the High Lord stated, “War has already come.”

  Nothing else was said, but Willem understand Conri’s earlier questions. Lines were being drawn, and it was time to choose a side. For nearly all of his life, Willem had sided with Crispin. Exile had been his reward. When war came, it would not be the one he had thought.

  It would not be between brothers. Nor would it be among the Tribe. None would be safe, if Conri guessed right. It was, as the High Lord suggested, the time to choose ally and friend.

  Now, Willem had done so.

  13

  “His shaking worsens.”

  “As we thought it might. I had not wanted to keep him dependent on the poppy milk, but we have little choice. Sharron, his body is too weak to fight the withdrawal.”

  Both women were seated to either side of the King, and Caryss held Herrin’s speckled hand in her own. His skin was nearly translucent, yet a splotchy red rash dotted the tops and r
an up his arms. Cupped between her long fingers, Herrin’s hand trembled, as did the rest of his body. They were days gone from the King’s City, yet still the King slept overmuch.

  He would occasionally rouse as Sharron fed him, but he said little. Even then, his words were difficult to understand. The day before, Caryss had cut his poppy milk by half, yet, by midday, the King thrashed and shook, so much so that both healers feared he would hurt himself. Since then, each time his poppy milk was given, it had been infused with distilled lavender and chamomile. Now, the poppy milk was being decreased in smaller doses, a long, slow process. Caryss had admitted that she had not thought his dependency to be so extreme.

  “We will need to send for more dried poppy heads, which will not be easy I fear. I am not as familiar with the growing season of the Cove or what flowers and plants are native. Perhaps the diauxie will be of some aid.”

  Sharron looked up at the mention of the shaman, as men of his nature were known in the North. For the last few days, little mention of the man came from Caryss, and Sharron wondered if doubts began to grow regarding her decision to head south instead of north.

  “You have not spoken of the man of late,” Sharron mentioned as gently as she could.

  Across the sleeping king, Caryss shrugged, and then continued her gentle massaging of the King’s legs.

  “Do you recognize the word fennidi?” Sharron asked, joining Caryss as they stretched and moved the King’s body to keep it from further weakening.

  Caryss’s memory had opened in many places, and she was much more at ease speaking the tongue of their homeland. Often, the two would speak in Eirrannian, and, even as unpracticed as she was, Caryss was improving quickly. Yet there was much about the North that Caryss did not recall.

  “The fennidi are much like the man you seek, I believe. Not only do they train in hunting and fighting, they have an ability similar to mage-sight. They call themselves truth seers, yet their skills are not like those found in the mage-guild. I have only seen a few, and know little about them, as they tend to choose to isolate themselves, even from Eirrannians.”

  Her face showing interest, Caryss said, “I know nothing of them. Do they live near the Tribelands?”

  Sharron laughed, a sound rare and light, and told her, “Much like this Otieno, they are usually only found if they wish it. I have heard tales that they live in the Faelan Mountains and around Edan Lake.”

  “That’s in the center of Eirrannia, is it not?”

  As she asked, Caryss continued stretching the King’s legs, lifting one then the other, as if he was walking. Each time, his eyes remained closed and sounds of sleep came from him.

  Sharron reached to help and nodded.

  “Should they not be easy to find then, these fennidi?”

  “There are not many of their kind, and they have long made their homes among tree and river. I have never heard of any seeking them out,” Sharron explained, thinking on her childhood and the tales of the elusive wood sprites.

  “What strange men exist in this world,” Caryss sighed, stroking the King’s hand gently. “I would learn more of them though.”

  Sharron told her all that she remembered of them. They were an old people, unlike both Tribe and human. With skin the color of summer leaves and shining silver hair, none could mistake a fennidi for aught else. Having only seen a few, Sharron recalled that they were no taller than children. Yet, they were known for their deadly skills, having long ago learned to use plant and mountain as none else could. As such, none bothered them, for fear of becoming trapped in spell or struck with the tip of a poisoned arrow.

  When she finished, Caryss asked, “Can we find them?”

  With another laugh, Sharron told her, “We have already done much I would have once thought impossible. You still wish to head north soon?”

  “Even more so now. The girl must learn all of Eirrannia if she seeks to rule one day.”

  Any further conversation was interrupted when Aldric rushed into the small room, crowding the small space. His face was flushed and he was smiling, catching both women by surprise, as he was often straight-faced and serious.

  “We approach Francolla. Hestor says that we will make landfall on the hour,” he told them.

  While Caryss gripped King Herrin’s frail hand, Sharron watched. For the last few moons, she had been troubled. Yet, with each day gone from the King’s City, Caryss seemed to shift, a lightness returning to her, as if her path was once again her own.

  *****

  “How can this be?” he screamed, before turning to face the three men who stood behind him, dressed in the silver and blue of the Heir’s Guard.

  All three looked away from his gold-flamed eyes. None spoke and silence spread across the room, mingling with the smell of blood.

  “Four men are dead!” Crispin roared, his face reddening and his hands pointing at the two bodies lying dead on the floor.

  The other two, his own men, had been removed, although streams of red stained the hallway where they once stood. Several of his guards were flanking the halls now, tasked with questioning the palace staff and instructed to remove all traces of the dead men before his brother heard what had occurred.

  His words harsh and heavy, he again demanded, “Find out who has done this.”

  It had not taken much to realize that Caryss’s guards had been targeted. It was their deaths that had been sought, and his men had only been in the way, the prince knew.

  Only one other knew of the foreign guards.

  “What of the whore?” the prince hissed to the remaining men.

  “The Islander, my lord?” the nearest man to him asked, his words even, marking him as well-trained.

  “Yes. Raoll and three of his men were working shifts to watch her. Take enough men to bring her back here without incident.”

  A curt nod was dismissal and agreement, and the man hurried off.

  From the moment that he had met the woman, Crispin suspected that she was hiding much from him. His fingers were nearly aflame, and it took more power than he thought he had to control the fire that wanted to burst free from them. Behind his eyes burned a red haze, which colored the room orange and reminded Crispin of all that had occurred since Caryss had entered his life.

  Not for the first time, he wondered who the girl was, before striding from the room, his remaining guards following.

  *****

  14

  He was not as she expected him to be, although still her legs wobbled. Standing before her was a man looking much like any other, his back against a wall of windows. Behind the Tribesman, a falling sun cast faded red streaks across gray clouds.

  Since arriving in Cordisia, Nahla had never traveled outside of the Rexterran borders. Now, just in front of her was the High Lord, in a room larger than any she had seen. So far Eirrannia was much like a dream, painted in vibrant hues of grass and tree.

  The epidiuus, as if come from a dream too, had carried them to Eirrannia. Nearly a full day had been spent in travel, yet the animal had not wavered, and only required a few hours rest somewhere in the center of Cordisia. Nahla could make little sense of all that was happening and had ceased trying soon after the creature took to the air. Once, Conall noticed her shock and teased her before explaining how the Tribe often used the epidii for long travel. She had told him that few would believe her and most would think she was mad if she talked of her ride atop a glowing animal.

  As she mused, the High Lord called to her. His words sounded as if he had swallowed sand and salt, sea and sky. Quietly, he roared.

  “Tell me of this man that Caryss seeks.”

  With only a slight tremor in her voice, Nahla explained, “His name is Otieno, although few know him as such. He is what my people call a diauxie, although he is not like any other medicine man I have known. There are stories about him that take the elders a whole day to sing, and I cannot tell you if they are truth or lie. He is not a healer like the girl is, but many seek him when they are ill.”
>
  “I thought him to be a warrior of some sort,” the High Lord stated, although still he did not look to her.

  “Oh, to be sure, he is more skilled than most with a sword,” Nahla told him, growing more at ease. “He has been called the Prince of Swords, even. Yet, moon years ago, he set about on a different path, or so I have heard. He travels alone, crossing the islands of my homeland, by foot or by boat, with the wind as his guide. The Great Mother has called to him, as she does with us all, and he follows her way.”

  “Why would Caryss wish to meet him? What can one such as he, half-mad and wandering, do for her?”

  Without hesitation, Nahla told him, “He will help build her army.”

  Across the room, the man shook his head, sending his dark hair over his face. Nahla knew little of him and could not recall Caryss mentioning him by name, although there was little doubt that he was the babe’s father. There was a coldness to him, despite the fiery glow that rained upon him.

  “Has she told you what she has planned? You knew her but a few days.”

  Nahla could hear accusation in his words, and told him, “The girl shared much with me. Too much, perhaps, but she thinks of me as kin.”

  With a laugh that was not as pleasant as his brother’s, Conri said, “She is much a fool of late.

  “The diauxie is a swordsman like few before him, my lord,” she disagreed. “Will the child not need to be protected?”

  “It is my duty to protect my child!” he howled, turning toward her so quickly that Nahla scurried backward.

  Pressed against the wall, Nahla breathed, “Caryss disagrees.”

  The High Lord quieted then, as if her words had been weapon, and Nahla continued, “She did not come here. She did not call for you. She came to me, and I did what I could to help her escape the King’s City.”

  His words exploded around her, as if thunder, shaking the room so much that she thought the tall windows would shatter. “She forgets her place!”