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

by Cat Bruno

  16

  “How long will it take me to get to the King’s City if I leave at once?”

  She rolled off of him and onto her back, laying her head on a thick pillow, much softer than any she could remember. Even with no looking glass, she could feel her hair spread out around her, wild and wavy, damp with sweat and spit. He was prettier than she, smooth-faced and youthful. Her own face was lined and sun-darkened from moon years at sea. Even though she had not asked his age, Neena knew that she was moon years older than he. It hadn’t mattered, though, she thought, smiling as she pressed her body closer to his.

  His full lips were sweet and his kisses fine, but lies came out of his mouth nonetheless. Even his name was false, which they both knew, even if neither had cared. He was a man she mused and expected little else.

  Twisting his hair between her fingers, she purred, “By ship?”

  “I am meant to travel by foot. How long by ship, though?”

  “With fair weather, a fast fleet could have you at the ports in three days time.”

  Whistling through swollen lips, he laughed, “And if I walk I shall not be there for a moon at best!”

  “Why walk then?” she teased, “Fare to the King’s City would cost less than this pillow beneath my head.”

  “It is what is required,” he sighed, rolling away from her.

  Leaning on her elbows, she told him, “My lord, you do not seem one to do what is expected.”

  The boy’s eyes twinkled as he answered, “I do what I must. But I need to get to the King’s City.”

  “Come with me then. My ship leaves within the hour.”

  Shaking his head, he answered, “Not yet. I wish that I could, love, but I have not yet been given leave.”

  As if he had noticed the disappointment on her face, he hurriedly added, “Come back for me in a few moons. I will be ready then.”

  “I shall do just that. For now, I still have an hour.”

  His breath smelled of ale and tasted of honey, and Neena threw herself across him, keeping the knowledge of who he was from her eyes. It made little difference to her what he called himself. It made little difference at all.

  *****

  “Have you found him yet, mama?”

  The boy had talked of little else for days, and Nicoline placed her spoon softly on the table. While Jarek refilled his bowl with more stew, she watched, knowing that she would have to answer him soon.

  For the last half-moon, he had questioned her daily about finding a swordmaster. Many boys his age would have long been at arms, yet Nicoline had never permitted it. Instead, she had encouraged him to learn the ways of her kin, the ways of sky and sea. However, since his last visit to the palace, he had chattered daily on the necessity of swordplay. Of late, she relented, accepting that sky and sea would be of little help inside the palace walls of the King’s City.

  “I have sent word to a friend for his council,” she finally told him. “Until then, you must practice until you arms grow heavy and your breathing burns.”

  “I shall!” the boy exclaimed, jumping up from his seat with a well-worn wooden spoon clasped tightly between his fingers.

  For the next few moments, Nicoline watched as her son, lanky and excited, ran about the small kitchen, waving the spoon as if it was sword, parrying and spinning, darting from imaginary foes before jabbing hard at their stomachs. He was often trapped by his own thoughts, as most are who have the sky in their blood. Yet, with the spoon in his hand, Jarek had a clear look in his eyes, she realized. His joy was uncontained, and Nicoline laughed heartily as her son rushed about the kitchen, knocking into a pot-laden table, before spinning from the room.

  When he took his battle elsewhere, she remained in the kitchen, thinking of the boy’s father. One day, despite her worries, Jarek would want to leave for the King’s City, the land of his father. She had spent the last ten moon years trying to keep her son hidden and unknown. If he never set foot in Rexterra, she would have rejoiced. Yet, as soon as he had mastered the skill of time-walking, there was one place he visited more often than any else.

  Again and again he would tell her of his trips to the King’s City. At first, she had tried to forbid him, yet having not known her own, she did not hold long to the rule. With no other way to know of Crispin, she let him continue.

  Until his last visit, when he had been spotted by a woman, fire-touched and of the North, he had claimed.

  He had grown strong, she knew, stronger than she and with far more mastery of the elements. For Nicoline, controlling sea and sky was more a game than anything, a toy when she grew bored or weary. For her son, it was more. It was weapon and birthright. The farm would soon grow to feel like a cage to him, she feared. And so she had written to Willem, hoping that he could aid her, as he had once done moon years prior. It had been two days since she had sent the letter, and each day she had wondered if he had received it yet. Each day she wondered if it would be her last with her son.

  If not sword, then sky and sea would take him, as she had always known it would, ever since the night he was born. The boy had long been more than the son of a prince. He was born of lightning and had thunder for voice, sea for blood. He could drink the rain or draw it forth. Jarek had sky for father and sea for mother. A throne could not contain him, nor would he welcome it. He was born for more than a throne.

  But, first, he had to master the sword, for he was still just a boy, she knew.

  *****

  When she opened the door to the adjacent room, Caryss stopped so abruptly that Sharron walked into her, causing both women to stumble. As she regained her balance, Caryss looked toward the bed, wiping at her forehead with the back of her hand, as if to clear her eyes from what she saw. Behind her, Sharron stood, composed, more so than Caryss.

  With a voice tinged with fatigue and surprise, hoarse and sharp, Caryss hissed, “How long has the King been awake?”

  Sharron was pale, her hair pulled tight at her neck, and her eyes wide. “I only just discovered it myself. I was on my way to find you.”

  Rushing back into the room, Caryss watched as Herrin, seated upright on his cot, his back against the wall, nodded toward the diauxie.

  Barely above a whisper, she said to Sharron, who trailed behind her, “Examine him. And find out what caused him to wake. I will speak to Otieno.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Caryss called into the room, “Otieno, I would have a word with you.”

  It had been over a half-moon since last the King had been so alert, and while she wanted to speak with him, Caryss knew that she had to find out first what had occurred to make it so. Aldric was not in the room, which meant that only the diauxie had answers.

  As he rose, Sharron passed him, hurrying to the King. Caryss turned from them both, stepping back into the hallway of the inn. Otieno followed her until they were both in her room. Closing the door with a bang, she faced him with cheeks aflame.

  “What have you done?”

  With a shrug of his wide shoulders, he said, “I have pledged myself to your daughter and to you as well. You have nothing to fear from me, leseda. When the poppy milk that you have been giving to the King faded, I did not give him more. Instead, I had him drink a blend of coca leaves, grown near where I was born. Dried and brewed, the leaves make a powerful stimulant. I did little else.”

  The man was calm. Too calm, she feared.

  “I have used the coca myself. Even then he was only awake a short time.”

  He watched her with soft brown eyes. His hands did not move toward his swords and his lips curved at the edges, as if he thought her anger of little importance. Seeing him so only enraged her more.

  Through clenched teeth, she asked, “How did you wake him?”

  “As I said, I gave him the drink and kept the poppy milk from him.”

  “What more was in the drink?”

  The diauxie pulled his hair from his face, tying it with quick hands at his neck. Caryss had never seen anyone quite like him, and sh
e did not need to guess why most feared him. Where Conri was tall and thin, this man was thick with muscle, his skin the color of bark. His lips were full, his teeth even and fine, and when he smiled, which was not often, he had the look of kings about him, handsome and fierce.

  Not many would dare to question him, but Caryss had no such fear. Moons before, she had remembered what real fear felt like. And so she stepped toward him.

  Around them rays of gold filled the room, shimmering and twinkling. As the lines of light fell upon him, Otieno seemed to glow. Still, she did not care as her hands reached for his tunic.

  Otieno did nothing when she pulled at him in unfeigned fury.

  “I have no time for this!” she screamed, her hands gripping him.

  As if addressing a child, he calmly told her, “Then perhaps your time would be better spent speaking with the King.”

  She pulled her fingers from his dark tunic and ran.

  “Is he still awake?” Caryss asked as she reentered the King’s room.

  In a voice that she had heard just once before, Herrin called, “You talk of me as if I was a babe without words.”

  Silenced by the rebuff, she walked toward the bed, acting as if she did not hear Otieno enter behind her. When she was near enough, she reached for Herrin’s hand. It was warm, more so than it had been all moon. Moving her fingers to his wrist, she felt for his life pulse, again surprised as it beat steady and strong.

  After briefly glancing across his body, she noticed that his patches of rash had not disappeared and still appeared raised and crimson. He was awake, no more than that. But it was a start.

  “King Herrin, do you remember who I am?” she asked, moving a hand to his forehead.

  He brushed her hand away as he answered, “You’re the healer girl. “We have much to discuss.”

  She hurriedly looked to Sharron before telling him, “Indeed, king. Can you tell me how you are feeling? You have slept much since we left Rexterra.”

  “How do you think one would feel after waking up in an entirely different country? The Islander tells me that you believed that I was in danger in the King’s City and that I am here for my own safety.”

  “I had little choice,” Caryss explained. “I had been there but a day, yet knew that you would never grow well if we stayed. You were over-dependent on poppy milk, so much so that we had to continue to give it to you. And, more, your skin was covered in rash and your life pulse erratic. Even without the poppy milk, you would likely sleep much, for your body has grown weak trying to heal itself. Over the last moon, Sharron and I have tended to you, and yet we cannot find what it is that had made you so ill.”

  She had told him as much before they had left Rexterra, but it was clear that he remembered nothing, as it often was when one needed so much poppy milk. His thoughts would not be clear for another moon, she figured.

  “That you are awake now has surprised me greatly. But you are alert and talking, and I have renewed hope, my lord.”

  “Why have we come here?” he asked leaning back again.

  Caryss waited for him to still, for it was clear that he was tiring. When his eyes looked at her again, she told him, “I needed to go where none could find us, King Herrin.”

  It was time he knew all.

  “Your sons do not know where we have gone, nor do any at the palace. I knew not who to trust, my lord.”

  “I had guessed as much,” he mumbled.

  “Are you growing weary?” she asked.

  The king nodded, and she told him, “There are those in the north who might be able to help. With your permission, it is to them that we must go.”

  His eyes were beginning to cloud with fatigue, yet he managed to chide, “I thought you wore the robes, my dear.”

  “Oh I do,” she insisted, “But I can only cure what has a natural cause. There are others who know more than I.”

  “You speak of mages,” he groaned, waving a dismissive hand.

  “Not mages, my king. They call themselves fennidi, and they know more of poison than any, Sharron tells me. Will you permit me to take you there?”

  “Poison? Is that what this is about?” he coughed.

  Caryss reached for his hand, and, holding it between both of hers, told him, “From when first I examined you, I suspected so. I had hoped that by now most of it would be gone from your body, but the rash persists. We learn much at the Academy, but there are limits. Just as plant and herb and flower and tree can heal, so can they harm. Even if we were to discover what it was that you were given, I might not know how to reverse it. I believe the fennidi will have the knowledge we seek.”

  “Then you have my permission to take me to them. But I want the Islander to come as well. See that it is so.”

  “And your sons? Is it your wish that I send word to them?”

  Shaking his head, his words low and thick, he answered “Not yet.”

  Dropping her hands from him, Caryss told him, “First we must make our way to Planusterra, then to Eirrannia.”

  “Planusterra?” Herrin muttered, through slitted eyes that watched her.

  “There is something I must do there.”

  Caryss said no more, even though all eyes were on her. She would find the boy, and he would be given the choice to come with them and have Otieno for master or stay in Planusterra. And the King would meet his heir’s first-born son.

  The same boy who he had once tried to kill.

  She offered no other explanation, told Sharron to feed the King, and requested that Otieno come with her to check on Keva. Neither argued.

  “How fares the babe?” the diauxie asked as they walked toward the other end of the inn.

  “Strong and healthy,” she curtly answered.

  “And the woman?”

  “She will need a moon or more to recover, but she was awake when last I visited,” Caryss told him.

  “Not many would have attempted what you did. Even fewer would have succeeded.”

  As she pushed open the door to Keva’s room, she said nothing more to him, and, when he did not follow her inside, Caryss sighed in relief.

  When she noticed who sat next to Keva, holding the swaddled babe, Caryss cried aloud, “What are you doing here?”

  The dark mage shrugged and called, “Asha had to help with the evening meal, for the women she hired will not be available until the morrow. There was none else to sit with Keva.”

  “Did you know that the King was awake?” she asked as she neared the cot.

  “Sharron found me as she searched for you earlier and told me the news. How does he fare?”

  As she put an ear to Keva’s chest, listening to the breathing of the sleeping woman, she told him of her interactions with king and how clear his demands had been. The mage seemed surprised, as she herself had been, yet he did not argue with her or seek to change her mind. Keva was warm, but she was not burning with fever, and Caryss lifted her head. Tugging the blankets off of her, she began to unwrap the strips of cotton wool than encircled her midsection. The top layer was white, which meant the bleeding had slowed. Both good signs.

  As she worked, the woman roused.

  With half-opened eyes, she moaned, “Is it time for another feeding?

  “The babe sleeps, as you should,” Caryss whispered, peeling the final layer from her.

  “It is you, leseda.”

  “Aye. But, hush. There will be time to talk after you have rested. I am here to change your dressings.”

  She had hoped to leave on the morrow, but they had delayed the departure by another day. Until Asha could manage the inn and look after Keva, the group would stay.

  Softly, Keva mumbled, “You have done much already.”

  The woman was only half-awake, but her words were sincere ones, and Caryss smiled gently as she reached for clean cotton wool. The incision was still red and the skin around it puckered, but there was no sign of infection, which was victory enough. Near the bed sat a pitcher of peppered ale, and she moved to it, pouring
some into a small, thin glass.

  “Drink this,” she instructed, slowly pouring the amber-colored ale into Keva’s mouth. Some dribbled down her chin, but when the glass was empty, Caryss nodded.

  After a few moments, Keva slept.

  Turning toward Aldric, Caryss said, “I told Herrin of the fennidi. And he has agreed to let use take him there.”

  She reached down and took the babe from Aldric, who stood, stretching his body. It was, Caryss quickly realized, the first time she had held the infant.

  “Does he know of the boy and your plans for him?” Aldric did not need to tell her of which boy he spoke.

  “I told him we would take the eastern route, with a stop in Planusterra first.”

  “But you did not tell him why.”

  “He will know soon enough,” she replied, rocking the babe.

  “Have they named him?” she suddenly asked, finding it strange to know so little.

  “Not that I know,” the mage stated.

  “Otieno is outside the doors,” she told him, although her voice was lower now.

  “You do not like him much,” Aldric laughed.

  “It matters little, I guess. The girl seemed to like him well enough.”

  “Caryss,” Aldric interrupted, with warning behind his words. “You need allies.”

  “The king requested that Otieno come with us.”

  Walking toward her, he said, “Nothing has changed then. He was to come anyway.”

  “I do not need to like him then,” she joked, although both knew there was little jest behind her words.

  When Aldric opened the door, the diauxie stepped back. Caryss quickly handed him the babe, surprising all three. He nearly protested, but she would hear none of it, and walked on, leaving the two men alone.

  Sharron was with the King, and Aldric would find Asha if the babe woke, so she hurried from the inn. At the Academy, Caryss often spent time alone, in thought or in study, yet it had been moons since she could recall time with none near. In another day and a half, they would be gone from Francolla. After a quarter-moon, she still had seen little of the island. Determined to change that, she rushed down the sun-bleached road, away from the town center and toward the shore. Soon, she walked along the sand, her boots leaving deep imprints near the water’s edge.