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

by Cat Bruno

  “I have traveled little, but you must head northwest, away from the sea and toward the border with Eirrannia. The Tri-Peaks is an area where Planusterra, Planusia, and Eirrannia meet, just south of the Faelan Mountains. Several miles south the farm sits. Head west until you reach the Vollaxo River and then follow it north. A day’s ride in, you will come upon a small village. Take the road west from there and you will find our farmstead, marked by a bolt of lightning across an iron gate.”

  “How long on horseback?” she asked, unsure if he would know the answer.

  As he shook his head, bits of light scattered around them.

  “A few days at most.”

  When Caryss nodded, he added, “My mother knows that you are coming. I told her it would be so. While it will not be easy to leave her or the farm, I know that I must.”

  Her eyes were tear-filled as she listened to the boy, although Caryss did not understand why.

  “With me is a man who will teach you the ways of the sword. He is without rival, as you might be if you train hard. Think long on what you will do, Jarek. We are bound for Eirrannia.”

  The light around him shifted, as the blood she had offered seeped into the dirt beneath their boots, and she had to strain to hear his last words.

  “I decided a moon ago what I would do. My bags are readied.”

  The flickering image of fog and light collapsed before vanishing altogether. It had been a struggle for him to stay, much harder than for the girl, Caryss thought. But he had heard her call, and had given her enough to find him.

  Wiping at her muddied pants, she moved toward the front of the inn, tired and hungry. As she hobbled by several closely-spaced shops with colorful awnings, the smell of blood drew her eyes from the pebbled street. Her stomach rumbled loudly, causing a deep blush to spread across her cheeks. Wiping at her burning cheeks with the back of her wrapped hand, Caryss spied a butcher across the wide street, and recognized the scent of freshly cut meat. To control the urge that had suddenly overtaken her, she bit at her knuckle, until the taste of her own blood lingered on her tongue.

  As quickly as she could, Caryss made her way back to the inn, running from the temptation that she struggled to fight. Pushing through the doors of the inn, she stumbled back to where Sharron still sat. With vision edged in a shadowy red and through a bloody haze, she saw that Otieno had joined the other healer.

  Falling into an empty chair, she gasped, “I must eat something.”

  Her hands shook when she placed them on the table, and her head was heavy. Yet, even still her vision did not clear as Otieno pushed a mug of watered wine into her hands.

  “Please,” she whispered to them, “I do not know what else to do to control it.”

  “Eat this,” Sharron called to her, as if she was across the room, her voice haunting and distant.

  With a spoon forced into her hand, Caryss ate. In a daze, she spooned stew into her mouth, over and over, until the bowl was empty.

  When she looked up, Sharron asked, “What happened to your hand?”

  Before she could answer, Otieno leaned in, and, with a voice full of disapproval, said, “She drew forth the earth magic again. And now her body is paying the price.”

  “Caryss,” Sharron hissed, “Give me your hand.”

  In response, she lifted her hand, the cotton wool falling off after having been poorly tied.

  But it was not the long-fingered hand of the other healer that grasped her bloody knuckles.

  “I care not how many gods watch over you, leseda,” Otieno growled as he grabbed her offered hand. “None will be able to breathe life back into your body when the earth magic claims your soul.”

  “I just needed to eat,” she mumbled, shaking her head to free it from her ringing words.

  “Only a fool thinks such! Tell me true. Can you see me?”

  When she had not responded, he leaned in closer, so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek and smell the wine on his lips as he hissed, “Can you see me?”

  “Yes, but not clearly,” she told him. “All appears as if it has been dripped in red.”

  The diauxie released her hand, although much of it was numb, as if half of her body no longer worked.

  “In the future, leave the magic to those of us who have learned to temper it,” he warned.

  From across the table, Sharron’s words came, cutting into the battle between Otieno and Caryss and silencing them both.

  “Let it be for now. There must have been a reason for her to call upon it.”

  Otieno pushed himself from the table, throwing his chair to the floor. The impact was enough to cause others to look. Still weak, Caryss said nothing else. In her silence, she thought on how much she disliked the diauxie. Yet, she needed his weapon mastery, and, now, with more understanding, she needed his knowledge of the dark magic. She needed him for the girl and for Jarek. If not, she would have left him at the inn, she thought, dizzy and nauseous.

  Her voice raspy, she told Sharron, “I know where to find the boy.”

  She felt Sharron’s fingers grip her own. “I guessed as much. But Otieno is not wrong, Caryss. You risk too much each time you use the earth magic. We are healers, not mages. Leave the magic to the others.”

  “There seemed no other way,” she mumbled. “But I understand your concerns. Sharron, when we return to the Academy, I will tell Master Rova of all that you have done. This is not just my Healer’s Journey, but yours as well. You will have long earned your robes when the moon year is up.”

  The woman looked at her strangely at the mention of the Academy.

  “Watching you with the King reminds me of what my duties were to be. Without your help, I could not make this trip. You are kin to me, more so than any other I have know, except Sheva,” Caryss added, placing a hand over Sharron’s, her bloody knuckles still unwashed.

  In reply, Sharron said, “Without the girl, I would have died that day when I fell from the tree. She saved me, and now you have given me a chance to balance the scales. Caryss, your path has changed, but your heart has not. I watch you struggle. I watch the doubt and fear cross through your eyes, and I wish I could ease your burden. You were meant to be more than a healer, even though you are as fine a healer as any at the Academy. You are sister to me as and will remain so until the mountains crumble and the rivers dry up.”

  “I do not deserve you, Sharron,” Caryss whispered, looking away.

  “Roim a faidh, an taoh se eirgh.”

  The words were treasonous ones and had been for moon years. Yet, between the two women, the words were an understanding. Caryss realized now, more so than she had before, who Sharron was, and, more, why she had committed her life to both mother and child.

  Eirrannia was calling them home. The rivers ran fierce and free, tempting them to sip at their cool waters. The mountains raged tall and noble, reminding them of the history written in their eyes and on their bodies. The trees swayed, rooted deep in the dark soil, mysteriously and thoughtfully, echoing the songs of their souls and the magic buried deep there.

  In time, the North would rise.

  Leading their charge would be a girl with hair as dark as night, like her father’s, but with eyes as green as the grass of her mother’s people. The eyes of her grandfather, murdered and forgotten.

  The call of the North silenced anything else they might say so they sat quietly, waiting.

  *****

  Caryss and Sharron were still seated when Aldric arrived, flushed and unkempt, but satisfied.

  He called out to them as he hurried in, “I have never seen horses as the ones that they have here. Each one I looked at seemed hardier than the one before. Beauties, nearly the whole lot. Brown or roans, grays, a few as black as night.”

  The women laughed as he sat down, exchanging glances, he noticed.

  “You would hardly believe it. West of here, on the edges of town, there is a large paddock where horses roam. All can be bought. And for a fair price as well. I had no room t
o complain.”

  “Do you talk of horses or women?” Sharron teased.

  “Alas, only horses. I was able to outfit a cart for the King as well. To be true, it is but a small wagon, pulled by a single horse, but it is covered. He should be able to rest without discomfort.”

  “Did you get a horse for the boy?” Caryss asked.

  With a nod, he told her, “Aye, I found a nice gelding for the boy. And a mare large enough that the diauxie will not crush her. For you I found a silver mare with a gentle disposition and steady gait. And two even-tempered geldings for Sharron and myself.”

  “Well-done, Aldric,” Caryss told him, although her words were low.

  “Has Otieno learned aught of the boy’s location?” he asked.

  There was a pause, during which Aldric noticed that Caryss’s hand had been freshly wrapped in linens, her palm covered in white strips. And he understood what he had missed and why she appeared pale.

  “How far is he from here?”

  Caryss did not look at him as she answered, “Two-day ride. We head west until we meet the river then follow it north. Before the Tri-Peaks, we head west again, and the boy is near there.”

  “Have you told Herrin of the plans yet?” Aldric asked, his eyes watching Caryss.

  When she said nothing, he told her, disapprovingly, “For the boy’s sake, you must tell the King. Soon, Caryss. Even though he might not be a threat now, his history with the boy is not something that we can ignore.”

  Getting up from the table, she said, “I will find him now and explain.”

  When Caryss was gone from the room, Aldric addressed Sharron. “Does Otieno know of what she did?”

  “He lectured her, to be sure, and the divide between them grows deeper. I have tried to get her to understand that his concerns have merit.”

  “They do not have to like one another overmuch. There were men who I fought beside that, had I not been hired to defend them, I would have put a sword in their chests. She was there to see how fond the girl is of him. And, more, how well he taught her. That will be enough to keep the peace.”

  “Both true, Aldric, but Caryss has suffered much at the hands of men. In my time at the clinic, I came to learn how difficult it can be for many women to be at ease with men after a violent encounter. While Otieno has done nothing to her, Caryss has little ability to trust him.”

  “What of me? I think we all have seen how withdrawn she has become these last few moons. In truth, I feared for her. It was only in the Cove that I saw her as the woman I had first met at the Academy.”

  Nodding, Sharron softly explained, “You are kin to Kennett, who long provided support to her. Perhaps that is enough. But, be gentle with her, for now.”

  “Sharron, we cannot let her just act on whim, no matter her past. While I am vowed to serve her, I will not do so blindly.”

  “To be sure, none of us should,” Sharron hastily agreed. “We must keep her safe, even when she might not agree with our ways.”

  “Aye. I am glad that we have had this talk. On the morrow, we leave then. This boy interests me deeply, I must admit.”

  “How long until Crispin hears of this? And what will he make of it?” Sharron asked, her voice low enough that none could hear.

  Stretching his fingers wide, their tips burning, he told her, “He has cared little for the boy for ten moon years. Perhaps he meant to keep him safe, but the boy will thank him little. He is first-born, and should be prince himself one day. Mayhap Herrin will make it so, once he has come to know him.”

  “Do you think such could be done? If Herrin had his way moon years past, the boy would be dead.”

  Aldric was silent for a long moment. Across from him sat Sharron, who had only recently began offering more than just courteous words. For moons, she had followed in near silence after Caryss, as if heartsick over the other healer. If he was being truthful, Aldric knew that he too had offered little resistance to her whims and wishes. Even now, he followed, making way to the boy.

  “Mayhap you’re right, Sharron,” he sighed, “And the King will not soften once he gets to know the boy. Since he was a babe, Jarek has been hidden, yet, with his enemies at our back, Caryss plans to ride to him.”

  With another sigh, he told her, “Sometimes I think myself mad. Other times a fool. Yet still I follow.”

  When he looked up, Sharron’s face was pale, her eyes gray and serious.

  “Even Caryss doubts this path we travel, Aldric. There will be times when we all want to step off, or times when we want to turn back. But we must carry on.”

  Rising, she whispered, “Look forward, mage, to the one still unborn. It is for her that we walk at all.”

  He met her eyes with his own, fading and aging. “You think I forget?”

  A hand reaching for his, Sharron told him, “We all forget. Around us is peace. Even in the North the mercenaries have quieted the last few moon years. Rexterra builds and prospers, her people fed and housed. I know not what fate awaits Rexterra, but for my people, we want self-rule, as it once was. It is easy to forget the battles moon years after they have ended, but we must not. For even the unwise know that sword will be lifted again, and it is swords that Caryss covets.”

  Sharron pulled him toward her, and Aldric rose. Together, they walked toward the stairs, climbing them and looking for Caryss.

  She must be with the King, Aldric thought.

  When Sharron released his hand, he turned toward her. Their earlier words heavy on his mind, he held a hand up, and explained, “I have traveled far in my days, across the Eastern Sea and beyond. I have seen much and speak on it little. Each time I was in Eirrannia, I could not help but wonder what makes them so despised, as they were kind and welcoming. Perhaps it is because I am mage myself, but I felt at home there and look forward to visiting the North once again.”

  Laughing softly, her long neck exposed as her head tilted back, Sharron teased, “The North is home to muse and misfit alike. We fear none and welcome all. Yet, we are feared and unwelcomed across much of Cordisia. A strange riddle, I think.”

  Like this, without the light of Caryss casting a shadow across her, Sharron beamed. And he saw her anew.

  His lips curved upward, Aldric said, “Those with mage-skill are often feared. And so it is with Eirrannians. Cordisia has long heard the tales of Luna and her children. Kissed by the moon are those of the North, and mad with it, some say.”

  “Aye, some are unable to handle the mage-taint and grow weary or wild. That is why we are not admitted to the mage-guild. Is it not, Aldric? Rexterra does not want us to grow too strong in our powers.”

  Sharron understood much and her mind was sharp. Aldric liked her more each day, he realized, listening to her with interest.

  “I have not heard it stated so, but I do not doubt that truth. Many in the guild think on the north as untamed and untrained. We learn at an early age the rules of mage-craft. Without boundaries, the guild teaches, our magic will destroy us.”

  He watched as understanding crossed her face. Sharron knew little of his past, yet his clothing did not bear the patches of the Mage-Guild, nor had it for moon years. As an exile, he no longer had the right.

  They stood just outside her door, where, inside, the King lay, accompanied by Caryss, Aldric guessed. He shook his head at the thought, having never imagined himself to be so near the Rexterran king, not since he had been accused of using the Dark Arts.

  “And those who seek to go beyond the boundaries are forced out. Is that not so?”

  His nod was answer enough.

  “You will indeed be welcomed in the North, Aldric,” Sharron mused.

  Soft, yet insistent, her words cast a mist across the hallway, settling him and granting momentary peace.

  Stepping back from her, he leaned against his own door and turned to grab the bronze handle. Before he opened it, he looked back at her.

  “Why do you think the boy wants to join us?” he asked.

  With a shrug of her s
houlders, the movement slow and enchanting, Sharron called, “He time-walks just as the girl does. He is misfit, too, Aldric, abandoned by the man he should have called father.”

  “Aye,” Aldric agreed, “But he is more. This boy could be king.”

  Rushing across the hall, and looking about as if to make certain none would hear her next words, Sharron grabbed at his tunic.

  Pulling him into an embrace, she whispered into his ear, “A king in the south, just as, moon years from now, a new queen might rise in the north. Do you see the path Caryss walks now, Aldric?”

  “Cordisia will be hers!” he gasped, lifting scarred, yellowed fingers to his gaping mouth.

  “Rexaria,” Sharron breathed into his ear.

  He did not need to ask where she had heard the word. It was an old one, from a time of ancients and legends, the language lost but to page and quill. Aldric knew it still.

  Kingmaker.

  *****

  “All I ask is for you to meet him.”

  “He is the son of a whore.”

  “His mother, from what I know of her, was no such thing. She was priestess in training when Crispin met her,” Caryss countered, trying to keep her words even.

  “The boy’s mother was born in a brothel, a daughter of a whore,” Herrin mumbled, gruff and grave. “There will be none such who carry my name.”

  She nearly laughed at his anger, for he was lying half-naked, his robe sweat-soaked and stained as the poppy milk withdrawal continued. Herrin was still weak, and, even now, his eyes were fog-touched and his hands trembled. The king, as it was, seemed less like a threat and more like a doddering old man, she thought.

  As she wiped his chest with a soap-scented linen, she told him, “Perhaps he will not want your name, my lord.”

  His rash-covered, pock-marked hand struck her cheek as he waved it about in dismissal of her words. But the King was frail, and the pain was slight as Caryss continued to wash him.

  “All men want the Mannacore name,” Herrin told her, his hands falling wanly to his sides.

  “He is a boy,” she scolded, “And wants what any might. A chance to explore and learn beyond his mother’s skirts.”