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

by Cat Bruno

  The Tribesman watched as she turned and walked from the room, tall and graceful, fearless and bold, as if she was not whore but goddess.

  *****

  “You have had enough time. On the morrow, two companies of my men head north. The girl will be taken alive if she releases father without conflict. However, if she or those with her choose to stand against my men, I cannot assure her safety.”

  After nearly an hour of trying to convince his brother of his folly, Crispin had given up, recognizing that there was little else he could do to aid Caryss. He wasn’t certain how Delwin had managed to track her to the north when his own men had not been able to do so. But, he figured, Eirrannia was the most likely place that she would take the King, and the one place that would offer shelter from his brother’s men. Now, he could only hope that the girl would do nothing rash, yet as the thought came to him, Crispin scratched at the scab beneath his eye. Caryss was healer-trained, but she was not without weapons, as he well knew.

  “Delwin, we both want the same thing and that is for father to be returned to us in full health. Better than he left here for certain. The healer has no army with her, and you would do well to inform your men as much. She has oaths, ones that I believe she feels that she is abiding.”

  His brother snorted, the sound echoing through the small chamber that he used as his office. “It seems healing is not the only thing that is taught at the Academy these days, brother.”

  Ignoring the taunt, Crispin replied, “Will you be traveling with the men?”

  “I do not think that nearly a hundred men will need me along to capture one girl, if what you have said is true. There is much to do around her, especially with father gone. You are not king yet, Crispin.”

  “How could I forget when you remind me so often?”

  There would be no peace between Delwin and he, Crispin knew, and, before he could say the words that hung dangerously close to the edge of his tongue, he turned and walked from the room. If he did not mistrust his brother so strongly, he would have himself traveled with the Rexterran Guard. Yet, he would not leave the King’s City to his brother’s watch.

  As he neared his own rooms, Crispin thought of his cousin, who had not yet found Caryss either. Hurriedly, he sat at his desk and composed a hastily written letter informing Willem that his brother’s men believed the girl to be in Eirrannia. In a nearly begging plea, he asked Willem to abandon the Academy once again and head north, as he was one of the few that could convince Caryss to release the King. He hoped this missive would reach Willem, as he still had not heard from him.

  Sealing the letter with crimson wax, the King’s Heir shook his head, wishing he had never met the woman, even if she could heal his father. Too much had changed since her brief visit to the King’s City, and none of it boded well. If the King did not return soon, even more would change. And Rexterra would never again be the same.

  He left the palace and found his fastest rider, instructing him to travel to the Academy with great haste and great discretion, although Willem’s exile now seemed a minor concern. If Willem could return with the King, Delwin would be forced to allow their cousin to remain in the King’s City, and Crispin’s greatest ally would be at his side once again, and at a time when he needed him most. Within a moon, Crispin hoped, all would be as it had been before the strange Northern woman had crossed his path near the piers. There was too much to be done for him to linger long, so Crispin returned to the palace as the rider hurried off, a gray cloak trailing behind him as his large mount galloped through the tall, iron gates that rimmed the outer boundaries of the palace.

  *****

  21

  “Caryss, we cannot keep riding with little purpose. The king worsens, yet you pay him little mind. What is it that you seek to find in these woods?”

  It was Aldric who had expressed his despair, yet Caryss had little doubt that the others felt the same. Sharron had not been wrong about how difficult it would be to find the fennidi, and they had searched for the elusive clan through the foothills of the Faelan Mountains for the last two days. Even Caryss was tiring of sleeping under the skies.

  “Besides the fennidi, you mean? And a possible cure for what ails the King?” she asked, unable to hide the frustration from her words.

  “Is it not clear that they do not want to be found?”

  Sighing, she answered, “It is becoming clear, yes. I had hoped that it would be as easy to find them as it was to find Crispin.”

  “That was a stroke of luck. However, the fennidi live off the land, and have for centuries, changing little from the way their kin and their kin before them lived. They will not appear unless they have reason to. Do not force it if it is not the way,” the mage advised.

  Sharron must have told him more about the fennidi, Caryss realized. She had believed it would be simpler to find them and ask for their aid, yet she was near to concluding that goal was unreachable.

  “Perhaps I have gotten too comfortable of late. We escaped the Grand Palace with ease, and made it to the Cove safely. Once there, we found Otieno, and, with the girl’s help, convinced him to travel here with us, which now seems so foolish. Why would he agree to leave his homeland for a babe who is not yet born? And, Jarek too. He is with us, having left his mother and his home. For what? Aldric, there were times when I was at the Academy when I felt as if hands other than my own were guiding me. When we left, I felt as if I had reclaimed my life. Yet, when I think on all that has come to pass, I wonder.”

  The two rode side by side, and the sky was quickly becoming striped with orange as the sun sunk low behind the eastern edge of the Faelans. Caryss’s hair glowed like polished copper, while Aldric’s nearly black hair only seemed to darken. He was as thin as he had been when she first met him, while her belly now grew round with the babe and her face fuller, as were her breasts. The riding suit she wore clung tightly to her, and she briefly longed for the comfort of her healer’s robe.

  “Caryss,” Aldric interjected, “As much as you would like to forget the babe’s father, you cannot escape that your daughter has blood of the gods in her. Even though you have not seen him of late, do not make the mistake to think that Conri has forgotten you or the girl.”

  “You think he knows where I am?” she asked, tightening her grip on the reins until her hands whitened.

  “I think he knows much, more than you suspect.”

  Pulling her horse from the trail, Caryss declared, “He will not come to me.”

  Jumping down, she called, “We can make camp here, but in the morning we head west. I know how to find the fennidi.”

  After several quiet moments, the others began to unpack, leading the horses away from the treeline and toward a knoll near the stream. Sharron tended to the King, who never fared well in travel. Jarek had sword in hand and was practicing alone. As Caryss moved away from the center of camp, she noticed Otieno and Aldric gathering wood. She said nothing to either as she walked on.

  *****

  22

  It was a quarter-moon before Willem arrived at Concordia Lake, in central Cordisia, a two-day ride from the Planusian border. He was one of only a few who knew where Nicoline had taken the boy, and, as he rode, he wondered what she would make of his arrival, more so since he had sent no word of his plans.

  His decision to leave had been a hasty one, yet Master Rova had not tried to change his mind. The two had even discussed Bronwen, and it seemed as if the old Master knew more than he had shared, although Rova believed her to still be in the King’s City. Willem offered nothing to convince him otherwise.

  In two days time he would meet the boy, the true firstborn of Crispin. In two days time, he would be Rexterran once more, even one in a different land. The thought sent a shiver across his body, and when it ceased, Willem again thought of Bronwen.

  “What have you done?” he whispered, knowing there was none to hear his words.

  *****

  They had been following the Domahaacron River through the
Faelan Mountains, and, as it was late summer, the trip was not a difficult one. The cart got stuck at least once per day, which would require the group to stop until Otieno freed it. The river flowed from the northwest corner of Eirrannia to the center, connecting the Sea of Mist with the Falk River, which then flowed into Concordia Lake. To reach the Tribelands, they would have to cross the Domahaacron, but they had not yet come upon a bridge. Even Sharron had never been as far west as they were now, so none knew if such a bridge even existed.

  There was no land so beautiful, Caryss thought, staring at the high-grassed fields that flowered yellow and white.

  It was in a field like this that my parents died.

  The thought had come upon her quickly and she lifted a quivering hand to her lips. Overhead, the sky was clear, blue and serene, as it had been for much of their travel since finding Jarek. She turned in her saddle to look back to the others, the falling sun large and round, and so bright that her hand moved from mouth to eyes.

  When she looked again, a shadow crossed, darkening the glowing orb with a streak of black. Caryss pulled at the reins, forcing her horse to stop.

  As she watched, the shadow grew larger, until her vision was black and blurred from staring so near the sun. For a moment she looked away to clear the pulsing dots from her eyes, and, when she looked back, the shadow was gone. A hunting bird, she thought, remembering how near to the coast they now were. In Tretoria, the birds were gulls, smaller and greater in number as opposed to the silver-topped hawks found in Eirrannia.

  Before she released her hold on the bridle, Caryss searched for Otieno, who rode just behind her, and then watched as Aldric jumped from his mount. She opened her mouth to question him, but a sudden noise silenced her as Otieno joined the mage on the ground, sword in hand. She had not seen him draw the blade, and her horse danced beneath her, tapping its feet and pulling at its bit, forcing her to pull tighter on the reins.

  Finally, she, too, leaped from her horse, and, when Otieno noticed, he called out, “Caryss! Behind me. Now!”

  His words were harsh and his voice was unlike anything she had heard from him, leaving her little option but to listen. She hurriedly tied her horse off to the nearest tree then rushed toward him, her vision still half-mired in darkness.

  “Jarek, to my right!” she heard Otieno call. “Draw your sword!”

  Aldric was positioned in front of the others, hands at his side, palms outward. In one of them, a red orb, small and flickering, burned.

  Just as she was about to ask what was happening, a shriek interrupted her. A long, high-pitched cackle rang from the sky, echoing through the shallow valley until her arms prickled and her words vanished.

  Again, the sound came, closer, until her ears echoed with the ringing cries.

  Somehow, Caryss suddenly understood and reached for the dagger in her pouch. Still her head ached with the shrill cawing. Yet her hands steadied, despite her thumping life pulse.

  From the sky came a bird, pale and silvery except for its head, which glistened black, a black so sleek and shining that it reflected the grass and sky, as if earth and air traveled with it. Its size was impressive, too large to be a hawk or even a falcon.

  Crow, she thought, although she had expected it to be all black.

  Before she could warn the others, Otieno moved, braids flying behind him, his longsword in hand. As the diauxie rushed forward, the ground beneath him shuddered, causing Caryss to sway. When she had regained her balance, she looked up to see the nearly translucent feathers, as if they had been dipped in moonlight, angling toward Otieno’s side.

  The bird was no longer bird.

  Now, he was a man, pale-skinned with dark, midnight-stained hair, eyes black and hungry.

  “No!” she screamed, looking toward Jarek, whose arm shook where he held the shortsword.

  When she screamed, the birdman veered, just enough for her to lunge toward Jarek, pushing the boy behind her. Her dagger crackled in the sunlight, the dark blade as gleaming as a gem, dazzling and deadly.

  Above them, the sun dimmed, and Caryss noticed two more crows flying at them. The first was near enough to see his face, bird-like once again. But his gaze was more.

  Another black-headed bird dove, screeching, mouth open and unexpectedly teethed. Just as the bird dropped, it turned back to man and wings became pale arms. In one of them was a silver-tipped sword, as long and thin as the man himself. His legs were covered in black suede, as any man might wear, feathers no longer visible. His face surprised her most.

  He looked nothing like Conri. Had he, Caryss might have hesitated, faltered. Instead, she slashed.

  Before the Crow could swing, Otieno turned his head to where she now stood, steps away, but the Crow had been quicker than he, and her scream had drawn his attention.

  The small dagger, its blade no longer than the Crow’s hand, caught him across his whitened neck. Without thought, Caryss sliced, as if she held a healer’s lancet. From right to let, she dragged the blade’s tip, opening the Crow’s neck in an even, straight line.

  As he fell onto her, blood poured from his throat, red and smooth. The impact knocked Caryss to the ground, and she gasped as her back slammed against the soft grass. The man was heavy on top of her, his face pressed against her chest. He did not move.

  Struggling to push the bloody body from her, Caryss choked and heaved. Feeling as if she could not breathe, she began gagging. Otieno rushed to her, kicking at the crimson-soaked Crow until the body rolled onto the ground, trailing blood. Her hands were sticky and wet as the diauxie reached for her, pulling her up.

  He said nothing, yet his face was flushed and his eyes angry. He turned from her, in time to see the other two Crows descending.

  From chest to navel, she was saturated with the Crow’s blood, until she felt as if she was drowning. The smell, too, was enough to make her gag again, even though she was well accustomed to death. Healer half her life had not prepared her for what it was like to kill, and Caryss bent in half and heaved, unaware of what was happening around her as her eyes closed and her stomach churned. Vomit mixed with blood and mud, and Caryss shook with repulsion.

  As she wiped her mouth on her untainted shoulder, her life pulse raced beneath her stained tunic. She wanted nothing more than to tear the shirt free, for nearly all of it was now covered in blood and filth. Yet, steps from her, the battle continued. When she next looked up, toward Aldric, she noticed how his flame had grown to cover his whole hand. Otieno had his eyes to the sky and his hand tightly held his Greatsword, the one he rarely used. She had not seen him unsheathe it, yet he stood readied, his legs thick and low.

  What came next happened so quickly that Caryss had little time to react. From the sky came a screech so shrill that she thought all of Eirrannia could hear it as a silver-feathered, gray-headed bird plunged from the sky. Just as the feathers began to fade, Aldric threw the fiery orb into the air, interrupting the flight and striking the Crow heavy in the chest. Where the orb hit, fire exploded, turning the mass of feathers into screaming flames, orange and yellow, rivaling the sunset. The air was hot and smelled of singed flesh and feather. But Caryss had no time to cry out, for the last Crow was nearly upon Otieno.

  She needn’t have worried. The crow never made it. Before it could reach the ground, Otieno leaped up from his stance, swinging the sword as he growled, a noise that seemed to come from earth and soil instead of from man.

  Caryss watched, wide-eyed and stunned, as the Greatsword struck between the man’s legs, for he had at some point shape-changed. But Otieno did not stop. With bulging muscles straining at his already tight tunic, he heaved upward. As the Crow came upon him, Otieno swung, splitting the man in two. From groin to neck he was sliced, until his body crashed to the grass. The sharp, long blade had slit the man into two halves, although his head, darker than the others, was still attached to both pieces.

  From his lower half seeped organ, bile, and shit, and Caryss’s knees collapsed beneath her, until she kn
eeled where she had fallen, sitting back on her heels with her hand over eyes. When she tried to scream, no sound came nor breath either. His sword, the Greatsword with the mysterious history, was like none other, she now knew.

  They were dead, all three Crows bloody and torn asunder, lying in stinking piles in an arc around her. When Caryss felt a hand on her shoulder, she did not rise or cry out.

  Letting her chin fall to her chest, she whispered groggily, “Will there be more?”

  “Not yet,” Aldric told her, coming close and wrapping an arm around her.

  As he helped her rise, he explained, “They were few, a scouting party I would guess. But there will be others when those three do not return. We must go. Can you walk?”

  She nodded, looking about and searching for the others. Jarek, she realized with joy, was untouched and blood-free, sheathing his sword. Sharron leaped from the back of the cart, pale, yet fine, and rushed toward her. Otieno was dragging the bodies into a heap, for what purpose Caryss did not know.

  Into the silence, she asked Aldric, “How are two dead when no atraglacia touched them?”

  “Mage-fire has been known to kill low-ranking Tribe, especially Crows. I know less of how Otieno killed the third. His sword is not one that I have seen elsewhere. Yet, dead is dead.”

  When she said nothing, he reached for her, putting his hand, still warm and faintly throbbing, on her own. “It is no small thing to take a life, Caryss. We should discuss it.”

  “I cannot go back to the Academy,” was her only reply, her vows heavy and loud as they rang through her head.

  “There are other paths to walk,” he told her.

  “I will never be Master Healer without returning.”

  “Perhaps. But you are Rexaria still.”

  “I was healer first. Rexaria, mother of the wolf, king-thief. All names that I was given. Healer, I earned.”