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

by Cat Bruno

  With a smile, he replied, “I once told you that you were not the lamb you pretended to be, Caryss, and, again, I am reminded of that. While the girl grows and learns, Cordisia will battle. But when she is ready, she will return, with army and power. No one’s weapon but her own.”

  “And the North will rise,” Caryss whispered, clear-eyed.

  “Just so,” Willem answered.

  Not for the first time, Caryss wished that she could love him.

  “We must leave Cordisia.”

  Her words were the truest ones that she had ever spoken.

  He nodded, “Yes. The fight coming is not hers.”

  “Where will we go?” she asked, the Northern breeze carrying her words across the courtyard for any to hear.

  “To lands that offer safety and swords,” he told her.

  Sighing, Caryss said, “I feel as if I am running from a mess that I helped create.”

  Shaking his head, he told her, “You are but a player, Caryss, in a game that started long before you were born.”

  Rising from the bench, she nearly complained that she had not wanted to play. But she knew that mattered little.

  When they reached the door, she asked, “What of the North? Am I not abandoning them in their time of need?”

  Laughing, he said, “You are a healer, Caryss, not a fighter. What you might not know is that Eirrannia has long known this battle was coming, and they are prepared. It is not you whom they need.”

  “They will wait for her.”

  “Indeed,” he answered, as she pushed open the door.

  *****

  For nearly a moon Pietro had traveled, all by foot, as was required for a Healer Journey. Often tempted to barter for a horse, he continued with a nearly empty purse and boots that had worn thin. There had only been two nights when he had not had a roof to sleep under, and even those had not been as bad as he had feared. The land was now familiar to him, and he knew that within a day he would arrive at the gates of the King’s City.

  Pietro lived as if he was a Master in training, healing and tending to small injuries as he made his way east, although he did not hurry as the Tribesman had commanded. Despite his worry over what would happen once in the King’s City, Pietro found himself enjoying his Healer Journey, and tried to commit much of it to memory, knowing that he would have to report to the Master Council at the end of the moon year.

  Some moments he would omit, such as the time spent with the golden-haired Planusian beauty. The next morning, as she lay blushed and sleeping, he had quietly departed. After two hours of walking, he had collapsed, sleeping beneath an orange-leaved tree, only waking when a small child found him. It had been too long since the fire had taken him, and he had forgotten how exhausted he always felt after its departure.

  A light rain had been falling all morning, but as the skies darkened and the rain came harder, Pietro hurried to find shelter. There were several buildings around him, and, after a moment of searching, he discovered an inn, running to it as water dripped from his hair and down his face. Just after he entered the crowded room, a man came up to him, half-bowing.

  “Are those healers’ robes, sir?” the man called in a voice heavy from the hills, the words thick and clipped.

  Wiping at his face with the back of his sleeve and adjusting his eyes to the dimly-lit room, Pietro answered, “Soon to be Master’s robes, once I finish out my Healer Journey.”

  Upon closer look, Pietro noticed the man appeared pale, as if he was unwell, and his hands were trembling.

  “Are you unwell?” Pietro asked.

  “No, not me, sir, but my son. A few days ago, he was helping me in the kitchen and he sliced his finger. It did not appear to be so bad, but he has been abed all day. I am the innkeeper here, and my son is a good lad. If you would be so kind as to tend to him, you can stay the night and have as much food and drink as would suit you.”

  With a nod, Pietro called, “Show me to the boy.”

  Following as the man led him past tables and through other dusky rooms, Pietro nearly ran into the innkeeper when he stopped in a small room. It was dotted with tapering candles, and soft light revealed a small cot and two wooden chairs. When the man pointed, Pietro hurried to the cot, finding a shivering, gray-skinned boy tucked beneath several blankets.

  Pietro pulled a chair toward the bed, untying several pouches from his belt and setting them within his reach. Without even touching the boy, he knew that the cut, which he had not yet seen, had become diseased and was affecting the rest of his body. It was not uncommon, although in one so young, it was less so.

  Reaching for the boy’s hand, which was wrapped in clean linen, Pietro asked, “What was he cutting?”

  “Chicken, sir, which he has done many times. I do not know what made the knife slip.”

  Neither talked further as Pietro cut the cloth from the boy’s hand, unraveling it and revealing a nearly severed finger. It had not blackened, as he thought it might. As quickly as he could, Pietro emptied out the pouch that carried several medium-sized bottles, grabbing one filled with a clear liquid. With steady hands, he poured the liquid over the split finger, and as it bubbled, the boy woke with a scream.

  “Hold him down,” Pietro called to the man, leaning further onto the boy to keep him still.

  After the man stood at the top of the cot and reached for the boy’s uninjured arm, placing it between his much larger hands before half-sitting on the boy’s chest, Pietro reached for a long, thin needle and thread. As quickly as he could, he reattached the finger, weaving the dark, thick thread until a nearly complete arc of black crosses circled it. The boy had settled, although he still had not fully wakened.

  As he wrapped the finger in fresh linen, Pietro said, “The wound will need to be cleaned every other day and fresh dressings applied. After a moon, the stitching must be taken out with the tip of a knife that has been cleaned and fired. It might be moons before the boy has full use of his hand, if he survives the infection that has spread throughout his body.”

  The man paled. “Is there nothing more you can do for him? I have coin to pay.”

  “I can take no coin, but food and a room will gladly be accepted. The boy will need to take a spoonful of a tonic that I will leave with you each morning and night. The bottle will last a quarter-moon, and does much to heal infection. If he has not recovered by then, nothing more can be done for him.”

  Rising from the bed, the man half-sobbed, “Your arrival was well-timed, healer, and whatever you need will be yours, as well as my thanks.”

  The man’s face was red-splotched now, causing Pietro to look away as he followed him from the room. After climbing a wide staircase, the innkeeper stopped, reaching for the keys hanging from his belt. His hand shook, and the metal clanged, echoing through the empty hall. When the door was finally opened, Pietro hurried in, wanting little more than to replace his wet and muddy robe.

  Before the man could leave, he told him, “After some food and ale, I will check on your son again.”

  With a nod, the innkeeper closed the door, and Pietro tore the robe from his body. There was no mirror in the room, and little more than a feathered cot and table, but he knew that he had grown thinner since leaving the Academy. Without the monthly stipend from his father, he was living like the other healers who had journeyed. As Bronwen did too, he guessed.

  Sitting naked on the cot, he thought of her, of where she could be, and of the Tribesman who had taken an interest in her. His hatred for her had lessened, he realized, wondering anew what she had done to attract notice. Over the last moon, he thought much on Bronwen, especially of her babe. The Tribesman planned to kill her, although he hoped that he would be able to convince his cousin of the folly of such an action.

  Pulling the cleanest robe he had from his satchel, Pietro dressed.

  As he neared the door, he muttered, “If only he could forget us both.”

  Later, seated at a brick-paved bar, Pietro thought more on his options. His golden f
ingers combed through his hair, which had grown longer, dipped in sunlight and shining. With a mug cupped between his hands, Pietro thought of leaving, heading north or west instead of east to the King’s City. Yet, the man’s face, white and ashen, his teeth sharp and his eyes nearly black, appeared behind his own eyes.

  He was a healer, having had no skill during his singular moon year spent training in the King’s City, before he entered the Academy. Pietro knew that he would be no match for the Tribesman, nor could he count on any to offer him assistance.

  On the morrow, he would travel to the King’s City and then to the Grand Palace. And his Healer Journey would cease. Little other choice remained, he knew.

  *****

  25

  Securing an audience with Prince Delwin was not as easy as Pietro had expected it to be, and few remembered who he was after his long absence. In the end, he had used his father’s name to finally gain entrance to the Grand Palace, which still stung as he tapped his sandaled foot against the marble floor, waiting for Delwin to join him. For most of the afternoon, he had been waiting, with little to do and afraid to leave the room for fear of missing the prince. Several times he had emptied his healer’s pouches, writing an inventory of what he would need to replace.

  In just over a moon’s time, he had gone through more supplies than he had planned, and, if the Tribesman had been correct, he would need much more before trying to heal King Herrin. There had been rumors, even when he was a small child, of the King being in poor health, but, now, he realized something must have changed, especially if Bronwen had become involved. He still could not make sense of why neither she nor any other of the established Masters had traveled to the King, but it was a question that he hoped to ask his cousin, if he ever showed up.

  As the room started to darken and the sun vanished, the door behind him swung open. Swiftly, Pietro rose.

  Accompanied by several guards, Delwin entered, looking much the same as he had many moons years before, when Pietro had left for the Academy.

  With no introduction, the Prince called, “One of my men informed me that you requested an urgent meeting. Make it quick, for I have little time.”

  There were three guards behind the Prince, all with sword and shield, and, Pietro noticed, Delwin wore two swords as well. His hands were moist and, for a moment, he could not speak.

  He had been long gone from Rexterra, and stuttered, “My Lord Prince, I have come from the Academy, a moon into my Healer Journey. At the end of the moon year, I will be a Master Healer full and full and prepared to return to the King’s City to serve the realm if she will have me.”

  There was more he needed to say, but Delwin interrupted, “Yes, I see the robes, boy, and I am no fool to as to what they mean.”

  When he would have responded, Delwin leapt toward him, cheeks ablaze and eyes gold and shining, and said, “Do you know the healer, Caryss?”

  “I know none by that name, my lord,” he replied, shaking his head and backing away from the Prince.

  Slamming his hands onto the table, Delwin screamed, “I knew her to be a lying whore! My brother is more fool than I had even thought to believe her to be healer-trained. When I find the fire-haired witch, she will burn for all Rexterra to see!”

  “Wait!” Pietro cried, “There was a healer who set out for her own Healer Journey moons before I did, my lord, and, it might be the same one you spoke of, but I knew her by a different name. However, I have heard her called fire-haired.”

  Delwin turned and stared at him so deeply that Pietro’s knees nearly buckled. He waited as Delwin watched him, as if trying to decide if his words were truth or not.

  Finally, Delwin demanded, “Was she from the North, this girl you know?”

  When Pietro nodded, Delwin smiled, although it did nothing to ease his fears. He swallowed hard as Delwin loudly dropped into a chair, uncertain if he should sit as well. His doubt lasted just moments as the Prince pulled another chair from the table and told him to use it.

  After they were both seated and facing each other, Delwin asked, “Tell me all you know of this healer, and forget nothing, even if you think it matters little.”

  There was no more time for hesitation, and, despite his reluctance, he haltingly said, “My lord, Bronwen, whom you know as Caryss it seems, is the reason why I am in the King’s City and why it was necessary that I speak with you. Before I left Tretoria, I was visited by a man that wanted me to deliver a message to you.”

  “What man?” Delwin interjected, laying a hand on his sword.

  “A Tribesman,” Pietro barely managed to reply.

  He waited for the prince to react to his words, yet none came. As if he expected them, Pietro feared.

  “Tell me all that he said.”

  And so Pietro told his cousin all that the Tribesman had said, pausing often to add details that he remembered or to answer Delwin’s questions. He explained how the man had first found him, how each visit concerned Bronwen, and how he seemed to know much of what was occurring in the King’s City, including the King’s illness, which Delwin still had not confirmed. What interested Delwin the most was the idea that Bronwen was in the Tribelands, and he made Pietro explain twice what the man had told him. When he had finished, the night sky was dark and the room was lit softly with orb-lights. And Prince Delwin was quiet.

  “Is it true about the King?” Pietro finally mumbled, uneasy in the silence.

  “That he is with the girl? Yes, although I had no part of it, nor would I have allowed it. This healer has committed high treason, and, when I find her, she will face trial. My men are within a day’s ride of the Tribelands, as I was until I hurried back here to attend other matters. Before the moon is out, she will be located.”

  “What of your father?” Pietro asked, dropping his gaze.

  “You have told me more than my own men. If what the Tribesman said is true, then he is still alive. When he is found, my men will bring him back here, and the Masters will tend to him.”

  Delwin rose, but before he could leave, Pietro called, “My lord, the girl is a healer and has taken an oath to do no harm to any she might come across. I do not believe she would seek to harm the King.”

  Slamming the chair into the heavy, wooden table, Delwin spit, “Healer-trained or not, she committed high treason. She could have killed him when she took him from the palace and from the care of the Masters here!”

  “My lord,” Pietro stuttered, “Bronwen is one of the best healers the Academy has ever known. Your father could find none better.”

  Thrusting a finger into Pietro’s reddening face, Delwin roared, “Hold your tongue, boy, or you might be joining her in a cell!”

  Pietro did not move, nor did he answer as he waited for Delwin to back away from him. Beads of spittle covered his face, yet he held his hands in his lap, afraid to further upset the Prince. When Delwin moved toward the door, Pietro slowly lifted his chin, watching as he raised his hand to remove the warding.

  Just as he was about to exit the room, Delwin addressed his men, “See the healer to a room and keep a guard outside. When I leave for the North, he will be accompanying me.”

  As the door closed, Pietro dropped his head into his hands, realizing that the Tribesman had not been wrong. He would be going north, yet it was not as he had thought. For a moon, he had traveled freely, living and healing as the Master Council required. Now, his travel would no longer be his own.

  I will be more prisoner than healer, he thought, as he rose and followed the uniformed guards from the room.

  As he trailed the Prince’s men, he searched for the anger he often had for the healer, only to find that it was no longer there.

  *****

  “How does he fare, Gregorr?”

  “Improved,” the fennidi chimed. “And much stronger than when I first arrived. His body is healing and he has been able to walk across the courtyard on several occasions.”

  Caryss had learned much from the man, surprised each time he suggested
an herb or a tonic that she had not thought to use. He reminded her much of Kennet, and she doubted there was much that he did not know or seek to understand. Like Kennet, too, he had become quite talkative, although he joked and laughed more often than her old friend. Jarek was already taller than the man, and, once, when the boy asked how old he was, Gregorr had said only that he was older than the grass but younger than the trees. Caryss smiled as she remembered Jarek’s reply.

  The sky is older than both.

  She and the fennidi stood just outside the large glasshouse under an angled sun and cloudless sky, and the brightness made the man’s skin glow a lustrous green, as if he was kin to grass and tree. Heavy with child and knowing the girl’s birth was near, Caryss paused for a moment to reflect on the odd army that she was assembling: a king’s bastard child, a promising mage who had turned to the Dark Arts because of a lost love, a gentle healer who mothered them all, a warrior unmatched in skill but without desire to fight, and, now, a tiny wood sprite. Five people, one a child still, against the might of Rexterra.

  The smile quickly faded as she asked, “What of his mind? This morning he seemed to forget who I was.”

  Shielding his eyes as he looked up at her, Gregorr answered, “At times he remembers all, including you. But there are times when it is as if no time has passed and he is still on the throne. Other times he refers to his sons as boys. As you well know, Caryss, what we try to heal ofttimes becomes more damaged. Such is with the King, I fear.”

  “It took a moon to wean him from the poppy milk, and I feared then that it was too late. Answer me this, Gregorr. Which is worse: a confused mind or an empty one?”

  “Worse for whom?” he asked, twinkling still.

  With a sigh, she told him, “For the woman who stole him from slumber. There is an army searching for us, and if Herrin cannot tell his sons that he came willingly, if he cannot remember coming with me on his own accord, then we will have no respite from that army.”