by Cat Bruno
For a moment, Caryss paused, weighing the prince’s threats. Before she could answer, Willem stepped near, pushing her behind him.
“You dare to threaten a healer, Delwin?” he bellowed, “Caryss has said vows and has done naught but act upon them. No crime has been committed here.”
“Let her be, Delwin,” Herrin croaked.
Silence spread throughout the meadow following the King’s words.
Finally, Delwin waved his hand. “So be it.”
When he turned on his heel and walked back to his men, Willem sighed heavily. Looking to the sky, he searched for the epidii that he had spotted earlier. After several moments, he saw that they were just west of the clearing.
“We must hurry,” he whispered to Caryss. “The epidii come, and we must leave at once. The prince should not be trusted.”
No one spoke, yet all kept looking toward the sky.
*****
He could not remember a time when they had both been out of their healer’s robes, if ever. Even with no healer’s robe to identify her, Pietro recognized Bronwen as soon as his horse neared the stream. Hooded and with her hair pulled away from her face, he had still known her, although she had not seen him. In simple riding clothes, Pietro supposed that he looked as any other Rexterran might, although he was not uniformed like the others. Only he and the Crow, aside from the two elderly healers, were not in the blue and gold of the Rexterran Army. Yet, they had both been too far for her to see.
His life pulse thickened beneath his tunic, beating so loudly that he feared the Crow would hear.
It had been agreed that the Tribesman would not make himself known, but Pietro knew little else of what had been planned. Nor did he know what would happen now that he had done what the Crow had asked and was no longer needed by the Prince or Tribesman. Delwin had suggested that he could join the palace healers, yet Pietro no longer wanted to stay in the King’s City. Too much had changed, and he himself, he knew, could no longer abide behind the city gates.
After hearing Delwin call for his men to see to the King, Pietro nearly fell from his horse in relief. Beside him, the Crow shifted in his saddle, yet he still did not make himself known, for none called out in warning. Once the wagon was with the Royal Army, Delwin stomped away from Bronwen, without a sword having been raised. Yet, Pietro felt ill at ease.
As Delwin’s men were attaching the covered wagon to their own horses, Delwin walked to where he and the Crow still sat atop their mounts. Delwin paid him little notice and approached the Crow.
Once he was close enough, Pietro listened as Delwin hissed, “Let them think they are free. On my call, we attack.”
Had he not been holding leather reins in hand, Pietro would have fallen from the gelding.
He means to kill them all, he thought, swallowing hard as his stomach churned. When he looked across the field, all he could see was Bronwen, her hood now around her shoulders and her hair ablaze, sun-touched.
The king lives, her vow has not been broken. We are healers, both the same.
With fire behind his eyes, Pietro kicked at his horse, as if trying to outrun a rapidly spreading fire.
*****
“Look! Just there,” Caryss told them, pointing to the west.
When Willem followed her finger, he saw the epidii, circling, and coming lower each time.
“Hurry!” he mouthed. “Grab the others.”
Sharron, who held the babe, reached for her leather satchel, and threw it across her shoulder, then allowed Aldric to help with the wrap that Nahla had sewn for the infant. Otieno and Jarek stood near the horses, both adjusting their swords, although not sheathing them, Caryss noticed. Gregorr had his pouches already attached to the leather rope at his waist and waited for the others.
Confident that there was little else to be done, Caryss stepped toward her mount, reaching for her own bag, and looking to the sky once again. The epidii would soon land, she figured, watching them circle. As she was untying it, the sound of thumping hooves caused her to reach for the dagger, as she scanned across the field.
On a dusty gray horse, a lone rider came rushing toward her. His tunic was brown and finely made, his hair cropped short. With no helm and no uniform, Caryss did not think him to be one of Delwin’s men, nor did he appear to be Tribe. She had not noticed him before, and looked to Otieno, who rushed beside her.
When his gelding halted just steps from her, she choked and reached for Otieno. “I know him. We were together at the Academy.”
“Stand behind me, leseda,” he warned, lunging in front of her.
Without letting go of his thick arm, she sharply whispered, “Look closely. He has no sword.”
Shaking his head, the Islander told her, “He travels with the Prince. He is no friend, Caryss.”
Nodding, she released his arm, but kept her eyes on Pietro. It had been nearly a moon year since she had last seen him, and suddenly she realized that he must be on his own Healer Journey. Yet she could not make sense of why he was with Prince Delwin, although she did remember that he was rumored to be kin to the royal line of Rexterra.
Breathing hard, Pietro threw himself from the saddle and rushed toward her. Before he could reach her, Otieno grabbed him, despite Pietro’s struggles.
“Please!” Pietro cried, “Bronwen, you must go. Delwin plans to attack!”
His words were half-sobbed, torn and broken, as he himself suddenly appeared to be.
“Why are you here, Pietro?” she cried, forcing the words from lips that seemed to be made of clay.
“There is no time to explain,” he pleaded, nearly collapsing in the Islander’s arm. “Listen to me! He has a Tribesman with him. A Crow who has warded himself to near invisibility. They know of your babe, and Delwin has promised the Tribesman that he can have her.”
His words were clear, yet her vision whitened. Swaying as if ale-heavy, Caryss began to shake, clutching at the dagger as she looked to the sky.
Uttering a small cry, she drew her dagger across her hand, just below where the bandage was still tied. She could not see through the veil of fog that clouded her eyes, yet she felt the blood bubble up on her hand. Without falling to her knees, she let the blood rain onto the ground, mixing with the tears that now fell. Around her, she could see nothing, blind and nearly paralyzed.
“Please,” she sobbed, rocking back and forth, calling for Conri.
Over and over she rocked, unaware of what was happening around her, as if she was under a mage-spell. It was only when Otieno embraced her that Caryss’s eyes cleared and the haze settled.
Only then did she see the epidii.
There was noise around her, the sound of galloping horses, voices calling out orders. Sword on steel. Yet, Caryss heard little, as her eyes focused on the shimmering spirit animals, just steps away, kneeling and gleaming white against the high grass, sprinkled with small, yellow flowers. Wobbling, she let Otieno push her toward the animals. Half-blind, she searched for the Sharron and Gregorr, suddenly forgetting who had the babe.
And then she saw them rushing toward her, with Jarek, too.
As if she had done it hundreds of times before, Caryss steadied herself on the epidiuus and swung her leg over the animal’s smooth back. Behind her, Jarek threw himself across the animal’s back, his sword hanging from his waist, unused.
Her head was spinning and her vision darkened, and Caryss looked down to see blood covering her hand.
“The babe,” she mumbled, swaying, until she realized that it was her own blood, from the calling.
Clumsily, she attempted to wrap her hand again, tightening the stained cotton that had slipped free. Blinking away the darkening fog, Caryss hurriedly glanced around until she saw Sharron, with the babe tightly bound to her. She and Gregorr had climbed atop an epidiuus.
She still could not recall giving Sharron the babe, yet she screamed, “Go!”
Her words echoed through her ears, but still she knew not if she had uttered them. Weak with blood loss, she f
ell forward, spinning and sick. Behind her, Jarek held onto her, and, for a moment, Caryss opened her eyes enough to see Sharron and Gregorr soaring above them.
Around her, Caryss thought she heard screaming, but her head was heavy and her senses dulled. The field was awash in gray mist, thick and blinding.
Willem, with a blood-soaked sword, was between two men wearing the blue and gold of the Royal Army and appeared as a shadow, dark and soft.
As his blade arced, she kicked at the sides of the sparkling mount. With soldiers to her right, and only Willem to keep them from attacking, Caryss kicked harder until the animal darted forward. When she felt the beast’s wings flapping behind her, her body heaved, yet her eyes cleared, lightening.
And she watched as, below her, Willem struggled. One man lay unmoving, his jacket dark with blood. Climbing higher, she could still see Willem swinging and parrying. Clinging to her, she could feel Jarek trembling, yet he did not cry out.
Just behind them came the third epidiuus, carrying Aldric and Otieno.
“We are free,” she whispered to him. “We will be gone from Cordisia before the sun next rises.”
His voice hoarse and high, he asked, “What of Master Willem? How will he find us?”
“He knows we are bound for Cossima,” she reassured him. “He will meet us there, Jarek.”
Her words were hollow, and her smile hid nothing.
*****
His right shoulder stung with pain, as if small needles pierced him. Again, he cursed himself for not having a shield, yet Willem’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes, liquid gold, dazzled bright. He was no longer Ammon the healer; he was Willem once again, the man who had, before his exile, worn the same colors as those he now fought. Across the field, his cousin stood somewhere, as did his king.
His King.
No, Willem, thought, as he back-stepped to avoid a clumsy strike, he is not my King. I serve another now.
Briefly, when he realized that the epidiuus that Caryss rode had flown off, Willem wondered if Delwin would call off his men. But memories of his time in the King’s City surfaced, reminding him of Delwin’s history. Murder and exile committed in his name. Even Crispin’s son had nearly become one of his victims. Willem knew, as he continued to slash, backing up more each time, that his only hope for aid would be if Herrin intervened, yet the old king was much too ill to stand up to his son. Even in his stronger days, Delwin had held sway with him.
With a downward strike against the gold-sashed soldier, Willem sliced at the man’s chest. While he stumbled back, Willem lifted his sword again, slashing near the man’s exposed neck until blood erupted, wetting him and splattering his face. Another soldier jumped toward him as the first fell to the ground. Willem noticed how the newcomer’s well-muscled arms strained tight against his finely stitched jacket. Where the other man had been young, this one was older, experienced and lethal, strong and thick with moon years spent in swordplay.
And patient, Willem soon realized.
When one man jumped forward, the other parried, as if they danced, moving together and then apart, spinning and ducking. The Rexterran soldier was the first to draw blood as he jabbed Willem, who turned away too late and felt the sharp tip of the man’s sword rip across his cheek. Having forgotten the sting of an open wound, Willem stumbled backward, until he came hard against the wagon. Blood, hot and wet as it ran down his face, tasted sour when it reached his lips. Using the side of a large oak tree as support, Willem righted himself and waited for the man to near.
He had a moment to quickly look across the field, to where Delwin was in conversation with a man dressed in dark clothes. The Crow, he realized. Neither had raised sword, yet both scanned the field, as if searching.
The pain in his shoulder lessened as he watched, and Willem quickly wiped the back of his hand across a cheek. With clear eyes and a scowl across his nearly ageless face, Willem readied his sword as the man came within reach. His timing was exact as his sword knocked away the man’s shield, sending it banging into the tree. Knowing that he had little time, Willem struck again, drawing his sword back down and across the man’s chest, which was covered in light, leather armor. As he had expected, the leather protected the man, yet Willem had hit him with enough force to make the man stagger. As the man struggled to regain footing, Willem dove at him, tackling him to the ground and kicking away the sword the soldier still clung to.
Without hesitation, Willem drove the tip of a dagger into the man’s neck and pushed, until the Rexterran stopped moving, except for the involuntary spasms that often accompanied death. Rising to his knees, Willem reclaimed his sword and looked back across the field, to see who next dared to challenge him.
What he saw made him scream in rage, fire burning hot behind his eyes.
The Crow soared above him, and when Willem rose, ready to strike, the Tribesman flew on, higher and higher. Willem finally understood why Delwin had only sent two of his men to challenge him. They had been sacrificed and used as a distraction so that the real threat could escape unharmed.
One who could fly, untouched and beyond reach.
There was little that he could do except look to the sky, watching as a gleaming black bird streaked fast and sleek after the epidiuus. Where there were once three of the glowing creatures, now, Willem could only see one.
“No!” he screamed, as the Crow chased Caryss’s mount.
Again and again he cried out, until his throat burned and his voice cracked, until no other sound could come from him.
“Stop him,” he sobbed. “Delwin, call him back!”
His pleas were unheard or ignored, forcing Willem to rush toward his cousin. With his blood-splattered sword held high, he closed upon the Prince, who stood alone across the field.
Before he could take another step, four men rushed at him, with shields and swords raised. When he looked up, four more men had bows pointed at him from where they sat atop their horses, unnoticed until now.
Yet they did not shoot.
He wants me alive.
The men descended upon him and Willem tried to resist, but against four trained soldiers, he could do little. As Delwin watched, three men held him while the fourth stripped him of his sword and tied his hands behind his back. Another uniformed man then did the same with his feet.
With a laugh that sounded half-mad, Delwin hissed, “I will return to the King’s City a victor, cousin. I have not only found my father, but I return with my exiled cousin in chains! You will be imprisoned for the crime of kidnapping and treason. Enjoy the sun on your face now, Willem, for you will not live to feel it again.”
“A father whom you tried to kill!” Willem fumed, spitting in the direction of Delwin and struggling against the man who held the long rope at his back.
“King Herrin!” Willem yelled, searching for his uncle in hopes of pleading with him to call of his son’s men.
No reply came, and the Crow grew closer to Caryss.
“You think that you will recover under Delwin’s watch?” he cried aloud, hoping the half-witted man would hear him. “Your son ordered you to be poisoned, and will see you returned not to the throne, but to your sick-bed!”
Across the meadow, the King was seated in the wagon, as he had been for days, but the cover had been pulled back. Even awake, he did not seem to listen.
Willem knew that he did not have a moon or more to wait for Herrin’s mind to sharpen. Delwin would see him hanged before then.
Sensing defeat, Willem again struggled against his captors. Noticing that his feet were loosely tied, he dove forward and rushed at Delwin.
“You will destroy Rexterra just as you have destroyed your father!”
“Gag him!” Delwin raged, his face reddening.
It took three men to subdue him and force a thick cloth around his face and mouth.
“Uncover his eyes,” Delwin called.
With the cloth still tight across his mouth, but his vision clear, Willem was able to look upon Delwin as he s
miled and said, “Look to the sky, just there, to your left.” Pointing, he added, “The Crow has found its prey.”
When he refused to look, Delwin stomped to where his men had Willem, and grabbed his chin. Unbound, the Prince would have been no match for the larger, stronger Willem, yet even struggling did little to stop Delwin from jerking his head to the side, forcing Willem to watch as the streaking black Crow dove to where the epidii glided.
The cry that came from the spirit animal shattered the sky, high and shrill, as if in pain. The epidiuus flew lower, trying to get clear of the Crow’s grasp.
Just above them, the two soared, diving and circling. The Crow was black and sleek, his wings stretched out, shining and vast. The epidiuus was larger, glowing white against a blue sky. Atop the spirit animal, Caryss and Jarek hunched low in an attempt to avoid the talons of the Crow.
In Caryss’s hands, Willem could see the atraglacia dagger reflect the rays of the morning sun.
Another shriek came from the sky, to their west.
Willem threw his body madly around, trying to dislodge the gag.
“Use the dagger,” he tried to scream, but words would not come.
If the men had not been holding him, he would have fallen to the ground. His knees buckled beneath him as the shrieks continued.
The dagger, he silently pleaded, even though Willem knew that she could not hear him.
Kill him or he will find the babe, he begged wordlessly.
When the clouds appeared, thickening, darkening the sky, Willem stood straight, forcing his quivering muscles to steady. By the time the thunder roared, his eyes were clear. As lightning quaked and crackled, he smiled, as if madness had overtaken him.
Kill them all, Jarek.
The light rain that fell across his face never felt so soft or tasted so sweet.
*****
