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

by Cat Bruno

  “Where am I?” he asked the child.

  Her eyes glowed green, and, despite her youth, she seemed wise. He had thought to ask who she was, but, before the words could be uttered, knowledge came. There was only one with such eyes, he remembered.

  She was young, yet in her jewel-like gaze he saw that she would never truly be so. Without looking away from her, Willem twisted his body until he was kneeling, his hands still bound behind him. His head ached from where the guard had struck him, and the cloth that had been used to gag him hung loosely around his neck, freeing him to speak.

  With effort he tore his eyes from her and looked around hastily, searching for the girl’s mother.

  Many of Delwin’s men were gone, yet the prince and the Tribesman stood where he had last seen them. Two guards, the same men who had previously held him, were near Delwin.

  Next to them lay the body of Caryss.

  Turning back to the girl, he dropped his head and whispered, “I could do nothing to help her.”

  His confession sounded hollow and distant, as if he called to the child from across the meadow.

  Chiming like the bells at the Academy, the girl told him, “None could save her. I often tried.”

  “Why are you here, Syrsha?” he uttered, awed by the child, yet sickened with despair.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she told him, with a shrug of her thin shoulders.

  The child, younger than many of the first-years at the Academy, did not weep.

  “Am I to die, too?” he asked, looking up at the girl who stood just taller than where he still kneeled.

  “Will that answer bring you some comfort?” she asked steadily, as if she knew he would ask.

  “Not as much comfort as seeing a blade through my cousin’s heart,” he hissed, forgetting for a moment that she was much a child.

  In her voice of bells, she hummed, “Rest easy, sir. The Prince will pay for what has happened here.”

  Nodding, Willem again asked, “Will I die here?”

  With another sigh, she kneeled next to him, her white sleeping gown folded over her skinny legs, and her pale hands clutched in her lap. Positioned so, she looked like a marble statue, delicate and eternal, gleaming ivory skin and midnight-dyed hair under the rising sun. Willem longed to embrace her, yet his hands burned behind him, the shackles clawing at his wrists.

  “You can die a free man here or die an imprisoned one in the King’s City. I have seen both happen.”

  Her dark, thick lashes fluttered over her gemstone eyes, and Willem noticed gaps in her mouth from missing teeth. A child, still, yet her words were ones spoken as if from a woman battle-weary and cold.

  “I would die a free man, with a blade in my hand if I have choice. I would die with the blood of my kin on that blade if I have luck.”

  “Fall to your side, as if asleep,” she hurriedly instructed.

  When Willem complied, she leaned near to him and said, “Feign sleep until Jarek returns. The Prince’s death is mine, but the blood of the Crow is yours if you want it.”

  “What of my hands?” he mumbled, keeping his cheek pressed to the wet grass.

  “Jarek has something that I can use,” she told him, looking toward the treeline.

  He knew then that the boy would not escape and nearly wept at the thought.

  “Can you not help him be gone from here?” he begged the child.

  “I have tried,” she stated, sitting back on her heels and turning her gaze back to the treeline.

  Without moving, he asked, “Are you in danger?”

  The girl only shook her head, keeping her face turned toward the wood. Except for her eyes, she had the look of her father, fair and raven-haired, with long, thin limbs. Her eyes were her own, not like her mother’s, yet not unseen in the North, either. She would be a girl of beauty, but most would fear her, Willem thought, staring at her through nearly closed eyes. In Cordisia, she would most often be seen as Tribe, although few would know her as such in Cossima and beyond.

  “I will die easier knowing that you escaped, Syrsha. Can you tell me as much?” he whispered.

  Through slitted eyes, he watched her shrug again as she answered, “Cossima was home to me for many moon years.”

  When he would have asked more, she raised her hand, pointing across the field. “They have been found. Jarek and the healer.”

  “Free my hands. I must protect the boy!”

  Syrsha rose and explained, “He has my dagger. I can do nothing without it.”

  At times she sounded young, her words high-pitched and strained, half-whining. Yet he knew that she was no ordinary child. Before he could respond, she walked across the field, glimmering, although none could see her. Syrsha’s magic was strong and her image steady, surprising him greatly, for she could not be more than seven moon years past.

  He did not need to look up to hear the sound of horses nearing, as the ground beneath him trembled, the grass tickling his cheek. Saying a silent prayer to the gods of his youth, he begged them to spare the boy, true heir to the Rexterran throne. If Delwin learned of the boy’s identity, he surely would have him killed, as he had tried moon years before, unsuccessfully. The boy’s eyes were gold-rimmed, yet few noticed, and Willem could only pray that his cousin was not one of those who did.

  When he caught sight of the boy, Willem nearly cried out to him. Thrown across and tied to one of the Rexterran soldier’s horses, Jarek had been stripped naked, except for his dirtied pants, his hands tied at the wrists. Willem knew that the Prince was no fool and had seen the furious power that dwelt in the boy’s hands.

  Across the field, he listened as Delwin screamed, “Bring me the healer!”

  Pietro, clothed but bloodied, was pulled from a horse and marched to where Delwin stood scowling. From where he lay, he could not hear what was discussed, and turned his attention to where the girl lingered. Still unseen, she was able to walk up to where Jarek hung.

  Again, he could hear nothing. Yet when the boy lifted his eyes, streaked red and puffy, to where she stood, Willem knew that he, too, had seen her.

  Syrsha’s hands moved closer, and he understood what she sought, although she moved so quickly that no one could have seen the ice-black dagger emerge from the bottom of the boy’s boot. When she began walking toward him, Willem let his head fall back to the ground, once again feigning sleep.

  His life, one that had begun in riches before turning to exile, was nearing its end. Yet, as he had told the girl, he believed it would be far better to die with the blood of his enemy on a blade than die imprisoned in his former city. He was still thinking of a life spent in riches, both in the King’s City and in Litusia, when Syrsha bent beside him and brought the dagger close, cutting his chains as if they were made of cloth.

  Whispering and fading, she told him, “If Delwin dies, Jarek will as well for the Crow has no reason to keep the boy. It is the only reason the Prince yet lives. I have little time left, and I must bring the dagger back with me when I go. If you want the blood of the Crow, it is yours.”

  When he looked at her, Syrsha’s small hands reached for him and his skin prickled, as if a sudden chill had overtaken him.

  She placed the hilt of the dagger on his palm, where it burned and blistered, as if the blade itself was made of flame. He had not expected the pain to be so sudden, and Willem jumped to his feet, no longer bound. Before any could stop him, he ran to where his cousin stood alongside the Tribesman. For a moment he thought of ignoring Syrsha’s warning and sliding the sleek dagger across the neck of the Prince, something he had wanted to do for over half his life.

  But the child knew something that he could not. She had watched this scene many times before and knew that Jarek would live only if Delwin survived. It had to be enough, he told himself.

  With a cry that tore through the meadow, pained and dull, yet drumming and thumping, Willem plunged the dagger into the Crow’s chest. The Tribesman had turned to face him a moment too late. The dagger, no bigger than his
forearm, was heavy in his hand, hinting at its unnatural origin. With another cry, he turned it, curving it into the Crow as blood seeped onto his fingers and flowed across his arm.

  From the Tribesman came a shriek that cut across the field, as if an arrow that pierced Willem’s ears until he could hear nothing else. Still he drove the dagger in deeper as the Crow continued to scream.

  When the Tribesman fell to his knees, Willem collapsed too, nearly falling on top of him. Only then did he pull the dagger free.

  Half-blind with anger, Willem swung a leg over the Crow, and, sitting on him, dragged the black blade over the Tribesman’s pale neck. Across his hand, blood poured onto him, thick and red, covering both men until the hilt nearly slipped from him.

  The Crow’s eyes, darker than anything Willem had ever seen before, stared up at him.

  Dead eyes, Willem thought, pleased.

  From behind him came yelling. Hands pulled at him, yanking him off the Crow.

  Too late, he smiled.

  “What have you done?” screamed Delwin.

  Most of his cousin’s words were lost to him, as the shrieks of the Crow still sounded in his ears. Not until the child came to him did his eyes clear and his hearing return.

  Red and wet with blood, he looked at her, imagining the child to be his own.

  “I’m sorry that I could do no more,” she mumbled.

  In her eyes, he saw his death.

  Wiping the dagger clean, he told her, “Be not only queen, but healer, too, Syrsha. It was what your mother would want.”

  Tears filled the girl’s eyes. She was only a shadow now, but Willem could see how her green eyes shimmered with sadness at the mention of her mother. Before he handed her the dagger, he raised it, staring at the plain handle, one as usual as thousands in the King’s City. His cousin was still calling orders behind him, as two of his men kneeled beside the fallen Crow.

  Death was on his lips, his tongue thick with the taste of it.

  With his eyes on the girl and his thoughts on her mother, he plunged the blade into his heart.

  *****

  When the Prince’s men had come into sight, Pietro had jumped from the horse, yelling for the boy to ride hard. Yet, he had been unable to stop the Guardsmen, who rode past him, falling upon the boy with swords drawn.

  Jarek, he recalled Bronwen calling him, wore a longsword at his waist, yet the boy had no time to ready it as Delwin’s men circled him. Within moments, Jarek had been stripped of his clothing and sword and tied to the back of one of the Rexterran mounts. Unable to lift his arm, the boy could do little, and a calm resignation had fallen upon him. Pietro, too, was now listless, for he had been unable see Jarek to safety and felt as if he had failed.

  Caryss lay dead, and, now, so did Master Ammon.

  Moments before, Pietro had watched as the master had murdered the Crow. It had happened so quickly that none of Delwin’s men had moved, not even as the Tribesman’s body sunk to the grass. Without delay, Willem had fallen upon the dagger himself, causing Delwin to scream at his men to intervene. It was too late, Pietro knew, as he witnessed Ammon collapse.

  I have caused this, he thought, barely able to stand as his vision darkened and the ground rippled beneath his feet. Yet, still, he knew that it was he who had led the Prince to Bronwen, just as it was he who had told him of the babe and of the Crow. He was not sorry to see the Tribesman dead, although Pietro wished it had been he who had done so.

  Standing before the Prince, half-aware of what was being yelled around him as soldiers dashed about, Pietro thought of how the Academy now seemed a lifetime ago, as if he had never been there at all. He recalled how his hatred for Bronwen had begun, yet she was dead and his hatred long faded. His healer’s oath was long broken, his Healer Journey ruined and his life forfeit, as he waited for the Prince to order his death. It was with surprise, but with little care, that Pietro listened when Delwin called to him.

  “You are kin, Pietro, which makes your crime worse. I should kill you here, along with the rest, but instead you will be brought to the King’s City and tried for your treason and accessory to murder. All will learn of how you tricked me into this trap. Yet, for all your plotting, your plan did not work, and many have died as a result.”

  With spittle flying from his reddened face, Delwin screamed, “Chain him!”

  For a moment, he thought of protesting, yet he knew it mattered little. For the second time in a moon, he would be returning to the King’s City, the place he had so often longed for during his time at the Academy.

  Smiling wanly, Pietro offered no struggle as two soldiers bound his hands and feet, all the while thinking on the blue skies of Litusia. Of Louissia and Shana, even Kennet. As he was led away and placed alongside the King in the back of the wagon, Pietro thought of all he would do differently. His face sticky with blood, he laid it on a crumpled cape, breathing deeply.

  The cape smelled sweet, and his head ached less.

  Mother’s milk, he knew, remembering the smell from his time at the clinic.

  Tears mixing with the blood on his cheek, Pietro silently wept for Bronwen and for her babe.

  *****

  She told him what to say, and though she was moon years younger than he, Jarek did as she instructed. Her eyes, the same ones he had seen for the last two moons, were kind, just as her mother’s had been. And when the prince had asked for his name, he did not hesitate, answering quickly with the name the girl had provided.

  Tomasz. The name tasted sour on his tongue, like a tart berry, yet he had held the Prince’s gaze as he answered, steady and calm.

  Again, the Prince addressed him, with gold-rimmed eyes that hid little, making the Prince easy to read.

  “How did you come to be with the healer?”

  The girl, flickering beside him, still unseen, whispered, “Tell him you come from across the Great Sea, and that my mother found you in the North, in a temple where you have been for moon years.”

  Again he obeyed the child as he answered, in Common, “A moon or so ago, she and the others showed up at the temple where I had been living. I have no kin, and she offered to take me with her. Moon years before, my parents had died in our voyage to Cordisia from lands east of here. It was either stay in the North, or go with Caryss.”

  Scowling, the prince demanded, “Was it at the temple where you learned your mage-skill?”

  Shaking his head, and with no prompting from the girl, he told him, “I remember little of my parents, Prince, but I have long known how to make the skies rain. The other skills have come as I have gotten older.”

  “How is it that you know Common?”

  For a moment, Jarek paused. The girl was still near, just behind him, and he could feel her shadow across his naked back.

  “The temple was home to many, from vast and distant lands, my lord. Common was our shared language.”

  “You must know Eirrannian as well, then, boy, if what you say is true. Tell me what the healer was chanting.”

  Beside him now, the girl reached for his hand. Her delicate fingers prickled his skin, yet warmed him as she whispered, “In time, the North will rise.”

  With his blue eyes on the Prince’s gold-rimmed ones, his uncle, he knew, Jarek replied, “She sent you warning, my lord.”

  Spitting onto the grass, Delwin hissed, “What should I fear from one such as her?”

  When he did not answer, his uncle continued, “What warning did she give?”

  “That one day the North will rise,” he told him without hesitation.

  He sensed the girl fading as her shadows darkened. Her small fingers gripped his own as she promised, “Jarek, I will visit as often as I can.”

  When Jarek nodded, he noticed the Prince watching him and struggled to remain still as Syrsha continued whispering.

  “Never let them know who you are. Give the prince no reason to fear you or to harm you. Pretend to know nothing of me or of my mother. In time, you will know how to find me.”

&nb
sp; Around him, the air hummed, and Jarek knew that she had disappeared.

  His thoughts were quickly interrupted by the prince who stepped nearer to him and, staring hard, said, “There are ways that my mages can tell if you speak truth or lie. For now, you will return with me to the King’s City. Once there, you will be questioned further. If I learn that what you have said is false, you will be imprisoned or worse. Boy, if between here and the King’s City any storm of unnatural origin falls upon us, you will be killed. If you want to live, you will pledge yourself to me and to Rexterra.”

  With a frantic nod and an unbalanced bow, Jarek called, “I give you my word that I will be a loyal and true soldier for Rexterra, my lord.”

  The Prince turned, nodded toward his men, and ordered his men to bound his hands anew.

  To him, Delwin said, “I am not without mercy, Tomasz. If you prove yourself to fight for and defend Rexterra, then I will see you rewarded and ranked within my army.”

  It would be enough. For now, Jarek knew. Looking around, he realized that Syrsha was gone, just as were all the others.

  He was alone.

  *****

  “I keep hoping that you’ll arrive sooner, yet you never do.”

  Her words were like shards of ice, sharp and jagged, even as sweet as they sounded. Shiny and clear, they cut as if made of steel, slicing at him where little else could.

  She was young, and, for a moment he nearly smiled at the strength of her. To time-walk so soon suggested that she was even more than he had hoped. Yet there was danger in that thought, too, and he knew that many would covet her skill.

  Despite her eyes, ones that he remembered seeing many moon years before, she looked like kin, dark-haired and pale-skinned. His own eyes altered, blackening in greeting.

  “Take me to her,” he finally told the child.

  His words, simple ones, needed no further explanation as she led him through the trees and into a cleared meadow, near a stream that flowed fast. The sound of water breaking on rock echoed across the field, heavy and pounding. Slowly, the girl, wearing only her nightclothes and without shoes, walked across the field. Her head down, long, black hair falling in waves down the white cotton of her gown, she walked as if she had done so many times already.