But no.
These weren’t the same boards.
It was the wagon’s rough-hewn bottom beneath him. He was in the back of the wagon.
Nic strained for a sound, a smell, a clue to the unrest rising in his gut as he tried to push himself to a sitting position and failed. His muscles were too weak, and his left arm barely worked in the best of circumstances.
Nothing came to him, not so much as a twitch or a creak, though he could smell something burning—a cook fire, perhaps. With a hint of meat being charred.
The wagon was absolutely still. So, it seemed, were the lands of Dyn Cobb outside the wagon, though he couldn’t yet lift his head high enough to see over the sideboards. He must have taken another fit, where he thrashed and twitched and lost his place in the world. Sometimes the spells lasted for minutes. Sometimes hours or days—with more days coming back to himself while sipping Snakekiller’s bitter brew of milk thistle, skullcap, and valerian.
A quick glance at the sky told Nic it was early morning, and his last remembering was of sitting beside the fire for a dinner of rabbit stew and dried leeks.
A night, then. Maybe longer. He clenched his teeth against the knowledge that he was a burden, slowing the progress of his traveling party to little more than a turtle’s crawl. Without him, Snakekiller, Hasty, and Hasty’s good-humored apprentice, Terrick, would have long been back about their lives at Triune. No endless winter in a strange village. No begging and bartering for supplies to get them home.
Once more in Dyn Cobb, farther west than Nic thought he had ever been, fall was moving back toward winter. Since they had left the shelter of their first winter home, they had barely managed to skirt seven different bloody skirmishes between the Cobb Dynast Guard and the combined armies of Dyn Altar and Dyn Brailing. From what Nic understood, the lesser dynasts to the west were massing an ever-greater force on the southern reaches of Dyn Mab, but still raiding across Cobb borders for supplies and conscriptions. So far, Cobb was holding its own and maintaining its neutrality, but Nic had enough education and sense to know that sooner or later, Lord Cobb would have to declare on one side of the war or the other.
And when he did, Lord Ross and Lady Vagrat might follow his lead.
If that happened, the conflict would be decided swiftly enough, in favor of whatever cause the greater dynasts chose to support.
Nic wasn’t sure what he hoped in that respect. He had no use for the likes of Lord Brailing or the bellicose Lord Altar—but if the men could defeat his mother, stop her from attacking Dyn Ross, bring an end to her madness, perhaps that would be best for Eyrie.
The stillness around Nic began to bother him once more.
He finally managed to pull himself up using the nearest sideboard—and grunted in surprise when he saw no oxen tethered to the wagon. Fly-covered mounds in the nearby grass caught his attention, and he realized with a sick certainty that those were the missing beasts.
The oxen were dead.
And —no, no, no!
Nearby, the mules lay dead as well!
Nic couldn’t see well enough at this distance to be sure, but one of the mules seemed to have a shaft protruding from its ribs.
A battle arrow? A hunter’s mistake?
But all of the beasts?
Where is Snakekiller?
The thought shot through his mind as forcefully as another deadly arrow. There was nothing but endless stretches of grass on three sides of the wagon, and the dead animals. Nic’s neck ached as he turned his head. A small clump of trees stood ahead of the wagons, a quarter-league or more away. A thick plume of gray smoke floated like a shroud above the leaves.
Nic realized he hadn’t been smelling a cook fire.
More likely, it was a funeral pyre.
Or many pyres.
His heart began a frantic pounding as he struggled to use his good arm to lever himself out of the wagon.
“Snakekiller!”
His voice sounded like a whisper in the vast space, and his teeth began to chatter. His fingers and toes felt so cold he might be part-dead himself.
Where is Hasty? Why can’t I hear Terrick laughing or swearing or singing?
Nic rolled himself over the side of the wagon, fell like a rock wrapped in gray cloth, and struck the ground with a jaw-snapping thud. Pain fractured his body, his awareness, and Nic feared he would sink in to another round of fits and die where he lay, in the cool grass beside the wagon’s wheel, on some deserted field of Dyn Cobb. He held out his arms and tried to grip the wheel’s spokes to hold himself still, to stave off the shaking of the fits—as if that would do any good.
His consciousness wavered, and his next sensation was a powerful, hurtful grip under both of his arms as someone hoisted him to his feet.
Nic smacked at the arms supporting him, but he might as well have been beating the thick branches of the largest heartwoods in Dyn Mab.
“I won’t harm you unless you try to harm me,” said a man’s voice as Nic felt himself propped against the wagon, shoulders against the rough boards for support. Fear flooded through him, but he didn’t have the strength or coordination to resist or flee. Standing was hard enough.
“I haven’t come here to kill children,” the man said, “though it looks as if someone already had a fair go at you.”
The man let him go.
Nic struggled to keep his feet and his wits. The man who had lifted him off the chilled ground was tall and dressed in dark robes, with what looked like a standard military sword belted at his waist, but the metal scabbard was scorched almost black and seemed to be rusting in places. That was strange enough, but the man’s face and head were wrapped in the fashion of those who lived near the Barrens in Dyn Altar. Nic could see nothing of the man’s features but an outline. Even his eyes were obscured by a thin piece of gauzy cloth. His hands, though, those were bare, and huge, and scarred and calloused, like the hands of men who worked hard at some physical labor the entirety of their lives. Some of the flesh seemed red and angry, as if he might have thrust his fingers and palms into boiling water.
Trembling and hating himself for his physical weakness and his fear, Nic took in the air of menace about the man. Threat and despair seemed to hang above his robed shoulders like the smoke over the trees in the distance, tainting every aspect of his being. The rawness of that danger made Nic’s breath come in short pants. He wanted to run, but he didn’t know where to go, and he knew he’d likely collapse after a few steps anyway.
The man pointed to Nic’s limp arm. “Did the Stone Guild do this to you?”
“No. Of course not.” The absurdity of the question cleared Nic’s senses completely, and shifted some of his panic to anger. “Who are you? Where is Snakekiller?”
The man cocked his head as if considering the question. “I don’t know any Snakekiller, but I’m called Canus these days. Some extend that to Canus the Bandit. And you are?”
Nic let go of the wagon, intending to get himself far away from this Canus and his well-hidden face. Immediately, he swayed and had to grab the wagon’s sideboards to steady himself.
Canus held up both hands as if to show he hadn’t drawn any weapons, that he meant Nic no harm, as he had claimed. “I don’t think you’re ready to light out on your own, boy. Be sensible.”
“Where is she?” Nic snarled as he gripped the sideboard with his good hand and wished he had a sword to pull, then wished harder that he had the strength to wield it. Morning sunlight made him blink too fast, and the cold air he kept gulping made his chest hurt. “What have you done with Snakekiller?”
“Your guild master is female?” Canus lowered his hands, obviously surprised. “Snakekiller is a woman?”
Nic’s body tightened at the subtle insult, and he stood up straighter, without propping on the wagon. “She’s a Stone Sister. She could kill you before you finish your next breath.”
“A pleasing thought,” said a hypnotic voice from the other side of the wagon.
Before Nic cou
ld react, Tia Snakekiller leaped into the wagon, then out of it, reaching Canus in a single jump. Her jagged blade was drawn as she landed, and the tip of her sword gleamed in the sunlight as she drew back into ready stance, close enough to take the man’s head if he twitched in a manner that displeased her.
Relief almost made Nic fall back to the ground. He didn’t care that she had come to protect him, only that she had come back to him. Her face, arms, and gray robes were bloodied and soot-streaked, and he noticed she was breathing heavier than usual—but she was alive.
The man once more raised his hands in a gesture of weaponless peace, though this time much more slowly. Nic knew the man was likely surprised by the combination of her brown skin and white-blond hair, that he couldn’t determine her bloodline or allegiances from her appearance, save for the gray robes and cheville announcing her attachment to the Stone Guild.
“I’m no enemy to you,” Canus said, though he sounded uncertain.
Snakekiller snorted and moved the tip of her blade forward as if to hook the cloth obscuring Canus’s features. “Then uncover yourself and let me see your face.”
The man leaned back to prevent her from exposing him, but he made no move to draw his own sword.
“I’m no enemy to you,” he repeated. “I’m not looking for you, or for this boy.”
“Neither were the Brailing guardsmen who killed my companion and his apprentice, and our oxen and mules.” Snakekiller kept her sword at the ready, unwilling to surrender her advantage.
Nic took in her words slowly, understanding but not wanting to believe that Hasty and Terrick were dead.
“H-how?” he stammered, but Snakekiller didn’t answer him.
Canus once more lowered his hands, curling his fingers to fists. “Which way did the murderers go? Tell me and I’ll see to it that your companions are avenged.”
Snakekiller laughed, though the sound was harsh. “There are none left. I burned all nine of them with Hasty and Terrick, in the copse of trees yonder, should you wish to count the bones.”
“Nine.” Canus sounded impressed, though his fists remained clenched like he wished he could beat the dead guardsmen himself, just to be certain of their demise. “You’ve almost doubled my best count. I managed only five on my last outing.”
At this, Snakekiller finally stepped back, though her sword remained raised. “Canus. Canus the Bandit. We’ve heard tell of you on our journey.”
Canus laughed, making the cloth over his face shiver in the cool morning air. “I suppose those murdering Brailing bastards consider me a greater criminal than themselves. If you’ve heard of me, then you know I’m more friend to you than foe, even if you do hail from Triune. Have most of this year’s Harvest parties returned to the stronghold?”
Snakekiller tensed, as if getting ready to spring, and her next words came out with enough menace to rival the threatening aura Nic kept sensing from the cloth-wrapped man. “I wouldn’t know—and why would you need to?”
Canus moved his right hand closer to his sword, but kept his tone light. “I have my reasons.”
Snakekiller remained silent, waiting him out, and Nic once more wished he was capable of drawing a weapon and standing beside her. He felt foolish and useless, trapped by his own infirmity, too afraid to move more than a step from the wagon lest dizziness knock him to his knees again.
“I’m searching for a boy,” Canus said, apparently deciding to trust Snakekiller with that much information. “A boy with loud blue eyes. He’s a Harvest prize, but not a new one, and he would be traveling with a High Master of Stone, a man with rank-marks on both cheeks and his forehead, like your own.”
Canus pointed to his own face, to indicate the position of the benedets he described.
At this, Nic once more had to grab the wagon’s sideboard for balance. His mind filled with rapid-moving images of a boy, a boy ringed with a legacy so blue and bright that it blinded him.
He’s talking about the boy I keep seeing on the other side of the Veil.
Did Snakekiller realize that?
Nic almost called out to her, but thought better of it before he spoke.
“Our conversation is finished.” Snakekiller was obviously furious or frightened. Nic had trouble telling those emotions apart, where she was concerned. “Take yourself away from here, or I’ll add you to the pyres in the trees.”
“You won’t get far with him on foot.” Canus pointed to Nic, who was still clinging to the wagon. “Cobb’s grasslands are full of raiding Guard. They’re desperate, with another winter coming on and supplies already so low. Let me help you to the next village, at least.”
Snakekiller gave a single shake of her head. “We’ll take our chances, Bandit. Go now, before I regret my decision to let you live.”
Canus hesitated a few moments, then gave a quick bow. “As you wish.”
With that, he turned and strode away, across the vast, empty plains, toward nothing, as far as Nic could see.
For a long time, Snakekiller remained between Nic and the retreating man, until he became nothing but a dark, moving speck on the horizon.
“Where is he going?” Nic asked as she finally lowered her sword.
“Likely to the farming village we passed last night, while you were sleeping.” Snakekiller sheathed her blade, and her shoulders drooped almost immediately. When she turned to face Nic, he saw how pale she was. With her left hand, she gripped her side, and Nic realized that some of the blood on her robes was brighter red.
Fresh.
“Are you wounded?” he asked, but his voice came out nothing but a whisper.
She shrugged as if to make little of her pain, but the motion made her gasp. “It’s not lethal, but I need rest and nourishment, as do you. Are you well enough to help me carry what little food and water we have left to the trees? I know the pyres will make for poor scenery, but we’ll have cover, and we can spend the night there if we must.”
Brother help us. She can’t travel. Nic bit his lip. How can I keep her safe when I can’t predict or control my fits? What should I do?
He stumbled toward the other wagon to collect supplies, worrying with every step that Snakekiller would collapse while he wasn’t looking.
When they reached the edge of the trees, she fell.
Nic saw her hit the ground in front of him and cried out. He threw down the dry rations he was carrying and lurched to her, the lingering pyre smoke stinging his wet eyes. When he got to his knees beside her, he could barely breathe. Her color—so pale. Listless. When he lifted her wrist, it was limp in his grip.
Mumbling prayers to the Brother, he pulled aside her robes enough to see the sword slash in her side, a raw, gaping mouth of a wound, seeping blood with each beat of her heart.
The sight of it made him weep outright.
This was … it was hopeless.
He had no skill with healing, no understanding of herbs or wounds. His hands were too misshapen to stitch up the rent in her flesh, even if he knew where to find needle and thread strong enough to complete the task.
“Please don’t die,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing the cool skin. His body felt just as weak and useless as hers seemed to be, and for a moment, he was nothing but a soft, round boy again, trapped in the stifling heat of his poisoned sister’s bedchamber.
He hadn’t been able to save his father, his brothers, or Kestrel. He couldn’t save Snakekiller either. He knew that, yet his mind refused to allow that fact to gain footing in his essence. Heat pumped through Nic as he thought about what might happen to Snakekiller out in the open, helpless against soldiers and predators, and after sunset—
Manes. Maybe mockers, too.
Nic ground his teeth and forced his arms to move, demanded that his hands work enough to tear off his tunic. He thrust it against the wound, then used Snakekiller’s belt to cinch it tight against her. At least he could slow the bleeding. And if he worked hard, he could pull her fully under cover of the trees and maybe use th
e supplies in the wagon to fashion a sling to lift her out of harm’s way before sunset. A fire for warmth. Yes. And he could help her drink, if he could rouse her enough to swallow. If she regained consciousness, she could tell him which of her goatskins or herb pouches to use and mix. He already knew which skin held the nightshade wine mix she used to relieve his pain—
And which pouch to use if she needed Mercy.
No. She wouldn’t need Mercy. He could do this. He could save her.
It took him the better part of the morning just to get her to the edge of the trees, and by the time he propped her against the firm, wide base of a dantha, he was so cold the skin on his bare chest had gone numb. His gnarled hands shook, and his weak legs shook harder. He could scarcely work the flints to start a fire, and when he got it going, it quickly went out before he could pull enough sticks into the flames to build the blaze.
He knew he had to get her warm, and he had to get her to drink.
Nic pushed himself off the ground and left the trees once more, this time to retrieve the food and water he had dropped earlier, when Snakekiller collapsed.
His entire body ached and trembled as he staggered onto the open grasslands, and his thoughts kept going fuzzy. His perceptions wavered as he scanned the horizon, and at first the glint of light off steel seemed like another false dream.
Helmets.
Scabbards and bridles.
Someone was coming.
The Guard was riding toward them. A plentiful lot of them, bearing banners and leading what looked like a royal procession as gaudy and huge as any Nic had ever seen in Dyn Mab.
Emotion flowed out of Nic until his insides felt as cold as his outsides. He let himself fall, intending to crawl to the food and water and try to drag it back under tree-cover without attracting attention.
Brother save me, what if this is my mother, come to reclaim me after all?
He would almost submit to such a horror, if it would save Snakekiller’s life.
Maybe he could cover the provisions and Snakekiller and himself with leaves and branches, and hope the procession passed by without noticing them—but the fit seized him before he ever reached his goal.
A Prince Among Killers Page 16
