in my body, Fionvar, I swear to you that I will bring him home.” She drew the dagger from the sheath of her flesh and pressed her bloody palm to the gap in the floor. “Let this work remain undone until I have fulfilled my oath. Nothing, and no one, will stand in my way.” Her eyes gleamed with emerald fire.
“I do not want to lose you, Lyssa, not like the rest.”
She smiled grimly. “But I am not like the rest, Fionvar. I am a lady of the Goddess, I am a Sister of the Sword, and I am sworn to find your son”—she met his shadowed eyes, and repeated—“ your son, and bring him home. When he gets home, you’ll tell him the truth, all of it.”
“As I should have done years ago.”
Lyssa began to gather up her tools, laying them out neatly on the workbench, covering the lot with a drop cloth. She glanced down to the covered bust but let it stay.
“Where will you go?”
“The infirmary first, and the west gate. After that, to find the refugees.” She paused, gazing into the distance. “Across the mountains, or the ocean—all the way to Hemijrai, if that’s where he is.” To Bernholt first, she thought, in case they were wrong, in case Wolfram were tracking the legend of King Rhys, and their web of lies could lead him there.
EXHAUSTED, HEAD and neck throbbing, Wolfram slowly rose to consciousness. Something damp and dark lay over his head—cold upon the heat within. His palms and knees stung, and he vaguely recalled staggering into the trees, falling more than once, and a final tumble down a rocky slope. As he shifted, the bruises on his back and legs,too, cried out, and he winced. Branches were poking into his shoulders. For a moment, he thought he lay in the gully where he’d fallen. He wriggled his fingers carefully about, and found that the branches beneath him were padded with animal hides of some sort. He raised a hand to his face and pushed aside the cloth over his eyes. More darkness, and a pale, looming shape, its mouth flapping, its guts—
Wolfram screamed and bolted upright.
Hands seized his shoulders, and the figure swam into view. Enough light seeped in around an unseen door that he could make out the rough features, the moving lips, and finally he noted the harsh voice that tried to mold itself into soothing sounds.
Wolfram frowned. Had he knocked his head? He didn’t remember—but then, he wouldn’t, would he? He focused again on the figure, struggling to make out what it was saying, but he couldn’t understand a word of it. Whoever it was backed away and flung aside a flap, letting sunlight stream in.
Blocking his eyes with his hand, Wolfram faced away until he’d grown used to light again. Then he turned to the figure.
The woman, her dark hair braided and falling over her shoulder, smiled. She pressed a palm to her forehead, then to his. She was one of the Woodfolk, the nomads who hunted in the mountains between Lochalyn and Bernholt, and wore a shapeless garment made from leather, with a necklace and belt of beads. She called out the doorway and came back to kneel beside him on the dirt floor.
The hut appeared much larger when she’d settled again. Another pile of branches and hides lay on the other side of a fire pit lined with stones, and several leather bags jumbled together by the doorway. A bow and quiver of arrows fletched with hawk feathers hung from the interlaced branches of the ceiling.
The woman reached out and removed the cloth from Wolfram’s forehead, still smiling. Tentatively, Wolfram smiled back. “Thank you,” he tried, his voice barely escaping theband of pain about his throat. He touched his neck gingerly. Another cloth wrapped the wound, and his fingers came away smelling of herbs and animal grease.
“You speaking tongue no?” She managed to ask, watching him expectantly. Her face and hands were deeply tanned, her teeth chipped and stained, but she was younger than he’d thought at first.
“Do I speak your language?” Wolfram
“I do not want to lose you, Lyssa, not like the rest.”
She smiled grimly. “But I am not like the rest, Fionvar. I am a lady of the Goddess, I am a Sister of the Sword, and I am sworn to find your son”—she met his shadowed eyes, and repeated—“ your son, and bring him home. When he gets home, you’ll tell him the truth, all of it.”
“As I should have done years ago.”
Lyssa began to gather up her tools, laying them out neatly on the workbench, covering the lot with a drop cloth. She glanced down to the covered bust but let it stay.
“Where will you go?”
“The infirmary first, and the west gate. After that, to find the refugees.” She paused, gazing into the distance. “Across the mountains, or the ocean—all the way to Hemijrai, if that’s where he is.” To Bernholt first, she thought, in case they were wrong, in case Wolfram were tracking the legend of King Rhys, and their web of lies could lead him there.
EXHAUSTED, HEAD and neck throbbing, Wolfram slowly rose to consciousness. Something damp and dark lay over his head—cold upon the heat within. His palms and knees stung, and he vaguely recalled staggering into the trees, falling more than once, and a final tumble down a rocky slope. As he shifted, the bruises on his back and legs,too, cried out, and he winced. Branches were poking into his shoulders. For a moment, he thought he lay in the gully where he’d fallen. He wriggled his fingers carefully about, and found that the branches beneath him were padded with animal hides of some sort. He raised a hand to his face and pushed aside the cloth over his eyes. More darkness, and a pale, looming shape, its mouth flapping, its guts—
Wolfram screamed and bolted upright.
Hands seized his shoulders, and the figure swam into view. Enough light seeped in around an unseen door that he could make out the rough features, the moving lips, and finally he noted the harsh voice that tried to mold itself into soothing sounds.
Wolfram frowned. Had he knocked his head? He didn’t remember—but then, he wouldn’t, would he? He focused again on the figure, struggling to make out what it was saying, but he couldn’t understand a word of it. Whoever it was backed away and flung aside a flap, letting sunlight stream in.
Blocking his eyes with his hand, Wolfram faced away until he’d grown used to light again. Then he turned to the figure.
The woman, her dark hair braided and falling over her shoulder, smiled. She pressed a palm to her forehead, then to his. She was one of the Woodfolk, the nomads who hunted in the mountains between Lochalyn and Bernholt, and wore a shapeless garment made from leather, with a necklace and belt of beads. She called out the doorway and came back to kneel beside him on the dirt floor.
The hut appeared much larger when she’d settled again. Another pile of branches and hides lay on the other side of a fire pit lined with stones, and several leather bags jumbled together by the doorway. A bow and quiver of arrows fletched with hawk feathers hung from the interlaced branches of the ceiling.
The woman reached out and removed the cloth from Wolfram’s forehead, still smiling. Tentatively, Wolfram smiled back. “Thank you,” he tried, his voice barely escaping theband of pain about his throat. He touched his neck gingerly. Another cloth wrapped the wound, and his fingers came away smelling of herbs and animal grease.
“You speaking tongue no?” She managed to ask, watching him expectantly. Her face and hands were deeply tanned, her teeth chipped and stained, but she was younger than he’d thought at first.
“Do I speak your language?” Wolfram
Similar Books
