R. L. LaFevers (5 page)

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remembered how safe he had felt in her embrace, her body warm as she cuddled against him on cold nights, her comforting whispers heard only by him. She had created a special world for him in her arms, one that pain and shame had no part in. In his eighth year, the other serving women had complained that he was too old to stay in their quarters any longer. The pain of that day still cut like a knife; the anguish of being cast out, away from his mother's side. He knew she argued against it. He'd heard her himself as he hid in the shadows behind closed doors. But her arguments had fallen on deaf ears.

His mother had helped him find a small corner in the stable, one that no one would object to. That had been his home ever since, the gentle snorting and blowing of Pillock and the donkeys replacing his mother's lullabies. But he savored the memory, and on nights like this, when he was cold and alone, he took it out and wrapped it around himself like a warm blanket.

***

Wat was running. His twisted foot dragged useless behind him. Sweat dripped into his one good eye, blurring his vision. They were getting closer. So close. The ground shook with the force of their running. He heard their heavy breathing drawing closer, almost in his ear. Or was it his

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own ragged breath as he struggled for air? His side ached so much, he feared it was splitting. His bad foot was so heavy, he feared he couldn't lift it again to go another step. But he must. Or they would catch him.

His whole body shuddered as he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He jerked awake and blinked a couple of times. The sky was dark still, the moon not yet risen. Only a few stars shone in the sky, casting everything around him into shades of dark gray and black. Where was he? The forest! He stiffened as he remembered. He had dreamed that someone touched his shoulder. Straining his ears, he listened, yet heard nothing. He turned his head and peered into the darkness, past the dark silhouette of a slender tree stump with a branch reaching out in his direction. Maybe that was it. Maybe he had merely bumped against the branch in his sleep.

As the dream finally cleared from his vision, he saw a soft flickering of red light. He sat up, instantly alert. A small fire had been lit nearby, the embers glowing. He froze. A fire could mean only one thing.

His heart leaped to his throat when a dry, whispering voice came floating out of the trees.

"Don't you know the dangers of sleeping in the open forest at night?"

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***

Chapter 6

Slowly, stiffly, the stump began to unfold itself. Other branches began to move and flap around, and Wat realized they were two arms and two legs covered in a rough, brownish-gray cloak. The top portion of the stump turned. With shock, Wat found himself staring into a pair of deep gray eyes that sat in a heavily lined face, the lower half of which was covered by a long, gray beard.

This, Wat thought, this was what came of sleeping out in the open forest unguarded. He eyed the stranger warily.

The old man turned back to the fire and poked at the flames with a stick. "Well, don't you understand the dangers, young fool?"

Wat finally found his tongue. "I'm not afraid of anything here in the forest."

The old man snorted. "We all have something to fear." He threw Wat a sly look. "Some more than others."

Wat tried to study the old man in the faint light. He'd never seen him before, not in the village, nor on any of his

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trips into the forest. He was certain he'd remember if he'd seen that face before. And he'd never heard any tales of an old hermit who lived in these woods. "Who are you?" he blurted out.

"Who am I? Who am I? he asks." The old man cocked his head at Wat. "Well, who are
you?"

Wat opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it. It wasn't just himself anymore. He had two others who were counting on him. He pulled the sack closer to his body.

"See," the old man cackled. "It's not so easy a question to answer now, is it?"

Stung to words, Wat said, "I'm just a lad."

"From the village?"

Wat thought about how to answer that. Would it give away too much if the man knew where he had come from?

The old man barked out a laugh. "Of course you came from the village! If you were from the forest, I'd have known about you before now. Why would you not want me to know that?" A look crossed the old man's face, and his whole body changed, growing larger, more threatening. His eyes bored into Wat. "You weren't responsible for those two deaths earlier today, were you? Over in the oak grove?"

How did he know? Wat wondered. Had he been

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watching from the trees? "No!" Wat said. "I'm trying to make up for those deaths."

"How can anyone make up for such brutality?" the man asked.

Wat stuck his chin out stubbornly. "I can try."

The old man cocked his head, as if Wat had finally said something truly interesting. "That you can. So, who
are
you, then, lad?"

"Just a lad from the village, like you said."

The old man took the stick he'd been poking at the fire and pulled it out of the flames. He held the burning tip closer to Wat and looked him up and down, seemingly through to his very soul.

Wat endured his scrutiny in silence, not wanting to give the man cause to think he was guilty of any wrongdoing. The man's outrage over the falcons' death gave Wat hope that he wouldn't be handing him over to Lord Sherborne or Hugh come morning.

After looking long and hard at Wat's face and his misshapen eye, the man finally spoke. "Did they tell you your father was the devil?"

Wat looked up in shock. "Aye. They did. But how did you know?"

Slowly the old man shook his head. "They used to tell

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me the same thing. I'll wager it is no truer for you than it was for me." Slowly, he pulled his cloak back from his head, just far enough to expose his left ear, which was shrunken and misshapen like a dried mushroom.

"Oh," was all Wat could think of to say. It was the first time he'd ever met anyone who had a deformity such as his. Who had most likely lived through the same types of torment as he had. "Does it hamper your hearing?" he finally asked.

"Eh?"

Wat leaned forward and spoke louder. "I said, does it hamper your--"

"No, no," the old man said, waving his hand and chuckling. "'Twas a joke." The old man motioned with his hand for Wat to lean closer. "Now here's a secret I'll share with you." He pointed a finger at Wat's eye, then his own ear. "These aren't signs of the devil." He leaned closer and whispered, "They're signs we were born under fortune's star."

Wat stiffened, studying the man more carefully. "That's what my mother always told me." Surprise caused him to say the words out loud, even though he had told himself to keep silent so that the stranger would be on his way as quickly as possible. Who was this man that used the same words that his mother did?

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"Did she?" The old man paused and turned his gaze back to Wat. He leaned forward and took Wat's chin between his thumb and finger, turning his face this way and that.

"Your mother used to say? Is she dead, then?" he asked. Something deep within the old man grew still as he waited for the answer.

"No. She's alive."

The old man held even more still. "And tell me, boy, what is your mother's name?"

Again, Wat paused to think if this could make more trouble for him, but the look on the old man's face was burning in its intensity.

"Brenna. Brenna is my mother's name," he answered, almost against his will, as if the words had somehow been called from him.

The stick he'd been poking at the flames with fell out of the old man's hand, and he closed his eyes, as if he'd just experienced some great pain he could hardly bear.

Wat watched, concerned. What was wrong with him? Was he having a seizure of some sort? And what should Wat do about it if he was?

The old man finally opened his eyes and cleared his throat. "Brenna, you say?"

Wat nodded. "Do you know her?"

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"Describe her to me."

Wat wanted to argue, but there was a desperation in the man's voice, a sense of need so strong that it pulled Wat along with it. "She is slight of build, not much taller than me. Her hair is red, her skin pale, and her eyes are moss green."

As Wat spoke, the man brought his hand up to his chest and began rubbing it over his heart, as if something inside of him ached. "By the gods," he finally whispered, his voice faint.

Wat could stand it no longer. "Are you ill? Can I get you something?"

The man held up his hand and shook his head. "No, I'll be fine in a minute. Tell me more of your mother."

Torn between his desire to keep silent and his fear for the old man, Wat found himself saying, "She works in the manor kitchens, for Lord Sherborne."

"She is well and happy?"

Wat had never considered this before. He knew she was well enough, but happy? And what business was it of this nosy old man's? "Why do you want to know so much about my mother?" he finally asked. "What business is it of yours?"

The old man gave Wat a long, studied look, opened his

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mouth to answer, then changed his mind. "Never mind. So tell me, what have you got in the sack there? Food, perhaps? Ale?"

Wat looked down at the sack in his lap. What would this man do if he knew of the young birds? He'd been furious at what was done to the falcons earlier. Did that mean Wat's secret would be safe with him? Would he be able to help somehow? "No," Wat answered slowly. "No food."

The old man raised one of his bushy eyebrows. "Well, what is it, then?"

Once again, Wat hesitated. He was eager to turn the talk from his mother, but could he trust this man? Something deep inside him said yes. Wat had never seen him in the village, so it was unlikely he would go there now, just to turn Wat in. And once he realized that Wat had rescued the nestlings from the very men who had killed the other falcons, surely he would understand. "Well, remember how I told you earlier I was trying to amend those deaths you spoke of?"

The man nodded his head.

"These are their young. The nestlings. Lord Sherborne and his men killed the parents so they could get to the nestlings."

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"And how do you come to have them?" The old man eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"I snuck into the mews and ...and took them," Wat explained.

Wat had his full attention now. "You went into their midst and snatched them from under their nose?"

Wat squirmed nervously on the hard ground. "Aye."

The old man threw back his head and laughed with glee. "Oh, well done, lad. Well done."

A pleasant warmth blossomed through Wat at these words of praise, and he found himself glad he'd decided to trust the stranger.

"However," the old man said as he stopped laughing, "you've also landed yourself in the middle of a fine mess."

"I had to save them. I couldn't leave them to that hunting party. Do you know what they do to young falcons back there?"

"Oh, yes. I do. I know exactly how they treat wild things up at the manor."

"Besides," Wat continued, more calmly now, "their parents died trying to protect them. I couldn't let their deaths be for nothing." For some reason, it seemed vitally important to him that the old man understand.

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"Now there's a question for you. Can a death mean nothing? I think not, boy."

Wat sighed in frustration. "I shouldn't have hoped you'd understand."

"Oh, I understand all right. Probably more than you. I understand that it is parents' nature to protect their offspring, no matter what the cost to themselves. If the old must the so the young must live, so be it. It is the way of things." The old man leaned even closer to Wat. "But the reason I don't despair as you do is because I understand that the essence of those falcons will not fade."

"What do you mean, 'essence'?" Wat asked.

The old man reached through his beard and scratched his chin. "Think of it this way. In early winter, when the pond first ices over, is it any less water than before?"

Wat shook his head.

"No, of course not. It's still water, but frozen water. Then, if you take a piece of that ice and boil it in a pot, it becomes water again and then something else, right, boy?"

Wat cocked his head and waited for the answer, curious in spite of himself.

"And do you know what it becomes?" the old man asked him.

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Wat shook his head.

"Vapor! Water vapor, to be precise. One essence, three forms. For you see, even though the form changes, the essence remains the same. Do you understand, boy?"

"I think so," Wat replied cautiously. "So, what is the new form the peregrines have taken?"

The old man smiled at Wat. "That is a question I cannot answer." The old man sighed. "Have you given any thought to your mother? What she might be suffering on account of your actions?"

Wat felt a small shiver across his neck. "But why would she be suffering?" he asked.

"Use that thick head of yours, boy. She'd be worried about you, for one. And Sherborne might punish her for your thievery."

Wat's mouth dropped open. "I never even thought of that."

"No. Of course you didn't."

Wat would have liked to argue the point, but felt the ring of truth in the stranger's words. The small fire was cold now, and the old man lapsed into silence, twirling the end of his beard with his finger. He looked up as dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky. " 'Tis a good omen, to begin a journey