Sorceress (16 page)

Why? To make her more comfortable? Then why leave without waking her?

A horrid thought struck her. Had the liar stolen off with her possessions? Her heart clutched in fear, as she searched frantically for her talismans, amulets, herbs, and money. Surely he would not have stolen from her? Then again, he might think it some form of twisted justice for the punishment he’d endured.

A quick search allayed her fears; she found everything where she’d left it, including the dagger still clutched in her hand. She let out her breath. How long had she slept? How deeply? Though she’d thought she had barely closed her eyes, it appeared that she had been near dead to the world for some time as the wintry morning sky was light.

And now, Gavyn was gone.

After he’d been so insistent that he stay with her and accompany her to Tarth.

If that was where she was supposed to go.

She checked her things again and found the map—a lot of good it would do her now.

Well, if she was heading to Tarth, so be it. It seemed from the map, if Gavyn had been telling the truth, that she should keep following the old overgrown road that ran ever northward.

But why to Tarth? Just because Gavyn had interpreted the map a certain way? For all she knew, he could have been lying once more. He may not have had any idea what the etchings on the piece of doeskin meant.

Stretching, feeling her cramped muscles loosen in the cold morning, she stared up at the sky. The clouds overhead were gray and ominous, their great underbellies swollen. ’Twas only a matter of time before rain or sleet or snow would fall from the heavens.

Shaking her hair loose of the braid, she walked to the stream. On the bank, she twisted her hair behind her back, knelt on a flat stone, and searched the depths of a pool for a fish. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. She’d gotten quick enough with her dagger to impale a trout or eel if she was lucky, though it usually took more patience than she possessed this morning. She’d also learned how to block a part of the stream and create a dam with sticks that trapped fish in a smaller pool. The temporary dam had been useful in snagging trout, pike, and eel—enough to last her several meals.

Today, she saw no flash of silver scales, nor did she spy an unlucky toad near the stream for her breakfast. She’d have to wait until she reached the next village, where she would use some of her rapidly dwindling money to buy food for both herself and her horse. She had a fleeting thought of Gavyn. Aye, she almost missed the miserable lying son of a cur, but that feeling was just plain foolish. He’d left, and good riddance. The last thing she needed was a man, nay, a patient who needed tending.

She thought again of the boy he’d once been, so near manhood with his long muscles, taut skin, and first bit of dark hair sprinkling his chest and abdomen. She’d spied upon him whilst he swam and chopped wood, and one day by the stables she’d come upon him working with a horse. She could still see him leaning hard against the lead rope of that unruly colt, muscles straining in the sunlight, sweat staining his hair and running down his face to where beard shadow dared touch his jaw.

“Silly woman,” she muttered to herself as she splashed water upon her face, then checked the far bank of the creek where the wolf had crouched last night, eye to eye with her. Although the silver beast had ample opportunity, she had not harmed her. She had probably just gone off chasing something in the brush. A roe deer? Or had it been something worse? Something shrouded in the dark night?

Shivering, she told herself to forget whatever she’d thought had been watching her. ’Twas only her imagination, fed by Isa’s warning and the wolf’s actions. Had she heard the animal snarl and fight some other beast? Nay, she’d disappeared into utter silence. Even now, just thinking about it made the flesh of her arms tingle eerily.

“Forget it,” she ordered herself. She dried her face on the hem of her mantle, then considered leaving this morn and riding for hours, stopping only to feed herself and the horse.

Tonight, if she reached Tarth, she would pay for a room for herself and a stable and feed for the mare. If it took one night, so be it, but before she scoured the village in search of . . . what? A child? Before she went about her quest, she would eat plum pudding or eel pye or roast goose or baked apples with cinnamon. Her stomach rumbled at the thought, but even over its hungry growl, she heard the sound of hooves pounding against the ground. She looked up sharply and squinted through the oak and fern.

She almost smiled as she caught a glimpse of a tall rider upon a big black stallion.

So he’d come back. He hadn’t stolen away in the night and left her. Foolishly, her silly heart leapt at the sight of him, bruised and battered though he was.

Though she should have cursed his return, she felt a lifting of her spirits, a sense of relief and, mayhap, something more. Something she didn’t want to examine too closely. She half expected the wolf to be with him, but the wild cur was nowhere to be seen.

As Gavyn rode into the clearing and dropped onto the ground, she noticed two squirrels, a hare, a stoat, and a pheasant strung upon a thin pole and lashed to the back of his saddle.

“You killed all these this morning?”

“ ’Tis the best time, if you know what you’re doing.”

“So you’re a huntsman, Gavyn of Agendor.”

“When I have to be.”

Bryanna remembered that about him, how the boy who was so good with the horses was just as agile with a bow and arrow. Often he’d joined the hunters and had always returned with a fat goose, boar, or stag.

“And you’re feeling better?”

He nodded. “No doubt it was that foul-tasting potion you insisted I drink.”

“No doubt.”

At the stream, he gutted and skinned his kills as she stoked the fire. Two crows appeared, landing on high branches, cawing loudly and greedily staring at the dead animals. Other birds appeared, fighting and twittering, hoping for scraps of forgotten carrion.

Bryanna plucked the feathers from the pheasant, then singed the shorter hair feathers and rubbed the bird with bits of rosemary she’d picked a week earlier. She helped Gavyn roast the carcasses upon a wooden spit supported by two forked sticks. The livers, heart, and pheasant’s stomach were cooked upon the same flat rock she had used to heat water.

She turned the meat often while he scraped any remaining flesh from the skins, which he told her he hoped to sell. Gavyn saved most of the pheasant’s feathers to repair his arrows.

She had hoped that Gavyn would look heartier than he had the night before, but ’twas not to be. With the daylight, his wounds were all the more visible, his skin discoloration more distinct. The whites of his eyes, no longer softened by the night shadows, looked raw and red. Then there was the bloody patch showing on his tunic. It seemed larger than it had been the night before, as if his injury were bleeding again. Had she not touched him the night before and caught a glimpse of a vision, she would not yet recognize him.

Once the meat had cooked and they were eating, she said, “Your wounds need tending.”

“They’ll heal.”

“I could help.”

“How? Another cup of boar piss?” One dark eyebrow arched, almost daring her to try and make him swallow so much as a drop of the potion.

“You admitted it helped.”

“Mayhap.” He sucked on a small bone from the pheasant.

“You felt good enough to go out riding and hunting, and it seems your aim was true.”

“Due to the potion?”

“Nay. Of course not.” She took a final bite from the coney’s leg. “’Twas only your good eye, strong bow arm, and perfect aim that saw you through.”

“You’re making jest of my skills?” he asked, one dark brow rising as he tore off one of the pheasant’s legs and bit into the crispy meat.

“Oh, nay, Gavyn, I would not.”

He skewered her with a disbelieving glare.

“It’s just that I know of herbs and medicines and—”

“And runes and witchcraft. No, thank you.”

Frowning, she tossed her clean-picked bone into the fire and licked her fingers. “You expect me to ride with you, to accept you as my bodyguard, when you’re half dead as it is.”

“I’ll be fine.”

She didn’t believe it for a second.

“So where are Isa and her husband. . . . What was his name? Payton?” he asked, obviously trying to change the subject.

“Parnell,” she corrected quickly. Had he not listened to her lie? Had he forgotten? Or was he testing her? Should she trust him with the truth? . . . Nay, not yet. For she was certain he had not been completely honest with her. If she had not called him Gavyn, he would still allow her to think that his name was Cain.

She used some of the hot water in the cup to clean the grease from her fingers. “As you can see, they did not return, so I’d best be off soon to search for them.”

One side of his mouth twitched as he tore off a pheasant wing and bit off the morsel of meat beneath crisp skin. “You’d best,” he agreed, chewing and trying to hide his grin. “What if you don’t find them?”

“Then we’ll meet up in Tarth.”

“That was your plan?”

“Yes.”

“Even though you didn’t know where you were going? Had no idea where Tarth was?”

She bristled a bit and suddenly recalled that even as a youth he had nettled her, gotten under her skin. “We all were heading northward and a little to the west. We had agreed that if anything happened, we would find each other in the town.”

“Of Tarth?”

“Yes, though I knew not its name.”

“Do they?” he asked, wiggling the wing bone at her. “Isa and Parnell. Do they know where they’re going? Do they, too, have some kind of pathetic drawing guiding them?”

“ ’Tis Isa who gave me mine.”

“Does she have the rest of it?” When Bryanna didn’t respond, he added, “’Tis obviously only part of a larger map. Where is the rest of it? Who has it?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

The breeze picked up, rustling the dry leaves.

Gavyn looked up sharply, then stood. He dropped the pheasant bone and grabbed his knife. His eyes grew narrow as he stared into the surrounding brush. Bryanna’s own gaze followed Gavyn’s to the brambles, moving with a flash of silver and black.

The wolf had returned.

“I wondered when you would show up again,” Gavyn said, relaxing a bit. He took what was left of the squirrel carcass and tossed it into the woods. The wolf pounced on the treat and crunched it in her jaws.

For some strange reason, Bryanna was glad to see the furry cur. “I was hoping she was gone for good,” she lied.

“Unlikely. I feed her.”

“Dangerous.”

“So far, not.” He started to hurl another morsel into the underbrush, but as he drew his arm back, he sucked in his breath and dropped the meat at his feet. “Holy Christ,” he muttered between clenched teeth.

“You are hurt!”

He sat down and let out his breath. “’Tis just a twinge.”

She tossed back her hair and shook her head. “A twinge? I think not. Now lie down and let me look at your bloody shoulder. There is no nobility in suffering.”

“Is that an order, m’lady?”

“That’s right, so let’s get to it. By the gods, you were a stubborn boy and now you’re a headstrong man.” She frowned. “You should not have gone out hunting.”

“Then you’d be hungry.”

“I can manage, thank you. Next time . . . oh, there will not be a next time. Lie down.”

Grudgingly, he did as he was bid, stretching out on the ground, his long legs in front of him, his back propped up against the trunk of a sapling.

Bryanna washed her hands in the creek and, as she’d seen Isa do a hundred times before, examined the wounded man while her small cup heated water over the fire.

The whites of his eyes were turning from red to pink—an improvement—and his eye color, a rich, dark gray, was evident now. Whatever swelling had surrounded them had disappeared and most of the bruises on his skin were healing, turning from purple and green to a sickly yellow. Only a few were still the deep purple brown of a fresh wound. He allowed her to touch him, and she did so gingerly, her fingertips barely skating across his skin as she scrutinized each cut and scrape, all of which were healing. Some of the scabs were falling away and showing new, pink skin. Good signs.

There was a chance that when he’d finally healed, he wouldn’t be hideous at all, but a fair-enough-looking man with somewhat straight teeth, a strong jaw, and high cheekbones. Of course, now one side of his face was a bit sunken and a scar slit the skin from temple to chin. Fortunately much of that slice was hidden in his beard. His nose was broken crooked, and she thought he’d forever have a bump upon it, but even so, he might pass for better than ugly. Once he was healed, she suspected that no woman would turn her head away when this man passed by.

Nay, all in all, he would not be disfigured, she decided, though certainly he was no longer the handsome man his youth had promised.

“That bad?” he asked as she examined a particularly nasty scrape beneath one ear.

“Worse.”

He laughed, and she couldn’t help but smile. She glanced back at his eyes and found him staring at her—so close— barely an inch separating the tip of his broken nose from hers. The intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable, even nervous. She’d tended the ill before, but always under Isa’s tutelage and never with the patient scrutinizing her.

She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the sudden rush of her own blood in her ears.

His gaze shifted to her lips and she felt as if the entire forest hushed. For a second she thought he might kiss her, and something deep inside her crackled with wanting and fear. Kissing this man would be a mistake of monstrous proportions; she knew it as well as she knew her own name. She couldn’t trust him. She wouldn’t.