Thief With No Shadow (16 page)

The smile on Liana’s face died. “Not well.”

“I have the medicines.” The cloth-wrapped bundle lay on the table.

He sat while Liana untied the string and peeled back the cloth. “This is delicious,” he said, scooping food on his fork and raising it to his mouth. “Where did you find the spices? I thought we hadn’t any left.”

“Melke made it.” Liana opened a jar of salve and sniffed it. “Perfect—”

Bastian spat out his food and pushed the plate away from him. It fell off the edge of the table. The sound of pottery smashing on stone was loud. His chair tumbled over as he stood and the candles flared sharply in the draft of his movement. “What? She did
what?”

Liana’s eyes were wide with astonishment, the jar of salve still held to her nose.

“I will not have that thing cooking my food!”

Liana put down the salve. “Bastian.”

It was one word, spoken as if he was the child and she the adult.

His cheeks flushed hot. “I will
not—
”

“I haven’t the time. If you want to eat, you’ll let Melke cook.”

“I’ll cook,” he said stiffly.

“You haven’t the time either.”

He pushed aside thought of the dead sheep, the bridge. “I’ll make the time.”

“Bastian.”

Again that tone of voice. He clenched his jaw.

“Melke wants to help. Let her.”

“No,” Bastian said, stubbornly. He sounded like a child. He heard it.

“You liked her cooking. Don’t you think—”

“No.” He jutted his chin and narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t going to back down on this.

Liana sighed. There were shadows on her face, cast by candlelight. “Bastian, please.”

He had lost. The instant he heard the sigh, the plea in her voice, he knew he’d lost.

The tallow candles flickered softly in the dark kitchen. Morsels of food speckled the table where he’d spat them. The chair lay at his feet. “Fine!” Bastian flung up his hands in a sharp gesture. “Fine! If that’s what you want!”

Liana’s smile was grateful. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. The rosemary scent of her hair lingered briefly in his nostrils. “Thank you, Bastian.”

He couldn’t make himself say anything in return.

“I have to get back.” She picked up the open bundle of medicines with both hands.

He nodded, and watched her go. The wraith would be cooking his food. He wanted to vomit.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
T TOOK
B
ASTIAN
the best part of the morning to find the dead sheep. The lamb’s nose pushed from the ewe. The tongue protruded, swollen and purple. Flies swarmed obscenely over it.

Bastian closed his eyes as bile rose in his throat. He might have been able to save this one, to have eased the lamb back inside and pulled it out by the forelegs. Instead, a nose, a tongue.

And I was bedding Silvia
. The fault was his.

There was no Endal to make the moment bearable. It wasn’t even possible to tell himself that it would be all right in the end, because deep inside himself he was afraid it wouldn’t. No necklace lay coiled in the chest under his bed. He had nothing to give the psaaron when it came.

Everything rested on a sly and deceitful wraith. She’d given her word of honor, but what was that worth?

The curse might never be broken. Never.

Something swift and sinuous darted inside him. A wish. A hope. What if the curse wasn’t broken...?

Weight lifted off his shoulders. No farm to rebuild, no responsibility. Freedom.

What if he left? What if he just took Liana and left?

For a moment there was soaring lightness, and then guilt twisted inside him. His parents had died for Vere.

Rage at himself, at the wraith, at life, fuelled Bastian as he dug into the iron-hard dirt, jarring wrists and shoulders and neck, tearing open the blisters on his palms.

The sweat and pain didn’t erase the guilt. Nothing could. He was sick with himself, at himself. When the sheep was buried he threw the shovel aside and wiped his face with a gritty forearm. There was a trembling inside him. Not tears. Never tears.

His father had cried—

Bastian shut his eyes. “No,” he said out loud. He wouldn’t remember,
refused
to remember.

The bridge was easier to deal with than the sheep. It was inanimate, had never lived. Bastian walked slowly, testing each board with his feet, not putting his full weight on the planks until he was certain they’d bear him. Some creaked, some didn’t. He didn’t test the railings. If they gave way he’d not survive the water.

He stood in the center, with his feet apart and his eyes half-closed. Yes, there was movement. The bridge swayed slightly to the tug of the river.

Bastian closed his eyes fully and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Not this. Not now.

On the far side, the side where the soil was moist and the plants grew lush and green, he slid down the bank and looked at the bridge from underneath. The structure was simple: one wooden pile, with the river parting in a foamy wake around it.

It seemed to him that the pile yielded to the push of water. He saw the strain of the wood. It looked ready to snap and be swept away.

He shook his head.
No.
But the truth was there to see.

How long until the river ripped the pile free? How long before the bridge buckled and fell?

Soon.

There was a ford four miles downstream that he dared not use. The water would swallow him. Arnaul’s bridge was the only safe way across the river. Eight miles upstream. Eight long miles.

If the wraith kept her word. If he had the necklace to give to the psaaron. If the curse was lifted... There’d still be no money to rebuild the bridge. It was utterly beyond his means.

Bastian turned his back to the river. The weight of Vere pressed down on him. He’d never be free of it. It would bury him.

Something lay hidden in the ferns. He saw a gray that was neither stone nor timber. Bastian frowned. He crouched, pushing the curling green fronds aside, and felt the weave of fabric beneath his fingertips. A cloak, woollen, folded neatly. Beneath that was a small sack with something inside.

Bastian pulled the sack free of its hiding place, undid the drawstring, and tipped it upside down. Half a loaf of bread, dark and heavy and speckled with mold, fell out. A bladder of water, its belly soft and bulging. A folded piece of parchment.

He opened the parchment and spread it on the ground. It was a map. The two closest towns were marked. The crossroads. The salamanders’ den. The river. Vere.

Rage blurred his vision.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I
N A SMALL
earthenware pot stamped with an apothecary’s mark was a salve to reduce the swelling and the bruising. It was the color of pale sand, fawny, and smelled of herbs. Melke replaced the lid.

For the burns Liana had prepared a bowl of liquid, the juice of fresh ginger root. It would ease the inflammation if applied to Hantje’s skin, she said. The scent was strong in the room.

“And this tea will help bring the fever down. He must drink as much as you can give him.”

The teapot was warm. Melke lifted the lid and sniffed. “Peppermint?”

“And elderflower and yarrow flower.”

Melke nodded.

“And this will help the bones knit. Comfrey. He should drink this too.”

She nodded a second time.

“If you need me...”

“I’ll wake you.”

Liana smiled wearily.

“Sleep well,” Melke said.

But Liana seemed reluctant to leave, despite the dark smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes. She bent and cupped her hand to Hantje’s cheek.

Despair, and an honorable heart. Melke knew that was what the girl felt when she touched Hantje. An honorable heart. How could that be? He’d crept into the salamanders’ den, had tried to steal. And because of that creeping, that attempt at thievery, this girl exhausted herself healing him and the curse might never be lifted. Someone would be hurt dreadfully, Liana or Bastian, and the farm would die, and the psaaron would lose its family’s tears forever.

How could you, Hantje? We promised we’d never be wraiths.

There was a knot of anger inside her. Had he learned nothing from the years of imprisonment? Didn’t he remember Mam dying? The splintering
thwack
of the crossbow bolt in her back, the sound that came from her mouth and the way her body fell. Didn’t he remember the promise he’d made?

Folded into the anger was grief—and guilt, because she knew why he’d done it. A man would do anything if his despair was great enough
. I failed you, Hantje. I didn’t see what lay behind your smile and your jokes.

She would make it right for Hantje and for this girl. She’d undo the harm. If it was possible.

Liana straightened from the bed.

Melke managed a smile. “Sleep well,” she said again.

The girl nodded. Her eyes were already half-closed, half-asleep. She turned towards the door.

Melke reached for the bowl of pungent juice. It was a relief to be able to do something for Hantje. The salve, the ginger root, the teas. She felt less useless, more hopeful, as if the small things she did gave him greater chance of recovery.

Morning became afternoon, and she opened the window wide. Heat shimmered from the parched dirt outside. The grass was colorless, so dry it should burst into flame in the sunlight.

Rain would never fall here if she didn’t steal back the necklace.

Eyes of flame. The heavy scent of musk. Darkness. Heat.

Melke shivered and turned away from the window. “Come, Endal. Time to cook dinner.”

Endal rose to his feet and shook himself. His pale eyes were alert. Her limping walk wasn’t fast enough for him. She sensed him behind her, almost pressing into her skirt. He wanted to stretch his legs, to be outside.

Poor creature. He was caged, guarding her. She should tell Bastian that the hound’s presence was unnecessary, that she wouldn’t run.

But Bastian would laugh at her and disbelieve. And why not? She was a wraith, after all. Untrustworthy, dishonest. All the tales said so.

“I didn’t ask for it,” she said to the hound. “I didn’t want to be a wraith.”

Endal looked at her, his ears pricked, alert.

Melke sighed and unlatched the storeroom door. The room was fragrant with smoked ham and strong cheese and fresh herbs. Hunger stirred in her stomach. She looked at the items on the shelves, in the sacks, and made her decision. Potatoes again, and ham, and...there was a bunch of rosemary, tied with twine, but no chives. Were there some in the garden?

Endal bounced on his paws and shook himself as they stepped outside. He had the look of a puppy about him. He wanted to run and play. “Here,” she said, walking to the woodpile on throbbing feet. “Chase this.”