Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (10 page)

“
You
are an Earth Spirit?” Thunder Eagle asked.

Lesperance's nod was brief. His confession cost him. This was a powerful secret to share, one he hadn't fully adjusted to, either to reveal or to himself. “It's only been a few days since I learned of it, but I am.”

“This is difficult to believe,” said the chief.

“It's true,” Lesperance growled. He seemed to force the words out. “I can take the form of a wolf, if I have to.”

The chief's impassivity fell away for a brief moment as his eyes widened. “I never thought to speak to, or even see, an Earth Spirit.”

“You see now why we must find their tribe,” Astrid said, “what it means. We have questions that can only be answered by the Earth Spirits.”

“Whatever you know, I need you to tell us.” Lesperance stared hard at Thunder Eagle, burning intensity in his dark eyes.

The chief drew on his pipe, deeply contemplative. After a moment, he said, “Swift Cloud Woman could find the Earth Spirits. She was once part of their tribe. But,” he added darkly, “she is bad medicine.”

“I have heard of her,” Astrid said.

Lesperance shot her a glance. “You never said anything.”

“I had no idea,” she fired back. “I only heard her name, and that she is avoided by all Natives. But I never knew she was part of the Earth Spirit tribe.”

“There is a shadow over Swift Cloud Woman,” Thunder Eagle said. “She has lured men into destruction. Makes promises she cannot keep. Strips warriors of their honor to serve her purposes. Two young warriors from my own band have fallen to her. If you
must
find the Earth Spirits, you must never seek her help to do so. It is better we tell you what we can than you search for her.”

“Anything you know,” Lesperance urged.

“The way will be dangerous,” warned Thunder Eagle. “The Earth Spirits guard their secrets well.”

Astrid shared a glance with Lesperance. Tension still hummed between them, unsaid words, stung feelings, anger, vulnerability, and, yes, strengthening tendrils of attraction and connection. Yet, despite all this, neither could quite contain their mutual excitement. Or adventure. Astrid had once loved it, and she knew, deep within herself, that Lesperance not only shared her love, but was glad to have hers reawakened.

 

The line of men moved silently through the alpine pass. They seldom wasted time with idle chatter, especially when in pursuit. Their guides, three hard-bitten mountain men, dreamed of wealth. To ensure their loyalty and services, each had already been given a purse full of British pound sterling, but there would be more, much more, with the successful completion of the mission. So they kept their positions, at the head and the rear of the column, eyes and ears alert and sharpened with greed.

Four others made up the rest of the party. As they navigated the narrow, rocky pass, they, too, dreamt of wealth, but even more, they craved power. Such hunger drove them to the farthest, most inaccessible and perilous corners of the globe. Power was theirs, by right, by birth. They were Englishmen. The world's magic belonged to them alone, the Heirs of Albion.

Albert Staunton glanced behind him with a scowl, making sure his compatriots kept pace. Halling was nodding in his saddle again. Idiot. Staunton had come halfway across the earth for this mission and sure as hell wasn't going to let some doughy laggard like Richard Halling slow him down. Succeeding in a mission meant greater rank and prestige within the Heirs. Each mission was a building block upon which he planned to construct the fortress of his power. And this one was most important of all.

“Look lively, Halling,” Staunton barked.

Halling snapped awake and looked annoyed, wiping his sleeve across his mouth.

As Staunton muttered a string of curses, a marked contrast to his aristocratic breeding, Lesley Bracebridge drew up alongside him, smirking. The falcon on Bracebridge's arm seemed just as smug.

“Whose palm did Halling's father grease to get him here?”

Staunton grunted. “Had to have been Fawler. He's got the final say on field teams.”

“At least Milbourne's worth something.”

Both men regarded the fourth member of their team with approval. John Milbourne sat tall and alert in the saddle, revolver and rifle both at the ready. One of the Heirs' best marksmen, and a prime addition on this most critical mission.

“That
púca
didn't do the trick,” Staunton noted. “Our hands are still empty.”

The mage glowered. “A first attempt.”

“And what about the spell you've been tinkering with?” Staunton pressed.

“Needs more work.” Bracebridge rubbed at his dark beard. “The transformation isn't lasting long enough. And it isn't ‘tinkering.' One doesn't ‘tinker' with dark magic.”

“Whatever you call it, keep working. We need that spell to go up against the shape changer.”

Even though Bracebridge had seen, and done, some wonderfully brutal deeds in his time, he still could not suppress a shudder, making the falcon shift on its perch on his arm. “What that Indian did to the
púca
…and the way he tore out Mayne's throat…vicious.”

“But useful,” Staunton reminded him.

“Very true.” Bracebridge's horror was lost in a smile as he contemplated not only possessing Lesperance's shifting abilities, but having his own magical transformation. He thought of his future exploits, his conquests, and stroked his beard gleefully.

Staunton smiled as well. Despite the failure of the
púca,
Bracebridge's magic could be relied upon. The mage coveted power, and that pushed him always forward, to wherever and whatever the mission demanded. Excellent. This mission was Staunton's to command, and he was determined to succeed.

The Primal Source—the world's first and most potent magic—belonged to the Heirs now. It had been awakened, and Staunton vowed to see its power, and his own, fully realized. His successful completion of the mission here in the wilds of Canada would ensure the Heirs' command. And if, in his pursuit, he got to inflict some bodily harm on Astrid Bramfield, so much the better.

 

Nathan stood at the bank of the river, waiting. Packs and gear were piled by his feet. A cluster of children, crouched in the dust, watched him. Behind him, Astrid spoke with Thunder Eagle in Nakota, so he had no way to know what they discussed. Judging by the glances they both sent in his direction, he was the subject. Still, both the chief and Astrid were too damned good at hiding their feelings, so whatever it was they said about him, he would never know. He could only stand nearby and watch.

“Not a hell of a lot new there,” he muttered to himself, then shook his head at his own moodiness.

Nathan existed on the margins. Even with the other Native children at school—he hadn't fit in with them. Those boys and girls read and learned their catechisms, learned to play the piano, sang hymns, took up carpentry or spinning, and played football on the pitch on Saturday afternoons. Nathan got into fistfights. He brooded his way through his lessons and wouldn't attend innocent Thursday night dances held in the refectory. The last time he had been permitted to see his mother was when he was eight, and four years later, he ran away to his parents' village, but both his mother and father urged him to return, to make something of himself in the white man's world. The Indians' world was dying, they said, despite the white man's promises. He must learn to live as the ghost-colored men did.

He did return, digging knuckles into his eyes to keep them from leaking. But instead of joining the other Indian children in their play or schoolwork, he kept to himself and applied all his energy toward his studies. He wouldn't take up carpentry or blacksmithing or cannery work or any of the other manual skills the teachers pressed upon the students. No—he would learn the white man's own system, law, master it, and use it like a hammer to demolish the world that was killing his own.

There is no such thing as a Native attorney,
they told him.

There will be,
he answered, and became just that.

He didn't expect his social standing to improve by becoming a professional. And it didn't. He was invited to a few parties and dinners, but he knew they saw him as a novelty, not a man.

Unlike Astrid. The barriers between them were not founded on the color of skin. That ordinary prejudice would almost be easier to face than what kept her fortified like a citadel. Even now, talking with Thunder Eagle, her arms were crossed over her chest, her posture protective.

Some of the anger he'd felt at her self-imposed estrangement from her parents dissipated, especially after they had fought side-by-side. He was honest enough to realize he wasn't angry with her, but at the sense of his displacement that never truly went away. Hard to reconcile himself to his life when every step he took, every word or gesture directed toward him, only reinforced the fact that he was, and would always be, an outsider, even among those who supposedly were his people.

Yet they weren't his people. The deeper he got into the mountains, the closer to the Earth Spirits' lands, he felt it. Drawing him. Pulling him. Toward what, he didn't know. All he knew was that his whole life, he'd felt a profound difference, never at home, never himself. He hoped finding the other shape changers could give him the belonging he'd never felt.

Two men carried down to the river a birch bark canoe. They watched Nathan from the corners of their eyes, as if he might spring at them like a cornered wolf.

He gave the men a grin that was more flash of teeth than welcoming smile. They set the canoe down upon the sandy riverbank and hurried away.

“Stop scaring them,” Astrid said, approaching.

Nathan didn't try to refute this.

She planted her hands on her hips. It continued to floor him that a woman in trousers and a gun belt could look so damned alluring. Maybe he was more rebellious than even
he
gave himself credit for, to find Astrid Bramfield with her blunt speech and heavy boots seductive. He wanted her, wearing her boots, or barefoot—her toes curling into the soft earth of the forest floor. The beast in him rumbled with approval.

Only he knew the direction of his and the beast's thoughts. Astrid was brusque efficiency. “Thunder Eagle said we were to follow this river for a day and a half to reach the border of the Earth Spirits' lands.” She squinted up at the sun. “There's still plenty of daylight left, so we can make good progress.”

“A canoe, food, and direction, in exchange for the horses and a few pelts. You made a good bargain.”

She seemed relieved that they had reached détente. She actually blushed a little at his praise. He kept discovering how sensitive she truly was, despite her plain speaking and skill with knife and gun. Astrid was much more responsive than she realized.

“Do you know your way around a canoe?” she asked.

“There are lakes and rivers on Vancouver Island.” He began to load their gear into the small boat, careful to keep everything balanced in the middle.

She noted and approved of his technique, then helped to pile their packs into the canoe. “Not like the rivers in these mountains. Many are fast-moving and full of rapids. And I am sure that the Earth Spirits keep their territory well protected. This river is certain to be dangerous. Deadly, even.”

“You can't discourage me.”

“As if such a thing was possible.” She smiled. Not a big smile, only the slightest upturn in the corners of her mouth, yet to Nathan, the sight hit him like sunrise over the mountaintops. “I think the wolf in you has made you arrogant.”

He hefted another pack. “Always been that way.”

“How fortunate,” she said drily. Her braid dangled down her front, hanging in front of her breast, and she flipped it back with a practiced motion.

Nathan was ready to cut off a limb just to take her hair out of that damned braid. If he could remove her coat and shirt, touch her bare skin…His beast paced in the cage of himself, wanting.

Thunder Eagle approached them, trailed by the two warriors who had escorted them into the encampment. The chief looked grim. “You must be careful. If the river does not claim your lives, the tribe may.”

“We will take that chance,” Astrid said, without a flicker of fear.

Nathan wondered whether all women in the Blades of the Rose were as courageous. Even if the female Blades had the bravery of armies, he doubted they resembled Astrid in any but the most superficial way.

“Now
I
must warn
you,
Chief,” Astrid continued. “The men who are following us, they are cruel, more cruel than any white man you have ever met. And they are not far behind. They will be here in a day or two. They will ask questions about us, questions you should not answer, for everyone's safety.”

“My band is honest,” said the chief, but added with a wry gleam in his eye, “but not always. We can tell good stories.”

She was not amused. “These men know falsehood when they hear it. And if they
do
catch you in a lie, they will make war upon you, a terrible war.”

“My band's warriors can fight,” Thunder Eagle said, slightly stung at the implications that he and his men could not defend themselves against the Heirs.

Astrid placed her hands on her hips. “Not against these men. They use dark medicine, the darkest there is.”

The chief frowned. “If we cannot fight them, how can I protect my people?”

“I see you are moving camp.” She nodded toward where women were disassembling the wooden racks used for drying meat.

“To our winter grounds,” Thunder Eagle confirmed.

“The sooner you move, the better. Leave by tomorrow, and no later.”

The chief looked surprised at Astrid's commanding tone. No doubt no woman ever spoke to him as she did. Nathan knew exactly how Thunder Eagle felt. There wasn't a single woman like Astrid Bramfield.