Sorceress (11 page)

Too late!

His mount shied and reared suddenly, his sturdy legs pawing the night air.

Gavyn started to slide backward.

Quickly, he grabbed the pommel of his saddle with his free hand and sheathed his knife in one quick movement.

Pain shot up his arm and ripped through his shoulder.

The steed’s front legs hit the ground again. With a frightened whinny, Rhi lunged forward. Bit in his teeth, he tore through the woods, hooves kicking up dirt and striking rocks. Clenching his teeth, Gavyn leaned over the frightened stallion’s neck, pulling back on the reins, riding low to avoid the branches that swiped and scraped at him.

He felt the black’s muscles bunch, then release as he sailed over a fallen log to land hard on the other side. Pain screamed through Gavyn’s rib cage. Wrapping the reins around his fists, Gavyn fought to control the big beast, pulling hard on the reins, all to no avail. Lather appeared on the horse’s wet coat as Rhi galloped wildly through the trees, somehow avoiding tree trunks and briars and badger holes.

“Come on, come on, slow down,” he said, feeling the big horse tiring at last.

The ground rose slowly. Rhi, nostrils distended, charged up the hill, but finally began to slow, his long strides becoming shorter, his breath coming hard.

“That’s it,” Gavyn whispered. “That’s a boy.”

Still nervous, Rhi eased into a trot that rattled every bone in Gavyn’s body before finally the horse slowed into a steady walk.

“See there, not so bad, is it?” Gavyn asked.

Gavyn glanced over his shoulder. Through the undergrowth, lingering a stone’s throw behind them, was the silvery gray fur of a wolf.

No wonder the horse had shied.

Gavyn kept a wary eye on the beast, but the shadowy creature hung back, visible occasionally, but never too close. As he rode, Gavyn searched for a glimpse of other snarling wolves. Where there was one, there was sure to be more—the rest of the pack, ready to circle and attack or waiting for the slightest sign of the flagging or faltering of the quarry.

But no other wolves showed themselves on this night.

This one appeared to be alone and slightly crippled, for though she was fast, her gait was uneven and she limped.

On the third night since his escape from the hut of Dougal and Vala, Gavyn chose to camp by a stream. The wolf lay just out of the circle of light of the campfire, her eyes glowing in the darkness, reflecting the flames. She was a shaggy beast, silver with a fringe of black fur around her neck. Gavyn wondered where the rest of the pack was and thought that this one may have been cast out, perhaps for attacking the leader and losing.

Not so unlike his own fate.

“So why are you following me?” Gavyn asked, speaking for the first time to the animal as it settled against a fallen log, its gaze unwavering as Gavyn roasted an unlucky rabbit and squirrel on a makeshift spit. “Where’re all of your friends, eh?” he asked, as if the animal could respond. Fat dripped onto the embers of the fire, sizzling loudly and sending black smoke curling upward through the trees.

Gavyn sat on a flat rock, knife in hand, scraping the inside of the rabbit’s pelt. He’d already cleaned that of the squirrel and added them to the few he’d collected over the past couple of days. He hoped to sell the sleek hides to a peddler or tailor in the next town, though rabbit, squirrel, and polecat were plentiful and worth very little.

The wolf’s silvery-gray coat would fetch more money.

He eyed the beast as hungrily as it stared at him.

’Twas not a large animal, not compared to some of the wolves he’d seen, but not scrawny either. He rotated the meat over the fire, finished cleaning the pelt, then removed the spit and gingerly placed the hot charred carcasses on a rock.

All the while, the wolf’s eyes never stopped watching him.

“Hungry, are you?” Gavyn sliced up the squirrel and pulled the small carcass apart. Though he did not trust the wolf, he wondered why it had strayed from its pack. Perhaps it had been in a fight with another wolf or a boar or other wild creature. Or the cur could have been wounded in a trap.

Though he was probably encouraging the beast, which was just plain stupid, Gavyn tossed half the squirrel into the woods and the shaggy creature pounced upon the charred delicacy as if she truly were starving.

“ ’Tis all I can spare,” Gavyn said as he finished the smaller rodent, then tore into the rabbit. The succulent meat was heaven, and he tried not to notice that the damned wild wolf had edged closer to the fire, head raised, gaze fastened to Gavyn as he took each bite. “You’ll have to kill your own damn food.” He tore off another bit of seared flesh and chewed while the wolf stared hungrily. “I said no more.”

Why had he fed the beast to begin with? ’Twas only asking for trouble. He sucked on a bone and the wolf lay down, paws outstretched, head lying on her front legs. “Don’t you consider it for a second. I could kill you. Turn in your tail for a reward, or maybe tan your hide so that your fur could trim a lady’s winter mantle, eh?”

Disgusted with himself, he picked off a good portion of meat from the roasted rabbit, then tossed the remains to the wolf, which barely chewed the small bones before swallowing as much as possible.

“That’s it. There is no more,” Gavyn said, then silently told himself he was
not
like the beast, wandering the forest alone, cast out by his own family. That was not his true fate.

Wiping his hands, he tucked his mantle around him and lay on the horse blanket. He stayed close to the fire, his stallion’s reins knotted around one hand, his knife in the other. If the steed was the least bit disturbed, either by beast or human, Gavyn would feel it.

He planned on sleeping but a few hours and then riding northward, to the realm of his mother. He had lived in Tarth with his mother, moving north when he was twelve. At the time he’d thought his mother was trying to escape Deverill; later he’d learned that it was Deverill’s wife, Marden, who was the real problem. Her voracious jealousy had sent Gavyn’s mother scurrying all over the countryside, from Agendor to Penbrooke to Tarth. He had not visited his mother’s last home since her death, and if Deverill decided to search that area, well, then, so be it.

The Lord of Agendor could bloody well come find his bastard.

He drifted off but slept fitfully, only to awaken at dawn to find his campfire nothing more than the blackened remains of sticks and ash. The black horse stood relaxed at his side, stirring only as Gavyn arose and stretched, his eyes searching the surrounding trees and ferns for any sign of the wolf.

The beast appeared to be missing, which was just as well, Gavyn thought. He relieved himself against the rough bark of an oak, then worked his muscles. His side still ached and the arm that had been wounded hurt like bloody hell. His fever had passed for the moment, but his ribs ached and it would take some time to regain his strength. Not that it mattered. He was free now, at least for the moment.

Swinging into the saddle, he winced as he pulled on the reins and left his small camp. He’d ridden nearly a mile when he noticed the wolf again, a slinking shadow keeping its distance, but never far out of sight. “Not so lucky as to be rid of you, eh?” Gavyn said, but he decided the furry creature was no threat and would probably tire of following along.

When he took the main road, the wolf disappeared and Gavyn was certain the creature had turned back. After trading his pelts for an ill-fitting pair of breeches and a mantle from a rotund peddler on his way to Wybren, Gavyn once again rode northward. Soon, through the rising mist heralding dusk, he spied the silvery cur once more.

Smiling to himself, Gavyn headed deep into the mountains, and without fail the shaggy wolf with its hungry eyes and uneven gait followed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

P
erhaps his luck had changed.

Through the trees, the shifting light of a campfire danced in this night that was blacker than black, the sky heavy with thick clouds promising rain or worse. Tired, the pain in his shoulder throbbing, Gavyn turned toward the distinct glow. Time to move in on an easy mark.

As silent as a water snake gliding through the ripples, he slid from his saddle and tied the reins of his horse’s bridle to the low hanging branch of the nearest pine.

His bones ached from hours in the saddle, his head pounded, his mouth was dry and foul tasting. Each time his horse had taken a step, the pain in his ribs had reminded him that they had not healed. Worse yet, the wound on his shoulder felt hot to the touch and had started to ooze.

Which was too damned bad.

Soon enough he would arrive in Tarth, the land that had once been home to his mother. Surely he would find a friend, a healer there to help him.

For now, though, he would deal with whatever unsuspecting camper had made the mistake of settling here for the night. Unsheathing his knife, he approached with caution, his boots making not the slightest noise as he crept beneath branches and over needles littering the forest floor.

Then he spied her.

Not a band of robbers or cutthroats or a company of soldiers, but a lone woman.

The very woman of his dreams.

He froze. For the love of Christ, could it be? The same damned woman he’d seen upon the white horse night after night?

Nay! ’Twas impossible. Disbelief and rational thought told him he was, yet again, creating a vision in his mind, bending what was real so that he could see what he wanted. And yet . . .

There she was.

Standing at the fire.

Holy Mother Mary.

From a habit of his youth, he made the sign of the cross over his chest, though he’d lost faith years before. ’Twas his fever, that was it. He had to be seeing an image that didn’t exist; whatever illness he’d been fighting was causing these visions.

Yet he was certain this woman in the woods was she. Her hair was the same red bronze, falling down her back in thick, curling waves. Her features were even, her chin strong, and though he wasn’t close enough to see for certain, he expected there was the merest smattering of freckles upon her short, straight nose.

His jaw tightened and the dull, nagging ache in his shoulder subsided. How in the name of the devil had he imagined her, this woman he’d never seen before? How had his mind conjured her image?

You’ve been cursed,
he heard his mother say as clearly as if she were standing just behind him. But he didn’t believe in magickal spells or hexes. Glancing about the small campsite, where the scents of burned fish still lingered, he saw her horse, the very same mare that raced through his dreams, causing stars to shoot from her hooves. ’Twas dog dung. Mind rot. And yet he was staring at the very same white jennet with her gray muzzle and stockings and bits of gray and black in her mane and tail as well.

He blinked, as if to dispel the vision, but the image remained the same and the woman stood at the fire, holding a ragged piece of something—leather?—in one hand.

In his dreams, she’d always been clad in a white dress embroidered with gold thread, the gown diaphanous and airy, her arms bare, her breasts and nipples visible through the sheer fabric, the strength of her calves and thighs obvious as they clenched the mare. He’d even caught a glimpse of the flatness of her abdomen and the soft red thatch of curls at the juncture of her legs when her filmy skirts had billowed around her.

This night, when he viewed her in the flesh, the gauzy white gown was replaced with heavy warm clothes. A black velvet mantle trimmed with rabbit fur and silver studs fell to her ankles, and though she was not wearing it, a hood was visible beneath her hair. As she paced to and fro near the fire, the hem of the mantle parted, the skirts beneath flashing a deep crimson color.

The dress of a noblewoman.

Riding alone?

Barely breathing, he studied her.

Who was she? Aside from the woman he’d conjured in his dreams, he knew nothing of her.

Why was she here in the middle of the woods?

Again he swept his gaze over the grounds around the campfire, where stones surrounded the fire pit and twigs and small logs burned brightly. Again he saw no one, but surely she was not camped out in the forest by herself. Someone had to be with her, either her husband or a guard or some kind of companion. Someone who was either relieving himself in the woods or was hunting for food.

But as the minutes slid by and the moon rose in the sky, no companion appeared from the surrounding darkness.

She seemed to be by herself.

And she was angry.

She was talking to herself, holding the leather scrap in her fist as she shook it toward the heavens. As if she were a raving lunatic, railing at the gods. Though her words were unclear,she was definitely vexed, her pretty features twisted in rage, her body fairly shivering in fury.

Throwing both her hands into the air, she shook her head, her long, wild hair moving against her back and reflecting the fire’s light. “Please!” she yelled, and the word echoed through the trees of this lonely canyon. “Isa, come to me!”

Isa? The name rang a distant bell in his memory. So she wasn’t by herself, after all. She had a woman companion with her. Someone who was hiding from her? Playing games with her? Or someone who had left her?

“Can you hear me? Isa! I beg you, come to me, now! I need you.”

And yet the woman to whom she called remained silent and concealed in the darkness.

Finally, she gave up. Her arms fell to her sides. “Fine! So be it,” she cried and slowly opened her palm, unrolling the piece of leather. “I shall do this for myself.” Frowning, she used one finger of her free hand to trace upon the deer hide, as if deciphering the contour of the leather.