Trinity Rising: Book Two of the Wild Hunt (Wild Hunt Trilogy 2) (50 page)

‘Once upon a time, no woman of the cloth would have needed an escort wherever she chose to go, within the Empire or without,’ Gair said.

She turned to him with a sad smile. ‘Once, sir Knight, our habits were indeed enough protection. Now we need steel.’

‘What about the imperial garrison?’

‘The soldiers were sent west two weeks ago – some trouble at the Sardauki border. There are none to spare for us.’ At the door, she paused with her hand on the latch. ‘And my name is Sister Sofi.’

30

BANFAÍTH

Teia woke with a start. She held her breath, ears straining for the sound that had roused her. Nothing. Only Finn’s snoring, the thin hiss of the wind past her shelter of blankets and pine branches, and the hammering of her own heart. Slowly, she exhaled, silvery breath coiling in front of her face.

So what had woken her? Gathering a blanket about her shoulders she shuffled to the shelter’s entrance and peered down into the snowy valley. She saw no tracks but her own and Finn’s between the black ranks of the trees, the edges glittering with frost. Further back into the forest she couldn’t see anything but vague shapes, and her imagination instantly peopled the shadows with watching wolves.

She swallowed, scanning the trees again. She’d been careful when she decided to camp here and checked for spoor. There hadn’t been tracks for anything bigger than a hare, but that didn’t mean a wolf pack hadn’t come ghosting by to see who had strayed into their territory. Maybe she’d end up like Joren, dead almost before he knew he was hurt. Heartbeat quickening, she groped over her blanket for her bow.

Then she heard it again: the twang of bowstrings from further down the trail, this time followed by a muffled cry. Sound carried far on a clear night, but who was attacking whom? And would they follow the tracks in the snow and come after her next? Bow and quiver in hand, she slipped outside.

Once out of the cosy fug of her shelter the cold bit deep. Finn stirred and she quietened him with a hand on his neck, then tightened his girths and mounted up as stealthily as she could. After the disastrous attempt to ready him herself four days ago, she’d had to leave him saddled and silently promised to make it up to him later as she steered him down the trail.

Soon the sound of her horse’s hooves crunching through the snow was lost in the growing noise. Shouts and women’s cries, the snap of arrows fired. Around a bend in the trail she found a band of men and women struggling up the slope towards the trees, whilst five or six others with bows held off another, larger party, well armed with short spears. Several javelins porcupined the snowdrifts, with here and there scarlet smears amongst the churned footprints. The bowmen were retreating in good order, a pace at a time; one of them looked back and Teia saw a long grey braid swing over his shoulder.

Her magic rose up to her will. Thrusting out her arm she spun a globe of light the size of her head and flung it high over the trail. Startled gasps greeted it.

‘Hold hard!’ she shouted, mountain air and magic lending her voice a resonance that stopped the advancing attackers in their tracks.

‘The Talent!’ cried one. ‘She’s a Speaker!’

A luridly tattooed man at the forefront of the attacking group snorted. ‘She’s no Speaker – she’s naught but a girl.’ He brandished a feather-decked war-axe. ‘Back to it, boys!’

His warriors roared. Desperate, or simply eager for the kill, they lumbered up to a run in the thick snow. Off to the right, one of them hefted a javelin. Before he’d cocked his arm Teia had smacked the weapon from his hand with a fist of air. Unbalanced, the man staggered back. Two of his companions, wild-eyed and wilder-haired, readied their own weapons, and with another fist she disarmed them both.

The charge faltered, the men looking about uneasily, but they kept coming. Out of the corner of her eye Teia saw Baer take advantage of their confusion to rally his people up the trail towards her.

She drew herself up in the saddle. ‘These people are under my protection. I suggest you don’t challenge it.’

‘There are more of us than of you,’ snarled the tattooed man, hefting his axe. ‘We do not fear your magics!’

Teia gathered Finn’s reins, ready to run if she had to. Behind her, a woman screamed a warning and she looked up to see a javelin arcing from the back of the attacking group, shining against the night sky like a shooting star.

Time slowed. Wrapped in the lambent gyre of her magic, Teia had nothing to fear. Not in that place, where she was the master and power moved as she willed it. She raised her hand and magic tingled through her muscles like the return of blood to a cramped arm. The javelin reached the apex of its flight; humming, it began to fall towards her.

Easy. Just like stopping Ytha’s fist. Reaching out as it fell, she closed her hand around the wooden shaft. The sudden arrest of the spear’s movement wrenched her shoulder, but she kept her grip. Someone gasped. Ahead, the advancing warriors halted. Their leader waved his axe again, urging them forward with yells and curses.

Teia hefted the spear, cocking back her arm. ‘Yield!’ she shouted. ‘I have warned you!’

Yelling obscenities, the tattooed man broke into a trot. She remembered her father’s words, when he’d taught her to defend herself with a knife:
When you’ve a weapon in your hand either use it or don’t, but don’t hesitate. Hesitation will get you killed
. Gritting her teeth, she hurled the spear as hard as she could.

It thudded into the man’s thigh and he dropped with a cry, blood spraying across the snow. The men behind him milled uncertainly. One or two edged forward, but several more made signs of protection and would not move.

‘Take your man and go.’ Teia felt queasy but somehow her voice did not tremble. Finn fidgeted as Baer’s retreating people crowded around him. ‘Leave these people alone or worse will follow.’

The warriors lowered their weapons but made no move. The tattooed fellow thrashed and screamed until the two men closest darted out, seized his coat and dragged him back to the group.

‘Get out of here!’ Baer added his voice, his bow at full draw. ‘Go on, go!’

Muttering, casting fearful looks over their shoulders, the other band retreated down the trail. Frightened, tired people clustered around Teia’s horse, clutching their bundles, clutching each other. Two blowing ponies, one or two men with bloody rents in their clothing being fussed over by anxious women, and Neve, laughter bubbling through her fear as she squeezed Teia’s hand.

Baer pushed through them and stopped at Finn’s shoulder, leaning on his bow. His hard face gave nothing away. ‘Teia,’ he said.

‘Baer,’ she greeted him gravely.

‘Is there good shelter ahead? We have wounded to attend to.’

‘There’s a thicket of pine trees up around the bend. You can make shelters, find fuel for fires.’

He inclined his head, just once. ‘Thank you.’

Slinging his bow over his shoulder, he walked away up the trail, issuing instructions. Soon everyone had their tasks and fear was replaced by the will to work together.

Teia sat her horse and watched them go. Neve had been right. Baer was as close to a chief as those people had.
And am I their Speaker now?

She watched the other band trudging back down the slope. More than one threw an uneasy glance at the light she had conjured, still hanging over them like a full moon. That appeared to have made even more of an impression on them than a spear through their leader’s leg. Battle injuries they would no doubt be accustomed to, but an aggressive demonstration of the Talent was something else entirely. They had spent too long away from their clan Speakers. A grim little smile tugging at her lips, she waited until all the attackers were well out of sight before she let the light go.

When she returned up the trail the thicket was all activity, the air heady with the scent of pine resin. Baer’s people were busy cutting fuel, rigging tent-skins between trees, scraping out a communal fire-pit. The small ring of stones outside her shelter had been swept free of ash and a new fire laid; all she had to do was light it. Teia looked for Baer but he was off in the darkness of the trees somewhere, issuing orders. Neve, however, caught her eye and waved.

Wearily, Teia swung down from Finn’s saddle and kneaded her aching back. Four days of riding, almost constantly uphill since she’d left the river, had taken a toll on her. After a couple of hours her womb would tense and harden, taut as a drum-skin under her clothes, and she would have to shift around in the saddle or get down and walk until it relaxed again. Now her belly felt loaded with rocks instead of a baby.

Someone appeared from the night and, with a nod to her, took Finn’s reins. She was too tired to protest. As he led the horse away towards the sheltered spot where the ponies were tethered she realised he was Lenna’s man, Isaak. Strange. She looked around for other faces she recognised, but the little clearing was all a-bustle and amongst the trees the light was too poor to make out more than shapes.

It was too much to take in. She crawled into her shelter, back into the faint warmth of her blankets, and closed her eyes. Morning would be soon enough to worry about it.

Peering at her reflection in a basin of water at the entrance to her shelter, Teia unwound the bandage covering her forehead and held her breath as the dressing came away.

A thick black scab ran from above her right eyebrow up into her hairline, as long as her hand was wide. Around the edges her skin was an angry red, crusted with dried blood. The cold air stung on her newly knitted flesh, but after almost six days it was time for the wound to breathe; keeping it covered for too long would only slow the healing.

She touched the scab tentatively. It felt tough as shield-leather, like the scale of some monstrous serpent. Underneath there would be a scar, a bad one, but she’d been lucky to escape with just that. A few inches to the right and that rock would most likely have spilled her brains.

Using the wadded-up bandage, she brushed away the dried blood as best she could. Most of it was still on her scalp, clumping her hair into spiky tufts, but the wound had been deepest there and was still too tender to scrub at it. Besides, her scalp – her whole body, come to that – itched for the want of a good bath, and touching only made it worse.

Losing patience, she threw the bandage down and bent over the basin to sluice water on her face. As she fumbled dripping for a cloth to dry herself, her reflection caught her eye, wavering in the water. Grey sky surrounded her face, reflected from outside. She’d seen that image before. Even the tired shadows bruising her eyes looked familiar. All that was missing was a tangle of wet hair to make it the vision that had haunted her scrying for over two years.

She dried her face, watching the image steady. No, it wasn’t quite the same, but close enough to make her think. There’d been no opportunity to look into the waters since Ytha had taken her for the blood scrying at the start of winter. Her future might have changed since then. Only one way could she be sure.

Resting her hands on the basin’s edge, she glanced around the camp outside. Everyone she could see was bustling to make up for sleeping late: breaking down the shelters, stowing the gear. Puffy white breath rose amongst the snow-capped pines, every sound too loud in the brittle mountain air. No one was looking her way. It shouldn’t matter any more, now that she was so far away from Ytha, but habits were as hard to crush as fleas.

Legs crossed, she drew the basin close between her knees – her back was still aching from the ride – and waited for the water to settle again. Then she reached for her magic. The power sprang up eagerly, like a hound-pup hearing its name called. A few glimmers of blue crawled over her fingers.

Show me
.

Her reflection changed, the scab melting away and a lock of white hair snaking back from her brow above that same bleak, dead-eyed expression she’d seen so many times before. It had been true telling, then. She felt a cold coil of trepidation in the pit of her stomach. Had the rest been true telling, too?

Show me Drwyn
.

White filled the basin, white that swirled and shifted as if carried on a fitful wind. At first she could see nothing, then her viewing swooped in like a bird through the veils of snow to a camp on the undulating plain. Dispirited horses huddled in a corral with their backs to the wind; clusters of tents stood crusted white down one side and gathering low drifts at the base. Here and there tiny pinpricks of fire glittered in the murk.

The clan was on the move already, camped somewhere north of the winter caverns, she guessed, unable to discern enough detail through the blizzard to be sure of the location. It was early to be moving for the Scattering. Drwyn – or more likely Ytha – was growing impatient.

Down her viewing swept, dizzying her with the plunge. Towards the camp, towards a large tent set slightly apart from the others, with lamplight glimmering round the door curtain. Then through and into a cosy golden cave where Drwyn paced back and forth, wrapped in his plaid. Idly, she noted an absence of war-gear and that the furnishings were arranged with a woman’s care, and wasn’t surprised she’d already been replaced. He was frowning, drinking frequently, absently, from the cup in his fist, quite clearly waiting for something.