bard.
It was a simple story. One that had little room for embellishment the way Yasper would have told it, and none of the romantic gravitas of Feronantus’s, but it was
No matter how far she ranged ahead or behind the company during their journey, she invariably found sign that Finn had already been there. At first, she thought he was clumsy in how he hid his passage, and then she allowed herself to think she was actually sharp-eyed enough to notice the tiny marks of the hunter’s trail. When they had been traveling in the forests of Poland and Rus, she would find tufts of hair from the pelts he wore caught on the unruly bark of the black alders. She would find the occasional boot print-usually only a partial print, at that-on boggy ground. His marks, tiny chips cut out of tree bark high above ground, indicated the presence of water, wildlife, and possible ambush sites; over time, she deciphered them all.
“I thought I was being clever,” she admitted to the company, “but I was only learning to see the signs Finn was leaving for me. I know he understood Latin better than he ever admitted, but out in the woods, it didn’t matter. He told me everything I needed to know without saying a word.”
One day, a few weeks after they had left Legnica, she had spotted Finn near a tiny stream and had decided to shadow him. Moving as carefully as she knew how, she tried to keep the wary hunter in sight. Several times she thought she had lost him, only to have him reappear in a different direction from where she had thought he had been traveling. After a few hours of this cat-and-mouse game, she realized he knew she was behind him. He had known all along, and when he vanished again, she gave up, feeling very foolish for having indulged in such a whimsical distraction.
When she turned around, Finn jumped back. He had been standing right behind her. Grinning wildly, he had scampered off as she had chased him, only to vanish in thick woods again. “He was a ghost,” she said. “I would catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, but when I looked, he was gone. The only sign that I wasn’t imagining things was how the branches shook, as if the trees were laughing at me. They knew where he was, but they would never tell me.”
They were smiling at her story, and she felt a warmth suffuse her that had little to do with the fire. She sat down quickly, suddenly very self-conscious, leaving her story somewhat unfinished. But she had said enough.
Feronantus had called this gathering a
They accepted her. She was part of the family now.
As the night wore on, the Shield-Brethren honored their fallen comrades. After they spoke of Finn, they remembered Roger: his perpetual scowl, the endless supply of hand axes, knives, and other sharp implements that seemed to grow on him like fruit; his steadfastness in battle, regardless of his disgruntlement at being forced to fight. They talked of Taran as well-their eternal
Feronantus, however, listened intently to Istvan’s ramblings.
Life on Tyrshammar had changed the elder knight. The wind and rain of the north left their mark on a man’s features, but Feronantus had been more than
One of the failings of the Shield-Brethren’s hidden fortress was its very inaccessibility; too often, in the absence of real news, the boys of Petraathen would turn to embellishing stories of older members of the order to entertain themselves. It was a habit that he was not entirely free of himself. The story of the
Raphael had heard enough legends and tall tales in his travels to know that each contained a kernel of truth. In the case of stories about Feronantus, the reoccurring motif was that the Master of the Rock was a strategist of unparalleled depth.
Istvan was staring up at the sky again, babbling to one of his recurring ghosts, and this digression had become lengthy enough that the others seemed less inclined to wait him out. Yasper and Eleazar were bickering about who should get the last dregs of the
Except Feronantus, who was unmoved by the theatrics of the Spaniard and Dutchman.
Raphael leaned forward, his eyes on the bickering pair, but straining to hear what Istvan was saying.
“… can’t go to the sea… can’t see the sky… yes, it hurts… the head… don’t let it look at me… I don’t care about your pain… I didn’t-no, it wasn’t my fault… there is no-no, let me go… I didn’t want… I didn’t!.. who cut him down? Who did it? Who cut
His voice was getting louder now, and his motions were more agitated. “The bitch lost it,” he said. “It’s not my fault. I never-fuck you! I will cut off your balls. The crows will eat your guts. Whoreson. Turd-eating cur.
This last was delivered to the company as Istvan leaped to his feet-his eyes wild, his face straining and purpled with rage. His chest heaving, he gulped in great draughts of the night air. He stared around the circle, and whatever haze had obscured his vision gradually cleared. His mouth snapped shut, and he scuffed sand at the fire before he stalked off into the darkness.
Raphael cleared his throat. “That was my fault,” he apologized. “I was the one who was staring.”
“You do that a lot,” Cnan offered, giving his polite lie some credence.
Yasper snorted with laughter. “Who wouldn’t?” he asked. “That horse-lover is crazy.”
“Perhaps he has cause,” Raphael mused. His eyes strayed to Feronantus, who was staring at the fire as if nothing had happened.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Afterward they lay together in each other’s arms. Gansukh’s hands, dry and rough as the leather they handled, gently abraded her smooth skin as they brushed over it. That porcelain pale surface had yielded gently in his grasp and the warm pulse beneath traveled from her heart to his fingertips, the rhythms of her body ebbing and flowing, rising and falling. She touched her head to his tanned chest and her breath fell upon him like spring wind, warm with the promise of life. Outside the