spindly shape from under the bed. It was Fenrik, his features frozen in death, blood dribbling from his throat.
Josey shook her head as a shudder took hold of her. Then she was on her hands and knees heaving up the remains of her supper. She closed her eyes, but could not block out the sight of his pale face.
CHAPTER SIX
T he snow let up as Caim limped along the narrow country lane after his guide. The sun was in its last throes, but there was enough daylight to make another mile or two.
They had been marching for the better part of three candlemarks. His injured leg was stiff; his back protested every step with sharp twinges. His guide hadn’t spoken since they left the roadhouse, but he kept a manageable pace. Deep ruts carved the road’s frozen mud. A blanket of white covered the steppes, broken by stands of pine and spruce and occasional outcrops of bare gray rock. The deepening azure sky seemed to stretch forever, marred only by a handful of wispy clouds along the horizon. Almost invisible in the sea of blue, a black-winged bird soared overhead.
The old man turned off the road to cut across the open countryside. Caim eyed the snow for a moment and then followed. The ground beneath the thin crust was uneven, forcing him to slow his pace. They walked along the bottom of a long depression that Caim realized was an old riverbed. It wound northwest through the steppe. Caim was so absorbed minding his footing he almost walked past his guide when the old man stopped by a line of pine trees. In a clearing beyond their laden branches, a herd of caribou passed by. They were graceful creatures even in the deep snow, like the stag he had shot.
“Are you going to take one?” Caim asked in a low whisper.
His guide shook his head as he watched the animals for a few moments more. Then he started off again, his boots crunching through the snow. Caim tried to stay abreast of the old man, but soon fell behind again. After another half a mile, the guide stopped beside a tall hemlock tree. The lower branches had been chopped away to create a small hideaway. Caim didn’t see how he had found it; this tree looked the same as any of the other evergreens around. But he was grateful to duck out of the wind just the same.
The guide dropped his rucksack by the trunk of the tree and hunkered down over a cold fire pit. As the guide began making camp, Caim sank down on the bed of pine needles, too tired and sore to lend a hand. The man muttered something about being back soon and tromped off through the underbrush.
Caim had just closed his eyes when a soft glow pierced his eyelids.
“Caim.”
He opened one eye. Kit levitated over him, just a few inches from his face.
“What?”
“You just can’t resist the urge to play hero, can you?”
“What’s wrong now?”
“What were you thinking back there?” She floated down to lay beside him. “Taking on five men by yourself. And for what?”
He wanted to laugh, but it was too much effort. “Kit, for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been tugging me toward the straight and narrow.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“How about that time in Brevenna when I nearly killed that palfrey racing Kevan? You hounded me until I swore to never treat another animal like that again.”
“And you forgot your promise riding to save your precious mud-woman, didn’t you? Rode that poor horse to death.”
“I didn’t forget. I had to do what needed doing.”
“I know.”
“Kit, what’s wrong?”
The crunch of snow interrupted their conversation as the guide returned with a bundle of sticks under his arm. Without looking at Caim, he knelt beside the campfire and fed it smaller branches until the flames grew into a blaze. Caim inched closer to get at the warmth. When he glanced over at Kit, she was gone.
“Figures,” he said under his breath.
“What’s that?” the guide asked.
“Just thinking aloud.”
Caim introduced himself and offered his hand.
The guide took it with a firm grip. “I’m Hagan.”
Caim got a better view of his guide as Hagan set a battered pan over the fire. His face was creased and pitted like an ancient boulder. The silver bristles of his beard were matted and stiff. His only weapon was the long knife on his belt, a double-bladed seax.
Flames licked up the sides of the pan as Hagan dumped in a lump of meat. Bacon, by the smell. Caim’s stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten much today. They sat in silence as the meat cooked. When Hagan deemed it ready, slightly on the rare side but Caim wasn’t in the mood to be picky, he scooped out portions in two tin cups.
The fire snapped and popped as they ate. Caim wolfed down the food and licked the juice from his hands. Hagan, when he was finished, reclined against the tree trunk and ran his fingers through his beard.
“You’re from the Southlands,” he said.
“Calanth.”
The lie came easy. Trust was a fragile thing, especially for a man in his former line of work. Former? So it’s decided then?
“Those blades you wear.” Hagan gestured down toward Caim’s side. “ Suete knives, aren’t they?”
Caim reached back and drew the left-hand knife. He held it up so the light reflected off the long blade. He still remembered the day he had claimed them off the body of a mercenary in Michaia. At the time, he’d had no idea they would become so much a part of him.
“I haven’t seen a knife like that in a long time. Not since the war.”
Caim believed him. The Suete rarely left their highlands far to the north in the lee of the Drakstag Mountains, and when they did it was to make war.
Hagan tossed another stick in the fire. “Mind if I ask what takes you up to Haldeshale?”
Caim put the knife away. Haldeshale was a region that had bordered his father’s estate. “I have family in Morrowglen.”
“Maybe I know them. I’ve been all around these-”
“I doubt it.” Caim bit his tongue. He was exhausted and not thinking straight.
Hagan pulled a pipe from his coat. It was a nice piece of craftsmanship, carved from a light yellow wood and polished to a shine. He filled the bowl with a pinch of dry leaves-wild talbac by the rich green color-and lit the bowl with a stick from the fire. He didn’t give any sign that he suspected anything.
There’s nothing to suspect. That was true enough. It had been more than seventeen years since he left Eregoth, an orphan and a fugitive.
“Maybe you do,” Caim said. “My father soldiered a bit, under the baron.”
“The old lord of Morrowglen?”
“I suppose. I heard his name was Du’Vartha.”
Hagan took a long pull from his pipe and blew the smoke up into the tree branches. “That’s a name from the old days. It reminds me of a story. About a nobleman who went north to fight in a great battle, and returned with a Fae wife.”
Caim nodded and tried not to appear too interested. “I never heard that one.”
“It happened not so long ago, during the empire’s crusade into the Wastes. The lord was injured on the battlefield and struck senseless. When he awoke his army had moved on, but such were his wounds that he could not follow.”
Anxiety stirred in Caim’s belly as the old man talked. He felt like he knew how this tale was going to end.
