“He managed to crawl away,” Hagan continued. “Into an old, old forest where he thought to spend his last hours in this world. But just as he was beginning to lose hope, someone found him. A maid, alone in the woods. Day after day, she tended to him and cared for his wounds. In time, when he was able to ride again, he brought her back to his homeland, and she became his wife.”
Caim listened to the crackle of the fire as he digested the tale. Is that what they said about his parents? His mother was a Fae wife? His memories of his childhood were mixed up and fragmented. He knew his mother had come from a foreign land, but not which one.
Caim caught the old man watching him. “Nice story, but I don’t see how it could be true. A great lord like that, it doesn’t make sense his army would leave without making sure he was well and truly dead.”
Hagan shrugged. “Like most tales, it’s hard to know where the truth leaves off and storytelling takes over. But that’s how it was told to me. Lots of folks around here respected the baron. Du’Vartha, I mean. Even though he was a foreigner.”
Caim looked up. “He wasn’t from Eregoth?”
“No, from down your way. Nimea, or so I heard. It’s not uncommon. Eregoth is a tapestry of clans and families from all over. The Du’Ormiks came from the south, too, long time ago.”
Caim ground his teeth together. His father was Nimean? Why hadn’t he ever heard about that? “Any stories about why he came north? The baron, that is.”
“He was an exile. Some kind of trouble back home, before the war. Came up with some armsmen and made a deal in Liovard for a plot of land and assurances of peace.”
“But that didn’t last long.”
Caim meant it for himself, but Hagan nodded.
“True enough, but in the end it wasn’t the clans that came for Du’Vartha.”
“How’s that?”
Hagan glanced out at the darkness beyond the circle of their campfire. “What do you know about recent troubles in Warmond and Uthenor?”
“Not much. Talk of fighting reached us in Nimea, but not the details.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t say any more.”
“I’d appreciate it if you would speak your mind. I’m a stranger here, but even I can see that things are amiss. The people at the roadhouse were afraid.”
“There’s good reason.” Hagan looked into the fire for several heartbeats. “But it’s getting late. We’ll need our strength for tomorrow.”
Caim’s hands itched. “What were you doing at the tavern?”
Hagan tapped the ashes from his pipe and settled against the tree trunk. “Looking for someone.”
“Did you find him?”
When Hagan didn’t seem inclined to talk further, Caim lay back and closed his eyes. But even tired as he was, sleep eluded him. He watched the play of the shadows cast by the firelight on the branches overhead. Pockets of deeper darkness peered down at him from the spaces within. After a time, he fished inside his satchel for Vassili’s journal. With the book propped on his chest, Caim skimmed through the pages until a line caught his attention. He went up to the top of the entry.
Thirteenth day of Sorrob, 1126
It has been more than two months since my apprentice departed to the northern marches. I am anxious to learn whether my efforts in those lands have been for gain or ill. If the northern lands cannot be tamed, then all this effort and treasure have been for naught, and there will be a reckoning within the Council. Yet that may also work to my advantage.
The entry went on about Vassili’s personal agenda for two pages before Caim found another name he recognized.
Levictus has returned.
I have grave misgivings about the northern campaign, even more than before. The countryside is awash in uprisings, and the governor’s militia dares not muster beyond the walls of Liovard. Perhaps more disturbing, the stories of evil happenings in the outlands seem to have some basis in truth, though Levictus could find no direct proof. His distant gaze upon me as I write this is evidence enough. I intend to request an audience with the Holy Office today.
Caim set down the journal. Eighteen years ago, the north was in disarray, and the political winds were shifting. In the chaos, few would notice an assault against a foreign lord. And less would care. As Caim tried to imagine what those times must have been like for his mother and father, images of the old dream flashed through his head. Of Levictus standing over his father’s corpse. And behind the sorcerer, a great mountain of darkness.
A low droning sound intruded upon his rest. Caim tried to ignore it, but the buzzing persisted, and a feeling developed in his stomach. Like he was being watched.
Caim’s eyes snapped open as he stood up. The night was full upon the land now, its darkness blanketing the forest. Throwing his cloak around his shoulders, he slipped the sword into his belt and left the shelter.
Beyond the firelight, the buzz grew louder. Caim stalked the sensation in a slow circle until he faced the northern horizon. He didn’t see anything moving on the bright, snowy plain, but the feeling never left him. There was something out in the darkness. He stood for a few minutes more, until the cold and the mounting pain in his leg forced him to move. He turned to find a figure standing behind him. It melded so perfectly with the darkness he almost didn’t see it. By its petite outline, his first thought was it might be Kit. Then it hissed and flew toward him.
Both suetes flashed in Caim’s fists. The figure raised a slender hand. He slashed, but the blades cut through nothing. The campfire shone through the thing’s parted fingers as it clawed at him. He leapt back, cutting again and again, but the thing paid no attention to his defenses. When the smoky hand touched him, a lance of freezing cold speared through his chest. The knives fell to the ground as his muscles spasmed.
As the specter reached up with its other hand, Caim struggled for his sword. He fumbled with the burlap covering until his fingers found the sword’s cool pommel. A jolt ran through his hand, jangling his nerves, as he drew the blade. All at once, the bizarre paralysis left him, and the night came alive in amazing clarity. He jumped back as the hands-suddenly become skeletal claws-reached for his face. Caim swung, and a new pain cut through his shoulder as the sword connected.
He drew back the blade, expecting another attack, but the figure was gone. Caim turned in a slow circle. The sword trembled in his grip. A faint scent snared his attention. Warm and sweet, it was familiar in a way he could not pinpoint, like the ghost of a memory. It continued to tantalize him even after it faded into the cold night air.
With a mumbled curse, Caim gathered his knives and headed back to the camp. He stooped under the tree branches to find Hagan awake. The guide was tending the campfire.
He glanced up as Caim entered. “Stay near the fire. Safer here.”
Caim sat down. His chest ached like a spike had been pounded through his breastbone where the apparition had touched him. The campfire blasted him like a furnace, but the flames could not touch the chill lingering inside him.
“What was-?” he started to ask, but he didn’t know what to say. What had he seen? It had seemed more like a dream than reality.
“There’s things out there.” Hagan cocked his head toward the outside. “People who go wandering in the dark sometimes don’t come back.”
Caim leaned back against his satchel. The adrenaline was draining out of him, suppressed by deep exhaustion. His eyes shut of their own accord. As he let his chin droop, he remembered where he’d smelled that scent before. It had surrounded him as a child, an invisible blanket that made him feel safe when he was hurt or afraid.
The smell of his mother’s hair.
Arion’s boots clacked on the stone tiles as he strode through the palace corridors. For a day and a half they’d ridden hard back to Liovard. He didn’t know how Yanig held on, punched full of holes as he was, but the army doctors said he’d gotten to them just in time. Okin hadn’t spoken a word since they left the roadside inn. He’d survived the attack by those little black creatures, whatever they had been, but an unnerving look had taken over
