James West - Lady Of Regret

“And if he does not arrive?”

Rathe closed his eyes to the dappled sunlight falling through the boughs, inhaled a breeze carrying the fresh scent of pine sap. It was as close to a warm days as he had felt, since coming across the Gyntors. “He’ll be here. After we give him what he wants, and I receive what was agreed upon, we’ll find your sister.”

He had promised her that after learning Nesaea’s reason for being at Ravenhold, instead of far to the south, in Cerrikoth or Qairennor. According to Wina, Sytheus Vonterel had called on Ravenhold a season past. With no small amount of shame, the now one-handed handmaid admitted that when she tried to turn him into a wight, he had used his own magic against her, and the Wardens of Tanglewood had cut him to pieces. Rathe’s hope was that Lord Arthard of Dionis Keep did not soon learn of Sytheus’ death. If he did, he would have no reason to keep Nesaea’s half-sister for ransom. Of course, a man like that would not simply free her. Just what he would do, Rathe kept to himself, though Nesaea likely knew better than anyone.

Nesaea folded a hand over his. “It’s not a burden I expect you to take on.”

“I gave my word,” he said gravely, not regretting it in the least. “I am bound by honor to keep it.” He ruined his seriousness with a smile. “Believe me, hunting anyone with you at my side, is better than wandering about the world listening to Loro’s complaints. Now I can share my misery.”

They both looked to Loro and Fira, who had dismounted to lounge on a bed of moss in the shade of a great pine. Fira cooed softly to him, teasing his lips with a bit of smoked meat. Loro caught it between snapping teeth, and gobbled it down with disturbing relish.

Struggling not to grimace, Rathe said, “A tale of passion only a drunken bard could appreciate.” Nesaea slapped his hand, but laughed in that way of hers, a way that heated his blood as no other woman had before. He had forgotten her influence over him, his goddess of snow and silver. He did not mean to forget again.

They held quiet for a time, listening to the sigh of wind, the twitter of birds and chatter of squirrels. Nesaea was first to break the silence.

“I do hope Lady Mylene has forgiven Wina.”

“She knows the Wight Stone fed off the girl’s loyalty and love.”

“Such power as that should never have fallen into her hands. Nor should it fall into anyone else’s.”

“As long as there are those who seek power, it will wait to seduce the unwary. This power, though,” he said, carefully lifting a sack of coarse weave off the pommel of his saddle, “will tempt no one again.”

Nesaea smiled grimly. “You are wrong, there. Jathen will seek to use it, for all the good it will do him. Would that I could see his face when he tries.”

Rathe was not sure what Nesaea had done to the accursed amulet, but she assured him it was now useless. Alchemy, she promised, solved problems at least as well as magic did. In a day, maybe two, the monk would learn of his loss, much to his regret.

A rustling in a patch of bushes near the trail turned all eyes, tightened hands on hilts. The danger that burst clear of the bramble was only a danger to himself.

Horge came to a halt, brushed a few stray leaves off his tatty cloak, looked up with a wide grin for Rathe. “He comes.”

“Alone?”

Horge bobbed his head. “Just as you ordered.”

A familiar grunting pulled alarmed stares back to the bushes. When a dark and saggy beast nosed through the tangle, Loro shouted, “The witch lives!”

Horge leaped in front of the yak, hands waving. “’Tis Samba!” The yak, hearing its name, halted and glanced round with placid eyes, jaw working cud in slow circles.

“You sure?” Loro demanded.

“Aye. Do you think I’d not know the difference between my mother and a yak?”

Rathe and Loro shared a skeptical look.

Crestfallen, Horge toed a pinecone. “How was I supposed to know my sister had grown powerful enough to return Mama to life?”

A chill crept up Rathe’s spine remembering the mist he had seen Yiri speaking with at the charred remains of Mother Safi’s hovel. Changing the subject, and hoping to put Horge at ease, he said, “Where did you find him?”

The ratty little man glanced at him, an unspoken thanks shining in his eyes. “I told you, when those men attacked us in Wyvernmoor, the real Samba knew the way home, and that’s where I found him. At my home, a place Yiri did not know.” He puffed up his chest, scanned each face. “Pleased to see me, he was, which is more than I can say for you lot.”

Loro burst out laughing, and the others joined him. Horge blinked in owlish bemusement.

Rathe had pitied the man went first met, and still did. Through various stories, Rathe had concluded that Horge’s mother and sister had misused him from the day of his birth. After Safi’s death, Yiri had surpassed their mother in cruel mistreatment. Horge revealed that she had forced him to undertake countless dangerous and devious tasks. The better he became at escaping troublesome situations, the greater her demands became. But now Safi and Yiri were good and truly dead, killed by the magic Yiri had thought to master.

Horge had explained how his sister sensed the Black Breath within Rathe, upon meeting him in the Gelded Dragon. She had ensorcelled everyone within the inn, drew the spirit out, and bound it to do her bidding.

“’Twas too much for her,” Horge told. “Binding spirits is a dangerous magic, for a chained spirit will always seek to destroy its master and break free. The Black Breath used Yiri’s inborn fury and her hunger for more powerful magic against her, tempted her to grasp for more than she could wield. When she did … well, you saw what became of her.”

Rathe had not actually seen what happened, but he knew the Black Breath had again taken up residence in him. For whatever reason, the spirit had determined that tormenting him made for a fine bit of sport.

Now, Loro’s laughter dried up. He fixed Horge with an imploring eye. “It would please my heart to see that trick of yours.”

Horge fidgeted, looking uncertain. That was something else he had spoken of, the desire to be free of his ability to change from a man into an animal, a rare talent passed to him and Yiri through their mother. In desperation, he had gone to Brother Jathen, willing to pay any price to be free of what he considered a curse. Jathen, as was his wont, took advantage of Horge, and set him upon the mission of recovery the Heart of Majonis, the Keeper’s Box, and finally the Wight Stone.

“It’s a fine trick,” Fira said gently. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Horge! Horge! Horge!” Rathe chanted, beating his chest. Nesaea and Fira and Loro raised their voices with his.

Horge threw up his hands for silence. He stayed that way, face screwed up in concentration. The others waited expectantly. After a time, he said, “’Tis easier when I’m affrighted.”

“I trust you are not up to any trickery,” Jathen said, coming around a bend farther down the trail.

At the first sound of the monk’s voice, Horge squeaked, there came a tumultuous flapping noise, and he was gone. Rathe glimpsed a long sable shape steal between Samba’s legs and vanish into the brambles. He shook his head in amazement. How many times had he heard that noise since meeting Horge, and never once suspected the man held a little of his own magic?

“When you sent me to Ravenhold after my father,” Nesaea said to Jathen, a dangerous edge to her voice, “you forgot to mention the fortress was overrun by wights.”

Jathen reined in at the head of two horses-Rathe’s gray, and Loro’s red, both loaded with all their effects. The monk regarded Nesaea with far too much desire, for Rathe’s taste.