The Knave of Souls - Fantasy - Sequel to The Jack of Souls

Chapter 43 - Fireflies

FIREFLIES

*

Caris rode behind Willard down the yoab run through the dark halls of the forest. The giant boles glowed faintly gold in the light of the candle lantern she carried on a pole above them. In some ways the movement of the candle and shadows threw more confusion than light, but it was enough for Rag to see by. She'd known some horses that were totally unable to travel under firelight because the shifting lantern made every root seem like a snake.

She leaned forward and rubbed the mare's chestnut neck, and Rag glanced back as if startled—as if she were more frightened of Caris than any snake. It sent a throb of regret through Caris's heart. How could she bridge the gulf that had opened between them since Molly had blooded her? Rag's initial horror had faded with the fire of the Blood in Caris's veins, but the mare remained distant, and Caris worried the rift would never heal. It felt like she'd lost her best friend.

Willard's pole lantern bobbed above him on the trail ahead him like a will-o-the-wisp. He hunched over Molly's saddle, and he hadn't spoken to her since they'd left camp.

When they'd set out, she'd intended to return to the topic of the wedding with him. It had been the first thing on her mind, and she had decided to wed at the first Common House they found. She'd decided that wedding soon was more important than wedding noble. It was only an hour ago, so she remembered quite clearly that she'd felt strongly about this.

But something had changed. It wasn't that she had left Harric back at camp. Such brief and small separations had no effect on the ring. She shook her head as if trying to clear her ears of water. The whole notion of wedding seemed idiotic now. And wed soon? Why?

Another wave of nausea crossed her stomach, but this time it was weak. Nothing like the stomach-wrenching convulsions she'd known that morning.

Shame washed over her as she recalled her behavior that day. The ring had turned her into a single-minded wedding fool—accosting Kogan and Willard one after the other, like she'd picked up some new horse-touched fixation. It brought back other shames, like her obsession to marry her horse her mother had hatched in her efforts to explain love and bonding to one person for life. Her cheeks heated and she let out a small sound of disgust.

So why had the ring suddenly weakened and allowed her this perspective on the matter? Was it her nearness to Molly? Touching Molly had undone the ring before. Could it be enough to be near the great Phyros to weaken it? She sucked at the inside of her cheek, considering. But no, she'd ridden beside Molly that very day and that had no effect on the wedding mania she had awakened to.

Whatever it was, the weakening of the ring had given her a chance to see what was happening from outside—given her the ability to question it. And she needed to discover what it was, so she could employ it all the time.

#

Willard chose a tree for his binding and tied Molly's lead chain to another. Without a word, he laid out the iron hobbles Caris would use to lash him to the tree, and set about bleeding his Phyros.

Caris watched, chewing her lower lip as Molly resisted him. The Phyros reared or pulled away so he couldn't cut the vein, and Willard responded by hauling down on her halter and pummeling her mouth with brutal blows of his fisted gauntlet. Even more disconcerting was the indifference with which Molly greeted these measures—while violet blood dripped from her face—and the fact that through it all her gaze never budged from Caris.

"Give me some space," Willard growled, sending a dart of a glance at Caris.

The dart struck deep. He'd seen Molly's look. How could he not see it? And he blamed Caris. Was that Molly's game? Did she intend to torment Willard, to make him jealous or enraged against Caris? Or was she trying to make the task of bleeding her so difficult that he'd insist Caris do it, so Molly could take another bite at her?

Caris felt a powerful urge to reach out to Molly with her horse-touched senses again. To join minds and feel the fire in her veins, the power in her limbs—

Rag whinnied in the trees by the yoab run.

Not again! Tearing her eyes from Molly's gaze, Caris staggered back to Rag and—once she could convince the frightened mare she was still Caris, still her partner, still her bond mate—buried her face in her flaxen mane.

"It's done, gods take you," Willard snarled. "Get this out of my hand before I drink it unbound!"

Caris hurried to him. She had to lay her hands on his wrists to keep him from gulping it before should could take it from him. A small amount spilled as they struggled, and he hissed with fury.

"I'll take it now, sir," she said, not daring meet his eyes. But she dared reach out with her senses and smooth down some of the anger. "I'll hold it for you. That's all."

He uncurled his fingers from the cup as if each finger had frozen and he fought against iron stiffness. When it was safe in her hands, he stalked to the tree, where he sat and reached his arms behind him.

#

Caris rode from Willard's private rage tree toward a smooth upthrust of rock they'd passed on their way up the yoab run. Tying Rag at the base of the dome of rock, she climbed the slope to its summit, where she gained a view between trees of a narrow slice of sky and river valley. The smell of smoke still stung her nose, but a few stars managed to wink through the haze, and reflect in the surface of the river.

She sat against a boulder and let out a long sigh, which the breeze echoed in the trees around her. she looked up at the sky, where a few stars winked through the haze of smoke still smothering the valley. Some of the stars reflected below in the surface of the river, like a line of fireflies in the valley.

Her brow furrowed. Reflections, here? The river here was swift and frothy, too rough to reflect starlight. She stared hard at the line of lights, trying in vain to find her orientation in the dark valley.

When the Bright Mother peeked out from behind a cloud, she gave enough light that Caris finally saw the rapids of the river. The line of fireflies was above the line of the river—which meant beyond it, in the distance. They winked in and out, colored yellow-orange by the haze from the wildfires.

And then she recognized them for what they were, and her blood froze.

Torches, not fireflies. Riders carrying torches and riding up the other side of the river.

Sir Bannus rode to intercept them.