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

Chapter 60 - Separations

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SEPARATIONS

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Harric's eyes followed Caris as she reined in beside them, her face and armor shining in the yellow firelight. Her eyes scanned the raging flames. "We are safe? They are turned back?"

Willard nodded. "Why do you ride the pony? Is your horse injured?"

She dropped her chin. A lock of hair fell about her face, but Harric saw a tear streak the dust on her cheek. "She won't let me near her," she said, voice hoarse. "Can't contact her. Can't..." She gave her head a shake as if casting off weakness. "Can't control her."

"I'm sorry," said Willard, and the gentleness of his voice surprised Harric.

"Mudruffle asks for your attention, Sir Willard. Something to do with Brolli."

Willard's jaw pulsed. He nodded, and Molly began to move up the trail. To Harric he said, "Find me when you're ready," then brought Molly swiftly into a canter and rode away.

Caris dismounted on the opposite side of Idgit and stared at the inferno before them. Wind raced past, sucked in by the towering wall of flames. Her hair blew toward the wind, once again concealing her face.

"Brolli..." Her voice choked off.

"I know," he said.

"There will be war with the Kwendi, Harric. This is very bad. And Holly is gone. Gods leave us, it's like the Chaos Moon is coming."

Harric nodded, but said nothing.

"Kogan's in there?" She was staring at the fire.

"Set the fire himself. It's his pyre."

She bowed her head and let out a long breath.

"I'm sorry about Rag," Harric said. "You should take Snapper. He's a good horse. And Phyros-trained. I won't need a Phyros-trained horse any longer."

She pulled the hair back and tucked it behind her ear to look at him, and her gaze—her dispassionate, unattached gaze—sent a tremor of doubt through him. It was a look of frank regard that he had not seen from her for a very long time. Not since Gallows Ferry. Not since before the ring. It was the old Caris standing before him, and the recognition sent his mind spinning with hope.

"So you're leaving," she said.

"Yes," he said, studying her closely now. "It's best. And I could take Rag, if that's what you want."

"It's too late for what I want." She looked back to the fire, and the wind whipped her hair back over her face.

Harric put a hand over his oculus as if he were merely shading his eyes from the glare of the fires. With the river bending away, it might be possible to crack it open and risk a look at her spirit. He had to try. It would be his last chance. The moment it opened a burning itch began. But this time it was bearable, like it had felt near the still water of the cistern in the dead city of the Kwendi. He let out a quiet sigh, and slowly dropped his hands. When it proved still bearable without his hands on his forehead, he turned his spirit vision on Caris.

Bright Phyros violet startled him. Streaks of the stuff mingled among her brilliant blue strands and looped off toward Willard and Molly. The God's Blood. He stared. Gods leave her, Willard made her to drink from Molly. Anger pinched at his heart. This would certainly explain why Rag had rejected Caris so absolutely: Rag hated being near Molly, and if Molly's blood was in Caris... Could the old knight not see what that took from Caris?