The De'Nauguath Chronicles - Book 1: The Summoner's Daughter

Chapter 10: Wanderer

Time passed. I wasn't sure how much. I was tired, but this wasn't sleep.

I opened my eyes. Light glare jigged in a puddle. The sun was still out, then.

I picked my head up. At a glance, nothing hurt. And I was dry. My clothes were a bit damp, but nothing more.

The ground was still soggy. I stood and looked around to the hovel. Thin steam rose up like vent holes near a hot spring. The fire was out, but the roof was gutted. At least one of the walls was scarred and probably holey. Something ugly welled up in my throat. It wasn't shelter anymore, and the smoke would've drawn attention. Even if I could make repairs in a hurry, I wasn't faceless anymore. I had to move on.

I gathered up the few things in the shack that hadn't been destroyed. The sad little bow, which someone who didn't know about weapons had made, was outright useless now. My knives had a good shellac coating on the handles, so they weren't too bad at all. I wiped them dry and wrapped the blades in a little cloth torn from my too-big shirt. The dried fruit was dry no more, but I took the bits that looked cleanest. I also folded up two good wool blankets that had somehow repelled most of the water.

I didn't have any friends east of Stavi. Hardly anyone did, unless they went to the far reaches of a coast. Money always spoke louder than words in the south, and that was something I didn't have. As long as I was undiscovered, I wasn't in a hurry to be somewhere. But it took special hardiness to live on the road for more than a few weeks. I knew more than the street urchins did about the wild and I could hunt a bit, but not enough that I wanted to trust my life to it.

I set off due east but stopped at a creek that had a dense clump of trees to hide in. There were just barely some signs of building about the place. That was common enough near water: a prospector or farmer would try to start a home but die in winter or get chased off for some reason. It was turning into a hazy afternoon, so I plucked my shoes off and dropped my feet into the water.

Sun shadows changed angles before I shifted my eyes away from the dribbling creek. I didn't know how the river had moved out of its rightful place like that to douse the shack. Water didn't just do that. Waves couldn't wait about before they fell. I still remembered the colors that the sunlight had glimmered through the barrier, like a bent mirror or a stripe of oil in a puddle.

Triga was gone. I hadn't seen her yet or felt her eyes on me. Maybe she'd been lying all along and wasn't really bound to me.

I stared as far as I could see. I blinked. Kinya's Peak. There it was. If I cut straight across country and kept my sleep thin, it would only take a few days to get to the foothills. What I'd said to Triga was true. I'd had enough of riddles and games.

I made good enough progress that first afternoon and was pretty smug with myself, except I hadn't found a decent meal yet. I had plenty of water, but I wouldn't last long on a few scraps of old fruit. Animals were sparser as I footed through rock fields. There weren't enough trees for squirrels or enough plain dirt for prairie dogs. Rivers and creeks in the east were far apart. I found a little swamp pond and finally settled on a crippled bullfrog. For sleep, I found a tree with high limbs and reckoned a way to nestle between them.

* * *

Little mutters woke me.

My heart flicked around but I stifled my breath. I craned my neck and peered down.

A man older and grayer than Longfeather was working away at something near the base of the tree. "Damn and blast these matches," he growled. "Gypsy rubbish."

There was a sad old horse hobbled nearby. A scruffy dog napped on the other side of the tree trunk. At least the fellow was alone.

I watched the man for some time. He seemed set on staying until he'd had his rest and his fire. I felt around for where I'd tied a knife at my waist.