Blackveil
Page 174

She still fell behind, and Ard often dropped back to walk companionably beside her, not speaking, but keeping an eye on her. On the whole, the company made little conversation. The farther along they got, the faster Graelalea led them, and the faster Graelalea went, the more Karigan fell behind. She had especial trouble on a part of the trail that was at the base of a cliff buried beneath a sloping rock fall. They had to pick their way over slick boulders and wobbly rocks. The uneven and treacherous surfaces taxed Karigan’s bad leg and she fell farther and farther behind, but Ard patiently stayed with her. She was pleased by his company.
“Have you always been a forester for Clan Coutre?” Karigan asked him, her interest in his background aroused by his signet ring. Her feet almost flew out from beneath her on a slimy rock. She saved herself, heart thudding, and was once again thankful for the bonewood staff, which helped her regain her balance.
Ard, watching her from several boulders ahead, said. “Always. And my father before me. Lord Spane took him in, gave him the position to assist the head forester, looking after Lord Coutre’s lands. We’d been destitute before that, but Lord Spane took care of us.”
“That was very good of him,” Karigan replied.
Ard stayed perched on his boulder watching her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He glanced over his shoulder. The rest of the company was out of sight.
“Aye,” he said. “And then the lady was born. Sweetest child ever there was.”
It was difficult for Karigan to imagine Estora as a tiny child. Try as she might, she could only picture Estora as she was now, the stately, devastatingly beautiful woman.
Karigan hopped to a wobbly rock in front of Ard, her legs quivering from exertion. Ard did not move, forcing Karigan to fight once again for her balance. He did not give her a hand, but instead appeared lost in reflection.
“So kind she was,” he said. “Considerate to those beneath her station when she didn’t have to be. She didn’t change as she grew up. Always good to me. I’m proud to serve her.”
This was all fascinating, Karigan thought, but her leg was killing her as she struggled to prevent herself from falling and dashing her brains all over the rocks.
“Um,” she said, hoping Ard would take the hint.
He gazed at her, his eyes chips of flint, his face set and body rigid. Karigan tensed in return. She did not understand his posture, or why he was not helping her.
“Would you mind moving on?” she said. “We’re falling behind.”
Ard did not move, but kept staring at her, tapping the hilt of his sword. “I’d do anything for her,” he murmured.
Karigan hopped back to a more stable rock behind her, now holding the bonewood more in defense than for balance. What was wrong with him? His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
“Is all well back here?” It was Telagioth.
Karigan sighed in relief.
“Aye,” Ard replied, and he turned toward Telagioth and strode off, leaving Karigan behind. “We were just resting is all.”
Resting? Is that what he called it? Then why was she drenched in sweat and shaking?
To her further relief, Telagioth stayed with them and Ard carried on an animated conversation. All seemed as it was before. Had she only imagined he’d posed a threat to her just moments ago? She could not even guess at his change. Until now he’d been nothing but helpful to her along the journey.
Perhaps the poison of the thorns had muddled her perceptions. Even so, she intended to remain wary of Ard in case he showed his darker side again.
REDBIRD
“Very good,” Grandmother said when Lala showed her the knot of red yarn. “You have a natural knack for the art.”
“Lalala goot!” cried Gubba. The old groundmite sat across the fire from them, beaming at them with a toothless grin.
In the evenings when they paused in their journey through the forest, Grandmother had taken to teaching Lala more of the craft once taught to her by her own mother and grandmother. The protection provided by the groundmites had removed some of the responsibility from Grandmother, and it was now they who guided her and her people. The groundmites also provided them with fresh meat and water, and all of them were feeling the stronger for it. Such relative ease, compared to the beginnings of their journey, allowed Grandmother the leisure to teach Lala.
If only Lala could speak. Without speech, many spells would prove inaccessible to her.
Her granddaughter’s inability had always saddened her, but now it angered her. It was unfair. She wanted Lala to carry on the craft of her ancestors, to have a voice. When Grandmother finally surrendered her soul to God as all mortals must, who would carry on the art for Second Empire?
There was also that music, the flow of an almost otherworldly voice that came into her mind sometimes, its source at the wall. It mocked her with its power and made Lala’s silence all the more difficult to accept. She had decided it was high time to do something about it. To lash out, as it were. So here they sat, Lala tying a very special knot.
Grandmother appraised it critically, looking for imperfections, but it was well executed, with extra knots that were Lala’s personal expression. It was, after all, an art. The girl had the aptitude, and now Grandmother wished she’d done more with the girl sooner.
“You understand the next step?” she asked.
Lala nodded and picked up the knife from the blanket between them.
“Remember to pour your intent into it.”
Lala closed her eyes, looking much older than her years, even beneath the dirt smudged on her face. In one swift motion, she slashed the blade across her palm. Grandmother grabbed her wrist and pushed the knotted yarn into the wound so it would absorb the blood. Lala clenched her fingers around it. They could have used a nail clipping or a lock of Lala’s hair for the spell, but nothing was as potent as fresh blood.