Shadows of Myth. Rachel Lee

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СКАЧАТЬ mean no harm,” she said. Then, remembering, she added, Oon-tie.”

      “Rah-so-fah-meh lay-esh?” the man asked.

      Or so she thought, assuming that the rising tone at the end of the sentence indicated a question.

      “Oon-tie,” she repeated. “Oon-tie.”

      “Foe-doo-key,” he said, and she saw two pairs of unshod, blue-black feet approach through the underbrush, stopping just beyond her reach.

      She drew a breath, rich with the scent of pine, and let it out slowly. “Oon. Tie.”

      The pressure of a boot in her side told her the man wanted her to roll over. She did so, slowly, wrapping her arms protectively around the girl, even knowing the act was futile. “Oon-tie.”

      The man was tall, over six feet, with piercing gray eyes that almost glowed beneath the black-green cowl that nearly hid his face. Unlike his companions, his skin held the darkening of weather, the tan of many suns, but nothing of the deepness of night.

      The prickle had traced around her neck as she rolled, and now she saw the sword, as long as her leg and broad as her hand, curving upward to a menacing point that rested against the pulse in her neck. The rest of his cloak was as black as the cowl, the barest hint of deep green in its folds, making him almost invisible in the darkness of the forest. Even if she’d been looking for him, she might well have missed him. The boot on her shoulder was soft leather, snug to the foot and muscled calf. One gloved hand held the sword, while the other rested by his side, the barest twitch in the last two fingers the only indication that the man sensed danger.

      “Ay-oon-tie?”

      She started to nod, then remembered the sword and held her head still. “Oon-tie.”

      The man casually used his sword to nudge her arm from her chest, then open her cloak. His eyes seemed to bore into the girl’s body.

      “I found her last night,” the woman explained, hearing the plea and pain in her voice. “She shouldn’t have died. I treated for her shock, and the wound was superficial. She shouldn’t have died. I didn’t kill her.”

      The two blue-black men seemed confused by her words, and they exchanged almost inaudible grunts with the black-cloaked man whose sword rested on her collarbone. The men’s body language said the cloaked man was the leader. Finally the cloaked man lowered his sword and extended a gloved hand. Inviting her to get up, or so she hoped.

      She reached for the hand, and he grasped her wrist. His grip could have snapped the bones in her hand like so many dried twigs, but he hefted her to her feet, then sheathed his sword, as if neither she nor the sword weighed an ounce. He reached for the child.

      “No!” she said, half turning away.

      He paused for a moment, then lifted the cowl from his head to reveal hard, care-worn features beneath raven-black hair. The faintest hint of a smile creased his cold eyes.

      “Leh-oon rah-tie,” he said softly, in a voice that seemed to echo within him before making its way out into the world. He reached for the child again. “Leh-oon.”

      Conflicting emotions warred within her. His tone, his face and his gesture seemed to convey “Please,” as if he were offering to help the girl. But she knew the girl was beyond help. And this was a man who, mere moments before, had held a sword to her throat. And the girl was…hers.

      Apparently seeing her hesitation, he repeated the word, more softly this time. “Leh-oon.”

      Reluctantly she let him lift the girl from her arms. He took her gently, supporting her head with one hand, and seemed to study her for a moment. His eyes flicked up to her, cold and hard.

      “Trey-sah.”

      The woman shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

      “Trey-sah,” he said again, motioning toward the girl with his head. “Tah-ill loh trey-sah.”

      She compressed her lips, studying his eyes. Then it clicked, and she slowly nodded. “Yes. She’s dead. Trey-sah. Last night.”

      The man nodded, and for an instant sorrow softened his icy-gray eyes. He handed the girl back to her, then pointed back down the road. “Yah-see. Roh-eem trey-sah.”

      “Yes. They’re all dead. I…” It struck her that even if she had known his language, she could not have explained what had happened last night. She stopped and simply angled her head toward the road. “Yes. Trey-sah. This girl wasn’t. She no trey-sah. I tried to help her, but I couldn’t. She died last night, in my arms.”

      The taller of the two black men, behind her to her left, muttered quietly. The cloaked man looked at him, then at her, and nodded. “Pah-roh. Ee-esh.”

      Slender black fingers closed around her upper arms, gently but insistently. Whoever these men were, they were taking her with them. There was little point and less hope in fighting. Helpless to argue, she let them take her, her heart full of dread.

      Young Tom Downey should have been asleep. He’d been up most of the night, opening the gate for the trappers who straggled in by ones and twos, not wanting to spend another night out on the ground in a fur sleep sack when they could walk a few more miles and have a pint of ale, a hot meal and a comfortable bed at the Deepwell Inn. By all rights he should have been exhausted and snug in his bed, catching up on his rest so he could enjoy the festival tonight.

      But then there was Sara. He’d promised to help her set up tables and torches in the inn’s courtyard, not so much because she wanted or needed his help—she came from big-boned, Whitewater stock and was strong as most men—but because it was a good excuse to spend a day with her. The opportunity to look into her deep blue eyes, to see the broad smile break out on her oval face, to hear the flowing music in her idle humming. Faced with that, well, sleep came in at a far-distant second place.

      The sun was well past high, and they had almost finished hanging the lanterns and decorations that crisscrossed the courtyard. Next they would build the firepit and, while the flames burned down, begin to carry out the long serving tables and stack the pewter flagons, bowls and spoons. By the time they had finished those tasks, the coals should be ready for them to heft the soup cauldron and bring it out from the kitchen. Another two or three hours.

      Another two or three hours of Sara’s almost sole attention, a rare treat indeed. She was usually too busy taking care of patrons at the inn for him to get more than a few words in edgewise, and that only when he wasn’t busy with his mother’s garden, or minding the gate for his father. In truth, he lived for a day like this.

      “A bit tighter,” Sara said, as he pulled the last line of lanterns over a tree limb. “There. Perfect.”

      He tied off the line and looked up at their work. Gaily painted pinecones and lanterns formed a canopy over the courtyard. Tonight, with the fires lit and the stars winking overhead, the place would seem almost magical.

      “Looks great,” Young Tom said. “It will be beautiful tonight.” Then, after a momentary pause, he added, “And I can’t wait for your mutton stew.”

      She nodded, her features darkened by a passing thought. “I just hope people will come.”

      Yes, they’d lost some crops СКАЧАТЬ