HM01 Moonspeaker Page 4

  “Mother above.” His dark chierra eyes stared down at her. He snatched one of her six-fingered hands before she could resist. “If I hadn’t seen, I wouldn’t have believed.”

  Haemas yanked her hand back. Chierra, she thought uneasily, a whole camp of renegade chierras, running free with no Lord to make them obey. They wouldn’t dare harm her, would they? She closed her hands into fists and buried them under her arms.

  “Leave her be, Mashal. I had enough trouble catching the whelp without you scaring her off.” The first man walked back into the flickering firelight.

  “I were just looking.” Mashal threw a last piece of wood into the fire.

  “I think we can all remember what happened the last time you just ‘looked’ at a female, Mashal.” The whole camp snickered and the big man scowled.

  An older man with a fringe of white hair outlining his head walked around the fire and handed Haemas a rough wooden bowl filled with thick stew. With a shock, she realized he had only one hand. The other arm ended in a scarred stump. Tearing her gaze away, she balanced the bowl on her knees and wrinkled her nose at it.

  “Don’t got no fine dinnerware, Lady.” His weathered face smiled at her. “Just dig in with your fingers.”

  “Don’t call her that!” Mashal’s heavy face twisted. “She ain’t no better than you or me or anyone else here!” He held his knife up and let the firelight play along the finely honed edge. “Her kind bleeds the same as ours.”

  The old man bobbed his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Just habit, you know. I served them so many years . . .”

  The first man stepped between the two. “Leave him be, Mashal. He don’t mean nothing.”

  “I know.” Mashal rubbed a big hand across his face and looked down at Haemas. “But demons-take-it, what do you mean to do with her, Cale?”

  So, Haemas thought, the man who had brought her here was named Cale.

  “Sell her, of course.” Cale ran a hand back through his black hair and smiled. “She’ll be worth a rare amount of gold to someone.” He leaned down and glared into Haemas’s face. “Now eat that or I’ll dump it in the fire!”

  With a start, she remembered the bowl of food and picked up a warm chunk of meat with a thumb and forefinger.

  “That’s better.” He settled on the ground beside her and nodded approvingly. “It’s powerful hard to sell dead folks these days.”

  Mashal shoved a thick log over with his foot and sat next to Cale. “How much do you think you’ll get for her? There’s a big difference between what one of those Lowland farms will pay and a real Highlands House.”

  Cale reached out and tucked a bit of strayed pale-gold hair behind Haemas’s ear, grinning as she flinched away. “I don’t know where she be from yet. Haven’t been able to get a single syllable out of her.”

  She fished another piece of meat out of the broth and ate it doggedly, refusing to meet his chill eyes.

  “How about it, prize?” Cale asked. “What’s your name?”

  She found a piece of firm whiteroot and took a bite.

  “Not a word for the man who saved your sodding life, then?” He made a clucking noise. “So much for the high-and-mighty manners of the highborn.”

  Suddenly her stomach knotted. She pushed the bowl away and hunched her arms around her knees. Later, when they were all asleep, she’d slip away.

  “Finished?” Cale peered sorrowfully into the half-full bowl. “I guess we should all be getting some sleep then.” He reached into his pocket for some leather thongs, and took hold of one of her wrists.

  Frightened, she scrambled in the other direction, but he held on, tying first one wrist and then binding the other securely to it. Then, he took a turn of thong around his own wrist and tied it off. “Just in case you had any ideas this party were over.” He winked one of his odd blue eyes at her and tossed her a ragged blanket. “Pleasant dreams.”

  Haemas pulled the blanket around her tired, aching body as well as she could with her wrists bound and closed her eyes. Exhausted as she was, though, sleep refused to come. She stared into the wavering yellow circle of firelight as the flames died down and the other men settled around the edges to sleep.

  It had been two full days now, and she still hadn’t felt anyone Searching. Maybe they believed she was dead and had given up. She thought again of her father’s white face as he’d lain at her feet that night. She remembered nothing of what had come before. Whatever had possessed her to do such a thing? If only she could remember!

  These stupid chierras thought they were going to ransom her. She shook her head. They had no way of knowing the only thing anyone from the Highlands would pay for now would be her death.

  * * *

  “No, she isn’t dead.” Sparks flew as Jarid thrust the log into the orange heart of the fire with the poker. “At least not yet.”

  Thunder rumbled outside the thick walls of Tal’ayn, heralding a storm that would break before the night was out. Perched on the window seat, Alyssa huddled deeper into her fur-lined shawl. “You know what a clumsy, gangly thing she is. She probably fell off the mountain and cracked her head open.” Her green-gold eyes watched him pace the length of the bedchamber. “I don’t see why you have to go.”

  “What you ‘don’t see’ could get us both killed, my dear aunt.” Jarid’s restless gaze wandered the room. It was cluttered with lacy cushions and powders and ointments, unbearably fussy. He shoved an armful of cosmetics to one side of her dresser and scowled. “I have to find the little wretch before the Council does.”

  Tucking her slippered feet beneath her, she sipped at a cup of hot tea. “Well, I’ve Searched two whole days now and found nothing.”

  “Then it’s fortunate I am not you.” Jarid stared at the trusting face of his aunt-by-marriage, carefully shielding his distaste. She might be an idiot, but Alyssa’s Testing had given a Plus-Four rating, strong enough at least to pick up anything he was careless enough to broadcast.

  He leaned against the window seat and brushed her golden hair aside to stroke the warm curve of her neck. Sighing, she pressed her cheek against his hand. Outside, the faraway thunder rolled again.

  At any rate, he thought as he looked down at the top of her bright gold head, she was a pleasant enough diversion, actually rather pretty until you knew how little lay behind those even features and incredible green-gold eyes. Well, Alyssa had her uses—for now. He moved away. “I’ll Search for her myself,” he said abruptly. “Tonight.”

  “What about the other Searcher?” She rose from the chair and followed him to the canopied bed. “The one Grandfather sent for, he might sense you.”

  Jarid stretched out his six-foot-frame across her bed and closed his pale-gold eyes. “Don’t be stupid.” He began the relaxation ritual, counting his breaths, centering down.

  From somewhere far away, he heard his voice tell her, “Lock the door and don’t disturb me. This will probably take some time.”

  Concentrating on his breathing, he loosed his mind into the gray otherness, looking for the pale spark of life he could identify as his cousin. As his Search ranged farther and farther, he began to think perhaps she was dead or in some way beyond his reach, but then finally he hovered above her presence, congratulating himself.

  As he watched her, though, it seemed someone else was there, watching with him. Jarid cursed and slipped away without making contact. He would have to follow her in person and then finish the little skivit.

  After a long time, he opened his eyes again, cold and cramped.

  Curled up in a chair, Alyssa watched him with troubled eyes. “Did you find her?”

  He arched his back and smiled as the first spatter of raindrops struck the window. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I found her.”

  WHEN the toe punched her ribs, Haemas could not remember where she was. Her right shoulder throbbed as she bolted up. Trees surro
unded her on every side like a wall of rough brown pillars. Thin white early morning light filtered down through the whispering blue-green leaves.

  Cale squatted beside her to untie the rawhide thong binding her swollen wrists, his face impassive. “We’re leaving in a few minutes so you’d best get on with your breakfast.” He nodded at the wooden bowl near his foot.

  She massaged her wrists, then tried to work out the stiffness in her shoulder. Movement, however, only made the pain worse. She gave up and pulled the bowl over with her left hand. It was her leftover stew from the night before, cold and congealed and thoroughly unappetizing. She pushed it away.

  “Well, that takes care of that. Now, I suppose, like all females, you require a bit of privacy?” Her captor regarded her with his strange blue eyes.

  She pulled the ragged blanket around her shoulders, not sure what he meant.

  “You know, bodily functions?”

  A sudden heat flushed her cheeks. She turned away.

  “I though so.” He sounded unconcerned. “Go right ahead, but—” He reached out, gripping her arm tightly above the elbow. “Make me and boys come looking for you and there’ll be no more privacy on this joyride.”

  Haemas stared at his hand on her arm for a second, then nodded.

  “A ‘yes’ would do just fine.”

  She jerked her arm, and he let go as a chorus of muffled chuckles were heard around the camp.

  “I’ll have you know,” he said to her rigid back, “that in some circles, I’m considered excellent company!”

  When she returned, she was surprised to see they had produced a string of large horned saddle animals from somewhere in the forest. The creatures had shaggy, dappled blue-gray coats and four large bulging black eyes. The one closest to her bent its long thin neck and sniffed suspiciously at her, while its lower jaw circled with endless chewing.

  Around the clearing, the others were already waiting on their mounts. Cale swung up on the creature’s back with practiced ease, settling into the simple, hornless saddle. Then he motioned to her.

  She had ridden horses in the Highlands, but never anything that remotely resembled one of these—things.

  “You aren’t going to make me catch you again, are you, prize? Cale crossed his arms and grinned insolently down at her. “Although that might be fun.”

  Mashal, sitting on a huge, potbellied beast, rubbed a hand over his black-whiskered face and snickered. She walked hesitantly over to Cale’s left foot.

  “No, no, the other side,” he said. “Don’t you Kashi know anything? Always mount an ebari from the right side.”

  She gave the beast’s swishing tail a wide berth and walked to the other side. Without waiting, Cale reached down and grasped her right wrist, yanking her upwards.

  Landing behind his saddle, she sagged forward, dizzy with the pain in her shoulder. He kicked the ebari and it followed Mashal’s scruffy beast into the forest. Still trying to catch her breath, she held on with her left arm and tucked her right across her chest. Every jolt from the big beast’s loose-boned gait wrung another deep twinge from her torn muscles.

  She closed her eyes. It would take a healer to knit the muscles properly again, but Healing was a rare mindtalent. Chierras didn’t know how to Heal.

  Giving herself up to the creature’s plodding rhythm, she tried to clear her mind and think about nothing.

  * * *

  Kevisson tied the last lace on his pack, then turned around. Myriel Lenhe’s tall, well-rounded form, wearing a green satin tunic over flowing breeches that clung to every curve, leaned against the doorframe. She had a soft oval face and classic Kashi skin, white as frost. Her lips quirked into a knowing smile.

  He bowed slightly. “I’m sorry, Lady Myriel. I didn’t realize you were there.”

  That, of course, was a lie; he had sensed her waiting outside the door. What he hadn’t realized was that Lord Lenhe’s daughter would be brash enough to come in without knocking. Fortunately, Myriel’s mindtalents didn’t seem sensitive enough to pick up the difference between his polite lie and the bare truth.

  She beckoned the servant waiting in the hallway to follow her in. “Mother sent up some breakfast. She didn’t think you’d be ready to leave yet since you arrived so late last night.”

  The crockery clinked as the young servant girl set the heavy tray on a table close to the hearth.

  “That’s all, Cenda. You may go.” Myriel’s golden eyes didn’t even glance at the chierra girl as she spoke. “Brother Monmart,” she said, accenting his Andiine title, “why don’t you eat your breakfast before it gets cold?”

  So he wasn’t a Master yet, Kevisson thought behind his shields, that didn’t alter the fact he was still the best Searcher in Shael’donn. He settled in a cushioned chair and caught the sweet musk of her perfume.

  She seated herself gracefully in the opposite chair and uncovered his plate. “I’m told the psi-ratings of the Andiines are uniformly quite high.” She fingered the ash-gold braid looped over her shoulder.

  What did she want? Kevisson bit into a piece of mellow white cheese, studying her. She was of marriageable age, of course, and quite striking, but he had grown used to the fact that, between his appearance and his lineage, he would never be considered marriage material by any but the poorest of Houses.

  She sighed. “My rating, I’m afraid, is not very high. I received only slightly over a Plus-one at my Testing four years ago.”

  Kevisson’s eyebrows arched before he could keep the shock from his face. He swallowed a half-chewed mouthful of fresh bread and cheese. “My Lady!” he said, trying not to choke. “Why are—”

  Myriel managed a cold smile. “Mindtalent seems to be diminishing in our family, Brother Monmart. My father intends to have it otherwise.”

  Kevisson skimmed discretely at her surface thoughts for a moment, picking up anger . . . frustration . . . but only the barest glimmer of personal attraction. “I don’t understand.”

  “Surely you must realize, Brother Monmart, that if an heir is born to this family with no trace of mindtalent, we’ll have no more right to this land than the chierra field hands. The Council will rescind our grant and give Lenhe’ayn to a new line that demonstrates high potential.” Myriel rose and walked to the window, gazing down at the courtyard. “The shame . . . the reduction in rank . . .” Her voice choked off and she took a deep breath. “Nothing like that has happened among the Houses in at least two hundred years.”

  “My Lady, you must know marriage is out of the question for anyone in training at Shael’donn.”

  To his consternation, Myriel turned away from the window and, putting a hand over her mouth, laughed. It was a cold, bitter sound that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

  “I’m sorry.” She dabbed at her eyes, “but did you really think we were speaking of marriage?” Her eyes glittered like newly minted gold coins.

  He stared at her for a long moment. Then, snatching up his pack, he started for the door.

  She rushed after him, laying a restraining hand on his arm. “Please forgive me.” She looked contrite. “I’m not very good at this.”

  Kevisson looked at her coldly. “Just what is it that you do want from me, Lady?”

  “A child.” Her face colored. “We . . . need at least one infusion of new, strongly talented blood to improve our line, and several would be even better. And we heard that . . . sometimes a man from the Order is willing to give a child to the daughter of a great House, even though they never marry.”

  Kevisson frowned. “It has been done, Lady, for various reasons, but . . .”

  “You do not wish to.”

  “I have never considered the possibility.” He leaned against the mantel over the hearth. “My Talent is strong, but my appearance has always been—held against me in the higher circles.” He studied her with his golden-brown eyes. “Mo
st likely any child of mine would resemble me.”

  Myriel turned away. “That would hopefully breed out after several generations, but your strength, we need that desperately.”

  If she had said it didn’t matter, that Lenhe’ayn would cherish his child no matter what color its eyes and hair were, he might have been tempted, but he knew he would never give his flesh and blood to be despised as he had been all these years.

  “I’m flattered, Lady, but I must refuse.” He held the door open for her. “Perhaps if you would contact Master Ellirt at Shael’donn, he could find someone more—deserving of this honor.”

  Myriel did not meet his gaze as she swept through the door ahead of him. “Perhaps,” she murmured, toying with the end of her braid.

  As he followed her back down the narrow hallway, the surface of her thoughts teased him with the faintest twinge of regret.

  * * *

  Hunger . . . stomach-cramping hunger beat insistently at Haemas. Rousing herself, she looked out into the leafy dimness through which they rode. The ebari’s flat, round feet thumped over the leaf-covered forest floor as Cale’s back swayed before her.

  This was no time to think about food, she chided herself. Then another wrenching wave of hunger swept over her. She suddenly realized it was coming from outside. She wasn’t hungry, but something nearby did hunger, something sleek and powerful.

  Taking a ragged breath, she groped within her mind for her shields, but they were still gone, as they had been ever since that last terrible night at Tal’ayn.

  She twisted back to look over the ebari’s rump. Nothing, just blue-green vegetation and silence. The certainty grew in her, though, that something prowled after them through the shade-shrouded forest.

  She turned back around and huddled against Cale’s quiver and blue-green shirt, trying to shut out the all-pervasive hunger. The ebari snuffled uneasily beneath them and switched its tail. Up ahead, another ebari whined as if in answer.