Weaver wrestled the block into a safe place where it couldn’t cause further damage. “We’re all known here. You turned coat, after all.”
Curtis crouched among the rubble. “They’ve bloody good eyesight if they can recognise me from there, that’s all I’ll say.”
Drew was already dragging Alwenna out from beneath the lintel that had prevented her from being crushed.
Another volley of arrows followed the first. From the rubble below them, Blaine cursed. “Half a dozen archers on the curtain wall. They’ll have our range next time. We need to move.”
As if they’d heard, the next volley of arrows skittered against the stones around them. None of them were hit, but it left no doubt they were being targeted.
Drew helped Weaver lift Alwenna from beneath the stone lintel and out into full daylight. The servant girl was already on her feet, scrambling down towards the road with Curtis. Alwenna couldn’t carry any weight on her injured foot so Drew and Weaver supported her between them. A further volley followed them, falling short, and they scrambled faster, but the exertion of the past two days was finally catching up with Drew. He staggered and almost fell, stepping back so Blaine could take his place when the next volley clattered around them. Drew gasped and stumbled against Alwenna.
“Drew, no!” The first words she’d spoken were a near-inarticulate scream of anger. She tried to pull him to his feet, but Blaine slung the youth over his shoulder as if he were no weight at all and dashed for the cover of the trees. Weaver set off behind them but Alwenna twisted round, pulling free from his grip as if she would return to Highkell.
“My lady, this way.” Weaver caught hold of Alwenna’s shoulder to turn her back to safety but she resisted, her muscles rigid beneath his fingertips.
She raised her face towards the curtain wall where the archers were nocking their arrows, almost ready to fire again. The wall shuddered and gradually peeled out from the citadel, hanging in mid-air for several heartbeats before it dropped into the gorge. Voices cried out in terror as flailing figures arced through the air. Weaver tugged at her shoulder again, but still she resisted. Then the tension in her muscles eased and she turned, a hard expression on her face such as he’d never seen before. She focused on Weaver, yet didn’t seem to recognise him at all.
And in that moment Weaver hardly recognised her. “My lady? We must go.”
Alwenna pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Yes, of course.” She took a step forward and stumbled as her damaged ankle failed. Weaver pulled her arm about his shoulders, supporting her weight as they followed after the others who were already scrambling up the bank in the shelter of the trees.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
The others were already mounted up by the time Weaver and Alwenna reached them. He boosted her into his saddle and vaulted on behind. They had no time to linger, with every likelihood of pursuit from Highkell. He led them on a circuitous route through the forest, and they rode hard for several miles once they’d reached the road east. The servant girl was mounted behind Drew, doggedly supporting him as he gradually slumped lower and lower in the saddle. She seemed tough as old boots, but she called a halt as they approached a shallow ford.
“I can’t keep him in the saddle any longer. Not with only one good arm.”
Blaine dismounted and half-lifted Drew down, half-supported him as he fell. The girl stayed seated, flexing the arm she’d been holding Drew in place with. She looked every bit as haggard as the Lady Alwenna. There was blood soaked into the front of her dress. She stared at it blankly, as if it took her a moment to work out how it had got there, then looked at Drew who hung limply in Blaine’s grip.
“Take him in among the trees, out of sight. It’s time we dealt with that wound.” Weaver rode his horse into the cover of the trees, finding a suitable clearing where he dismounted. If Drew’s wound wasn’t tended to now there was every chance they’d lose him on the road. There was, to be fair, every chance they’d lose him anyway, judging by his pallor.
“My lady? We’ll rest here awhile.”
Alwenna looked at him dully. “Rest? Have we time?” Her voice was hoarse.
“Drew’s injured. We need to tend to it before we ride further.”
Her eyes widened. “Of course.” She’d been silent the whole journey. Now she looked about her, apparently at a loss as to what to do next.
“Let me help you dismount, my lady.”
“Thank you.” She winced as she swung her right leg over the back of the saddle.
Weaver supported her weight as she slid down. It wasn’t elegant, by any means, and she couldn’t put weight on her injured ankle, but she seemed a little more aware of her surroundings. He turned his attention to Drew’s injury. They’d summarily snapped the arrow shaft so they could ride without causing him further injury, leaving enough protruding so they might remove it later. The wound had almost stopped bleeding, which was good news after seeing the amount of blood on the servant girl’s gown.
Weaver studied the injury, gauging the tip of the arrow had travelled most of the way through Drew’s shoulder. A careful examination with his fingertips as Blaine and Curtis held the lad still confirmed this. Removing the arrowhead by the way it had entered would cause more damage than it had on the way in. They found a stick for Drew to bite on and pinned him between them as Weaver made ready to thrust the arrow the rest of the way through. Drew sagged between them, drifting in and out of consciousness. Alwenna watched, wide-eyed, forgetting to tear the shirt she’d been given into strips. The servant girl moved to the edge of the clump of trees, ensuring there was no one close by. She nodded to Weaver, who took a careful hold of the arrow, gauged the angle, then thrust it forward. Drew screeched, but the barb burst through the front of his shoulder. Another moment and Weaver had removed it. The servant girl set about washing the wound.
Curtis was all for stitching it, but the girl was stern. “No, stitching a deep wound can trap dirt inside – as long as he doesn’t bleed too much, let it stay open.”
“You sound mighty sure of that, lass,” Blaine observed.
“My da kept racehorses. A bit of salt in the water would be best. Makes it heal faster.”
Drew sat up, muttering under his breath as the servant girl set about bandaging his shoulder. Twice she had to remind the Lady Alwenna to hand her the strips of fabric. It was as if Alwenna’s attention was fixed in some other place. It made Weaver uneasy. Whatever ailed her would take more than salt water to heal.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
He was lying half-asleep among the tangled sheets when he recognised the fair-haired priestess’ footsteps. His body hardened in anticipation. He sat up, reaching for her with a smile of welcome, but she shook her head, lowering her eyes modestly.
“My lord, you must not overtax your strength. Nine days you lay alone as one dead; nine days we will lie together before I must retreat into seclusion and pray the Goddess blesses our union.” Her voice was even, with no hint of the husky tone he had learned to expect from her.
“Nine days?” How much time had passed already? He had no idea. It had never occurred to him to keep count. “But you need not leave me yet. What is your name?”
“We who serve the Goddess have no name until she blesses us. We are but empty vessels until that day, awaiting our time to serve her as only a woman made in her form can.” The priestess had bound up her hair and was wearing the shapeless robe.
He swung his legs round to set his feet down on the floor. The stone flags were cool, sending a shiver running through him. “If you have no name, how am I to address you?”
She smiled. “As you do now, my lord.” A gaggle of servants arrived, bringing with them a bathtub which they set down close to the bed, and steaming pitchers of water. “Today you will rise and bathe. It is time to rebuild your strength so we may – if the Goddess blesses our union – rejoin the world together.”
The servants came and went with more pitchers of water until the tub was two-thirds full. The nameless priestess loosened her long hair and moved around the tub chanting an incantation in a language he did not recognise, sprinkling herbs and flower petals over the water and, finally, dashing a handful of salt into it. With elegance she knelt and stirred the water, three times one way, then three times the other way, then three times more as she had begun. All this he watched from where he sat on the edge of the bed.
She took him by the hand, encouraging him to stand. After a brief hesitation he did so, startled to discover how weak his limbs were. It had not always been this way, he knew, yet how he knew he could not be sure. And how it had once been he could not remember. The priestess led him by the hand to the tub and unlaced the neck of the voluminous chemise he had been sleeping in. She gathered up the garment from the hem and pulled it off over his head. The air against his naked flesh was cold and clammy with vapour from the tub. He shivered and his teeth began to chatter.
“The water will warm you, my lord. And the herbs will heal you.”
She supported him as he cautiously raised one foot and stepped over the rim of the bathtub, wobbling precariously as he struggled to balance with one foot off the ground.
He lowered himself into the water, setting a hand on either side of the bath to support himself. This was something familiar, something he recognised. He lowered himself until the water had risen to his waist and his buttocks came to rest on the base of the tub. His arms trembled from the unaccustomed effort. He let them sink into the warm water, resting his head back and closing his eyes. In his mind’s eye he could see another room, larger than this chamber, with a floor made from stone of redder hues. The walls, of the same red stone, were hung with lavish tapestries, the workmanship of the best quality, the detail fine. He knew it to be true. He opened his eyes. The priestess watched him, her hands clasped together, head bowed.
“Do I have a name?”
“Yes, my lord, but I do not know it. You will remember when the Goddess wills it. When you are healed.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
That stranger was there in her mind again, waking in the darkness to a sensual touch. Alwenna pulled away from the contact, sitting bolt upright in a different darkness, her pulse thundering. She was in the forest. Around her, her companions slept. Someone on the far side of the fire snored gently. She shivered. Was she simply hearing someone else’s dreams? Was she hearing Weaver’s thoughts? No, she’d swear this stranger was not him. And yet… Could it be Vasic? He was familiar in some elusive way. Stanton’s ghost haunting her? She shivered again and got to her feet, pulling her blanket round her shoulders. Maybe she ought to be grateful he’d driven away the memories of being trapped in the dark, but, whoever he was, she didn’t need to know what he was getting up to right now.
The trees crowded in around Alwenna, shutting out such moonlight as there was. Too restless to sleep now, she decided to walk to the water’s edge. She took up her walking stick and, leaning heavily on it, hobbled away from the fire. Doing her best not to wake anyone – especially Curtis who was ostensibly on watch – she picked her way round the edge of their campsite.
From the lake shore she could see the sky, the stars bright, moving in their unending cycle. the Hunter, tall and proud, kept watch over their fire. A bright star hung just above the tree-line on the far shore, reflected on the surface of the lake. She knelt at the water’s edge and set her palms in the water, watching the ripples spread outwards, distorting the reflection. Already she could breathe more easily and she felt her tension slipping away.
A twig snapped behind her and she turned to see Weaver approaching, his shirt ghostly in the moonlight. He hadn’t paused to don his surcoat.
“My lady, is it wise to go so far from the fire?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She turned back to the water, shivering again as its chill struck through her veins, bringing with it a delicious sense of being alive. A light breeze stirred the surface of the lake, obscuring the stars’ reflections altogether and taking with it her moment of serenity.
She heard the crunch of footsteps as Weaver walked over beside her. “More bad dreams?”
“Yes.” Could she tell him why these particular visions were so unsettling? She shouldn’t, of course. He still clung to the euphemistic use of dreams, after all. She could tell him of her terror of being trapped again. Or should she not tell him that, either? “I wish I didn’t need to sleep. I can’t stop them then.”
His mouth twisted in that expression she recognised so well, more revealing than any words.
“You still don’t believe me, do you?”
“I know you’re troubled, my lady. But we should go back to the others, before you catch a chill.”
“You go if you want. I’m staying here.” She sat down on the edge of her blanket and settled the rest more firmly around her shoulders. “I’m not cold.”
After a moment’s hesitation Weaver hunkered down beside her.
“What, can’t you sleep either?”
“Not knowing you’re down here by yourself, doing Goddess knows what.”
“I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
“I didn’t suggest you were.”
Alwenna shrugged. “I just feel better by the water. In among the trees – oh, I don’t know, I find the forest oppressive.”
“I’ve noticed that. The more sky you have, the more alive you are.”
“That’s it exactly.” She turned to him in surprise. “Do you feel the same way?”
He sat with his forearms resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the open water before them. “Can’t say I do. But I noticed, up on the ridgeway.”
That was Weaver all over, noticing everything and saying as little as possible. “Do you ever allow yourself to feel anything, Weaver?”
“No, my lady.” He turned to face her then. “I’ve learned it rarely ends well.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Weaver shrugged. “That’s your choice.” He picked up a flat pebble from the shore and sent it skimming out over the water. It bounced nine times before sinking beneath the surface. “I was worried about you yesterday. I think you’re feeling better now?”