Greyling: The Prophecy

By D. B. Wright

After suffering twelve years of captivity and torture at the hands of the evil wizard, Lord Beagan, Malora finally had the chance to escape. Soon after, she ran into a young man named Pickard, a strange thief who told her of his mission to locate a magician known only as Greyling, and unite him with a man known as the Protector. Together, Greyling and the Protector are destined to fulfill the Great Prophecy, as foretold thousands of years ago by the greatest prophets their world had ever known. But, when Malora agrees to help Pickard with his quest, she soon realizes that captivity and torture had been the least of her problems...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 16, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462832972

D. B. Wright

D.B. Wright, known as Dawn to her friends and family, and Ms. Barton to everyone else, was born in Plainfield, N.J. in the 1960's. She lived in North Plainfield until the age of 10, when her mother moved her, along with her younger sister, to Tucson, Az., where she has been ever since. In 1983 she married, and 12 years later, gave birth to her daugher, Tara. Since her divorce in 2007, she spends her time raising Tara, and hopes to move to the country and start writing full time, once she can send her daughter off to college.

Book preview

Greyling

THE PROPHECY

D. B. Wright

Copyright © 2008 by D. B. Wright.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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To Tara, Because dreams really can come true.

Sometimes, it just takes a while.

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1

The young woman awoke with a start, not at all pleased to find that she had survived yet another day. Her head pounded furiously and her entire body hurt, though she was unable at that moment to remember why. Her mind was clouded and dulled, that much she understood. It neither upset nor concerned her. Somehow, she knew it would pass. As far as she was concerned, she might as well lie there and enjoy the peace which ignorance brought. Unfortunately, reality pushed through, as it always did, sweeping aside the calm and forcing it to cower in the corner of her mind.

She was on the floor of her cell, again. The hard, cold stones beneath her could not be ignored, as all she was wearing was a thin, cotton robe. It came to just above her knees, sleeveless, with wide shoulder straps and a modest v-cut neckline. It was a soft grey, the color reserved for slaves.

At least, it had been grey yesterday. Now, it was bloody and torn. As am I, she thought, and bruised and hungry and . . .

The fear was returning with her memory. She was still imprisoned within Dagger’s Pointe, the main magician’s guild for the entire country of Metar. It was located in the very center of Bakaw, Metar’s capitol city. How long had she been there? At that point, she could not remember.

The more important question was how much longer she could last. The lash-marks on her back were of little consequence, compared to what else she had been through. Lord Beagan’s magic was strong and dark. The more she disobeyed him, the more pain he caused her. For years, she had managed to survive his assaults. Lately, however, their sessions had been getting worse. Nearly every day, now, he had her brought to him for questioning. The minor pain spells had gradually been replaced. Now, they were Mind Daggers which felt like pieces of her brain were being carved away, and Fire Rushes which felt like her insides were being consumed in the bonfires of hell itself. The longer she refused to answer properly, the more vicious his attacks became. It frightened her to think of how close she had come to giving in, to doing whatever the old man asked, just to stop the torture. So far, she had resisted, but she could not do it for much longer.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. They had locked her in the last of the three cells on the south wall. Across the narrow walkway were three others. By the sounds she heard, she knew that there were fewer prisoners than the night before. To be certain, she pushed herself up to look around. As she suspected, the magician in the cell to the north was missing. So was the one in the first cell on her side.

Two torches, one on each end of the room, cast shadows across the center cells, making them difficult to judge. Cautiously, she turned to the one beside her. It was fairly dark, but she could sense more than see the figure crouched on the floor. For several minutes, she simply stared at him, trying to find some clue as to who the poor unfortunate man was. Not that it really mattered. She would never get a chance to know him.

Suddenly, there was a noise at the door to the west. The other prisoners appeared fearful, moving to the darkest corners of their cells. Only the woman rose to her feet, prepared to face whoever came.

Two men dressed in brown enchanter’s robes opened the door and entered the room. One of them, tall, thin, with light hair and dark skin, carried a tray which held several bowls. Carefully, they passed them through the bars and left them on the floor for the prisoners to retrieve. The woman knew that none would move until the guards had gone. When only one bowl remained, they took it to her cell and looked at her.

Despite her pain, the woman stood tall, back straight, head held proudly. Slowly, she crossed her arms over her chest.

Before you ask, she said, tell him that the answer is still no. I will not report, so you might as well save your breath.

Both men’s faces stiffened. The shorter and darker of the two took the last bowl and stepped forward.

Lady Malora, I am required to remind you that, as his personal property, you must follow his orders.

Reflexively, her right hand went to her left palm and rubbed it nervously through the bandage.

I am no one’s property. I am a person. Tell your master to drop dead.

Very well.

He took the bowl and placed it on the floor inside her cell. Malora looked at him, surprised.

Did you not hear me?

I did.

Then, why am I being fed?

Lord Beagan’s orders. You will need what little strength it affords you.

A touch of fear entered her voice, though she kept it from showing in her face.

Is he increasing the sessions, again?

The guard’s expression softened slightly.

You have about an hour. I suggest that you rest while you can.

What else can I do, locked in here?

She moved toward the bowl. Only a few feet away, the guard stepped forward and lowered his voice.

Malora, please, just do as you are told. He will not hurt you, if you simply obey. You know how serious this is. Things are happening which make it even more so. Can it truly be worth what he is doing to you?

She lowered her voice to a whisper.

Santon, you have known me long enough. You should understand by now the kind of person I am. Lord Beagan is an evil man with evil plans. I can not aid him in this. Believe me, there are times I wish I could.

The young woman lifted the bowl and sniffed at its steaming contents. It was a weak broth. She could smell the few seasonings rising from it. There was also a hint of coldran, a medicinal herb. She knew that the guard had secretly added it for her, as he sometimes had in the past.

I appreciate your concern, Santon. Thank you . . . for everything.

The guard barely nodded, then turned and left the room, the man with the tray following closely behind. When the door closed, she took the bowl to the south wall, sat down and began to eat.

Half an hour later, the door opened again. This time, an old man in a blue wizard’s robe strolled in. He stood about five feet six inches tall, with dark skin, black hair and eyes of coal. He appeared confident, as would any man in his position. The moment he entered the prison, everyone could sense the presence of evil.

The old man, somewhere in his sixties, walked over and stood before Malora’s cell. Immediately, she stood and stared angrily at him.

What do you want?

There was a spark in the old, yellowing eyes.

That is not the proper way to address me.

Very well. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Lord of Evil? If you have come to make me listen to you order me to go against my conscience, I am afraid that I am unable to comply. I will not help you, now or ever. You are wasting your time.

His anger increased, but he kept his voice deadly calm.

No, it is you who are wasting it. I hope that you slept well. You will need all the energy you have for today’s session.

The wizard waved his hand and the two guards stepped back into the room.

Take her to the playroom.

Malora glared at him.

I was told that I had an hour.

You were misinformed.

Quickly, the guards unlocked the cell. Without waiting for them to retrieve her, Malora walked out and took her place between them. Then, slowly, all three filed out of the room.

She followed Santon down the dark, stuffy hallways, the other guard close behind her. After a while, she concentrated and sent out her thoughts.

‘Santon?’

The enchanter nearly missed a step when her voice suddenly sounded in his head.

‘Malora, . .’

‘Why do you stay here? You know what goes on in this place. You are better than this. You have a good future ahead of you, if you leave here, far from Lord Beagan.’

‘You know that is impossible. No one leaves the Pointe. The Master would have me tracked down and killed, as he does with all traitors. It is too late for me.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘You know, . .’ His thought was tender and warm, yet filled with regret. ‘I wish I could help you. I truly do.’

‘I know, my friend. You have done more for me than I ever could have asked, bringing me those healing herbs and potions behind Lord Beagan’s back. I know that it has been difficult for you.’

‘Malora, I wish that I could—’

‘Please, Santon, there is no need for that. Just be sure to watch your back. The longer this goes on, the more danger you will be in.’

‘I would do more, if I could.’

‘I know. I appreciate it. I also understand your position. I will hold nothing against you. You are the only one who even dares to speak to me, anymore. That means a lot.’

The man suddenly stopped before a large, metal door. Malora failed to notice, her eyes staring blankly at the floor. She bumped into him, throwing them off balance. Quickly, she reached out and helped to right them both. After a quick glare at her, he placed a key in the lock and opened it with a loud click. When he opened the door, Malora walked in, shoulders back and head high, showing far more confidence than she felt. The guards followed her in and sealed the door tightly behind them.

*

When she awoke, the young woman once again found herself on the cell floor. She was lying on her side, her head pounding, as it always did. The pieces of memory which came to her sent a chill down her spine. The old man had been furious, this time. He had not even bothered with the beating. He had used only his dark talent, causing pain she had never even thought possible. She was subjected to fire spells, drowning spells, even one which began in her feet and worked its way into her head that felt as though she was slowly being shredded alive. None of them caused any physical damage, but the damage they did to her mind was real enough. For three hours, he had tortured her, using his magic to keep her from falling into unconsciousness before he was ready to let her go. He had been unusually brutal.

When she thought about it, he had been building up to this for almost a week. True, she had pushed him, but it was more than that. She knew about the intruder running around, stealing and destroying things. That would explain the old wizard’s mood. With as vicious as he had been, she suspected that there was more happening than the gossip between the guards had told her.

Whatever it was, she had problems of her own to think about. There was no way that she was going to hold her own against the dark magician for longer than a few more weeks. If she were ever going to be rid of Beagan, she had only two choices. She could take her own life, or she could escape. Since the former was a last resort only, she had to go with her plan for escape.

Over time, she had thought about it, using several key opportunities to bring her closer to her goal. This last session with Beagan had afforded her an important one. Suddenly remembering, she reached up to the top portion of her braid. After a moment, she pulled out a large, metal key. Santon had never noticed her slip it from his pocket when she had bumped into him in the hallway. Hopefully, he would not notice its absence for a while. He might be her friend, but she was not naive enough to believe that he would go against his master on something like this, just for her.

Carefully, she pushed herself up and crawled over to the far corner of her cell. It took a moment of feeling around before she located the crack in the floor’s stones. With a little work, she pulled out a thin, silver bracelet. Together with the key, they were the two things she needed most.

After a short rest to allow the pounding in her head to recede, she stood up and looked around. It was the first time she noticed that the prison was empty. It left her with a cold feeling which reached deep inside her bones. Had she finally said something? She had to think hard. No, she had said nothing, as usual. It was still odd. Nothing like this had happened since she arrived, so long ago. Why would the old man decide to execute them all? And why now?

That settled it. She had to escape. Something big was happening. She could feel it. The sooner she left, the better. It took a few minutes to work the kinks out of her legs enough to walk around. When she was ready, she took the key and opened the lock. Before she stepped out, she slipped the bracelet over her left hand. The silver band shrank until it firmly hugged her wrist. She could feel an itch begin in her palm but she ignored it. Now that everything was in place, she had to hurry. Someone would notice this very soon.

Quickly, she ran to the east wall, constructed of rocks colored grey and blue. She counted three blue rocks from the left at a height of two and a half feet. When she pressed it, a small portion of the wall slid noiselessly aside. Immediately, she stepped through the opening, allowing the wall to slide back, and headed north.

As she walked through the dimly lit passage, she kept track of where she was by the colors of the stones. This part of the system was not very familiar to her, but she knew enough to be able to find her way out.

A few minutes later, she found a split in the system and turned left. She had only gone a few yards when someone stepped into the intersection ahead and stood facing her. She took a few more steps and stopped.

Santon stood there, his arms at his sides. In his right hand, Malora could see the glint of a knife blade.

Do you intend to use that on me? she asked calmly.

This is my post.

That does not answer my question.

Malora, please, do not do this. Turn around and go another way. Do not involve me.

There is no other way. You know that.

The man’s expression was grim.

You know what he will do to me if I allow you to escape.

Malora smiled.

Especially since I used your key to do it.

She moved forward slowly, holding out the key, until she was within arm’s reach of him. When she spoke, her voice was low and deadly.

Santon, one way or another, I am leaving here. If I have to go through another session, I will tell Lord Beagan everything I know. Do you understand?

The enchanter’s face grew angry.

What if I decide to simply kill you?

That is the only way to stop me. However, do you really believe that your master would be pleased by that choice? I am far too valuable to him. We both know that.

He seemed to consider for a moment.

I could wound you and call for the healer later. That would help my case with Lord Beagan. When you tell him what you know, I will lose my position, but not my life.

Malora took one more step forward and looked the man directly in the eyes.

I see. Well, before you do that, I suggest you take back your key. After all, I have no wish to see you get into any more trouble than you already are, my friend.

Slowly, she reached out to give him the key, touching the skin of his hand. As she did, she could sense the imminent attack he was planning. The moment she realized that, she sent a shock through him. Instantly, the guard slumped to the ground. She reached down and placed her hand against his cheek.

I am sorry, Santon. When Lord Beagan has you scanned, this is what you will remember.

Carefully, she planted a picture in his mind. When the old man tested him, it would appear as a real memory. Santon would receive a reprimand, but his life should be safe. When she was done, she stood and headed off again.

*

Her escape route took her to the southern exit, into the courtyard. Luckily, it was evening, so no one was there to see her as she ran across the grounds to the tall hedges that surrounded the guild. They were designed to keep the townspeople from wandering onto the guild’s property. Malora ran as fast as she could and dove head first through the thinnest portion she could find. She was unaware that they had been thorn bushes, but by the time she realized it, she was already committed, being halfway through already. She could only forge ahead.

Ignoring the small pains and the blood beginning to trickle from her cuts, she quickly made her way to the dark alleys. Though she had never been outside within the city, she had secretly studied maps. She knew the street and alley systems almost as well as she knew her way around Dagger’s Pointe. Silently, she thanked herself for bothering to study them. It got her to the great wall which surrounded Bakaw.

The moment she reached it, she could hear the alarm sounding from the guild. They knew that she was gone and were alerting the townspeople that a prisoner had escaped. Quickly but carefully, she made her way up the wall, using the large cracks between the rocks as hand and foot holds. Going up was relatively easy. However, when she reached the top and looked down, her confidence fled. It had seemed a shorter distance from the bottom.

There was nothing she could do. She had come this far. She had no intention of allowing this to be the reason she was captured. A bit warily, she lowered herself over the side and hung there as she steadied herself. Then, before she could change her mind, she let herself drop. She misjudged the distance to the bottom and twisted her ankle, but it was not serious enough to stop her. As fast as she could, she limped through the thick forest which covered the northern portion of Metar.

No sooner had she started, when a shout could be heard from behind. One of the citizens had spotted her. That meant that the guards would not be far behind. Immediately, she began to run through the trees and lush undergrowth as fast as her injured ankle could take her. The darkness was as much a curse as a blessing. Every few dozen yards, her foot would catch on some vine or shrub. About every third trip sent her sprawling on the ground. Every time she fell, it seemed to take more energy to get back up again.

Less than half a mile from the wall, she felt the first wave hit her. Her head began to spin, rocking her slightly. Lord Beagan was using his own magic to locate her. Even with the mark on her hand suppressed, she was certain that he would eventually do it. Summoning what energy she could, she kept moving, though not as quickly as she would have liked.

An arrow suddenly struck the tree beside her, sending her skittering off in another direction. Obviously, the guards were faster than she, if they were already within shooting range. Instinctively, she ducked low and headed off in a zigzag pattern. It gave them a smaller and less predictable target to chase. After a few minutes Malora slowed her pace, more because of her injuries than anything else.

Another wave hit her. This time, it was strong enough to knock her to the ground, her head spinning furiously. A few moments later, a sharp pain exploded in her left shoulder. There was no need to look. She knew what had happened. One of the guards had finally found his mark.

So close, she thought. If only she had been given more time to prepare. Unfortunately, that was not to be. Soon, her head began to fog. They had used a poison to subdue her, perhaps even kill her, though she doubted that.

She tried desperately to rise, but her body refused to obey. It felt as though gravity had increased below her. No matter how hard she tried, she was unable to fight it. As she looked around, she realized that it was too late. She was surrounded.

2

Nearly half a mile away, a young man lie on the forest floor, asleep. A thick, black wool cloak covered him, sheltering him from the night chill. Beside him was a black, leather pack, stuffed full and bulging, He would have preferred to travel light, but his intuition had nagged him until he had given in. Whenever it spoke that loudly, he always listened. It had never failed him yet.

In his dreams, he had been chasing a wild bird. For what seemed like hours, he had followed it through forest and marsh. Occasionally, it seemed to taunt him with a low, mocking screech. Finally, it had led him to its nesting ground. It was a huge, sheer cliff face, the rock bright white in the afternoon sun. Slowly he scanned it, looking for some way to climb up to the nest resting securely in a small crevasse. Then, suddenly, he became aware of a sound coming to him from far away. It was as if someone had rung a huge crystal bell, releasing sound waves which ran through him. For a moment, it stopped him cold. That was not part of the dream. It had come from outside. The realization pulled him sharply from his sleep.

It was the middle of the night. That was not what he had hoped. What he needed was rest. Unfortunately, that was no longer possible. Something odd had happened, making him tense and alert. Unless he found out what it was, there would be no more sleep for him tonight. Reluctantly, he stood up and stretched. The chill in the air was somewhat refreshing, helping to motivate him to move. At least it was a good night for travel, he noted. Perhaps it would even prove interesting.

Quickly, he lifted his pack, threw it over his shoulder and headed north. Though he could not be certain, it seemed like the most probable direction, since he was camped just south of Bakaw. Through the darkness he walked, with little trouble picking his way amongst the underbrush. His movements were precise, his manner easy and casual. It was something which came naturally to him. It made people relax in his presence, making them feel more at ease. His physical appearance added to the affect. Light brown hair with streaks of blonde was cut short, and not always with care. It was seen rumpled as often as combed, depending on what suited his needs or whims at any given moment. His skin, smooth and virtually unblemished, was tanned to a golden brown. It accented well the modest yet carefully maintained physique. At five and a half feet tall, his one hundred thirty pounds were deceptive. His muscles were trained for both speed and power, though the former was practiced more than the latter. After all, speed was often essential to his chosen profession. Only quick thieves lived to be old thieves.

His most striking feature, however, was his eyes. They were a deep, crystal blue which automatically drew a person’s gaze to them. He knew the importance of eye contact. Even the best of gamblers sometimes showed their thoughts in them, if you knew how to look. He could not even begin to count the number of times he had gained the advantage over his opponents that way.

At a good, steady pace, it only took him about five minutes to reach the sight of the disturbance. Of all the things which he had gone through in his mind, none of them came close to the scene before him. There were six bodies, five men forming a circle around one woman. Blood and small pieces of flesh littered the ground. He could only assume that they came from the two headless bodies he saw. The remaining people had various amounts of blood running from eyes, noses and ears. All were dead but the woman, though she would be if she did not receive treatment soon. When he checked, her pulse was weak, her breathing shallow and labored, and she had lost far too much blood. The thief doubted that she would make it until dawn.

Quickly, he took stock of the situation. Obviously, she was an escaped prisoner, probably a runaway slave. Here in Metar, slavery was widely practiced, especially within Bakaw, Metar’s largest city. The bandage on her left hand would be hiding her mark. The bracelet would suppress the signal the mark tried to send out, preventing her owner from tracking her. The guards must have found and cornered her. Then, someone had cast a spell in an attempt to kill her, with no regard for the men surrounding her. They must have somewhat shielded her from the effects. All of this seemed quite plain.

The real mystery was why someone would sacrifice five men to kill one simple woman. This was definitely the work of a mid- to high-level magician. Surely, they could have accomplished more with less effort. For a man with this much power to go this far . . .

He had to act fast. There was no telling who would be on their way. Looking around, he decided that there was only one thing he could do. He checked the arrow embedded in the woman’s shoulder. The blood had clotted, stopping the flow. Better for now, he decided, to leave it in. As for her heartbeat and breathing, there was nothing he could do about them, yet. He had to hope that she could hold on until they were safely away.

Careful not to jostle her too much, he reached beneath her and picked her up. She seemed light, under one hundred pounds on a frame only a few inches over five feet tall. That would allow him to move at a faster pace than he had thought.

After a last look around, he headed south. At least, he decided, this was turning out to be interesting.

3

High within a tower at Dagger’s Pointe, an old man stood at a window, staring down at the sleeping town below. It looked so safe and peaceful from there, but the old man knew better. This town was always dangerous, day or night. Only the form it took changed.

He was inside his private quarters, once again unable to sleep. Only a few more weeks and it would all be over. He would not have to think about it anymore. For far too long, it had taken too much of his time. True, he was partially responsible, but there was hardly anything he could do, now. He could only expose himself and others to danger, or keep quiet. The answer was obvious.

He walked over, sat behind a small desk in one corner of the room and stared absently at the plain wooden chair across from him. Normally, he could be just as cold and professional as the next man, able to do whatever the situation required, no matter how unpleasant. This, however, was a bit different.

A gentle tapping at his door shook him from his brooding. He signalled for them to enter, knowing that no one would dare interrupt him at this time of night if it were not important. The door opened and Lord Beagan stepped inside. The differences between the two men were striking. The one behind the desk was light skinned, with long white hair and soft grey eyes which still held a touch of warmth to them, in those rare, unguarded moments. His visitor was six inches shorter and almost ten pounds heavier, though they were both roughly the same age.

The only thing on which they visibly appeared the same were their magician’s robes. They were both wizard blue, though slightly different shades.

Wizard Beagan turned toward the desk and bowed.

My Lord, I apologize for the intrusion.

You have news?

Yes, sir. I am afraid that I do.

When he looked up, he saw how nervous Beagan was.

I take it that I am not going to like what you are about to tell me.

That is why I decided to do this myself. It is about the girl.

The man’s expression turned dark.

Of course, it is, he said.

Sir, she has somehow managed to escape.

What? There was genuine surprise in his voice. Are you certain?

Yes, sir. Five guards followed her into the woods. By the time we located them, all of the guards were dead. Malora was nowhere to be found.

I see. Is that all the information you have?

At this point in time, sir, I am afraid it is.

The old man stood and moved back to the window. Things were going badly. He had expected trouble, but not quite like this. Whatever else she might be, she was only one young woman. How in the world could she be such a handful?

He shook his head in disgust. Every time Malora did something, his options dwindled. If they had simply acted when all of this started . . . ‘Might have been’ would do nothing to change the situation. Without turning, he spoke to Beagan, a touch of sadness in his voice.

Put every available man on it. I want her found by dawn, is that clear?

Yes, sir. What do you want done, once we find her?

Again, there was a pause. The answer, though difficult, was obvious.

She is not to be approached. We can not risk another incident. Anyone who finds her is to act immediately.

Sir, you mean . . ?

Yes, Beagan. She is to be killed on sight.

4

The thief placed his bundle of dead wood on the pile he had already gathered. For three days he had made his way south, carrying the unconscious woman by day, stopping at night to rest and tend her wounds. Everything seemed to be healing well, but she still gave no sign of waking any time soon.

The first night, he spent most of his time trying to clean and bandage everything. The arrow wound had needed a few stitches. The head had made it cleanly through, doing no serious damage. The difficulty had come when he realized that the tip had been poisoned. He could only guess which poison had been used. Since the poncot fruit was abundant in this area, he assumed that it had been used here. Luckily, he seemed to have been correct. Poncot poisoning was a nasty death, slowly causing the body to rot from the inside out. If the antidote were not administered within twenty three hours, there was nothing which could be done, even though it often took seven to ten days for its victims to die. To his credit, the thief had kept a small vial of the antitoxin in his collection of herbs. It was only one of the ingredients he often carried with him in his travels. After all, when he spent so much time away from the cities, he had only himself to rely upon. If the medicines were not close by, he could very well die before he could reach a healer. Always be prepared. To him, those were not just three simple words. They were a way of life.

The lash marks which covered the woman’s back had been a mess. The blood had dried, sealing the fabric to her flesh. It had taken over an hour to soak the cloth enough to pull away without causing more damage. The cuts were in different states of healing, or in some cases, infection. He started to count them but gave up. There were just too many. Some were deeper than others, at different angles. Apparently, they had been given over a period of time, on at least four different occasions. Among them were faint scars which told him that this treatment was anything but new to her. Whenever she had received them, the cure was simple. All they needed were a basic healing salve, clean bandages and time.

Most of what was left were minor cuts and splinters. Though relatively easy to remove, the tiny splinters were hard to spot, making the job slow. He was, however, able to identify them as codan bush thorns. Luckily for the woman, they were not toxic.

Her left hand was what intrigued him the most. When he removed the bandage and washed away the dirt, he examined the palm closely. As he had expected, she had been branded with a possession mark, by the look of it, quite a while ago. A large circle surrounded a pentagram, showing her to be the personal property of a magician. Undoubtedly, it was the same man responsible for her current condition. There was, however, something unusual about the mark. In the center, where her owner’s name-sign should be, the skin was unharmed. Normally, the sign would have been placed there at the same time as the rest. He would have to question her about it when she regained consciousness.

If she regained consciousness, he reminded himself. She had given no sign of doing so since he had found her. Her breathing became smooth and even, her heartbeat strong and steady. Those were good signs, but no guarantee. It was beginning to concern him. Perhaps there had been more damage than he had thought. Maybe he had somehow missed something. True, he knew a great deal more about the healing arts than almost anyone else not doing it for a living, but the fact was that he was not a professional healer. Everything he could risk doing for her had been done. All he could do now was wait.

The young man placed more wood on the fire and went to sit beside his patient. For the third time that evening, he examined her. Nothing had changed. If only he could think of something else to do! It was frustrating to sit there waiting for a sign, unable to do anything about the situation. He preferred being in control, knowing that things were working according to a plan.

A soft breeze blew by, giving him a slight chill. He had removed his cloak to free up his movements while he gathered wood. The blue cotton shirt he wore was light and thin, bound at the waist by a black cotton sash which matched his pants. That was fine during the day, but it afforded little warmth at night. Only his feet, snug inside soft, black leather boots, were warm.

Not that it bothered him much. He barely even noticed, having become accustomed to being outdoors. His concern was for the woman. Her robe was useless by the time he finished cleaning her wounds. It had been necessary to give her the extra set of clothes he carried with him. They matched his, with the exception of the black slippers she wore on her feet. Those were her only possessions which he had been able to save. Everything was a bit large on her, having been tailored to fit him. Perhaps later he would be able to find her something more appropriate. For now, this would have to do.

Carefully, he covered her with a thin blanket to protect her from the cold. As his cloak was warm, it was usually all he brought with him. Being a little more than two weeks until the annual summer celebrations, it was more than enough. Again, his intuition had told him to pack the blanket. It seemed foolish at the time, but he had done it.

The moment the cloth touched her, the young woman gave a soft moan. The thief bent down closely to study her. Her face was pale, but a touch of red was beginning to spread through her cheeks. Slowly, she pulled her knees toward her chest and lie there in a ball on her side. For several moments, she remained still and quiet. Then her eyelids twitched once, twice, and suddenly opened. Dark brown eyes searched the area, though they were clouded and not yet able to focus. They worked their way sluggishly to the young man’s face.

He smiled down at her.

Welcome back, he said gently. I was afraid that you might never wake.

For a while, she simply stared at him. When she spoke, her voice was weak.

Who are you?

My name is Pickard. I was on my way to Bakaw when I happened to find you. How do you feel?

I . . . feel terrible.

But can you feel everything? Your fingers? Your legs?

Yes. It all hurts.

What about your head? Does it hurt too?

My head is pounding.

Good. If you can feel it, it is still there. I can give you something to help ease the pain after I am certain that your mind is alright. Can you tell me who you are?

She hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously as her vision cleared. She was unable to detect anything from him other than genuine concern for her welfare.

My name is Malora.

I see. Tell me, what is the last thing you remember before you woke up here?

I . . . I do not know.

She could see in his eyes that he knew she was lying.

Just try, he urged her. I know that it is difficult, but it is important. You were the only one alive when I found you. I have to know what happened so I can treat you properly. If not, you could suffer permanent damage. So, please, relax and try to remember what happened. Your life could depend on it.

He expected an answer. Her problem was that she was unsure of what to tell him. Somehow, she had to give him enough information without giving too much. There was a very thin line between the two, barely enough to support her. Quickly, she searched through her memories, organizing a cohesive story.

I remember running through the trees. I was struck by an arrow. They surrounded me and . . . The rest is nothing but clouds and lights in my head.

Do you remember who you were running from, and why?

Yes . . . but I can not tell you.

Why not?

Because it is too dangerous.

For me to know, or for you to tell me?

Both.

Her voice was deadly serious. Fine, Pickard thought. He could wait. She was suspicious of him. Admittedly, she had every right to be. He was simply a stranger to her, his intentions unknown. What she needed was time to become comfortable with him. Patience, he told himself. After all, putting people at ease was one of his specialties.

Very well. You seem to be doing fine. I will make that potion, now.

The young man stood and walked to the fire, grabbing his pack as he passed it. From inside he took a small wooden cup and a dark blue pouch. Setting aside the pack and cup, he opened the pouch and sorted through its contents. Everything he needed was there; liquids and powders stored in a variety of containers, from glass vials to small, drawstring pouches to tiny, wooden bottles. It was an impressive collection of over fifty substances, several of them so rare they were priceless. Few people even knew that he had them.

He selected one of the smaller vials and held it up to the light. Inside was a thick, brown liquid, the consistency of tree sap, which, in fact, it was. This, however, was a very special kind.

He removed the cork and carefully measured out four small drops, allowing them to fall into the cup. Then, he filled it with tea from a small pot hanging over the fire. After placing his medicines back inside the pack, he took the potion to Malora and knelt beside her.

Can you sit?

I think so.

With her right arm, she slowly pushed herself up. The change in position aggravated the pounding in her head, but eventually, she adjusted. Pickard held the cup out to her. After a moment, she took it.

What is this?

"You don’t want to know. It is an interesting little healing potion I happen to know about. I have used it several times myself. It is the best, most powerful one I have ever come across. There are, however, a few things you should know before you drink it.

First, I will guarantee that this is the worst concoction you have ever tasted. Do not let that bother you. It is supposed to be that way. Second, the moment it reaches your stomach, you will feel dizzy. It will be easier if you are lying down before it gets too bad. That is about it, except that you must drink it all, or it will do you no good. I know it is easier said than done, but it is important.

Warily, she lifted the cup and sniffed at its contents. At first, all she could smell was the strong scent of mint. Then slowly, she became aware of a faint touch of something else, something familiar. She concentrated on it until, finally, she recognized a smell like toasted cinnamon. Her face paled as she looked at the cup. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped.

Pickard studied her closely.

Are you alright?

Immediately, she steadied herself, working hard to appear as if nothing were wrong. That had been a bad move, allowing herself to slip like that. Keep your guard up, she chided herself. You are not safe yet!

I . . . think so. Mint tea was never really my favorite. Again, she sniffed at the potion and forced herself to smile. However, beggars can not be choosers, can they?

There was nothing she could do. If she refused to drink, she would have to explain why. That was a discussion she was far from ready to get into. If she did drink it . . . The very thought was frightening, yet it was the only choice she had.

Fighting every instinct in her body, she forced her hand to bring the cup to her lips. With a deep breath, she tipped it, allowing the warm, bitter liquid to flow into her mouth. Her throat tightened and her stomach threatened to send it all back, but her will forced them to comply with her demands. When the last drop had been drained, she closed her eyes and allowed her hand to fall slowly to her lap.

Pickard watched her closely as the potion went to work. The initial wave washed through her, but she handled it well. Her body swayed slightly from side to side as her brain attempted to compensate for the new messages it was receiving. Knowing how much he had given her, the thief was suitably impressed by the way she adjusted to it.

As the potion ran through her, the two sat in silence. Her muscles slowly relaxed and her mind began to wander. With some difficulty, she opened her eyes and stared absently into the fire.

Malora, can you hear me? The young man kept his voice soft and low.

I can. She seemed distant, yet slightly aware of her surroundings.

How do you feel, now?

Calm.

That’s good, very good. I’d like you to answer a few questions.

No.

Her reply surprised him.

Why not?

Because . . . I can not tell you what you want to know.

You don’t even know what I was going to ask you.

Yes . . . I do. She turned slowly, until their eyes met. For a while, she actually seemed to be focused on him. "Pickard, you have been very kind to me. I owe you my life. For that reason, I will give you this warning. I am a very dangerous person to be near. Those guards you found with me were not the first men to die because of me. I have powerful enemies who will not stop searching until I am found, dead or alive. If you value your life, you will be on your way. Do not mention my name. Deny that you have ever seen me. If you can, avoid Bakaw entirely, at least for a while.

This is all of the information I can give you. I know it is not what you wanted, but it is more than I should have said. I can only hope that you will listen.

Once again, her eyes clouded and moved back to the flames.

Pickard sat there silently analyzing what she had said. His senses told him that every word had been true, at least she believed they were. Her tone had been serious, enough so that most people would have taken her advice. For the young thief, however, it only served to make him more curious. He knew some of what was going on in Bakaw, but his instincts told him that he could no longer risk continuing on until he understood what she meant.

There had to be a way to get her to tell him. It still amazed him that she had not. The potion he gave her, while