Altered Destiny (2 page)

An honest woman. Out here?
She stared at her mother’s image. That phrase had always angered her. Brynn had been the most honest woman Selia knew. She remembered the look in her mother’s eyes when she’d lead a man down the hall to her room. “Go play with Oren, Selia. Mama will be back soon.” She felt no shame then, and felt none now. Her mother did what she had to do. Brynn had been a genteel woman, led from her homeland by the promise of love and left in the night with no skills and no money when her lover proved false. Selia had the tavern, and with it, a way to make money without using her body.

After returning the picture, she pulled her nightclothes around her and moved past the bed to the room’s only window.

Her mother gave birth to her in this very room twenty years ago. She refused to bear her child in the bed in which the baby was conceived. Brynn hadn’t told her that, but Gabrel, Oren’s father, had before he died. When Gabrel left the tavern and Oren to Brynn, it surprised everyone and seemed to confirm the long-standing rumor that they had been lovers. She knew it wasn’t true.

Much to the relief of the village women, as soon as she’d taken over the tavern, Brynn declared it a tavern only. The soldiers had complained for a while, and some still did. There were few women willing to live this close to the Wastes, but her mother stood firm. And as Oren grew, no one dared to challenge her.

Selia stood at the window. Half a dozen campfires blazed in the field behind her house. One by one they winked out until only one remained.

These soldiers hunted a band of Svistra. She didn’t know much about the race living in the northern mountains except rumors, and rumors couldn’t be trusted. She supposed it was in the job description to be paranoid, but she wished the soldiers had kept their damn mouths shut. Nothing ever came of the rumors, and she’d never heard of a band this far south, but business would still suffer when word got out.

Selia scanned the dark forest beyond the meadow then moved to her bed, making sure a knife lay under her pillow and her sword within reach. Before she climbed into bed, she bent to blow out the candle.

A coyote yipped in the distance, a lonely mournful sound. An icy shiver traced her spine. What if the rumors were true this time? Selia rolled over and stared out the black frame of the window. “You’re letting your imagination get away from you,” she muttered. Svistra out there or not, she’d be on her guard. You didn’t live long in the Outskirts if you weren’t. But even after she closed her eyes, the “what if” wouldn’t leave her.

When lightning arced overhead, Keldar spared a glance toward the bleached night sky. It would rain soon and douse the fires he’d set in the last village. His horse effortlessly jumped over a small ravine. Not that it would do the humans any good. The rain would only wet the corpses and speed their return to the earth.

In the distance, another horse ran through the forest. He tensed. His stallion twitched back his ears as though waiting for a command.
Ready for more, Arfaltel?
But the sound didn’t carry the jangle of metal that betrayed a human’s mount. Must be one of his.

Tinlor’s orders had been clear: attack the village, burn it to the ground, then split up and leave the humans a dozen trails to follow. An easy task. The average Svistra was a far better tracker than the best human.

Keldar slowed Arfaltel as he neared the meeting place, a clearing surrounded by dense, tall pines. Something wasn’t right. He slowed the horse further as his nostrils widened. Blood. He scented the air again. Svistra blood.

Cursing, he dismounted, Arfaltel trailing behind him. The stallion was well trained; he’d follow his master into an ambush and fight alongside him. But this didn’t feel like an ambush. Just…wrong. He drew his sword as he carefully placed his feet. The coppery tang of blood, living and dead, grew stronger.

In the gloom ahead, motionless shapes littered the ground. Keldar didn’t need to look closer: three humans and one Svistra. The Svistra was dead, and the humans soon would be.

The creak of leather sounded nearby. Keldar whirled, blade ready. Tinlor lay half-propped against a gnarled trunk, one hand clutching his bloodied tunic, the other his unsheathed sword.

“Father—” Keldar rushed to his side, fell on his knees and tore what remained of Tinlor’s leather vest aside.

Tinlor’s face remained impassive, but his pale, golden eyes revealed his pain. “Humans.” The whisper bubbled out of Tinlor’s lips, like he spoke through water.

Keldar swallowed past his anger and rising panic. “I will get you to a healer.”

“No. Listen.” Tinlor grabbed the back of Keldar’s head with surprising strength and forced him close. “They caught his scent. Jaden is in the forest south of the White Lands. We must find him.”

Keldar did it without thought. One moment, there was the pain of his father’s words; the next, he stared at his knife’s hilt buried in Tinlor’s body, feeling the same shocked surprise reflected in his father’s face.
What have I done?
Anger and pain mixed as Jaden’s name still rang in his ears.

Tinlor’s eyes dulled and closed for the final time. Keldar retrieved the knife, realizing he was no longer alone. He straightened and turned, daring the three Svistra standing before him to speak. The Blind Weaver was with him. His men, those most loyal, had reached the clearing first.

Deliberately, Keldar wiped his knife and tucked it in the sheath under his sleeve. “He was growing weak. The Svistra need strength.”

His men stared at him for a heartbeat that stretched into infinity until Ledid stepped forward—quickly followed by Dain and Hadar—and touched hand to breast. “Hail, Commander. How may we serve?”

Selia stretched out under the trees, peering through her eyelashes to check the sun’s position before she closed her eyes, lulled by the sound of babbling water. She loved the smell of the air after a rainstorm. Which was just as well; the Outskirts seemed to have more than its share of them.

Reaching out for the comfort of her bow, she wiggled a bit and adjusted the thick layer of leaves to better suit her shape. In the week since Nathan’s soldiers left the area, the Svistra rumors had died down, but she still hadn’t slept well.

A bird chirped close by, followed by an answering chorus. The stream gurgled, engorged by the rains, and the small yellow flowers peppering its banks added their scent to the air. Selia smiled. This was one of the few streams that didn’t stray close to the Wastes so, even when heavy rains flooded the land, the water stayed sweet.

A plop downstream deepened her smile. It was also the only stream with frogs. Frogs meant frog’s eggs, and frog’s eggs meant fish. She opened one eye to peek at her rods leaning over the water, but none of them showed any sign of strain. It was only a matter of time. And today she had plenty. Oren was at the tavern with Martha for company. The old woman had shown up on her doorstep shortly after Brynn died, claiming she was tired of her husband complaining about the tavern’s food. Selia had handed over the chore with thanks and the loss of a little coin. It was worth it. She didn’t enjoy burnt stew or half-baked bread any more than her customers, and Martha excelled at feeding a tavern full of men.

Breathing deep, she inhaled the faint smell of blood then reached for a leather-wrapped possum she’d just retrieved from one of her traps. It was for tomorrow’s stew and although possum wasn’t her favorite meat, she couldn’t choose what became ensnared in her traps; that was the Trickster’s prerogative. The fish, if she ever caught any, were for her and Oren: a delicacy not to be shared.

From the steady buzz, the possum had already attracted a few flies. Her brow wrinkled. Flies were a minor pest. The scent of blood drew nastier predators. Though thick forest separated the tavern and the Wastes, it was a mere two days’ walk away. A short distance from the bar, the change in the land became strongly apparent. Trees grew stunted, and the forest animals were strange and often mad. Only a few of them had made their way to the tavern, but enough to keep her wary.

Occasionally a storm would stir up white dust, turning the sunrise a hazy shade of scarlet and reminding everyone what lay just over the horizon. Once, she’d wandered farther east than usual and seen a doe and her fawn in a glade. The fawn had five legs—the normal four and a stunted fifth growing at an angle from its hind quarters. It paid to be careful.

Only the dark priests journeyed east. A sect of the men worshiping the dark god lived just southwest of the tavern and often passed by on their way to meditate near the Wastes. Selia thought they were as mad as the creatures that made their way inland from the border. The Wastes were one of the Nameless god’s six great mysteries. The dark priests believed if they could understand each, when they crossed over into the sixth and last mystery—death—the dark god would welcome them into his bosom.

Reluctantly, she stood and wiped dirt and leaves from her leggings before straightening her tunic. She’d tied the bag of arrows to her belt and strapped her sword in place when an overburdened pole creaked.

Gotcha!

Whistling softly, Selia strode up a hill toward the tavern. A wet bundle slung over her back kept company with the leather-wrapped possum. Once the fish had decided to bite, they did a thorough job of it. She’d pulled one from every line, a few as long as her forearm. She’d be glad to hand the smelly burden to Martha.

It was later than she’d like to be out. But the moon was waxing, and Oren could take care of the early customers. It wouldn’t get rowdy until a couple of hours after dark.

Without breaking stride, she retrieved an arrow from the bag at her waist, nocked it against the bowstring and quickened her pace.

She’d caught sight of a steady stream of smoke from the tavern’s chimney when she heard the thud of flesh hitting flesh. Selia sped to a trot, the damp bags slapping uncomfortably against her back. After a bend, just before the trail opened into a meadow behind her tavern, three men stood around a prone fourth. At intervals, one of the three would kick the man or pick up his limp body for one of his companions to punch.

Thieves. She hated them. Before she registered the action, she’d shrugged off her catch, raised her bow and let the arrow fly, followed quickly by half a dozen others. All three thieves fell.

The surrounding forest remained quiet. If the bastards had lookouts, they were poor ones. She waited, listening, to make sure there would be no surprises, before hurrying toward the four shapes lying on the path ahead.

Her first arrow had pierced the neck of the closest thief; the second must have gone wide. Three arrows protruded from the next man’s chest, at least one finding his heart. The last thief groaned.
Damn
. Her aim always arced down. One arrow had nicked him along his side, the other burrowed into his stomach.

Unsheathing her knife, Selia slashed across his throat to put him out of his misery. Not even a thief deserved the long, slow death of a stomach wound.

The fourth body didn’t move.

“And who are you?” she mumbled to herself.

The man lay curled up on his side, long dark hair covering most of his face. Not a local. She bent toward him then jerked back when he moaned. He was alive.

The quality of his clothing was apparent, in spite of the dirt and blood marring the fabric, and his boots were of fine, sewn leather. Not a trader. A merchant? But not one from a neighboring village. His face was a mess, eyes swollen shut and lips caked with blood. She had to get him to the tavern to examine his wounds. She and Oren were the closest thing the village had to healers.

“You’re safe now. I’ll go get help.”

His lips moved. She froze. Even with the face swollen, his cheekbones appeared too sharp, the jaw too angular and the skin under the blood and dirt pale. Too pale. She gasped and jumped back, tripping over one of the dead thieves and falling on her backside.

A Svistra? Here?

She stood and nocked another arrow with shaking hands. Ironic that she’d have to finish what the thieves started. She aimed at the motionless form and then hesitated. It didn’t make sense. The man hadn’t fought back. From everything she’d heard about them, one Svistra could easily handle twice that many men. Maybe she was mistaken.

She took a step closer. The man turned his head. With obvious effort, he lifted a hand. His lips moved again.

She shook her head. Why was she so afraid? Svistra or human, he wasn’t in any condition to hurt her.

“Water. Please?”

Selia blinked.
Please?
That was too much. The rumors had gotten to her. A polite Svistra was a contradiction of terms.
What if it’s a trick? What if he wants to get me closer so he can attack?

A burst of air that almost sounded like a laugh escaped her mouth.
Yeah, he set the whole thing up and found three men to beat the shit out of him so he could lure me in closer to help him, just to attack me.

She set down her bow, reached under the man’s head and dripped water into his mouth. When she pulled the skin away, he reached up and gently grasped her wrist then let it go.

“Thank you.” His eyes fluttered open then closed.

Her breath caught. There was something wrong about the shape of his eyes.
He can’t be a
…her brain wouldn’t let her finish. Slanted eyes? Lots of people had those. Pale skin? He was wounded…

Selia mentally shook herself. “Wait here,” she said then snorted. He was hardly going anywhere. She ran back, retrieved the fish and the possum then returned to the man. He hadn’t moved. Was she really going to do this?

The noise from the tavern warned Selia it would be a busy night. That was ironic at best.
What if he’s only the first of a planned attack
? A smirk turned her mouth. So much for the fabled warriors. If they were all that tough, she’d have no problem turning them away. But it wasn’t a Svistra attack. There was only one, maybe. Once she got him in the barn, she was sure she’d find out he was only a man—a badly wounded one. The soldiers’ paranoia must be catching.

She stepped in through the back door to lay the fish and possum on the kitchen counter, fielding a reproving glance from Martha. Selia had washed up outside, but she still stunk of blood, fish and sweat.

Before the door swung closed behind her, she caught Martha’s complaints about the possum.

Voices blended into a loud murmur with only the occasional word distinct. Hazy air, redolent of the fresh yeasty scent of ale, tobacco and the acrid scent of men mixed with the faint odor of linseed oil. Home. But the welcoming sense of peace the combination usually brought her was absent. Lanterns blazed against the wall, warming the wood and revealing men in various stages of drunkenness. No soldiers. She whispered a hurried prayer thanking the gods before stepping up to the counter. A few locals yelled out a greeting and she nodded, waiting for Oren to look her way.

The barkeep turned and smiled. Then, with his uncanny ability to know when something bothered her, he frowned. Oren wove through the tables toward the bar. “Was getting a mite worried.”

“Sorry, Oren. Unexpected developments.”

Oren squinted. “You been huntin’?”

“Are there any overnighters?”

Oren shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Good. I’ve…I need you to do something. Go down the path toward the stream—”

“Did you find another wounded animal?”

“Something like that. At the head of the path, you’ll find a wounded man.” She hated the way her tongue stuttered over “man.”

He can’t be a Svistra. Oh, but he is.
“Take him to the barn and then lock it up. Don’t let anyone see you.”

Oren looked confused for a moment, then smiled as he pulled out a large key. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared into the kitchen. Oren could lift the wounded man alone, but she itched to go with him. She turned to face the crowded room. Someone had to stay at the tavern.

She’d finished serving newcomers when Oren walked back into the room, his dark eyes shadowed by drawn brows. He chewed on the outside of his thumb, a sure sign he was thinking hard. Selia made her way toward where he’d rested his forearms against the counter and casually leaned on her elbows back against the other side, her eyes still scanning the room, but her head near Oren’s.

“Do you know what we have out there?” His words were slow, deliberate.

Ice froze her limbs. Oren had seen it too. Could they both be wrong?
No.
“Yes. I do.”

“And it’s safe?”

“Safe enough right now.” She turned to look at him.