help!”
“Stay back!” came an answering command. But I paid no mind to such a silly order. The man could not fight this alone; he could not fight this at all.
“Move!” I screamed. “I know how to stop them!” I was tearing at the knot on my sodden cloak, grabbing its deep hood to use as a pail and scooping the moonwater. I dragged the cloak to the shore, to the shadows, close to where I thought the hooves stamped.
“Move,”
I screamed again, and heaved the cloak at the blackness.
The exploding swarm knocked me back into the deep. I sputtered, fought my way up. The creature they’d formed had shattered like glass, dissipating in a thousand directions. My hand hit my broom-spear, which bobbed in the pond; I grabbed it, hurled it on shore, then yanked my satchel from around my neck and threw the sopping thing to the silhouetted man. “Get off your horse!” I pushed my streaming hair from my eyes and pointed at the satchel, spluttering indistinct directions: “Grab the cinder stone from it! They’ll regather. I can hold them, but you have to start a fire—the spear will catch. They hate direct light!”
He didn’t answer. There was no time to. The regrouped wisps came shooting at us like an arrow. I dove under, kicking hands and feet, splashing moonwater at the swarm. It was a blur of motion. I was shouting, the horse neighing, the wisps buzzing, and then—
And then there was a burst of light and a final hiss of wisps. I lay in the shallows, dragging deep breaths, staring up at the sky, where the moon spilled silver over the edge of marsh, the pond, and across the horse and rider who stood on shore by a burning pile of moss and cloth. Sweat frothed at the horse’s jaw; his neck glistened in the firelight. The man in silhouette pulled the reins over the head of the horse and released the bit and bridle. He leaned heavily for an extra moment against the horse. Then the horse made his way to the water. The man made his way to me.
The battle had taken its toll. He aimed straight but his gait was unsteady. His breath shuddered.
And I? My breath shuddered as well. For as the man neared, the moonlight erased the shadows one by one, opening his features. I saw hair curling darkly and eyes of clear blue.
I struggled upright, stood ankle-deep and dripping wet. The man stopped at the lip of the pond, made an effort to grin. “You…are…a difficult…girl…to find….”
And then the Rider Laurent pitched forward and fell facedown in the shallows at my feet.
HAIR DARK AS a raven’s, falling in waves from crown to jaw. Face tanned and smooth-polished. A sweep of brow and thick lash covering those blue eyes. He was as tall as he’d looked that fateful day astride his horse.
I watched Laurent sleep off his exhaustion.
The wisps were gone. Vanished, as if they’d simply been some dream. I’d dragged the Rider out of the water and laid him on the mossy bank. I’d ripped reeds from the marsh, gathered pinecones, and built up the fire. I’d unlaced his shirt, removed it, and hung it on a stick to dry near the flames. And I’d gone to the horse—huge and black and heaving steam from his nostrils—and wiped down his flanks with my sodden cloak, checking for wounds. Superficial, those scratches the steed bore; I’d healed enough ponies to know this horse was not hurt, just worn out. They’d ridden hard.
Difficult to find,
he’d said. Lark said it as well in the Insight spell:
Laurent must find her.
The Rider had come on purpose.
I’d gone back to him then and used the cloth that was tied to his belt to wash the blood and dirt from his cuts. I’d never been embarrassed or squeamish about a man’s body. ’Twas healing work, simple and straightforward, and I’d swear I focused only on the beads of red crisscrossing the Rider’s arms and chest. But even so, I stopped often and walked away to reclaim my breath, as if it was I who was overtaxed. I was keenly aware too that I both lingered and rushed,
“Stay back!” came an answering command. But I paid no mind to such a silly order. The man could not fight this alone; he could not fight this at all.
“Move!” I screamed. “I know how to stop them!” I was tearing at the knot on my sodden cloak, grabbing its deep hood to use as a pail and scooping the moonwater. I dragged the cloak to the shore, to the shadows, close to where I thought the hooves stamped.
“Move,”
I screamed again, and heaved the cloak at the blackness.
The exploding swarm knocked me back into the deep. I sputtered, fought my way up. The creature they’d formed had shattered like glass, dissipating in a thousand directions. My hand hit my broom-spear, which bobbed in the pond; I grabbed it, hurled it on shore, then yanked my satchel from around my neck and threw the sopping thing to the silhouetted man. “Get off your horse!” I pushed my streaming hair from my eyes and pointed at the satchel, spluttering indistinct directions: “Grab the cinder stone from it! They’ll regather. I can hold them, but you have to start a fire—the spear will catch. They hate direct light!”
He didn’t answer. There was no time to. The regrouped wisps came shooting at us like an arrow. I dove under, kicking hands and feet, splashing moonwater at the swarm. It was a blur of motion. I was shouting, the horse neighing, the wisps buzzing, and then—
And then there was a burst of light and a final hiss of wisps. I lay in the shallows, dragging deep breaths, staring up at the sky, where the moon spilled silver over the edge of marsh, the pond, and across the horse and rider who stood on shore by a burning pile of moss and cloth. Sweat frothed at the horse’s jaw; his neck glistened in the firelight. The man in silhouette pulled the reins over the head of the horse and released the bit and bridle. He leaned heavily for an extra moment against the horse. Then the horse made his way to the water. The man made his way to me.
The battle had taken its toll. He aimed straight but his gait was unsteady. His breath shuddered.
And I? My breath shuddered as well. For as the man neared, the moonlight erased the shadows one by one, opening his features. I saw hair curling darkly and eyes of clear blue.
I struggled upright, stood ankle-deep and dripping wet. The man stopped at the lip of the pond, made an effort to grin. “You…are…a difficult…girl…to find….”
And then the Rider Laurent pitched forward and fell facedown in the shallows at my feet.
HAIR DARK AS a raven’s, falling in waves from crown to jaw. Face tanned and smooth-polished. A sweep of brow and thick lash covering those blue eyes. He was as tall as he’d looked that fateful day astride his horse.
I watched Laurent sleep off his exhaustion.
The wisps were gone. Vanished, as if they’d simply been some dream. I’d dragged the Rider out of the water and laid him on the mossy bank. I’d ripped reeds from the marsh, gathered pinecones, and built up the fire. I’d unlaced his shirt, removed it, and hung it on a stick to dry near the flames. And I’d gone to the horse—huge and black and heaving steam from his nostrils—and wiped down his flanks with my sodden cloak, checking for wounds. Superficial, those scratches the steed bore; I’d healed enough ponies to know this horse was not hurt, just worn out. They’d ridden hard.
Difficult to find,
he’d said. Lark said it as well in the Insight spell:
Laurent must find her.
The Rider had come on purpose.
I’d gone back to him then and used the cloth that was tied to his belt to wash the blood and dirt from his cuts. I’d never been embarrassed or squeamish about a man’s body. ’Twas healing work, simple and straightforward, and I’d swear I focused only on the beads of red crisscrossing the Rider’s arms and chest. But even so, I stopped often and walked away to reclaim my breath, as if it was I who was overtaxed. I was keenly aware too that I both lingered and rushed,
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