“Please! I feel it. Can you? Can you feel the warning?”
“A little further!”
“We were warned! We do not know how far…”
He looked back, his face a scowl of anger. “Enough! I have heard you. You are nearly blinding me with your thoughts, your fear. Master them! They are not coming from you. These fears come from the sheriff. He is close. He is very close. Somehow he put them inside you. He is plaguing you with them, even now. I will not let him hurt you. Now have faith in me. I know what I am doing. There is a safe path, just ahead. Trust me.”
Again the thought of Almaguer struck her mind. His sword plunging into her chest. Glowing silver eyes. Was it just a dream? A dream, not a vision? Or was it? Should she tell him? Would her mock her again? She squeezed her eyes shut, burying her face in the back of his shirt, clutching him so hard she hoped he would scream. If only she were back at Muirwood, safe in Pasqua’s kitchen. She needed someone to hold her, to soothe her, to tell her it would be all right. When she had terrible nightmares, she always knew that Pasqua would come in the morning, and that it would be all right again. Even Sowe’s presence was a comfort. No matter how a midwinter storm howled, it would be all right.
In her mind, she thought, Dear Pasqua, I never told you how much I needed you. How safe you made me feel as a child. There was her scolding, her pinching, her exasperated airs. But more than anyone else, Lia needed her. Someone who would comfort her and kiss her forehead and speak in whispers.
Somehow she knew that she could never get that from Colvin.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR:
Hunted
It was a high-pitched yowling sound, like the rusty hinges of a gate closing. It came from the night, from the unseen expanse of gullies and ravines, and it went right up Lia’s spine.
“What was that?” she whispered, clutching her knees.
“I have no idea,” Colvin answered, nestling back against the saddle in exhaustion. He hung his head with fatigue, rubbing his eyes on the back of his arm.
“A wolf?” she asked.
He sighed. “If I thought it was a wolf, I would have said that it sounded like a wolf.” His voice was straining with impatience.
“What if it comes here? What if it stumbles on us during the night and decides to eat us?” She hated herself for asking the question. It sounded like something Sowe would whimper.
He rubbed his leg. “It may be a bird. A marsh owl of some sort. I am more worried about being devoured by bats.”
“Bats?”
“Have you not seen them flitting about at night? There are so many insects here, they must feast like kings.” He rose ponderously after a brief rest and then withdrew his sword. After flexing his arms and loosening his neck, he proceeded with drills with the blade, slicing through the air with a whisper of steel and a hiss of breath. She watched him practice, not secretly as she had when spying him with the broom in the kitchen. The memory alone caused another pang of regret. She watched him, quietly, patiently. Not disturbing him until he was finished.
“You practice for Winterrowd,” Lia said, watching the blade seat snugly into the sheath fastened to his belt.
“I must,” he answered, mopping sweat from his face on his tunic sleeve.
“Why?”
“Because mastery of any skill comes that way. If I hope to defeat a man who has more training and experience than me, then I best drill and drill and drill harder than that man.” He paced restlessly, chafing his hands together. “It also helps me stay awake. I have never felt this tired in my life. My patience is little more than dust when I am tired.”
“I will take the first watch,” she offered. “I am not that tired.”
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“Very. I do not care about being tired. You get used to it. But the kitchen was warm. It was always warm.” Again, a stab of pain went through her heart. She leaned forward, hugging her knees.
He snorted. “Given you summon fire so easily, I would not doubt that you were warm enough. It makes sense that the Aldermaston assigned you to the kitchen. It suits your gifts and passionate disposition. But I would fancy a bread oven right now myself. It is wet and cold in the Bearden Muir.” He said it as a truth, not as a complaint.
Lia hugged her knees tighter, grateful she had a cloak, for Colvin lacked one. It was no use asking if he was cold. In the moonlight, she could see his breath.
He turned suddenly and crouched down near her. “I just remembered something my Aldermaston taught. It just came to me. Let me see if I can phrase it properly without my tome.” He paused, thinking, then said, “Inasmuch as you strip yourselves from jealousies and fears, and humble yourselves before the Medium, for you are not sufficiently humble, the veil over your eyes shall be torn and you will see.”