Firebird - Softcover
In the fantastic land of Markovy east of Europe, in the Iron Wood filled with werewolves and other unpleasant creatures, in the house of the dreaded Bone Witch, lives a young orphan girl named Aria. Her life is changed forever when a foreign knight, Sir Roye de Roye, enters the forest pursued by enemies, carrying with him the most precious artifact of the kingdom, the egg of the Firebird. Aria saves him and falls in love with him, and it becomes her mission in life to restore the egg to the firebird's nest. And so she and her knight set out on a wonderful quest, filled with spectacle, romance, and hair's-breadth escapes, to save the land and find a life together.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
R. GARCIA Y ROBERTSON lives in Mt. Vernon, WA.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Chapter One
Prince Sergey and the Witch-Girl
Once upon a time, deep in the north woods that circle the world, a witch-girl gathered fungus for the Bone Witch’s supper, when she heard the fire jay call her name. “Ahrr-ee-haa, ahrr-ee-haa, ahrr-ee-haa . . .”
Brushing tangled black hair from sea-green eyes, Aria searched for the bird, seeing only tall pine trunks and blue bars of sky. Somewhere in her teens, Aria knew neither her age nor her birthday, but was otherwise quick-witted, as well as lithe and strong from living in the woods. Her strange name was given her by her mother, and it meant “song” in the forbidden language of the opera. Aria called back to the fire jay, “Here I am, silly bird. Come tell what you see.”
She listened. Insects hummed in hot pine-scented air. Farther off, Aria heard a woodpecker knocking. Her bright homespun dress had the red-orange firebird embroidered on the bodice, done in silk from Black Cathay and the Barbary cloth called crimson. Aria had stitched it herself on sunless winter days, sitting by the Bone Witch’s cold hearth with just the sleeping rats to warm her bare toes.
Now that she was fully grown, Aria never feared the woods by daylight. Leopards, troll-bears, lycanthropes, and forest sprites lurked among the trees, waiting to make a meal of the unwary. But by day, the boreal woods had a hundred eyes alert for any suspicious movement. No lynx or leopard could stir a foot without birds calling and squirrels chattering. All Aria need do was listen.
Night was another matter. But the Bone Witch never let Aria out at night. Nor could she leave the hut without her slave collar and protective rune, showing she was valuable property. Each morning, the Bone Witch made Aria repeat her invisibility spell, saying, “I have not raised you to feed a hungry troll-bear. Not when you are finally becoming useful.”
Aria did not argue, though she had found every moment of her short life thoroughly useful—no matter what others might think. She began as a girl-child thrown away in time of civil war and famine, but she had lived to become a prized slave of the Bone Witch. Survival taught Aria to make the best of today, for tomorrow was often worse, and not to shit where she meant to sleep, and never to tell the truth unless under duress. Most of all, it taught her to trust to her luck, which had saved her when hundreds of girls like her were taken by the Killer of Children. Lady Death had ample chance to find her, yet Aria was happily gathering fungus in the forest, making her think the Killer of Children had spared her for something special.
At puberty she was given to the Bone Witch for two handfuls of salt and a cattle pox cure. Her foster family figured they were doing everyone a favor. “The witch can better provide for you. We are poor,” the father informed her—as if Aria had not noticed, sleeping between the hearth and the hogs, “while you are stubborn and willful.”
His wife hastily agreed. “Making you obey is like trying to teach a cat to fetch.” Had Aria been a boy, it would have been different, but she was a girl, naturally wanton, unruly, frivolous, and amoral, a growing threat to their son’s virtue. They were duty-bound to keep her chaste and ignorant, then give her to some man in marriage—a dead loss to the family. Better by far to give her to the Bone Witch.
Only their lazy son objected. Not the least threatened, he wanted Aria around. Without her, who would do his chores? Who would he spy on in the bath? He had promised to rape her when they got bigger.
Aria herself had said nothing. Raised as a slave to serfs, she retained a stubborn sense of self-worth that regularly got her whipped. People called her changeling and worse, with her pert ways and wicked green eyes—a girl switched at birth for a defiant demon-child. Bundling up her straw doll and wooden spoon, she took a seat in the father’s cart, and they lurched off, crossing the Dys at Byeli Zamak, headed for the Iron Wood. All she could think was that she was to become a witch-girl. And witches were burned.
That was years ago, and she had not been burnt—not yet. By now Aria had spent half her life in the woods, and she knew which mushrooms were food, and which were for flights of fancy, what berries were sweet, and which herbs cured, and which ones killed. Having nothing of her own, Aria happily appropriated all of nature. These were her trees, her flowers, her birds and beasts in the branches above. Every screech and cry in the foliage spoke to her. When it was safe, she spoke back.
“Aarr-ee-haa, aar-ee-ha, aar-ee-ha . . .” The call came closer. Like her, the fire jay was a curious soul, and could be coaxed with low, soft calls. Nothing could happen in his woods without him telling the world about it.
Picking up her bark basket, Aria set out after the sound, fording a shallow stream to enter a fern-choked glade ringed by stands of slim silver birch. Birches loved the light and fought to fill any sort of clearing. At the far end of the glade was a pond frequented by red deer and herons, and on the bare bank Aria saw pugmarks.
She knelt amid the bracken, feeling the tracks, finding the claw prints worn and splayed with age. Three nights ago, after the rain when the moon was full, an old female leopard came from the same direction she had, stopped to drink, and then headed up the ridge, aiming for the thickly wooded crest separating the woods from the settled lands beyond. Any leopard with business beyond the ridge could easily be a stock thief or man-eater.
Not a cat Aria cared to meet. Stomach tensing, she looked about. Mossy patches shone like polished jade. The protective rune on her armlet shielded Aria from magic—but not from fang or claw. Straightening up, she set out again, keeping the breeze at her back. Leopards did not know humans have no sense of smell, and so they never stalked from upwind—she need only worry about what lay ahead. These were her woods. Let some old leopard scare her, and she would never go out at all.
“Arr-ee-ah, arr-ee-ah . . .” She spotted a flash of orange among the pine trunks. The bird awaited her at the crest of the ridge.
And not just the fire jay, but a fire as well. Black oily smoke billowed from beyond the ridge crest, smearing the clear blue sky. Hairs rose at the nape of Aria’s neck. She had not smelled the smoke, because the wind was behind her—but she knew where it came from. Byeli Zamak was burning.
Topping the ridge, Aria stared in awe. This was as far as the slave collar let her go. Below her the forest ended, and rolling steppe spread out from the foot of the ridge, broken by loops of river, dark patches of fallow, and the onion domes of village churches. Between her and the plowlands, guarding the fords of the Dys, stood a round white-stone tower seven stories tall, with walls twenty feet thick—Byeli Zamak, the White Castle. Smoke poured from the tower. Aria pictured the inferno inside, fed by grain and oil stored in the basement, burning up through the wooden floors, feeding on gilt furniture, Barbary tapestries, Italian paintings, and canopied beds. A cornerstone of Aria’s world was consumed in flames.
She came from these settled lands. Somewhere out there, Aria had been born. Somewhere out there, her family was slaughtered—for the black earth beyond the woods was sown with bones and watered by blood. Constant strife consumed her family, and almost made an end to her. She had begged in those villages, and slept in the painted doorways of those churches, waking to find crows and ravens hoping to make a meal of her.
When she was given to the Bone Witch, all that changed. Her slave collar kept her penned in the woods—where the worst she need fear was leopards and troll-bears. Even when old King Demitri died, Byeli Zamak remained, towering over the fords of the Dys—the gatehouse to the Iron Wood. King Demitri and gold-domed Markov were the stuff of faerie tales, but Byeli Zamak was a solid part of Aria’s landscape, built by earth giants from native stone. And now it burned. Her first thought was to tell the Bone Witch.
“Arr-ee-aah . . . ,” the fire jay called again, this time from right overhead. Looking up, she saw the flame-colored jay perched on the limb of a tall larch, scoffing and chuckling. Clown prince of the bird clan, the fire-orange jay was a wicked trickster, a merciless nest-robber and accomplished mimic. Aria had heard him perfectly imitate the screaming whistle of a hawk, just to see what havoc he could wreak.
“Is this what you saw?” Aria tilted her head toward the inferno below. How like a jay to revel in someone else’s misfortune. He squawked back at her, this time giving the man call. Jays greeted every predator with a different call, since warnings were useless if you did not know whether to look out for a leopard or a hawk. The man call was totally distinct—jays never used it for her or the Bone Witch.
Hearing brush rattle, Aria turned to see a roe deer bound up the slope and disappear over the ridge. Something alarming was coming, startling enough to flush a doe from cover. The fire jay flew off, still making the man call.
From below came the weighty clump of slow hoofbeats climbing the ridge. A horse was coming up from the fords, carrying something heavy and clanking. Aria whispered her invisibility spell. So long as she remained still and silent, no one could see her. Or so the Bone Witch said. So far, it had never failed.
Aria watched the armored rider top the ridge. Bareheaded, he rode slumped forward, eyes half-shut, his soot-stained blue-and-white surcoat covering fire-blackened steel—a dark-haired man-at-arms, maybe even a knight, just managing to stay atop a big gray charger. Her heart went out to him. He looked so hurt and handsome, his long elegant eyelashes wet with tears. Bloody clots in his fashionable pudding-basin haircut dripped red streaks past proud cheekbones. His beardless face made him look young, marking him as a foreigner. Or a eunuch.
Here was her storm petrel, strong and beautiful, but a sure sign of the whirlwind to come. So long as Byeli Zamak had held for the King, only unarmed serfs crossed the fords into the forest, to gather sticks and snare squirrels, stripping bark for their shoes and stealing honey from the bees. On May Day they came singing, their arms full of flowers, celebrating the return of spring, slipping off in pairs to make love upon the forest floor—while Aria watched, invisible and intrigued. In summer the forest rang with their axes—the nearest thing they had to weapons. It was a flogging offense for a serf to have a bow, or a boar spear. Death to be caught with a sword.
But this stranger had a huge sword slung across his back, and his torn surcoat bore the embattled blue bend of the King’s horse guards. His crested helm hung from his saddle bow, alongside an ugly sawtooth war ax, topped by a wicked spike. Hunched forward, he carried something heavy in the crook of his shield arm, wrapped in silk embroidery, tucked against his armored breast. She stood stock-still, letting him rattle past, just out of reach.
When he had gotten far enough ahead of her, she set off after him, slipping silently from tree to tree, following the birdcalls down the ridge and onto the forest floor. Tiny red flecks of blood shone on green fern fronds, marking his trail for her.
Now the breeze was full in her face, which Aria did not like. A leopard could come up behind her, stalking her as easily as she trailed this knight. Worse yet, the breeze brought the foul scent of a troll-bear’s lair, faint but growing stronger. The rotting-corpse smell of discarded carcasses mixed with the rank odor of the troll-bear’s droppings was unmistakable, like smelling a long-dead lizard on a hot day. Only the image of the knight’s hurt face and elegant curved lips kept her going.
She caught up with her knight beneath a cool coppice of oaks. Leaves rustled like water overhead, and the rattle of armor had ceased—but the smell of horse droppings, and a nervous whinny, warned her she was getting too close. Sinking to all fours, she wriggled through the undergrowth, curious to see why he had stopped. Had he smelled the troll-bear?
Her knight had dismounted. Kneeling in the bracken, he attacked the ground with a big saxe knife, digging a hole in the dark earth. She watched patiently. When he had dug down the length of his arm, he sheathed the knife and picked up an embroidered bundle from the ground beside him. Gently he lowered the bundle into the hole. It had to be something precious from the way he handled it. A gold icon perhaps. Or a great crystal goblet. Or a dead baby.
He covered over the hole, hiding his work with fallen leaves. Then he looked up, straight at her, sensing he was watched. Aria stayed still as a fawn, and the spell held.
Drained by the simple act of digging, her knight heaved himself back onto his horse, no mean feat in plate and mail. Then he lurched off upwind, headed for the troll-bear’s lair. Unless Aria did something, the troll-bear would savage both horse and rider, cracking her knight’s armor like a badger breaking open a snail.
When the carrion odor got unbearable, his horse stopped again, refusing to go on. Aria waited for her knight to turn or dismount, but he stayed slumped in his saddle, eyes closed, his handsome gray mount nervously cropping the bracken.
Warning calls died away, and the woods grew still. A good sign. Either the troll-bear was gorged senseless, or away from the den.
Shrugging off her spell, Aria stepped out from between the trees, walking warily toward her knight. His horse saw her first, snorting and shying. Speaking softly, she reached out and took the reins. “Have no fear. I will take you to good grass and water.”
Her knight opened his eyes, which were blue and alert. He smiled at her, saying, “Mon Dieu, I am dead.” He did not look very dead, clinging stubbornly to his saddle. “And here is an angel to bear me to Heaven.”
“I am no angel,” she told him. She was a witch-child—willful, disobedient, and hopelessly damned.
His smile widened. “Then a forest sprite, young and beautiful. The perfect Valkyrie for a vagabond.” He spoke with a funny foreign accent, but his tone told her he was friendly. Gently turning the tired horse’s head, she led him slowly downwind, away from the troll-bear’s lair. Her knight swayed alarmingly in the saddle. “Fair nymph,” he called down to her. “Where are you taking us?”
Aria grinned over her shoulder. “To water.” He was by far the most marvelous thing she had ever found in the woods, and she wanted to see him with his face washed.
After leading the horse back to the base of the ridge—to where a spring burst from beneath tall triangular rocks—she helped her knight dismount. Sitting him down, Aria wet a cloth and wiped his wincing face, noting he cleaned up very nicely. His handsome, beardless face felt firm and manly, yet smooth to the touch. His head wound was bloody,...
Prince Sergey and the Witch-Girl
Once upon a time, deep in the north woods that circle the world, a witch-girl gathered fungus for the Bone Witch’s supper, when she heard the fire jay call her name. “Ahrr-ee-haa, ahrr-ee-haa, ahrr-ee-haa . . .”
Brushing tangled black hair from sea-green eyes, Aria searched for the bird, seeing only tall pine trunks and blue bars of sky. Somewhere in her teens, Aria knew neither her age nor her birthday, but was otherwise quick-witted, as well as lithe and strong from living in the woods. Her strange name was given her by her mother, and it meant “song” in the forbidden language of the opera. Aria called back to the fire jay, “Here I am, silly bird. Come tell what you see.”
She listened. Insects hummed in hot pine-scented air. Farther off, Aria heard a woodpecker knocking. Her bright homespun dress had the red-orange firebird embroidered on the bodice, done in silk from Black Cathay and the Barbary cloth called crimson. Aria had stitched it herself on sunless winter days, sitting by the Bone Witch’s cold hearth with just the sleeping rats to warm her bare toes.
Now that she was fully grown, Aria never feared the woods by daylight. Leopards, troll-bears, lycanthropes, and forest sprites lurked among the trees, waiting to make a meal of the unwary. But by day, the boreal woods had a hundred eyes alert for any suspicious movement. No lynx or leopard could stir a foot without birds calling and squirrels chattering. All Aria need do was listen.
Night was another matter. But the Bone Witch never let Aria out at night. Nor could she leave the hut without her slave collar and protective rune, showing she was valuable property. Each morning, the Bone Witch made Aria repeat her invisibility spell, saying, “I have not raised you to feed a hungry troll-bear. Not when you are finally becoming useful.”
Aria did not argue, though she had found every moment of her short life thoroughly useful—no matter what others might think. She began as a girl-child thrown away in time of civil war and famine, but she had lived to become a prized slave of the Bone Witch. Survival taught Aria to make the best of today, for tomorrow was often worse, and not to shit where she meant to sleep, and never to tell the truth unless under duress. Most of all, it taught her to trust to her luck, which had saved her when hundreds of girls like her were taken by the Killer of Children. Lady Death had ample chance to find her, yet Aria was happily gathering fungus in the forest, making her think the Killer of Children had spared her for something special.
At puberty she was given to the Bone Witch for two handfuls of salt and a cattle pox cure. Her foster family figured they were doing everyone a favor. “The witch can better provide for you. We are poor,” the father informed her—as if Aria had not noticed, sleeping between the hearth and the hogs, “while you are stubborn and willful.”
His wife hastily agreed. “Making you obey is like trying to teach a cat to fetch.” Had Aria been a boy, it would have been different, but she was a girl, naturally wanton, unruly, frivolous, and amoral, a growing threat to their son’s virtue. They were duty-bound to keep her chaste and ignorant, then give her to some man in marriage—a dead loss to the family. Better by far to give her to the Bone Witch.
Only their lazy son objected. Not the least threatened, he wanted Aria around. Without her, who would do his chores? Who would he spy on in the bath? He had promised to rape her when they got bigger.
Aria herself had said nothing. Raised as a slave to serfs, she retained a stubborn sense of self-worth that regularly got her whipped. People called her changeling and worse, with her pert ways and wicked green eyes—a girl switched at birth for a defiant demon-child. Bundling up her straw doll and wooden spoon, she took a seat in the father’s cart, and they lurched off, crossing the Dys at Byeli Zamak, headed for the Iron Wood. All she could think was that she was to become a witch-girl. And witches were burned.
That was years ago, and she had not been burnt—not yet. By now Aria had spent half her life in the woods, and she knew which mushrooms were food, and which were for flights of fancy, what berries were sweet, and which herbs cured, and which ones killed. Having nothing of her own, Aria happily appropriated all of nature. These were her trees, her flowers, her birds and beasts in the branches above. Every screech and cry in the foliage spoke to her. When it was safe, she spoke back.
“Aarr-ee-haa, aar-ee-ha, aar-ee-ha . . .” The call came closer. Like her, the fire jay was a curious soul, and could be coaxed with low, soft calls. Nothing could happen in his woods without him telling the world about it.
Picking up her bark basket, Aria set out after the sound, fording a shallow stream to enter a fern-choked glade ringed by stands of slim silver birch. Birches loved the light and fought to fill any sort of clearing. At the far end of the glade was a pond frequented by red deer and herons, and on the bare bank Aria saw pugmarks.
She knelt amid the bracken, feeling the tracks, finding the claw prints worn and splayed with age. Three nights ago, after the rain when the moon was full, an old female leopard came from the same direction she had, stopped to drink, and then headed up the ridge, aiming for the thickly wooded crest separating the woods from the settled lands beyond. Any leopard with business beyond the ridge could easily be a stock thief or man-eater.
Not a cat Aria cared to meet. Stomach tensing, she looked about. Mossy patches shone like polished jade. The protective rune on her armlet shielded Aria from magic—but not from fang or claw. Straightening up, she set out again, keeping the breeze at her back. Leopards did not know humans have no sense of smell, and so they never stalked from upwind—she need only worry about what lay ahead. These were her woods. Let some old leopard scare her, and she would never go out at all.
“Arr-ee-ah, arr-ee-ah . . .” She spotted a flash of orange among the pine trunks. The bird awaited her at the crest of the ridge.
And not just the fire jay, but a fire as well. Black oily smoke billowed from beyond the ridge crest, smearing the clear blue sky. Hairs rose at the nape of Aria’s neck. She had not smelled the smoke, because the wind was behind her—but she knew where it came from. Byeli Zamak was burning.
Topping the ridge, Aria stared in awe. This was as far as the slave collar let her go. Below her the forest ended, and rolling steppe spread out from the foot of the ridge, broken by loops of river, dark patches of fallow, and the onion domes of village churches. Between her and the plowlands, guarding the fords of the Dys, stood a round white-stone tower seven stories tall, with walls twenty feet thick—Byeli Zamak, the White Castle. Smoke poured from the tower. Aria pictured the inferno inside, fed by grain and oil stored in the basement, burning up through the wooden floors, feeding on gilt furniture, Barbary tapestries, Italian paintings, and canopied beds. A cornerstone of Aria’s world was consumed in flames.
She came from these settled lands. Somewhere out there, Aria had been born. Somewhere out there, her family was slaughtered—for the black earth beyond the woods was sown with bones and watered by blood. Constant strife consumed her family, and almost made an end to her. She had begged in those villages, and slept in the painted doorways of those churches, waking to find crows and ravens hoping to make a meal of her.
When she was given to the Bone Witch, all that changed. Her slave collar kept her penned in the woods—where the worst she need fear was leopards and troll-bears. Even when old King Demitri died, Byeli Zamak remained, towering over the fords of the Dys—the gatehouse to the Iron Wood. King Demitri and gold-domed Markov were the stuff of faerie tales, but Byeli Zamak was a solid part of Aria’s landscape, built by earth giants from native stone. And now it burned. Her first thought was to tell the Bone Witch.
“Arr-ee-aah . . . ,” the fire jay called again, this time from right overhead. Looking up, she saw the flame-colored jay perched on the limb of a tall larch, scoffing and chuckling. Clown prince of the bird clan, the fire-orange jay was a wicked trickster, a merciless nest-robber and accomplished mimic. Aria had heard him perfectly imitate the screaming whistle of a hawk, just to see what havoc he could wreak.
“Is this what you saw?” Aria tilted her head toward the inferno below. How like a jay to revel in someone else’s misfortune. He squawked back at her, this time giving the man call. Jays greeted every predator with a different call, since warnings were useless if you did not know whether to look out for a leopard or a hawk. The man call was totally distinct—jays never used it for her or the Bone Witch.
Hearing brush rattle, Aria turned to see a roe deer bound up the slope and disappear over the ridge. Something alarming was coming, startling enough to flush a doe from cover. The fire jay flew off, still making the man call.
From below came the weighty clump of slow hoofbeats climbing the ridge. A horse was coming up from the fords, carrying something heavy and clanking. Aria whispered her invisibility spell. So long as she remained still and silent, no one could see her. Or so the Bone Witch said. So far, it had never failed.
Aria watched the armored rider top the ridge. Bareheaded, he rode slumped forward, eyes half-shut, his soot-stained blue-and-white surcoat covering fire-blackened steel—a dark-haired man-at-arms, maybe even a knight, just managing to stay atop a big gray charger. Her heart went out to him. He looked so hurt and handsome, his long elegant eyelashes wet with tears. Bloody clots in his fashionable pudding-basin haircut dripped red streaks past proud cheekbones. His beardless face made him look young, marking him as a foreigner. Or a eunuch.
Here was her storm petrel, strong and beautiful, but a sure sign of the whirlwind to come. So long as Byeli Zamak had held for the King, only unarmed serfs crossed the fords into the forest, to gather sticks and snare squirrels, stripping bark for their shoes and stealing honey from the bees. On May Day they came singing, their arms full of flowers, celebrating the return of spring, slipping off in pairs to make love upon the forest floor—while Aria watched, invisible and intrigued. In summer the forest rang with their axes—the nearest thing they had to weapons. It was a flogging offense for a serf to have a bow, or a boar spear. Death to be caught with a sword.
But this stranger had a huge sword slung across his back, and his torn surcoat bore the embattled blue bend of the King’s horse guards. His crested helm hung from his saddle bow, alongside an ugly sawtooth war ax, topped by a wicked spike. Hunched forward, he carried something heavy in the crook of his shield arm, wrapped in silk embroidery, tucked against his armored breast. She stood stock-still, letting him rattle past, just out of reach.
When he had gotten far enough ahead of her, she set off after him, slipping silently from tree to tree, following the birdcalls down the ridge and onto the forest floor. Tiny red flecks of blood shone on green fern fronds, marking his trail for her.
Now the breeze was full in her face, which Aria did not like. A leopard could come up behind her, stalking her as easily as she trailed this knight. Worse yet, the breeze brought the foul scent of a troll-bear’s lair, faint but growing stronger. The rotting-corpse smell of discarded carcasses mixed with the rank odor of the troll-bear’s droppings was unmistakable, like smelling a long-dead lizard on a hot day. Only the image of the knight’s hurt face and elegant curved lips kept her going.
She caught up with her knight beneath a cool coppice of oaks. Leaves rustled like water overhead, and the rattle of armor had ceased—but the smell of horse droppings, and a nervous whinny, warned her she was getting too close. Sinking to all fours, she wriggled through the undergrowth, curious to see why he had stopped. Had he smelled the troll-bear?
Her knight had dismounted. Kneeling in the bracken, he attacked the ground with a big saxe knife, digging a hole in the dark earth. She watched patiently. When he had dug down the length of his arm, he sheathed the knife and picked up an embroidered bundle from the ground beside him. Gently he lowered the bundle into the hole. It had to be something precious from the way he handled it. A gold icon perhaps. Or a great crystal goblet. Or a dead baby.
He covered over the hole, hiding his work with fallen leaves. Then he looked up, straight at her, sensing he was watched. Aria stayed still as a fawn, and the spell held.
Drained by the simple act of digging, her knight heaved himself back onto his horse, no mean feat in plate and mail. Then he lurched off upwind, headed for the troll-bear’s lair. Unless Aria did something, the troll-bear would savage both horse and rider, cracking her knight’s armor like a badger breaking open a snail.
When the carrion odor got unbearable, his horse stopped again, refusing to go on. Aria waited for her knight to turn or dismount, but he stayed slumped in his saddle, eyes closed, his handsome gray mount nervously cropping the bracken.
Warning calls died away, and the woods grew still. A good sign. Either the troll-bear was gorged senseless, or away from the den.
Shrugging off her spell, Aria stepped out from between the trees, walking warily toward her knight. His horse saw her first, snorting and shying. Speaking softly, she reached out and took the reins. “Have no fear. I will take you to good grass and water.”
Her knight opened his eyes, which were blue and alert. He smiled at her, saying, “Mon Dieu, I am dead.” He did not look very dead, clinging stubbornly to his saddle. “And here is an angel to bear me to Heaven.”
“I am no angel,” she told him. She was a witch-child—willful, disobedient, and hopelessly damned.
His smile widened. “Then a forest sprite, young and beautiful. The perfect Valkyrie for a vagabond.” He spoke with a funny foreign accent, but his tone told her he was friendly. Gently turning the tired horse’s head, she led him slowly downwind, away from the troll-bear’s lair. Her knight swayed alarmingly in the saddle. “Fair nymph,” he called down to her. “Where are you taking us?”
Aria grinned over her shoulder. “To water.” He was by far the most marvelous thing she had ever found in the woods, and she wanted to see him with his face washed.
After leading the horse back to the base of the ridge—to where a spring burst from beneath tall triangular rocks—she helped her knight dismount. Sitting him down, Aria wet a cloth and wiped his wincing face, noting he cleaned up very nicely. His handsome, beardless face felt firm and manly, yet smooth to the touch. His head wound was bloody,...
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- PublisherTor Fantasy
- Publication date2007
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