Ghost's Sight (7 page)

Chapter 6

The day dawned fine and clear. Gerry rose with the first light, drawing water to set to boil outside the wash-house. He took a smaller kettle inside the house, stoking the hearth fire, letting that water heat for tea and porridge. He was lightheaded with excitement, knowing full well that he was going to make a formal offer when he got to the Witch’s house. He had spent the night dreaming only of Ghost, remembering those beautiful, pale eyes looking up at him with trust and desire.

Even Gerry’s annoyance at Conn’s behavior had faded. Gerry reminded himself to apologize to Conn later. It was understandable that Conn would be on edge, worried about what would happen when Gerry moved on. Gerry resolved to try and work with the younger man, to teach Conn some of the skills the kid had so diligently avoided learning. Gerry had not missed the hurt in Conn’s eyes when Mother referred to Ghost’s skills, even if it had been Mother who had always let Conn slide.

Back in his room, Gerry opened the wooden chest where he kept his things, taking out a fine pair of breeches, creamy runner hide that was almost white. He had a woven tunic to wear with them, in a shade of green that was only a little darker than the peridot spiral that graced Ghost’s forehead. Gerry grinned as he looked at it, wondering if Ghost would notice. It was coincidence, of course, but Gerry thought it was a good sign.

Washed and dressed, Gerry went into the kitchen to find Mother already there, getting out the cups for tea while porridge cooked on the hearth.

“You look properly formal,” Mother said, examining Gerry. “You’ve decided, then.”

Gerry nodded. “It feels right. I’ve been thinking about the alpha thing for a while, but until Ghost, I didn’t really have any urge to act on it. Now, I just want to be with him, and look after him. It’s not a passing fancy, either. I want to know all about him, what he was like as a child, the things that make him smile or laugh, the things that make him sad.”

The young hunter stopped abruptly, seeing Mother’s smile. It was a rare thing, that particular smile, wide open and enough to make Mother look years younger. It was also enough to raise the heat in Gerry’s cheeks.

“I sound like an idiot, don’t I?” Gerry asked, reaching for the bowls for the porridge.

“You sound like me when I was younger.” Mother poured hot water into the teapot, releasing the fragrant aroma of the tea leaves. “I asked my first dependent all those same questions. Most of us strike out on our own because we’ve found someone. Lone alphas like the Witch are rare. We alphas need dependents to give us purpose, I suppose.”

Gerry dished out porridge for himself and for Mother. “She has Ghost.”

“He’s not truly a dependent, or so she insists.” Mother shrugged. “Then again, in all the years I’ve known her, she’s never had a dependent or a formal apprentice although Ghost isn’t her first companion. I think she simply dislikes the word, to be very honest with you.”

“Or she thinks he does,” Gerry said, his expression thoughtful. “Either way, I intend to offer her compensation. Do you think a hand of sind is too much?”

Mother poured the tea for them both, hesitating over the third cup before putting the teapot down firmly without pouring. “I think if he’s worth that much to you, then it’s not too much, since you’ll hunt them on your own as is proper. If I were offered that for a dependent, I’d think the alpha was likely to care a great deal, and I’d feel better letting them go.” Mother looked at the door to his bedroom with a sigh. “And then there are some that you can’t let go of, no matter what. I failed to teach Conn what an alpha should, and sometimes I wonder if I did that just so I’d never have to let him go. I don’t think I’ll take any new dependents, so he’s likely my last.”

Gerry paused with the cup of tea at his lips. He felt a wave of shame for how he had spoken to Conn the night before. “Conn wasn’t all that eager to learn, so you can’t shoulder all the blame. But I think he might be ready now. I’ll try to teach him, if he’ll let me.”

Mother shook his head. “You have your path to follow, and you’ll have Ghost to care for. Conn and I will muddle along. I suspect he’ll do more to help when it’s just us.”

As if his name invoked him, the door to Mother’s bedroom opened. Conn came out, dark shadows under his eyes. He wore an older cloth tunic and leather breeches to Gerry’s great surprise. He got himself a bowl of porridge before he sat at the table. Mother poured hot tea into Conn’s cup and offered him the honey, but Conn waved it off.

“You still look tired,” Mother said. “You could have slept longer. We’re not hunting today.”

Conn looked up with those shadowed eyes. “I thought I’d clean out the old coop. Maybe we can trade for a couple of hens, so we can have fresh eggs.” He looked at Gerry. “I can try. I don’t have to be a total ass all the time.”

Gerry felt his cheeks growing hot, and he knew they would be turning red. “I was wrong last night, Conn. I’m sorry. Some of what I said wasn’t my damned business to begin with, and the rest was harsher than you deserved.”

Conn’s cheeks were just as red. He lowered his eyes, staring a hole in his porridge. “Someone needed to say it.”

For a moment, Gerry thought that Conn would say more, but Conn seemed to change his mind, taking a spoonful of porridge instead.

“I don’t know what’s passed between you two, but I’ll trust that one of you will tell me if I need to know.” Mother looked at both of the younger men, and Conn’s cheeks darkened even more. “That bad?”

“We needed to clear the air, and we did,” Gerry said. “We’re good now.” He looked over at Conn, but the younger man kept his head down, stirring the porridge a bit to cool it.

“The coop is a fine idea, Conn.” Mother stood to take his cup and bowl to the sideboard. “It’s going to take a bit to clean it out and make any repairs, but perhaps by the next quarter-moon we can go and trade for some hens.”

Gerry stood as well. “I’ll give you a hand when I get back from the Witch’s house, at least with the repairs, all right? I won’t be able to hunt for a few days yet, I think, but I can drive a nail just fine.” He patted Conn’s shoulder, feeling the younger man flinch. “We’re good, Conn.” Now all he had to do was believe that himself.

***

Ghost sniffed, the smell of moldy earth and decay making him wrinkle his nose. He turned his head to get away from the odor, the pillow rough under his cheek. He did not know what the Witch was doing, but it stank, and Ghost reached up to rub his nose.

At least Ghost tried to reach up, but his hand was caught on something and he could not reach his nose. He opened his eyes and his heart began to race when he saw nothing in front of him but darkness. The smell was worse as he tried to turn his head again, and he realized that his head was covered with a cloth sack.

The memory of the sharp sting and of the cloth dropping over his head made Ghost hitch a breath as he tested his hands again. They were tied, along with his ankles, and the rope was rough on his wrists. He fought down the urge to yell. Whoever had done this was not going to appreciate his screams, and he was helpless to defend himself. Right now, his only real hope was to remain awake, not be rendered unconscious by whatever means had been used once already. Ghost could not help the shiver of apprehension that ran through him, though.

That shiver was enough to draw the notice of whomever it was that had tied Ghost up. He felt a large hand close over his arm. He was turned over abruptly, his shoulder making contact with something hard and rough that dug into him. He gasped a little at the pain, which was a mistake. The dirt he inhaled as it was shaken loose from the sack made him begin to cough. His eyes watered, washing more dirt into them. The situation was not helped when the sack was pulled off his head.

Through the tears blurring his vision, Ghost looked up at his captor, who was as tall as Mother and much broader across. The man glowered down at him, speaking with a harsh accent that Ghost could not quite place.

“Shut up,” the man growled. “Draw the fucking sind down on us with your fucking noise.”

Ghost could not help coughing, the dust in his nostrils and down his throat choking him. He glowered at his abductor without thinking. The blow that landed on his cheek came out of nowhere, and his head snapped to the side. He gulped for air, tasting blood, panic making him try to roll away, but the large man simply grabbed him again. Ghost gagged on the bloody saliva that filled his mouth.

The man froze for a moment, his eyes narrowed as he reached down to brush Ghost’s hair back, thick fingers buried in the pale strands.

Ghost felt the pressure growing behind his eyes, knowing his mark had to be glowing. He could feel the warmth of it against his skin already. He swallowed hard against the twisting of his stomach.

“You’re a witch,” the man said, fear in his voice. “Never saw a male witch before, but you have a mark.”

Ghost looked up, registering the way the stranger was dressed, a darker patch on the shabby leathers in the shape of a ranger’s guildmark. His stomach twisted again. The rangers were outside the normal laws, but they had a code of their own. As loose as that code was, they had been known to strip rank from those who broke it. He struggled to get past his fear and remember what the Witch had taught him about rangers. There was a chance that this bastard still thought like one, enough for Ghost to use to his advantage.

Rangers left witches alone. That was the fact that Ghost’s mind seized on, and refused to let go of, the fact that rangers and witches did not interfere with each other, or at least not in the normal course of things. Rangers kept to the lawless places, the ruins of the old cities where they scavenged what was left of the ancient witchery. Sometimes they would trade useful bits of lore and things they found to the witches in return for healing and salves. The rangers understood that the witches would hunt down anyone who harmed one of their sisterhood, would make a man regret having ever drawn that first breath when a dam pushed a babe out into the world. They had seen what was left of a man as a warning, after the witches had exacted their price.

The rangers also fed the slave trade over in the decadent West. They normally preyed on those foolish enough to scavenge the old places alone, or travelers not wise enough to join a merchant caravan. Sometimes they would slip into a village at night to scoop up the ragged urchins orphaned by a flux or some other event, children not lucky enough to have found an alpha to protect them. Ghost realized that he must have presented a perfect target as he wandered in the woods, distracted by his thoughts. It was not a comforting realization.

The man was looking at Ghost with those narrowed eyes. It was a mystery as to what was going on behind them. Ghost could not read people well, and right now he was afraid, fighting the urge to scream. He had to force himself to draw a deep breath so he could say something, maybe talk his way into being released. It was the slimmest of hopes, but Ghost clung to it.

“I have a mark,” Ghost agreed, hearing the shiver in his own voice.

The man’s hand tightened in Ghost’s hair, making the apprentice wince. “They made it in gems. How did they do that?”

“I’ve had it for as long as I can remember,” Ghost replied. “Maybe the Seeker placed it there herself.”

It was hardly an answer, and Ghost’s remark earned him a violent shake.

“Maybe you can ask her yourself, when you see her,” the man said. The threat in his eyes was enough to make Ghost’s stomach twist again.

This man was like a wild sind, and Ghost knew showing fear would only further incite the exiled ranger. Ghost had grown up in the Witch’s shadow, not quite her dependent, not quite a formal apprentice. He was not at ease with people at the best of times, and this was far from the best of times, but he had not been taught to roll over, either. Living with the Witch did not encourage one to be docile. Although he did not raise his voice and yell like Conn, it was not in Ghost’s nature to submit, which left him only one option. Defiance was risky, very risky, but it was all he had to fall back on.

“You’ll see her before me,” Ghost answered, and his chin lifted a little. Despite the blood on his lips that he could still taste, despite the ropes binding him, despite the rasp in his voice from his coughing fit, Ghost glared back at his captor. “I’ve seen it. One who leads, one who loves, one who is known by the End.” The peridot spiral grew bright enough to be reflected in the man’s eyes. Ghost felt the truth of his words even as he spoke them, the vision finally making some sort of sense. It was too little, and probably too late, but Ghost had no choice. He smiled like he had seen the Witch smile, cold and pitiless.

“Take it back,” the man growled. Now Ghost heard the shadow of fear in the ranger’s voice.

Ghost turned his head as much as he could with the former ranger’s fingers still buried in his hair, to spit a wad of bloody phlegm. “Avert your eyes, and pass me by,” he murmured, looking up at the man as he offered blood to the Eighth. He could feel warmth spreading from the spiral, flooding his veins to give him a burst of courage. “For you, there’s no help. He won’t look away now. He’s whispering your name, and the Seeker will lead him to you.”

The man snarled and for a moment Ghost was sure he was going to die. Instead, he was yanked upright, the rope binding his ankles cut with a flash of bright metal. Ghost did his best to hide his surprise at the waste. It had not been rope of any great quality, but rope was rope, and often the difference between life and death in the wilder places. It made Ghost wonder if this one’s crime against the rangers’ guild was madness.

“Make him look away,” the man insisted. “You have the mark. Tell him, Norther witch.” His eyes were no longer narrowed, and there was desperation in his voice that made Ghost hesitate.

“I serve the Seeker, and she leads him, not me.” Ghost let himself open up a little to the sensation that nagged at him, hearing a whisper deep in his own mind, a name rising to the surface of his thoughts. “It’s you he wants. Can you hear him, Bernd?”