Thief With No Shadow (36 page)

“No,” Bastian said. The word came out as a croak, scarcely audible. When the psaaron took someone tonight, it would be him. Not Liana. Never Liana.

“Don’t be a fool.” Liana spoke sharply. “You’re faster than I am. Go and help her!”

No
, he started to say again, but the fierce hope in her face made his protest die. Liana had hope. She
hoped.

“Go.” The wraith’s voice and his eyes were calm and steady.

What if...

There was no
what if.
Melke was dead. But Liana had hope and he couldn’t extinguish that. And what if...

No. She was dead.

But there was a whole day until sunset, a whole day before the psaaron took a bed partner and committed foul rape, a whole day when Liana could hope instead of fear. And perhaps...

If there was a chance, however slight.

Bastian met the male wraith’s eyes. He pointed a finger at him, fierce, terrified. “You protect her.”

The wraith nodded. “I will. You have my word.” Bastian believed him. The young man meant what he said.

He turned and ran.

I
T WAS TWO
miles to their bridge and another twenty to the salamanders’ den. He couldn’t run that twice, not by nightfall. But the miles between here and Arnaul’s, those he could run, and Arnaul would loan him a horse.

The baked dirt, as hard as stone, jarred beneath Bastian’s boots. Dust lifted and brittle grass disintegrated. Sweat dripped off his skin and there was fire in his lungs, in his throat.
For Liana.
The words echoed in his head, in time to the pounding of his feet and the whistling gasps of air. For Liana he’d run, he’d try, and tonight...tonight he’d lie with the psaaron. Him, only him. He’d not let the creature choose her,

There was sweat in his eyes, stinging, and rawness in his throat and dust rising from the ground.
For Liana.

Such a sweet baby she’d been, smiling, trusting him, grasping his fingers as she learned to walk, planting wet kisses on his cheek, shrieking with laughter as he swung her in the air. Such an eager-eyed girl, finding beauty everywhere, delighted by ants’ nests and yellow autumn leaves and lizard tracks in the dust, listening open-mouthed to the tales he read. Such a gifted woman, too young in her womanhood, too gentle and precious, to be harmed.

He ran on rocks now, steeply rising and tufted with dry grass. Limestone, carved into fluted shapes by rain that no longer fell. Bastian ignored the twisting path. He climbed the slope fast, grabbing at rocks, hauling himself up, slipping, snatching at rough stone, tearing his palms, leaning forward—
faster.
At the top was a line where green grass met brown. Arnaul’s land.

His descent was scrambling and urgent. The ground no longer jarred beneath his feet. Fat sheep and cattle grazed in green paddocks. The air wasn’t dry in his throat. He ran more easily.

Arnaul’s farmhouse was smaller than Vere, but glass sparkled in the windows, uncracked, and the garden was bright with flowers. A large tan-colored dog came barking from the open door, stiff-tailed and showing his teeth.

Bruno
, he greeted.

The dog bounded forward, making puppy noises of pleasure.

Bastian swayed, panting. He laid his hand on the shaggy head.
Where is your master?

Bruno didn’t speak as clearly as Endal. The words and images flickered and blurred. It took Bastian a moment to understand.
Shoeing a horse?

Yes
, said Bruno.

The dog followed as he ran, stumbling now, around to the cobbled stable yard. Bastian inhaled the scent of straw and horse manure. “Arnaul!”

Bruno added his voice, barking.

He saw swift movement in one of the stalls and a startled face. “Bastian? What...? Is everything all right?”

Bastian shook his head, panting. “Need to borrow a horse. Please.”

Arnaul’s hair was as shaggy as his dog’s. It bristled on his head, brown, and tufted at his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”

Bastian shook his head again, beyond words. He dragged air into his lungs. His throat was raw with running, raw with thirst.

“Your hands are bleeding.”

Bastian looked down. There was blood on his palms. He didn’t care. “Please, a horse.”

“Of course.”

Bastian walked over to the trough, lurching slightly. He cupped his hands and drank. The water tasted of blood and sweat and dust. He gulped it down, aware of Arnaul working hastily behind him.

I am a fool to do this.

But hope had been bright in Liana’s eyes. He had to try.

“Here.”

Bastian wiped the water from his face. He looked at the colt, leggy and strong. “Isn’t this—?”

“My fastest horse.”

And the most valuable. “Arnaul, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

It was too much, the horse too valuable. Bastian pulled the signet ring clumsily from his finger, but Arnaul stopped the gesture, closing his hand over Bastian’s. “No.”

There was silence while they looked at each other. Arnaul was his neighbor, a year older than him and an inch shorter. He was a man who had everything: rain and green grass, healthy livestock, a wife and children. But this horse, this refusal of payment... He saw in Arnaul’s eyes that it wasn’t charity. It was friendship.

“Thank you.”

Arnaul nodded. He released his grip on Bastian’s hand and gave him the reins. “Go.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

I
T WAS PAST
noon when he reached the salamanders’ valley. Both he and the horse were muddy and sweating, exhausted. Bastian slid from the saddle, holding the colt’s mane to keep his balance. He took a lurching step out from under the shade of the trees. “Endal!” His voice was a dry croak.

There was silence, except for bees humming and the call of birds.

He pursed his lips and whistled, loud and shrill.

The valley stretched ahead of him, green and bright with flowers and butterflies. The den looked like a crouching red beast in the distance.

Bastian whistled again.
Endal!
he shouted in his mind, although the distance was too great.

He saw movement, a black shape pushing through the long grass.

Bastian didn’t remember kneeling, but he was on his knees. His arms went around Endal’s neck and he hugged the dog fiercely to him. Images of Endal’s distress boiled in his mind, smells and emotions. The dog trembled and whined.

“Hush,” Bastian said aloud. “It’s all right. It’s all right.” And he buried his face in Endal’s warm fur.

Something cold and smooth pressed against his cheek, and when he drew his head back...

Bastian was frozen for a moment, on his knees.

Endal? The necklace?

Endal whimpered.
Take it off. I don’t like it.

He lifted the necklace carefully from around the dog’s throat, speechless with disbelief. It was impossible. It couldn’t be.

It was. The necklace of psaaron tears lay in his hands, cool. He
had
it.

His joy was so fierce that it brought tears to his eyes. Liana was safe.

“Where’s Melke?” he asked, clenching the necklace in his hands.
Where is she?

Endal whimpered again. The explanation came swiftly, spilling into Bastian’s mind, sight and sound, a twist of emotions. Traveling at night with the sharp scent of Melke’s fear, the bustle of Thierry, the nap in the woods, his disobedience in not biting Melke when she was unseen, in not following her into the den.

Endal whined, pressing against his chest. “Hush,” Bastian said, smoothing a hand down the dog’s flank
. You did the right thing.

She was burning. I smelled her burning.

Bastian’s hand halted. He closed his eyes.
They caught her?

Endal whimpered. The dog’s memories nudged into his mind: a choking stench, waiting, furtive sounds,
scratch scratch scratch
, Melke’s hand reaching from the wall. The necklace being pushed over his head, the scent of burning hair, burning flesh.

You waited all night?

Endal whined again, pressing closer.
Yes.

Bastian had known she was dead, so why the clenching in his chest to hear it? Grief. Gratitude.

She had saved them.

Bastian hugged the dog close.
It’s all right.
But it wasn’t. It wasn’t.

Moisture blurred in his eyes as he stood.
Come
,he said.
We must hurry.

But Endal was whining, his ears flat against his head.

What?
Bastian asked.

Endal was too distressed to speak clearly.

We have to leave.
Bastian turned to the horse.
She’s dead.

Endal’s bark was short and sharp.
No.

What?
Bastian’s head snapped around. He stared at the dog.
She’s alive?

But Endal didn’t know. He twisted his body and whined, full of uncertainty.

Bastian stood rooted to the ground, the necklace clutched in his hand. The horse in front of him or the den behind him. Liana or the wraith.

Liana or Melke?

Why did he hesitate? There was only one choice he could make.

Liana. It had to be Liana.

There was bile in his throat as he heaved himself into the saddle, as he yelled at Endal to come,
now.

O
NCE HE WAS
out of the valley, some of the stomach-knotting tension eased. A psaaron’s territory was as wide as the ocean and as long as the longest river; a salamander’s was its hearth, close. He was beyond the reach of the creatures. They’d not step out of their valley to pursue him.

It began to rain. The muddy track became a mire and the tired horse slowed to a walk. Still, he had the necklace. He’d be home by dusk. Liana was safe. He was safe. The wraith...

Perhaps Melke was alive.

He couldn’t think about her, couldn’t,
could not.

Thunder rumbled behind them, frightening the horse and making Endal press closer. The necklace began to sing, whispers of sound that crawled over his skin, half-heard voices.

Bastian fumbled with it, touching the living stones as if they scorched his fingers. He transferred the necklace from shirt pocket to saddle pommel, but the colt began to sidle and buck as if he heard the voices too, as if the soft, crooning song of dead psaarons shivered over his hide.

The necklace went into his pocket again, so that the voices burrowed inside him and whispered at the edge of his hearing. For Liana, he’d do it. For Melke.

The sky grew darker. Rain came down more heavily. The road was a river and the horse struggled, fighting for each step.

Bastian gripped the reins and ignored the singing in his ears. Rain blinded him. It filled his mouth and ears. The hours dissolved. His world narrowed to himself and the necklace, the horse, Endal, the rain and the mud, and Liana waiting at Vere. Nothing else was important. Nothing else mattered.

The female wraith.

He shouldered thought of her aside, as he shouldered aside mud and rain and exhaustion, He shouted at the horse, shouted at Endal.
Come on, hurry!

They reached the bridge as darkness began to gather.

The central pile was gone.

A hole gaped in the bridge, huge. Water roared and foamed, tearing at the splintered timber. There was no way across.

For a moment it was too much. Bastian couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. His heart failed to beat.

Liana.

Arnaul’s bridge was eight miles upstream, and there was too little daylight left.