The hobgoblin said nothing. His head was still bowed, but he had raised his eyes. Curious eyes. A hungry gaze. Good. Just what she needed.
“It pains me to say this, but these strange days have shown to me that those I thought strong are weak. This girl, this”-Maaqua’s lip twisted into a sneer-“Hand of the Hunter, this Feywild witch has captured the devotion of the Champion of the Razor Heart. Even Warchief Buureg has fallen under her spell.”
“It pains me to hear it, my queen.”
“I am old, but I am no fool. This witch is going east with the dawn, to destroy the demon in Highwatch. I have no doubt that Rhan will go with her, as will more of our warriors. I don’t know if she will succeed, but I do know that she has the strength to weaken our enemy. If she dies in her struggle, I will finish off this monster. I will bind him to serve me. If she survives … well, she will have served her purpose. But I cannot allow her to spread further sickness among the Razor Heart. Do you agree?”
“I do, my queen.”
“You will go with her,” said Maaqua. “You will serve her in any and every way. You will guard and protect her. Until the demon is vanquished. And then … then you will do what needs to be done. You understand?”
“Yes, my queen.”
“Do this for me. Do this for the Razor Heart. And when you return in triumph, the Razor Heart will need a new champion. And perhaps a new warchief.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
After leaving the war council, Hweilan returned to the cavern where she’d last seen the Damarans. She thought the hour was past midnight. Their fire had burned down to embers, and all four men were snoring in their pallets. Hweilan used her pack for a pillow and curled inside her own furs. Uncle stood over her, still, absolutely silent.
Hweilan closed her eyes. It was the first moment of absolute quiet she had enjoyed in days. With it came the faint but steady beat in the deep part of her mind, the pulse that let her know the presence of the Enemy. Even with her eyes closed in the cave, she could have pointed straight to Highwatch. The relentless rhythm of that connection reminded her of the danger she faced. But the action of the past days weighed on her, and she could not longer resist the exhaustion.
She did not dream. Not in images, anyway. But something else joined the drumbeat in her mind. It was like a fading echo, with music that brought other sensations-
Warmth like summer on her skin.
The caress of wind stirring her hair.
The smell of a flower for which she had no name.
The taste of cold, unsullied water.
Wolfsong from distant hills.
Hweilan woke, not gradually, but instantly. Fully awake. Uncle was watching her, his eyes reflecting the firelight.
Firelight …?
Hweilan sat up and saw the fire crackling again. The Damarans were still sleeping. But someone had added the last of their wood. She put her hand on the blanket to throw it off, and noted the feel of the fabric. Not the fur in which she’d bundled herself for sleep. She looked down and saw a cloak. A Damaran cloak. She looked back to her four companions and saw that Darric no longer wore his cloak and had lain closer to the fire for the extra warmth. He’d covered her while she slept.
She studied his face. He was filthy, having gone far too many days without laying a razor to his cheeks, but gone were all signs of the fear, anger, or determination that she’d seen on him over the past few days. Watching him sleep, she could just barely see the boy she had once met.
The other boys had knocked him down in their game, and when they saw that their words wouldn’t keep him down, they used their fists. There had been five of them-three at least two years older than Darric and all of them larger. Hweilan had been watching for some time, hiding in the shadows under the ivy. The only children she’d play with in Highwatch were servants and Nar. She hadn’t been afraid of the young Damarans, but they seemed strange to her, their play both boisterous and mannered, every last one of them aware of whose parents were of highest station.
When the largest boy punched Darric in the gut, Darric bent over, struggling to breathe. But he hadn’t cried. He’d charged and swiped a fist at his opponent, even though he was clumsy and hurt. The larger boy batted away the punch and slammed his own fist into Darric’s nose.
Darric went down. The other boys cheered and laughed, and when Darric got up, they cheered even louder. Their leader ordered Darric to kneel. He didn’t, so the brute hit him again. But Darric got up again.
Then three of them went after him. And that had been all Hweilan could stand. Scith had always taught her there was no warrior’s glory in the strong defeating the weak or many attacking few. Perhaps that had been in her mind. Or perhaps it was all the times her father, her uncle, and her grandfather had told her it was a knight’s sworn duty to defend those who could not defend themselves. Perhaps …
But probably not. Hweilan knew, knew to this day, that those five boys had simply made her mad. There was no thought of glory. No desire to defend another. Seeing their cruelty made Hweilan furious beyond any reason.
She took out out the length of swiftstag antler that Scith had given her. He’d been teaching her how to carve it into an intricate piece of jewelry like the ones treasured by his people. It was no dagger, but it was still sharp on one end. She brandished it and charged, calling them all cowards and craven. The big one doing most of the beating had laughed, which only fueled Hweilan’s fury. He stepped forward, reaching for her weapon, and promised to teach her a lesson if she didn’t run back to her mother.
And so Hweilan had stabbed him. Not badly. She’d simply jabbed at his palm. But she’d put her strength into it, and when the boy jerked his hand back, it tore a nasty gouge down his palm. He’d screamed, and for a moment there had been genuine anger in his gaze along with the pain, and he might have come after her.
Had she let him. Hweilan charged first, screaming and fully intending to swipe that sneer off his face. She probably would have, too, had her mother not come on the scene. Merah had actually had to wrestle the antler out of Hweilan’s grip.
Later, when punishments were being handed out to all involved, Hweilan had gone to the chamber in the holdfast where she stayed with her mother’s maidservant. But she’d been alone in the room, forcing herself not to cry. Before banishing her to the chamber, her father had given her the lecture of when to fight and when not to and how to know the difference. Hweilan had scarcely listened. But when Merah realized this, she became furious. Gone was the lady of the court. Hweilan beheld the true wrath of her “barbarian” mother. But still, Hweilan did not cry.
As she sat by the chamber window, she had heard her parents talking in the courtyard below. Her father spoke of how furious the duke was at what Hweilan had done to his son, even though the other boy, the young Soravian named Darric, had said the other boys were in the wrong. Still, it had not assuaged the duke’s anger.
“The duke’s son is a brute and a coward,” Merah said. “And if the duke understood half of what true honor really means, he’d have thanked Hweilan and thrashed the boy.”
Hweilan watched as her father took her mother’s hand and said, “Hweilan is the granddaughter of the High Warden. She is the child of a knight. She must learn to behave as such.”
Much of the fury Merah had directed at Hweilan still lit in her gaze. “Those five were beating on that other boy. Hweilan was the only one there behaving as a knight should.”
Her father had laughed at that, then said, “I think it might be best if you stay with Hweilan tomorrow. I fear the duke’s court would not take kindly to such honesty.”
Three years later, next to her father’s dead body, her mother gave her the kishkoman and told her: Your father is dead, Hweilan. Death comes to us all. Many in this world are stronger than you. They may try to take your life, and they may succeed. But you must never give it to them. Make them pay, Hweilan. Make them pay.