Shadows of Myth. Rachel Lee

      Giri, one of Archer’s two Anari companions, rode at his side. “The woman,” he said.

      “What about her?”

      “Are you sure she should be trusted?”

      Archer looked into his friend’s dark face. “Why should she not be? Have you forgotten how we found her?”

      “Have you forgotten that she was the only one to survive the attack?”

      “No, I haven’t. But I also remember how we found her hiding and terrified. Calm your suspicious Anari mind. Besides, I’m offering her no trust. But perhaps we can learn something from her.”

      Giri fell silent and resumed his restless watching of the riverbank along which they rode. The group was making as much noise as the caravan most likely had. He was not comfortable.

      Archer spoke. “Take Ratha and scout, will you? If anyone is observing our progress, I would prefer to know.”

      Giri nodded. Moments later he and Ratha melted away into the trees.

      The farther they rode from Whitewater, the more uncomfortable the townspeople felt. They weren’t used to being so far from familiar places, and Archer began to wonder if they would bolt at the cry of a crow. Their voices grew quieter, until they were nearly silenced, until the only sound echoing around them was the tramp of their horses’ feet on pine needles, dirt and pebbles. The almost partylike enjoyment of their start had given way to dread-filled quiet.

      Pulling his steed to one side, Archer watched the single-file group pass, murmuring reassurances to the men. Tess was in the middle of the group, and he pulled in beside her.

      “How are you?”

      “I’m fine,” she answered. “The woods smell so wonderful right now, in the cold air.”

      Indeed, the aroma of pine was strong, mixed with that particular, indescribable scent of nearby snow and ice.

      “At least the trees are sheltering us from the worst of the wind.” He was glad of that, for if the wind had chosen to follow the river gorge directly, he doubted that most of them would have come this far. “I don’t ever remember it being this cold at this time of year,” he said.

      “What time of year is it?”

      He looked at her, astonished by the idea that she might have forgotten such a simple thing. And that caused him to wonder what else she might have forgotten. “It’s harvest time. But winter has come so early the frost has blackened the fields.”

      “That’s not good.”

      “Most assuredly not good. Many will starve this winter.” He scanned the column again, feeling the edginess of his companions as if it were a prickle in his own skin. “Tell me something of yourself,” he said.

      He saw her head bow, saw her hands tighten on the reins. For a few moments he thought she would refuse to answer him. Then, as if gathering her courage, she straightened and looked him dead in the eye. Her own eyes were as clear as a midsummer sky.

      “I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything before I woke up and saw the…the slaughter.”

      He was astonished to realize just what she had meant when she said she might remember something. He had known men who had forgotten large parts of battles they had fought, or who had forgotten how they had come to be severely wounded, but never before had he met anyone without any memory at all.

      “Nothing?” he asked.

      She shook her head. Her lips quivered, then tightened, as if she were fighting down an overwhelming tide of emotion. When at last she spoke again, her voice was steady. “Speech is coming back to me rapidly,” she said. “I trust the rest will come, as well.”

      “I’m sure it will, Lady.” He studied her profile for a moment or two, wondering why it was he kept feeling the itch of recognition. He did not know this woman, of that he was sure. She must, therefore, remind him of someone, but the elusiveness of that knowledge was maddening, dancing just beyond his ken.

      But some things always danced beyond his ken, it seemed. Distant things, sorrows that had burned a permanent ache of loss into his being. Faded, almost vanished memories of other times and a different way of life. A sense that what should have been had never come to pass. The memory, from the distant mists of time, of the loss of his beloved wife. A time he had long since forbidden himself to recall.

      And this woman deepened that ache, as if she were somehow a part of it. But that was impossible. His years outstretched many lifetimes of men, and the ache was so far in the past, it preceded all that had come to be.

      He thought he had learned to live with the ache, with being homeless, nameless, a wanderer who could never be one of those he wandered among. A man set apart for reasons he barely recalled, a man who was not man, apparently, given his agelessness.

      But this woman reminded him of the ache and the yearning. Unsettled him.

      ‘Twould be best to heed Giri’s warning and put distrust before trust with this woman, then. He needed a clear eye and a clear head in the worrisome days to come.

      For worrisome they would be. As they rode east along the river, the silence grew deeper, as if the very trees themselves held their breath. There was more behind this early winter than a foible of nature. Beneath it a sense of huge power thrummed, a power that had more than once raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

      He could not yet say that it would endure, nor even guess what it might do. But ancient magicks were stirring, and his every sense was on alert to detect anything out of the ordinary. Somehow he recognized that thrum of power, that echo of immeasurable forces at work, though he could not say he knew it.

      But he recognized it anyway, in the way the tips of his fingers would tingle and the hairs at his nape stand on end. He knew it in the way the pit of his stomach responded to it. He had met this