The Knave of Souls - Fantasy - Sequel to The Jack of Souls

Chapter 26

MAZES & MONSTERS

*

Caris heard a distant bellow from the direction of Willard's tree. Willard-Krato had gnawed through the kerchief. She was far enough away that she could not discern words, but his fury was immense and tireless, like the roars of an outraged yoab.

The horses' ears swiveled toward the sound, eyes widening as they looked to Caris. She soothed them with soft sounds and pats, and set to drawing them together and removing their hobbles. "He can't get to us," she said. "Let him bellow."

Nevertheless, the distant roars made her doubt: Even if Willard wouldn't remember, would Krato? The next time she helped Willard, would Krato remember what she'd done with the gag? Would he curse her before she got the gag in? Or maybe she overthought it. Maybe Willard had not meant the god literally occupied his flesh. Maybe that was just an expression meaning the Blood made him vile, like the god...made him say things like the god would say.

She wished Harric were there. He saw things from a different vantage. Half the time, the irreverence of that vantage infuriated her, but sometimes it helped her see something in herself or in a situation that she would not see alone. And often it set her heart at ease.

Looping the lead line through the horse's halters, she formed a train and hooked it on Rag's saddle. As she led them downstream, she realized that in addition to the buzz of worry in her mind, thought of Harric had left her with a dull ache in her chest. She frowned. She shouldn't have let herself dwell on him, but her heart kept returning there. They'd only been apart a few hours, and already she missed him. If she could lay a false trail for Bannus and return to Willard without much difficulty, they could catch up to Harric by sunset and bed.

Bed. Her face grew warm. Stupid. They couldn't share a bed in such company.

What a thought that was! Now her cheeks blazed. Yet this urge had burned in her for the last couple of days—a new and foreign fire in her—and it confused and angered her. It was that loathesome ring's doing. It had to be. It forced her feelings, and now it seemed to give her these physical urges. She managed to snuff them when she focused on the horses or on some other engrossing task, but the moment she let down her guard, she found herself plotting beds or private moments. Gods leave it!

She bit back on a yell of frustration.

I miss him. I hate him. I want to bed him.

If she cast her mind back to before the ring, she recalled she actually scorned him. She'd never forget when she saw him caught for conning a slave-lord in Gallows Ferry. She remembered clearly how shocked and ashamed she'd felt. In that moment, a dozen little details of his behavior over the previous weeks had fallen in place and she'd seen the pattern of trickery and dishonor in him. Still...he'd been kind to her. When she'd first arrived in Gallows Ferry—confused and prone to horse-touched episodes of panic—he'd helped her. He'd come to her aid when no one else did, and got her on her feet. They'd been misfit friends.

But even then, before she'd learned what a trickster knave he was, she'd had no attraction or physical urges. Once when Ana had asked her what she thought of Harric she'd made Ana laugh by referring to him as a runt.

She buried her face in Rag's sun-warmed mane, and breathed in the mare's scent.

Is that how she'd seen him? A runt? It must have been. But that was stupid. He was finely formed, his shoulders and buttocks—

Her face grew hot again. Gods take the ring!

She fled fully into the world of the horses, and since the only male in the string was a gelding, found no such urges there. Shared sensory images flooded her mind. Green juice filled her mouth. Soft greens dissolving on her tongue. Rough-edged herbs surrendered their pungency between molars. Gradually, she felt her heartbeat calm.