The Simbul's gift - Lynn Abbey [114]
"There are two main groups, both shadowing the Cha'Tel'Quessir camp. They use magic to conceal themselves. It's not working well, but the camp doesn't suspect they're out there, so it hasn't been a problem for them. The one group thinks it's the only group; the other shadows them and the camp. And there's a third, a solitaire, I think, maybe a companion of some sort. Very hard to track, but I think she went east with Rizcarn. I sent two foresters after her."
A man's voice, speaking the Cha'Tel'Quessir dialect with its proper accent. Not someone from the camp. Bro crept closer, listening for a second voice.
"She? What exactly makes you think the solitaire is a woman? And do you mean with Rizcarn, or pursuing him?"
Bro's heart beat in his throat: the second voice belonged to the woman who'd taken care of him, slept beside him, and assured him she could prove she'd had nothing to do with the arrow. He drew his knife and waited for more, but the voices were silent. A moment passed, ten, then a hundred. Bro hunched closer, aware of the sound dead leaves made beneath his feet no matter how careful he was, and of his pulse pounding in his ears, which was surely the loudest sound in the forest.
From the corner of his right eye, Bro caught a shadow moving in the tree above him. He looked up, saw nothing; heard a sound and before he could ask himself what he'd heard, there was another man's arm locked around his jaw, brutally twisting his neck, and an edge of sharp steel laid against his exposed throat.
"Let it go."
The voice was the voice he'd heard first. Bro let the Simbul's knife fall from his hands. He gasped as he was kneed in the kidneys. The knife at his neck slid as he fell forward. Bro was sure his throat had been slit. He tried to get a look at his captor before he died.
"Face down, youngster," the man said, planting his foot on Bro's neck.
At least he wasn't bleeding to death, though Bro thought his neck would break when the man bent down to retrieve the Simbul's knife.
"Where'd you get this?"
There was no time to think of a clever lie. "The Simbul gave it to me."
"Did she now?" A firm hand replaced the foot on his neck, then the hand was pressing his wrist into the small of his back. "On your feet." He wrenched the wrist he held and hauled Bro upright.
They started forward with Bro stumbling and certain his arm would snap with every awkward step.
"He says the Simbul gave him a knife," his captor shouted.
They cleared a pine tree and were face to face with Chayan, who scowled when she saw him.
"Oh, Ebroin. I should have guessed you'd follow me. Let him go, Halaern."
Bro was crushed, but smart enough not to argue when Halaern released him. He'd heard the name Halaern before: Trovar Halaern, the Simbul's forester. Turning around to face his captor, he saw the green metal circlet on the man's brow. Bro didn't want to believe that Trovar Halaern, elder of Yuirwood as well as the Simbul's forester, was in league with Red Wizards, but he couldn't think of another explanation.
And he couldn't look at Chayan.
"Ebroin," she said gently. "Ebroin, meet my cousin, Trovar Halaern. Halaern, meet Ebroin of MightyTree."
"The Ebroin of MightyTree-Rizcarn's son?"
Bro nodded glumly, still not looking at either of them.
"Shali's son?" the forester persisted. Bro nodded again. "Urell's daughter? And Laseli's? Sister of Mirran and Cresil?"
"Yes. Daughter and sister." It wasn't mockery. When Cha'Tel'Quessir met, they exchanged personal names, but when the meeting was important-when a man met an elder for the first time-Cha'Tel'Quessir exchanged lineages until they found a common ancestor. Bro wracked his memory for the proper lineages. So much time had passed since he'd recited them and he wanted so badly not to embarrass himself-again-that the names slipped through his mind's fingers. All but one:
"Eshtrelan's son?" Bro raised his eyes and held his breath.
The forester grinned. "Grandson. Her brother, Strael, went to MightyTree with Dassa."
Dassa had died long before Bro was born. He counted the