The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [62]
She imagined how her brother would look if she rose up after one of his insults and hit him in the head with an iron cooking pan—hit him hard, so his skull would crack and the blood run down. And dear Varynna—her beauty would vanish before the sting of a hot coal from the fire. Morwen could imagine it clearly, the skin blackening, the hiss of burning, the stench of charred flesh. As they healed, the scabs would crack and peel, leaving huge scars upon those rosy cheeks.
The village women deserved even nastier fates. She imagined their deaths in detail, by dismembering, drowning, scalding with boiling water. Too much detail—suddenly she saw her revenge fantasies so clearly that the pictures began to take on a life of their own. She could watch them unfold as if she were dreaming, and yet she was awake, aware of the horse under her, the hot sun on her back, Dev’s voice as he sang to Evan. She watched with inner eyes as her dream-self rampaged through the village, stabbing, clawing, flailing around her with any weapon that came to hand. Blood flowed, flesh split and bruised, and always she saw more blood, bubbling from wounds.
‘Oh stop!’ She’d spoken aloud in a great sob of words. ‘It’s too horrible!’
The world around her snapped back into reality. Morwen felt herself trembling, and her face burning with shame, but when she glanced around, she realized that no one had heard her little outburst or noticed her dreamy condition. Best of all, no one could read her thoughts; no one else had seen her horrifying visions. How could I? Just how could I? What am I, a fiend who just looks like a human being?
Up at the head of his caravan, Wffyn yelled for a halt. She’d never heard a voice as welcome as his at that moment, calling her to human company.
‘Let’s have a meal, lads,’ he bellowed. ‘Time to rest the stock.’
Morwen nearly wept at the relief of knowing that she’d be free of her own thoughts for a while.
The caravan stopped in a long grassy meadow, dotted here and there with the dead stumps of cut timber, at the edge of the forest. The muleteers unloaded their stock to let them roll, then set them out to graze along with the riding horses, which the Westfolk men had tended.
‘It’ll be two days before they get fresh fodder again,’ Nevyn told her. ‘We’ll rest here for some time before we push on into the forest.’
‘Well and good, then,’ Morwen said. ‘Evan and I can chase his ball around for a bit. Maybe he’ll sleep better this afternoon than he did last.’
‘I had a thought about that. The Westfolk women use a sort of sling made from a long bit of cloth to hold their children when they ride. It saves the back, they say. I’ll get a length of linen from Wffyn’s trade goods for you. He owes me somewhat for tending one of his men after an accident. Jennantar says he’ll help you rig it up.’
‘My thanks! That truly would be a comfort.’ All of a sudden Morwen felt tears rise in her throat. She turned sharply away.
‘What’s so wrong?’ Nevyn said.
‘Naught. This is just the first time in my life that anyone but my friend Lanni put some thought into helping me.’ Morwen snivelled back the tears and tried to smile. ‘It took me by surprise, like.’
Using the sling did indeed ease much of the strain on Morwen’s back, because she no longer had to clutch Evan tightly to keep him from falling. He fussed about it at first, but once the caravan started down the well-shaded road through the forest, he drifted off to sleep. After Morwen’s scant rest of the night before, she turned drowsy as well. It took an effort of will, but she was determined to keep any more ghastly blood-soaked daydreams at bay. Fortunately, once they’d ridden deep into the trees, a new surprise brought her wide awake.
Wildfolk popped into manifestation and thronged around the caravan. Sprites hovered