I must be going soft in the head,Kaldir thought to himself as he trailed Vanwe soundlessly toward the little patch of shade. First letting myself get sidetracked by a woman's eyes and now jumping at shadows like a frightened deer. It was absurd. He would have to get himself together and quickly. Too much was at stake. What was the matter with him all of the sudden?
First, there was the fact the Benia Nightshade was still alive. When he had taken her out of the inn the night before, his intention had been to kill her right away, chop off her tattooed hands, which were really all he needed in order to collect the bounty on her, and begin pursuit of his next quarry. He had even prepared in advance, stocking the cellar with an axe, a pound of salt, and a thick leather sack, the salt being to cure the severed hands, the sack to transport them. Yet she still lived.
The look in her amber eyes at that moment in her room, when he had reminded her that should she cry out the first person to come to her aid and be slain would be her friend Gilly, had affected him in a strange way. No fear. No anger. Only a deep sadness had entered her eyes before she lowered her dark lashes and struggled against him no more. Later, in the cellar of the deserted smithy, he had undone the rope that bound her hands behind her and retied them in the front with the intention of completing his plans, but found himself unable to lay her wrists across the chopping block. Instead, he had stared at the intricate patterns of the tribal tattoos. Then, to as much his own surprise as hers, he had simply kissed each of her palms and left her. Now, he couldn't get the image of her eyes or her shining black hair out of his mind.
And now, this sensation of being watched. His well-honed survival instincts screamed at him to beware, yet he was unable to find the source of the disturbance. Whatever it was, it seemed to follow him as well as Vanwe. Again and again, his eyes scanned the wood, even the treetops, finding nothing. Naiore, perhaps? Surely not.But her image haunted him, her face alternating with that of Benia. Then the memories, the ones from the dead place, began to crawl up like grinning imps from a hole in the floor of his mind: clouds of black smoke. Fire. Pain. Thick waves of pain. He flinched and, without thinking, raised one hand to his forehead.
Catching the movement from the corner of her eyes, Vanwe hesitated at the edge of the glen. He froze, trusting in his skills of concealment. She stared in his direction, uncertain of what she had seen or if anything had even been there at all.
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