He passed it to Devin, and Devin took it carefully. Unwrapping it, he could see that it was… well, not a sword, exactly. A long knife, a messer, sat there, too long to be a true knife, not quite long enough to be a sword. It was single edged, with a hilt that stuck out only on one side, and a wedge-shaped point. It was a peasant’s weapon, far removed from the longswords and arming swords of the knights. But it was light. Deadly. And beautiful. Devin could see at a glance, as he turned it and as it gleamed in the light, that it could be far more nimble and deadly than any proper sword. It was a weapon of stealth, cunning, and speed. One perfect for Devin’s light frame and young age.
“It’s not finished,” Nem said, “but I know you can finish it better than I could, and the steel’s good, I promise.”
Devin gave it an experimental swing, feeling the blade cut the air. He wanted to say that it was too much, that he couldn’t take it, but he could see how much Nem wanted him to have this.
“Thank you, Nem,” he said.
“You two done?” Gund said. He looked over to Devin. “I won’t say I’m not sorry to see you go. You’re a good worker, and a finer smith than most here. But you can’t be here when this comes back on us. You need to go, boy. Now.”
Devin wanted to argue even then. But he knew it was futile, and he realized that he no longer wanted to be there. He didn’t want to be somewhere he wasn’t wanted. This had never been his dream. This had been a way to survive. His dream had always been to be a knight, and now…
Now it seemed that his dreams held far stranger things. He needed to work out what they were.
The day your life will change forever.
Could this be what the sorcerer meant?
Devin had no choice. He couldn’t turn around now, couldn’t go back to his forge to set everything back where it should be.
Instead, he walked out into the city. Into his destiny.
And into the waiting day before him.
CHAPTER SIX
Nerra walked the woods alone, slipping between the trees, enjoying the feeling of sunlight on her face. She imagined that everyone back in the castle would have noticed that she had slipped out by now, but she also suspected that they wouldn’t care that much. She would only complicate the wedding preparations by being there.
Here in the wild, she fit. She wound flowers into her dark hair, letting them join the braids. She took off her boots, tying them together over her shoulder so she could feel the earth beneath her feet. Her slender form wove in and out of the trees, almost wisplike in a dress of fall colors. The sleeves were long, of course. Her mother had drummed the need for that into her long ago. Her family might know about her infirmity, but no one else was to.
She loved the outdoors. She loved seeing the plants and picking out their names, bluebell and hogweed, oak and elm, lavender and mushroom. She knew more than their names, too, because each had its own properties, things it could help with or harm it could do. A part of her wished she could spend all her life out here, free and at peace. Maybe she could; maybe she could persuade her father to let her build a home out in the forest, and put what she knew of it to good use, healing the sick and the injured.
Nerra smiled sadly at that, because even though she knew it was a good dream, her father would never go along with it, and in any case… Nerra held back from the thought for a moment, but couldn’t forever. In any case, she probably wouldn’t live long enough to build any kind of life. The sickness killed, or transformed, too quickly for that.
Nerra picked at a strand of willow bark that would be good for aches, putting strips into her belt pouch.
I’ll probably need it soon enough, she guessed. There were no aches today, but if not her, then maybe Widow Merril’s boy, down in the town. She’d heard that he had a fever, and Nerra knew as much about dealing with the sick as anyone.
I want one day without having to think about it, Nerra thought to herself.
Almost as if thinking about it brought it to her, Nerra felt herself growing faint, and had to reach out for one of the trees for support. She clung to it, waiting for the dizziness to pass, feeling her breathing come harder as she did it. She could also feel the pulsing on her right arm, itching and throbbing, as if something were striving to get loose under the skin.
Nerra sat down, and here, in the privacy of the forest, she did what she would never do back at the castle: she rolled up her sleeve, hoping that the coolness of the forest air would do some good where nothing else ever had.
The tracery of marks on her arm was familiar by now, black and vein like, standing out against the almost translucent paleness of her skin. Had the marks grown anymore since she’d last looked at them? It was hard to tell, because Nerra avoided looking if she could, and didn’t dare show them to anyone else. Even her brothers and sisters didn’t know the full truth of it, only knew about the fainting fits, not about the rest of it. That was for her, her parents, Master Grey, and the lone physician her father had trusted with it.
Nerra knew why. Those with the scale-mark were banished, or worse, for fear of the condition spreading, and for fear of what it might mean. Those with the scale sickness, the stories said, eventually transformed into things that were anything but human, and deadly to those who remained.
“And so I must be alone,” she said aloud, pulling her sleeve down again because she could no longer stand the sight of what was there.
The thought of being alone bothered her almost as much. As much as she liked the forest, the lack of people hurt. Even as a child, she hadn’t been able to have close friends, hadn’t had the collection of maidservants and young noblewomen Lenore had, because one of them might have seen. She hadn’t even had the promise of lovers, and suitors for a girl who was obviously sick were even less likely. A part of Nerra wished she could have had all that, imagining a life where she had been normal, been well, been safe. Her parents could have found some young nobleman to marry her, as they had with Lenore. They could have had a home and a family. Nerra could have had friends, and been able to help people. Instead… there was only this.
Now I’ve made even the forest sad, Nerra thought with another wan smile.
She stood and kept walking, determined to let herself enjoy the fineness of the day at least. There would be a hunt tomorrow, but that was too many people to ever really enjoy the outdoors. She would be expected to remember how to chatter to those who saw prowess in killing woodland creatures as a virtue, and the noise of the hunting horns would be deafening.
Nerra heard something else then; it wasn’t a hunting horn, but it was still the sound of someone close by. She thought she caught a glimpse of someone in the trees, a young boy, perhaps, although it was hard to tell for sure. She found herself worrying then. How much had he seen?
Maybe it was nothing. Nerra knew there had to be people somewhere else in the woods. Maybe they were charcoal burners or foresters; maybe they were poachers. Whoever they were, if she kept going, Nerra would probably run into them again. She didn’t like that idea, didn’t like the risk of them seeing more than they should, so she threw herself off in a new direction, almost at random. She could find her way through the woods, so she wasn’t worried about getting lost. She just kept going, spotting holly now and birch, celandine, and wild roses.
And something else.
Nerra paused as she caught sight of a clearing that looked as though something large had been in it, branches broken, ground trampled. Had it been a boar, or maybe a pack of them? Was there a bear about somewhere, large enough that maybe the hunt was needed after all? Nerra couldn’t see any bear prints among the trees though, or indeed anything at all that suggested something had come through on foot.
She could see an egg though, sitting in the middle of the clearing, rolled onto one side on the grass.
She froze, wondering.
It can’t be.
There were stories, of course, and the castle’s galleries had some