Trevarre tried to walk faster, but it was clear his wounded
leg was causing him great pain. Ciri laid a fine hand on his
elbow, and the grimace eased from the knight’s face. He
walked more easily with her hand on his arm. Matya
noticed that Trevarre seemed to have taken more than a
passing interest in Ciri’s lovely face. “I’ll warrant he’s more
interested in her looks than his honor,” she muttered,
suddenly annoyed for no particular reason.
As they walked, Matya looked at the village in the ruddy
light of the setting sun. Nothing appeared out of order, but
something was not right. You’re tired, Matya, that’s all, she
told herself. Tomorrow you’ll ride into Garnet and leave this
knight and his foolishness behind. That thought should have
made her feel better, but it didn’t.
Ciri led them to a small, thatch-roofed cottage standing
slightly apart from the others. She looked about to make
certain no one was watching, then opened the door,
gesturing for Trevarre and Matya to enter.
The cottage was warm and neatly kept. A fire burned on
the fieldstone hearth, and the wooden floor had been
scrubbed clean. Ciri bade them sit down. She filled a
wooden cup with crimson wine for each of them. Matya
raised the cup of wine, then set it down without drinking it.
It had a funny smell to it. Trevarre, however, drank deeply,
thanking the woman for her hospitality – all politeness, as
his Measure called for, Matya supposed with a frown.
“And now, my lady, you must tell me why you have
called to me,” Trevarre said. Ciri smiled at him, a sweet,
sorrowful smile. “And I hope your reason is a good one,”
Matya noted, crossing her arms. “It was no mean feat
getting this knight here, I’ll tell you”
Ciri turned her gaze toward Matya for a moment, and
suddenly her smile was neither sweet nor sorrowful. ‘Tor
that, I do thank you, my good woman,” Ciri said. Matya
could not mistake the coldness in Ciri’s otherwise lovely
voice. It was clear that Matya’s presence had not been
expected; neither was it wanted.
Ciri’s gaze turned soft again as she regarded the knight.
Matya scowled, but she said nothing. If the young woman
feared competition for the knight’s attention, then she was
as much a fool as Trevarre. There was little room in a
bargain driver’s life for love. Such fancies dulled the sharp
edge Matya depended on for her livelihood. Besides, there
was nothing about the knight she liked, even if his pale eyes
were strangely attractive and his voice DID remind her of a
trumpet’s call.
The gloom of twilight descended outside the cottage’s
window. Ciri began her tale. “I fear the fate that lies before
me is dark, my knight. A terrible wizard – my uncle – means
to force me to marry him, against all propriety and my own
wishes. He is a mage of great power, feared by all the folk
of Tambor, and even beyond. He is away now, gathering
components for his magecraft, but when he returns, he will
compel me to wed. You have arrived none too soon, my
knight.”
“Well, why don’t you simply run away?” Matya asked.
Ciri gave her another chill look. “I fear it is not so simple.
You see, my uncle dabbles in the BLACK ARTS, heedless
of the peril to his soul. He has cast an enchantment upon
me. I am unable to leave the village. The banks of the
stream are as far as I may tread. Should I take but one step
beyond, I would perish.”
“But what of your father?” Trevarre asked. “Will he not
protect you from your barbarous uncle?”
Ciri shook her head sadly. “My father and mother both
died many years ago. There is no one here to protect me.
That was why I wove the boat of rushes and sent the doll
down the waters of the stream, hoping someone might find
it and hear my plea”
“How does the doll speak with your voice?” Matya
asked, not caring if she aroused more of Ciri’s displeasure.
“It was but the echo of my voice,” Ciri explained, her