London Pepper had caught trying to get sap from tangler vines almost two weeks earlier.
Tarragon had been spying on the seed herald then, and had watched the brutal executions of the men. He’d had nightmares about it for days afterward.
Moonlight pooled in a depression in the land before him. There, at its outermost corner, was a footprint. He knew the footprint was fresh. On his knees now, hypnotized by the promise the imprint held, he shoved his bare palm against the muddy footprint, seeking his gift.
There was a feeling, like the tumblers of a lock dropping into place, and he knew more. The print had been I made by a big man almost three hours earlier. Surely no more than five. He and his party had gone west, southwest. The man had seen the butchered bodies hanging from the ropes, and he hadn’t approved.
For now, it was enough for Tarragon. He stood and broke into a full run as two quarrels from crossbows hit the ground near his feet. He pushed his way through the hanging bodies, hoping the movement would create more problems for the archers.
Tarragon ran, ignoring the pain in his side and pushing himself past it. Only when he’d put a hundred yards between himself and the clearing did he look back.
A circle of lanterns had formed around the pocket of melting water he’d seen. The men held their lights close, panning over the area. They’d seen the footprint, as well. Tarragon watched Pepper, knowing the other seed heralds would take their lead from him.
Bathed in the glow from the lanterns, standing with smaller men, Pepper looked like one of the old gods come to life. He was almost an ax handle broad at the shoulders, with a lean physique. His long blond hair hung down his back in a ponytail, and he wore a full beard and mustache.
There was no mistaking the way Pepper pointed in the direction he wanted to go. After only a little hesitation, the others followed, except for two men who stayed with Bean’s body beyond the clearing.
Tarragon sincerely hoped they would take Bean back to the thorpe so his family could mourn for him properly, Marjoram would be deeply affected; Bean had been his only child, and the first of his generation to have been born of man.
With his face to the west, Tarragon felt the connection between himself and the man who left the footprint strengthen. It was so intense, he felt if he squinted his eyes just right, he might be able to see the line of power that ran between them.
He didn’t know what he would do when he found the man. He’d only intended to try to use the raiding party he thought was from New London as a means of dissuading Pepper and the other seed heralds to break off pursuit.
Now he wasn’t so sure. The man had a destiny that was going to intersect with the future of Wildroot at the Time of the Great Uprooting.
Tarragon just knew it.
Chapter Twelve
Ryan woke after four hours of sleep. Natural light filled the cave. Even with the uninterrupted sleep, his body felt drained and stiff.
Before opening his eye, he explored the cave with his other senses. Being temporarily blind not so long ago had reiterated how important those senses were.
There was a tang of something citrusy in the air that didn’t belong to the pines outside the cave. He figured it was from one of the self-heats that had come with a dessert side. Logs crackled on the fire, and smoke burned his nasal passages. The blankets were smooth against his skin, and not as cool as they’d been during the night, but he was aware of the empty space where Krysty had been.
A foot scraped across the rough floor.
Automatically Ryan’s hand curled around the blaster under the jacket he’d used as a pillow during the night. He brought it out and opened his eye.
“Me, lover.” Krysty stood on the other side of the cave.
No one else was in the cave.
Ryan flipped the blaster’s safety back on. “Morning.”