“She was,” he said, and he hadn’t meant to say that either. It was this place. Too much like home. “You’d better run along. Your mother will be wondering where you are.”
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” she said softly. Reaching out her hand, she touched his, clasped his fingers.
Her skin was smooth and soft, her hand strong. His fingers tightened over hers, he drew her hand closer, not thinking what he was doing. Only knowing that she was beautiful and she warmed some cold part of him.
“A little pain is good for us,” he said to her. “Reminds us we’re alive.”
She didn’t understand, but she was reassured by his manner, and left him. Haplo’s gaze followed her until the hungry, lonely ache inside him made him feel just a little bit too much alive for comfort.
Standing up, stretching in the warm sun, he went off to join the young warriors in the hunt.
The hunt was long, exciting, strenuous. Whatever beast it was—and Haplo never did catch the name—was cunning, vicious, and savage. The Patryn deliberately refused to use his magic. He found he enjoyed the hard, physical exertion, enjoyed pitting wits and muscle against an enemy.
The stalking and chasing lasted for hours, the kill itself, involving nets and spears, was tense and danger-edged. Several of the men were injured; one came close to being gored by the swordlike horn on top of the brutish head. Haplo flung himself on the young man, dragged him out of harm’s way. The horn grazed the Patryn’s skin but, protected as he was by the runes, did no true damage.
Haplo had never been in any danger, but the humans didn’t know that and acclaimed him the hero of the day. At the end of the hunt, when the young men returned, singing, to the camp, he enjoyed their comradeship, the feeling that he was, once again, one with a community.
This feeling wouldn’t last long. It never had in the Labyrinth. He was a Runner. He would grow restless and uneasy, chafe against walls only he could see. But for now, he permitted himself the pleasure.
“I’m building up their confidence in me, their trust.” That was his excuse. Pleasantly weary, he walked back to his hut, planning to lie down and rest before tonight’s feasting. “These men will follow me anywhere, now. Even to war against a far superior enemy.”
He lay on his pallet, the warm ache of fatigue relaxing his muscles and his mind. A unwelcome thought occurred to him— his lord’s instructions.
You are to be an observer. Take no action that might give yourself away as a Patryn. Do not alert the enemy to our presence.
But the Lord of the Nexus could not have foreseen that Haplo would run into Samah the Councillor. Samah, the Sartan who had imprisoned the Patryns in the Labyrinth. Samah, who had been responsible for the deaths, the sufferings, the torments endured by Haplo’s people through countless generations.
“When I return, it will be with Samah, and my lord will once again trust me and think of me as his son …”
Haplo must have fallen asleep, for he jerked awake, alarmed, aware of someone inside his hut with him. He reacted swiftly, instinctively, and startled Alake, who took an involuntary step or two back away from him.
“I’m . . . sorry,” muttered Haplo, seeing, by the lambent light of the campfires outside his hut, who it was. “I didn’t mean to jump at you. You took me by surprise, that’s all.”
“Never disturb the sleeping tiger,” said Alake. “So my father says. I called out and you answered, but you must have been dreaming. I’m sorry for waking you. I will leave . . .”
Yes, it had been a dream. Haplo was still trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart.
“No, don’t go.”
The dream lurked, on the fringes of his mind. He wasn’t anxious to let it get at him again.
“That smells good,” he said, sniffing at savory odors drifting on the soft night air.
“I brought you some food,” Alake said, gesturing outdoors. The Phondrans never ate inside the lodge, but always out in the Open—a sensible precaution, one that kept the dwellings clean and free of rodents. “You missed supper and I thought . . . that is, my mother thought . . . you might be hungry.”