Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (16 page)

“Oh,” Clare said, and Will looked at her curiously.

They lapsed into silence for a time again, listening to the birds flit and sing overhead. “You know,” Will finally said, “if there is anything I can do for you—anything at all—I'll do it. I'm in your debt.”

Clare laughed, and he noticed with no small measure of confusion that when she spoke, the strange inflection in her voice had vanished. “So knightly,” she chuckled.

Will grinned. “No knights in the Southlands, I'm afraid. Only the Westlanders have such lofty morals.”

“Regardless, there's really no need for that,” Clare replied, smiling shyly. “It's enough that you're taking me to Prado. And...and that you're helping me get revenge.”

Will smiled back at her. “Tell me about your family,” he said.

She stared at him for a moment, her face an unreadable mask. “They were very kind,” she finally said. “My father was a blacksmith. My mother helped him with his work. I did too, when I was little.” She looked away, staring into the depths of the fire. “She said to me once, 'Always follow your heart. Do what you want to do, even if people laugh at you for it.' She and my father were so proud when I became a soldier.” The memory brought the hint of a smile to Clare's lips. “People used to talk about her behind her back because she wouldn't act the part of a lady. Her hands were thick with calluses and she had the arms of a man from working a bellows all day. She never listened to any of those idiots, and once, when I beat another child for making fun of her, she beat
me
as punishment. Said that if I was going to hurt
people, I'd better have a damned good reason.”

She stood, still staring into the fire. “My father once put a group of beggar children to work for an entire day. They wanted food, and he gave it to them, but he made them earn it.” She looked at Will, and her face was glowing. “I was friends with them for...well, until the end.” She turned her gaze back to the fire, and Will saw tears glisten on her cheek. She wiped them away fiercely. “What about you? What's your story?”

“Well,” said Will, “mine is actually fairly boring.” He shrugged. “My parents were normal people, I guess. Hardworking. They were millers. I suppose that's the reason I became a mercenary—I got sick of being a miller.” He chuckled. “My father was always pushing me to leave and make something of myself, too. Apparently I did.”

“Where are they now?” Clare asked.

“Still back in Farenzo. Well, my mother is, anyway. Father died about...six years ago, I think. Old age.” Will looked up at Clare and gave her a half-smile. “The last thing he said to me was, 'You are going to change the world.'”

Grim suddenly began to snore, and both Will and Clare burst out laughing. “I guess we bored him to sleep,” Will said, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes.

“You know, I haven't talked about my family to anyone since they died,” Clare said suddenly, and she came to sit down on Grim's other side, facing Will. She scratched the warhound behind his ears and opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. “Thank you,” she finally said.

Will nodded silently and rubbed Grim's back. He chanced a glance at Clare, studying her from out of the corner of his eye.
Spirits above, but she's beautiful,
he thought, and
he looked at her again—studied the gentle curves of her lips and the slender lines of her face, the fierce edge to her expression that belied a softness underneath. He found, to his bewilderment, that he could not look away.

Eventually her emerald eyes rose to meet his. “What?” she asked with a tentative smile.

Will tore his gaze away and attempted to hide a smile of his own. “Sorry,” he said softly. “I was just daydreaming.” Beneath his hand, the massive warhound whined in its sleep. Will patted the beast gently. “Just daydreaming.”

Keth, after many long years, finally gave his gift to the world: death.

“Look at them,” he mused privately to himself. “They seem so unhappy down there—so disillusioned with life.” His travels around Pallamar had given him all the perspective he needed to make his decision.

And so it was that life became finite. Now all living things would eventually return from whence they came: the Void, that dark place of eternal beauty that spawned the Titans themselves. And Keth, his work finished, turned away with a smile.

But he did not see the first man to watch his child die from fever; he did not see the man's anguish, nor his confusion—not until it was too late.

~

They stayed in the clearing for four more days while Will slowly recovered his strength. It was infuriating being able to move around for only a short time before his strength gave out, and it was humiliating to have to have Clare do all of the heavy labor. Never before had he been so weak and helpless, and it made him feel angry and embarrassed and worthless all at the same time—especially when she and Grim were gone for long stretches and he was left alone wondering at their whereabouts.

On the first morning she had disappeared for what Will guessed to be nearly a belltoll, and he had worried she had gotten lost or hurt herself. She came back, of course. She had been to a creek a short way away, where Will realized she must have bathed. She seemed even more beautiful to him now without the sheen of traveler's filth, and on several occasions he caught himself staring at her. Before meeting Clare his thoughts of women had always been more of idle curiosity than anything, but now, to his surprise, he found himself fantasizing about how smooth her skin must be, and what it would feel like to run his fingers through her hair.

She caught him looking at her every so often, and their faces would turn red with embarrassment as Will snapped his head in the other direction. He was always unsure of what to say, having never before been interested in a woman enough to court her, and he desperately wished Castor were there to guide him through the process. Castor had a remarkable knack for charming women. He would know exactly what to do.

It was the work that was the worst, though; using his muscles was something he was good at. He would have been comfortable helping Clare with fetching the water or gathering sticks for firewood, and perhaps he might have found the courage somewhere along the way to tell her how beautiful she looked. But whenever he tried to get to his feet the strength in his leg gave out, and if he used his arm to do anything even remotely laborious an agonizing ache would form from the tips of his fingers all the way into his chest.

Clare didn't seem to mind, though. In fact, Will was sure it bothered him more than it did her—often, whilst in the throes of a foul mood, he would see her looking at him and trying unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh.

And somehow, that always managed to make him feel better.

The forest around them helped, too. It was a peaceful, quiet place, and Will was positive that he could not have chosen a better infirmary in which to let his wounds heal. Birds flitted over and around them with careless abandon, and their songs filled the air with scattered music that set the butterflies to dancing in the sunlight. The forest of birches occasionally gave way to the larger oaks that dominated the Pradian plains, and from among the branches and roots tiny mammals poked their inquisitive little heads to inspect the strange giants inhabiting their forest.

And when the sun set, they could see the stars and the waning moon through the circle of tree-tops; late at night, lying on the soft grass with their heads close together, Will pointed out the Southland
constellations to Clare, who had long ago left behind familiar skies.

“Bale-ro-fawn,” Clare said slowly, her mouth conforming awkwardly to the strange word. Will laughed.

“Better,” he said, “much better than the last one.”

“How is anybody supposed to pronounce...well, that word?” Clare harrumphed. “It's ridiculous. Only you Southland barbarians would come up with something like that.”

Will laughed even harder, wincing as his chest twinged. “Ku-tru-klainne,” he said slowly, sounding out the syllables. “It's Kutruklainne. And we didn't come up with it. It's some other culture's legend from a long time ago. The...Fae, I think? No, wait, Fae don't exist.” He chuckled to himself. “Spirits above, I've heard it before. I just need to remember it. Fael? Fen? Faellan? Bah, I can't remember.” He threw up his hands in mock frustration and turned with a grin to Clare, who lay beside him on her traveling cloak looking up at the stars. At least, she had been a moment ago. Now she was staring at him with a small smile that made his heart skip a beat.

“So tell me this Baelrofan's story,” she said, her eyes twinkling in the light from the last drowsy embers of their campfire. “Is he another Southland hero?”

“Soréllian, actually.” Will turned back to the sky, tracing the diamond constellation with his finger. “It's a very old story. I'm surprised you haven't heard it; we come from the same people, you know.”

“It may be that I have, only under a different name,” Clare said. “Nonetheless, I'd like to hear you tell it.”

Will smiled softly to himself. “Well,” he began, “apparently Baelrofan was born far to the south, beyond the border that leads to the Marshes. They say that's where Soréllia still is, but nobody's heard from them for...oh...four or five hundred years. Anyway, Baelrofan was a great warrior in the Soréllian emperor's army. They say he was so strong that he could smash a boulder with his bare hands, and so fast that not even the wind could catch him.

“Eventually the emperor asked him to fight in the north against whatever nation they were at war with. The Hairo, I think.”

“Haito,” Clare said softly.

“That's the one. Well, he was such a great warrior that the Haito couldn't beat him on any battlefield, so one night they sent nine assassins after him. He woke up before they could kill him, but they shot him with a poisoned dart that made him slow and stupid. He still managed to kill eight of them, though, and it was only as he was strangling the eighth to death that the ninth came up behind him and stuck a sword through his head. The ninth's name was—”

“Harohito,” said Clare.

He turned to look at her. “Who?”

“Harohito. We have the same legend in the Westlands, only the hero's name is Bartrand Sunfury. The assassin who killed him was Harohito.”

“Huh,” Will murmured. “Well, I was going to say 'Hiritoshi', but I guess it's close enough.” He grinned. “Funny how stories change so much over five hundred leagues.”

Clare chuckled. “Not even that. They tell the same stories all the way down to Herom, but they keep the Westland names.” For a moment she gazed silently up at the stars. Somewhere off in the forest a cricket began to chirp. “The Haito still exist, you know,” she finally said. “Far to the north along the Sickle Isles. Their version of the story is very, very different.”

“How so?” Will asked.

She smiled and half-turned to look at him. “Well, for one, Bartrand doesn't have a name. They just call him the Demon from the South. For another, it's a much sadder story.”

“Oh,” Will said quietly. “Have you ever met one of the Haito?”

“Once,” she said, her gaze turning back up to the night sky. “They don't leave the Isles very often, and for good reason, but on very, very rare occasions one will get adventurous and go as far down as Yoruku. I met one when he passed through Dahoto. Funny looking man. Father let him sleep in the
smithy for a night and he told me that story. I was very young.”

After a moment, when Will did not respond, she turned to look at him once more. “What?” she asked, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “It isn't polite to stare, you know.”

“I was just thinking about what an interesting life you must have led,” Will replied. “Haito, warhounds, soldiering—I bet you've met Northlanders, too.”

Clare stared at him, shadow hiding whatever expression her face might have had. “Interesting,” she finally said in a small voice that made Will's stomach plummet. Had he said something wrong? “That...is not exactly the word I would use to describe my life.” She rolled over on her side with her back to him. “Good night, Will,” she murmured. “Wake me if you need anything.”

He almost asked her if she was alright, but something stopped him. So instead he lay awake for a long, long time, his eyes locked on her back. Once, he thought he saw her body shaking as though she were crying. But the embers in the fire had long since died away, and he could not be sure.

~

“I can go get the water today,” Will said on the third morning. There was a creek a short distance away where they had been refilling the waterskin, and he was confident that he could make it there and back without collapsing. Well, mostly confident.

“No,” Clare said sternly. “Sit.” He had half-risen to his feet, using Grim for support; he was a massive beast and could easily hold Will's weight for at least a short while, though when Will had tried the same thing the day before Grim had thought he was trying to wrestle. That had been a painful learning experience for Will, and he had since—he hoped—taught the warhound to remain still.

When Will managed to get all the way to his feet—having avoided any new Grim-induced injuries—Clare stalked over to him angrily. She was only a few fingers shorter than Will, and she could cut an imposing figure when she had to. “I said sit!” Grim sat obediently, and Will had to stifle a bout of laughter. “This isn't funny!” Clare said. “You're going to hurt yourself.” Then she raised one fist menacingly and growled, “I'll kidney-shot you if I have to. Don't make me hurt a cripple.”

“Clare,” Will said, still trying unsuccessfully to keep his laughter at bay, “I need to do this. I've been sitting or lying down for three days. I'm going mad!” He threw his arms out for emphasis—a mistake, he realized, when the gesture caused him to lose his balance and topple backward, his wounded thigh giving out in a brief but spectacularly breathtaking flare of agony. Clare caught him, easily holding him up with one hand at his elbow and her other arm circling around his waist. He caught reflexively on to her shoulders, drawing her close in an attempt to regain his balance. Her scent filled his nose—was that lavender?—and suddenly all thoughts of helping vanished from his mind. He could feel her warm breath like a feather trailing across his cheek, tickling his skin. A strand of dark hair had fallen across her face, hiding one eye, and Will had to check the sudden urge to brush it back.

“I don't think you're going anywhere just yet,” she said after a moment, and Will blinked. He realized that they were still holding each other and let go quickly, embarrassed. She maintained her grip on him, however, which he found to be a rather pleasant sensation. “Can you stand?” she asked, and he nodded, unable to speak around his inexplicably dry mouth and cottony tongue. She released him slowly, and then moved a short distance away. “Don't fall,” she said with a half-smile. “I'm going to go find you a walking stick.”

Once she disappeared from view Will exhaled explosively. From his position on the ground, Grim gave him what could only be described as a knowing look, and Will raised his eyebrow. The warhound turned away a moment later, his massive tail thumping the ground rhythmically and his pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

Will had to admit to being rather confused. He had certainly found other women attractive—Katryna had always had a certain icy beauty, and Priscilla's sister Helena had the sort of home-grown natural beauty that one found so often in farmers' daughters and tavern maids—but his mind had always
viewed them with a sort of detached appreciation, almost as though he were viewing a particularly magnificent sculpture. Katryna's regular jabs at his apparent disinterest in women had left a painful mark, and he knew that the other Ravens found it odd when he refused to go wenching with them. He had tried once, a long time ago, to allay everyone else's fears that he had abnormal tastes, but had been unable to go through with it; so instead he had paid the whore to keep silent, and she had.

So why—why, why, why,
why—
did he all of a sudden find himself completely, unrelentingly attracted to this woman, a woman he had met only a few days prior?
I've just never found the right one,
he remembered saying to Castor and Katryna.
They just...don't feel right.

But
she
did. For some reason, Clare had the effect on him that no other woman before had been able to achieve. And he found that he rather liked the sensation. 

Clare came back several
tocks
later with a long, thick, gnarled oak branch. “This should work,” she said, and handed it to him.

Will took a few experimental steps, leaning most of his weight on the makeshift cane, and grinned. “Much better,” he said. “Thanks.”

The rest of the day progressed normally, though Will was able to hobble around the campsite and Clare allowed him to help with that evening's meal—she had stumbled upon a patch of wild cucumber that morning, and he boiled it along with some of the dried meat and a handful of wild mushrooms. After they had eaten, they sat around the fire as they had each night before and talked until the fire had burned down to its last embers and the waning moon had long since passed by overhead.