Bride of Mist (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #3) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,14
grew light. The stars slowly dissolved. Like a woad-dyed kirtle that softened with each washing, the heavens faded from indigo to azure to cerulean as the sun cast its light on the waking world.
Feiyan could no longer rely on the shadows and the mist for cover. She drew up the green hood to conceal her hair and masked the lower part of her face, leaving a slit for her eyes, rendering her imperceptible.
The day brought a new camouflage of sound. Larks and sparrows twittered madly for mates. Woodpeckers knocked at oak trees. Families of quail and scampering coneys skittered through the leaf-fall. Squirrels and crows scolded one another from the branches.
It was midday when the man turned from the path, taking a winding deer trail that led down to the river. Here the water rushed past at great speed, frothing over rocks and coiling into deep currents along the shore. As Feiyan took cover in the rushes, the whisper and roar thankfully disguised the rumbling in her belly.
In her haste to escape, she’d been forced to leave behind the last of her food. Now she was beginning to feel pangs of hunger.
He must have been hungry as well. Making his way along the edge of the riverbank, he located a large boulder where an eddy swirled above a dark and shady pool. It was a perfect spot for trout.
He broke a long, finger-thick branch from an alder and used his dagger to strip off the twigs. Tying together several fibrous reeds, he made a fishing line. One end he tied to the pole. To the other, he attached a hook he carved out of wood. Then he dug in the mud until he found a lively earthworm to use for bait.
After that, he stood on the bank for a long while, dribbling his line into the water while Feiyan quietly climbed a nearby oak to observe.
From her perch on the oak limb, she could study every detail of his appearance, every nuance of his movement, every expression in his face. She hoped to work up a good loathing for the man so that killing him would be easy.
But as she watched him, it was difficult to imagine him as the demon who had charged through her clansmen. While he had the size and strength of the man who’d tried to single-handedly cut down an entire company of knights, his behavior as he fished was far different. Peaceful. Measured. Coaxing. Patient.
She studied his clothing. Somewhere along the way, he’d discarded his armor, his shield, and his helm. What remained was practical, but well-made, not at all the attire she’d expect of a feral madman.
His boots were of finely tooled black leather. His jeweled dagger was tucked into a sheath secured with a leather tie around his waist. His quilted black gambeson fit him closely, hugging his broad chest and clinging to his hips, split at the legs and extending just past his knees. Beneath his gambeson, the loose folds of a muted black-and-grey plaid hung nearly to the ground. And knotted around it all, to her exasperation, was her own sword belt and her precious shoudao.
His gaze was pensive as he stared into the water. Occasionally his brow would crease and his eyes would dim. Was he feeling the weight of guilt for what he’d done? Or only wishing something would nibble at his line?
She wished something would nibble at his line. She intended to let him land a nice, fat trout before she dispatched him and stole his supper.
A half hour later, he still hadn’t caught anything and decided to change his strategy. He stepped onto the boulder to attack the pool from a different angle.
Feiyan settled back against the trunk of the oak. Now she had an even clearer view of him as he hunkered down atop the rock with the sun shining on his face.
She tried to force his countenance into that of a villain.
The locks slashing across his neck and falling in reckless tangles over his brow were as black as sin. His hollow cheeks and square chin were grave-grim. His nose was sharp, like a reaper’s scythe. His brow was as dark as death. His eyes reminded her of a deep loch—bright and blue on the surface, with murky and menacing currents beneath. When he’d spoken before, his lips had twisted into a wry, wicked curve. And his voice with its slight Highland cadence had rolled out like thunder, low and threatening.