Smolder (Crown of Fae #3) - Sharon Ashwood Page 0,22
Leena’s. Silently, Leena poured water from her flask into the bowl that had held her dinner of rice and beans. She pushed the bowl Kifi’s way. Immediately, Kifi lapped noisily until the water was gone and then lifted her head. “Your chances are greatly improved if I am with you.”
“I’ll worry about you the entire time,” Leena protested.
Kifi gave a bone-cracking stretch before flopping into an elegant sprawl. “I’m a friend. I think you need one.”
An ache formed in Leena’s throat. “How can a junior temple cat help me battle the Shades?”
“Your prince is missing his bird. Cats are all about catching birds.”
“I spoke to him. He knows nothing about the phoenix. Maybe you’re wrong.”
“Unlikely,” Kifi sniffed.
“You said this one was as big as a dragon and spouting flames. Remembering it would hardly be an issue.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Explain.”
“Memory, stories, and history itself are all surprisingly fragile.” Kifi’s scholarly tone said this was the collective wisdom of the temple cats. “A severe wound often erases a patient’s recollection of events.”
As a healer, Leena was well aware of that. “But other people remind them of important facts, like big burning birds.”
“Morran is isolated from his own soldiers. He could be manipulated.”
“Maybe, but…”
“Familiars often carry the memory of their masters. They’re typically more objective observers.”
“But where did the familiar go?” Leena asked in frustration. “If it flew away, how do we get it back?”
“Catching a phoenix won’t be simple,” Kifi said with a flick of the tail. “Mice are a matter of patience. With birds, technique is everything.”
The conversation ended as the wagon jolted to a halt. Kifi sat up, ears cocked forward and whiskers at attention.
Leena listened. Sergeants shouted orders up and down the line, growing easier to hear as the creak of wheels and clomping of feet gradually stilled. She pushed the canvas apart just far enough to peer out. A wave of cooler air caressed her face. The angle of the sun was dropping, indicating that dusk wasn’t far behind.
Someone in a black-and-gold uniform was walking beside the wagon train, clearly on a mission. Leena dropped the canvas, then shrank back inside the wagon. She had no illusions of safety. To a large extent, survival would depend on staying out of sight.
Footfalls approached, sand and gravel crunching beneath leather soles. Then they stopped. The canvas cover wavered as someone searched for the opening.
Kifi dove for cover, her dark fur vanishing in a shadowy corner of the wagon. Pulse pounding, Leena grabbed the scarf she’d been wearing, draping the painted silk around her like a veil. Then she shrugged on her shawl to hide her form. Her palms were slippery with sweat as she searched for her belt knife.
Gloved hands parted the fabric. Feet scuffled, and the head and shoulders of a guard pushed through the opening. Leena glimpsed Fionn’s profile and quickly turned away, pretending to hunt for something in her bundle of belongings. Why was he at her wagon?
More importantly, why was every instinct telling her to hide from her brother? Hadn’t she come here to rescue him?
Her mind swung back to their last encounter, so full of anger. Now that he was here, doubt froze her tongue. This would have been easier if she already had a cure in hand.
“We’re setting up for tonight,” Fionn said. “The general orders you to dance.”
Although it was Fionn’s voice, the harsh, abrupt tone didn’t sound like him. It chilled Leena, but she remained where she was, her back to him. Her only response was a graceful nod.
“Look at me when I speak,” Fionn ordered. “Demonstrate some respect.”
Slowly, Leena turned toward him, mind racing.
“Show your face,” he snapped.
“I am a dancer of the Flame, here for the general,” she said in an icy tone that usually worked on troublesome clients. “I will not subject myself to the common gaze.”
He gave a bark of laughter that held no warmth. “Then avoid the looking glass, sister.”
Leena’s breath caught. The game was up.
Fionn climbed in, letting the canvas drop behind him. He was as handsome as ever, but he seemed older, the lines of his face harder. Pulling aside her veil, Leena took in the black-and-gold tabard he wore over a long-sleeved black tunic. A longsword was strapped to his back, along with an expensive-looking knife at his belt. Fionn could never have afforded the weapons or uniform on his own, which meant someone with money had sponsored him. Someone had turned him into a traitor. Had it been Juradoc himself?