“I was remembering crushing grapes into wine after the harvest. Have you ever done that?”
He examined her other foot carefully and then nodded, satisfied. “I don’t believe so. I have no memories from my childhood. But I enjoy the taste of Stonehollow wine. I wonder if I’ve ever drunk a cup crushed by these feet?” He squeezed her foot with just the hint of a teasing smile.
She felt a little flush rise to her cheeks. “Well, it may be. I don’t know that any of our wine ever made it to Kenatos, but I can tell you that Dame Winemiller made us all wash our feet very thoroughly before standing in the vats.” The memory was sweet but painful. The thought of never seeing Dame Winemiller again brought a lump to her throat.
“Cherish the memory,” he said softly. “Even though it brings you pain. I would give anything to have mine back. I learned that recently . . . from a girl. I believe her.”
She looked into his calm blue eyes, not seeing the menace or the danger there, but a thoughtful, caring man. His moods were mercurial. She wished there was a way she could keep him less dangerous more often.
“Thank you for treating my blister,” she said, smiling at him. “There is something about this place.” She stared up at the gaunt stone walls. “It has no memories. I pity it.”
“It is your Dryad nature speaking to you. You live to preserve memories. Even the painful ones.”
“Even the painful ones.” As she stared at him, she realized that in order to restore his memories, after she gained access to her full powers, she would need to kiss him. The thought wasn’t all that terrible in that moment.
“I can hear something coming, but I cannot see what it is,” Khiara said. “It’s coming down the road we arrived on.”
“Prepare to depart,” Tyrus announced. “Gather your bedrolls. Dawn will shortly arrive. Paedrin, can you determine if it is a threat? Report back quickly.”
“I will, Tyrus.” The Bhikhu gripped the pommel of the sword and rose into the air, flying away from their small camp at the edge of the city. Phae shook out her cloak before fastening it around her neck. Only the Vaettir could hear the trouble coming clearly, but she was just beginning to as well with the sound coming down the canyon wall. It was like the lumbering of a great beast.
They cleared the camp quickly after everyone rose, watching the pale orange of the dawn start to blush in the sky. Phae slapped the dust from her clothes and watched as Shion scanned the Bhikhu floating up toward the road. He seemed to hang, poised, and then came swooping down like a hawk, landing in front of Tyrus.
“It’s no animal I have ever seen before,” Paedrin said, much to everyone’s amazement. “It is tall, like a horse, and has long legs with flat feet. There are these strange humps in its back and it has a long neck. There’s a rider on its back, swathed in many drapes, but the face and head are covered. A single rider. The beast has a saddle of some kind and something to hold up a covering against the sun. It is strange to see, Tyrus. But only one of them comes.”
“An emissary from the Empress?” Aransetis suggested.
“It would seem so,” Tyrus answered. “One man or beast does not prove a threat. Perhaps the Empress wishes to treat with us.”
“Or one of her bodyguards,” Baylen said.
“I won’t fear one man,” Tyrus said. “We’ll hear him out.”
Phae waited with suspense as the masked rider slowly approached. They could all hear him now, the thud of the heavy, padded feet, the snort and grunts of the strange animal. Phae had never known its kind before and saw it perpetually chewing, like a cow. On its humped back crouched a rag-wearing rider, face and arms covered, swathed in tattered garments. The beast he rode was cream-colored with cute little ears on each side. It was a strangely beautiful animal.
The beast lumbered up the trail, approaching Tyrus’s camp arduously, clearly in no great hurry. It approached and the rider gave a single command—“Hup”—and the beast slowly lowered itself on all four knees. The rider swayed slightly on the saddle.
Phae studied him carefully, looking for any sign of threat. She edged closer to Shion, who positioned himself in front of her. The man was breathing heavily, clearly winded and worn out with fatigue.
“Who are you?” Tyrus asked in a firm voice.
The rider slowly swung one of his legs around the beast’s neck and slid off the slope to land unsteadily on the ground.
“He’s sick,” Kiranrao said in a low voice. “He may have the Plague. Don’t let him near us.”
Tyrus nodded curtly. “Stand there, friend. If you are a friend. Do you speak Aeduan?”