She had shed no tears for him, but that was only because tears were such a cowardly way to grieve. First one sought vengeance, and then, long years later, when all ledgers were balanced, one could wallow in sorrow. The master’s voice still echoed in her head, screaming; she could not quiet the sound. She had felt him die, felt his agony and, worse, his absolute panic in that final moment when he had realized that there was no way out, that he had finally met a force with which he could not strike a deal. She had been taking on his pain her whole life, ever since they were children; the effort had turned her white.
She straightened from the stream and turned east again, seeking her quarry. She did not use her sense of smell, not precisely; rather, it felt as though she were cutting through distance, wading through thousands of people, all their myriad feelings like muddy water, until she found exactly what she sought. This particular gift had been quite useful to the master, for whenever someone tried to flee the shipment, there was no way to hide from the tracker inside Brenna’s head. It was a powerful skill, and when she was young, the Caden had tried more than once to acquire her, to cleave her from the master. She had killed three of them before they finally gave up. Last year, they had tried again; several of them had come to the master, requesting a temporary loan of her services to find the Raleigh heir. But they would not pay what the master demanded.
If they had only paid! Brenna thought fiercely. This particular path was one that her thoughts had trodden many times before, but it grew no less bitter, no less urgent. If they had only paid, perhaps the master would still be alive!
She turned her face into the wind, sensing its movement on her tongue. The bitch was out there still, but no longer moving. Now she was in a cold, dark room. Brenna tested the walls, tasted them on her tongue, and found them to be thick stone.
“Imprisoned, are you?” she whispered. She could not be sure, but she fancied the bitch could hear her. There was power in her, great power; Brenna could sense it even now, distant and faint, just as she’d always been able to sense the force up in the Fairwitch. She had briefly considered turning her steps northward on this journey, traveling up to the mountains and seeking assistance. Whatever was up there was powerful, for certain; Brenna felt its pull beneath her feet. But there was some sort of upheaval going on in the Fairwitch now, and she could sense the lines of force that had always underlain the Tearling beginning to shift. Too uncertain, and she wanted no distractions. She had food enough to get her to the Mort border, and really, she needed very little to sustain her. Rage was more nourishing than food.
But if the bitch was in the Demesne dungeons, she might be beyond even Brenna’s reach. It would serve the master nothing if Brenna died trying to get into the Palais. There must be another way.
After another moment’s thought, Brenna began to look around the woods. Most of the animals had fled at her approach, but they were beginning to creep out again, now that she was still. A few minutes’ searching found her a grey squirrel, peeping out from behind a tree. She was on it before it could blink. The squirrel bit and tore at her, but Brenna ignored the sting—pain was only a trick of the mind, after all—and wrung its neck. Pulling out the dead man’s knife, she slit the squirrel from throat to belly, allowing the blood to drip and puddle on the ground. She had to be quick. Blood would bring other predators, and they might attract a hunter. She could deal with such a person, but had no wish to leave a trail behind. She was free now, yes, but the master had often told her never to underestimate the Mace.
Tossing the squirrel aside, she bent to the small puddle of blood, taking a deep copper breath. Knowing where someone was, that was easy. Finding out where they were going to be was more difficult, but it could be done, and probably far more easily than getting into the Mort dungeons on her own.
What if she dies there?
Brenna refused to consider that idea. The bitch’s death in Mort custody would not be pretty, but it would be a holiday compared to what Brenna had in mind. Brenna had suffered, the master had suffered, and she did not believe the future would rob them of revenge.
She remained very still, staring into the scarlet puddle for a long time, her eyes wide, each breath a hiss of pain. A quarter of a mile away, on the Mort Road, traffic continued, an exodus of wagons and riders heading east, refugees from New London returning to their homes on the border. None saw Brenna, but all of them shuddered as they passed, as though they had hit a pocket of freezing cold.
Brenna finally straightened, smiling. A further hint of color had come back into her cheeks. She grabbed the bloody knife and the bag of food, then turned her steps southeast.