He had slowed his run as he approached but there was a look of fury in his eyes that made her quail. His shirt was in tatters as was his cloak. Both hardly looked like garments made by men. The muscles beneath his shirt were bulging with the effort of his pursuit, but he did not look winded. Not at all.
“Please!” she begged, trying to look him in the eye. The moonlight was not enough. She knew it would not be.
The Kishion drew his blade, his mouth twisting with fury.
She was going to die. He was going to kill her.
“I warned you not to run from me,” he said in a seething voice. “There is nowhere you can run that I cannot find you. Nowhere!” The pent-up rage in his voice exploded.
Phae quailed. “I’m sorry!”
He was standing over her, dagger poised in his grip. Every part of him felt dangerous and threatening. His tattered clothes rippled in the night breeze. “I should kill you now. Do you know how easy it would be? I could stop this chase and return back alone. I kill. That is what I do. I know a hundred ways. And you, a foolish girl from Stonehollow, thought you could just run away from me.” His voice throbbed with menace.
“Please don’t,” she whispered hoarsely.
She saw the muscles in his arm tighten so hard they started to tremble. Then he crouched in front of her, the cowl shadowing his face. “Why not? You are a threat to the Arch-Rike. I could end it now. Do you understand me? I do not have to bring you back alive.”
Her heart filled with pure dread. He was trained to kill. She knelt silently, wishing for a stray bit of moonlight to expose his eyes.
Suddenly, he jerked her wrist and spun her face first to the ground, pushing her bloody cheek to the hissing grass. His knee fixed on her side, and she felt the dagger tip press against her back. His breath brushed her ear.
“I warned you once. I won’t do it again. Do not run from me. Do not stray from my side unless I bid you to. Do you understand me, girl?”
Sobbing in pain and terror, Phae nodded emphatically. She clutched her wounded ear, feeling the blood dribble through her fingers. The fear and suspense were horrible. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she whimpered. “I won’t leave…I won’t ever leave your side. I promise.”
When she said those words, something flickered inside her. A premonition of dread.
“The ancients were truly wise. I have read on a fraying leather parchment with faded ink what was undoubtedly a copy itself the following line: People are swayed more by fear than by reverence. It led me to ask myself—what is fear? It takes many forms. It holds sway in all of us. Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil. That is my opinion.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Trasen walked all night long, reaching the Winemiller vineyard before dawn. His eyes were puffy and dry and his left arm and wrist still throbbed from the violent way the stranger had subdued him. He had tracked Phae and her pursuer into the woods quite a distance before realizing it was utter foolishness to continue with that plan. The man had taken an arrow shaft in the chest and it had not even penetrated him. It would require cunning and speed to rescue Phae. Even better—a horse.
As he marched through the aisles of grapevines, he approached the barn from the rear and pushed open the door. He hesitated waking the family, but realized he should lest they worry about a missing stallion. Leaving his dusty pack on the dirt by the barn door, he crossed to the main door and tested it. The bolt was drawn.
Each moment of delay made his heart race with dread and worry. Phae was out in the wilderness alone, hunted by a servant of the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. He did not believe she could avoid capture permanently and so he assumed she was already apprehended and bound for the island city with a dangerous man. A spasm of pain went through his heart, wondering how she was being treated. He would have given his own life to separate her from that man. Clenching his jaw, he pounded his fist on the door and then sagged against it, resting his forehead on his arm and swallowing tears. Phae—where was she at that moment? Was she terrified? Was she injured? Was she even alive? The thought of losing her was pure torment.
Footsteps tread cautiously beyond the door. “Master Winemiller?” It was Tate’s voice.
“It’s Trasen,” he answered. “Open the door, Tate.”
The bolt jostled and he saw the youth’s flushed—and relieved—face. “You are back too soon.” He looked out at the darkened porch. “Where is Phae?”
Trasen couldn’t bring himself to reveal it yet. The loss was too painful. “Where is Master Winemiller?”