Pathil pulled a small, round table near the fire, then set about carefully unwrapping layers of thin cloth from two fist-sized rounds of some pale white substance marbled with darker streaks. Using a wicked looking dagger, he sliced the rounds into wedges, releasing a pleasing aroma. Leitos hoped whatever it was Pathil was preparing was food.
Zera tore the loaf into four pieces and passed them around. Leitos was surprised that she gave him the largest portion, and thought to thank her. But then she was moving away with such indifference that he guessed there had been more happenstance in her gift than compassion. Pathil plopped into his chair and proceeded to fling the pale wedges to the others.
Leitos caught his, momentarily juggling it with his share of bread. He sniffed at the firm but yielding substance, and saliva filled his mouth. He looked up, found the others eyeing him, and his eyebrows raised in question.
“Cheese, boy,” the Hunter grumbled. “You eat it.”
Leitos took a tentative bite. It was smooth on his tongue, and the sharp flavor nearly overwhelmed him. He took a nibble of bread to keep from drooling. In moments, he had gobbled both handfuls.
“You have never tasted cheese?” Zera asked, then shook her head and answered her own question. “Of course not. You are a slave.”
Instead of eating her share, she handed it to Leitos. He mumbled a thanks, unable to hold her gaze. Not that she seemed to care. She wheeled away, snatched up another wedge of cheese, and sat down. Even watching Zera eat with small, dainty bites drove Leitos into a baffling state of pleasurable unease. He concentrated on making his second course disappear.
He avoided licking his fingers, but only because Zera was looking at him again, even as she pulled the cork stopper from the fat skin Leitos had seen earlier. She directed a stream of dark red liquid past her parted lips. A little dribbled over the rounded point of her chin, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. The Hunter took the offered skin with a cautious gleam in his eyes.
“Even if the wine is poisoned,” she laughed, “I am sure you took the proper measures to survive.”
The Hunter grunted, took a long drink, and sighed with pleasure. He handed the skin to Leitos, but as he took it, Zera gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head.
What do I do? He thought in alarm, holding the skin halfway to his lips. As his hesitation grew, so did his nervousness.
“Well, don’t just sit there, drink up,” the Hunter chided.
“It won’t hurt you,” Pathil said, his tone lighter but no less biting.
Leitos darted a look at Zera, but she sat motionless across the fire from him, its flames dancing in her placid gaze. Had she sent him a message of caution, or had he imagined it?
He swallowed, brought the wineskin to his lips, then jerked back, nose wrinkling. His reaction was partly an act, true, but for some reason he had expected a sweet aroma. He all but flung the skin at Pathil, who caught it with an oath condemning Leitos’s clumsiness, then proceeded to drain half the contents into his mouth. Zera’s eyes narrowed briefly at Leitos, then her face cleared, and she laughed with the men.
Leitos reclined in his chair, glad his belly was full of something besides the usual lizards, snakes, and scrawny desert hares the Hunter had provided on their southward trek. He feigned sleepiness, but he puzzled over Zera’s subtle warning.
Finding no answers, he eventually became drowsy, and the others spoke in low tones. On the morrow or the next, he thought, slipping into a welcome slumber, they will go their way, and I will be able to kill the Hunter….
His eyes flew open seemingly moments later at the pressure of a hand clamped over his mouth. Zera’s face loomed before his, her emerald gaze bright with urgency. “Time to go, boy,” she whispered harshly.
Chapter 13
When Leitos nodded, Zera moved away. The fire had died down, proving he had been asleep at least an hour or two.
Eyes slitted, Pathil sprawled half-in, half-out of his chair, a line of spittle hanging from his bottom lip to his chest. He seemed all too aware of what was happening, but was unable to control his limbs. Sandros fared a little better. One arm slowly stretched out, fingers clutching as if to catch hold of Zera’s throat. He mumbled unintelligibly, but Leitos heard the venom in his voice. The Hunter swallowed audibly, then managed, “Treacherous … whore.”
Zera laughed caustically. “By this time tomorrow or the next day, the effects of the poison I put in the wine will wear off, and you two will be as hale as ever.”
She dismissed Sandros and faced Leitos. No kindness shone in her stare. “You will stay at my side, boy. Fail that, and I will leash you. Understood?”
Leitos nodded slowly, having barely heard her. All he could think about was that he had to kill his captor to gain his freedom … and now that meant killing Zera. He had been able to envision crushing Sandros’s head with a rock, just barely, but not Zera. He wanted to scream in outrage at the unfairness.
“Carry this,” Zera said, thrusting the Hunter’s satchel into Leitos’s arms. Like her own, it was filled to bursting with supplies.
Sandros rasped, “I … will … find you.”
Before he could say more, Zera turned and smashed her fist against the big man’s jaw. He flew out of his chair and sprawled in the dust. Anything else he might have said was lost amid a sighing groan. Leitos stared, incredulous that she could have so easily crushed the consciousness from a veritable mountain of a man.
Zera pulled a length of cord from her satchel and tied Sandros’s hands behind his back tight enough to deeply crease his skin, then bound his ankles to his wrists. She did the same to an unresisting Pathil, then caught Leitos by the back of the neck and shoved him ahead of her. Pathil’s groggy laughter chased them from the decaying palace.
Out of doors, a faint gray line brightened the eastern sky above shattered rooftops, but stubborn shadows pressed down upon the ruins of the bone-town, refusing to surrender their dominion. Zera struck out to the south at a brisk pace. Imagining a short tether tight about his neck, Leitos stayed no more than a pace behind her, frantically wondering how he was going to get away from her.
“Why did you spare them?” Leitos asked abruptly, thinking to learn all he could about her convictions in as short a time as possible-anything that might aid his escape. She glared at him, and for a moment he was certain she meant to crack his skull.
“Hunters do not slay Hunters,” she said, her voice filled more with anxiety than anger. A moment later she amended that claim. “Except Sandros who, some say, has killed many of his brethren. Such may be lies, but he has never denied it. That is why the Alon’mahk’lar favor him. Another reason is because he hates men even more than the Sons of the Fallen. The stalking wolves of the Faceless One reward and nurture such hatred among their servants,” she finished, as if she herself was not a stalking wolf of the Alon’mahk’lar.
Leitos waited for her to add anything, but she kept quiet. With his mind awhirl at the sudden change of events, he could not think of anything else to ask. They strode along in silence until passing the southern gate. Zera halted there, looked in all directions, then took a thick bundle of cloth from her satchel.
“Wear this,” she said, tossing him a cloak. “It will keep the coming sun off your northern skin better than those rags Sandros gave you.”
He drew on the hooded cloak. It fit his small frame like a long robe. “Pathil will not miss it,” Zera said, running a critical eye over his attire. Locking on his bare feet, she dug through her satchel again and produced another bundle. “They are mine, but should fit you well enough.”