guide him, unable to distinguish deep shadow from deepest shadow. He found the rustle of the undergrowth and the damp scent of the rich earth far more useful navigational tools this far from Lydia. King Garren’s fortress of Fier lay in the mountains ahead, less than an hour’s walk from this valley. It was dangerous territory, but Luke had an important mission.
Spring had left winter behind. The Mursia River churned with the melting mountain snowpack behind him. The sun rose ever earlier, fading distant shadows to light, its faint illumination enough for Luke to discern the outline of the rocky outcropping he sought.
Would she come today?
Luke found a smaller boulder and sat down to wait. He’d seen the mysterious pale-haired woman in these woods the week before, near this same rocky outcropping, but in his eagerness he’d moved toward her too quickly, crackling branches beneath his feet, startling her.
She’d run off, dropping her basket in her haste. Luke had left it where it lay and prayed she’d return for the basket and the early valerian roots she’d been harvesting.
At the thought of the woman, Luke remembered the scar high above his hip, from an injury that ought to have killed him. Even his brother, the renowned healer King John, had marveled that the lengthy gash hadn’t claimed his life.
The woman had saved his life after he’d been injured in battle, sewing his injury closed before he bled to death, keeping vigil through the night to be certain the wound stayed clean and free from infection.
Luke needed to thank her, to learn her name, to see her in the clear light of day. Her features haunted his dreams. She had a beautiful, sweet face. Young. Vibrant. Hair so pale it was nearly silver.
No one else knew anything about her. He’d asked the area villagers and the soldiers who scouted these borderlands with him, but they’d never seen her. Some suggested she wasn’t young or beautiful at all, but an old hag, her hair white with age, her features distorted by the delirium of his injury. Others claimed she didn’t even exist—that his feverish mind had imagined a woman when no one was there.
But Luke knew someone had stitched his wound closed. His memories were too deep to forget, though months had passed as he’d searched in vain to find her again. Driven by his quest, he’d traveled deeper into the forest—past the borders of Lydia—into enemy territory.
The week before, he’d caught a glimpse of her through the trees and had held his breath, watching in amazement, half convinced he’d imagined her.
When she didn’t evaporate with the mist as the sun warmed the day, he’d moved closer, so focused on reaching her he’d paid little attention to the path. She must have heard the sound of his approach. For one long moment she’d lifted her head from her work and studied the woods in his direction, her face in clear view.
Beautiful.
Not an old hag. Not an apparition. She’d run with feet fleet as a deer, disappearing in the direction of Illyria, beyond the Lydian border.
He’d returned every morning since then.
Today he waited. Prayed. Songbirds roused and trilled their morning melodies as the fog lifted, mist rising up the mountain to join the clouds and the pink light of dawn.
Luke sat still, silent. He could wait all day. He’d waited most of each day since the morning he’d seen her. It made no difference. With the treaty between the Roman Empire and Constantinople, peace in the borderlands became even more important. The emperor Charlemagne had pledged to fight for Lydia if the tiny kingdom went to war against the Illyrians again. The Byzantine empress Irene had vowed to counter, supporting her Illyrian territories.
If the two empires met in war across these rugged mountains, Lydia would be trampled. His people would suffer. When the walled Lydian city of Sardis had been besieged by Illyrian forces the previous fall, Luke had ridden out to battle beside his brother King John. Both of them had been prepared to die protecting their people.
By God’s grace, it hadn’t come to that. Rab the Raider, who’d deceitfully killed Luke’s father, King Theodoric, was himself killed by his own half brother, Warrick. In the wake of the battle, Lydia, backed by Charlemagne, had forged a peace treaty with Irene of Constantinople. By those terms, the Illyrians were required to give back all the borderlands Rab the Raider had taken from Lydia.
Luke would never forget the horrors of war. He’d seen enough of battle. To keep the peace, he and his fellow soldiers roamed these lands, always alert for any activity that would indicate the Illyrians weren’t keeping their side of the treaty.
So sitting on a boulder in the forest of the foothills fit perfectly within the mission his brother had tasked him with. His job was to watch the border. The rocky outcropping was part of that border. And so he sat patiently, waiting.
A tiny wren perched somewhere above him, its song cheerful and long-winded. Suddenly the bird stopped singing.
Luke sat up straight, gripping his bow with one hand, an arrow ready. Something had startled the bird. Wolves, who prowled at night, would have returned to their dens long before this hour, but bears were common in these foothills and active at this time of day. Lynx and wildcats weren’t uncommon, though bears were a bigger threat this close to the mountains.
The wren sounded a few questioning notes, testing the air, uncertain. It fluttered to deeper cover.
Leaves rustled near the boulder. Luke could hear the sound, but whatever stirred the foliage lay on the other side of the rocks, out of sight.
Long minutes crept by as Luke pondered his next move. It could be a wild boar nosing about for mushrooms among the fallen logs. The hefty horned animals had thick hides and could run surprisingly fast. It was dangerous to meet one alone. One arrow was hardly ever enough to bring down a boar. Yet who could string a second arrow before the speedy animal struck?
The wren began to sing again, tentatively at first but gaining confidence as it continued. Luke hadn’t heard any grunting. Boars grunted. Maybe it wasn’t a boar on the other side of the rocks, then. Could it be an Illyrian war scout? Prior to the battle the previous fall, the Illyrians had been active in the area. If Luke saw their men venturing this far into Lydian territory, he’d alert his men and King John and intervene before the Illyrians could strike.
He prayed the Illyrians had better sense than to venture into Lydian territory again.
Slowly, soundlessly, Luke eased to his feet, creeping up the craggy incline where the rocks provided silent footholds. He’d be able to see better from higher ground. Besides, if the woman had returned, Luke realized he ought to try to get in between her and the route by which she’d escaped the week before. That way, if he startled her, she’d run toward him instead of away.
The wren’s song grew more exuberant. Luke smiled at the sound. The song was a happy one, but more than that, it helped to drown out any noise Luke might make as he crept around the outcropping, pausing frequently, listening, waiting.
The rustling sound continued. Rocks overhung the spot from which the sound emanated, blocking the source from Luke’s view. He paused, wishing the creature would back away far enough for him to see it, but other than the constant rustling, it made no move.
Below him the rocks gave way like a cliff. Luke weighed his options. If he dropped to the ground here, he’d almost certainly spook the creature. If it was a boar or a bear, it might charge him. If it was the woman, she might easily run away. He wanted neither of those
