Chapter Three
The Northern Woods
Leighfeld
* * *
Elara took an instinctive step back. Her hand brushed the rough bark of an oak beside her as her heart quickened at the sight of the man in front of her.
He stopped at once, hands open at his sides, as if to show he meant no harm.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, his voice firm as he tossed his hood back.
She studied him carefully, her gaze sweeping over him the way she might assess an unknown plant—slowly, searching for what was hidden beneath the surface.
His cloak was dark, spattered with mud and frayed at the hem, the fabric too fine for a common wanderer, too worn for a soldier. One side was thrown back off one shoulder, and she was able to see he wore a mix of brown cloth and leather, frayed in spots. Dark leather boots, scuffed and worn, rose to his knees. Even in the dim light she could see he was no villager. He was tall, a head and more above her, broad-shouldered, his frame lean, but taut with muscles, travel-worn, and watching her with such intense gray eyes that she swore he could see deep inside her.
The light that filtered through the trees caught the line of a jaw rough with scruff from a day or two’s growth and the faint scar that curved from his left brow to his temple.
His eyes remained on hers, waiting.
“Do not trouble me, sir, I am on an errand and will meet with friends just up ahead,” she said, to dissuade him from harming her.
“Wise to tell me such a tale, but no one waits ahead for you.”
He didn’t even glance over his shoulder to make sure he was that confident.
She stared at him, not sure what to do. He could be a thief, though he would have attempted to rob her by now. If he was a seeker, he would be asking her endless questions, searching for answers. And worst of all if he was a mercenary, her fate would be sealed. Or could he be a wanderer?—
“You wonder who this stranger is who stands before you,” he said, cutting through her thoughts.
She eyed him suspiciously. It was a reasonable assumption or he was astute.
“Aye, I am,” she said cautiously.
He gave a slight bow before saying, “I am a wanderer.”
A wanderer. One of the lost ones who moved between villages, trading labor or stories for a meal. A few had passed through Birkfell, harmless people who vanished as easily as they came. Yet there was nothing harmless about this man. He looked more like a warrior than a wanderer.
“Then I shall not keep you,” she said, expecting, hoping, he would simply step aside and let her pass.
He tilted his head. “I assume you are a healer hiding from the Hunters with the way you watched the village through the trees.”
Her eyes shot wide and worry turned her stomach. He had seen her and followed her. What did he want with her? Would he turn her over to the Hunters for coins?
His hand went up. “I wish you no harm. I enjoy my freedom and would not deprive another of it.”
She did not know what to make of him. He could speak truthfully or could tell tales as wanderers were known to do. And she did not have the time to find out. She had to get to Thornleigh.
She hesitated, fingers tightening around her cloak. “I am an herb-scribe, and I am wasting time speaking with you. I must be on my way.” She waited for him to step aside.
Understanding sparked in his gray eyes. “You ran not just to avoid capture, but to warn the other healer villages.”
Her head lifted sharply, caught off guard by how easily he understood what she meant.
“It is what I would do,” he said and gave a faint shrug. “If I had reason to care.”
Elara frowned. “Yet you sound as though you do.”