Page 21 of Bride of Mist
In the meantime, he’d keep the strange blade close. If the lad was determined enough to follow him so far, there was no telling what he’d do once he had the sword in his hands.
Leaving the fish over the fire to roast, he fetched the lad’s weapon and removed it from its sheath. He pretended to examine the blade while keeping an eye on the dark shape in the tree.
The youth didn’t move a muscle. Not when Dougal took a few practice swings with the sword. Not when he ventured close to collect more fallen tinder for the fire. Not when he turned the fish on the spit.
As the coals glowed, crisping the skin of the trout, Dougal began to feel sorry for the lad. Surely he was hungry. He was as thin as a post. That was likely why he was an outlaw.
The people of Kirkoswald had been in the same dire situation since Dougal’s father had died, faced with stealing or starving.
Dougal had always done what he could to remedy their poverty.
A wave of pain washed over him as he realized he’d never be able to help them again. He’d failed them when they’d needed him most. He could no longer call himself a champion.
Still, his instincts wouldn’t let him look the other way. Perhaps the people here had no champion at all. Perhaps they had no choice but to turn to thievery for survival.
Once the trout was done—nicely crisp on the outside, tender and sweet on the inside—he lifted the skewer from the fire and settled onto a large, flat rock.
Without looking up, he called out, “Ye must be hungry, lad. Come on down, and I’ll give ye a wee bite.”
Feiyan blinked in alarm. How had he known she was there?
No one ever spotted Feiyan la Nuit. She could spy on lovers from the trees. Watch the servants without their knowing. Steal through the armory unseen.
In short, she’d always been able to hide in plain sight.
Observing mac Darragh, she’d taken special pains to be cautious. In the last half-hour, despite the aching in her muscles, she hadn’t budged an inch.
She wished she could say the same for her thoughts. But they’d rattled about in her head like a frenzied hailstorm. Perhaps it was the clatter in her brain he’d detected.
But curse the Westlander! What should have been a simple task was turning into a major undertaking.
She’d figured when the time came to kill the man, she’d do it with theshoudao.After all, it was her most efficient, most deadly weapon. The last thing an assassin wanted to do was to leave a target wounded and not dead.
But once he’d doffed his gambeson, leaving himself vulnerable, she realized her other weapons would prove just as effective. She might not need to reclaim hershoudaoto finish him.
First she considered attacking him with a pair of swiftly firedyan zi fei dao,aiming the darts at his vulnerable neck.
Then she decided to do it while he built the fire. Stab him between the ribs with her forkedsaisas he gathered kindling.
Then she meant to do it as he cleaned the trout by the river. Sneak up behind him with her short but keen-bladedduandaoand slash his throat.
Then she thought she’d do it when he busied himself with cooking. Push him onto the hot coals and thrust him through with her awl-likebishou.
Each time, the idea left a sick gnawing in her gut.
She blamed her nausea on hunger. Perhaps she had no stomach for killing because her stomach was empty.
She’d finally opted to wait until after he finished cooking the trout. That way, at least she’d get a good meal out of it. Maybe the prospect of food would settle her stomach and make what she’d come to do easier.
Now he was offering supper to her freely. That changed everything. It tied her stomach into even tighter knots.
How could she accept charity from a man she meant to kill?
The answer came to her in a flash.
She couldn’t murder mac Darragh. Not in cold blood.
If they were to spar, however… Then she would have no qualms about killing him. She’d be giving him a fighting chance. Battling him face to face. She could kill him with a clear conscience.
