A Little Fate Read Free Page A

pivoted.
    â€œBalance,” Gwayne warned.
    â€œI have my balance.” To prove it, she leapt nimbly over the sword swept at her feet, landed lightly.
    Swords crossed, slid hilt to hilt. And she came up with a dagger, pressing the point to his throat. “And the kill,” she added. “I like to win.”
    Gwayne gave her a little poke with the dagger he held to her belly. “So do I.”
    She laughed, stepped back, then gave him a courtly bow. “We both died well. Sit. You’re winded.”
    â€œI am not.” But he was, and he rested on a stump while she fetched a skin of water.
    She has her father’s eyes, he thought. Gray as wood-smoke. And her mother’s soft and generous mouth. Gwynn had been right—about so many things.
    The child had grown into a lithe and lovely young woman, with skin the color of pale, pure honey, hair black as midnight. A strong chin, he judged, murmuring a thanks when she offered the water. Stubborn. He hadn’t known a girl-child could be so stubborn.
    There was a light in her, so bright he wondered that those who looked on her didn’t fall to their knees. She was, though garbed in hunting green and worn boots, every inch a queen.
    He had done what he had been asked. She was trained in the ways of a warrior. In sword and arrow and pike, in hand against hand. She could hunt and fight and ride as well as any man he’d trained. And she could think. That was his pride in her.
    Nara and Rhiann had schooled her in women’s work, and in magicks. Rohan had tutored her in scholarly matters, and her mind, her thirsty mind, soaked up the songs, the stories of their people.
    She could read and write, she could cipher and chart. She could make the cold fire with a thought, stitch a wound, and—these days—take him in a sword fight.
    And still, how could a girl of barely twenty seasons lead her people into battle and save the world?
    It haunted him at night when he lay beside Rhiann, who had become his wife. How could he honor his vow to keep her safe and honor his vow to tell her of her birthright?
    â€œI heard the dragon in the night.”
    His fingers squeezed the skin. “What?”
    â€œI heard it roar, in my dreams that were not dreams. The red dragon who flies in the night sky. And in his claws was a crown of stars. My wolf was with me.” She turned her head, smiled at Gwayne. “He is always with me, it seems. So handsome and strong, with his sad eyes green as the grass on the Hills of Never.”
    Even speaking of the man she thought of as her wolf had her blood warming. “We lay on the floor of the forest and watched the sky, and when the dragon came with his crown, I felt such a thrill. Fear and wonder and joy. As I reached up, through a great wind that blew, the sky grew brighter than day, stronger than the faerie fire. And I stood beside my wolf in the blinding brightness, with blood at my feet.”
    She sat on the ground, resting her back against the stump. With a careless gesture, she flipped the long, fat braid she wore behind her shoulder. “I don’t know what it means, but I wonder if I will fight for the True One. If his time draws near. I wonder if I will, at last, find the warrior who is my wolf and stand with him to lift my sword for the true king.”
    She had spoken of the wolf since she could form words—the boy, and now the man, she loved. But never before had she spoken of seeing the dragon. “Is that all the dream?”
    â€œNo.” Comfortably, she rested her head against his knee. “In the dream that was not a dream, I saw a lady. A beautiful lady with green eyes and dark hair, and she wore the robes of royalty. She was weeping, so I said, My lady, why do you weep? She answered, I weep for the world while the world waits. It waits for the True One, I said toher, and asked, Why doesn’t he come? When will he strike at Lorcan and bring peace to