Exile's Challenge Read Free

dishonor.”

2
Sanctuary
    Arcole held his musket across his chest, thumb ready on the hammer, finger tensed against the trigger. For all these folk appeared friendly—and surely Davyd felt no doubt of their benevolence—they still looked to him altogether too much akin to the demons, and had Colun betrayed him and Flysse and Davyd, then he’d sell his life dear. They could not escape, not with the mountains at their back and their Grannach escort and these others there in such numbers as must surely overwhelm them, but he’d not die easy: he’d come too far, chanced too much—he’d take as many as he could with him, should they prove hostile.
    â€œThey’re friends.” Davyd’s voice was urgent, nor less the hand that clutched Arcole’s, pinning it still that he not fire. “Listen to me! They’re friends, I tell you!”
    Arcole glanced sidelong at the redheaded youth. There was an authority born of conviction in Davyd’s voice, as much in his green eyes. He seemed no longer the boy, ever willing to follow, but a man now, commanding in his certainty.
    Behind him, Flysse said, “I believe Davyd is right, Arcole.”
    Her voice was soft—not quite emptied of nervousness, but still calm, as if she would accept Davyd’s judgment, as if she elected to his belief rather than her husband’s suspicion. Arcole looked at the silver-haired man whose eyes shone bright as a winter sky, whose mouth was stretched in a smile, as if old friends came at last to home after too long away. He seemed only welcoming, and Davyd was a Dreamer, whose talent had brought them safely here.
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    Davyd said, “I’ve dreamed of him,” and turned confidently to the man. “Morrhyn?”
    The white-haired man lowered his head in agreement and touched his chest and said the name again, then pointed at Davyd and spoke his name. Davyd laughed before he nodded answer. Morrhyn opened his arms, and—to Arcole’s great surprise—Davyd stepped forward into the embrace as if the father he had never known came back from the sea to greet him.
    Arcole frowned, confused, and turned to Flysse. “This goes beyond my understanding.”
    She smiled and hooked an arm through his, which made it quite impossible to use the musket even had he deemed it necessary, and said, “Do you trust no one? Surely Colun’s proven his friendship; surely Davyd’s proven his dreaming.”
    Arcole shrugged, guilty now, and said, “Yes. But even so, they
are
much like the demons.”
    â€œDavyd explained that,” she said. “Colun told him they all came from the same place, no? But these folk are enemies of the demons, and it was Colun’s Grannach saved us from them. And nursed you back to health.”
    Arcole nodded. “I know, but …”
    He had no opportunity to say more, for Davyd was standing before him, the man called Morrhyn at his side, and all the rest clustering round, speaking amongst themselves and to the newcomers as if this was some great and anticipated event for which they had been waiting.
    Then Morrhyn raised a hand and silence fell. He spoke with Davyd, the words quite incomprehensible to Arcole or Flysse, so that Davyd must translate.
    His young face creased as he struggled with the unfamiliar language. “This is Morrhyn.” He ducked his head toward the white-haired man. “He welcomes us to this land, where we shall be safe from …” He shrugged. “This is difficult, but I think he said from the demons or anyone else who chases us.”
    â€œDifficult?” Arcole frowned. “I hear noises like water over stones, or the wind in the trees, but you understand? How?”
    Davyd’s face assumed an expression that was both embarrassed and delighted. “I don’t really know,” he said, “except … I think Morrhyn taught me in