The White Mists of Power Read Free Page B

covered with cuts, and his skin hung raggedly around several wounds. In the forest he had been moving. Here he seemed almost dead.
    Seymour dipped several clean cloths into the water. He wrung out one and dabbed the man’s face. The man twisted and moaned, but did not wake up. Seymour gripped the man’s chin to keep his head from moving. Much of the blood was old and encrusted, and most of it came from scratches, probably caused by thorns. As Seymour cleaned away the blood, he saw how the scratches were layered: a scratch near a scratch near a scratch. The man had been running for days. He must have been very fit when he started.
    Seymour ripped back the man’s shirt and cleaned his chest. Here the skin was covered with bruises as well as scratches. One thick red area wouldn’t come off, and it took Seymour a moment to realize that the man had an old, blurring tattoo.
    Seymour continued cleaning and tending, working his way down to the man’s legs. His thighs were scratched, but his knees were in tatters. The man had to have fallen a lot. The skin had almost scraped off, and the knees themselves were swollen. Even after wiping the dirt and blood away, Seymour couldn’t tell if there were other injuries. The scraping looked similar enough to a burn that Seymour called an herb witch ice spell his mother had taught him. Seymour could feel the power running through his hands, coating the man’s kneecaps with ice. The man shivered once, and sighed deeper into sleep.
    Seymour folded the dirty rags and set them in a corner. Then he grabbed the bucket, took it outside, and walked through the grass to the brook. He could hear the hounds baying, the cries of the retainers as they tried to urge the dogs forward. The retainers would have to get Dakin–and they would have to replace these hounds. By then, Seymour hoped, the trail would be cold.
    He poured out the water on the side of the brook, crouched, and filled the bucket again. The water here wasn’t deep, but it was cool and fresh. Without it he wouldn’t have been able to survive as long as he had in the hut. He didn’t know what he would have done if there had been a drought, like the one the land had suffered through 20 years before.
    He glanced back at his home. The hut still looked abandoned. The grass was tall and, except for the worn area near the side where he usually walked, looked undisturbed. No smoke rose from the chimney, and the place appeared dark. He would have to leave it soon. Once Lord Dakin realized who had tricked him, he would begin a search for Seymour and the man. Within a few days the lord would find the hut. Seymour sighed. He didn’t want to go to the city, but he didn’t know where else to go.
    When he went back inside, the man was still sleeping. Seymour set the water bucket in its place beside the door. He took the carrots, peas, and beans he had set aside for his dinner, mixed them with herbs and a few potatoes, added water, and poured them into the pot that hung over the fire. He puttered around the hut as the stew cooked, preparing the bed and cleaning a few dishes so that he could share his meal with his guest.
    As the scent of herbs and cooking vegetables filled the hut, Seymour heard a groan. The man had raised his head and was rubbing the back of his neck.
    “How long was I asleep?” he asked.
    “Not long.” Seymour stirred the stew. He added a little of his precious store of flour to thicken the broth. “Are you hungry?”
    “Ravenous.” The man stretched and winced. “I’m also very stiff.”
    “You will be for a few days.” Seymour ladled some stew into two bowls. Steam rose from the mixture, and in the half-light the vegetables looked very bright. He brought the bowls over to the man, pulled up a chair, and sat across from him.
    The man took his bowl and ate quickly. Seymour did not offer him more, knowing that a stomach that had been empty and stressed for several days could take only a little nourishment at a time.