Free Blood and Memory by Fiona McIntosh Page A

what the thanks were for. Where she had gone he could not guess, but it was the only lead he had to go on. With Faryl’s good sense for these sorts of intrigues, he had donned a disguise. It definitely felt more comfortable to be traveling as a man. The fact that he had found some sense of calm after the despair of evenings previous was a comfort right now. Until this moment, it had been all he could ask of himself to refrain from grabbing his blade and opening his wrists.
    That bleak thought had been well and truly scrutinized the night before. He had come close too. It had seemed the right answer when every demon came to haunt him as he slept rough beneath the hidden moon. Last night he had felt there was no point in trying to live on. He hated being a woman, despised the very sight of the body that had not so long ago tempted him, stirred him to thoughts of lust.
    But thoughts of Valentyna had swirled in his mind and he had not been able to do it. Plus there was Ylena, Gueryn, Lothryn, as well as his noble duty to ensure he did not take his own life. He must fight on and deal with where this all began…with Celimus.
    And so Wyl found himself on a lonely, dusty road, a man living in a woman’s body, disguised as a man, dressed plainly and carrying weapons. No one who glimpsed those would make the mistake of thinking that he was a vulnerable lone traveler. He displayed his sword deliberately so that any thief who might consider tackling him would think twice. His blades were once again close to his chest, lying uncomfortably against the breasts he had bound tightly. He had not been tempted to look at his body in the mirror kept in Faryl’s belongings. It would be too much for his mind to bear right now. He preferred the discomfort of the bindings to the swell and disarming weight of the breasts when they moved freely.
    He had been tempted to hack off Faryl’s hair too but had resisted, reasoning that he might well be grateful for the female disguise Faryl offered. So he had pushed her hair under a wig—one made by a master craftsman, he could tell—and pulled a cap down on his head. A false beard—again of such quality he knew it had been purchased at high cost from craftsmen who probably had asked no questions and accepted only gold—was his greatest comfort, together with the artful hair glued to the back of his hands. In this guise, if he did not dwell on it, he could convince himself he was a man again.
    Wyl estimated he was now a day from the Morgravian border and a few days’ ride then to Baelup. The trail he was hoping to pick up was almost a decade cold, and although he had no choice but to try, he quietly doubted that he could follow the scent of Myrren’s mother. This made him think of Knave. He hoped his dog had sensed his death. He seemed to know when Wyl was in trouble. If he had, then perhaps Knave had already led Fynch to Crowyll and tracked down the bracelet. It should resonate in Fynch’s sharp brain and set the lad thinking. Wyl felt confident his young friend would work it out and come looking for him. He would like to have both of them close when and if he finally confronted the Manwitch.
    He refused to allow himself to think further about Valentyna. Did she know by now? Of course she would. Would she be grieving? He hoped so, but then again perhaps she would see it as a fitting end to a flawed relationship. He could not forget the grief that Valentyna thought she had masked but was evident to him. It spoke of perfidy, and her public accusation of his treachery was almost more than he could bear. But bear it he did, for he loved her more than he had ever loved anything or anyone, including himself. He would gladly die for her. Wished that he could do that now—leave this wretched existence of his.
    The soldier in him reminded him that death was a cowardly option. And where there was life, there was hope. He might walk in Faryl’s body, but he could still use his soldier’s brain to wreak