Free Wintertide by Linnea Sinclair Page A

was sure she glimpsed a mischievous smile underneath his mustache.

 
Chapter Six
     
    For two days they traveled northward on the seacoast road, leaving Cirrus Cove far behind. They crossed the Fohn River. The road rose sharply into a rocky hillside. The soft gold of the dunes disappeared into the harsher grays and browns of the uneven landscape. The pines here were thicker, their bark a deep brownish-black. Their needles were coarser, unlike the silken foliage of those that grew in the coveside meadows.
    Khamsin had never traveled North. She went South only once with Tavis to the village of Dram, shortly after they were married. That had been a two day hard ride from Cirrus Cove. There had never been the need to leave her birthplace before.
    She commented on the starker landscape when they stopped for the second night, noticing that the Tinker had trouble finding a plot of ground free of rocks and stones for his bedroll. Her own bedroll was in small space under the tent-like awning that extended from the side of his cart. She felt guilty of depriving him of the more comfortable lodgings.
    He waved away her concern with an air of indifference and concentrated on building a small fire.
    She hadn’t told him what she was running from or why, nor had he asked. That plagued her mind as she peeled the thick outer skin from the wild potatoes she discovered growing in abundance near the campsite of the previous night. He seemed satisfied just to have someone to talk to. And talk he did about all manner of things he saw or heard in his travels to the various towns and villages that dotted the countryside. Yet she couldn’t believe he was totally without curiosity as to herself.
    But what if he viewed her as the Covemen and Tavis had? Long ago she had hardened herself to other’s criticisms; even her husband’s disapproval was taken in stride. But the Tinker was somehow different. She didn’t know how she’d handle his viewing her as a creature to be feared, suspected. A woman-child linked to the powerful Sorcerer by command of an Assignation.
    An assignation that never took place.
    The last thought so startled Khamsin that she dropped the potato she was peeling into the small pot, splashing herself with water.
    She was eighteen years old now, eighteen. The dreaded seventeenth year had passed and though it brought much pain and suffering, the contact, the crucial contact, had never been made. Though he must have tried—she thought of the old man by the sailmaker’s, the young gallant in the candle shop, perhaps even those faceless riders in the raid—he hadn’t claimed her! Even during her enchantment of the sword she hadn’t felt his presence as she had many times before. She was free. Whatever her life portended, it wouldn’t involve the whims of the Sorcerer.
    Oh, and there was so much to do now! With an increased energy, she finished peeling the last of the vegetables and, plopping them into the pot, and placed them over the fire.
    The Tinker looked up from the wineskin he was mending as she tugged at one of her small bundles stuffed into the back of his cart.
    “Need something, m’Lady?”
    “No, no, that’s all right. I can manage, thank you.” She rummaged around the deep canvas bag ‘til her hand found the hard binding of the Book. “I’ve something to attend to. I won’t be gone long.”
    She glanced over her shoulder as she slipped into the shadows of the tall pines. The Tinker smiled, then returned to his wineskin.
    Her short hunting knife trembled as she scratched the lines of the mage circle into a mossy patch of earth. With a breathless intensity, she voiced her incantations. Then she bowed her head, closed her eyes and waited for the feeling of weightlessness to come over her as she descended into a light trance. She chose three stones from the small pouch she wore around her waist and touched them to her forehead, lips and throat before casting them into the rough circle.
    Nine times she threw the