Free 0857664360 by Susan Murray Page A

the drink, relishing the sensation of the hot fluid coursing down her throat. “I’ve missed this.” She needn’t tell Weaver her thoughts concerning garderobes. “You’ve been in The Marches recently? Was that–”
    A rush of nausea knotted her stomach, insistent, unrelenting. She clambered to her feet and managed to dash to the cover of the trees before she was overtaken by violent retching. The sickness persisted until long after her stomach was empty, leaving her doubled over, trembling and sweating.
    “Can I bring you anything?” Weaver must have followed her. And, no doubt, witnessed the whole sorry episode.
    Alwenna straightened up, still shaking. “Some water?” Her voice cracked.
    He handed her his costrel. She turned away as she swilled her mouth then spat away the foulness, willing him to go back to the fire and wait there.
    He remained at her side. “Was it the kopamid? It didn’t taste bad.”
    “No. It was fine.” The effort of speaking abraded her throat.
    “Do you have a fever?”
    “No, I’m well.” She rinsed and spat again. If only he’d leave her in peace. “It’s never been so strong before.”
    He frowned. “The kopamid?”
    “No…” Don’t tell anyone, Tresilian had said.
    “You can’t afford to be taken ill now. Do you need a healer?”
    “It’s passed. I’ll manage.”
    Weaver studied her, his expression sceptical. “Very well, my lady. I’ll saddle the horses.”
    When Alwenna returned to their camp site Weaver handed her a dry oatcake. She picked at it, aware of his covert scrutiny as he made ready to leave. The half-empty beaker, now cold, perched on the mossy ground where she’d abandoned it. She didn’t dare drink it, even though her stomach had settled. Nor did she wish to offend Weaver by discarding the remains. It was the first friendly gesture he’d made in the days they’d been travelling.
    As if he’d read her mind Weaver stooped and picked up the beaker, slinging the contents into the bushes before he stowed it in a saddlebag. When he’d finished, Alwenna climbed to her feet and made her way over to her horse. Without speaking, Weaver legged her up into the saddle.
    “Thank you.” Her voice grated in her throat. Weaver nodded curt acknowledgment, his mouth set in a grim line. This promised to be a long day.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    Weaver glanced across at Alwenna, who sat at the foot of a smooth-trunked beech. She’d slept badly. Of course, she’d not admit it. The shadows beneath her eyes left him in no doubt, if the telling silences between her nightmares hadn’t been evidence enough. She didn’t speak of the horrors that stalked her sleep, but each morning she was a little paler. And she’d been too pale to start with. The sooner he could hand her over to the care of the brethren at Vorrahan, the better.
    “With luck we might reach the ferry in time to cross tonight.”
    “I’d no idea we were so close.” She took a bite of dry oatcake. “It’ll be–” One hand pressed to her stomach, she jumped to her feet and hurried away between the trees.
    Weaver followed a couple of paces, then stopped. He could do nothing to help, and she’d only resent his interference. She returned a few minutes later, pale and dishevelled. He offered her some water and she took it with an unsteady hand, murmuring a word of thanks.
    “There’s a town a few miles out of our way; we should be able to find you a healer there. I doubt Vasic’s spies will have penetrated this far north.”
    “There’s no need.” She didn’t meet his eyes.
    “There’s every need. You’re eating next to nothing and losing most of that.”
    “I’m fine if I eat often enough.” She hesitated, then seemed to reach some kind of decision. “Wynne told me what to expect. It’s a good sign, she said.”
    “Wynne?” Realisation dawned, and with it disbelief that he had not guessed sooner. “You’re carrying.” Even to his ears the words sounded like an accusation.
    She kept