and washed herself gingerly. She was a mass of bruises and scratches, and the marks from the cord that had been wound about her neck burned at the slightest touch. She took time to reapply the ointment Arling had used the night before. Then she stretched to relieve the tightness in her body, dressed, and went down to breakfast. She ate standing up at the kitchen counter, staring out the window as the night’s shadows receded and sunrise brightened the eastern sky.
Her sister had already gone. She would be down in the Gardens of Life with the other Chosen, gathered to welcome the Ellcrys to a new day and anxious to begin their assigned tasks. Her sister might say she didn’t want to do the work of her order, but Aphenglow knew she took great pride in what she did. She was particularly suited to the position of Chosen, and was looked up to by the others for her skills and instincts as a Healer and caregiver. Yes, she wanted to be a Druid, and there were reasons to think that she would be a good one; she had talents that would lend themselves to the complicated and demanding work of the Druid order. But as impatient as her sister was to join her, Aphenglow knew she was better off where she was. Arlingwas still young, nine years Aphen’s junior, and she was not yet fully cognizant of what it would do to her life if she followed in her sister’s footsteps.
Aphen finished her fruit and bread, but stayed at the window and continued to watch the day brighten. Something was troubling her, though she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was.
After five minutes or so of staring at nothing much, she left the kitchen, walked to the front door, and stepped outside. No one in the nearby residences was in evidence, so she couldn’t ask if they had seen or heard anything last night. Instead she began walking around the little cottage, picking her way toward the window where she had seen the shadow pass. Her tracking skills were good enough that she soon found footprints—a man’s, by the size of them. She followed them a short distance. They stopped, backtracked a bit, and then, with an obvious change in the length of the stride, signaled that the man had begun running. She followed the prints to the end of the yard, where they disappeared out onto the pathway that led from her tiny neighborhood into the city.
She stood looking at the footprints, perplexed by what she was seeing.
And then she realized, all at once, what was troubling her.
How had her attacker passed by the window one moment and gotten behind her the next? The time frame was too short for that to have happened. Which meant there had to have been more than one—the first man, whose shadow had drawn her attention, and a second who had come in through the kitchen door and attacked her.
She stood looking down the pathway for a moment and then walked back to the window and around the house to the rear door. Sure enough, the clear depressions of a second set of prints, larger than the first, were outlined in the bare earth by the flower beds Arlingfant so carefully tended. The second man had lingered here, and then come through the door to attack her.
Or had he been inside already, waiting?
She felt a sudden chill. Her assailants had known what they were doing. One to distract her so that she wouldn’t sense the other—away of making sure her normally reliable Druid senses did not warn her of the danger. Her instincts were good, but not infallible, and she was not always able to pick up on everything happening around her.
The other thing she realized was that her attacker had made it impossible to defend herself with magic. She hadn’t thought of that last night, still shaken by the attack, but she saw it clearly now. By cutting off her air he had throttled her voice and paralyzed her hands, preventing her from summoning any sort of magic. Her reaction had been instinctual—use physical force to get free. Perhaps subconsciously she had known that without
Arnold Nelson, Jouko Kokkonen