Trinity Rising: Book Two of the Wild Hunt (Wild Hunt Trilogy 2) by Elspeth Cooper Read Free Book Online Page A

watched the man’s efforts grow more and more frantic. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think I shall.’
    Slowly, his will bent the man’s arm, lifting it up then across his body. Guessing what was about to happen, the fellow tried to jerk his head back but another thread of air-Song held it still.
    ‘Oh, Goddess, just let him go!’ his wife moaned. ‘Please, we’ll tell you anything— Egan! ’
    Without looking, Savin threw a ward for silence around the woman and her keening children. She rained blows on him and on his weaving but she hadn’t her husband’s strength; they were easily turned aside and ignored. Instead he watched the man staring at the rising blade, his eyes swivelling desperately to keep it in sight as it glided towards his neck.
    When it passed out of his field of view, he shut his eyes. Huffing stertorously, he whispered, ‘Please . . .’
    The knife came to rest against the side of the man’s bull-like neck, pressed, stopped. A tiny thread of blood trickled down beneath his collar, staining his white shirt.
    Sitting back in his chair, Savin smiled brightly around the table at the bewildered, wobble-lipped children, their mother with her face gone pale as whey. Her mouth formed the empty shapes of what might have been a prayer.
    ‘Now,’ he said, spooning up some more dessert, ‘shall we start again?’

5
    ESCAPE

    Drwyn had given Teia a new horse for the ride to the Gathering. Finn, her old dun gelding, was consigned to the pack-train after aiming a kick at him, and had been replaced with a sweet-faced grey mare. By the fifth day of the journey Teia hated her. She was entirely too biddable.
    Not much chance of you aiming a kick at the chief’s backside, eh?
    Feeling guilty, she patted her mount’s neck. It wasn’t the grey’s fault she wasn’t Finn.
    She darted a sidelong glance at Drwyn. As a mark of her favoured status, she rode at his side now, whilst her family rode with the rest of the clan. He sat his raw-boned black warhorse with easy arrogance, wrapped in a thick plaid cloak against the chill wind. When he caught her looking, he heeled his horse over and leaned down from the saddle to crush her lips with a kiss.
    ‘Pretty thing,’ he murmured, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Then he kissed her again, roughly, his tongue pushing into her mouth. The heat in his eyes told her he would want her that night. She managed a smile, then focused her eyes on the mare’s dainty tufted ears and tried not to feel sick.
    Eight days, and it felt like a year. She lived in Drwyn’s tent, fetched his meals and warmed his bed. She was expected to come at his call and leave when dismissed, in between doing whatever was asked of her. In return, he refrained from hitting her, unless she needed to be taught a lesson. He still liked to bite and slap when he bedded her, but she had learned not to complain. The one and only time she had, he had whipped her buttocks with his belt until they bled, so now she pretended to enjoy his attentions. It was a small price to pay to avoid another beating. The journey to the Gathering was long enough without having to make it on a flayed rump.
    Teia pulled her chin down into the fur collar of her coat. Winter had drawn in fast. The plains were sere and hard with frost; the wind blew out of the north and in the mornings tasted of snow. Overhead the dull sky pressed down like a thick fleece. She could not recall a summer that had felt so short, or a winter that promised to be so long.
    She longed to scry out her future, but Ytha watched her too closely. Ever since that night by the river, the Speaker appeared suspicious of her, and having arranged the match with Drwyn she watched its results closely. Whenever those cat-green eyes lit on her, Teia wanted to scream.
    There was so much she needed to know. She hadn’t yet learned how to focus her scrying and seek specific answers; she saw only what the waters chose to show her. Sometimes the visions themselves