There was water, running water. It was all over her. Bara sat upright, gasping. She was in a brook, a stream, unclothed, and there were stones underneath her. The moons were high, Pheya bright and close, voluptuous in her mystery, protecting all from the Vastness beyond. As’r unknown till sundown, where he stepped forth with every hour and held fast through the night, warning of the true Vastness beyond. It had to be deepest night for both large orbs to be so bright in the sky, turning the stream to moving silver. The water was icy cold.
Bara looked about herself, trying to comprehend. To her left there was a fire, but no one sat at it, nor moved beyond the shadows. She rose to her feet and stumbled, the stones of the stream were slippery. She succeeded, however, and rushed to the fire, the icy water and night air making her shiver. There was nothing to cover herself, nothing to clothe herself with, but the fire was warm, warm. She crouched as close as she dared, huddling her legs to her chest, trying to comprehend. The last thing she remembered was blackness, terrifying blackness that closed in on her senses. Bara touched her throat, she could still feel the merciless hand there. And now she was here at a stream under the double moons with a bright fire before her. What was this? She looked to As’r and Pheya. They shone silently back at her. Why have you cursed me?
There was movement, Bara sensed rather than heard it. The hateful beast appeared out of the shadows, stepped into the light of the fire like a darak. Bara looked away. Like herself, he did not have anything to cover him. From the quick glimpse she saw, he must have come out of the stream as well. The need to run was a demand in her limbs, but she could not unwind her arms from her huddled legs. Rather, she curled closer, wishing to stay unseen. That was for nought, for he took a branch beside her and stoked the fire. Bara huddled closer still, heart racing, willing herself to move, run, scream, do something, anything, but all her limbs stayed stuck as they were, as if frozen together after a sudden frost, for she was trembling still.
Bara did not know what was to happen, did not understand what she was seeing, and felt her mind fray with incomprehension. What was this? Ye Gods, why was she brought here? What was to be done with her now that she was here? For she had never heard of this, and there were many dark tales and much rumour about the Demon Horde. Yet she was here, under As’r and Pheya’s eyes, unclothed, without any strength to move, let alone run, comprehending nothing. Bara tried again, tears filling her sight, but she could not unwind her arms, nor straighten herself to run. So she remained as she was, huddled, watching, trembling, waiting for what was to come.
As before, the speed was beyond her understanding. The hateful creature grabbed her arm, pulled her to her feet, and turned her to him. To her infinite relief, her strength returned, and Bara tried to fight him. There was a struggle, for they were each yet too wet from water to keep a firm hold, but his strength exceeded hers and she was flat on the grass before she knew it, his hand yet again at her throat. He growled something and she saw him raise a stone, large and glistening with flint, clutched in the fist of his hand. He would kill her now, bludgeon her with the stone. Why here and not before she could not tell, but Bara saw the stone in his fist by the firelight and closed her eyes. In a moment he would strike and she would stand before the Lord of the Gate and tell her tale.
He released her instead. Confused, Bara opened her eyes only to see the strangest thing. The hateful creature cut into his arm with the flint, deep enough for blood to show. He dropped the stone and moved his arm over her until the red dripped on her middle, splattering on her skin as he moved his arm this way and that until a trail of red splashes reached from her ankles to her thighs, from her breasts to that place she could not think of, her shoulders and arms, her neck. Once the trail was made, he spread the red across her form with his hands until she was smeared with his blood, touching her mouth with his stained fingers, covering her breasts with the red, covering her shins, reaching between her thighs. She tried to stop him, even now she would fight, she would refuse, absolutely, but he was as quick as a snake, caught her hands in an iron grip, keeping them pinned against the grass beside her, his knee locking one leg down painfully as he parted her thighs and forced his blood stained fingers into her. He did not keep them there as Bara expected but removed them right after, releasing her even, which gave her the chance to kick and make to flee but he caught her, yanked her back to her knees and slapped her. It stung sharply and Bara was for a moment too stunned to move.
‘Stay.’
It was a sharp bark, the command unmistakable, equal to the harsh sound on the white terrace, the one that stopped all his men. Bara did not fight when he pushed her back to the grass. He had sounded too dangerous to try and flee again, the Gods knew what he else he was capable of. Bara lay still, staring at the moons, asking the Gods repeatedly what she had done to deserve this. She could see the streams of blood pouring from the wound on his arm, her body stained by that very red. It was drying on her skin, but he used what flowed freely to draw signs on her thighs and around her navel, around the buds of her chest, her throat and her lips, her forehead. He reached somewhere once he was done. Next, he had removed a burning branch from the fire. Bara stared at it like she stared at that scorpion as a child. She knew, any moment it would sting. He moved the branch over her, close enough to feel the heat, and she followed it transfixed. Voice so low it was above a whisper, the hateful beast made sounds, even sounds, while specks of ash fell onto her as he moved it twice, thrice, four times over her. She counted eight lengths before he began beating himself with the burning branch, quick beats against his arms and chest and thighs, twice against his back, eight times in total before he threw the branch back into the fire.
The creature got to his feet then and picked her up as if she weighed no more than a cup of water. He carried her to the stream, knelt in the water and had the strength to immerse her thrice into it without letting her go, growling sounds as he did this. Then he set her on the stone bed as before, water rushing all about her, and left the stream but returned with a branch from the fire, a burning branch he somehow fixed into the stream’s bed, shedding light on her. He knelt beside her again and removed what he had stained her with, with his bloodstained hands, making those low sounds, equal to a steady murmur that he seemed to repeat, almost like a chant, touching her lips, reaching between her thighs again. His hands were rough on her skin despite the water, his grip too tight, yet he removed the red, removed it until she was clean of it again. And not by any water, but by running water, water straight from its source, water straight from the Gods.
Realization dropped icily into Bara’s mind. Fire and Running Water, Untouched Earth and Living Blood, all these were sacred, for they were straight from the Gods. He had used all these for his strange ritual, for what else was this? And even the blade he used was flint. Nothing mortal made had touched him or her, for they were both unclothed, untouched by anything woven, soldered, or otherwise formed by mortal hand. That a heathen creature such as he would know of these things was beyond Bara’s comprehension. It made her silent and kept her from fighting him when he picked her up out of the stream and set her beside the fire again. He stoked it, bringing more branches from beyond the dark, until the fire was a bright blaze. He did not bring anything to cover either himself nor her. If she guessed rightly, nothing mortal made could touch them till the sun was fully risen again.
Bara lay next to the fire on the grass, her skin prickling from the icy water, every part of herself acutely aware of the rough touch of the hateful creature’s hands. Since she took her Oaths, none other save women’s hands had touched her. Even her own father could never touch her hand once her Oaths had been spoken. And here she was, lying on grass after all her Oaths were shattered, broken, the lainar wholly destroyed. Yet Bara could not close herself from the realization that just befell her. A ritual had been performed, only which one and for what purpose she could not say. It had been performed, however, by exactly those means sacred under Holy Law. That a fhārch would know of them… it was beyond Bara’s understanding.
Draen counted his men. There were two and fifty, enough to hold what was needed. The order was to secure the Flats before Midsun, that way they would have silence until Solstice and could negotiate from then on. Imarius had fled to the White Hills which were far from the coasts and once reached impassable, for the snows closed the passes early. It was clever, Draen had to concede, for Imarius had fled with most of his court, allowing none to be left behind and used as leverage. With the southern treks granted free passage as well as the caravanserais, the negotiations had succeeded. Then Imarius did what they had not deemed possible. He slipped away in the dark of night, and none were left behind to tell how it was done. Their mages were strong after all, nightcloaks were not easily wrought. The tithes would be paid, however, Imarius would want the routes to stay free. This now in the Flats was the last before the heat descended in full, and it was to Draen to see it was done.
The villages they passed were deserted. Some would not believe it and thrashed coops, poking spears through hay and thatch, but nothing living was there. Even the livestock had been taken or fled, they never left anything behind if they could help it. It was just as well, they knew to feed themselves, the days so far had been fat in their pickings.
It seemed there would be nothing but empty villages and farmsteads until a scout shouted and they found him dead in the bushes, an arrow through his eye. There were archers then, skilled archers, and that meant either a fort or a temple, maybe both. When they passed the olive grove, Draen knew it would be a temple and could see the expectation in his men. Temples always meant women and so far, temple women were very forthcoming in this degenerate land. It had taken will and command to make his men leave the coasts, and some, Draen was certain, still would have preferred to stay, their minds too weak to resist their wine and women.
They guards were well-hidden, but not well enough. Either fear or courage made them leave their hiding places. There were twenty, one of them clever enough to unseat him, but that was quickly remedied. The guard was young, more boy than man, but Draen commended him for his excellent aim. He hadn’t been knocked off his saddle in a while. In another life the boy would be a good hunter. Draen mounted his horse and they rode up the incline, past the usual cypress to the white of their shrines. It looked empty but he didn’t trust it. Twenty men at the gates either meant all had fled or there were far more within. He scanned the stone. These ones here knew to keep themselves out of sight.
‘They’re gone,’ Kolgar said but Draen dismounted.
The shrine did not look abandoned. There was a certain sense to deserted shrines, something empty that this one didn’t have. Draen kept his sword unsheathed, still red from the young guard who had shown good courage. Nothing approached him, nothing moved as he climbed the marble. What they wasted on their shrines when simple wood would do. He stopped and looked about. Silence. The hot sun turned the stone to blinding white. He made their presence known, calling for them to come out, but even after three calls nothing changed. Maybe Kolgar was right.
There was movement in the corner of his eye. He looked, readying himself. First he only saw something white, moving. Then he understood what it was. One of their women, shrouded in white and gold. She did not waver like some, nor did she smile like others. Her face was calm, her eyes steady. She stopped at the top steps in full sun. She was young, at least younger than he expected. Her twentieth winter was past, but her thirtieth was yet long to come. There was fear in her eyes and defiance. And like all of her kind she was more than sightly, her shape hinted through the folds. Whatever their gods were, they blessed their women in comeliness and form.
He could hardly believe she was alone. No sane woman would stay behind, not even one of them, but she didn’t look to lie. Unless it was a ploy to distract him. He tried her to it and she surprised him by her defiance. His men unsheathed their swords, but he stopped them. He sensed this one was different and gave commands accordingly. She would be choice leverage come negotiations.
*
Kolgar was furious. The woman had fooled him, tricked him with a need to release her water, and he had believed it like a foal fresh on its hooves. He had caught her of course and she was in his sien. Draen laughed until Kolgar mentioned that the men were asking questions. They expected something to be done. Draen told him this one was not like those at the coasts. Kolgar spoke bluntly, the men would not understand. She had defied him, openly, and he knew what they thought of them. He would have to do something. Draen’s answer was as always, he would not shed their blood. No matter what gods they worshipped, you never knew who was watching. Kolgar shrugged, he was only saying what was being spoken.
As always, Kolgar’s words were seeds in his mind that grew to saplings and finally right trees with deep roots and full foliage. He found him drinking with Ored.
‘Are they still talking?’
Kolgar nodded. Draen sat with them.
‘Speak.’
‘There’s a penalty we all know,’ Fred said coolly.
‘A sage is a sage,’ Draen answered.
Ored sneered, ‘Their gods are not ours, k’rak! Would they care about ours?’
‘They saved Grida.’
‘He’s a Healer.’
That was Kolgar, who liked to drop words like stones into hot oil.
‘Among them, a Healer is a sage, Kol, you know that.’
‘So you spare the bitch for Grida’s sake?’
Ored was in anger and the wine was making him worse.
‘She wears their seal.’
‘Who cares! She could be a goat maid left behind to fool you!’
‘No.’
Both Kolgar and Fred showed their surprise.
‘No goat maid would have that look.’
‘A look?’ Ored was in laughter. ‘You are easily fooled, k’rak.’
Draen remained silent. Kolgar looked into his cup. Ored’s laughter died. He looked undecided, then got to his feet and joined the others.
‘You doubt it,’ Draen said. Kolgar shrugged and drank from his cup. ‘Speak your mind.’
‘She managed to fool me and ran away. Others would have done different.’
Draen filled his cup and drank it. The wine was of good stock. At least in that their temples knew their business.
‘She’s one of them, I know it.’
‘So you will not.’
‘A sage is a sage, you know my mind in this.’
‘Ored does not speak an untruth, k’rak. Their gods are not our gods.’
It was always in these things that he and Kolgar did not see towards the same horizon, yet Draen did not demand allegiance in this. Letting Kolgar speak his mind made him know what the men expected. Draen drank from his wine first before speaking.
‘I know their gods are not our own. Already the stone they waste on their shrines. And they call us thieves. Even so, I have to look further than this. You never know who’s watching.’
‘Do you think there were Eyes today?’
‘You never know.’ By Kolgar’s look, Draen would have to explain in full. ‘If I had agreed to that fire in the Plains as so many wanted, do you think they would have let Grida live?’
Kolgar shook his head, though grudgingly.
‘The men can show their anger, but I can’t waste arrows on sprites.’
Kolgar was silent for so long, there was no escaping the question.
‘How bad is it?’
‘They all saw it. First the archer and then her. And you even let the two runts live.’
‘They were on holy ground, even they must know that.’
‘You let them live, k’rak. That is all they need to know.’
Draen said nothing and drank from his cup. To hold first saddle is to be hated and loved in equal amounts, he had said. All praise its honour, but it is a burden. You will have to see when all are blind. You will have to hear when all are deaf. When none can walk, you will rise up and go. And none will thank you for it.
*
The plan was simple, he would try her to it. The men would stop talking and if any Eyes were watching they would know she lived. If she was anything like those at the coasts there would be no great change anyway. If she really was like those at the coasts, she would find her own end anyway, for once his, stepping to another would mean the knife, and none would question him for it. The matter would be solved and any questions lost with the ashes strewn in the Winds. He still sensed she wasn’t what the men thought she was. Just seeing her on that dining chair was proof enough. She jumped at every sound and whatever she was hiding behind her back was something she did not know how to handle well. Yet Kolgar was drinking with others beyond the sien, and Draen knew the guards had their eyes and ears open.
*
Habrin asked what the matter was, laughing, ‘Is she a drak after all?’ Draenpunched his laughing face, sending the bitches son crashing into three others. Knowing Habrin, he was likely loudest in the demand that something be done. Now it was done and he had brought the Wrath of the Gods on himself. It didn’t look right and she fought too hard. They usually relented soon enough and played along. She fought and scratched and bit but others had done the same before and were suddenly soft as water. She did fall silent, only it was too silent. She hardly moved. Then he left her and there was blood everywhere. He knew then, knew that he had seen correctly the moment she walked out of the shadows. She was not a known woman, but had followed their laws as all others should have.
The Sands of Time could not be re-poured and that alone was too much. The men were shouting his name, though, Kolgar and Tren pulling him back and away before Habrin got it into his head to retaliate and force his hand. Habrin was too good an archer to lose. Draen freed himself and saw their shocked faces. They had not seen his rage in some time, though some seemed satisfied with it. Draen understood they had thought him softened by the coasts as well. He demanded to know where the last of the temple guards were. Some had wanted to run them, but Draen knew they could be useful later on, and it was always well to have leverage, no matter how meagre. Now it was well he let them live for they must know what he needed to know.
Kolgar brought him to the guards, tied up behind the horses. The younger was venomous but alive, the other still in the mists. Kolgar explained while he spoke. Had their mistress ever known a man? It took a moment until the boy understood. Draen knew when comprehension sunk its arrows, for the horror in boy’s eyes was too true to be affected. Draen couldn’t believe it and asked again.
‘Is she a known woman?’
Kolgar repeated his question. The boy shook his head, speaking of oaths and cups and something about a song. Draen needed to know, however, and spoke on.
‘This song, what is it?’
With many words and confusion the boy finally understood what they wanted. Kolgar explained as the boy spoke.
‘She is a song. No, a voice of their gods. She speaks their wisdom to them. She is the highest among their own and sacred to all.’
It was much worse than Draen expected and by Kolgar’s look, he too had not expected this. So far they had only encountered servants and acolytes. Why would their highest stay behind? It made little sense. Draen had to be certain.
‘When were her oaths spoken?’
The boy frowned, confused, eyes darting between them. He spoke however and by Kolgar’s words she had been promised to their gods since birth, wedded to As’ril the day her Oaths were spoken, help-meet to Pheyr the day she wore their sacred cloth.
‘This is bad, k’rak,’ Kolgar said, looking to Draen, who for the first time since Alathan saw real fear in his Second’s eyes. ‘If true, you must appease Them, otherwise we shall all be lost.’
‘They wed them to the High Court?’ Draen asked, disbelieving. That was insanity. The High Court knew no mercy when slighted. To tie a mortal to them in such a way was more than provocation, and by his look, Kolgar understood that all too well.
‘Alathan. Jirigan. The Plains,’ Kolgar said then, looking at Draen with new understanding. ‘That’s why it is always so bad. They have tied themselves to the worst of them all.’
‘You keep that to yourself, understood?’ Draen said, aware of his Second’s shock. ‘We’ll talk about this in council. Kol. Understood?’ Kolgar nodded, reluctantly. ‘Now ask him what happens if she is known,’ Draen made himself say. Kolgar hesitated, but spoke all the same.
The boy understood quickly and completely. He spoke in quick, sharp sounds, his voice rising in fury. Kolgar spoke on. By the boy’s voice and expression, his answer was a curse against their blood and kin unto the seventh generation. Young and slight though he was, the guard struggled to free himself and if he hadn’t been restrained, the boy would have grabbed the next thing and bludgeoned them with it. The look in his eyes was beyond murder. It was a hatred so deep, even the Gods would acknowledge it.
So it was true. One look and Kolgar understood. They were all in peril. Alathan, Jirigan, and the Plains had shown it clearly. He had till sunrise. Beyond that, the Gods would know no mercy.
It was abrupt, a rough hand at her wrist, wrenching the dagger away. Bara jumped to her feet, kicked, scrambled, tore away, there was a sharp thud. How he had managed to leave the tent and slip back in, even steal himself behind her, Bara did not now. It was all too quick, too sudden, and before she understood, their leader was at her side, holding her wrist wrenched behind her back, his hand at her throat. Her heart nearly stopped beating altogether. He only needed to squeeze to end her life that moment. Such things were done, she knew. Water dripped onto her shoulder, exposed from the sudden grab. He moved then, and she felt him press his face against the curve of her neck, breathing in heavily before licking her skin up to her ear.
Bara fought to free herself but his grip was like iron clasps. There were arms around her next, hands on her breasts, squeezing, before he pushed his right between her thighs grabbing what he found there. Tears poured down Bara’s face, her mind screaming for escape, but she was too horrified to move. He spun her around roughly and right then Bara remembered what she had once been taught by a brother long dead. She lifted her knee and would have succeeded if he hadn’t stopped her, quick as a flash, his hand like a pincer in her flesh, yet it did not kill the fight in her. The unrelenting grip of shock broke away and her strength was freed. Bara bit, kicked, slapped, fought, but all that did was that he picked her up like a sack of corn and carried her to the wide bed where he threw her onto the peacock-feathered covers.
*
She did not know when he finished. All she heard were grunts and heavy breathing. He stopped, then waited, then moved from her. He removed it and got off her. Bara remained as she was. She could not think. Thinking required comprehension, and that was beyond the possible. The tears had dried on her face, tightening the skin. There was pain. She heard something, a bark of something. She felt a hand on her thighs, rough and ruthless, spreading her legs further apart. Darkest dread filled her like winter ice but there was no strength left in her to fight, all had been broken and destroyed. She felt fingers, there in that unmentionable place, and closed her eyes, waiting for worse to come. She should have prayed to die quickly.
Next thing she knew, he grabbed her face painfully, shaking her. He did not stop until she opened her eyes. She at first did not comprehend. She saw his hand, thrust before her, and it was covered in red. Blood, yes, there would be that. She knew that much. Bara closed her eyes, he shook her again and would not stop until she opened them. What brutality was this to show her his triumph? Was it not enough that he had destroyed everything? The tears were instant, but the beast wouldn’t let her even succumb to that. He shook her, forcing her to look at the blood on his hands. There was fury in his eyes and it was lethal.
‘Never with man? You?’
It was a growl, sharp, menacing. It took a moment for Bara to understand, but with the blood and the fury in all his hateful features she understood. She could not speak, there were only tears. She heard him curse, for the bark was too full of wrath for words. There was silence. It lasted long, so long that Bara felt her exposure. She would have to move. She would have to face the rest of her existence. Slowly, painfully, she got to her feet. She reached the vulgar silver jug in tears, but she reached it. Shreds of her dress still hung from her shoulder. There was nothing else she could use. She tore off the piece of cloth with shaking fingers and tried to lift the heavy jug but her hands had lost all their strength and the thing crashed to the floor, the water flooding the carpet. Bara knelt to gather the water, aware of the fruitlessness of the attempt yet unable to stop, trying to save the water from seeping into the cloth but the patch grew wider and wider until all the water was gone.
She was still trying to stop the water, when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, pulling her away. She lost her senses and screamed, ‘No! No!‘ but she was lifted and carried and even words were lost in her screams until a large hand clutched her throat, choking her to silence. She clawed at the hand but it was relentless until her sight blurred and everything turned black.
It was raining still, though the light was getting less grey. They drank the broth silently, both doing their best to make the driedfruit bread last as long as possible. Gav saw how the girl stared into the fire. He should probably think of her as a woman. She wasn’t as young as she looked, he had known that even the night before. It was her eyes, they were so large, they made her very young. When she opened them in full, she looked as if she was too surprised for words. Lainhaven. That was many leagues away. A week down the river in the old days, much longer now. What had brought her to this shed, so far west? He would have asked if he thought she would answer. As they were, he tended to the fire and marked in his logbook what rations had been used, aware of the girl’s watching gaze. Once written, he checked on the horse, but all was well. The girl joined him while he groomed what he could, carefully touching the animal who did not mind her approach, one shy, the other shyer, but neither unwilling. Gav left them to commune among themselves, and searched more wood for the fire.
*
The night was black. The rain had lessened, but you only knew it after ten days of rain. It would stop by morning, maybe midday. He would have to collect water rations. Lying back in the dry hay, Gav thought of what he had to do once the rain ended. He had three more weeks until he reached the High Hills, four if the high road was crowded and he had to use the by-ways. He fell asleep considering how best to proceed, especially if the girl agreed to join him. She would not want to stay here.
Gav woke up soon after feeling something heavy on his chest, only to realise it was the girl, fast asleep, using him as a pillow. He could not say how she got there. She was still in his shirt and her underskirt. She lay curled like a child against him. Her breath was even, she was deeply asleep. He laid a hand on her shoulder and carefully stroked her back. She was small but warm. He could feel her breasts pressed against his side. He brushed her neck and felt soft skin and strands of hair.
Once touched, Gav could not stop reaching into her hair. It was thicker and softer than expected. Her head was small in his hand. He gently massaged her scalp, combing through her hair now and then. It wasn’t something he got to touch often. Lainhaven used to be part of the Old Kingdom before it broke apart into waring fiefdoms, now that the young king was dead. Gav’s liege had sent him and his own out east to support those who had sworn allegiance to the broken throne, though that was suns ago. Allegiances had shifted so often since, Gav hardly knew who was loyal to whom anymore. It was enough to see a familiar face from the Green Hills of Ghón, where the red soil dusted the sandy walls, and the thúk trees threw long shadows across the swept courts, their heavy fruit falling in sharp taps onto the flagstones. He still had bright memories of Mon, laughing as she sat in their mother’s lap, her dark eyes dancing in her little face.
He could not have been past his seventh, he had not yet been allowed among the men. For a moment, the scent of his mother’s hpnet oil stole itself into his memory, the one she used when the sun was so hot, even the thúk trees could only give so much shadow. He remembered her night songs, he remembered his father’s deep laughter. Those were days of sun, before the decree was made, and all were called to arms. Gav had not written in suns and there was no place to receive any kind of missive, since all messengers were either to the legions, waylaid by robbers, or cut down by the enemy. He hoped they still lived, and if alive, safe. He could not hope for them to be well. The Green Hills, Gav knew, were green no more. Ghón had fallen to the Demon Horde a week before Midsun five summers ago, the thúk forests, it was told, burning from coast to coast. That was after the Tyr was sunk with fire and storm, when the snowdogs started hunting in the Lows.
Gav made himself think of other things, the dry hay, the bright fire, the girl’s neck, surprisingly soft under his hand. He ended up tracing her jaw line as well, marvelling yet again at how fragile a body was. Thus minutes passed to more minutes by the clock, and Gav spent them stroking the girl as he had not done in weeks, simply lying in peace and holding a living body that was neither cursed nor possessed or otherwise a threat to one’s life and sanity. A memory of Jirigan tried to ruin the peace Gav was in, but he pushed it out and away. He had survived. That, as he knew, was all that mattered now. All else was the Beast raging on.
The girl curled closer right then, Gav stopping his quiet touch to see if she would wake, but she slept on. He continued, from her head to her waist, watching the flames throw lively shadows against the walls, while the rain fell without ceasing beyond the broken door. There were days in his life where such simple peace as this was unthinkable. Days of madness, weeks of despair. And yet, he survived, and by whatever luck she had, so had the girl sleeping at his side, her skin smooth, her body warm, deeply shaken, but alive.
*
The rain had stopped by midday. The sun was out, the surrounding countryside steaming. Gav had filled all his waterskins after daybreak, the girl helping him carefully. They had left the shed the moment the last drops fell. The sun came out soon after, everything in mists around them. There had been a short, largely silent dispute when they reached the high road which Gav ended by picking up the girl and setting her on the horse. She cried out in surprise but did not protest again.
There was no one on the road for many leagues. They rode without stopping till midday, the sun shining hotter and brighter, the landscape a unified green. That was the single advantage of the long spells of rain, everything grew quickly. If the rain didn’t stop in time, however, everything started to rot and the air was full of that sickly smell.
At midday, they stopped at an apple grove where the girl slipped off the horse and disappeared, only to return with her skirts filled with apples. There was no farmer about, nor any hands to stop them, but they still continued until they were well away. Resting in the shadow of a tree, they ate the apples and drank the water collected during the rain, the horse as happy for the fruit as Gav and the girl. A carriage with a team of four could be seen at the closest crest, but they were out of sight by the time they moved on.
They did not talk. Gav would have asked questions if he had thought the girl would answer. The silence, however, was filled with sound. There were birds in the trees, zipping from branch to branch, chattering brightly, gnats peopling large pools in clouds of black, the buzzing loud. In one shallow ravine a colony of frogs chorused across the silence until three herons swooped in, disrupting the peace. There were none other on the high road, however, an absence that was a true relief.
*
They reached a small town with a tavern before nightfall. Like all towns this far inland, there were no fortifications yet, for the battles were fought elsewhere. There was a high wooden fence, however, and standing guards at the watch towers Gav could see in the gloom. One such tower was foolish enough to have a candle lit, but they would learn from their mistake one way or the other.
Gav paid the night fee by nearly killing the watchman who saw he had found more than his match. Gav had no time for undue bribes. He would pay the due fee and not more. The watchman only understood after he lay crumbled against the wall, his face bloodied and his pride bruised. Once past the watchman, it was not far to the first tavern. The houses were heavily steepled, the windows deeply set and high above the ground, the walls square rather than round, which was still an oddity to Gav’s eyes.
The Wyvern was part of an inn, which was fortunate at least. After the innkeeper saw Gav’s sword and livery, he gave him an adequate price. As it looked like, the legions were still respected here. The innkeeper thought the girl was bound to him and since she was silent nothing needed to be said. Once all was decided, Gav made sure the horse was stabled well, handing the stablehand a copper coin to keep his loyalty, the boy beaming with avaricious delight. With the horse taken care of, Gav took his saddlebags and joined the girl in the room.
A maid had already brought food, yet the girl did not touch it until Gav returned. He had to tell her twice to eat. She picked carefully at the fresh bread and took slow spoonfuls of the hot stew, thick with beef cuts and carrots, spices and cárn roots cooked to a soft gold. She spent many minutes eating her slice of blackberry pie, savouring each bite. She hardly touched the wine, however. It almost seemed as if she did not know what to do with it. After all was eaten, the girl looked at the table top as if willing the food to return. Gav wondered when she last had a full meal.
three good words 