The woman caught her meaning. “Nay,” she said. “I just put up more of a struggle than they were expecting when they burst into my home without so much as a by your leave.”
Raven relented. She knew well the brutality of which such men were capable, and for a moment had been ready to take off after the ones that had fled and finish what she’d begun. “Where do you live?”
“Back down the road a ways is a village. I’ve a place not far from there.”
Raven nodded. “We’ll take you back, won’t we Conall?” When there came no reply, she turned and saw the young noble standing in the road, a pensive look on his face. “What’s wrong?”
“I think this is where our paths part,” he said at last. “If I’m not mistaken, the leader of those swine ran off towards Strathearn. If he speaks to my father first about what happened here, telling him that you and I ambushed those he’d sent as they carried out his orders, I’m not sure what he’d do. He might even send guards to hunt us down.”
Raven was aghast. “He’d do that? To his own son?”
Conall smiled sadly. “Oh, I’d be captured I’m sure and brought back to be... disciplined. But I doubt you would be so lucky.”
“So what will you do?”
“I’ll ride back, tonight. That brute is on foot so I should be able to get back and give father our side of the story long before he arrives at the gates. Hopefully that will be enough.”
Raven offered her hand, and Conall grasped it. “It was good to meet you, Conall Maccallam,” she said. “Of all the people I’ve travelled with, you were probably the most annoying, but your timing is impeccable.”
He laughed. “I will see you back at the castle, Raven. I trust you will keep your promise. Kester is counting on you.”
With that, he returned to his horse, climbed into the saddle and, with a last glance behind, was galloping back along the road. Raven watched him leave until even the pounding of hooves had faded from hearing. She was surprised to find herself saddened by his departure.
She turned back to the brown-haired woman. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you home.”
* * *
The morning was as serene as the night had been eventful. Dawn was already breaking by the time Raven had packed away the meagre camp and swung up onto her mount. The woman they’d rescued, whose name, it transpired, was Bronwen, climbed up to sit behind her.
At first they meandered along the road, the wan grey light at the crest of the foothills at their back too weak to illuminate their path to Raven’s satisfaction. But, all too aware that somewhere ahead might lurk two enemies bent on revenge, she had no desire to linger.
Despite their close proximity, her arms lightly encircling Raven’s waist, it seemed Bronwen was not in a talkative mood. Aside from thanking her once again when it was clear Raven was indeed bringing her back in the direction in which her home lay, the brown-haired woman remained mostly silent; doubtless lost in thoughts about the events of the previous day and night.
Around mid-morning, her passenger pointed to indicate a small track leading off from the road. It was little more than a path of short, flattened grass leading through the middle of a large overgrown patch of bracken, of the sort made by the passage of animals rather than human feet. Raven steered her horse along it as directed while maintaining a gentle pace, wary of the animal planting a hoof in a half-hidden rabbit hole and breaking its leg.
Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, but it seemed to Raven there was a dreamlike quality to their journey. The bright sunlight cast everything around them into a glimmering haze. They were utterly alone, the only sounds the rhythmic, almost hypnotic, plodding of hoof-beats and twittering of birds. Above the bracken danced brightly coloured butterflies, their movements at once chaotic and oddly languid, as if they had no idea where they were headed but did not particularly care. Every so often they passed through a small thicket of silver birch trees, their leaves just beginning to turn from green to gold with the passage of autumn.
All too soon, she knew, the leaves would be gone, leaving behind stark, naked branches. The butterflies would vanish with them, the birds’ voices silenced. Winter came suddenly to the northern lands, robbing them of all warmth and colour, and outstayed its welcome. It was a season as long as the others seemed so fleeting, a time of darkness and ghosts.
When the first snows came, she would head south, she decided of a sudden. She’d wintered last year at Hunter’s Watch far to the north, beyond the mountains. There, winter was something else entirely, even beyond the howling winds and blizzards that buried houses up to their eaves overnight. It was a sharp, spiky thing, stalking the streets and thrusting a frozen talon mercilessly through every chink and crack it could find. The cold pierced you, and couldn’t be banished by any amount of clothes or blankets, nor ever-present fires burning merrily in hearths.
No, she wouldn’t put herself through that again, or at least so soon. She had unfinished business in the north, but it could wait until the spring thaw.
“It’s not far now,” said Bronwen, intruding upon her thoughts.
A mile or so later they emerged from a small grove and stumbled across an idyllic scene. Before them, nestled in the lee of a gently rising foothill was a small wattle and daub cottage that, together with its straw-thatched roof and crooked chimney was like something from a fairytale. On one side, the cottage was almost completely hidden behind a screen of tall weeds, beyond which lay a meadow of wildflowers and long grasses. Past the other, a narrow stream trickled down from the hills above and skirted around the cottage before wandering lazily away to the east.
“It isn’t much, but it’s home,” Bronwen said.
At some unspoken word they both slipped from the saddle and continued the rest of the way on foot, Raven leading her horse. “It looks nice,” she said, meaning it. Most homes did when you lacked one of your own.
“It was empty when I found it,” the brown-haired woman said, pushing open the door. “It was a crofter’s hut, I think, but whoever the owner was they’d left long before.”
Raven left Meara nosing happily among the tall grass, not bothering to tie the reins to anything. She wouldn’t wander far. “What happened to them?”
“Who’s to say?” Bronwen crossed to a wooden table, on which was set a basin. She splashed water on her face and rubbed at her hands, trying to wash away the grime of the previous day. “I think they just up and left when they realised the soil here is too thin to grow any decent crops. The weeds and thistles prosper well enough, but little else.”
Raven ducked beneath the low doorway. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim light after the brightness outside; aside from a couple of small windows, there was no source of illumination within.
Her host busied herself at a table containing various oddments, making idle chatter. Raven lowered herself onto a stool and looked around at her new surroundings. The hut was poky, but as it consisted of only a single room it somehow gave the impression of being larger than it was. Each corner was given over to an area that in a larger home would merit a room of its own. In one a narrow bed was tucked against the wall. Several woollen blankets lay bundled on the floor, the sheet covering a straw mattress yanked aside. Raven wondered whether Bronwen had been sleeping when the witch-hunters came for her.
In the corner opposite where she now sat was an area that seemed to double as a kitchen and bathroom. Jars of preserves filled a shelf above a table on which sat a chopping board, metal pot and the basin Bronwen had washed in moments before. Beneath the table was a box containing assorted vegetables. Next to the table was a tiny fireplace, which was currently dark and cold. Before it an iron poker lay somewhat incongruously on the floor. It was blackened at one end and bent almost to a right-angle. Raven smiled. It seemed that while Bronwen may have been taken by surprise, she did not go meekly.
All of this would have been standard for any number of peasant huts up and down the Empire. But there were some notable dif
ferences. Looking up, she saw the beams and rafters below the thatch were near-hidden by a multitude of hanging leaves and sprigs. Raven’s knowledge of botany was sparse, but she recognised various herbs and other plants: marjoram, thyme, chickweed, mugwort, nettles among them, any of which could be used in preparing food. But she also saw bunches of mistletoe, some with clusters of snow-white berries nestled within, which could not.
She glanced towards the table at which Bronwen was still working. Various plants were scattered across this as well, some of which her host was chopping with a small knife. A thick book with a plain cover sat upon a stand before her, though currently it was closed. Above this was another shelf filled with jars, in which Raven could see a number of lumpy shapes in varying shades of brown. Mushrooms? she wondered.
Bronwen crossed to her kitchen poured some water from a jug into the metal pot, and carried it to the fireplace. With practised ease she got a fire going and hung the pot of water over the crackling flames.
“There, that’ll take but a minute,” she said, sitting down on another stool.
“What is it you do?” Raven asked.
“Can you not guess? I’m a pig-farmer.” She saw Raven’s expression and laughed. It was a light, lilting sound. “Ach, no, I’m only teasing. Mostly I keep myself to myself, but every once in a while someone from the village will arrive at my door looking for a remedy for this and that, and I do what I can to help them.” She shook her head bemusedly. “They seem to have this notion that any woman living alone in the woods knows their way around a potion bottle. I don’t really know what you’d call me. A herbalist, I suppose.”
“Or a witch.” Raven watched her host’s face carefully.
“Ach, that’s just a word people use for something they don’t understand,” Bronwen said dismissively. “You pick up knowledge here and there, and before you know it it’s not mixing horse chestnuts and bilberries together that cured their piles, it’s witchcraft. But I’ve found that if people believe something will work ofttimes it helps make it work, so I don’t discourage them.” She sighed. “But it’s times like yesterday that make me wish I had.”
A faint bubbling sound came from the fireplace. Bronwen rose, took a heavy cloth and used it to lift the pot away from the flames. Raven watched as she carried it to the table in the far corner and set it down. She scooped up a handful of the plants she’d chopped earlier and dropped them into the pot, before busying herself tidying the tabletop. Humming as she did so, a pleasant tune Raven didn’t recognise, she gathered the leftover plants, placing the bigger pieces back inside a small wicker basket and tossing the smaller ones through the window. It was only then that Raven realised it contained no glass. It must get bitter here in winter, she thought, shivering despite the warmth from the fire.
When that was done, Bronwen placed something metallic on top of a clay mug that was sitting on the tabletop, then once more picked up the pot, by now cool enough to touch. She tipped it, sending a stream of steaming water into the mug through the metallic object, which Raven guessed was a strainer. When it was near-full she set aside both pot and strainer and brought the mug over.
“There you are,” she said, proffering it. “For what ails you.”
Raven frowned. “I wasn’t really hurt in the fight-”
“Not that.” Her host placed her free hand on her belly. “For this.”
For a brief moment Raven simply stared, then she took the mug and sniffed at it. There was a very faint aroma, almost floral but with earthy undertones, and the concoction itself was colourless. “What is it?” she asked.
“A little of this, a little of that,” Bronwen replied. “Chamomile and raspberry leaves, mostly. It’ll help, trust me.”
Raven took a tentative sip, then a longer one. Like the aroma, the taste was faint. It had an edge that was hard to describe... it was like how she imagined the colour green would taste. It was not unpleasant, however, and over the next couple of minutes she drank it all. Gradually, the knot of discomfort that had been bunched in the pit of her stomach eased.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Why, because I’m a witch of course!” There was another burst of high lilting laughter, and then Bronwen shrugged. “Ach, I’d make a poor healer indeed if I couldn’t tell when another woman is approaching her moon’s blood. I saw it in the way you move, my dear, and the way you sometimes press a hand to the spot. You probably don’t even notice you’re doing it.”
She was right about that. Raven stayed silent a moment, still clasping the now-empty mug in her hands, enjoying the sensation of the fading warmth against her skin. In truth she was slightly unsettled by the thought of being observed that closely, but not wishing to seem ungrateful she forced a smile. “My thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” her host said, waving a hand. “Just paying back a small part of what I owe. It’s a little weak as normally I would brew it for longer, but something tells me you’re itching to be off.”
Raven smiled. “Am I that obvious?”
At first Bronwen said nothing, then she leaned forward and peered at her intently. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Those men last night. You had the chance to kill them, more than once even, yet didn’t. Why?”
Raven thought of Ragnar, lying pale and still in a pool of his own blood. “I can think of one who’s hunted his last witch.”
“Nay, that was the lad,” Bronwen said. “I watched it all happen... had a vested interest in the outcome, you could say. When you threw that knife and hit his leg, at first I thought you’d missed, but now I think otherwise. Seems to me that someone who can wield a sword like you do knows how to hit their target from half a dozen yards.”
Again, the uncomfortable feeling of having been examined rather more closely than she cared for stole over Raven. Unconsciously, she hunched over the mug, her knees pressed tightly together. She thought about replying that slaying those sent by the duke could have brought his whole army down on their heads, but suspected that one as perceptive as her host would see through the lie immediately.
She decided to be honest. “I’ve never killed anyone,” she said.
“Truly?” Bronwen looked taken aback. “But I’ve seen you fight. You’ve a rare skill, lass.”
“It’s because I fight well that I have not,” Raven said. “Any dolt waving a bit of sharp metal around can accidentally nick a vein and see their opponent bleed out at their feet. I can take someone out of the fight even more quickly, and see them get up again at the end of it.”
“But why go to the bother, lass?” The brown-haired woman seemed genuinely perplexed. “There are people out there the world would be better off without. I’m sure you’ve come across some... those four last night for instance.”
“Were they, though?” Raven looked up and met her gaze. “Can you say for certain there was no good in their hearts, no wife or children at home who depend on them?”
Bronwen said nothing for a moment. Then she leaned forward and placed a kindly hand on Raven’s knee. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, lass. It’s a hard thing to take a life, perhaps the hardest thing of all. But there may come a time when you have no choice, and to hesitate means losing your own.”
Raven jerked her knee, dislodging the woman’s hand. She had no need for comfort. She wasn’t upset, rather she felt a simmering resentment at being coaxed into this confession. “There’s only one man in the Empire I know deserves death, and when I find him I won’t hesitate,” she said, imbuing her words with more venom than she’d intended.
“Well, then, whoever he is I almost pity him.”
“Don’t.” Raven placed the mug on the floor and stood. “I should get going. Thanks for the drink.”
“Ach, don’t mention it.” Bronwen rose as well, and went over to the kitchen corner. She pulled out the box of vegetables and began to root through the contents. “I’ve something for your horse as well,” she said. “Again, the leas
t I can do.”
With a small cry of triumph she pulled out what she’d been searching for; a pair of carrots, relatively fresh by the look of them. Raven reached for them, but her host shook her head. “I’ll give them to her. Rest yourself a moment longer, who knows when you’ll next sit on anything softer than a saddle.” With that, she was gone.
Feeling restless, Raven instead paced slowly around the hut, idly taking in the unfamiliar paraphernalia of another person’s life. It felt furtive and illicit, but was oddly irresistible as well.
With no real purpose in mind she found herself wandering into the corner where her host had prepared the strange tea. On closer inspection, the ugly brown lumps in the jars were indeed mushrooms of various different kinds, but something about their appearance made her suspect they weren’t for eating.
She reached out towards the book, opened the cover, and flicked through the pages. Each one was filled with densely written words, all by the same hand, interspersed with intricate drawings of different plants and fungi. From the stiff, crinkled feeling of the paper it was quite old; older in fact than she would have guessed from her host’s age. Perhaps it was given to her, she thought.
As she closed the cover, something on the tabletop caught her eye. Tucked against one side of the bookstand was a flash of blue. She leaned closer and saw that it was a flower petal, no bigger than her thumbnail. It was utterly unremarkable apart from the colour, the vivid blue of a summer sky. Raven had never seen its like before, not even among the numerous plants hanging from the cottage’s rafters, and wondered what type of bloom it had come from.
“All done,” called Bronwen, bustling back inside. “You’d have thought they were the first carrots she’d seen all year the way she went at them...” She saw Raven standing at her workbench, and for just the briefest second an odd look flitted across her face. There was concern... and something else. Then it was gone. “She’s all set, if you’re ready. It’s a shame you can’t stay longer, I so rarely get visitors.”
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