by Andre Norton
For the first time, Sarita had a chance to inventory what she had on her person. If there had only been time to bring extra clothing and food. Her skirt was up to her calves now, as she had cut away the cloth to bind Rhys' arm. Her thick-knitted stockings were stiff with mud and ash and snagged, while her soft, indoor shoes showed a gap in the toe of one.
She had her chemise and drawers under her dress. Luckily that was not of a feast day's bright color, rather a rusty brown. Her cap had long since been lost somewhere during her flight. She braided her hair, tying it back with a stout twist of grass.
By her side was the measuring rod. And on her belt—she began to inventory what was slung there. There was her precious needle case in a pouch. She opened it to survey what any embroideress would consider true wealth —some had come from her mother, two a legacy from her grandmother. There were four of true steel (a great treasure) and the rest, varying in size, of bone and ivory, polished by years of use. Her leather thimble sat tucked in with these. She carefully closed the case and put it back in the pouch.
Next hung her scissors in their own case, and beside that a small awl. She hated to think of perhaps blunting those fine blades, but they might need them in the future as tools. Then there was the case which held her spoon and eating knife. And beyond that an affectation meant for gracious living—she grinned wryly at the dangle of small, flower-patterned bags strung on a hoop of bedraggled ribbon, rolling each between her fingers. She sniffed the now-faint odors: spices, dried rose petals, some fragrant herbs, certainly of no use now.
Then there was the small hoop of keys. She had been so proud when Dame Argalas had handed that to her at their departure. Those were useless, too —who cared now about the safety of gold and silver thread, of seed pearls, of precious metal disks? The boxes which had held them all must have been already smashed by looters. But the keys — Sarita shook her head —those might yet be put to some use in another fashion; one could never be too sure about such things. They were metal —she wondered if arrow heads might be made of them.
So, here she was, a needlewoman nearly ready to show some major work of her own hands and achieve the status of journeywoman, thrust out of her position and dashed of her hopes, with a very uncertain future before her. Sarita sighed. To be so removed from everything she knew and understood was in itself a frightening thing if one dwelt upon it.
Rhys used all the tricks of his hard-learned woodcraft as he worked his way to the fringe of the burned area to look downslope over the open fields to the nearest farm. He heard the harsh cries of birds and recognized the naked-headed scavengers of the upper lands. They were clustered, fighting for place, around something downed in the field and the wind uphill brought the stench of death.
He must circle that busy feasting place without disturbing the birds —if he could. Anyone chancing to be on watch would be only too aware of a flock of hookbeaks rising and screaming as they did when anything changed to disturb them eating.
Keeping watch on the birds, he ventured a little northward. He wanted to catch sight of the keep if he possibly could, to see what might be in action there. But he had gone only a short distance before, from behind a stand of trees he had been using for cover, he saw the rise of thick black smoke. The fire must have been lately lit or he would have sighted it sooner.
Under the rush of what was becoming a brisk breeze that column lengthened and veered out to the west. Another stench, even worse —burnt meat! Rhys gagged and fought the bile rising in his throat. He could guess what that meant, but something made him move to make sure.
He wriggled along, belly down, to the top of a small knoll. There was a stretch of meadowland and he could see flutterings here and there which suggested other hookbills feasting, but it was what lay near the keep which centered his attention. There had been erected a great pile of wood. Rhys' far-sighted eyes, part of any true ranger, could see some of that pile was more than forest wood — the legs of what could only be a table slanted into the air in one place.
However, it was what was corded together and heaped on that pile which sent his head down on his arm, his teeth bruising his wrist to keep from crying out in rage. They were burning bodies! He was too far away to recognize more than the fact that there were bodies —he could not see any familiar face —but he had no doubt that this was the fate of those who had been in Var-The-Outer when it was overrun.
The same wind which sent the nauseating smoke toward the western hills snapped out a standard on the main tower of the keep. It whipped about, so for a single moment he was able to sight its full color and a part of the device upon it.
Sanghail! But why? What plot had that baron built behind a smiling face and soft voice? He had been a visitor here for hunting in the past season, though he had not liked roughing it enough to really take far to the field himself. It had been his captain of guard who had slain the quadbear Sanghail's lord had claimed for a trophy.
If it was Sanghail, or those under his orders, who were now in Var keep, then the plight of any prisoner was bleak. Rhys began dimly to see a pattern in this. These invaders had already turned the valley into a trap. If they were clever enough, and fortunate, they might even entangle the earl coming home. Then the whole mess could well be blamed on wolfhead dealings, and with the High King not yet crowned, the council might not see fit to move against scattered outlaws for at least another season.
He did not know why he was so certain he had fastened upon what he believed to be the truth of the whole matter, but at that moment he would have taken sword oath he was right.
Which made the burden laid upon him and this sewing girl all the heavier. The young lord's life would be in their hands and there would be an accounting someday, of that he was very sure. There was no use in lying here looking upon horrors now nearly past, it was time to be up and about the duty laid upon him. Rhys slid back through the brush and tall grass and hunched for a moment with his shoulder against a tree, his back resolutely turned on the valley and what lay there.
It was then that he heard the frantic bleating. He identified the sound as a goat—no, two of them and one very young. Plainly they were in trouble. He hesitated. Prudence argued he return to where he had left Sarita and the lordling and get them on the move. But a milk goat—could they continue to feed the little lord on the coarse herbs which might keep them alive but could be harmful for the child?
He headed at last in the direction of the sound and came to a thick patch of briars. A newborn kid, barely able to totter to its feet, butted against the body of its mother, who was struggling vainly to wrest her horns from the hold of some thorned, whiplike branches. She was well entangled and Rhys had to use the sword blade to cut her free. But she stood still while he worked, as if understanding that he was coming to her aid. Plainly she had been a well-tended pet on some farm of the valley.
When he returned to Sarita, he was carrying the kid under his good arm, and an unwieldly burden that was, while the nanny anxiously nudged against his legs from time to time.
Sarita looked wide-eyed at this addition to their party, but quickly took the kid from him. Valoris, waking from his nap, smiled widely and reached out for the small creature. Sarita set it down and it went to feed while the nanny stood patiently looking in their direction as if she was assessing in turn what benefit they might be to her and her child.
However, Rhys was impatient to move on. Sarita tore the strings from the apron still serving Valoris as a kind of blanket cape and tied them around the nanny's neck, giving a gentle tug when she had finished. The goat obediently moved forward as if this was the natural way of things in the world.
Sarita carried Valoris in the sling, giving to Rhys his bow, quiver, and her measuring rod, and so they went. It was a slow pace for the sake of the kid, pausing often —a situation which suited Sarita also, for Valoris was certainly no small weight.
At length they came to the hidden camp, and a well-concealed site it was. Sarita knew that those without wood knowl
edge might well overlook the small indentation in a thick growth of tall brush and trees which was the doorway. There was a pocket-sized hut, hardly more than a lean-to. Rhys said that he judged it had not been visited since he himself had seen to its closing the season before. There was even a small patch of grass at one side. The nanny needed no urging toward that as Rhys pried open the door latch and waved Sarita inside.
7
They faced a cramped dark space. Certainly this was rougher shelter even than a farm laborer's hut. Rhys held the door open wide so that Sarita could see about her. There was more than a hint of spiderwebs, and there were mouse-tracks on the floor, as well as
a musty smell.
Rhys was at the far wall on his knees beside a large box. When he threw this open, she could see a number of smaller containers which he brought out to line up on the floor. Holding one of these pots between his knees, he screwed open its lid with his good hand and then pushed it toward the girl so she could see that its contents appeared to be clumps of fried fruit.
"Splights," he said. She had a hard time identifying these as the bright yellow and red globes she had seen on market tables. Already he was working on the second jar, and now she could see it was full of coarse meal. A third held strings of what looked like large twigs but Rhys identified as osdeer jerky.
Sarita eyed this array with inner dismay. She had served her task time with the cook in the guildhouse, but there she had dealt with food fresh from the market, or their own small garden—and one needed pots to cook.
"Pots?" she asked aloud. Rhys motioned toward the cramped hearth. There was indeed a kettle and pots there, but they would certainly need a good scrubbing, and on a board fastened to the fireplace hung a long shafted fork and a big spoon.
Rhys was back at the storage chest and now had out a roll of cloth. Dust stirred and Sarita pointed to the door. "Out with that— shake it outside." She took the roll from him afterward and discovered she held two coarse blankets. Devising a broom from a branch, she swept out cobwebs. Rhys took a bucket from near the wall and went outside. Sarita hoped that their water source would not be too far away.
She tethered Valoris with a short length of line from the supply box to a stout sapling outside the door, where he seemed content for the moment to watch the goat and her kid.
When Rhys returned with water, she took up the pot and a fry pan she had found and followed, by his direction, a faint path to where there was a stream. There she set about scrubbing the vessels fiercely.
Later she concocted a stew using jerky, some of the meal, and roots Rhys provided after another of his trips away. In addition she coaxed the nanny to yield some milk into a small bowl from which Valoris drank thirstily.
The stew when done smelled better than it looked and she spooned it into the bowl for the child.
After they had eaten, she made Rhys let her dress his wound again, for among their finds had been a packet of the poultices. When she had done he held out his arm, flexing his fingers, moving it back and forth. A shadow lifted from his face. "It heals!"
Once they had eaten and she had coaxed Valoris to sleep on the folded blanket, she had questions she had been too busy to ask before.
"What did you see —in the valley?"
He did not answer at once, nor did his eyes meet hers. Rather he stared at his hand lying on his knee, and she watched the fingers close into a tight fist.
"Tell me!" she demanded.
"Sanghail's banner flies from the keep's tower."
"Sanghail?" That name meant nothing to her.
Now he did look directly at her, and she almost could believe that small points of fire blazed in his eyes.
"His lands border to the south. He has guested many times in the great hall, ridden in the fall hunts."
"A neighbor? One who has shared a bread at a common table?"
Such action broke all custom, both noble and common, beyond belief.
"A neighbor." The knuckles of Rhys' fisted hand now stood out in white knobs. "No wonder the ambush was so well laid."
"And Nurse Halda warned of a traitoress within."
"Perhaps there was more than one such." His voice was cold, grim. "But if any slunk among the guard —or the rangers," now his lip lifted as in a dire wolfs snarl, "they did not profit by it. They burn bodies in the valley—many of them!"
Sarita swallowed, though she thought dully that such news should not have come as any shock. Men had gone to war, towns had been sacked, sometimes all life within them extinguished —but that was of the past. The old High King had enforced peace and held it with the iron hand of impartial justice. When he died, the regents, Earl Florian among them, had followed the pattern he had set.
"The High King is very young." Rhys spoke slowly as if he were trying to work out some puzzle. "The earl and Count Ballas, and the high priestess have held tight reins on all, both nobles and the city merchants —any who have power. There has been loose talk lately that when the young king is crowned, he will allow more freedom.
"Fools!" He slammed his fist down on his knee. "They envy and they believe that with the High Three out of the way they can gain the ear of the king and advance their own desires. What will come is wrangling and war. It has already started —here. Look you — "
He straightened his fingers and leaned forward to draw on the earthen floor while Sarita leaned closer to watch.
"Here is the north pass. It is undoubtedly now held by Sanghail's men. To the south by the river road one can only travel through land where he is birth lord. He has made some kind of a pact with the wolfheads, who know much of the mountains. Yes, Sanghail is now master here—with none to naysay him."
"The earl — " Sarita frowned down at the rude map. Such matters were foreign to her, but she had wits enough to catch the perils which Rhys pointed out.
"It may be long before he learns what has happened. He can even be involved in some other brawl in the city. I do not believe that Sanghail moves alone. If he had taken the young lordling, perhaps he could have brought the earl to his knees."
"So — ?" She realized more strongly than ever how bleak their future was.
"So we are in a prison though we still move freely." He was frowning at the map. "The weather is fair enough —save for the summer storms —and we can find shelter from those. But with the coming of the cold . . ."
Sarita shivered. Winter was sometimes bleak even in the keep. They would not have stayed at Var-The-Outer past the first showing of fall. What would it be like for the two of them and the child? She stared at the cramped cabin and the pitiful accounting of stores before she summed up strength enough for her next question.
"How—how can we fare? We shall need clothing and food and if the cold finds us still here — "
His jaw was set. "Yes." It was a bleak answer and did nothing for her sadly raveled confidence. Then he continued slowly, sharing his thoughts more than trying to reassure her. "I have the forest lore. Once my arm is fully healed for bow work — " Then he was gone from beside her, back to the case of supplies to return with a handful of leather thongs he dangled before her with a flourish.
"Snares," he explained. "Until I am whole, I will show you how to set them. Let me in time bring down an osdeer and we shall have meat for drying and leather. There are plants as well. No, we shall not go hungry. There is only this —none of the other rangers can now be alive. Sanghail wants no witnesses. He is the sort of man who tries to foresee any danger to himself. Thus this woods is unknown territory for him."
"The wolfheads —" Sarita ventured.
Rhys nodded. "Yes, I am not denying that they, too, have knowledge of hunting lore and woodscraft—they will have had to learn it or die. But I think they will withdraw back toward the heights. They will certainly be lacking in wits if they believe that Sanghail will play friend after his use for them is past. This is a very small ranger rest. There are larger, better ones. Some of those may have been found and plundered. It is true, mistress," he said th
oughtfully, "that time is now our foe —but it can also be our friend. Look you —they must have searched well for the little lordling and they did not find him. They can be certain no large body of survivors escaped from the keep. If they have some reckoning of all who dwelt there, they will come to know—"
'That I, too, am missing!" Sarita drew a shaky breath. "Janine often hung about the workroom —Dame Argalas ordered her away several times lest she put fingers to our work, she was so curious."
"A girl from the city and a child who has hardly learned his first steps," Rhys returned. "Even if you did win free from the keep, they would not expect you to survive for long. There is no doubt they have overrun all the farms." He thought of the hookbeaks feasting in the meadow and tried not to guess what they might have been tearing at.
They could not have believed in his own survival — that had been such fortune as a man might meet once in a lifetime. Nor could they guess that he was now with Sarita and the child, warned of danger and with a knowledge of the land the raiders certainly could not have.
Rhys fingered the snares. They had a chance —no matter how slim it might be, it was still a chance. He studied the girl. She was certainly not skilled in the things of his knowledge, but neither had she wailed or faltered. Yes, they had a chance.
Three days later Sarita learned how precarious was their present safety. The grazing space about the hut was too small for the nanny, so Rhys found a meadow a little beyond where the rangers had once pastured horses, though they brought the goat and kid back to the hut each night.
Sarita went this morning to take the nanny they had named Berry, for the dark spots on her coat, and Briar, her frisky offspring, to this new grazing area. She carried an empty bowl for she had noticed while collecting the animals the previous evening the bright red of ground berries in the grass.