It was slow going working her way through the ravines. She would make several hundred steps in one direction, then find a dead end, or a slow ramp to the surface, or, worst of all, that the ravine she followed doubled back on itself completely, taking her back in the direction of the town or the miners. She turned back most times, but occasionally she became so disoriented that she had to climb out of the ravine (an event in itself, with the steep, rough boulders and loose sand), look around carefully to ensure the area was clear, then stay low as she ran across to another ravine. Then a dangerous drop or slide down to the new path.
To maintain her focus—not to mention hold on to her nerves—she began singing quietly to herself. Songs from her childhood, from happy times . . . her favourite was always The River’s March:
The fish come swimming up from sea,
Up the river’s march,
The river’s march,
The fish come swimming up from sea,
Up the river’s march.
The frogs go jumping down from lee,
In the river’s march,
The river’s march,
The frogs go jumping down from lee,
In the river’s march.
She sang all the verses she knew, and started to feel lighter on her feet. Then she came to the final verse:
She promised but nay come back to me,
From the river’s march,
The river’s march,
She promised but nay come back to me,
From the river’s march.
She found tears flowing freely done her cheeks, salty on her lips and tongue, and she decided to stop singing.
After a while, she felt that she was making good progress, and had covered a fair distance from Red Rock. The ravine she currently traversed seemed to be taking her west away from the town, and in the distance, when it straightened out in the direction of travel, she could see trees. Sayri guessed that the trees represented the far end of the plateau, where rolling hills led to the Sunset Cliffs. She picked up pace, hoping this ravine would continue west long enough for her to climb out near the treeline, and disappear into it.
Around another tight bend to the left, with heavy rock overhangs, and the path sloped downward. Beyond the corner, it straightened out again then sank deeper and twisted suddenly right, overhung by massive boulders that cloaked the entire ravine in the dark shadows of midafternoon.
She nearly tripped over stones scattered about the centre of the ravine. She had nearly passed them and had only just realized that they were laid out in rough circle when she noticed smoke curling from the middle, and she froze.
Her eyes adjusted to the shadows. There was a firepit full of ashes, a cooking stick impaling a scrawny-looking lizard of unfamiliar type, and a pack laying near the fire. She had wandered into someone’s campsite.
Stupid! Blundering right into someone’s campsite? In silence she cursed herself for her laxity and began to back away, slowly, glancing left and right. She had taken three paces back when she saw a figure, squatting on the slope to her left, about five paces away. Looking right at her. She drew her knife with an audible curse, and continued backing up.
The figure stood, and moved down the slope, making little sound; a smaller man, and he wasn’t wearing boots. Sayri’s eyes adjusted further; no weapons that she could see, no armour, dark grey robes with lighter trim—Collector!
Sayri’s breath caught. Her heart thudded, and her jaw clenched. Oh, no.
A Collector could see your thoughts. A Collector knew who you were, what you sought, your deepest desires . . . there was no hiding. Worst of all, they were lordsmen; though their order supposedly existed autonomously, the individuals of each chapter house owed fealty to the local lord or lady, so their skills were at his or her disposal.
If Collectors were looking for her this far from the Lower Valley, then she had completely underestimated how quickly the warders would react, and how badly the lord would want her. They must have arrived at her house just after she left! Collectors would have learned her plans from her family, and sent groups out to search for her at both Red Rock and Wellem’s Bluff; perhaps even on the road to Benn’s Harbour.
What a fool she had been! To imagine that she could even begin to outwit a lord, with Collectors at his call? They were experts at finding and interrogating criminals, and she—she was just a stupid girl. She had never had a chance.
Her heart sunk. She was caught.
3 SAYRI
Sayri didn’t know what to do. If she ran, the Collector would call his warders, and they would catch her, beat her, and . . . who knew what else. If she didn’t run, the Collector would arrest her, and take her to Lord Perrile. At worst, that would mean a beating and a return home to face the lord, to face torture and death; at best . . . a quick death? Could the Collector simply order her death himself? She didn’t know; the details of law were beyond her.
There was no chance of escape, since Collectors always traveled with a retinue of warders. In her case they likely had trackers as well who could follow her trail through any terrain, and perhaps even sprinters . . .
“Peaceful day, young lady,” the Collector said formally, bowing.
Sayri blinked. She hadn’t expected him to be polite. On the rare occasions she had seed Collectors in the Lower Valley, it had been from a distance, and they seemed all business, finding the criminal they sought immediately and taking him away.
“Peaceful day, young man,” Sayri answered formally, not knowing what else to do. She curtsied.
The Collector stepped towards her, into the sunlight. He was young for his vocation; having seen probably less than thirty summers. Bright brown curly hair dangled over his brow and framed a round face, with freckles and soft blue eyes.
He’s not much older than Bress, Sayri thought. For a moment she imprinted her brother’s kindness on the Collector’s face, and a trace of hope flooded through her, before reality snapped her back. He’s a Collector, she reminded herself. He is here to arrest me, expose me.
“The young lady is hungry, and wishes to share my humble fare?” The Collector asked with a whimsical smile, motioning at her knife, held out before her threateningly.
Sayri started, then dropped the knife, raising her hands to show empty palms. Then she fell to her knees, lowering her eyes to his feet. “I beg forgiveness, Collector. I was startled by your presence. I . . .” She struggled for the right words. But what courtesy did she owe him, her hunter? Her mouth opened and closed as her emotions danced between fear and anger, but nothing further came out.
Suddenly she felt a hand on her chin, and the Collector was lifting her face to look at him. “Such debasement does not become so elegant a young lady,” he was saying, and she found herself being raised up by her shoulders to stand face to face with him. He really was quite small; Sayri was average of build, if a tad slimmer than most due to regular long wanderings, but the Collector was less than her width of shoulder, and no taller. “I should be pleased to have you at my table, lacking though it may be.” He motioned toward his campsite, smiling a gentle smile that showed no teeth.
Sayri stood there dumbfounded, completely taken aback. The Collector motioned again, and she followed numbly, allowed him to usher her to his campfire, then, as he further astounded her by brushing off a cloak and folding it, let him seat her on it. Forgetting all etiquette, she plopped down cross-legged and, realizing her mouth was hanging open, quickly closed it. So abruptly, in fact, that the Collector could not overlook it, and grinned despite himself, revealing perfect white teeth.
“But forgive, young lady, for I dishonour you by missing my grace. I,” he continued, recovering his solemn expression with another neat bow, “am Lerwun Welgray.”
“Collector,” Sayri added his title, then slammed her mouth again, realizing her rudeness.
Welgray’s mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed, and for a moment she feared she had angered him, but then he bowed again, just with his head this time,
as if to surrender the point. “It is so.”
Finally, Sayri remembered her manners and, though she could not stand without being rude (since he had seated her), she bowed deeply as her mother had to guests at dinner, and said, “Fullest pleasure to make your acquaintance, young man. I am S—”
She froze with her mouth half open. She couldn’t give her real name! Could it be that this Collector hadn’t heard the word of her status as a fugitive, and a murderer? Perhaps that would explain his odd behavior?
Think up a name, Sayri. How hard can it be? Just think up a name!
And yet, one wouldn’t come. Her mouth opened and closed, just air coming out.
Miraculously, he saved her. “No further honors are required, young lady. Your name would suffice to please me?” He smiled graciously.
The first name you think of! “Markel,” she said. Markel?? A boy’s name—and your brother’s?? She groaned aloud, then caught herself, and watched to see if the Collector had noticed it.
He looked amused, and perplexed. “Merikal?”
Sayri nodded, not daring to open her mouth again, lest it stay that way.
“A beautiful name . . . a miracle indeed, meeting such a strikingly attractive young lady in such a desolate place, if you would allow me the honour to say so.” He displayed that boyish smile again, showing those extraordinary teeth, then turned to check on the lizard.
“Has . . . the young man been traveling long?” She ventured carefully. Incredibly, her voice didn’t shake.
“Quite,” he said. “I am . . . somewhat of a hermit. I prefer to wander alone, learning from the people I meet, rather than surrounding myself with others of my order, as most do. It is my way of . . .” He paused, momentarily in thought, drawing the hair from before his eyes. “. . . staying connected to the people and the land.”
Sayri wondered at her luck, as the situation began to sink in. Not only had she met probably the only Collector within days’ travel who wasn’t out looking for her, but somehow, he didn’t seem to be able to read her mind, since he hadn’t reacted to her failure to come up with a name.
She began to relax a bit, and stopped looking around for his retinue of warders. “The young man is the first of his order I’ve had the honour to meet,” she said.
“I doubt I represent well,” he replied. “Though I suppose in your company that might prove more boon than bother.”
“Why would that be?” Sayri wasn’t sure if she was being rude again by asking such a direct question, but he did bring it up, after all.
The Collector smiled softly, then held her gaze. “I don’t believe in interrogation.”
Sayri was stunned. She didn’t say anything for a long while, just staring at him over the crackling fire. The sun was creeping down across the sky, and the shadows had now nearly filled the ravine. Sitting, both were in shadow, but Sayri could clearly see his face, and he did not seem to be toying with her.
“Why not?” she asked.
Welgray took a deep breath and sighed, then reached out to poke at the lizard with a stick. “This looks done,” he said.
“Allow me, young man,” Sayri said, leaning forward to pluck the lizard off its skewer and place it on the wooden plate he had before him. This, at least, she knew how to do properly; pulling out her knife, she separated the head and tossed it in the fire, then split the torso and removed the legs. Arranging the legs splayed evenly around the lizard’s open chest, she pushed the plate towards him. “Yours before me,” she said formally.
“May I call you Merikal?” the Collector asked.
“As the Collector wishes,” Sayri replied.
“Then you will address me by my birth name,” he said.
Sayri stared at him again, her brow straight. “Impossible.”
“I insist,” he added.
Her mouth opened again, but Sayri had nothing to add. She couldn’t very well deny him—it was a command. And she had made him insist; Ma would have slapped her, had she been here!
“As the young man says,” she answered finally.
“As . . ?” The whimsical smile was back. Now he was toying with her!
“As . . . Lerwun says.” She nearly had to force it out, and winced as she imagined him to anger.
But he didn’t anger; he just turned to the meal, splitting the lizard into equal parts, meager as they were, and pushed half over to Sayri’s side of the plate, placing it evenly between them.
Sayri found herself having supper with a Collector, and once her nerves began to abate —to her absolute astonishment—she began to enjoy herself.
・
The sun had set completely, and the Collector had tossed additional wood on the fire, stoking it so that it presented more light upon the two travellers. Without trees surrounding them, the temperate dropped much more quickly than it had on previous nights; Sayri pulled on her green leather vest shortly after sundown. She had asked if the Collector required his cloak, upon which she still sat, but he had declined, saying that he was quite accustomed to cooler weather. In any case, his robes provided considerably more warmth than her light tunic and skirt (which she had bound to her legs for traveling, making it look more like atrocious breeches than anything else—if it had occurred to her that she still wore it so, she would have been embarrassed, but the situation was captivating enough that she forgot entirely).
The conversation had ceased as they ate, Sayri watching the Collector closely, while he seemed more interested in the lizard than in her.
“The young man couldn’t find any lapizars in this area?” she finally asked him. Then, remembering what he had said, “Lerwun, I mean.”
Welgray cocked his mouth to the side in annoyance, furrowing his brow, then extracted a small cloth from inside his robes and wiped meaty grease off his mouth. “I have found them impossible to catch,” he admitted.
Sayri grinned, feeling some pride in how rapidly she had solved that challenge. “I can catch one tomorrow morning,” she offered. Then, realizing what that entailed, she stopped with half a bite of meat in her mouth. “I mean—”
“You are perfectly safe staying here with me,” Welgray said, as if answering a question. He displayed a hand, palm up and empty, as if to demonstrate that he held no weapon. “I am a Collector, as you observed, young lady. My duty demands that I protect you.”
Sayri frowned. She had never heard of a Collector being duty bound to protect a simple farm girl, or anyone for that matter. Collectors worked for the local lord, gathering information, interrogating people, and making arrests.
And yet, she felt somehow that she could trust him. Perhaps she just needed to trust someone; perhaps she simply didn’t want to be alone, if only for one night. It didn’t make any sense at all, and was really the most foolish thing that she could do. Spending the night at a Collector’s camp? It was madness, but somehow, gazing at his blue eyes sparkling over the fire, she wanted to do it, and couldn’t resist that desire.
“I would never have imagined otherwise, young man,” she said gracefully, bowing her head to him.
He smiled, tossed the lizard leg he had been picking at into the fire, then pulled out a small glass jar and popped off the tines holding its metal lid closed. He offered it to her. “Wine?”
Sayri’s eyes widened slightly as the scent of red wine reached her. She leaned away slightly, her jaw clenched. “No thank you,” she said quickly.
“Apologies, have I offended you?” Welgray sealed the jar immediately and it disappeared back into his pack. “If drink is forbidden among your people, I meant no disrespect.”
His eyes were genuine. Sayri told her racing heart to still, and she forcibly unclenched her jaw, taking a deep breath. “It is I who should apologize, young man—Lerwun,” she said. “I have . . . I . . . I’m just tired,” she finished, expelling her breath, her eyes downcast. She laid down on her left side with her head resting on her arm, and pulled her knees up in front of her. Unable to meet his gaze, she closed her eyes.
&nbs
p; “Sleep, young Merikal,” the Collector said. His voice was very calm, and from her prone position she could no longer see his face, so the sound became disembodied. “All will be well. We are safe here, and I vow to watch over you, so long as you remain in my care. You may rest.”
He continued speaking, but she wasn’t listening anymore. His voice had begun to resonate and she found it strangely calming. She had had a long day, made much progress despite hot weather and harsh terrain. Sayri was, she realized, very, very tired.
And she slept.
・ ・
Morning was the first that hadn’t felt like summer. As she emerged from the edge of the trees, which hadn’t been far away at all once she poked her head out of the ravine to look, Sayri could see great grey clouds covering the sky from east to west, north to south. There was a heavy wetness to the air, despite the dryness of the plateau, and a touch of rain, which misted the air before her rather than spattering the dirt at her feet. Behind the tree-line it had been darker and even more humid.
That hadn’t stopped her from going about her business, however, and two sizeable lapizars hung from her shoulder as she carefully traversed the flat plain back to the ravine. The barren land stretched out before her, glistening with a light coating of dew and mist, fading into a grey haze in the direction of the town; there was no danger of being spotted. She dropped down the slope the way she had come up. Welgray was awake now, and had a fresh fire going. Sayri had considered leaving him upon awakening just before dawn, but had decided against it. He had been very kind, even gallant, and besides, with such a diminutive stature one wouldn’t last long without some proper sustenance. Her mother had often said that when Sayri returned from a wandering, tired and hungry. So she had carried back the lapizars that they could share a hearty breakfast, and promised herself that she would depart soon after. However much she liked and seemed willing to trust Welgray, he was still a Collector, and would have to arrest her if he discovered who she was.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 4