by Jasmine Walt
The hut held another three; all settled around a fire pit still smoking from newly spent ashes. She stood next to the pit and peered up. Smoke puddled at the ceiling, trying to make its way out of the small hole left for ventilation so the inhabitants didn't have to worry about falling sick from inhaling smoke-filled air.
She was so weary; she felt like every emotion in her body was somehow trying to do the same thing as the smoke.
Alaysha found herself squatting next to one of the women hunched lifeless next to the fire pit. The old woman stared unseeing at her own eyes that had fallen to the ground in front of her. They were larger than the others she'd collected and were not nearly as shrivelled, but there they lay just the same. About an inch apart, but one slightly offside as if it had rolled after it had fallen.
She reached down to scoop them and said, as much to hear her own voice as to apologize for the disrespect of another, "Sorry, Mother." She palmed the two seeds and tightened her fist around them. "I need to take these from you." She had an insane urge to pat the old woman on the shoulder in condolence, but resisted. Once more she wondered why she had been sent to destroy these people.
The old woman kept her counsel as Alaysha expected, but there was a subtle shifting of the smoke so it seemed to collect itself from the ceiling and the air around her only to snake around the woman's throat. It was so subtle that at first Alaysha didn't realize anything had changed in the hut until she thought to recheck the ceiling and discovered it was clear. She knew then it was no ordinary smoke.
She fixed her attention again on the fire pit. Ashes, yes, and bits of blackened wood, but something else too. She closed her eyes and breathed in: frankincense, rosemary, sage. They could be merely for fragrance to rid the air of the stagnant musk of wet soil. Yes. Perhaps. She inhaled again, this time more deliberately, more focused. Concentrating. Another scent: an older one than mere herbs. The smell of souls roasting, she thought. Brimstone, then.
"Who were you, old crone," she said out loud. "That you could mask that stink?"
Better question might be why she would be burning brimstone in the first place.
She craned her neck, trying to peer under and up at the old woman's face. No eyes, of course; Alaysha had those in her hand. The cheeks were hollowed in from age as well as the leathering of the battle. The mouth hung open, jaws as unhinged as a serpent's, readying for a meal. The chin—
Alaysha scrambled to her feet so fast she fell on her backside twice before she found solid footing. By then, she'd backed into the wall and her palm had contacted the cracks of dry dirt. Her hand went through and half the wall released itself in a shower of earth. It caked at her feet as the rain streamed in and kissed her cheeks with wet.
"Who are you, old crone?"
She stumbled back to the fire pit, afraid the whole wall would cave in and with it the whole hut, and she'd be trapped there under the weight of dry soil getting ever heavier as the rain soaked it.
The old woman remained just as quiet as her death demanded, so too did her companions, both of them hunched forward, their hands stretched out before them on the ground, palms up, supplicating almost. Their eyes also awaited collection.
Alaysha had to steel herself to press closer and reach for the seeds. She had to force herself to peer under and up at their faces too.
Tattaus. Each one just like the first. Stretched in ribbons across their chins and into their hairline. Tattaus filled with symbols of flesh showing through, of an ancient language that seemed familiar but unlearned.
Tattaus even more like hers than the man outside.
She couldn't see the smoke anymore. It must have found its way out of the crumbling hole she'd made in the wall. She shook the seeds around in her palm, staring out the hole and watching the rain collect in the crevices made of the cracked earth. It puddled up through some, collected in holes and started to move like something alive. The gap itself started to melt and the wall to split farther. The torrent would collect in any riverbeds outside and sweep this village and its bodies into outlying areas, scatter everything until it was unrecognizable anymore. And this hut would collapse on her soon if she didn't get out.
Still, these women, these crones—elders they must be—had a secret she desperately wanted to know, and she wasn't leaving without at least one of them.
Without thinking of respect or propriety, she began yanking one by the arm, dragging her along the earth toward the door, and when the rain and dirt had mixed into a slick mud that stole her grip from the leathered arm, she grabbed a foot and buck-yanked until she managed to get the woman halfway through the opening.
Too late, the mud hut collapsed on itself, the weight of the rain turning the caked dirt into a muck that greedily held onto everything beneath it.
She fell backwards onto hard wet ground. It couldn't be. Not this close. Not this close. She'd nearly had her.
A sob got stuck somewhere between her chest and throat. She choked. Even as the torrent plastered her hair and made her limbs immobile from cold, she felt the hot tears mingle on her cheek.
She could have sat there for ten minutes or more, letting the rain course down over her chest, but the sense that she was completely nude and hip deep in a puddle of muddy water tempted her to stand. She swiped her eyes with the back of her forearm. She'd been foolish letting a few dead women bother her so. Hadn't she seen dead women plenty of times? Yes, she told herself—so much it should have made her complacent by now.
If it just hadn't been for those tattaus. That was the trouble. She hated crying, had learned to steel herself against the tears long ago, had learned to steel herself against almost every emotion that could bring the power, but these women, these markings—they discomforted her.
She sighed, frustrated at herself and the pile of mud that had buried all but the feet and shins of the crone. Maybe she'd return in a week when the water ran off and soaked in and dried up. Maybe she'd dig the women out.
For now she was spent. And wet. And cold. She whistled for Barruch and was surprised to hear him blowing air just on the other side of the hut. He clomped out from behind it and ambled over to her. He turned his head, finicky, to the side and showed her his jawline.
"You old fool," she whispered to him and he nickered in response. He was soaked and obviously unhappy as he wasn't one to wait in the open rain while she made her collections. He was either hauling her the length and breadth of the recovery grounds, or he waited patiently somewhere sheltered. This plain wasn't big enough for the first and it lacked the latter.
"It's okay," she told him. "It'll be over soon." She stared past the hut where the trees were. See?" she said. "The sun is shining over there."
He blew irritably, and she couldn't help chuckling. "I'd like to dry off too."
She'd rather a bath and a hot fire, but she knew the longing for those things was about more than just getting clean and warm, and that neither of them would ease her spirit the way she always hoped it would. A truly hot bath was a thing for Sarum, and Sarum was a long way away. There was nothing for it, she knew, so maybe today would be the day she didn't hurry back to that bath in her nearby stream and that fire stoked outside her camp, and later to that inevitable interrogation. Maybe today her father's inquisition could wait.
She flung herself onto Barruch's back, planning to lead him to the copse where she'd dismount and lie on the moss, let the sun warm her. Then she'd pull on her tunic and wait for the rain to stop if it hadn't by then. It had already slowed down enough she didn't have to continually squint against the raindrops to see.
"He'll send someone for me, but we won't care will we?" she said, patting her mount's neck as he plodded toward the copse. With each step, Barruch seemed to pick up his pace and she guessed he was tired of death and wanted to retreat somewhere where he didn't have to put up with it. For a warhorse, he certainly could be fastidious.
She was a few hundred paces out when the rain did stop; the sunshine was so bright on the tree stand ahead of her she had to shiel
d her eyes. The sun felt good on her back. Maybe she'd dry off before she even got there and they could just take the time to relax instead. She already knew the spot where they'd stop. Right there, where the twinkling of sunlight reflected back at her.
Wait. That wasn't right. No light would be twinkling from a focused spot like that in the middle of trees—not even if it was reflecting off water. Not at that height.
"Something isn't right, Old Man." She squeezed Barruch's sides with her knees and he stopped. She studied the area a few seconds more, chewing her lip in thought.
"Best get ready," she told him and he snorted in reply, himself breathing in a large draft after as though he was about to launch himself and needed bracing.
She reached into her side bag and pulled out her tunic then, still seated, pulled it down over her head, stretching her arms into the sleeves. It might be nothing there in the shadow of the trees, but she'd rather face nothing dressed then face something unknown naked.
The leather stuck in places against her skin and she had to hold onto Barruch tighter with her knees so she could pluck the material away and smooth it down.
The light flashed again and disappeared, leaving just the lush greens of trees and vegetation. Right. She was glad she was dressed. She spurred Barruch into a gallop. He was so responsive to her after these years that he was off in seconds. If there was something there, she wasn't giving it time to escape. And she knew something was there. Someone. And someone being there meant at least one person had escaped. Or fled.
And the person was watching her.
She charged the tree stand, lying down against Barruch's back, hugging his neck, becoming part of the horseflesh, letting the scratch of brambles and tree branches caress her arms. There was so much noise from the horse's panting breath, from the sound of him pounding the ground that she'd never hear if someone slipped out through the brush. That didn't mean she was going to give them time anyway. She knew the exact spot where the light flashed, hadn't taken her eyes off it and she went for the stand with all her concentration.
It was a small clearing, big enough for a horse to stand and a young woman to jump down and peer, crouched, into the underbrush.
Nothing.
She should have known that as fast as Barruch could be, he'd never outrun a spy who was watching the approach in the first place. But she had hoped she could at least catch the person running off.
She stood up and scanned the area. She should be able to see where they'd gone. There was a patch of grass that was crushed, a broken tree branch, nothing else. So that was where they'd watched from. She stood in the middle and turned in the direction of the hut. Sure enough, she had a good enough view of what remained of it but nothing was overtly clear. Would the person have been able to make out facial features or count the dead at this distance? She tried. She knew exactly how many dead bodies there were, but at this distance, she couldn't really say she "knew" they were bodies—they just showed as smudges of black against the earth. She couldn't even see the feet she knew were stuck out from beneath the pile of mud.
Barruch neighed from behind her and pressed impatiently into the growth. She watched him peering from behind a few tree limbs he'd managed to hide in. She gave him a warning shush before she turned back to squint into the underbrush ahead of her. The tree limbs behind her made an annoyingly loud crackling sound.
He whinnied in protest.
She'd have to do some training with him on not being so sassy.
"Really, Barruch?" she said, turning to him.
There, not three feet away, stood a youth perhaps a year or two older than she, his leg lifted; ready to swing onto Barruch's back. Barruch was not being overly cooperative and had swung his hind quarters toward a tree so the man was having a hard time getting into place.
"Get away from my mount," she said.
Best to not to let her gaze travel to the sword hanging on Barruch's other side. She was well-trained with sword and knife, even long sticks, but she rarely used the broad steel attached to her saddle—why would she? The great Yuri's witch had no need of a sword to kill, but this boy—this man, actually now that she'd seen him well enough—would surely use it if he could.
"Get away from Barruch," she said again, setting the spring in her lower back just in case she had to lunge.
Instead of obeying, he yanked hard on the reins so Barruch had to move away from the tree. His forearm muscles tightened and with a quick sweep the man's leg was up and over, and adroitly turning Barruch's nose toward her. With one hand he held onto the reins, with the other, he reached out to her. His fingers were long and elegant but for the roughness.
"Get on," he said.
Get on? Oddest kidnap she'd heard of—not that she'd heard of many. Her mother had been the last, but she'd not even been born and had to hear it years later.
"No." She told him.
He shrugged, and flashed a dazzling grin. "You'll miss him."
She stood, letting the tension she'd loaded into her spine relax. "I will not; he won't go with you."
A chuckle then, and a coaxing cluck. Barruch started to move.
She forged forward. "Wait. Barruch. Kneel." It was all she could think of. She'd taught him the trick to go down onto his front legs long ago as a trick to please her father. It always meant a parsnip or two for the beast—something the horse loved more than a free run. It took a second, a heart stopping second when she thought he wouldn't obey, but then, down went one knee and with a laborious groan, down went the other.
She knew the rider would have tried in that second to dig in, so he wouldn't fall, but it wasn't nearly enough time and he pitched forward instead, landing on his side in the grass. Alaysha took the time he was recovering to dash forward and wrestle her sword from Barruch's side. With it, she stood, feet braced apart, sword raised to her right with both hands on the hilt. He'd think twice if he meant to capture her. Or take her horse.
"I wasn't trying to steal him." He hoisted himself to his elbows.
"No?"
"No. Or steal you if that's what you think."
"You couldn't anyway."
"Oh, I see that."
"What do you want?"
He looked her over, his glance lingering a little too long on her chest. She had the horrible feeling that he'd seen her naked as she'd done her father's bidding, while he hid in the trees. He couldn't possibly have seen any real details from this far out, but somehow, she felt as though with him, it was possible. Her neck burned and she had to fight the urge to lower her gaze in shame. Instead, she shifted the blade so it was to her left. Just enough to make a motion to distract him.
"You didn't tell me what you're after. Why are you here?"
He put an innocent hand to his bare chest. "Me? Why are you here?"
She didn't need to answer him; he'd undoubtedly seen everything—or at least enough to know her presence was not mere happenstance. She gave him a dry glare that prompted him to protest.
"Oh, that?" He waved his hand in the direction of the village. "I know all about it. I even know why."
"Then why ask?"
"Because I want to know why you think you're here."
She lifted her shoulder, more to ease the ache beneath its blade than anything else. "I know exactly why I'm here." In fact, she knew all too well. It wasn't a difficult concept, after all.
"Not here." He stamped his foot against the moss and spread his arms. "Here." He gave her an exasperated sigh when she didn't say anything. "You have no idea who you are."
"And you do?" She snorted.
He turned his attention to her sword and nodded at it. "Why don't you put that thing down? I think we both know you don't need it."
She lowered the blade, but let it rest against her thigh. It might be true she didn't need it, but he might, and she wasn't about to make it easy for him to take it from her.
"Good," he said. "Good. Now, come, let's sit."
He settled on his patch of grass, crossed his legs and p
atted the spot in front of him.
"As though we were old friends?" She gave his hand a wary glance.
"Certainly not," he agreed. "How can we be? I've only known you a few moments. Now your nohma—well, I knew her for a while longer."
Now she gave him an even warier glance. He couldn't possibly know her nohma. She'd been dead at least a dozen years. She met his gaze across the space, his eyes, this close, looked like amber. She'd always liked that stone. She thought she remembered her mother's eyes when she looked into his. For a second she was flustered, then she remembered what he'd said.
"You're lying."
He spread his arms, a gesture of abject innocence, one that made him look even younger than she thought he could be. "Why would I lie?"
She didn't know, but she wasn't foolish enough to say so. Instead she took her time to look him over and she made no attempt to conceal the scrutiny. Let him know she was searching for weakness or ferreting out falsehood. Let him feel nervous.
What she got for her effort was a brush of fingers through his black hair. It wasn't as short as she'd thought at first—rather it was tied back at some point with a leather thong and had come mostly out of its queue, and was hanging over his ears but stopping short at his chin. His wide set eyes watched her watching him, and he leaned back almost arrogantly onto one palm, thrust his chest forward, giving her good study. She could make out markings beneath his arm running vertically down his rib cage.
"Who are you?" She did her best not to stare at the tattaus.
"Someone who knows your nohma obviously."
"You don't know her." Now she had him—anyone who really was telling the truth would not use the present tense.
"I do," he said."
She shuffled her feet, gave them great consideration. "Good ploy."
"How could I be making a ploy?"
"Everyone has a nohma, and so it would be easy to say you knew mine, hoping you would fool me into thinking you do know her."
He chuckled and placed his palms behind his head, leaning back farther against a tree.
"Stop it," she said.
"Stop what?"