by C. Greenwood
As I spat blood, I could hear Rideon laughing behind me. Terrac’s eyes were apologetic, but that didn’t stop me from feeling a rush of anger that he was making me appear a fool before my captain. I launched an all-out assault against him, throwing a series of punches he couldn’t move quickly enough to block. I kept up my attack, but the priest boy refused to fall no matter how mercilessly I punished him.
He gave up ground readily enough, until we had backed out of the clearing and found ourselves fighting knee-deep in bramble bushes. I no longer knew who I beat or why, so intent was I on winning. I hardly noticed my weariness or my skinned knuckles. I was close to victory; I could feel it. As Terrac stumbled backward against a log, I seized the opportunity to drive a blow into his belly. He staggered and doubled over. Although I knew it was cheap, I followed the punch with a knee to his face. That knocked the strength from him and he dropped.
Upon seeing him downed, my anger instantly evaporated, leaving exhaustion and guilt in its wake. I leaned forward to grip my knees and catch my breath. Then I extended a hand to help Terrac to his feet. He accepted it with barely a sign of hesitation. It wasn’t in his character to hold a grudge. Still, I felt a twinge of shame, noting his swollen lip and the bruises already forming over his cheekbones.
He seemed to sense my thoughts. “It’s all right,” he told me quietly. “Perhaps I’ll do as much for you one day.”
I accepted the threat as my due and turned my attention to freeing myself from the clinging bushes, as Rideon approached. When my captain stood before me, I believed he had come to see how badly I was hurt. I was relieved of that misapprehension when, without word or warning, he suddenly dealt me a ringing blow to the jaw. Stunned, I reeled backward to the ground. I thought he would wait for me to get back to my feet. He didn’t. Instead he battered me with a series of vicious kicks, the strength of which knocked the breath from me. I sensed the futility of attempting escape and instead curled my body into a ball, wrapping my arms around myself to deflect the worst of the blows.
My pitiful reaction appeared to enrage Rideon, for he launched a particularly rough kick into my face. Sparks exploded before my eyes and I felt my nose crunch. Face throbbing and nose filling with blood, I sucked in pained gasps of air through my mouth. It suddenly occurred to me the blows might not stop until I was dead, and for the first time, I was afraid. Inwardly, I clawed after my magic, but once I grasped it my mind was too clouded by the pain to think how to use it. The most I could do was simply cling to the inner fire, as I tried to fight down the rising darkness.
When the attack ceased as unexpectedly as it had begun, I knew a moment of intense relief. The outlaw must have expended his strength. Slowly, tentatively, I released my grip on the magic and let it slip away. Then I lifted a trembling hand to explore my aching face. My skin was slick to the touch, my nose crooked and swollen. Upper lip and jaw throbbed. Mentally, I categorized each pain: aching limbs, bruised body, and a fiery agony in my ribs. Rideon rolled me roughly onto my back. I tried to pry one bloodied eye open, but the lid remained stubbornly sealed. The other eye managed to open into a narrow slit, affording me a squinted view of my surroundings. The treetops swayed dizzyingly overhead. I was very near to blacking out and didn’t fight it. The rest would’ve been a welcome relief.
“I’d say this has been a profitable exercise,” Rideon announced with deliberate ease. “I’m sure you’ve both learned something.”
I struggled to focus my watering eye on his shadowy figure looming over me, but my vision was oddly clouded. His voice was casual as he continued, “We will never make any great fighter of you, hound. That is sure. Has Brig never taught you, the larger the opponent the greater the courage you will need to defeat him?”
I was too miserable to construct a defense. I understood his implication—I was a disappointment. Feeling wretched and ashamed of my weakness, I watched him stride away. Then I raised a hand to my face, wincing at my careful touch. My nose felt as if it were swelling larger by the second.
Terrac suddenly appeared and helped me right myself. I couldn’t stand yet, so I slouched where I was, panting through my mouth and dabbing at my bloody nose with my sleeve. I felt unreasonably angry with Terrac, crouched patiently at my side, for witnessing my humiliation. I hated his concerned expression as he peered into my battered face.
“I think only your nose is broken,” he assured me now. “The swelling and blood may make it hard to breathe for a while, but eventually it will mend itself.”
“How does it look?” I asked. “Ugly?”
Terrac hesitated. “Not too ugly. I think it will be all right on you. Look at Illsman; a crooked nose just makes him seem tough.”
I winced and tried to convince myself I didn’t mind being compared to the ugly outlaw. No one would have taken a pretty female brigand seriously anyway. But I reached a decision. “I’m not going back to camp like this,” I told Terrac.
He tried to protest. “But those cuts on your face need cleansing.”
“You can do that for me here,” I said firmly. I wouldn’t be seen by Brig like this. Not after the recent argument between him and Dradac. I couldn’t allow him to think he’d been right all along.
Terrac must have sensed my determination. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll run back and fetch a poultice from Javen for those cuts. I’ll bring food also. It will be a few days before you’re moving around much, and we’d go hungry if it were left for me to do the hunting.
“We?” I questioned.
“Yes, we. I’m not about to leave you out here alone after that plague-cursed animal has rendered you too battered to look after yourself.”
“Don’t speak of the Hand like that,” I ordered halfheartedly. “He is Rideon. He can do whatever he pleases.”
“Can isn’t the same as should, but I won’t argue the point. Wait here and I’ll return as quickly as I can.” He clambered to his feet.
“Say nothing to Brig,” I warned as he left. “If he asks, say only that I plan to sleep out tonight. He knows I do that sometimes.”
Terrac nodded briefly, although I could see he didn’t appreciate being drawn into my deception. And that was how we came to make camp alone for three days.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As soon as I was able to move, we shifted to a better location. I tried again to persuade Terrac to leave me, making no secret of the fact I would prefer to be without him. But the priest boy wouldn’t budge. I suspected he secretly enjoyed witnessing my suffering. Over the following days, I treated him as harshly and as ungratefully as I knew how, but never was I able to sway him in his determination to share in my self-imposed exile.
That first night out of Red Rock, I was too sore to plan for anything in the way of shelter, so we slept beneath a row of shrubbery. With Terrac sleeping at my back, I was reminded of the nights we spent in our pine bough shelter last spring. Only then, it had been he who suffered. I didn’t like the sense of our places being changed.
It rained that night.
The following day found the skies clear again. By mid-afternoon the sogginess had gone from the ground, but our clothing remained miserably damp throughout the day. We did very little except sitting about, sulking and arguing over whether we should return to Red Rock. In the end, I won out and we stayed. We fared better the next night because the weather was warm and dry. By this time I was in good enough condition the two of us were able to climb a stout tree to sleep in. We braced ourselves in the branches, where I passed a comfortable night, although Terrac still looked weary in the morning. He was unaccustomed to sleeping among the green leaves and said he scarcely closed his eyes all night for fear of falling to the ground in his sleep.
We consumed the last of our food on that second day. Terrac went off in search of more, but I lacked the inclination to join him. My mind was still on Rideon and my disgrace. It was no surprise when Terrac returned with nothing more than a handful of berries, although I had lent him my hunting knife. If I knew Terrac
, he passed up all sorts of fox dens and rabbit holes because he hadn’t the heart to kill anything. I had sunk into such depression I didn’t even bother mocking him.
I hardly cared that I huddled down to sleep on an empty stomach that night, having let Terrac keep his scant meal to himself. They were bitter-berries, a fact I didn’t bother sharing with him. Instead, I enjoyed a faint satisfaction each time I heard him wake during the night to vomit up the contents of his stomach. Those frequent interruptions made it difficult for me to find sleep, however. I lay half-reclined among the branches for a long time, staring into the shadows of the leaves overhead. As I listened to the creaks and rustles of the branches below and to the subsequent sounds of the priest boy disgorging his meal, I wondered how much longer I could hold out before giving up my wounded pride and returning to Red Rock. I tried to imagine what Brig and Dradac and the others would be doing back in camp right now. Eventually, I slipped off to sleep.
***
Gentle hands woke me to the cold, grey light of early dawn. It was still more night than day, and I didn’t understand why I was being awakened so early. Mama bent over my pillow, the sweeping ends of her silvery hair brushing my face.
She whispered, “Come, little chickling. Don’t make a sound.” A strange excitement lit her eyes. I asked no questions but slipped out of bed, exclaiming softly as my small feet touched the cold, dirt floor. Mama pressed a warning finger to her lips, casting an anxious glance into the shadows across the room where Da slept.
She had already collected my things and now she moved silently, helping me slip a dress over my head and pull warm stockings up my legs. She was dressed to go out as well and over her shoulder she carried a canvas sack with a loaf of bread peeking out of its mouth. I was curious where we went in such a hurry it would be necessary to eat along the way, but I kept quiet.
There was urgency in Mama’s eyes and in the quick movements of her hands as she sat me on the floor and tugged on my ragged shoes. I scarcely had time to pull my feet under me again before she took me by the shoulders and guided me quickly through the semidarkness and out the doorway.
The farmyard, illuminated by the faint morning light, stood empty before us. I stole a glance back over my shoulder to where Da lay, snoring loudly in the big bed. Mama and I exchanged conspiratorial smiles as we silently abandoned the little cottage and slipped into the grey world outside. Mama transferred her grip to my hand and led me across the yard, away from the cottage. Stealthily, we veered behind the barn and into the shadow of the plum trees. I felt a surge of excitement because I sensed whatever was happening was forbidden and secret—an adventure.
We crossed the farmyard and topped the ridge, pausing to look down on the sleepy cottage below. Only then did I feel both our moods lighten. On the far side of the ridge lay the neighboring village, but Mama didn’t lead me down that way. I had only a brief glimpse of the low cluster of flat roofs before we moved on. We climbed a steeper hill, then descended its slope into another valley, where a narrow road snaked along its base. Once we were on the road, Mama finally allowed me a slightly slower pace, but I still had difficulty matching her quick strides.
“It is a long way to Journe’s Well,” she told me apologetically. “We need to arrive before the sun is high.” She gave no more explanation than that.
By the time the sky had changed from morning’s grey to a pale blue, I had begun to miss my breakfast. Mama swung the sack around from her shoulder and broke off a chunk of bread for us both. We ate while we walked. Very soon after, my feet began to hurt. Mama lifted me onto her thin shoulders and carried me for a time, but we both soon wearied of that and I walked again.
Mama seemed to grow more agitated the farther we traveled. I sensed whatever mysterious adventure lay ahead frightened as much as it excited her. She began talking after a while, more to herself than to me. I comprehended little of her words. She told me we were making this trek to Journe’s Well to catch a glimpse of the Praetor’s soldiers, camped there on their journey back from the North. They had served the provinces for years, fending giants from our borders and were at last free to return home. These men, the Iron Fists, were the bravest soldiers of our province and were led by the son of the old Praetor himself, she explained.
I barely listened to her words. I couldn’t see how the Praetor, his son, or their soldiers had anything to do with me. Why should I be interested in people I’d never met? Now, if any of the Praetor’s men could ride Carp Wildtooth’s meanest bull, well, that would be a thing worth hearing about.
We reached Journe’s Well late in the morning. Although we didn’t approach very near, I could see even at a distance that the camp bustled with activity. Some men were striking tents and loading supplies onto horses and pack animals. Other soldiers were already mounting their horses. Mama told me they would march to Selbius today, where folk would line up in the streets to watch them pass. In the city, feasts would be thrown for a week to celebrate their return. This sounded very grand to me and I wished I could see it, but Mama said we could not journey so far today. She looked as if she regretted it as much as I did.
Circling the camp, we kept at a distance. No one saw us or, if they did, they didn’t care that their movements were spied on by a silver-haired peasant woman and a small child. There was an outcropping of rock at the base of a craggy hill overlooking the Well, and it was to this we moved, scaling the pile until we could look down on the evacuating camp without being observed.
Mama leaned forward, scanning the ground below. I wondered what she expected to find amid all the activity of rushing men and stamping horses. Then, “There,” she muttered softly. Turning to me, she asked, “Do you see that man, chickling?” She directed my attention to a darkly handsome young man mounted atop a war steed. He had an aura of power that made him stand out from the other soldiers and his black armor and horse were finer than any of those around him.
I shivered, for the sight of the dark man touched something deep within me, awakening a fear I could find no cause for. At the moment I looked down on him his head was tilted back as he drank deeply from a water skin. At his heels a young lad sat a gray gelding and held aloft a pennant depicting a rearing black bear against a field of scarlet. I watched the soldier finish his drink and toss the skin to the boy. Then, as if suddenly sensing my eyes on him, the dark man looked up. I ducked out of sight, seized for a moment by the foolish fear he had read my thoughts, felt the curious connection between us that I did. But no, when I peered down on him again, he had already looked away.
“Did you see his face, little one?” Mama asked me.
I said I did, remembering that harsh profile with the tight mouth and long, hawkish nose.
“That man will be very great one day. I brought you here to look at him because he is going to be important in the future. Do you understand?”
I said I did because it was what she appeared to want. I wondered if she, too, felt the power I sensed emanating from the dark soldier. It was one of what she called her ‘talents’—her magical abilities. She saw people’s inner qualities—their hidden virtues and vices.
We remained hidden among the rocks for what felt like a very long time. I quickly grew bored and, when Mama wasn’t looking, nibbled on bits of bread and cheese from our sack. The sun rose higher in the sky. It was hot, crouching where the bright rays beat down on the rocks. We didn’t leave until the camp was emptied and the last of the dust had settled after the soldier’s horses. Then we crept down from our spot.
As I clambered back down the rocks, I stepped on a patch of loose pebbles and slipped. Mama was too far ahead to catch me, so I fell, spilling headfirst down the hill. A sharp chunk of rock sliced my arm on the way. Then I hit the ground.
***
With a start I sat up in the darkness, nearly tumbling out of my tree.
“Mama?” I called. Of course she didn’t answer. Had I really expected her to? I lifted my sleeve and felt the ridged scar along my forearm, where I’d c
lipped the rock during my tumble. It was an old injury and I’d never been able to remember how I’d gotten it. Until tonight.
I leaned back against the tree again and closed my eyes, attempting to shake my mother’s image from my mind. I scarcely thought of her anymore. I felt uneasy, knowing she could still creep into my dreams after all this time. Was the magic trying to tell me something? I shook my head. That was ridiculous. The incident meant nothing. Neither Mama nor I had ever spoken again of our secret journey or of the dark man under the black-and-scarlet pennant. Strange that I should relive the incident now, but then I supposed it was no stranger than any of the other wild things folk dreamed about.
I tried to go back to sleep, but remnants of the dream clung to my mind. The dark soldier’s face was as fresh in my memory as if it were only yesterday I’d seen him. I wondered who he was and why he was important, and the wondering kept me awake the rest of the night. I had a growing conviction that if I could ever tie together the loose ends of all my scattered memories, I might make sense of the mysteries of my past.
As the early light of dawn crept over us, I decided I could bear it no longer. I reached below and awakened Terrac with a rough shake of the twin branches he sprawled over. He woke with a start, tumbling from his perch. Luckily, we weren’t far from the ground and a convenient cluster of shrubbery saved him from a nasty landing. He wasn’t too kindly disposed toward me after that and even less so when I told him why I’d stirred him. It was one of the few times I managed to ruffle his placid disposition.