by Shana Abe
Damon could make no sense of dying in a cave, not after all he had been through already. If crazed men with battle-axes could not bring him down, he wouldn't let a sheet of frozen water beat him.
At his urging, they struggled on. Before they left the cave, Solange had pulled a sharp knife from one of her packs and sawed the green tent in half, then sliced a ragged tear into each half. She placed one piece over each horse, fitting their heads though the holes. The cloth hung down to the horses' knees and halfway down their backs. Damon thought it would be no real protection against the storm, but she retorted it was better than nothing, and he was too tired to argue with her. The tent would never have withstood the force of the winds anyway.
Now the green material flapped in the gales, making a wet, slapping sound with every step. Damon tried to follow the line of the limestone cliffs in case they needed to shelter again. His sense of direction was growing blurry, and time slipped past without his being able to mark it. Was it the same day or the next? Did the steel-gray clouds indicate dawn, or sunset, or midday, or moonlight? He didn't know. After a while he found he didn't really care.
Each moment extended, flowed without interruption into the next. The wind was an incessant howl in his ears. He was frozen, and he couldn't feel his body any longer. He thought the dim gray line ahead was the blur of the horizon, almost indistinguishable from the sky.
And still the sleet came, always slanting into his eyes, always pelting his already-unfeeling body. Did the Lord have no mercy left for him? Had he truly sinned so much to deserve this purgatory of ice?
He couldn't remember why he was out there. He couldn't remember where he was supposed to be going. Sometimes he recollected he had a companion, a dark figure beside him, but mostly he saw his own hands, the leather of his gloves black with wetness and coated in ice, solidified to the reins he held.
Damon sensed an inner humming stillness he longed to reach. If he could let go, he would make it. It would be warm and dry. It would be pleasant and calm. He kept his eyes closed, wanting it, searching for it. Everything was easier with his eyes closed.
It was wartime again. He was leading his men into battle against the rebels. Half of his troops were dead from exhaustion, from the bitter cold of the Highlands. But here was Edward beside him, forcing him to march on, damning the odds and all sense. Edward, that bastard king who held Damon fast in the fist of his iron glove, squeezing the life out of him as it pleased him. He was wearing a crown of gold over his helmet, the arrogant fool. He would be singled out and killed in the battle, and where would that leave the rest of them?
Edward was determined to defeat the rebels. It possessed his soul. He would drag his loyal men to the depths of hell to do it, and Damon was utterly his to command.
Who could have known hell would be so cold?
Something was shaking him, forcing his eyes open. It was a woman mouthing words he couldn't hear above the wind. She was familiar to him. He squinted, trying to make her out more clearly. Yes, she looked a little like the girl who had destroyed his passion and his heart years earlier.
But no, this woman was plainly a banshee, with streaming hair and witch's eyes, an unkempt creature of the night.
Banshees predicted death, wailing and weeping. He wanted no part of her. There was death enough around him. He tried to knock her away but for some reason couldn't release his hands from the reins. He would ignore her instead.
The banshee wasn't making it easy. She seemed excited about something, reaching out to shake him again with both hands on his shoulders. How annoying she was. He wanted her to leave him alone, to go away. Let her cast her dire predictions on men who cared about life. He had no use for banshees.
The banshee let go of his shoulders and slapped him, a hard right.
Damon blinked, then scowled at her.
"Look!" she shouted into the wind, and turned his head for him.
Below them, sloping gently to the sea, was an array of thatched stone and wood houses, many of them shining a warm yellow light under doorways and through cracked window shutters.
Damon blinked again, and the image remained steady. The village, the fishing village, by God. That meant . . . He frowned, trying to piece the logic together. That meant there would be a tavern, with food. A shelter, and food!
He pressed his knees into his horse and began the descent.
It wasn't difficult to find the local tavern. Damon and Solange took care of their horses themselves, finding two empty stalls in the stable. In the pungent warmth of the solid little building he began to regain his composure, along with most of the feeling in his extremities. He was all for remaining there, staying with the horses and the clean hay. It was warm and safe. It was familiar. But Solange insisted they go seek food.
The bleached wooden door of the tavern had a crooked plank nailed above it. It read, in faded letters, he Chat Noir.
And indeed there was a large black cat sprawled on the bar, which hissed at them as they entered. A gust of wet wind blew past them, prompting the cat to leap down behind the bar with an angry growl.
"Idiots!" screamed a woman behind the bar in French. "Shut the door!"
Solange was already pushing it closed, allowing the smell of ale and the smoke to gather inside once more. Damon approached the woman.
"Good evening to you, mistress," he began in French, roughening his accent to match hers. From the corner of his eye he saw Solange glance at him in surprise.
"I do not see what is so good about this evening, the barmaid responded sourly. Coming closer to the bar, Damon saw that she was not as old as he first thought. Indeed, under the grime she appeared to be only in her thirties, a buxom woman with mousy blond hair and cracked nails.
She was examining him too. It was almost comical how her demeanor changed once she saw him up close. She wrinkled her nose at him, a coy maneuver that ill suited her. "Even wet to the bone, I do not believe I have seen you before, monsieur."
Damon gave her the full force of his most charming smile. "You are extremely bright, mistress. That is because I have not been here before, wet or dry."
Her smile stretched wider than his. "I am Ghislaine, your hostess. How may I . . . serve you, monsieur?" She leaned over the bar, letting her ample bosom fall forward in her stained blouse. Damon smiled appreciatively. He was beginning to warm up already.
Solange came up and gave the woman a disgruntled look. She had remembered to tuck her hair under the cloak and kept it fastened up to her chin.
"My brother and I"—he clapped an arm around Solange's shoulders—"have had a rough time of it, kind mistress. Could you find us some food, a warm stew perhaps, and some ale?"
Ghislaine cast her eye over the bedraggled waif by the handsome man's side.
"You do not look alike," she observed.
"We share only the same father," responded Damon smoothly.
"Ah. Your brother is tall for his age, yes?"
"Yes. It runs in our family."
Ghislaine was silent, tapping her nails on the wooden bar. There were a few coughs from the men at the tables behind them.
"The food, mistress?" Damon asked gently.
She seemed to make up her mind about something. "I have only fish chowder."
"I am positive it will be the finest fish chowder I have ever tasted, Ghislaine."
"Yes," she replied. "I am also positive that it will be, monsieur."
With that, she disappeared behind a door, leaving them to drip on the bar. Solange clutched his cloak.
"We fooled her! I told you it would work! She thinks I am a boy," she whispered.
Damon leaned against the bar and scanned the rest of the room. "Does she?" he asked impassively.
The tavern was simple and stark. There were no decorations, and the rough stone walls were pitted and stained with the residue of a thousand fires, a thousand nights of salty winds. A few long tables with benches were placed squarely in the center of the room, which was uninh
abited but for a table of grizzled old fishermen with mugs, and two others sitting over a game of chess by the fireplace. They all watched the newcomers with unconcealed interest.
He wanted to go sit at one of the tables, or better yet by the fire, but was uncertain of the mood of his legs. The bar was holding him up now, and he didn't want to show his weakness to the men watching.
The black cat bounded back up to the bar, landing gracefully by his elbow. Solange released his cloak to pet it, running her hand through its fur. The cat shined a yellow glare at Damon, then let itself be picked up by Solange. A raspy purr filled the air.
"Never heard the likes of that," one old man muttered.
"Philippe has a way with animals," Damon responded in a casual tone. "I am certain he will do well as a stableboy on a fine estate."
The group of men guffawed together.
"A fine estate, is it? Well, you've come to the right place. And which one would ye be considering?" asked one of the fishermen over his ale. "We have so many."
The men burst into fresh laughter over this.
"It's true, we are strangers to these parts," admitted Damon. "I know of no estates near here."
"None ye'd want to send the boy to anyways," another man said. "Go home. There's no chance here of a job for your animal charmer."
Some devil in him prompted Damon to say, "What estate are you referring to, good man? We have heard of none nearby."
A sullen silence gripped the table of men; they swallowed their ale and looked down. Damon pressed on. "Because any estate will do. My brother is not particular." He glanced down at Solange to find her scowling at him, equaling the glare of the cat.
A man by the fire spoke around his pipe. "You don't want to send him there, man. Du Clar's no place for the innocent."
"Du Clar, you say? Du Clar. I believe I have heard of this before. . . ."
Solange took a step nearer to him and pressed down on his foot with the heel of her boot quite hard. He pushed her off by shoving away from the bar. His legs continued to hold him up, much to his relief.
"You do not want to send the boy there," repeated the man with the pipe stubbornly.
"An estate is an estate. Philippe will do his work without complaint. I cannot take him back to my cottage." He took an empty seat at the table beside them, smiling sheepishly. "I have promised my wife to send the boy out on his own. You would not believe it to look at his size, but he eats like three grown men! She will skin me alive if I return home with him. You know how women are."
At the bar Solange stiffened, then turned completely away. The oldest-looking man at the table jabbed a finger in the air near Damon's chest to gain his attention.
"Listen to me, son. Wife or no, it is to your peril to visit Du Clar. I cannot tell you more than this. It is no place for a God-fearing Christian. You don't want to risk your young brother's soul, do you? Of course not. Stay away from that place."
All the men muttered in agreement, nodding their heads at the words. Despite his cajoling, none of them would offer anything more on the subject. Solange kept her back to all of them, running her fingers across the bar for the cat, who batted at them furiously.
Although his interest was firmly caught, Damon recognized the resolute looks on the weathered faces. He gave in with apparent good humor and started in on the bowl of chowder and mug of ale Ghislaine placed in front of him.
"Yours is on the counter, boy," she said to Solange as she draped herself over the bench next to Damon.
Solange reached for her bowl silently. She separated a sliver of fish from the chowder with her spoon and gave it to the cat, who had been watching her movements with fixed interest.
"So," said the barmaid, pressing her thigh against Damon's under the table. "You are looking for work for the little one, but there is none here for him. What, do you plan to cross the channel to find your grand estate?"
A few of the men snickered into their cups. Damon smiled—a sharp, feral look. "Yes. That is exactly what I plan."
Ghislaine let out a hoot of laughter. Then: "You're serious," she cried, aghast.
"Yes."
"You'll not get a boat any day soon, son," said one of the men.
"Not in this weather," added another.
"Oh, we don't need to leave tonight, gentlemen. Tomorrow morning will be soon enough."
From the bar Damon could see Solange turning her head to watch them. Her eyes were narrowed, once again matching the cat's beside her.
"Tomorrow!" they were exclaiming, shaking their heads.
"Impossible!" "Insanity!"
"In the sleet, on the channel? You will never make it."
"Try Calais, traveler. There's men enough in that city to take on a death wish."
Damon took the handful of coins he had been concealing under his cloak and scattered them on the center of the table. The pattern of the coins fell in random circles of brightness against the dark oak. One of the gold sovereigns rolled in a lazy circle before knocking into a mug and clattering down against the scarred wood.
It was thrice the amount of the reward offered for them. He had made sure of that.
"Calais is too far," said Damon mildly in the ensuing silence. "My brother and I are of a mind to cross the channel first thing tomorrow."
The woman's hand darted out and picked up the stray coin. She bit down on it decisively, revealing a set of uneven yellowed teeth.
"Monsieur, for this price, I would take you to England myself if I had a boat of my own."
"Well," added the man with the pipe, who had stood up to see the sight. "I suppose my boat is sound enough for you and the boy. After all, what is a little snow to stop me?"
"It is sleet, Alain, and storm winds," said one of the other men flatly. "You are fool to sail in it."
"No, you are mistaken, friend." Solange spoke for the first time, lowering her voice to an attractive huskiness that made Damon wince. She went to the door and opened it for them to see out. "It is only a light snow. It will be gone in the morning."
Outside, the white flakes fell to earth in a gentle drift. The winds were gone.
Damon sat back and grinned.
Chapter Seven
By the next morning he did not feel like grinning. He did not feel like crossing the channel, he did not feel like eating or doing anything but sleeping, and sleeping and sleeping. His head was stuffed with wool, his tongue was swollen and parched, his entire body was on fire.
He stood against the mainmast, back to the wind. There was no place to sit.
" 'Tis only a cold," pronounced Solange, her hand on his forehead.
"I know what it is," Damon replied irritably. "And, if you will recall, I even know how to treat it. If I were at Wolfhaven, I would have the proper herbs to do so."
"You'll be there soon enough," she snapped back.
"Not soon enough for me," he grumbled.
"Nor me!" She stalked away from him and .went below deck.
The fisherman with the pipe operated his vessel with the help of his two sons, both of them blond and nameless. They treated Damon with the respect due a moneyed man and Solange with the contempt reserved for younger boys. Alain, the father, spent a good deal of time tacking the sail and scanning the skies. But their luck had held so far; the leaden clouds hovered low but that was all. The snow had stopped.
Damon tried to focus on what he had to do next, but the image of Solange's impatience burned in his mind. Perhaps he shouldn't have lashed out at her like that. It was hardly her fault he had fallen ill.
Of course it was her fault, he reminded himself. This whole debacle was her fault and he should not forget it again. He squared his jaw, gazing out over the steely waves. But still, what Damon saw were her eyes, dark with some unidentified emotion as she felt his skin.
In his traveling bag he always carried a medicine pouch filled with the bare essentials of herbal remedies for emergencies. It was below with the horses and the rest of their belongings.
He would have to go get it to see what he actually had. He thought there would be a few things that would help him now, cinnamon, ephedra. He could decoct them into a tea once they landed. . . .
Solange's eyes—was that worry he had read in them? Damon paused, considering.
Worry for herself, perhaps. Worry that she would not be able to reach Ironstag without him. No, he thought wryly, she hadn't enough sense for that. With or without him, she would continue until either she made it there or died trying.
It hadn't been worry he saw. Just some faint concern. Why should she care about his health, other than how it affected her? Why should her view of him have changed at all over these past few days? Only a fool would think such a small amount of time spent together would make any difference after nine years of absence.
He pushed away from the mast, grimacing at the aches that gripped his joints. He felt bruised all over. Most of that was due, no doubt, to the fact that his polite refusal to share a bed with Ghislaine had meant he spent last night huddled on the hearthstones in front of the tavern's fireplace with his back against a definite draft. Solange, taking up the other half of the hearth, had seemed to rest peacefully in spite of that—the woman could probably sleep through the Apocalypse. But Damon had tossed and turned, roasting on one side and freezing on the other. If he had slept at all, he couldn't recall it.
Below deck was a cramped space for cargo, and in this case the horses. At least it was out of the chill breeze. He found Solange sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees and her back propped against the slanting inner hull. She was staring moodily into space.
He debated about what to say to her, whether he should even venture a word. Her frosty look was not encouraging. He walked past her to the pile of their belongings, searching until he found the right bag. Tarrant greeted him with a soft neigh.