by Lee Ramsay
Shoulders tightening at the thought of returning to the cold and dangerous road, Brenna rose from the tub and dried herself. Hanging the damp towel from a peg sunk into the wall, she slipped into a simple gray wool gown – a concession to Seamus’s scandalized reaction to her dressing in men’s clothing. She pushed her sleeve over her elbow and plunged her hand into the tub, pulling the drain stopper. The soap-scummed surface sank as the water drained through a pipe leading to a nearby field.
An efficient design that wasted no water, she thought as she pulled stockings over her knees and donned fleece-lined slippers. She wrapped herself in her cloak and stepped into the evening’s chill.
Rain had fallen since their escape over the waterfalls and down through the rapids. Dangerous as that had been, Groush believed it allowed them to open up a significant distance between them and the Dushken – a distance added to by the twisting canyons riddling the foothills. Soaking rain would make the trails treacherous, further slowing their pursuers. The Hillffolk estimated a fortnight at the most for the huntsmen to locate their trail out of the mountains.
This day, though, the rain had eased enough for gaps to open among the clouds. Afternoon sunlight gilded the undersides and cast the crowns in amethyst shades. Water beading on the grass reflected the light with diamond brightness. The Laithach Mountains loomed to the east, their forest-cloaked slopes purpled by distance and their higher inclines blue-white with snow.
“The snows will slow the huntsmen down, but not for long,” Seamus said behind her, making her jump. She squinted against the setting sun’s glare and found the slender farmer sitting beside an outbuilding on a three-legged stool, plying needle and thread through boot leather. “Resilient bastards, and tenacious once they’ve caught the scent. “
“How did you know—"
“You were chewing your lip and squinting at the sky,” Seamus said, examining his stitching. “You’re not alone in your nerves. The Hillffolk keeps scowling at the mountains when he thinks I’m not watching. Even the bard is a wee bit on edge.”
Brenna took a few steps toward him. “We should be on our way.”
“Aye, you should. So should Heather and I, and we would be but for the animals to tend,” Seamus nodded, pushing the needle through the leather. “You four have made our lives a mite more difficult than I prefer, but who am I to argue with the gods? They brought you to our door for a reason.”
“Heather thinks it will be another day or two before Tristan can be on his feet.”
“I agree. I looked at the lad’s feet this morn, and while much improved beneath the dead skin Heather trimmed away, they’re still raw.” Seamus lifted the boot on which he was working. “As I said, the gods brought you all to us for a reason. The lad needed my wife’s healing, and the lot of you needed clothes, food, and rest.”
“I don’t believe in the gods.”
“From what I know of Anahar, lass, that does not surprise me,” Seamus said with a note of dry amusement. “How else do you explain finding our door when you most needed it?”
“Luck, I suppose.”
“I don’t believe in luck, unless it is that granted by A’Dhian,” Seamus said with a shake of his head. “With the wounds your Hillffolk friend and the boy have – and have survived – I’d say the Lord of War has taken a favorable inclination toward you lot.”
Brenna watched the tinker-farmer’s hands ply needle and thread and said nothing. The boot was tall, with layers of leather boiled in oil and sewn together to create a hard sole; when finished, the upper would cinch tight with cordage. She could tell they were too large for either her or Rathus. “Are you making those for Tristan?”
Seamus shrugged without looking up and drew the stitch tight with a quick whip of the needle around the thread. “For myself, but the lad needs them more than I. His foot is a shade smaller than mine, so there was not much need for adjustment. He will be able to slide his feet into these boots in a day or two, bandages and all, but it will be a while before his feet toughen. Which brings me to why I am waiting in the chill for you to finish with your bath.”
“Oh?”
Seamus nodded and set the boot on the ground. “We know about Dushken, though we’re more familiar with the Meridan breed. Nasty, brutish bastards they are, thuggish and predictable.”
“Then clearly you haven’t met any huntsmen from Anahar.”
“Thought you might say something like that,” Seamus said, scratching his bearded cheek. “We hear tales about how things are in your country. Every once in a while, we see some of your people come through on their way elsewhere. You’re the scraggliest of the lot.”
Brenna smirked. “Thanks.”
“Don’t be taking offense. The others I’ve seen, here and in other parts of Caledorn and Troppenheim, were a bit rough, considering their speech and manner. None feared Dushken coming after them.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his thigh-length wool coat as he rose to his feet. “That tells me one of you is either valuable or wanted for some purpose.”
Brenna chewed her lower lip until it bled, uncomfortable with Seamus’s patient stare. “Tristan killed the last grand duchess while we were escaping.”
“Interesting that a prisoner should come into such closeness with Anahar’s ruler with an axe to hand.”
“It is the truth.”
“But not the whole of it. You did not tell my wife all, did you?”
Unable to stare him down, she drew her cloak closer around her and broke the gaze to stare eastward. “She saw the brand.”
“She did. None of the others bear Anahar’s crest on their shoulder.”
The young woman hugged her arms around her chest. She did not need to look to see the scarred tissue on her right shoulder, silver against creamy white; she felt it now as she had when Anahar’s raven sigil branded her skin. Even now, the stench of singed hair and scorched flesh tickled her nose. The echoes of a young girl’s shriek of fear, pain, and confusion reverberated in her memory.
“Who are you that Dushken would be sent? Regicide, aye, that’s enough to want the others, but that brand says something else.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“You left a trail to my door, and my wife and unborn child are at risk because of it.”
Brenna gritted her teeth and met Seamus’s steady gaze. “I was a political prisoner, held to ensure the good behavior of my parents. With the old grand duchess dead and a new one sitting the throne, I have no value. Had I been found within Anahar’s borders – if I am found at all – I would be executed.”
“In a way, then, I was correct on first seeing you. You are a band of outlaws.” Seamus sighed and picked up the boot. “I will say this for the gods – they have a peculiar sense of right and wrong to be sending assassins and prisoners to my door. Since they have, and you’ve proven to be decent guests, I’ll give you one last bit of help.”
“What would that be?”
“About ninety miles west of here is a village called Dunoon. You might find lodging for a few nights at a reasonable cost, and the supplies you’ll be needing for wherever you lot are going.”
“That’s three days walk at a good pace. Tristan’s feet aren’t ready for that.”
“Which is why I said you might be able to find lodging for a few days. You would be doing me a favor if you were to take some of my horses and stable them with a cousin of mine,” Seamus said, scowling at the interruption. He held up a hand as Brenna opened her mouth to protest. “Yes, I know the lad is not yet capable of riding a horse. I have a small wagon, which would spare his feet. At a hard pace, you’ll be there in a day and a half.”
“We don’t have any money for supplies.”
“Did you not hear what I said? I have a cousin who lives there. I’ll give you a letter that will get what you need. As for coin, there’s a bit to be had. You’ll be needing it to cross the rivers by ferry.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“Generous? Not at all,�
� Seamus said with a shake of his head. “The food, the medicine, and the clothes are generosity. The work I’ve put Groush and Rathus to while you tended the lad has earned some coin, and the taking of the horses is worth a bit more. My cousin will have you do a bit to pay for supplies and lodging until Tristan can walk again with ease.”
The tinker scratched his cheek before continuing. “Near on two hundred miles or so to the west of Dunoon is a place called Naas Reach. It’s a river port, with ferries crossing between Caledorn and Troppenheim. Get there if you can. There will be enough people that even the Dushken would reconsider pinching you. It’s seven days walk with a good foot under you, but by the time you set out from Dunoon, the lad’s feet should be able to handle it.”
“Is there no closer crossing?”
“Aye, a few, but the Dushken will try for you at one of those when they find no trace of you in the foothills. There are not so many Hillffolk and ginger-headed tall ones in these parts trying to cross into Troppenheim that you won’t be remembered.” Seamus’s lips parted in a slight smile, his teeth gleaming in the fading daylight. “They won’t expect you to have found horses to speed a westward run. While they search the nearer fords and villages, you’ll be able to open more ground between you and them.”
Brenna nodded, seeing the merit of his argument. “What of you and Heather? The huntsmen will kill you if they think you have aided us.”
“Not if we’re not here.” Seamus shook his head with a slight smile. “A cousin of mine is a midwife and lives a day’s ride north. It’s time I get my wife to the birthing bed, lest the child comes early.”
Chapter 61
A chill breeze whispered through the woodland canopy, setting autumnal leaves dancing in dizzying patterns of gold, pale greens, and vibrant oranges. Birch and ash, hazel, alder, and oak grew in thick groves, their dazzling clash of colors muted by swirling eddies of fog. The woodland’s silence was broken by the occasional chirp of small birds, the squalling honks of geese flying unseen overhead, and the persistent drip of moisture.
Tristan trailed behind Groush and Rathus and glowered at his surroundings. A fortnight had passed since leaving Seamus’ and Heather’s homestead, and they were nowhere near as far along as he hoped. His feet were healing well enough; a week after leaving the farm in the back of a wagon, he no longer needed them wrapped with salved bandages. The skin was still tender but toughening, and he made sure to follow Heather’s instructions on changing his thick wool stockings to keep his feet dry.
It was not the tenderness of his feet but the weakness plaguing his muscles that slowed him. Heather had told him it had been a struggle to keep him from death and that, in his malnourished state, it would take time to heal. Festering wounds were easily tended, but when combined with the fever and his emaciated state...
A part of him wished that Brenna and Heather had let him die.
Every bone and joint felt brittle. His skin itched where scabs and re-stitched wounds revealed fresh pink skin. He had regained almost two stone since collapsing on the homestead’s doorstep, which eased some of the discomfort. He wanted nothing to do with food at first, but ate when Groush threatened to sit on his chest and force it down his throat. Once accustomed to more than a mouthful or two, it was difficult not to eat what he was given.
Physically, he was recovering.
It was a struggle not to snap at Rathus as the bard told one tale after another, and he loathed Brenna’s worried looks when his mood turned sullen or his energy flagged. Tristan knew the bard was doing his best to cheer everyone, and the young woman’s concern was not unfounded. The worst were the impatient sighs Groush heaved every time the bull looked at him; they were not traveling fast enough to keep the Dushken from catching them.
Part of him wished the huntsmen would come so he could vent his spleen on those who deserved it. He wanted to hit something to ease the rage fed by and warring with the guilt burning in his breast. Hate swamped his senses as his body healed, sometimes so overwhelming that he became giddy. When his body could not sustain the anger, he wanted nothing more than to hide or run until the monsters chasing them went away. Shame at his lack of physical and emotional endurance filled him and made it all the harder to wrestle with his desire to slip into death’s sweet oblivion.
Caledorn’s forests had no right to be so breathtaking in their beauty and alive with color. It was an ironic counterpoint to his internal dissonance.
“Tristan?”
Startled, he met Brenna’s expectant look. “What?”
“Did you not want to talk about it?”
He rubbed his gloved palm against his cheek. It felt odd to have a slight stubble rather than a beard whispering against the leather. “Sorry. I seem to be easily distracted.”
“It’s to be expected. Heather said it might take time for you to feel more like yourself.”
He doubted he would ever feel like himself again. “What was I saying?”
“You were telling me about Dorishad,” Brenna said, shifting the rucksack Seamus’s cousin had given her higher on her back. The leather had been treated with tannin to make it waterproof, and carried fresh bandages, vials of medicine to treat Tristan’s and Groush’s wounds, and herbs collected along the road. Heather had given her one of her old coats, brown wool over a leather vest and soft woolens. The felted flat cap on her trimmed black hair made her look boyish; she would not draw unwanted attention unless she spoke. “Or you were starting to. Anthoun sounds brilliant, and Dougan quite fierce.”
“They can be intimidating,” Tristan said with a wry twist of his lips. “I’m not sure which would be safer to deal with – the Dushken, or Anthoun and Dougan when they get a hold of me.”
“Are they mean?”
“What? Not at all. They’re strict,” he said, the question taking him by surprise. It took a moment for his brain to make the connection between her past and the question. “I should explain. I’ve been forbidden to leave my home all my life, and they never told me why. I wanted more, so I ran off.”
“That didn’t go as planned, did it?”
“To put it mildly. If I survive this, they’ll no doubt blister my ears and question my ancestry. Since I have no kin, they may very well be right with the comparisons.”
“I should quite like to meet them,” Brenna said with a small laugh before lapsing into silence. She cast him a sidelong glance after a few moments. “Do you...do you think they might let me come to Dorishad?”
Tristan rounded his shoulders inside his leather coat. The beads and bones stitched across the shoulders were removed when Heather sewed the rent back and replaced the bloodied, filthy fleece lining. He carefully worked his bandaged hand into the pocket by his hip to keep it warm. “I’m sure they’d be glad to have you stay until we can send a letter to your kin.”
A humorless smile crossed her lips. “Such a letter would be unwise, don’t you think? The last thing any of us would want is to risk someone learning where we are and coming to exact vengeance for Ankara’s death.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“It doesn’t matter. Like you, I’m an orphan.”
Tristan adjusted his flat cap as the wind tugged on it. “I’ve meant to ask about that. Not long after we met, you said the game you and Ankara played was different than the one in which the rest of us were trapped. How is it that you weren’t in the same chambers as the rest of us?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not.”
Several long moments passed before she spoke again. “Well? Do you think Anthoun and Dougan would allow me to live at Dorishad?”
“I don’t see why not, but why would you want to? Nothing interesting ever happens there. Most of the time, at least,” Tristan amended, recalling the visit from Duke Riand and the Earl of Ressent. A year and more had passed, and yet it seemed so much longer. The duke and the knights attending him had all seemed so competent and frightening. It galled him to think how naïve he had been. “Wou
ldn’t you be happier in someplace like Caer Rochiel, or maybe Caer Ravvos?”
“Would you?”
The corner of his lip curled in a bemused smirk as he struggled to find the right words for his thoughts. “I thought I would, but now...I want to go home. Strange as it may sound, I want to sit in the maple grove again. I want to swim in the pond, listen to the wind blowing through the trees, and sleep in my own bed.” He hunched his shoulders. “I want to feel safe again.”
Brenna averted her eyes. “You’re lucky, having a home to return to. You spent years wishing to escape it, while I wished for what you were running from. I want someplace I can belong, surrounded by people who care for each other, and I want to hear laughter which doesn’t depend on others’ suffering.”
“You wouldn’t know anyone at Dorishad.”
“I’d know you. I have come to trust you, and I even like you a bit. If you want to go home to Dorishad because it makes you feel safe, maybe I would feel safe there as well.”
“There is one way to find out, I suppose.”
They walked in silence for a time, listening to Rathus singing a short distance ahead of them. Of them all, the bard appeared to be weathering the flight from Anahar best. He had trimmed his beard before leaving Dunoon and scraped his cheeks clean to frame his lips with a pointed beard and mustache. Black silk ribbons bound the plait of his dark brown hair. His white shirt had been a filthy loss, which Heather replaced with a shirt dyed woad’s rich blue.
The bard had procured a bodhrán by trading one of the gold rings piercing his left ear lobe. He tapped the skin and the circular frame with a beater as he walked, raising a slow, rich throb that pulsed through the woods. His rich baritone drifted across the short phrases of spoken word, ripe with a passion and fear that raised the short hairs on Tristan’s neck.
Her heart so cold and her innocence a lie,