by Joseph Lallo
He shifted his path toward the hidden crag of the mountain that now served the same role as the shop of old, but Sorrel stopped him.
“No, go that way,” she directed.
She was cradled in his arms, one arm around his neck and the other pointing the way. After that first night of sleep, she'd been foolish enough to second-guess Teyn's advice. The throbbing had subsided for the most part, and the splint seemed strong, so she'd tried climbing to her feet while Teyn slept. The result was a cry that startled him from sleep and enough pain to assure her that, for better or worse, Teyn would be her legs for a few weeks.
“Up there, then down the slope a bit. There is a patch of flat stones and a gap between two tall parts,” she said.
“Where are we going?”
“Where are we going . . .” she muttered. “We are going home, Teyn. Where do you think?”
“Your home? But you told me never to follow you there.”
“You are not following me there, you are taking me there. It is different. How else am I supposed to get home? Now go, quickly. It has been a long time. I want to be sure my things are where I left them.”
He followed her instructions, and soon found his way to a deep overhang nestled in a nook near the mouth of a small valley not far from his own lair. A thin shard of stone that had dropped free of the mountain ages ago served as a wall, closing off the overhang and turning it into a room of sorts. Carefully slipping through the narrow opening beside the stone, Teyn found the place that Sorrel had called home.
The late afternoon sun was filtering through cracks around the edge of the natural door, where something in the stone of the wall made it sparkle and cast points of rainbow light all around. Here and there, a patch of the wall had been rubbed or scraped to reveal more of the gleaming stone, forming simple patterns of the stuff. Most of these designs were centered on the wall farthest from the entrance, where a neat mound of dry boughs had been piled and draped with a rough cloth to form a cozy little bed. A trickling sound drew his attention to the corner of the den, where a natural spring had forced its way between the layers of stone and formed a small pool.
Perhaps it was simply that it was shielded from the wind, or perhaps it was due to two warm bodies occupying a space only just large enough to accommodate them, but the little alcove seemed warmer than it should be without a fire. Scattered around were little indications that this was a home: smooth pebbles of various colors polished to a sheen and piled neatly on a natural shelf, a few delicate bones and feathers strung together on a piece of poorly knotted thread and dangling from a crook in the roof, tiny touches that Sorrel had left behind to make the space her own.
“Home,” she said simply.
“It is very nice,” Teyn said as he stooped to set her down.
“Bah. It is a hole in the mountain,” she said with a dismissive wave. She set down her good foot and hopped along, holding his hand for balance. Once she'd reached the bed, she spun around and walked herself down the wall with her hands. “But you could search for a year and not find a better hole in the mountain than this one. Turn around.”
“Why?”
“Because you are in my home and I told you to turn around,” she said flatly.
He did as he was told. Behind him there was the grind of stone on stone, then the tinkle of metal. When the stone sound came and went a second time, she spoke up. “You can turn around again.”
He faced Sorrel to find her applying fresh earrings. The three hoops in one ear were gone, and in their place was a dangling collection of tiny gems at the end of delicate gold chains. There were also two new rings lying on the ground beside her. When she was finished with the earrings, she slipped the other bits of jewelry on each of her fingers one by one until she found a finger that fit.
“It was time for a change, yes?” she said with a smile, admiring her new accessories.
“How much jewelry do you own?”
“Hah. Not enough. Always this is the answer.”
“And all of it is stolen?”
“No, no, I said before, Teyn. Not stolen. Found in places that men weren't watching close enough.”
He sighed. “It is one thing to take something you need, but this?”
“No, it is the same. I see the earring and I say, 'This I need.' And even if it is different, it does not make a difference. So I am a thief. And so they say we all are. They say we all are killers as well, and that is not true. I am not a killer, and you are not—”
She stopped as she saw a look come over his face. Killer . . .
The word brought with it a flash of the fear and shame he'd felt on the terrible day, and a flicker of the anger that had driven him to the deeds. His breathing quickened, his heart pounded, and his mind burned. It was the same feeling he felt when the other slaves would stare at him, but a thousand times worse. He felt exposed, as though she could read the truth on his face. Perhaps she could. Already her hand had moved subtly aside until it was hovering over a large, flat stone beside the bed. He turned away.
“You . . . are not a killer, are you?” she asked, voice unsure now.
He tried to find the words. If he could deny it, if he could convince her it was not so, maybe things would not change.
“Look at me,” she demanded.
Without thinking, he turned, locking eyes. Just like that, all was lost. In his eyes, she saw what he'd been hoping to hide. In her eyes, he saw the hardness—and behind it the fear—that he'd been hoping he would never see again.
“What did you do, Teyn?” she asked in a hushed tone.
“I'm sorry. I'll go.”
“You will answer!” she snapped. The stone was in her hand now, raised and ready to be put to use. “Tell me! Who? How many?”
“I . . . I don't know! I was a slave. It was at the plantation. They beat the man who raised me. They killed him! Then . . . then I don't know. All I remember is how much I hated them, how much I wanted them to pay for what they'd done to me, to him, to us all. There were dozens of men and women on that plantation, Sorrel. It was empty when it was all over. Just me, the owner's youngest, and . . . broken, ruined bodies.”
His eyes were lowered, unwilling to look her in the face and see the fear again. A soft clack echoed off the walls of the alcove as she placed the stone on the ground.
“You are not a killer, Teyn.”
“I am.”
“No, you are not. Look at me, Teyn.”
Reluctantly he raised his eyes to hers. There was no fear in them. If anything, there was pity.
“I'm telling you, I—”
“You killed. You lost control and you struck out at those who wronged you. They would have killed you, so you killed them. It is what you did, not what you are.”
“It doesn't matter why I did it.”
“To me it does. How long have I been helping you? Weeks. That much time and you do not think I would know it if I was spending my time with a killer? You insult me, Teyn. You are a malthrope who has killed a man. Maybe many. You know how to kill and you can do it if you need to. In this world, with the things we have already faced together, that is a useful thing to have around.”
“You don't want me to go? You aren't afraid of what I might do?”
“My leg is ruined. It has been since I first met you. If you wanted to do something, why wait? I see the things you can do. I watched you fight the cat-bird thing, and I saw a fighter in you then. But also I watched you after the antler beast chased you. Shaking. Scared. Not a fighter. Then I think, maybe if the thing came for me instead, you would not be scared, you would be a fighter again. I think it is something that only comes when you need it. I think you protect things. So you may be dangerous to men, but to me you mean no harm. I will keep a close eye on you, I would be a fool not to, but this I was already doing. And even if none of this was so, we had a deal. We have a deal. Until my leg is better, I do not have a choice but to keep you near.”
Teyn stood at the entrance to the den, his mind
awash with clashing emotion. The pain and fear of having his secret revealed was mixed with the disbelief and relief of her acceptance. He was without words. Perhaps sensing this, Sorrel didn't allow the silence to linger.
“I have been too long away from this place, my home. I have things that I must do. It has also been far too long since my stomach was full. Do you think you can find a meal without me? My nose tells me something tasty is near. Did you smell it?”
“I . . . I think so,” he replied, wrestling back enough of his wits to form an answer. “The rabbit warren. I think new rabbits have claimed it.”
“Yes, I think the same. Very good. Go, catch them and bring me some. But ask before you come in. This is my home, not yours.”
With a grateful nod, he turned and began to follow the scent. Just as he had done so many times before, he coped with the turmoil in his head and heart the only way he knew how: he buried himself wholly in the task. Moving on instinct and practiced tactics, he let the thinking part of him slip away. By the time he was returning from the hunt, with four plump rabbits to show for his efforts, the edge of his emotion had been blunted somewhat. He was not himself, but the rapier sting that had tormented his mind was replaced by a dull ache.
Sorrel, meanwhile, was behaving as though nothing had happened at all. She ate her first hearty meal in days with her usual relish, and when she was through, she began to muse aloud.
“The place where you sleep. It is near, is it not? You can hear me here from there if I yell?” she asked.
He nodded.
“And if I call, if I need help. How fast until you reach this place?”
“A minute or two.”
She pondered for a moment. “I think,” she said, gesturing with a bone as she spoke, and gnawing at it between sentences, “this is not fast enough. Maybe a fish-eater comes, yes? With a bad leg, maybe I could get away. With a broken leg, no. So I call, and a minute or two passes and you find me.” She drew the bone across her throat like a knife, punctuating the motion with a slicing sound. “Dead. No. You need to be closer. There is another place, farther that way. It is a hole like this. No water there, and no rock to keep out the wind, but it is as nice as yours I think. You could sleep there instead. It would be shorter for you to come here, and that is good, because you will need to come here very much.” She looked to her leg and her ears drooped a bit. “Very much. How long until my leg is better?”
Teyn didn't answer, his eyes staring sightlessly at an indistinct point on the wall of the den, mind swimming in thought.
“Eh!” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers, “Listen to me when I talk to you!”
“I'm sorry. I was—”
“You were thinking. You do this too much. Sometimes it is best to let the mind rest. Now, how long until my leg is better?”
“A month until you can try walking again. Another month before you won't need a splint or a crutch.”
“Gohveen,” she muttered. “This is very long.”
“That's if things go well.”
“Then you will make sure things go well. If I cannot walk then you will come here and I will teach you things to help you hunt without me. And when you finish and bring the food here, you will stay and I will teach you more. If I have to trust you to bring all of the food for us both and do it alone, then I will make sure you are as good as you can be.”
“I'll do my best.”
“Good. And after you do your best and we eat our fill, you will stay here for a while. If I cannot move around much, I will need something here to keep me from losing my mind looking at these walls all of the time.”
“You're sure you want me to—”
“Yes, Teyn. Stop asking. Until my leg is right and you learn what you need to learn, it will take the two of us working together to stay alive. That is the way it is. Maybe you were a killer yesterday, and maybe you will be a killer tomorrow. I don't care. What I care about is today, and today you are my legs and I am your mind. Now open your ears, because there is much to learn.”
Chapter 16
The weeks that followed were trying for both of the malthropes. Though Teyn had learned a tremendous amount from Sorrel about the arts of hunting and tracking, it wasn't until he set off on his own that he realized how much he still relied upon her gentle guidance to find the first hints of a trail that would lead him to his prey. Worse, while their hunting trips had been taking them farther and farther from their dens in order to find food enough to survive, with Sorrel all but helpless Teyn found himself unwilling to leave her alone long enough to make the trek to the patches of forest that had been most fruitful. Some days he found nothing at all, returning instead with a meager collection of nuts, roots, and berries. Sorrel, perhaps understanding the reasons behind his struggles, accepted whatever he had to offer, listened to the troubles that had denied him the day's prize, and advised on how to overcome them.
However, she was not always patient. Often her words would come with the jab of sarcasm or the irritated hiss of frustration; they always made it clear that she knew he could do better, and she knew precisely how. She was an endless fountain of information, sketching out on the sandy earth of the cave floor the tracks he might find, or explaining what parts of the mountainside were the best bet to find plants and animals he was after. Her tips were simple and small, often obvious in retrospect, but each was a new piece to the puzzle, and slowly his skill grew.
More curious though was what came after the lessons of the day: they spoke. Not about the hunt, or about her injury, or any other topic that Teyn would have thought she cared about. In fact, seldom was the subject the same from day to day, or even minute to minute. They never seemed to talk about anything of consequence at all. They just talked, for hours on end, long into the night. And though the conversations couldn't have been more different from his lessons, he learned just as much from those words as he did from her advice.
He learned that Sorrel had a twin sister, and both of her older brothers were twins as well.
“Of course they were twins,” she remarked, “For malthropes, twins are not so strange. Not always are there twins, but not so strange.”
“So I may have had a brother? Or a sister?”
She tipped her head at him. “You may have had a brother or sister, yes. But not a twin, I don't think. You are too big. All the twins I know are not so big as you.”
“If you had a family, why did you leave them?”
“Why do I do anything I do not want to do? Because of men. They hunt us, and a family of malthropes is easier to find than one. So we go. We go our own ways. We try to be safe. If one lives, then the family lives. Sometimes that is the only way.”
Other times she would talk about places she'd been in her life. Though she was only a bit older than Teyn, she had spent time all over the Nameless Empire, near places she called Kenvard and Ulvard, in a place called Ravenwood, and mountains called Rachis. He marveled at the stories she told, and pressed her for more.
“The mountains are strange in some places,” she said. “Stones of many colors, colors you don't see anywhere else. Here, like this.”
She shuffled aside and plucked a shiny pebble from beside her bed. It was a deep blue, perfectly even in its coloring, and almost glassy in its smoothness.
“I found it in a river halfway up a mountain. I do not remember the name of it. There are mountains where I find red, like this, and green and blue. All colors are someplace, I think. My favorite is purple, but, of course, purple I do not find. I saw one, up north a bit, near where the fighting is. That was the day I stepped in the trap and started this whole mess.” She grimaced. “It is what you get. You go in a deep river, where there are lots of fish, and of course they put a trap for a fish-eater nearby.”
“What is a fish-eater?” Teyn finally asked. “You talk so much about them, but I don't know what it is.”
“It is a thing, a big animal. In Crich it is medeev. I do not know it in Tressor language. It eats fish.”
“If it eats fish, why do you worry if one will show up?”
“It eats anything it can catch! It eats fish because it can catch fish without much trouble. If it can catch me without much trouble, then it will be a malthrope-eater.”
“Well what does it look like?”
“It is big. It is . . . like a dog. Only larger.”
“A wolf?”
“No. Much larger, and rounder and thicker. As big as the cat-bird thing sometimes. Also, a wolf comes many at a time. This is just one always. And a wolf walks on four legs. The fish-eater walks on maybe four, maybe two.”
Teyn turned the imagery over in his mind, trying to match it to the stories he'd heard told over the nightly fires in the old days of the plantation. “A bear?”
“Yes! Yes, this is the word. A bear. And my leg, it was hurt by a bear trap,” she proclaimed. “Bear. It is an easy word, too. So long I could not think of it. You are not so foolish sometimes, Teyn.”
Sometimes the conversations would last longer than either of them realized. Occasionally, dawn would break before they were through, and Teyn would help Sorrel outside to watch the sunrise.
Weeks passed in the same way, and, gradually, the final pieces of the puzzle began to take shape. The trails, however faint, revealed themselves. A few sniffs of the wind told the tale of a dozen creatures crisscrossing a glade. He knew where they were going, where they had come from, and which were best to seek out. Some were still a challenge, leading him on a chase or putting up a fight. Many would escape him, but more and more he prevailed, bringing home his prize and raving about how clear it was to him now. At those times, Sorrel simply offered a knowing smile, as though all of this time she'd been waiting for these very words.