***
The collection of wattle and daub cottages with thatched roofs was hardly big enough to be considered a village.
It was a dreary-looking hamlet, nestled amongst the trees. Smoke rose from the chimneys but there were few folk out and about on this still, cold day. Belythna and Floriana remained hidden, observing the village closely as dusk settled. The smell of roasting mutton and baking bread caused Belythna’s stomach to ache. She was so hungry now that her limbs were trembling.
Once night had settled over the forest, the two women crept out of their hiding place and made for the cottage nearest to them; a ramshackle structure on the edge of the hamlet. They had seen a middle-aged woman, who appeared to live alone, return there just before dusk with a basket of firewood. She was a stout woman, with a bitter face; aged beyond her years. Belythna felt a pang of guilt at targeting such an unhappy individual – yet, she was a safer choice than the other villagers.
They had considered approaching the villagers directly, and buying food and clothes off them, but had discarded the idea. No one could know that they had been here; for it would only make it easier for Riadamor to track them.
The two sorcerers moved quickly, decisively, towards the cottage. Moments later, they burst in through the wattle door.
The cottage’s inhabitant was tending a pot of stew over the fire. She turned, mouth gaping to issue a scream, but Floriana cast an enchantment over her before she could do so. The words of Ancient Goranthian echoed through the cottage.
The woman remained still, ladle in hand, her face frozen in fright. Her glazed eyes stared at Floriana accusingly.
Floriana lowered her hands from where she had crossed them over her chest. Belythna approached the woman, and walked her over to a narrow bed in the corner of the one-room cottage. The woman moved stiffly, as if sleep-walking, and sat down heavily on the straw-stuffed mattress.
Belythna then pried the ladle from the woman’s fingers. “How long will the charm last?” she asked.
“Long enough for us to eat, gather what we need and be on our way,” Floriana replied, “provided we don’t linger.”
They wasted no time in devouring two large bowls of stew each, and half a loaf of coarse bread. Then, they stripped off their ragged robes, which would mark them as Sentorân wherever they went, and burnt them upon the fire. Instead, they donned coarse, home-spun, baggy, shift dresses and woollen cloaks, which they dug out of an old trunk under the woman’s bed. They had long since removed, and thrown away, their golden neck circlets; even trying to sell the objects on the black market could lead Riadamor straight to them.
The cottage, although filthy and cluttered, was warm and cosy after days wandering lost in the wilderness. Belythna could have happily remained there for hours, but knew that the woman would not remain enchanted for much longer.
They helped themselves to two water bladders, a wheel of cheese, another loaf of bread, onions, carrots and some cured pork, which they placed in a sack to carry with them. Then, Belythna reached into the pouch at her waist and removed two gold dracs. It was enough to feed this woman for the rest of the winter, and a small fortune in a poor village. It was over half the money she had, but she could not leave this woman with nothing after stealing from her.
“Sorry about all of this,” she told the woman softly, before placing the dracs on the woman’s palm and closing her fingers about it. “But we could not risk you alerting the village.”
“Come,” Floriana said gently behind her. “We need to move on.”
The moon was rising above the trees when two cloaked and hooded figures emerged from the cottage and slipped away into the shadows. It was a clear night; Belythna could see the moon’s luminous face through a gap in the canopy above their heads. Their boots crunched on the ground, where a frost was starting to form. Belythna could feel the bite of the cold night air on her cheeks.
However, with a full belly, warm clothes and a sack of supplies over her shoulder, Belythna felt the best she had in days. The blood, death and terror before the gates of Deep-Spire was still an open-wound on her soul. She knew that the memories of that battle would eventually scab over and heal – she just needed time.
Her rough, homespun tunic and cloak scratched her skin but she felt oddly comfortable in her new clothes. For the first time in years, she was no longer wearing her Sentorân robes. She could slip away, and pretend that life had never existed. She could be whoever she chose to be, go where ever she wanted.
For the first time in her life, Belythna Arran was free.
Chapter Fifteen
Riadamor’s Revenge
Deep-Spire, Central Omagen
Deep-Spire Page 20