Hidden Current

by Sharon Hinck

  I blew out a breath, my muscles beginning to soften into usefulness again. Somehow I found words. “Did you hear them? They’re going back to the Order.”

  He gathered my hands in his, rubbing warmth and life into them. “Great news. So let’s cover some ground. We’re not far from Foleshill. We could stay there tonight.”

  I frowned. He wanted to reach a village so he could leave me behind. “No, not Foleshill. They weren’t paying their Order tax, so it’s likely Tiarel has sent more soldiers there.”

  His hands stilled. “And how would you know that?” Even in the shadow of the overhang, I could see his speculative gaze, hardened with renewed suspicions.

  My ribs sagged. Was there anywhere in this world I could go where I wouldn’t be thought of as an enemy? “I was a novitiate. I heard about rebellions sometimes.”

  Brantley edged back. “So where do you suggest we head, dancer?” The sneer had returned.

  I convinced my legs to move and followed him out of the shelter. Rubbing my finger and thumb together, I remembered the smooth texture of a small corner of parchment, long since lost, and the tantalizing words I’d once penned. “Undertow.”

  His eyebrows disappeared under the tangle of hair that dripped over his forehead. “A rim village? Why?”

  I hated to share my fragile and uncertain hope, but if I didn’t give him a reason, he’d abandon me in Foleshill. “I’m not sure, but I think it may be where they took me from.” One tear escaped, blending with the rain covering my face. I scuffed a few of the moldy leaves underfoot. “I may even have family.”

  A heavy silence followed my admission. Then Brantley sighed. “You couldn’t have mentioned that before? Do you understand it will take us weeks to reach the rim? And now we’re on the wrong side of the island.”

  “Did you have another place in mind?” I asked.

  “My plan was to lead any searchers away from the road to Windswell until it would be safe for me to return.”

  “So in the meantime, we could journey to Undertow?”

  He gave me a long look, but didn’t answer. Instead, he hefted his pack and trudged forward, muttering and complaining to himself and occasionally kicking a stick out of his way.

  I followed behind, a sudden gladness casting off the gloom of the day. In the wake of his irritation, his flare of suspicion had washed away, and we now had a destination.

  Over the next few days, he continued to mumble about all the trouble I’d caused and never missed an opportunity to cast aspersions on the Order and all dancers, yet we settled into a grudging partnership. I tended the fire and foraged for cattail roots and edible greens, grateful for the botanical lessons I’d had as a student in form seven. Brantley rustled through bushes trying to flush out small game. One evening a bog rat peered from the underbrush on the edge of our camp. Brantley flung his knife with impressive accuracy, and we had spit-roasted meat for our supper. As we sat in the glow of the small fire, licking our lips and savoring a warm meal, the world seemed to shrink into the small circle of flame, safety, and companionship.

  “So tell me about your family.” Brantley’s tone held none of his usual contempt, only curiosity.

  I swallowed my last bite and hugged my knees. “I can’t remember much. We weren’t allowed to think about anything that came before the Order.”

  He made a scoffing sound, but without his customary fury, so I dared to continue.

  “I have glimmers of riding my father’s shoulders. Of my mother. I remember her reaching, crying.” I shivered. “I hadn’t thought about my home village in years.”

  Brantley unrolled a blanket from his pack and draped it around my shoulders. “So you were my niece’s age when you were taken?”

  Was that a hint of compassion?

  “Younger. They told me my family sold me, didn’t want me, and that the Order was now my family. And they gave me a purpose.”

  And what of that purpose now? A skewer twisted inside my ribs. Would I ever find a place to belong again? Eager to change the subject, I poked a stick at our fire, drawing pops and sizzles. “Your turn. Tell me about your family.”

  I didn’t look at him, but his voice held a smile. “My mother is a force of the sea, steering the waves and constant as the horizon. She raised us to defend the weak.”

  “Us?”

  “My brother Cole and me.” As if a hand tightened around his throat, his words choked off.

  “Brianna’s husband?”

  “Mm-hm.” The companionable mood had splintered and the silence hung heavy now, broken only by crackles from the dying fire.

  The stretching time threatened to snap, so I braved another question. “What happened to him?”

  “The Order happened to him.” He surged to his feet, snatching up his pack, and moved to the far side of the fire. He curled up with his back to me.

  I huddled under the blanket while the cold of the ground seeped into my soul. I shouldn’t fool myself. His resentment may have faded a little, but I was still the enemy in his eyes. How would I endure the coming days? I still needed his help to find Undertow. And what then? Would anyone there remember me?

  I turned my face to the stars, feeling lost among their multitudes.

  After we were far from any midrange villages and curious eyes, I changed back into my dancer garb. The fabric was hopelessly stained, and Brantley insisted I rub dirt on the parts still white so I wouldn’t attract attention. Ginerva would be horrified at the state of my clothes, but at least I was able to climb trees and gather fruit with more ease.

  I’d never gone so many days without taking class, and my body began to protest. One morning I left Brantley dozing by our fire and slipped away to stretch. I didn’t dare perform full patterns, but I at least regained some suppleness in my muscles. I settled into a daily routine of early waking, washing beside whatever river or pond we’d camped near, limbering my body, then returning to help Brantley strike camp.

  I lost track of the days. Sometimes I believed I’d always slept under the stars and spent every waking hour of my life hiking through forests and across prairies. Ages ago when I’d stared out of the upper window of the Order, I’d wondered where the roads led. Now I’d traveled those paths and far beyond.

  One evening, dusty clouds gathered overhead like an angry mob, hiding the sinking suns. Gusts of wind harassed our small fire. Brantley added a few dry twigs to the blaze and settled with a sigh. I pulled my rough cloak around my body and huddled closer to the flame.

  “You’re very quiet.” Brantley poked at the fire and sparks flew up.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Wasn’t a complaint. Just an observation.”

  I shrugged, not sure how to respond. Our fire needed more sticks, so I opened my cloak along the ground, protecting my hands from the earth as I pushed myself up.

  Brantley chuckled.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You always do that. You’re coated with grime, but you don’t let your prim little hands touch the ground.”

  I sniffed and headed off to gather more wood. He didn’t need to know the truth. I wore my light slippers constantly and avoided touching the bare earth with my hands so that I wouldn’t be assaulted again by the voice of our world. Perhaps out here, far from the central ground, the connection with our island wouldn’t be as strong, but I couldn’t risk it. Madness lay that way.

  I wound deeper into the woods, collecting any dry limbs the trees had cast off. Many were too damp to burn, but I was determined to find a good supply. It was one way to earn my keep. Besides, I was tired of Brantley’s frequent mocking and teasing. What would it take for him to respect me?

  The trees parted and I entered a small clearing, then pulled up short. The sticks fell from my hands.

  Across the clearing, a huge forest hound bristled, clearly as startled as I. His eyes gleamed gold and alert in the twilight. He was the size of a pony, his haunches almost at eye level. His muzzle wrinkled as he bared his teeth.

&
nbsp; I held my breath, fear snarling around my limbs. I’d never seen one of these creatures, although their mournful calls rose in the distance on nights when I’d prowled the Order’s gardens. As young novitiates, we were told stories about the many people slain by these furious beasts.

  Never taking his gaze from me, he moved silently to the right, then rolled his shoulder and paced to the left. Back and forth, each zigzag brought him nearer. He was hunting me. His hypnotic, silent advance was meant to paralyze his victim, and it was working.

  I couldn’t outrun him, and I held no weapon.

  You are a dancer.

  The thought brushed through my mind, bringing with it the memory of patterns I’d learned to affect every aspect of our world. Could it work with this creature? No one had ever taught me a forest hound pattern.

  Softly, I began to mirror his walk, stalking first to one side and then the other, always meeting his stare, always drawing slightly closer. His crinkled muzzle relaxed and his ears pricked forward. As his hostility lessened, my own fear also fled.

  “That’s right. There’s no need to be angry,” I breathed. “This is your land. I’m only passing through.”

  Soon I was within a handbreadth of him, close enough to smell the musky odor of his coat. His thick fur was multi-colored and would surely gleam in the glories of sunlight. Even in the dimness I caught hints of bronze and copper mingled among the grays and browns.

  Nose to nose, his hot breath poured over me like a blessing. I opened my arms. “You are a beauty, aren’t you?”

  He dipped his head and nuzzled against my chest. I giggled, welcoming his affection and echoing his actions. I hugged him, rubbing my face against the soft underfur of his neck.

  A twig cracked somewhere behind me, and the forest hound pulled back, every hair standing up. In two mighty bounds he disappeared into the trees.

  I stared after him, awestruck and grateful for the encounter. Then the enormity of the experience snipped the invisible string holding me upright and I sank, boneless, to the ground.

  “What . . . ?” Brantley sounded as if someone were strangling him.

  I turned to look at him. One hand pressed against a sturdy tree trunk, his other held his knife. His skin shone pale and bloodless. “What were you doing?” he choked out.

  I understood his shock, but his horrified expression made me want to laugh. I eased to my feet and walked back to where my pile of kindling waited. “I startled him, but I explained I didn’t mean him any harm.”

  “You explained?” A vein throbbed on his temple.

  I picked up the branches and padded back to our fire.

  Brantley followed, every stomp punctuating a firm rebuke. “Don’t wander off like that. You could have been eaten. Or you could have run into a patrol. You wouldn’t manage to tame a bunch of soldiers with your strange . . . whatever it is you do.”

  He kept talking, and I hid a smile. I poked new branches into the flames and let warmth swell inside my chest.

  He’d been worried for me.

  Not only that, I’d discovered that even though I had no place to belong, perhaps my dancing still had a purpose. I kindled that precious ember of hope.

  “We’re lost.” I balanced on one foot while dislodging pine needles from my shoe, my mood as prickly as my toes.

  Brantley brushed tousled bangs out of his eyes. All the scuffs on his leather vest and smudges on his tunic and trousers blended into a dappled camouflage that matched our surroundings. In every direction, mottled green underbrush battled for space with spicy pines and tangled willow. “We’re not lost.” He set his jaw to emphasize his declaration. With food scarce, a new leanness enhanced the strong lines of his face. He looked trail worn, but it suited him.

  He bounded over a fallen tree and reached back to help me. I scrambled up and he grabbed my waist to lower me to the ground. Inches away from him, my skin warmed with awareness.

  I pulled away and dusted off my hands. “Do you know where we are?” I squinted into the distance through the crowded branches.

  “No.”

  “Then we’re lost.”

  He growled. “Not knowing where you are is not the same thing as being lost, if you know how to get to where you’re going. And I know how to get to the rim from anywhere.”

  I arched a skeptical brow his direction. “We’ve been wandering in circles.”

  “I’m looking for a stream. Once we find one, we follow it seaward. Everything eventually flows to the rim.”

  The opposite of all I’d been taught. Everything flowed toward the Order. Not rivers, but everything important, all the hopes and highest aspirations of our world. Everyone desired to move inland, to serve the Order. And here I was heading as far from the center ground as possible.

  I sank onto a rock, stretching my legs. “How can I help?”

  At my weary question, he turned a frown my direction. “That depends. Are you able to keep walking? You’re looking even scrawnier than you used to.”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly. “And yes, I can keep walking, but we’ll need food soon.”

  Brantley rummaged in his pack and pulled out some rope. He eyed a promising tree and, after a few tosses, was able to secure the rope and use it to climb. His boot skidded on one branch, and I held my breath as bits of bark rained down. After a short scramble, he found his footing, and with a few grunts propelled himself higher. Was he hoping to find fruit in the high branches? If so, he was looking in the wrong tree.

  “Do you see anything?” I called.

  He leaned out, grinning. “Yes!”

  The triumph in his voice made me smile in spite of my hunger and exhaustion. He seemed so at home out here where things were wild and uncertain. He climbed down and sprang to the ground from the lowest branch. A few needles and a pinecone had caught in his hair.

  I reached out and picked off the pinecone, then brushed away some of the needles. My fingers caught in a snarl of his curls.

  “Ow!” He grabbed my hand and untangled me. When he stepped back, he kept his grip on my fingers. I studied the familiar ridges of his knuckles, the broken nails, the scraped skin of his hands. Hands that had comforted me, provided for me, supported me. Warmth seeped through his skin into mine. He smiled crookedly, and a bemused expression followed across his brow.

  He dropped my hand and stepped back, clearing his throat. “We’ll have a chance to clean up soon. I spotted a home not far from here. And we’re not near any villages, so it should be safe to meet someone and trade for supplies.”

  I blinked a few times, shaking off the awkwardness. “We’ve avoided anyone since the soldiers by the outcropping. I don’t like the idea of talking to strangers now.”

  Brantley coiled his rope and stuffed it into his pack. “This far out, no one will know about the soldiers’ search.”

  I nodded slowly, though I was not reassured. “Which way?”

  “Follow me. And let me talk first. You’re out of your element.”

  A flare of resentment added energy to my steps as I followed him. I could have reminded him that I’d kept up with him just fine, and that I was now as accustomed to living in the wilds as he was. So much for that strange connection I’d felt a moment earlier. He still dismissed me as weak and useless. I’d begun to think of him as a friend. That almost proved his belief in my foolishness.

  The scent of wood smoke gave the first hint that we neared a habitation. We slowed our steps, and Brantley crouched behind a bush, beckoning me to join him.

  Nearby, buried in overgrown vines, a small home hid under the trees. More shack than cottage, it was made of supple willow branches woven together. Here in the midrim, the movement of the ground was more evident than in Middlemost, and buildings clearly needed to be flexible. As if in affirmation, a wave rolled under us, and the cottage rippled with only a slight moan of protest. The surrounding garden was even more chaotic than untamed nature—if that were possible. Bits of herbs and vegetables struggled against weeds and nettles. Un
even paths wound drunkenly through the plots. If not for the smoke rising from a crumbling chimney, I wouldn’t believe anyone had lived here in ages.

  “As a landkeeper,” I whispered, “it must break your heart to see a garden so untended.”

  Brantley rubbed his jaw, drawing a rasping sound. “I’m not actually a landkeeper.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You lied? There’s a surprise.”

  He grinned. “Hey, I managed not to kill any plants while I worked at the Order garden.”

  I sized him up. Soldier? Builder? Smith? I knew nothing about him. He could even have a wife and children. A tiny pang pierced my chest. “So what do you do when you aren’t sneaking and skulking?”

  He chuckled. “I don’t skulk.”

  I crossed my arms, waiting.

  “I’m a herder.”

  I wrinkled my brow. “Who’s caring for your flock while you’re sneaking and . . . sneaking.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Oh, they’re fine. Perhaps I’ll introduce you when we reach the rim.”

  A glimmer of warmth tickled behind my ribs. Maybe he wouldn’t drop me at the first rim village we encountered. I wanted to ask him more about himself, tried to find words to inquire about a wife or children, but he focused on the hut again, and the moment was lost.

  Brantley began to rise, but the door of the shack swung open, and he ducked. At least he had the sense to observe before entrusting our lives to a stranger.

  And the woman who emerged was stranger than strange.

  Matted hair stormed away from her face in all directions. Wrinkles ravaged her skin. Her clothes were a parody of dancer garb—a tattered tunic and leggings that ended in torn strips. Around her neck, a green scarf stood out among the muddy colors of her garments. She muttered to herself, then stomped a bare foot on a patch of dirt. “Why don’t you listen?” she shouted.

  She waved her arms, then limped in a lopsided circle. I stared at her bizarre behavior, transfixed. She moved forward and back, then hopped sideways several times. An ugly scar marred the skin of one leg.