by Sharon Hinck
I helped Orianna harvest another row of rutish. “Go ahead and bring the bulbs to your grandmother. I want to rest a moment.”
Orianna scooped the bounty into her basket and skipped away. I knelt among the plants as fatigue rolled through me. As glorious as the dance had been, it seemed to draw life from my breath and strength from my beating heart. I needed time to recover before rejoining the busy activity of the village.
I pressed a hand against my chest, coaxing the racing flutter to slow. Perhaps at least one of the proverbs I’d learned at the Order was true: Each gift required sacrifice. Sharing my gift had definitely taken a toll.
“There you are.” Brantley stormed into the clearing. “You shouldn’t be out here by your—”
“Look.” I beamed and gestured to the flourishing garden. “I danced and it worked! The crops grew.”
He scratched his head and shrugged. Obviously, he hadn’t seen the dismal state of the vegetable patch moments ago. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
I rose and dusted off my knees. “Fiola could have told you where I was.”
“Or you could have let me know you’d changed your plans.” He glanced back, measuring the distance to the cottages.
I faced him and laughed. “Don’t be such an old lady—”
Brantley froze, squinting past me into the undergrowth. Every muscle in his face tensed. A harsh whisper ground through his clenched jaw. “Run. Run now!”
I snapped my gaze over my shoulder to whatever had drawn his attention. Two armored soldiers broke from the cover of trees and sprinted toward us, swords drawn. Instead of fleeing, Brantley ran toward the first one, pulling his knife from his belt in a smooth movement. A shout tore from his chest. “Run!”
I stumbled a few steps toward the village path, but couldn’t leave him to face this attack alone. These men weren’t here to demand taxes or even steal girls. Murder burned in their eyes.
The first soldier swung his sword, but Brantley dodged, ducked under the blade, and grabbed the man’s arm. The soldier stiffened and emitted a sharp gasp. Brantley pulled his knife back, blood dripping from the blade. He released his grip on his opponent, and the lifeless man crumbled to the ground.
The other soldier barely spared a glance at his comrade but ran toward me.
Brantley picked up the fallen sword, spun, and saw me, still wavering on the edge of the clearing. I whirled and ran for the closest tree. Perhaps I could climb out of reach.
Too late.
Cruel hands grabbed me. A beefy arm encircled my neck. The soldier jerked me back against him so hard, the studs of his breastplate cut into my back. He turned us both to face Brantley, who stalked toward us, muscles clenched with suppressed fire.
I tried to scream, but only a whimper escaped the choking arm at my throat. Then the soldier’s grip shifted as he angled his sword so that the edge pressed against my belly. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
“Drop the sword, rebel. I’ll take her to the Order or run her through. Your choice.” Fetid breath carried his growled threat.
Brantley advanced a few more steps, leading with the borrowed sword.
The soldier slid his blade and heat sliced across my stomach. I winced and bit back a shriek of pain.
He would kill me and then Brantley. I couldn’t let it happen. “Leave!” I rasped out to Brantley. “I’ll go with him.”
Please, Holy Maker, let Brantley see sense. Don’t let him throw his life away.
Brantley froze. Helpless rage contorted his face into the mask of a stranger. Splattered blood freckled his face, his clothes, his arms. Slowly he gave one tight nod, and made a great show of crouching and lowering his sword to the ground.
I tried to swallow but couldn’t move even that much. Without his partner, the soldier couldn’t control us both. “I’ll come with you,” I promised, forcing the whisper from my constricted throat. “If you don’t hurt him.” My fate was sealed, but at least I could save Brantley.
Brantley slowly straightened from laying down the sword and met my gaze. Midnight-blue storms clouded his eyes—and lightning flickered in their depths.
Desperation provided one more drop of strength. I twisted against the bruising arm at my throat, no longer afraid of the sword that had already seared my skin. I fought to grate out a few more words, as if I could reason with the brute. “I said I’d come with—”
In the space between two heartbeats, Brantley straightened. His other hand appeared from behind his back, raised as if to signal Navar. Air whooshed past my ear. The soldier’s grip weakened.
I used the moment to wriggle away. What had happened?
A loud thud moved the earth as the man fell onto his back, thrashing, skin as white as a fish’s belly.
Brantley’s knife protruded from the soldier’s throat.
I coughed and doubled over as I struggled to take in what had just happened. Brantley had thrown his knife, spearing the man as efficiently as he’d once dispatched a bog rat. He could have killed me!
“You all right?” Brantley threw the words my direction while kneeling beside the soldier, whose eyes and mouth were wide in shock.
He had asked me something, but I was too stunned for the question to make sense. “What?”
He motioned to my stomach. “Your wound.”
I pulled my arm away from my tunic. Blood seeped, and I pressed my hand against my belly again. “Only a scratch.”
Doubt registered on Brantley’s face, but he turned his full attention on the soldier. Pressing his hand to the man’s throat, he slowly pulled his knife free. Blood bubbled past his fingers, but he kept his grip, one knee digging into the man’s chest. “What is the Order planning?”
The man stared past Brantley toward the sky. Did he feel death’s fingers gripping his soul? He choked, and his lips shaped a weak sneer. “Know about . . . rebels . . . don’t need rimmers no more . . .”
“What will they do?”
He sucked a pained fraction of air into his lungs. “Destroy . . . you . . . all.”
“Nothing new there.” He lifted his head in my direction. “And why do they want her?”
A rasping gurgle was the only answer. All life fled the soldier’s eyes.
Brantley bit out a curse and stood, brushing his blood-soaked hands against his pants. He frowned down at the man, then turned to me. “At least we’ve gained a few weapons.”
Who was this man who had just killed two soldiers? The deceitful landkeeper, the confident and joyous herder, or a ruthless warrior? I looked down. I didn’t want to see him with hard lines shaping his face into callous fierceness and the blood of his foes painting his knife.
He stepped closer. At his touch, I cringed away. He muttered another curse, swept an arm around my shoulders, and hurried me to Fiola’s cottage. He left me there to go retrieve the soldiers’ weapons, bringing a few other men to help him hide their bodies in the sea.
Listening in silence to my broken account of the attack, Fiola bandaged my cut, which really wasn’t much more than a scrape. The bleeding stopped once she cleaned and wrapped it. Then she gently washed the soldier’s blood from the side of my face as short, tight sobs wracked me. Not from the sting of the wound, but from the shock of seeing men die. After I calmed, she handed me a mug of hot seawater, and I welcomed the rich, sweet tang. We’d survived. Everything would be all right now, I told myself over and over, yet couldn’t stop the tremors in my hands.
As the fear and horror bled away, I welcomed a fog of numbness. Fiola had already started a stew with the tubers Orianna brought from the garden, and earthy scents wafted from the fireplace. A warm blanket woven from the fluffy fibers of a midrim plant wrapped my body. For the moment, I settled into a ragged sort of peace, clinging to the comfort of normality.
When Brantley returned, I was glad to see he had taken time to wash off the evidence of the battle. His clothes still bore stains, but at least his knife no longer dripped with blood. However, he now wore one
of the soldier’s swords, and the reminder of the brief battle made me shiver.
He paced, his large presence making the cottage seem small. “We’ve run out of time. We can’t stay here. Our presence will only draw more trouble to the village.”
I cleared my throat. “Maybe we could hide nearby—”
“They won’t stop looking for you.” He jabbed an accusing finger my direction—the same hand that had flung his knife in one lethal movement. “Besides, the inland watchman said the tax patrol is near.”
My tenuous relief scattered like a cloud broken to pieces by a fierce gust. Would I always have to run one step ahead of fear? I cast off the blanket and stood. “I can hide here until I finish the second copy.”
Brantley plowed a hand through his fair curls. “You don’t understand. The whole village knows you’re here.”
“Well of course, I had to share the letter.” Was he still angry about that?
“If even one person decides to tell the next passing soldier about the letter, or about you—out of fear or to bargain away their tax or whatever reason—you’ll be dragged back to the Order.”
The uneven stack of papers on the table called to me. Bri and I had finished the first copy for Windswell but had only begun the second. I grasped for a way to stay a little longer to complete my mission. Besides, now that I’d discovered a way my dancing could help, I wanted to encourage each garden plot in the village.
“Maybe I could—”
Brantley drew close, his voice low. “If you are betrayed, my mother and Bri will suffer too.”
Further arguments caught in my throat. It was one thing to gamble with my own safety for a few more days in Windswell, but I couldn’t risk harm to the family I’d grown to love. I reached for the letter. I’d sewn a simple pouch so I could carry the pages more easily, and I tucked the precious document inside and drew the long strap over my neck, letting it settle over my chest in the way new mothers carried their babes. After grabbing my cloak and slipping on my light shoes, I said, “I’m ready.”
He frowned, as if not trusting my cooperation. Then he nodded, quick to take advantage of my agreement. “Hide those pages well,” he told his mother. “And tell Bri to keep Orianna out of sight until the patrol leaves. I’ll get word to you when I can.”
Fiola pushed herself upright and hobbled to me. She pressed the heel of her hand against my forehead. “Go and move our world.”
Goosebumps rose on my arms. The command I’d once heard from the High Saltar, a command that stirred fear and dread, was now a blessing that stirred hope and confidence. I gave her a gentle hug. “May the Maker watch over you.”
Brantley brushed a light kiss on his mother’s forehead. “Please be safe.”
She touched his cheek. “And you.”
He eased from her gentle touch, his face tightening as he turned to me. “Let’s go.”
After one more longing glance at the pages strewn across Fiola’s table, I followed Brantley outside. Until this moment I hadn’t been sure he would accompany me on my way to Undertow. Even now he might simply point me in the right direction and then return to his village.
To my surprise, he jogged to the path that led inland.
“Wait!” I called to his back, then followed when he wouldn’t stop. “Wouldn’t we get out of sight faster if we rode Navar?”
“Yes.” He spoke over his shoulder and continued his track. “But my apprentice is out on a solo fishing trip. I’ll whistle for Navar tonight when we’re safely away from Windswell.”
Catching his sense of urgency, I scrambled to keep up, the wound on my stomach throbbing as my pulse increased. “How close are the other soldiers?”
Shouts rose from the village behind us. A pony whinnied.
“Closer than we thought.” Brantley grabbed my hand and ran faster. “They have mounts. Run!”
He came close to yanking my arm from its socket. Being dragged while dodging trees made the run more difficult than it needed to be, but now wasn’t the time to explain rules of movement to him.
My feet flew as fast as possible. My muscles hadn’t fully recovered from the garden dance, and my nerves still trembled from the shock of the soldiers’ attack.
Brantley led us deeper into the woods. Underbrush slapped his face, then ricocheted to scrape across my cheek. Salty blood trickled over my lips. I tucked in my chin and kept going. Pain throbbed across my midsection and my throat burned from the bruises the soldier had left.
Galloping hooves advanced.
“Someone told them which way we went,” Brantley said, his breathless gasp propelled by anger and betrayal.
We panted for air, ducking and weaving. This was hopeless. We couldn’t outrun ponies. I risked a glance behind us. Armor glinted through the leaves. They’d see us in seconds.
I tugged my hand free. A wide willow drooped over a creek, and I slipped into its sheltering branches.
Brantley stumbled to a stop beside me, chest heaving. “Are you hurt? We have to keep moving.”
I kicked off my shoes and put a finger over my lips.
Tack jangled nearby, and the dangerous scrape of a sword leaving its sheath chilled my blood. But I took a calming breath, hoping the wide tree would hide us a little longer.
I could think of only one way to evade the soldiers. We needed the cloak of fog. The Order didn’t teach a pattern for that, so I wasn’t sure where to begin, and any movement was difficult in this constrained space.
Maker, help me!
My legs drew wide semicircles, first to one side, then the other, inventing as I went along, trying to capture the rhythm of clouds mingling with night-cooled earth. Mist rose from the riverbed and encompassed us. With the air dense as soup, I grew bolder. Spinning with swooping dips, my arms welcomed the fog and urged it to thicken.
Sound muffled. The whole world seemed to dissolve.
I grabbed my shoes, took Brantley’s hand, and led him across the creek before our way was completely covered by the mist underfoot.
Clear of the fog bank, I looked back. An impenetrable wall blocked the patrol from our view. More importantly, it blocked us from theirs. A smile spread across my face. “I thought that might help.”
Bent forward with hands braced against his thighs, Brantley struggled to catch his breath. When he straightened, the pallor of his skin matched the fog. He stared at me as if he’d found a bizarre insect inside his porridge bowl.
“How did you . . . ?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Let’s get out of here while we can.”
Not a word of thanks for my quick thinking. I dropped my gaze. “Lead the way.” He had every reason to be irritated. Once again I’d put people he loved in danger.
Lost in my thoughts, I walked after him for quite a way before realizing we’d left the sweet scent of the ocean far behind. Performing another dance—without the community of fellow dancers in the center ground—had taken a further toll on me, and weariness settled like a stifling blanket. “I thought we were going to the next rim village.”
Brantley paused, pulling a twig off his trouser leg. “That’s what they’ll expect. If someone in Windswell betrayed us, they’ll have revealed our plans. So we’ll head to a midrim village instead.”
I couldn’t fault his logic, but my feet grew heavier as we trudged inland. Traveling by sea was so much easier. Would I ever reach Undertow and find my family? We passed a tall pine and a grove of shorter maples, then left the cover of forest to run across an exposed field.
After we pushed through brambles to enter another copse, Brantley shimmied up a smooth birch and checked the path behind us. He slid down and grinned. “Yep. We lost them. At least for now.”
I brushed blood off my arm where thorns had broken the skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but I miss Navar.”
Brantley chuckled. “I knew you’d become a fan of the ocean. Soon as we have a chance, you have to learn to swim.”
“One thing at a time.”
He sa
nk down, resting his back against the tree’s trunk, then patted the earth. “Let’s rest a bit.”
I held my ground. “Are you still mad at me?”
Draping an arm over one knee, he lifted his chin. Clear blue eyes with swirls of cloudy ocean depths met my gaze. “I wasn’t angry. Not at you.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“Not you. It’s that letter.” A hint of storm darkened his features.
I settled beside him and felt the warmth of him through my wrap. “But it’s such good news. We can free the world from the abuses of the Order.”
He hissed in a sharp breath. “So if there’s a Maker, and this letter is so important, why did He let it go lost for so many years? Why didn’t He stop the Order before they’d kidnapped children and hobbled women and bound the world to their rules?”
With a hand pressed against the pouch, my inadequacies rose up to taunt me because I had no explanation. “I don’t know.”
“And that’s the problem, isn’t it?” He rolled his shoulders, shrugging away the topic. A sly smile quirked his lips. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
I leaned away. “What do you mean?”
“That fog thing you did. We could have used that a long time ago.”
I smiled at the memory of dancing a garden into health and forming a cloudbank of protection. “I wish I’d known sooner.”
“Didn’t the Order teach you that stuff?”
A sigh softened my spine along the birch trunk. “They taught us patterns and formations. But until the Maker spoke to me, I didn’t really understand how the dance works.”
At the mention of the Maker, tendons flexed in his neck. “Now you do?”
“A little better,” I said quietly. “It will take me time to discover all the truths I’ve missed. I grew up with so many lies.”
When he turned to face me, compassion warmed away some of his icy stiffness. For a second, his features held the yearning vulnerability of a lost child. “I guess we all did.”
There was so much more I could say. I wanted to plead with him to understand my call, to realize why I’d had to share the letter with his village, and why I insisted on a path that he viewed as reckless. But instinct warned me not to press. I held my peace.