by Anthea Sharp
“Look out for yourself and only yourself,” Caerusa had once said.
Margusa hadn’t heeded that advice before. She does now. Scrambling to her feet, she doesn’t look back.
* * *
Margusa keeps moving westward, following the sun and running from the line of Roman settlements in the east. She passes through forests with moss-covered trees and through green meadows. Late in the afternoon, she comes to a brook near a rocky outcropping covered with low bushes with deep green leaves, and flowers with white blooms with a crown of yellow at the center. They look a bit like the roses the master’s dead wife kept in Rome, but smell much sweeter. Margusa almost walks past the flowers, but then she stops and laughs.
She hasn’t heard dogs, horses, or shouting in hours. She is going to die alone after all. Or maybe not. As Julius’s chef, she’s spent a year learning about the local wild foods, and when she was a young girl, and confused for a young boy, she was often sent off to help trap fresh game with old Lucipor. She might survive …
She thinks of the snow when they first arrived in Caledonia, and shivers. She can’t survive that …
She raises her chin and adjusts her makeshift satchel. But now it is summer, and the roses are in bloom. Margusa walks over to the bush and determinedly plucks a flower, despite the prick of thorns. When she pulls the stem toward her, she realizes she’s accidentally plucked two flowers instead of just one. She almost thinks it is a good omen … when behind her comes the snort of a horse. Jumping in fright, she finds the great white horse and the same barbarian she’d seen earlier. This time the warrior stands beside the great animal. His sword is in its sheath, his shield hanging upon his saddle, and in his hands is his helmet.
He looks … very alien. It isn’t just the strange head-to-toe armor that seems to reflect the world like a mirror. Unlike Roman men who keep their hair short, his light brown hair hangs down to his shoulders. His skin is startlingly pale—nearly as white as his ghostly horse—and he’s strikingly tall, maybe the tallest man she’s ever seen. He is shaven at least, and has a strong jaw, long straight nose, and high cheekbones. He has icy blue eyes, now narrowed to slits.
“Who are you to wander the queen’s forest and pluck her flowers?” he asks, his Latin perfect.
Margusa’s shoulders fall. No barbarian could speak so perfectly. Perhaps there is a reward to be had for bringing her in, and he attacked her pursuers to get it? She should be frightened. The dogs of fear should be gnawing at her gut, but Margusa finds herself becoming angry instead. She made it so far.
“They are my roses,” she replies, her voice as sharp as the thorns biting her fingers. “I picked them.”
Moving so fast he is a blur, the barbarian grabs her by the front of her tunic. “Are you a warrior?” he demands, his face so close she can feel his breath against her. It’s warm compared to the chilly afternoon air.
She blinks and her mouth falls open. Doesn’t he recognize the words tattooed to her forehead, Stop me, I am a runaway?
“Answer me, and do not lie!” he says, the sharp edges of his strange armor biting through the fabric of her tunic.
The roses fall from her hand. She wants to lie, to say yes, she is a warrior—as if women could be such—but maybe a lifetime of being whipped for deceit catches up to her, because it’s the truth that tumbles from her lips. “I am a slave. I killed my master. I am a runaway.”
He stares at her a long moment, his features softening. Releasing her, he backs away. “I am not ordered to hunt runaway slaves.” His lips part, as though he has a question, but his eyes abruptly go beyond her shoulder, and he says, “My Queen calls to me. I must go.”
He strides toward her, and Margusa jumps back.
Bending, he picks up the flowers she’d dropped. “Your roses,” he says, holding them out to her.
She doesn’t want to take them, certain it is a trick to catch her again, but he’s so fast, why would he need a trick? Maybe she isn’t supposed to show fear? Margusa’s brow furrows with consternation, and she snatches them back. He holds up both his hands and backs away, his lips quirked in almost a smirk, but his icy eyes very soft.
In less than a heartbeat it seems, he’s mounted his steed and disappearing into the trees. She remembers his almost-smirk, and the way he’d raised his hands, just now understanding the meaning of the gesture, I mean no harm. Margusa feels strangely cold, and for the first time in the day, feels alone. She wishes he’d come back, and instantly regrets wishing it. Lucipor used to admonish her, “Don’t wish for things not supposed to be yours. They’ll come true when you least want them. Food will come after you feast, freedom when you’re too lame to work.”
Wish back a barbarian and he’ll surely do her harm. Margusa looks down at the flowers he returned. She should cast them aside. Instead she lifts them to her face, inhales their sweet fragrance, and then tucks them into the belt of her tunic. But she immediately resumes her journey west.
He will not find her again.
* * *
“I see you,” Margusa says to the barbarian. She sees his horse, its pale coat luminous in the moonlight through the trees.
Wolves howl in the not-so-far-off distance. Sitting against a large tree, cradled by its roots, Margusa shivers. Snorting, the great horse stamps its hooves, its rider invisible in the darkness and his mirror armor.
And then, not five steps away, directly to her right, not anywhere near his horse, comes the barbarian’s voice. “I’ve found you.”
Biting her lip and the impulse to scream, Margusa turns to glare at him accusingly. He’s kneeling beside her, helmet in his hands again. She should have seen him; he’s the whitest thing in the woods, barring the horse.
“You cannot stay out here,” he says. “The wolves are hungry. I know a place you’ll be safe.”
She almost snorts. “For what price?”
The barbarian doesn’t flinch. “For a question.”
“I don’t have any questions for you.”
His lips quirk. “For an answer then.”
It’s a strange thing to barter with, questions and answers. And yet … if he wanted to do her harm, he could have hours ago.
A wolf howls closer.
“What answer do you want?” Margusa whispers.
The wolf has friends who like to sing, and they join in, closer still.
Standing, the barbarian holds out his hand to her. “Inside first.”
Margusa ignores the hand and stands on her own, though her legs are tired and almost fall out from under her. The barbarian shakes his head and retrieves the reins to his horse. “Up, now,” he says, gesturing with a hand.
Margusa shakes her head. “I’ll walk.”
“I do not have time for games,” says the man. “Get on, or I’ll throw you over Svinnr’s saddle.”
Margusa takes a step back, thinking perhaps it might be better to run.
“I’m not a wolf,” the barbarian says, his shoulders falling. “Please … get on.”
She doesn’t remember the last time anyone used the word ‘please’ when speaking to her. Nodding, Margusa lets him help her onto the horse—he makes a cradle of his hands and lets her step on them. She tries to act like that isn’t strange for a warrior to do for a slave, and settles herself sideways and half on, half off the front of the saddle. Thankfully, the saddle isn’t like the type her master Julius used with a high front. Still, it’s lumpy, and then the barbarian swings up behind and his armor presses against her, his chest and thighs like a trap. She goes completely rigid and clutches her satchel to her stomach. She thinks she might hear him sigh.
She hates being afraid again, and finds herself quipping, “A brave warrior afraid of a few wolves.” Even though she knows he should be; she’s heard about wolves attacking men in the woods.
“I’m not afraid of the wolves,” he says, pointing into the trees. “See, there, they know Svinnr and me, and will not attack.”
Sure enough, Margusa sees silver shapes movin
g through the trees.
“The queen,” he says, “is another matter. I haven’t time to linger.”
Putting an arm around her waist, trapping her further, he gives a silent signal to the horse. Moments later, they are cantering through the trees, and she is grateful for the arm.
The moon hasn’t traveled far when they come to a stone building perhaps two stories tall. It looks almost Roman, but it is round, not square, and has a steep roof at the top. Just beneath the eaves she can see arrow slits, and here and there are windows too narrow for a man to enter in the walls. “Who built this?” she wonders, and why did they leave it? It looks sturdy and secure, even with the grass growing between the stones.
“It is an Elvish way station. They live in the hill just west of here, but once they lived across the land.”
Elvish must be the name of his barbarian tribe. But how did he learn to speak Latin?
They dismount from Svinnr and the must-be-Elvish man leads her to a door that looks much newer than the little tower itself. It opens without a key, and he holds out a hand for her to enter.
“Is this your home?” she asks, afraid again—it could be a trap.
“I have a bed in the elves’ lair,” he responds, a strange note of melancholy in his voice.
She’s still fearful, and stalls. “You had a question for me?”
A bird makes a strange call in the trees. The barbarian stares down at her, his jaw hard. “What is your name?”
She almost says Margusa, but then she remembers the name her mother had whispered was hers. “Margarites, it is Margarites.” It sounds strange to say the name without “usa,” the tail-ending that follows the names of female slaves. If only she could remove the tattoo from her forehead so easily.
“How did you escape your master, Margarites?” he asks.
“That’s two questions!” she declares, stalling again, eyes darting fearfully to the dark interior.
His lips quirk. “So, it is.” He looks up toward the moon. “I must leave you anyways.” Returning his gaze to hers, he says, “I will tell the wolves to leave you alone. Until then, lock the door from within. The candles will extinguish when you blow on them.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” she wonders aloud.
He smiles. “They’re Elvish. They’ll also extinguish if you go to sleep.”
She blinks.
He gives her a half bow and leaves her standing in the empty doorway. As soon as he’s gone, the wolves begin to howl again.
Margarites darts inside, and is temporarily dazzled by the light of what seems like a thousand candles that weren’t lit a moment ago. She hears a bark that’s too close, turns and shuts the door. There isn’t a bar, but there is a metal latch that she slides into place.
Outside, she swears the wolves laugh.
Eyes adjusting to the brightness, she turns to survey the “way station.”
The bottom floor is a single large room with a wooden bed with a rope “mattress” woven between the slats of the frame. There is an amazing staircase of wood and metal that twists and turns to a second floor. She sees no oven, or brazier, but there are pots on one wall next to an odd metal cabinet with a pipe for a hat. There is another odd thing, a metal stand of some sort, with an enormous wing protruding from it, and a half open pipe above a half barrel. She decides to investigate after she rests for a moment.
She lies down instead of sitting, thinking she should blow out the candles, but doesn’t. It occurs to her that she asked the barbarian many things tonight, and she didn’t answer his second question.
At that thought the candles quietly snuff out, one by one. She bites her lip. She’s sure he’ll return for his second question. She shouldn’t be glad of it, but she is.
* * *
He doesn’t return that night, or the next day, or the next. But sometimes, she wakes with a start to a horse’s bugling whinny so loud and strong it could only be from the enormous Svinnr in the clearing near the tower. After a while, she barely wakes at all when she hears the barbarian’s steed, and the horse’s commentary weaves its way seamlessly into dreams.
* * *
Crossroads
Margarites discovers the road by falling over the edge of an embankment and rolling onto it. It barely registers as a road at first, it’s so narrow. She thinks it might be a deer path, and she’s more concerned with the bird, a fat grouse, caught in her snare that had tumbled over the embankment right before her. Her mouth is already watering thinking of it roasting. If she gets it back to the tower, and if she isn’t set upon by wolves.
Hurriedly grabbing the flapping bird and saying a prayer of thanks to the gods just before wringing its neck, she doesn’t even notice when the men come around the bend in the hill. And then she hears a low whistle. She turns slowly, looking down the “deer path,” and notices that there are abundant horse hoof prints in the dirt. Just at the bend are four men. Their clothing isn’t much different from Romans—thigh length tunics belted at the waist and cloaks over their shoulders. But they have long hair and beards. They carry axes and have bows on their backs.
One of them points to his forehead and says something to his companions. They smile sharply, and walk toward her. Margarites tries to scramble up the rise. It’s so steep that she has to grasp onto saplings. Not looking back, bird under one arm, she almost reaches the top when one of the saplings breaks. Sliding backward, trying to regain her footing, her body turns round so she’s facing her pursuers.
But they are not pursuing. They’re standing on the road, looking fearfully up the embankment, pointing at her, and arguing. One says something sharp, breaks from his companions, and begins climbing after her.
Margarites rolls over and begins frantically climbing again.
The men on the road start shouting, sounding as frantic as she feels.
The barbarian climbing after her grasps her calf. She tries to jerk free, but his hand is too strong. The cries from the men on the road rise in pitch, there is a soft thud, and the man lets her go with a hissed curse. Margarites looks down and sees him sliding down the embankment, an arrow in his own calf. Down the road, opposite the way the men came from, is Svinnr. Her barbarian is almost invisible upon the animal's back, his armor a near-perfect reflection of the trees, the brush, and the sky. But she does see his bow, another arrow already notched.
The men on the road bow profusely. Her barbarian says something to them in their own language. Margarites has no idea what he says, but the words sound smooth, not hesitant, like the translators at the fort. The man with the arrow in his calf points at Margarites and at his own forehead, and Margarites imagines they are saying, “We want the reward for the slave.” Her barbarian says something curt that makes him go quiet. The other three men bow and help their friend back to the road. Margarites crawls up and untangles her snare, wraps up the long piece of rope, and puts it and the grouse into her satchel while her barbarian watches the men disappearing into the trees.
As soon as they’re gone, he touches something at the side of his helmet, and the front part lifts so she can see his eyes.
“Come on,” he says. “Hop aboard.”
Margarites doesn’t hesitate this time, just lets her barbarian seat her on the front of the saddle, uncomfortable as it is.
“You’ve caught a grouse,” he says. “How did you manage that?”
Margarites hasn’t spoken to anyone in three days. She blames that for why she bursts into a long story about how it is unusual for a woman to know how to snare game, but her master had so many slaves, and her hair was so sparse as a child, he often mistook her for a boy, and she got sent off with the old Lucipor, the oldest slave in the household, to help him catch fresh game.
“Former master, you mean,” says the barbarian, his forearm around her waist. And maybe that arm is the reason for her chattiness. She needs something to distract from that solidness.
“Former master,” Margarites murmurs the words wonderingly. “I didn’t answer your question
,” she says, because she’s run out of things to say about trapping, and because she’s afraid to say thank you. If one offers too much gratitude, does it make you a slave again in a way by admitting you owe a service in return?
“You did not, but I need to show you the limits of my range. If you had been just over the road, Margarites, I would not have been allowed to help you.” The last comes out of him as a sigh, and it makes Margarites’s skin prickle in a way she isn’t sure is good or bad.
Svinnr begins to move north down the road, in the same direction that the men had come from. “My range is everything to the west of this road until Miles Cross,” he says. “And everything south of the road that meets this one there. I’ll show you.”
Instead of a canter, Svinnr keeps to an easy walk. Nervous, Margarites begins babbling again. “The men earlier. Were they your tribe? Were they elves?” They’d deferred to him as though he is a person of great importance, and his arm is around her, and she is upon his horse, when she should be walking. She feels very uneasy.
The man’s arm stiffens around her waist. “They are not my tribe, they are not elves, but I am not an elf, either. The elves are immortal. I am a mortal warrior, kidnapped from my homeland and made to serve the Elf Queen.”
She feels a little stupid for not realizing that elves aren’t mortal—the candles that light themselves, the strange metal cabinet she discovered is an oven and a brazier at the same time, and the tower with glass—glass!—windows that swing so neatly open with a gentle tug. And then there is the barbarian’s armor that is more reflective than a mirror—she swears it shows the scene behind him, as though he isn’t there, but it doesn’t seem to hinder him at all. It all points to a more than mortal people.
“Who are the elves?” she asks. Was it another name for daemons, the not-quite-gods, not-quite-human people of The Golden Age? Or are they demi-gods?
She feels the barbarian shrugging. “They are themselves. They tell me they are the oldest race of the Nine Realms, older than dwarves even, but they also say they are the most refined, the most intelligent, the most sophisticated, and the most beautiful and moral, so I don’t know if I believe them.”