Anyway, you remember Staysha, that bard I wrote about?
Well . . .
It was their last camp before they’d reach proper civilization.
Fern stared at the four freshly written pages in her paws, then at the sleeping forms of Astryx and Zyll. As she opened the satchel—now positively stuffed with paper—to add the latest to her chronicle, she realized that for the first time, she hadn’t told Viv how sorry she was.
39
As they approached the first, rather large, outlying village on the road to Amberlin, the morning had a crisp autumnal bite to it, and a low-lying fog seemed to burn off in retreat from their arrival. Traffic on the road swelled and began to evince an unexpectedly festive atmosphere. Fern spied wagons of kegs, and farmers in feast-day finery. Eager children tugged at parents, their faces scrubbed clean.
She caught the sounds of a fiddle and drums on the air. Crimson banners and unlit lanterns alternated across lines strung between roof peaks.
“Looks like a party!” observed Breadlee. “Shame about the noise.”
“The grape harvest is over,” said Astryx. “We’ve arrived in the middle of the Summerdusk festival.” She checked to make sure Zyll’s hood was drawn low enough to obscure her.
Although, maybe Astryx should have been the one to wear a cloak, since she was easily the most recognizable person for leagues in any direction. She drew plenty of glances from passersby, more than a few of whom stopped dead to watch her with open mouths. The Oathmaiden appeared practiced at ignoring the murmurs of onlookers and carried on, carefully weaving Bucket and Persimmon through the foot traffic.
Booths lined the main thoroughfare, selling jarred honey, cured meats, handicrafts, small kegs of wine and spirits, breads, spices, confections, crates of vegetables, handmade toys, and gods knew what else. Bunting decorated exposed eaves, ribbons fluttered from booth-poles, minstrels played on a temporary stage, and excited chatter swelled to a low rumble.
“It’s foolish for us to go through,” said Astryx, scratching at her ear. “Too many people, too much attention so close to Amberlin when we’ve no need. We’ll circle around to the other side. It won’t cost us much time.”
“Wait. Would you mind if I met you there? At the other end?” Fern eyed the crates packed with ranks of green wine bottles and the neighboring tables piled with wheels of aged cheese. Since Astryx’s earnest apology, the idea of some sort of peace offering had been brewing. This was probably the last, best opportunity she’d have to find anything resembling a gift. “I’ve got an errand I want to take care of. I promise, I won’t be long.”
Astryx followed her gaze and raised a brow. She seemed about to protest, but nodded instead. “We’ll find you there.”
Fern slithered off Persimmon and kept her feet under her as she landed, glancing up at Zyll, who blinked back.
“Zu-kenda,”said the goblin, solemnly.
Fern didn’t know what that meant, so it wasn’t profane, but she also thought Zyll had said it before. She couldn’t remember when, though.
“Thanks!” she called to Astryx as the elf handed down her satchel. Then she trotted into the village toward the stalls. When she looked back, they and the horses were nearly out of sight, heading southeast.
She had a sudden, wild premonition of emerging on the other side to find herself alone on the road, Astryx and Zyll long gone. She banished the thought almost as soon as it arrived.
Mostly.
Forging through the throng, Fern rediscovered what it was like for your eyes to be at navel height in a crowd. It was easy to get disoriented without a clear view of your destination except what you could snatch around moving bodies.
Grumbling to herself, she wove between legs, trying to keep her tail out from underfoot. At last, she arrived at the spirit-seller’s stall, where a generously proportioned tapenti woman was dickering with a customer over a case of wax-sealed liquor in little blue bottles. Fern moved to get in line, but drew up short when something snagged her gaze in the crowd.
Tartan. There, and gone.
Furrowing her brow, she forgot all about the spirits and struggled in the direction of the flash of color.
“Watch it!” she yelped as a dwarf backed into her and nearly knocked her sprawling.
She didn’t even hear his apology as her gaze fell on the slash of tartan fabric again, and she did her best to dash toward it.
Squeezing past a pair of hips, she came out gasping behind a smoke-furred rattkin in a sash that she’d recognize anywhere. He wasn’t wearing his belt dagger. With his back to her, he was glancing around as though looking for someone.
“Quillin?” she said.
He whirled, eyes wide.“Fern?”
The look of shock and delight on his face melted into something else almost immediately. Fear?Guilt?
