Halani sighed. “Hamod is my uncle,” she clarified for Gilene. “I’ll return soon. Mama, can you help Gilene if she needs it while I’m gone?”
As soon as Halani exited the wagon, Asil scooted closer, and her smile turned beseeching. “Can I braid your hair? It’s very soft.”
Gilene wondered what had happened to Asil that made her the child and her daughter the parent. There was an engaging appeal about the older woman, an innocence in her interactions that most people had lost by the time they were nine or ten years of age.
Gilene’s hair felt stuck to her scalp, in need of a good washing and thorough combing. She welcomed Asil’s request. “Of course, though I don’t have a comb.”
The other woman practically bounced where she sat. Her hand dove into a pocket of her colorful apron, emerging with a prized comb. “I do,” she crowed, her smile growing larger. “And I’ll be gentle; I promise.”
She fluffed the pillows higher behind Gilene, tucked the blanket under her arms, and set to unraveling the locks of hair that had tangled themselves into mats. Asil was still working at her task with gusto and regaling Gilene with anecdotes regarding the caravan and its close-knit members when her daughter returned.
Halani sighed, though her features were soft with affection as she gazed at her mother. “You are the worst sort of gossip, Mama. What nonsense have you been pouring into Gilene’s ear while I was gone?”
Asil laughed, the sound one of such joy it almost brought tears to Gilene’s eyes. She couldn’t recall the last time she heardanyone laugh in such a way. “All true, Hali. You know I don’t lie. You remember when Supan’s breeches fell down around his ankles while he was courting that girl in Silfer?” More peals of laughter, and Halani and Gilene joined her.
“We’re a ridiculous lot sometimes, Gilene, but it makes for good stories,” Halani said.
Gilene hid a wince when Asil’s comb snagged on a particularly nasty knot. “I like Asil’s stories. They speak of family and love between you.” Something thin and frayed in her own family. There was duty and devotion, both driven by guilt, and not much else.
She wondered what her mother and siblings were doing at the moment, whether they fretted over her and worried for her safety. The village as a whole, she knew, would be in a state of panic. Someone had taken their fire witch, the one person they relied on to protect the other village women from the Rites of Spring each year. She shook away the growing darkness of her thoughts. They had no place here with two women who knew her as nothing other than Gilene, wife of Valdan.
“I tell funny stories, but Hali tells the best ones,” Asil bragged of her daughter. “One each night after supper if she isn’t sick or the rest of us too tired.”
“Or too bored,” Halani quipped back.
Asil’s expression creased into an indignant pinch. “No one is ever bored with your stories, Hali.”
Halani bent and kissed the top of her mother’s head. “If you say so, Mama.” She straightened and gave Gilene a wink. “When she’s done combing out your hair, we can help you dress and leave the wagon to get some air. It will do your legs good to walk about. That’s if you’re up to it.”
Gilene leapt at the offer, achy from lying down for so long and desperate to see the sky. “Oh yes, I’m well enough for that.”
Halani bent to a basket wedged between a chest and a wagon bow. “I washed your clothes while you healed.” She pulled a neatly folded tunic out of the basket and shook out the wrinkles. “We’re near a stream and will camp close by for the night. Valdan says he’ll take you there so you can bathe. You can wear this tunic for now, and take your clothes with you to dress once you’re done.”
The offer of a bath excited her, and Gilene swore she could hear the trickling murmur of the stream. Still she hesitated. Her reason warned her that to go alone was far too dangerous, even for a healthy woman fleet of foot, and at the moment, she was neither of those. The thought of Azarion acting as her watchdog seemed just as threatening. “I don’t want to bother... my husband.” The word stung her tongue, and she did her best to hide her distaste. Halani’s puzzled look hinted she might not have succeeded.
“I’m sure he won’t mind, and it would be best if your man went with you. We’re not far off the traveler road, and it’s mostly safe, but not all those who travel it are.”
To argue would undoubtedly raise suspicion. Gilene let it go and occupied the remainder of the time Asil worked on her hair in idle chat with her and Halani. When Azarion came to fetch her, her hair was combed smooth, and she wore the tunic Halani gave her. Someone had brushed her shoes free of dust and even mended a hole in the side where her small toe had rubbed through the worn leather. Outside, the temperature carried the snap of an early spring chill, and she shivered in anticipation of an unforgiving bath in an icy stream.
Still, she breathed in the fresh air gratefully. The wagon bed was far more comfortable than the hard portico floor of a broken temple in a haunted city, but her muscles craved movement and her lungs the green scent of the forest around them. Brightly painted wagons formed a circle under an oak grove’s newly leafedcanopy, and through the spaces between the tree trunks and the wagons she caught sight of the ribbon of dusty road that marked the caravan path.
Curious members of Halani’s trader band came up to introduce themselves, some to offer her good health, others to do no more than stare for a moment or nod and move on to whatever task called their attention. Hamod, the man Halani called uncle and Asil called brother, was one of the ones whose gray gaze bore holes into her before he gave a cursory tilt of his head and walked away. He reminded Gilene of Azarion in a way.
When the gladiator arrived, he eyed her up and down before finally speaking. “You’re feeling better, wife.” The term spilled easily off his lips. He bowed briefly to Halani and Asil. “You’re in fine hands with these two.” Asil giggled and blushed while Halani gave a small bow before tugging her mother away from them.
“You can keep the soap cake if there’s any left, Gilene,” she called back over her shoulder.
Gilene hugged her laundered clothes and gift of soap to her chest and returned Azarion’s stare with a bland one of her own. “As much and as easily as you lie, how do you remember what the truth is?” She shouldn’t goad him. He hadn’t yet used violence against her physically, only threatened to hurt others if she didn’t cooperate, and that was bad enough. Still, he was more than capable of killing her with no more effort than it took to kill a chicken. She didn’t want to die. She couldn’t die. Not yet at least.
Her insult rolled off him. “I remember because I must. There’s always a grain of truth embedded in a lie.” He gestured for her to walk beside him as he headed toward the stream Halani mentioned.
“I am not, never have been, and never will be your wife,” she snapped as she fell in step beside him.
His exasperated snort sent a vapor cloud streaming out of his nostrils to dissipate in the cold air. “To these people you are. Thus, a truth.” His green gaze flickered to her. “How are your burns?”
His unexpected inquiry almost made her stumble. Had that truly been a question of concern or one of self-interest? He was so unpredictable. Threatening and cold one moment, solicitous the next. “Healing,” she said, wary of this conversation. She noted the way he walked, the concentrated rhythm of his breathing. “Your ribs?”
He gave another one of those annoying, indifferent shrugs. “Hurting but I’ll live. I’ve dealt with worse.”
