“Sorrel, I have never asked you for a thing, not even when this started between us.”
I return to when I first saw her in the market square a calendar ago. She was struggling to hold a loaf of bread and a gather of walterberries as she limped along in rags. Even though it was noontime, I stepped in and helped her, and was surprised to find her living in what all of us assumed was a vacant storefront. I have been coming back ever since.
“You are more important than this village,” she tells me gravely. “What you can do must be preserved—”
“I do nothing.”
Unable to stay still, I get busy with useless effort, unfolding and refolding blankets at the end of the pallet, rearranging the pitiful stack of wood by the fire.
“Come here, child.”
My body answers Mare’s call before my mind can decide whether I want to approach her or not: The next thing I know, I am sitting by her.
“Will you not ever show me your face?” When I make no move to remove my hood, she sighs. “I do not care if you are scarred.”
Mare is the one taking my hand now. Hers is so different from my own, stripped down to its component structures, the bones and ligaments stark under thin skin mottled with age spots. With her silence, she pleads more loudly than if she’d spoken further, but there are so many reasons I cannot do as she wishes, as she commands.
Chief among them is that I feel as though if I take the coins, I’m hastening her death.
And I don’t know what I’ll do in this village, in this world, without my one true friend.
SevenA Trip Outside the Wall.
It’s very late in the afternoon when I go out the Gauntlet’s back door, and head for the guard towers and the bridge over our moat. I keep my eyes on the cobblestones, but sense the flow of villagers around me, their chatter, their sloshing buckets of water, their bundles of creaking wood balanced on their shoulders, the kinds of things that calm me even though they shouldn’t. I see the evidence of normal life as proof we’re not in danger, and that’s faulty reasoning—
“—’nother one, aye.”
“In truth? At what compass point?”
“The carcass was to the south. ’Tis time we count all the cattle—”
I duck my head even more in hopes my hood will prevent me from hearing the talk—and when that doesn’t work, I realize only men are around me. In the regular course of things, women would be coming and going, too, bringing in the herds of smalluntasthat are allowed inside the wall when it’s dark out, shooing children toward home to prepare the evening meal, carting in the wash from the river. I wonder if this is an edict from the mayor that I haven’t heard about yet or if all the husbands, fathers, uncles, and brothers are collectively putting their feet down.
And Mare thinks I can survive on my own, even with all that gold?
A stone arch links the two guard towers, and there’s a brief echo chamber as I enter the tunnel. Glancing up, I try to focus on the sections of stones that are sound, not the ones where the mortar is crumbling, and as I reemerge into the waning sunlight, I search the meadows that undulate out toward the distant forest edge. The pasture fences are as they’ve always been, solidly constructed and without breaks, but there are no horses in them. Likewise, no sheeplings orcows munch in the grasses beyond the barns. Clearly, the livestock have been locked down under cover in the barns. Not unlike the women in the houses.
Yet no one stops me as I cross onto the bridge.
The planks I travel over are slick with mud, and nailed together, they’re wide as our village’s main lane. I refuse to look down at the muddy water. We’re up at least ten or fifteen lengths to make sure we’re well out of reach of thebalas, the red-eyed, horn-backed, many-teethed thrashers that churn the moat, but I don’t want any reminders of how hungry they are.
I wonder how a demon would match up against our reptilian guards, and fear my conclusion.
Reaching the end of the bridge, I step off onto the dirt road that snakes around to both the left and the right. Various footpaths, well-trodden, but swampy from all the rain, are tributaries from these bigger sources, and I hook up with one that takes me on a decline through the meadow to the tree line. Nobody else goes this way, so I’m on my own through the green-and-yellow blades. Overhead, the sky is a ringing blue, and the sun is also vibrant, although with its low seat at the horizon, the temperature is cool and I’m grateful for my cloak.
But none of that is what I dwell on.
Even with the daylight, the troubling star that suddenly appeared in our sky is bright enough to be visible. I swear it’s getting closer, and the sight of its fierce glow makes me long for cloud cover.
So instead, I focus on the snow-covered cap of Dragon Mount. At the moment, none of the great scaled creatures are patrolling their lair, but many times, I’ve seen them flying in great circles around the craggy apex. They’re fearsome terrors for sure, except they’re like wasps protecting a nest. As long as you leave them alone, they’re content to stay in their fire-breathing introversion, and besides, they far more prefergrylonsto we stringy humans for their meals.
Now what about a demon against one of them? The dragons would probably win.
That there might be a doubt makes me walk quicker.
As I arrive at the tree line and penetrate the weave of branches, my path disappears, but I know where I’m going. Good thing, as there isn’t much of the waning sunlight filtering through the leaves, which have turned such a dark purple they’re nearly black. This final stage of color change means they’re about to fall, and by spring there’ll be a fresh layer of soil for the plants I need to grow in.
Underfoot, the ground is spongy, and the smell is thick and earthy in my nose. Usually this reassures me, and these gathering trips are a time for me torelax. Not anymore. I pull out my little knife, and my heart skips in my chest as I keep my strides even and quiet.
