Chapter Eighteen
On the Road to the Black Hills
Halithe tried to remember if she’d ever learned how to get men tostoptalking.
Their escort had left them at the border hours ago.The sun was high, the sky clear, and Ritathan and Aramal would not stop bickering.Mind, it wasn’t anything cruel, just two old men arguing about everything inconsequential while clearly avoiding some important topic.
She shifted in her saddle, waited for one of them to take a breath, and plunged in.“Could we stop for a bit soon?”She really did try not to whine.
Aramal threw her a nod.“Been looking for a place to stop.If I remember correctly, around this bend, there’s a site off the road with a fire pit.”
Ritathan cleared his throat, urging his horse into a trot.“About that.”
Aramal gave him a confused look, glanced at Halithe, shrugged, and followed.Halithe’s horse needed no urging to keep abreast, not wanting to be left behind.
Just beyond the bend, to one side of the road, was a huge camp, dozens of servants coming and going from the large main tent.In the center, a fire pit and a long table.Two women were snapping a large white tablecloth over it, while another brought an arrangement of fresh flowers for the center.
Halithe pulled her horse to a sudden stop, jerking the reins in surprise.Aramal drew up next to her.
“Ritathan,” Forterren called as he emerged from one of the smaller tents.“Took you long enough.”
Aramal shifted in his saddle and stared at Ritathan.“You never intended to camp.”
Ritathan raised his eyebrows.“I never corrected your erroneous assumptions.”He dismounted, handed his reins to a waiting servant, and walked toward Forterran.
Aramal huffed.“Arrogant bastard.”
Halithe pulled her horse close.“Was he always like this?”
Aramal nodded.“Oh, yes.One of the reasons my father despised him.”
A gout of flame arose from the cooking fires.
“And that was the other.”Aramal sighed.
“Master, mistress.”The servant at their horse’s heads got their attention.He was patiently waiting, holding the halters.“There’s bathing tents to refresh yourselves before the meal, if you wish.We’ll see to the horses.”
“Oh, yes,” Halithe said with joy as she dismounted and headed to where he pointed.Hot water and soap and towels and all the necessities!A chance to wash her face and hands and brush her hair.She was thorough but didn’t dawdle; she was curious to learn more about this luxury in the middle of nowhere.
She emerged from the tent to find Aramal standing nearby, washed and combed, just staring at the table, which was set in the shade under the trees, on carpets spread over the grass.In addition to the fine white cloth and the flowers, there were place settings: china, glassware, and utensils.Ritathan and Forterran stood nearby, talking.
Aramal didn’t seem happy, in fact he looked uncomfortable.
“What’s wrong?”Halithe asked as she stepped up beside him.
He glanced at her, and shrugged, looking sheepish.“I’m used to the common hall and trenchers, not this.”He pointed with his chin at the table.“Where talk is loud and raucous and about whether the ram has pizzle rot and who threw crockery in the midden.Not this.”He took a long breath.“Rough hands catch on fine linen.”
Halithe nodded, remembering all too well the harsh lessons she’d learned.The constant fear of criticism and scolding, the dark looks when she’d fumbled a water glass and no praise when she’d managed to do well.
“Halithe, Aramal, come,” Forterran waved them over.
Halithe took Aramal’s arm.“Just do what I do,” she said softly.“That’s how I learned.”
Aramal gave her a doubtful look but escorted her forward.
From one of the tents, two women emerged.Halithe recognized them both from her brief visit to the Guild.Obeda, her expression kindly, and the much older woman, Ila, her face like a wrinkled apple, tottering with a cane over uneven ground.A servant escorted her, though the walk was brief, and helped her to her chair.
Forterran held a chair for Halithe and gestured Aramal to the one opposite him.Ritathan sat opposite Halithe and snapped his napkin out.
