Seeing him doing that suddenly reminded her of something that had slipped her mind in the excitement of the past few days. She rummaged around in her pack until she found what she was looking for, the burned remains of The Battle of Nexus.
Mira scooted over closer beside him at the fire. “I’ve been meaning to return this.” She held out the book.
Taren’s eyes widened when he saw the burned, battered tome. “But this…” He hesitantly took the book from her, as though afraid it might crumble entirely to ash at his touch.
“I found it among the ruins where your home had burned. I thought it might hold some value to you, so I brought it along.” She watched as his face went through a sequence of emotions: surprise, anger, sorrow.
“So they did torch our home?” He bit out the words, hands trembling, clutching the book.
Mira nodded. “Yes.”
Taren swallowed with apparent difficulty. “So it is as we suspected. Elyas and I fled before that happened. Did you… did you find my uncle? Uncle Wyat… he knew what would happen. I could see it in his eyes… but he bought us the time to escape nonetheless.” Tears filled his eyes, and he wiped them away with the sleeve of his dirty tunic.
“Kennitt and I buried your uncle in the garden beside his wife.” She was struck by Taren’s pain, almost as by a physical blow, and she swallowed with some difficulty.
“I-I thank you for that.” He met her eyes and nodded solemnly.
“Any decent person would have done the same.”
“Decent people. Yes, but unfortunately they are in short supply these days.” Taren gently thumbed through the burnt book and smiled sadly. “This brings back so many memories. Thank you, Mira. It means a lot to me.”
“You are welcome. I only wish I could have gotten there sooner to prevent the loss of life.”
But had that been so, Taren likely never would have been set on his path. The Weave could be a cruel mistress, she knew.
“Well, I’m glad you did come for me. The timing couldn’t have been better.” Taren reached out and squeezed her hand briefly. “Friends are more important than ever in these dark times.”
Mira smiled, relieved he felt the way he did. She wished she could do something to share his pain—perhaps embracing him, but she felt awkward and couldn’t bring herself to do so. Then the moment passed.
“You are right. We do indeed have to rely on those close to us” was all she could come up with in response, thinking the words sounded trite and foolish.
She was spared from further embarrassment by Creel’s return.
“Who’s hungry?” he asked, holding up a large hare he had managed to bring down with a dagger toss, judging by the bloody blade he held in his other hand.
***
The following day was cold and blustery, with a cutting wind tearing at Taren’s cloak incessantly. By late afternoon, they came across an abandoned cottage that appeared to have been vacated fairly recently. The fieldstone house was homey and well-kept on the outside, with fresh thatching on the roof and a neatly tended herb garden along the side of the home. Hoofprints were numerous in the soft ground. A group of riders, likely enemy scouts, had ventured upon the dwelling.
The interior had been ransacked. Any valuables had apparently been purloined, for nothing in the way of coin, jewelry, or weapons remained. Cupboards were laid bare and foodstuffs taken, although Taren did find a bit of rice in the bottom of a sack they salvaged. Jars and vases were smashed, a table and chairs kicked aside and overturned. Clothing was strewn about the small bedchamber, much of it trampled with muddy bootprints.
They found some serviceable items of clothing, both men’s and women’s garments, all of it plainly fashioned, yet sturdy and warm enough for use in colder weather, for which Taren was thankful. All their clothes were soiled with mud that wouldn’t wash out after their encounter with the bog drowner, and his clothes in particular were growing threadbare. He took a pair of woolen breeches and a tunic that weren’t too baggy on him, along with some socks. Creel and Mira each replenished some items of clothing also. Ferret donned an oversized tunic and a pair of breeches to aid in her disguise. The sleeves and legs were much too long, so she shortened them with quick slashes of her arm blade.
Taren felt guilty about helping themselves to the homeowners’ possessions until they found the corpses left for the scavengers behind the house. The bodies, a middle-aged man and woman, were still in fairly good condition, although bloated and covered in flies. Both lay facedown in their trampled garden with black-fletched crossbow bolts in their backs as they had tried to flee.
Creel knelt beside them briefly. “Look to have been dead a day, mayhap two at the most.” He spat on the ground, jaw clenched in anger.
“Left outside to rot, the same as Uncle Wyat.” Fury seethed deep inside Taren, and he felt himself grasping the magic instinctively. Again, his mind filled with thoughts of Wyat, the look on his face and the love and resignation in his eyes as he’d told Taren and Elyas to flee, knowing the price for their lives would be his own.
“Taren?” Mira asked softly. She was looking at him with concern, and he realized his eyes were likely glowing, for he could feel the power brimming inside.
“We must give them a proper burial.” His tone brooked no argument. “Stand back.”
Nobody disagreed as they moved aside. Mira watched him with worry plain on her face, Creel curiously, and Ferret with her newfound dispassion for pretty much everything.
Taren probed at the ground beyond the garden, soft from recent rains, and injected a tendril of magic into the soil, seeking to force the dirt aside. But the thought of Wyat lying dead for days until Mira and Kennitt had provided him a proper burial slipped into his mind, accompanied by a flash of anger. His tentative control slipped.
The ground trembled ominously underfoot a moment before the earth erupted. Dirt filled the air, blasted upward and outward with surprising force. Taren was forced to turn his head away as soft clods of soil rained down on the group. Creel cursed, then Taren was spitting out dirt that had sprayed into his face. The grit had gotten into the neck of his tunic and clung to his sweat-damp skin. Mira and Creel were both patting at their clothes and hair, wiping their faces, while Ferret simply stood staring.
“That was marvelous!” Ferret clapped her hands after a moment, the clanging of metal loud in the stillness. She strode over to peer into the crater that had formed in the ground. “Taren, you must try that with the next fiend we come across.”
Creel was giving him a dark look, and even Mira seemed displeased at being covered with dirt.
“I’m sorry about that. I briefly lost control.”
Creel stared at him a moment then barked laughter. Mira joined in, and Taren smiled ruefully, feeling like a dolt. Chagrined, he walked up beside Ferret to see the result of his efforts.
The crater was as deep as Taren was tall, and half again as far across. The ground had buckled up into a lip around the pit, and clods of moist, fresh dirt littered the garden for fifteen or more paces around.
“That was a bit more than I had planned on.” The momentary weakness he was accustomed to came over him then as the earth magic slipped from his grasp. He staggered forward, and the soft ground at the edge of the crater gave way underfoot.
He would’ve fallen in had Ferret not seized his arm and drawn him back. He winced at the power of her grip, metal fingers digging into his bicep painfully.
“Oops, too hard, right? Sorry.” Her grip loosened. “I’m still trying to get used to that. Are you all right?”
“Just a bit dizzy.” He put a hand on her shoulder to steady himself.
“I’ll see to the bodies. Why don’t you sit down for a bit?”
Taren nodded, turning to find Mira there. She draped his arm over her shoulders and led him to a wooden bench at the rear of the cottage.
Gods, she must be sick of me by now. “I’m sorry, Mira.”
“For the dirt? It’s nothing.” She helped him
sit down and lean back against the stone wall.
“No, I mean for being like this. You having to act like a nursemaid for me whenever I try to use magic. It’s embarrassing.”
He saw no resentment in her honey-colored eyes. In fact, he thought he saw a hint of amusement along with compassion—not what he’d expected.
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind at all. You’ll learn to control your powers soon enough, and then I’ll find myself out of a job.” Her smile made Taren feel better.
Already, Ferret and Creel had laid the bodies in the crater. They looked around for dirt to cover them with, but it was all scattered out of range. Instead, Ferret began stomping on the edges of the crater to collapse it. After a few minutes, enough soil had fallen in to cover the corpses, leaving a large depression in what had once been a well-tended vegetable garden. With Mira joining them, the trio dismantled a portion of a low fieldstone wall and used the rocks for a cairn.
“We might as well stay the night here,” Creel said, glancing at the sinking sun in the sky. “The place is warm and dry, and there’s firewood stacked on the other side of the house. I’m going to follow those tracks for a ways to see where they headed.”
“We’ll clean up the mess inside a bit,” Mira offered.
“We should check the barn. There might be livestock inside.” Taren got to his feet, feeling better already, although a deep-seated weariness told him he’d sleep well that night after long days on the road and frequent magic expenditure.
Taren and Mira went to check the barn as Creel disappeared into a stand of trees. Ferret had already wandered off somewhere. The barn was small, with only enough space to hold a few sheep or goats and chickens. They found some bales of hay inside, along with a chicken coop, partially smashed in on one side. A pair of skinny hens were wandering loose and had laid a clutch of eggs.
“Looks like dinner,” Taren said.
They rounded the corner of the cottage to find Ferret sitting outside the front door in a weathered rocking chair, holding an old lute in her hands. The instrument was clearly damaged, with a long crack down its side, and was missing about half its strings, a couple of the tuning pegs broken off. Yet she still was able to coax a melody from it, her fingers surprisingly agile strumming the strings although she played slowly. The tune was both melancholy and familiar although Taren couldn’t recall the name or any lyrics to it. He and Mira remained quiet, not wishing to interrupt her playing.
After a couple minutes, Creel came up behind them, pausing to listen as well.
The simple melody seemed somehow magical as Ferret played the slow rhythm in a lower key, due to the missing strings. Taren couldn’t help but wonder how well she might have played before her transformation, nimble fingers dancing over the strings, especially if she’d had an undamaged instrument.
Ferret stopped abruptly and looked up, noticing the others watching her.
“Nicely played,” Taren said, and Mira smiled in agreement.
Ferret’s expression couldn’t change, yet he thought the girl was pleased. “It’s broken, unfortunately. And these”—she held up a hand, wriggling her articulated fingers—“are clumsy in comparison. I fear I’ll never make a bard.”
“Were you trained, or did you learn how to play on your own?” Mira asked.
Ferret shook her head. “Not truly trained, but I pestered an old bard when I was a child, and he took pity on me. Showed me the basics of the lute and said I had potential, both with my singing and playing. Probably was just putting a sorry urchin’s mind at ease, I reckon.”
“I doubt that was the case. You play well.” Taren gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Ever since her accident, he felt terrible for Ferret and hoped more than anything she might be restored to her normal condition. Yet he sought to not show her pity, knowing that would be the last thing she wanted. Poor girl deserves a normal life.
“Doesn’t matter now,” she replied. “Nobody will train such a freak as me even if I was good enough.”
Creel spoke up. “Lass, we shall have to find a way to remedy that.”
Ferret eyed him but only shrugged. She set the lute down and went inside. A moment later, they heard sounds of clutter being shoved aside.
“Find anything in the barn?” Creel asked.
“Dinner,” Mira said brightly. “A couple hens with some eggs.”
“I like the sound of that. Those scouts were heading north, bearing slightly northwest. I think that’s the direction they’ve forced the king’s army to take. With any luck, if we stay to the east of the road to Llantry, we’ll be able to avoid them. Scouts could be about, though, so we still need to take care.”
A couple hours later, the hens were sizzling on a spit over the hearth. With the eggs, rice, some carrots and turnips, all seasoned with fresh herbs from the garden, they ate the best they had in days. The blazing hearth warmed the small farmhouse nicely, and Taren felt his eyelids growing heavy. They had brought some straw in from the barn to make pallets to sleep on. He had thought to read some more, but Ferret brought out the lute again, and once she began idly plucking it, he decided against his book. Instead, he was content to enjoy relaxing before the fire.
Over the past days, they’d fallen into an easy camaraderie. He and Mira especially seemed to have a subconscious connection, often having similar thoughts, and he’d grown used to having her around. More than that, he enjoyed her presence. He sensed the same could’ve been true with Ferret before her accident. Now she was silent and introspective for long periods at a time, and reading her mood was hard. Creel shared little about himself as he was clearly used to being on his own for long periods of time. From the little he had mentioned, Taren gathered he had some friends in Llantry where they’d be welcome to stay while they decided on their next move. He and Ferret seemed to have developed an affection for one another, and her condition was obviously causing him to feel aggrieved.
Ferret offered to keep watch as usual, so before long, Taren lay down in his bedroll, content for the first time in a long time. He was warm and had a full belly, a roof over his head, and no immediate concern for any danger. He fell asleep to the mournful notes of the broken lute.
Chapter 13
Sianna’s fingers and toes were nearly numb from the cold, but she hardly noticed, intent as she was on her swordplay. Her soft leather boots sloshed in several inches of slushy snow on the ground, and the short sword she was gripping felt like an icicle through her thin leather gloves. Her breath puffed in the chill air, and she thought her cheeks must be as red as apples. None of that prevented her from focusing on training, however. She knew if her father and brothers could fight in snow and cold and mud to keep the kingdom safe, then surely she could train in the same weather for a brief time.
“Hiyah!” She lunged, stabbing at Sir Colm with the blunted training blade. As she’d been taught, she stepped forward with her right foot, keeping her profile as thin as possible, but then a wet clump of snow slid out from under her boot on the slick grass. She nearly fell but just managed to remain on her feet although her sword wobbled in her grasp, its tip dropping down and to her right.
Sir Colm took advantage of her opening and lunged forward, tapping the tip of his sword against her padded gambeson—a blow that would’ve pierced her heart in a true contest.
Sianna sighed and switched the sword to her other hand, working her numb fingers to try to get some feeling restored to them. “It’s no use, Sir Colm. I’ll never be a skilled swordswoman.”
“I thought you were doing quite well, actually, until that slip, Princess.” His nose and cheeks were red, but a smile creased his grizzled face. “A warrior cannot choose what weather he fights in. Only the gods can do that. Nor can he always choose the terrain.” He looked over and scowled at a stableboy gawping at them from around the corner of the stable.
At seeing him glowering, the boy quickly found somewhere better to be.
“See, you keep picking up admirers.”
> Sianna snorted in amusement. Of late, she seemed to be drawing quite a bit of attention from the men and older boys working around the bailey and stables. She had thought they were secretly laughing at her for her incompetence although Iris had assured her it was because of the scandalously tight breeches and tunic she wore to her training sessions.
“Of course those boys are going to stare like moonstruck sheep when they get a good look at your heaving bosom, Sianna,” her handmaiden had told her just the past week with an eye roll.
Poor Iris is mortified by my training. At least Mother puts up with it.
To her surprise, the queen had even contributed some coin for Sir Colm to purchase Sianna her own short sword, and a finely crafted one at that. But her father had always disapproved, hence the secret training. At least, that was how it had been during the better days when he was still home ruling the kingdom rather than leading an army off to war. She knew he had been aware of her training and suspected he was secretly not as displeased as he acted. She had put all her heart into learning the sword in hopes of impressing her father one day upon his return.
“Had enough for one day, Princess?” Colm knuckled his lower back and stretched, causing a popping sound. “This old man can feel the chill gnawing at his bones. A nice cup of mulled wine and a seat by the fire would do me well.”
His idea sounded awfully appealing, but she didn’t want to let the old knight off that easily.
“I thought you big, tough warriors were used to fighting in the cold for hours on end? Surely, a few minutes sparring with a soft, spoiled princess hasn’t made you ready to turn in so soon?” She gave him a sweet, innocent smile.
Colm’s eyebrows rose, and then he bellowed laughter. “Aye, right you are, lass. I reckon I’ve grown soft after all these years. Don’t sell yourself short, though. You’ve certainly made Rafe work for any victories over the last few weeks. But if you’re intent on continuing, I’m good for a bit longer.”
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