The last time she would hear these particular bells. Therez’s throat squeezed shut. She felt a peculiar emptiness inside, even as she told herself that she was glad, so very glad, to finally be quit of Melnek, of her father’s house. Oh why, then, was she crying? Stupid, foolish tears. She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. I’m just tired. That’s all.
As the sun climbed higher, Therez pillowed her head on her arms. Before long she fell into a doze. This time, no dreams broke her rest. No voice whispered threats. When the wagon hit a deep rut, she woke with a stifled cry.
Melnek had disappeared from view. Sunlight glanced over the open fields, where farmers swung their scythes, bent to the ground, and straightened once more. To the north, Veraene’s border hills and mountains blended with low clouds, making a wall of dark blue shadows.
Therez sucked in a deep breath of air that smelled of dust and fresh-cut hay. She twisted around to see their direction. Ahead, the caravan stretched out with riders to either side. Brandt himself was in the lead. Even as she turned back, he bellowed out new orders to his crew. “Volker, Brenn, you miserable get of a gang-fucked bitch, I wanted you forward now!”
Someone laughed, but it was a muffled sound, calculated not to carry forward. A moment later, one of the outriders passed Therez’s wagon. He looked young, with smooth round cheeks and a patchy beard. Catching her glance, he grinned.
“Volker, you piss-drinking whoreson. I said now.”
Therez flinched. The boy simply shrugged and urged his horse forward. Another rider followed. He looked a few years older than his partner. His dark brown face was leaner, and his eyes canted more, but she saw the resemblance between them. Both carried knives and clubs in their belts, but no swords.
By late morning the hay fields gave way to a stubbled expanse, then to green-gold meadows bordered by stands of dark-blue pines. Not long afterward, the caravan halted by a clearing to rest the horses.
Working in unison, Brandt’s crew swiftly unhitched the horses and tied them in pickets beside the road. Others had unloaded cooking gear, while Ulf, the cook, and his boys lit several fires. Mugs of hot coffee and slabs of bread toasted with cheese were the fare. Therez carried her portion to one side, where she found a seat on the grass.
Therez nibbled at the chewy bread, studying her new companions, crew and passengers alike. Most had settled around the wagons for their meal. A few, like Ulf and his assistants, still busied themselves with chores, eating as they worked. As Therez watched, she tried to guess where each one came from. Most, she could tell, came from the central plains—thick black hair and round, dusky brown faces. A few had the same borderland features and accents she was used to. Several more had the much darker coloring typical of men from Fortezzien and the other southeastern provinces; they spoke with a lilt and wore their hair tied back in complicated braids. Ah but that man over there, with the pale brown eyes, was clearly from the kingdom of Ysterien in the west.
Whatever their origins, the men who belonged to the caravan were mostly lean, their whipcord muscles hardened by years of hefting barrels and crates onto wagons. Some, like Volker and Brenn, were hardly more than boys.
The other passengers had collected into small groups, talking among themselves over their breakfast. The scholar sat by himself. Nearby was another solitary man, carving a stick of wood into pipes. Therez saw the tumbling troupe with their colorful tunics and knitted hose of southern style. The four or five families—she couldn’t quite tell them apart—looked like farmers on their way to Hammenz or Kassel. She would have to be careful. If asked, they might remember a solitary girl traveling to Duenne.
Volker was walking toward her, carrying a mug of coffee and a plate. He gave her a sunny, infectious smile. “Hello. I saw you this morning.”
She smiled back. “You rode past my wagon.”
He grinned. “You mean Otto’s wagon.” With his mug, he indicated the spot next to Therez. “D’you mind some company?”
She shook her head. With practiced ease, he settled onto the ground, sitting cross-legged with his plate on his lap. “So what’s your name?”
“Ilse,” she said, somewhat quickly. “My name’s Ilse.”
She had chosen the name while sitting in the wagon. A pretty name. Different from her own. It sounded odd on her tongue, but Volker didn’t seem to notice. “I’m Volker, in case you missed what Alarik was saying. Alarik Brandt—he’s the caravan master. Or did you talk to Niko? He’s the second. That’s him over there, by the piebald mare.”
He pointed toward a lean man in dusty brown trousers, who was wiping his face with his shirt. Before Therez could answer, the second outrider she’d seen earlier came up behind Volker. “She talked to Alarik. I saw her while you were busy with the horses.” He nodded at Therez. “I’m Brenn,” he said. “Volker’s my brother. Where are you bound?”
“Duenne … to my aunt’s house. She promised to find me work.”
She saw them exchange a glance. Was it her accent? No, Brenn was looking at her hands. “What kind of work?” he asked.
For that she had an answer, too. “Lady’s maid, if I’m lucky. I can stitch and sew and read a little.”
Again the brothers looked at each other. “We wondered about that,” Volker said. “You talk so pretty, like you don’t need to work.”
“Ladies’ maids talk pretty, too,” Brenn said quietly. Unlike his brother, he was studying Therez with a thoughtful expression.
Volker nodded. “So they do.”
Therez pretended an interest in the state of her skirt. “I need the work badly enough. My father and mother died, and, well, my aunt said she could keep me long enough to find a posting, no longer. Said I was old enough to earn my own living.”
Volker laughed. “Our da said the same.” He drank down his coffee and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Say, I hope you didn’t let Alarik bully you into paying too much.”
“But don’t argue with him,” Brenn said. “He doesn’t like that. He—”
A string of shouted curses interrupted their conversation. Brandt was shouting to his crew, orders mixed with blistering threats. “Break’s over,” he barked at the riders. “Trim your tongues, stuff your pricks into your trousers, and get those wagons moving.”
Brenn and Volker shrugged, and with muttered good-byes they ran to their posts. Therez handed her cup to the cook’s boy and reclaimed her seat. Within a short time, they had retaken the road.
* * *
THE CARAVAN MARKED a dozen long dusty miles that day. With every one, Therez breathed more easily. So many hours for the maids to discover her absence. Another frantic hour while they searched the house and grounds. Some undetermined interval before they reported the matter to Therez’s parents. The questions, the accusations, the weighty silence of her father’s anger. She had difficulty imagining what came next. He might spend the day in isolation, working over his accounts. He might order a wider search. He might do nothing at all, consigning her to her fate as he would a cargo of spoiled goods, but she could not depend on that.
“How many weeks until we reach Duenne?” she asked Brenn that evening.
“Ten,” Brenn replied. “Maybe twelve. Depends on the rain.”
“That long?” She had calculated half the time.
“We start off fast, but then we slow down,” Brenn said. “From Kassel on it’s stop here, unload those crates, pack up new goods, restock the supplies. And we make an overnight stay in Strahlsende, because that’s one of the main stopovers.”
He went on to describe how Melnek’s fish traded for Kassel’s combed wool, which traded for lumber from Strahlsende’s forests, which in turn traded for rare furs trapped in the Gallenz Valley. He was describing the interior plains when Volker joined them. “You like traveling?” he asked Therez.
“Well enough.” She nibbled at her plate of roasted beef, which was salty and tough.
“Have some ale,” Volker said.
Mutely, she shook her head.
“Not fine enough for a lady’s maid?” Brenn said. He was smiling, but Therez stiffened.
“Don’t tease,” Volker said to his brother. “But speaking of fine … did you see the carnival girls?”
Brenn shrugged. “They look nice.”
“Not as pretty as Ilse,” Volker said. “But they promised to show me their magic tricks later.”
Brenn covered his laugh with a cough. He muttered something to Volker, who turned red. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It is.”
“Is not. That’s your blood talking.”
“Fah! Your blood you mean.”
They spent the rest of their break trading insults, until Brandt’s second, Niko, ordered them off to first watch. Therez finished her meal slowly, picking at the meat. She knew what Brenn meant by blood. Desire. Galt had desired her. The memory of his proximity made her cheeks turn hot. Other memories—how his mouth thinned when she danced with Mann, his cool precise voice as he spoke about perfection in art—drove the blood away. She shivered and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw one of the horse boys, just glancing away.
That night she slept under her wagon, with her knapsack as her pillow, wrapped in all her blankets. The ground felt cold and hard, and a trace of frost sharpened the air. Gazing between the wagon spokes, she counted the stars glittering in the night sky—the Crone’s Eye, Toc the Hunter, Lir’s Necklace. A milky expanse overspread the western horizon.
The old tales spoke of a dark void, filled with stars, which lay between this world of flesh and the magical plane called Anderswar. Except the stars were the souls of the dead, launched in flight to their next lives. It was part of what linked each soul to Toc, who had himself died and was reborn. And what links us to Lir, Therez thought. She who grieved through the winter, thinking that her brother-lover was no more.
Were they grieving for her at home? Was her grandmother already part of that cloud?
I had no choice, she told herself. If I had stayed, I would be in Theodr Galt’s house even now. I would not see my mother and grandmother again, except for rare visits. Because a collector does not like to lend his possessions to others.
Even so, tears burned her eyes. Do not think about home or family, she told herself. Think about Brenn and Volker and the tumbler girls. Think about tomorrow and the next day, with a new life and a new name. I’m not Therez any longer. I am Ilse. I can write my own future.
* * *
DAWN CAME EARLY, announced with the rattle and crash of pans, and a steady monologue from the cook as he cursed his boys, the crew, and the uncooperative firewood. Therez sat up stiffly and rubbed her eyes. The sky was muddy gray, streaked with red from the still invisible sun. A large fire in the middle of the clearing sent up plumes of smoke and cinders. Scents of coffee and grilled meat filled the air.
Therez rubbed her scalp and briefly wished for a hot bath. What she got instead was a curt order from Brandt’s second to hurry with her breakfast or she’d get left behind.
Niko went off to rouse the other passengers. Therez joined the line for the latrines, and then to the stream, well opposite, where she made do with washing her face and hands in cold water. Her clothes already looked filthy. She brushed away the dirt, scrubbing out the worst stains, and finally gave up. Still shivering from the water, she untangled her braid with her fingers, shook out the dust, and rebraided it. No comb. No washcloth. What else had she forgotten?
Breakfast consisted of bread and grilled beef, with coffee to wash it down. Scolding her and all the other passengers, Ulf retrieved the mugs and plates and set his boys to washing, while he repacked his gear. By this hour, the caravan looked nearly ready to depart. The caravan master was making the rounds, barking out orders to hitch up those horses, fill in the latrine, move faster or he’d dock their wages. His gaze passed over Therez, before he stalked on to the next hapless member of his crew.
When Niko passed by again, Therez lifted a hand to catch his attention. “Excuse me.”
He swung around. “What, girl?”
“Do we have time for …?”
She meant to say for bathing, but Niko interrupted with a yelp of laughter. “Sure we have time, girl. Piss quick, or you get buried in the latrines.”
He strode away, leaving Therez flushed and stammering. Three of the crew grinned at her. Her cheeks burning, Therez caught up her bag and jogged back to the stream. A glance showed her that she was alone. She pulled off her tunic, unbuttoned her shirt partway, and splashed water over her face and neck and body. The cold water brought goose bumps to her skin. She gritted her teeth and scrubbed fast, hoping to finish before someone came by.
Loud hoofbeats made her jump and clutch her shirt together. One of the outriders, she told herself. Then a man called out, “Ho, caravan master!”
It was Váná Gersi, her father’s senior runner.
Therez ducked behind a screen of bushes. Gersi. Here. Within a day of her escape. He must be checking with all the caravans, she thought, as she rebuttoned her shirt with fumbling hands. I have to hide. Run away. Before Brandt tells him about me.
She scanned the wilderness of trees and bracken and scrub extending away from camp. Now that her first panic had passed, it registered that she had no food and no shelter other than her blanket. What if she hid until the caravan left? She could follow the highway to the next village and find lodging there.
She slung her bag over her shoulder and turned around.
Volker stood just a few feet behind her. He was holding a pair of empty water buckets, and he was grinning. “Ilse. What’re you doing?”
Therez bit her lip. “I was thirsty.”
He continued to stare at her so pointedly that she glanced down. Half her shirt was unbuttoned; the other half was crooked. She flushed and turned to fix the buttons. Taking a quick step closer, Volker caught her hand. “Can I help?”
He kissed her on the lips, his other hand going to her breast. Therez pushed him away. “No.”
Volker wiped his mouth, no longer smiling. “You mean, not yet.”
He snatched up the buckets and stalked to the stream. Keeping his back to Therez, he refilled the buckets. When he swung around, she shied away, but he only muttered a warning not to be late and marched back to camp.
Therez let out a breath.
“Hey, girl.”
Alarik Brandt stood in the shadow of an oak tree. His smile was a bright flash against his dark face.
“Teasing my boys?” he asked. “Or didn’t he offer enough?”
She gulped down a breath. “I … I was thirsty.”
“As you say.” He nodded back at the camp. “Business with that rider is over. We’re heading out, with you or not. Coming?”
Still smiling, he tilted his hand, palm upward. It was an ambiguous gesture, one that might be equal parts invitation and demand. Her pulse gave an uncomfortable leap. Had he guessed that she was the reason for Váná Gersi’s search? He doesn’t know, Therez told herself. He won’t unless I betray myself. With her pulse still beating far too fast for comfort, she dropped her gaze to the ground and headed back toward camp. As she passed Brandt, she heard his soft laughter, felt his warm breath graze her neck. It took all her control not to run.
CHAPTER FOUR
GRADUALLY THEREZ RELAXED into the pattern of her new life. She rose early and ate breakfast alone. She learned to do without warm water and regular bathing. She borrowed rags from Ulf, the cook, and hiding behind his wagon, she washed herself bit by bit. She learned how to scrub her clothes with sand and cold water, hanging them near the fire at night to dry.
Volker soon forgave her, as he put it, and joined her for supper, along with Brenn. The two brothers had made friends with the tumbler girls, and by the second week, they all spent their evenings together, trading stories while Therez listened. The girls did know magic, she discovered, and often delighted the caravan crew with their tricks. They traced silvery lines in the air. They called up brightly colore
d globes from nothing and sent them flying aloft, like soap bubbles. They made Volker’s hair stand on end, much to Brenn’s delight.
“I know about magic,” Volker told them afterward.
Lena, the older girl, laughed. “What kind of magic?”
He grinned. “Tricks. I could show you later.”
She shook her head, her eyes bright with glee. “No, thank you. I know your kind of tricks.”
Brenn rolled his eyes and exchanged a look with Therez. “The only tricks Volker knows are ones that get him into trouble. Now me, I wish I knew real magic, the kind mages study in Duenne. Like the magic they use to fight wars, or see into the past.”
“Then do it,” said a man’s voice. “Leave the road and find a teacher.”
It was the scholar Therez had seen the first day. Until now, the man had kept apart from the other passengers, reading his books. On the longer stops he sometimes walked beyond the camp perimeter, returning only after the campfires were banked.
“Do you know magic?” she asked.
In answer, he lifted a hand and curled his fingers, murmuring in a strange tongue. Erythandran, Therez realized with a rill of wonder, recognizing the words. But unlike her own poor attempt two weeks before, there was no doubt of magic’s presence. She felt a pressure against her skin and the faint tattoo of another pulse. The scholar spoke another phrase and a sharp green scent overlaid the camp smells of horse and wood smoke. It reminded her of hot sunlight, of fresh-cut hay and summer fields. When the scholar opened his fingers, a light bloomed within his cupped hand.
“Touch it,” he said to Therez.
Warily, she stood and approached him.
He was tall, with a bony face and the ruddy-brown coloring that marked the borderlands around Károví. The cuffs and hem of his robe were frayed, and the black dye had turned a rusty brown in places, but in his eyes she read assurance. At his gesture, she touched her fingertips to the light. Something tickled her skin. “Steady,” the man said. “Almost.”
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