by Dawn Cook
The spoken word was similar everywhere Strell had traveled. Accents were common and sometimes so severe as to seem like a different tongue, but one could usually muddle through. The written word, however, was reserved for the affluent families, and they prided themselves on keeping it pure and unchanged through the centuries. It was the same no matter how far one traveled. Unlettered folk, whether from the hills or plains, relied on pictures to get by.
Strell could read; all his family could. It was part of his sisters’ dowries, and the thought of them brought another resurgence of his grief. He took a ragged breath, holding it, ignoring the tightness in his chest, concentrating upon the insect walking down the edge of his map. Slowly he exhaled, shocked at how his breath seemed to shake. Would the ache ever lessen, he wondered, or would he just have to learn how to live with it?
He rolled his map up, retied it with the copper ribbon, and tucked it away. There was a path that headed east around the lake below, and that looked like a good place to start. He would have to abandon the trail halfway across the range and strike out on his own to reach the coast before the snow, but he could do it.
With a new, faintly pessimistic sense of purpose, Strell rested by his fire. It was all but out again from neglect. The moon wasn’t up, and so the stars were unusually bright and numerous, as yet unfettered by the mountain’s nightly fog. He gazed into the black, searching for solace in finding the Navigator. It was one of the brightest stars and the hub of the night sky, the lodestar, so to speak. Easy to see. He squinted, trying to find all of the eight stars clustered about it, aptly named The Navigator’s Hounds. Some people called them wolves, some puppies, but mostly hounds. The darker and clearer the skies, the more of them could be seen.
There was a child’s rhyme that said: “Fair weather will hold / When six hounds are bold.” Another boasted: “Your heart will be lost to a maiden / Under skies with eight hounds a bayin’.” How many hounds, he wondered, were hunting among the stars tonight? And would they find his brothers and sisters in the sand to lead them home?
The first six stars were unmistakable, clustered at their master’s heel. The last two were much more difficult to find, being some distance from their pack mates and so close together, they often looked like one star. Sinking down onto his sleeping roll, Strell gazed into the heavens and began to count. “Eight,” he murmured sleepily, and then much later, “No, there’s only seven . . . I think.” With that, he rolled onto his side as his frantic pace caught up with him and he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
7
“Hello?” Strell called. There was no answer. The camp was empty. There was no fire.
Preoccupied with his grief, Strell had blindly followed his map, trusting it to think for him. Shunning rest and food, he circled the lake and climbed to the next pass, covering in one day what took most people two. Now as the sun slipped away, he had stumbled upon another traveler.
Strell strode forward, jerking himself to a halt just shy of the pack set against the huge boulder. The situation was just too odd, reminiscent of the many coastal tales he had spent the last six years learning: tales of courtly men and women with long-fingered hands and eyes as yellow as the sun, meeting under the pretense of friendship only to spirit away the unwary. A fox barked, sounding so much like one from his homeland, it pulled a gooseflesh from him.
Grinning at a sudden thought, he scooped up a fistful of scree and jiggled it in his hand. He had learned a charm to ward off such risks. Bought it, really, from an old woman with no teeth who didn’t believe him when he said there existed a place where it never rained.
“Rock in the east, keeps away the beast.” He chuckled, embarrassed he was doing this, and tossed a rock over his shoulder. “Stone in the north, spirits won’t come forth,” and another went to his right. “Pebble in the south, seals the raku’s mouth.” A stone clattered to his left. “Sand in the west, will protect you best,” he finished, blowing the dust toward the setting sun.
Laughing, Strell entered the camp and crouched by the small arrangement of firewood. His fingers went carefully among the sticks to find they were cold. The wood was half burnt, as if abandoned before fully alight. A frown crossed him, and he wondered if he ought to walk away. It could be a trap, but if it was, why put the fire out? There were easier ways to take a traveler.
He stood, placing his hands on his hips and looking up to the pass. If someone was looking for trouble, Strell would rather meet it here than up the trail where he might not be as wary, thinking he had left them behind. Besides, there was only one pack.
Strell’s face went slack in thought. That raku he saw three nights ago might be the reason for the abandoned camp. Stifling a shudder, he bent down and quickly restarted the fire before it became any darker. It would be a large fire. The last thing he wanted was to find a raku in the dark. Perhaps he ought to make a habit of having a fire until he was out of the mountains.
Strell put a large log on the new flames, surprised at how fast it caught. The darkness beyond the fire seemed all the deeper, and he stood back up, glancing over the badly situated camp. It was right under the pass to the next valley. The wind would be blowing all night. But at least it was high enough so he wouldn’t have to wake up to that cursed fog.
There was a small depression next to the boulder where the wind had deposited a fair amount of soil over the years. What little grass existed was there. That was where the pack and tall staff lay. Farther out past the fire, the ground grew rocky again, not the ideal spot for a bedroll, but Strell placed his pack here, not wanting to have his back against the boulder just yet.
With a small sigh, he sank to the ground, stretching his legs to the fire. He leaned over and snagged the staff, pulling it closer. It had a marvelous ivy design carved into it. Strell ran his thumb across it, catching himself on a small nick at the top. If no one claimed the staff by morning, he would take it as his own. He set the staff possessively next to him, wondering if he ought to see what was in the pack.
His stomach rumbled, and as it was the first time he had been hungry in two days, he resolved to wait. Thoughts of food instantly made him ten times more hungry. Strell tugged open his pack, pulling out all his food to check for spoilage. His eyes flicked to the fire, and he decided he might as well make something warm. Returning to his pack, Strell dug all the way to the bottom for his tripod. The unwieldy metal poles were often more trouble than they were worth, and he struggled to get them arranged without burning his fingers.
As he worked, he found himself humming a dancing tune. Frowning, he stopped, but as soon as his attention wandered, he found himself doing it again. Strell rolled his eyes but then straightened. Faint on the wind was the same tune, played upon a pipe—badly.
Strell’s eyes slid to the abandoned pack. The fire snapped for his attention, and he absently put a stick on it as he stood and dusted his hands. His foot edged out, and he nudged the staff away from him. Maybe the camp wasn’t as deserted as he thought. Perhaps the wood never caught, and so went cold sooner than he guessed. Whoever it was played music, and another minstrel would make pleasant company. But the tune faded to silence. In a moment he heard fragments of another. It wasn’t getting any louder, so he decided to investigate.
“Hello?” he shouted. “Who’s piping on such a cold night?” Again, there was no answer. Mindful it still might be a ruse, Strell carefully wove his way between the rocks. The music grew louder, and with a short laugh he recognized it. It was “Taykell’s Adventure,” a tavern song sung by big drunken farmers and skinny plains merchants alike. Everyone knew it from the smallest child who could speak to the oldest grandmother who no longer could.
The barest hint of a smile drifted over him as he slipped his instrument from his coat pocket and began to play along, the lyrics running through his mind.
“Taykell met a maiden,
Fair as a summer’s day.
He told her he was homeless.
She asked if he would stay.
/> Pleased to find a wife and home,
He quickly then said, yes,
And then too late, he learned his fate.
How could he have but guessed?”
He was at the refrain now. The other player had stopped, and Strell continued on alone.
“Oh, fathers hope for daughters,
Someone small and frilly . . .”
“Watch out!” came a muffled voice, seeming to come from the ground. “The drop-off is right in front of you!”
Strell jerked to a halt. He looked down, his eyes widening. The earth disappeared at his feet. “By the Hounds,” he whispered, “I almost walked off the edge.”
“I can’t believe anyone else is out here,” the voice shouted up. There was a pause. “Do you have a rope?”
Shaking off his astonishment, Strell tucked his pipe away and squinted to the bottom of the ravine. Down below was the faint glint of starlight upon water. Suddenly everything became clear. “This is your camp up here, isn’t it,” he blurted.
“Yes. I’ve been down here all day,” the voice said, a tinge of exasperation creeping into it. “Do you have a rope?” Her accent was odd. Not plains or foothills, but somehow both.
“Uh, it won’t hold you. I’ll be right there.” Strell sat down and slipped over the edge.
“No! Wait!” the voice shouted up in panic.
Strell found himself out of control as he bumped and jostled to the small river, halting with a suddenness that jarred his teeth. Rocks and dirt continued to fall, and he covered his head to wait the small avalanche out. Finally it stopped, and he looked up into a young woman’s shadowed face.
“You’ll bring the entire slope down on me,” she finished dryly.
“Sorry.” Strell gingerly stood, his foot slipping into the stream. Yanking it out, he bent to check his boots. They were well-oiled and newly soled, but seams tore and knots frayed. His toes remained dry, and he puffed a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t walk in wet boots. It was too easy to blister your feet, and then a longer camp would be required as the painful sores healed.
He glanced sheepishly at the girl, then peered up at the rock face. Even steep as it was, the cliff should pose no problem. Spotting a few handholds in the starlight, he nodded sharply.
The girl was sitting with her back against a river-smoothed boulder, her knees drawn up to her chin, a full water bag next to her. It was obvious what had happened, he thought. She had slid down for water and couldn’t get back up with the heavy load.
“Can I take that up for you?” Strell asked, trying to make up for nearly burying her.
“That’d be nice,” she said shortly, proffering the bag.
Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he pulled himself up to his first handhold and stopped. Puzzled, he looked down at the girl. She hadn’t moved. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I can’t stand up,” she whispered, looking away to the river. “I told you I’ve been down here all day.” Her voice got sharp. “Don’t you think I would’ve gotten out of here if I could?”
Strell stared at her. He would have thought someone stuck at the bottom of a ditch would be a little more conciliatory.
Seeing his expression, the girl dropped her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “But I’m half starved and frozen, and my foot hurts. I think I may have”—she hesitated—“broken it,” she finished with a slight quaver. “It’s not getting better very fast.”
Immediately Strell relaxed. She was scared. His youngest sister had been like that. The more frightened she had been, the more arrogant and snippy she was. He dropped his eyes, surprised to find his grief muted by a pang of sympathy. Perhaps he ought to start over.
Strell stepped off the incline and set the water bag down. Taking off his hat, he crouched so he could see her face to face. “My name is Strell,” he said formally, offering his hand palm up, the traditional greeting in any situation no matter how unusual. “May I be of assistance?” he said, tilting his head to the slope.
“Alissa Meson,” the young woman said, taking his hand for the barest instant. It was so cold, it made his fingers tingle.
“Meson?” Strell repeated warily. That sounded like a farmer’s name. He squinted, leaning forward to see the small, furred shape on the rock next to her. “What is that?” he asked.
Alissa glanced at it and away. “A vole. Why? Do you want it?”
Strell frowned. “It’s dead.”
“I would hope so.”
He waited for an explanation, but she wasn’t offering one, and it was just too odd to delve into at the bottom of a ditch.
“I would be grateful,” she said quietly with a stilted formality, “if you could help me out of here.” She smiled with what was clearly a forced pleasantness. “I seem unable to do it myself.”
“Let’s see your foot.” Strell reached out, freezing as she cleared her throat in warning. Embarrassed, he drew back. Handling a woman’s foot was rather a delicate situation, even a booted one. “May I see,” he asked meekly.
“Of course,” she said. “It’s the other one.”
He looked down. The foot in question was tucked up under her, hidden by her coat. She had taken off her boot, and he felt himself redden until he realized she wore stockings. A small part of him relaxed. She was from the plains. Only farmers were uncouth enough to go without stockings. He himself had three pairs.
“This one?” he asked, determined to not overstep his bounds again.
“Please,” she said with a smile. At least Strell thought it was a smile. She might have been baring her teeth at him for all he knew. It was really dark down here, and so cold!
Her breath hissed through clenched teeth as he shifted her foot. “Sorry,” he murmured. He was no healer, but he had dealt a lot with sprains and strains, and he wasn’t completely without skill. He ran his fingers lightly over the swollen foot. “It would have been better had you left your boot on, but since it’s off, we should probably see if your ankle is broken before I move you. You should be able to travel on it in about three or four days if it’s only a sprain.”
Alissa’s brow was pinched. When she nodded hesitantly, he lowered his gaze and firmly probed the bone and tissue, glancing up as she closed her eyes and thumped her head back against the rock face. Strell felt his knot of worry ease as he decided it was a sprain. “Nothing broken,” he said cheerily, then blinked in surprise. Alissa hadn’t heard him. She had passed out!
“Just as well,” he whispered as he stood up and looked down at her. “You won’t like the way I’m going to get you out of here.”
The water bag went over his shoulder and her boot slipped into his coat. He decided to leave the vole behind. It was an easy climb, and Strell left her things at the top before carefully descending to sling the unconscious woman over his shoulders, catching her outlandish hat as it fell off. He frowned at the wide, floppy brim and the tuft of red fur stuck in the band. It wasn’t a plains’ hat, and her hair was hacked short in the foothills’ fashion.
It was too dark to see more, and so with a silent plea she remain unconscious, he started up, huffing and puffing at the extra weight. Much to his relief, she didn’t wake. Not stopping for her boot and water bag, he carried Alissa to her camp and gently laid her by the fire. Curious, he crouched beside her, no longer convinced she was from the plains.
Pale hair fell unusually short over wide-set eyes. Beneath them was a small nose, snubbed up at the end. She was thin and wiry, and would probably come up to his chin, maybe more. Her voice had given her the illusion of being nearly a child, but once in the firelight, Strell could tell her age was probably close to his own.
She was dressed in traveling clothes. A smudge of dirt was on her chin, and he stifled an urge to smooth it away. Her skin was dark, but the heel poking from the hole in her stockings was several shades lighter. Strell chewed on his lip, uncomfortable with not knowing where he stood. She had the short, fair hair of a farmer, but her skin tone and height were much as his own. Wher
ever she was from, it obviously wasn’t the coast; her jawline wasn’t angled sharp enough, and her hair wasn’t the thick, luxuriant wave all the coastal people were blessed with.
Abruptly embarrassed by his scrutiny, Strell placed her staff on her side of the fire and returned to the dark for her things. By the time he returned, she was sitting up, struggling with the knots holding her blanket to her pack.
“Ah,” she sighed as the last knot loosened, “this will help.” Giving him a quick glance, she shook out her blanket and drew it over her head like a tent so only her nose showed. “Thanks for getting me out of that pit,” she said, shifting closer to the fire. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, but I was beginning to think I was going to have to spend another night down there.”
“It wasn’t a problem.” Strell sat down, the fire safely between them. “I don’t think your foot is broken. How long were you down there?”
“Since last night.” She fussed with the coals until the heat and light billowed forth. An uncomfortable silence began to grow.
“Here’s your boot,” Strell said, glad to find something to say, “and your water. Would you mind if I warmed some up? I could use a cup of tea.”
She straightened, pulling the blanket from her head. “That sounds wonderful. Could you pass me my water bag?” Alissa started to dig in her pack.
Strell leaned around the fire to set it next to her. He watched her bring out a stone bowl, and when she stretched to put it in the fire, he made a small motion of dismay. “Oh. . . . Let me see first?” he asked boldly, his professional curiosity sparked.
Shrugging, she handed it to him. It was made of stone, he decided, but it had never been clay. He tapped it smartly, and a clear, bell-like tone was sounded. Strell smiled faintly upon hearing it, remembering the countless times he had spun a bowl in his father’s shops only to smash it later if it lacked that same clear ring. Angling the vessel toward the fire, he was startled to see the shadow of a flame through its wall. This bowl was a splendid example of craftsmanship. He had never seen its like. “You were going to put this in the fire?” he asked quizzically.
