by Dana Davis
Fire lit in Saldia’s eyes, despite her obvious fear, and Haranda expected she might put up a fight otherwise. But first, they had to get past this formidable woman.
Anger seemed to have dissipated, replaced by concern, as the tavern mistress studied Haranda. “Visitors should keep to the lighted streets. Especially young women.”
“I’ll take my sister straight home, Mistress. Mother waits for us.” She took hold of Saldia and gave a hardened glare when the girl started to pull away. The youngling got the message and Haranda didn’t need to waste another dose of precious Energy on her just now.
The mistress nodded and echoed a statement Haranda had heard numerous times. “Tell your mother to give her a right good beatin’.” She corralled the two out the alley door and stood watching. There would be no killings today, not from a Gypsy, at least.
Haranda pushed Saldia to spur her forward. She must make certain this girl looked and acted like a runaway to watching eyes, and there were plenty in the streets of Makrilon. She used her urging again to keep Saldia from protesting.
Keep moving, she sent in thoughts along her urging strand. Don’t fight. Just weep and run. She swung at the girl, deliberately hitting her skirts to make it look like she was angry. “Keep moving. My apologies. Just get out of the city,” Haranda uttered in between shouts of, “Naughty girl! Running away like that! You’ll really get it when Mother gets her hands on you!”
The youngling whimpered as she weaved through the crowds and toward the city gates with Haranda on her heels. A convincing sight. Hopefully, convincing enough.
Goddess, give us strength. Run, girl, run!
Chapter 2
Saldia stood with her head bowed and Haranda’s cloak pulled tightly around her body. Fear outpaced anger at this woman for stealing her away from her work. Halfway to Makrilon’s city gates, Haranda Banwidden had finally introduced herself then bundled Saldia in her cloak and told her to act as a runaway, a title that would have earned her a beating had she remained at Wandering Hog. Afterward, she would’ve been thrown out into the streets whether she could walk or not. Word traveled in Makrilon and runaways didn’t get hired once they were discovered. Too many farmers withheld goods and produce if truant sons and daughters found work in Makrilon. The place didn’t have the best reputation but city officials agreed to make life miserable for runaways, hoping to send them home with their tails between their legs.
On the way to the gate, Haranda had smacked at Saldia’s skirts and pulled her along with an iron grip that intrigued her. The other woman even apologized for striking her, not that she’d caused any harm. But that still didn’t make Saldia trust her. Haranda had put her in danger by casting her as a runaway in these people’s eyes. And she would never be able to return to this city for fear of being recognized.
Anger boiled to the surface but something prompted her to douse it. Why aren’t I angry? I should be bloody furious right now. That thought dissipated, leaving only her fear. She glanced at Haranda. The woman gave her a warning look. Something in that gaze made Saldia’s blood chill and she snapped her eyes to the ground again.
“We don’t take kindly to runaways here,” one watchman said. He was close enough for Saldia to smell the drink on his breath.
With her tavern position gone, she had no place in the city now. Her cousin had put her out on the street when she’d refused to marry his drunken friend, and the single tavern in Agnar where she’d previously worked had burned down. The owner, with little resources, would take several moons to rebuild it. No one in Agnar had money for servants, a job which Saldia would have gladly taken. The other towns in this Prefecture, the wealthier ones, were too far for a lone woman to travel. So Saldia had come to Makrilon, taken only moments to learn the drawl in their speech, and ingratiated herself to the tavern mistress at Wandering Hog.
The thought of being whipped as a runaway sent a shiver through her and she glanced at the watchmen’s feet, counting each boot within her sight until she’d tallied ten altogether. Her counting habit got her into trouble more than she liked to admit, but there were occasions when it was useful. Five watchmen. Five trained men who could easily overpower two women. Fear spiraled upward. Why had Haranda accused her of running away? She’d done no such thing. Had her cousin found out where she’d gone and sent the woman out of spite? That seemed unlikely.
Anger began to overcome fear again but only for an instant. Haranda saved me from a beating. No, that’s not right. The woman could have caused a beating by lying about me. I’m not a runaway. Those last thoughts died almost as soon as they were born.
Saldia should be complaining. But she didn’t want to complain, which seemed odd. Her mind didn’t seem to focus as it should and she eyed Haranda again. She could blend in with strangers and their customs, keep her head down, go unnoticed. She’d done so since adolescence. But there was something different about this woman, something that left a quiver in her belly. For now, she would concentrate on Haranda’s instructions and follow her lead until they were far enough from the city that she could ask questions. She had no choice. She couldn’t go back to Makrilon, and Agnar had no work for her.
A young watchman’s gaze trailed up and down her body. Hunger lit his eyes and he licked his lips. Shivers danced up Saldia’s spine at the type of punishment he had in mind for her, and her heart kept a frantic beat against her chest. Blood pulsed in her ears and she forced her eyes to the ground. Curses flitted around in her head but she didn’t dare speak.
The watchmen finally waved them on. One mumbled something about runaways that Saldia couldn’t make out. “Give it to her good, mistress!” another called.
Male laughter and bawdy calls followed them as Haranda pulled Saldia none too gently down the dark, dirt road toward the muted lights of nearby farms.
Once they were far enough in the darkness to be out of the gate’s view, the woman pulled her into some nearby trees and produced a candle from somewhere beneath her skirts, probably a hidden pocket. One hand lifted just above the wick and the candle flamed. Saldia’s mouth went dry as she stared at this stranger.
“The Land of the Goddess awaits us, Saldia Trich. You’ll be called soon.” What had happened to the woman’s accent? She didn’t sound like a Makrilonian now.
“The Goddess?” Saldia uttered with a dry mouth. “The Goddess?” Oh, bloody, bloody trouble.
Haranda meant the old Goddess, the original Mother who’d birthed the world. And ultimately would destroy it, according to local lore. A summons from the Goddess Mother meant only one thing, Gypsy folk. Saldia’s heart rapped against her ribs like a musician’s spoon. She stared openly at the candle that had lit seemingly by itself then to Haranda’s shadowy figure. Numb with fear, she allowed the woman to lead her toward a large farmhouse.
May the gods help me! Gypsy folk! Thank the gods the woman didn’t mention that little tidbit in Makrilon. Runaways were beaten, but Gypsy folk, well, a beating would have been a luxury. Saldia pushed away a disturbing image that threatened to unnerve her completely. Her bladder felt loose and it took all her strength not to wet herself.
As a youngster, she’d often dreamed of the kind of power Gypsies possessed. A well-to-do cousin had taught her to read at a young age, and she’d spent many evenings in her room as a child, perusing stories about Gypsies. The newer ones spoke of evil Gypsies enslaving the masses, which didn’t match the compassionate Gypsies of earlier tales. Haranda didn’t seem evil, hadn’t beaten Saldia the way the tavern mistress would have. And she hadn’t taken any others from their work. Only Saldia.
She looked as though she’d been searching for me. Have I really been summoned by the Goddess Mother? She didn’t feel any different.
Many feared a Gypsy summons and forbad their children even to speak of such things. In some places, people worshipped the Goddess Mother along with their other gods. Not in Makrilon. There, people accused those who were different of practicing Gypsy ways, a dreadful accusation, and something Saldi
a didn’t like to dwell on. The accused always denied ties with Gypsy folk, but that didn’t necessarily save them. One woman in particular stood out in Saldia’s mind and she quickly forced the disturbing image away.
No, I won’t dwell on that. I can’t. She glanced at the silent woman at her side. Haranda didn’t fit her image of a Gypsy. One would have an unusual feature of some sort, like a few tales suggested, something that set a Gypsy apart from everyday folk. Haranda looked like any other young farmwoman. And Gypsies could certainly protect themselves from any attacker, no matter how large or brave the fool might be. Despite whatever workings she had used to light the candle, Haranda seemed nervous. And relieved to be out of Makrilon’s city walls.
Saldia wondered what it was like to have others cower from her, instead of the other way around. Of course, she never spoke those thoughts.
“Searchers will be out among the city at the next full moon.” Haranda’s tone belied her youthful appearance. “We must hurry.”
Saldia glanced up. The moon was two days from full harvest glory. Her heart leapt into her throat and her legs began to quiver. She realized she’d stopped when the other woman tugged on her arm.
“Come along, Saldia Trich.” Haranda sounded as though she spoke to a wayward child. A cold breeze rustled the leaves around them but her candle barely flickered. She looked tired, exhausted even.
Saldia flogged back her fear and walked alongside the woman. “I’m Gypsy folk?”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t have powers.”
“You will.”
The two were silent and Saldia counted the trees closest to the road to try and still her dread as she thought about her future. Powers? What kind of Gypsy workings would a tavern wench possess? Counting worked, just as it always did, and her thoughts turned to a more positive direction. Perhaps riches awaited. She had read about the mountains of gold, silver and precious stones Gypsy folk hid in magical places protected by the Goddess. Places only they knew how to locate.
Those thoughts didn’t last and soon her mind turned to the worst again. Perhaps Haranda lied and Saldia was to become a slave. Or maybe a breeder of Gypsy babes. A shiver danced up her spine and she pulled the cloak tighter. Haranda didn’t seem cold without it. She should run, get far away from this woman. But she had no place to go. So she stayed with Haranda.
Once the trees closest to the road ended, sixty-one to be exact, and the farmland began, Saldia studied the woman at her side again. Could Haranda be a Gypsy slave? Though she couldn’t get a good look at the woman’s face in the moonlight, she had seen her in the tavern. Haranda Banwidden appeared to be around Saldia’s age and her clothes were nothing fancy, just a farmwoman’s attire. But that was what she had wanted the tavern mistress to believe, no doubt. Gypsies weren’t known for their honesty.
The two walked on silently and Saldia counted her own steps to calm her racing heart. Perhaps she should run anyway. Take her chances. No. Not until she could guarantee success. If Haranda was Gypsy folk, which Saldia still found hard to believe despite the candle that had flamed without a sulfur stick and the fact she hadn’t protested the woman’s accusations at the tavern, she would be stupid to cause problems now. So far, this woman hadn’t treated her any worse than many from her past. If anything, Haranda seemed more pleasant than most.
The farmhouse with dim lights in the windows, three that Saldia could see, grew closer. When they arrived, a plump woman with white hair and a motherly smile let them in. Cooking smells made Saldia realize it had been a while since she’d eaten.
“You found her, Haranda.” The old woman took the now snuffed candle and ushered them inside. “Thank the Goddess.” She closed the heavy wooden door behind them and latched it. “The others are already packed. I’m so glad I don’t have to send them on without you.” The woman took Haranda’s cloak from Saldia and hung it on a peg near the door.
“Yes, Mistress Lane. I found her at Wandering Hog.”
“Ah.”
Others? Had Haranda stolen others? Perhaps I’m to be a slave after all. Saldia’s heart thumped a frantic beat against her ribs.
A man entered and came straight to Mistress Lane, with only a brief glance to Saldia. “The animals are bedded.” He looked about Saldia’s age, perhaps a few years older. The swell of breasts her low-cut tunic revealed usually got a man’s complete and open attention. But this one seemed to work hard at not looking.
“Good. Fetch the water for night meal. We’ll eat soon.”
When he nodded and left without a second glance at Saldia or her bosom, curiosity waved through her again.
Giggles and whispers came from the next room as she followed the two women through a doorway, boots clicking on the wood planks. Three girls in fine dresses chatted with excitement, while a fourth of small stature and flaming locks sulked in an overstuffed chair, not seeming to care about her unkempt appearance or the fact that she wore breeches instead of skirts. Breeches that made her look very much like a boy.
So, I’m not the only one Haranda stole away. None seemed worried to be here, even the sulky woman, so Saldia relaxed a bit and decided to find out more. She could always run away later.
Mistress Lane clapped her hands twice to invoke silence. “Younglings, this is—”
“Saldia Trich,” Haranda told her.
Saldia wondered at the youngling term but her attention quickly riveted on the three, chatty girls as they studied her. Haranda introduced them.
Adelsik Nunsey’s pale locks surrounded a round, smooth face and bright brown eyes that gave an innocent appearance. In fact, the adolescent girl reminded her of a doll a cousin once owned. Those eyes ran Saldia up and down, a look she recognized from wealthy women who disapproved of those less fortunate.
Maesa Reman’s dark hair accentuated a long face with sharp features. Dark eyes peered at Saldia as though she were prey. She guessed this one was close to Adelsik’s age.
A slight, pretty girl with wavy, golden hair, a small bosom and rounded face went by the name Henny Iven Jesik. She looked barely out of childhood. This one smiled at Saldia, and even brought the arrivals moist cloths with which to wash their faces and hands.
The sulky, fiery-haired girl in the chair, Eletha Lavine, took little notice of anyone. She seemed content to fume, and Saldia heard inventive, if mumbled, curses from her. Eletha cursed like a whore, a trade Saldia had managed to avoid, thank the gods.
“We’ll eat,” Mistress Lane said to Haranda. “Then you must be on your way.” With one hand, she latched onto Eletha’s arm as she called the other girls to follow to the kitchen.
When they disappeared to fetch the meal, Saldia took the opportunity to look around. The room was warm and inviting, like its owner. A fire crackled in the large hearth and two lanterns caused shadows to waver on the painted walls. The furniture was old but well kept and clean. Nothing spoke of riches here, though. And nothing here seemed magical in the least.
“Sit, youngling.” Haranda lowered herself into an overstuffed chair near the fireplace. A weary smile flickered on her thin lips.
There was that term again, which sounded odd coming from a woman near Saldia’s own age. “I’m hardly a youngling,” she corrected. This woman, Gypsy or no, hadn’t hired her for anything, so she didn’t feel the need to keep her mouth clamped.
“You are a youngling. The sooner you accept that the better.”
The words chafed but Saldia decided to drop the subject for now. She chose a thin cushioned chair and sat. “How do you know?”
“That you’re Gypsy folk?” Haranda flipped her long, chestnut hair over one shoulder.
Saldia nodded. Her own hair slipped from her scarf and she retied the thing.
“Because I sensed you.”
“Haranda found all of us,” the golden-haired girl, Henny, said as she moved toward the table with a roasted goose.
The smells here were much more appetizing than those of the tavern, and Saldia eyed the goose with anti
cipation.
“She’s taking us to the shore to find the Land of the Goddess.” Henny seemed excited by that prospect and Saldia studied her.
“And you’ll eat a cold meal if you don’t stop flapping your lips and set the table, youngling.” Mistress Lane took the tray of goose and snapped her head toward the kitchen. Despite her harsh words, she looked amused.
“Yes, Mistress.” Henny giggled and dashed from the room.
“Henny’s the youngest of you lot.” Mistress Lane placed the goose on the table. “Just fifteen.” She disappeared into the kitchen again.
Saldia pursed her lips in thought. Fifteen. Nine years younger than I am. Her eyes drifted to Haranda again as her mind focused on previous events. “What about my things? Mistress Lane said we’re leaving tonight.”
“Things are things,” the Gypsy said in a low voice. She was stretched out in the chair with her eyes closed. “You have your hide in one piece. Be happy with that.”
“But I have money. A little.” Why was she just now thinking of this?
There had been no time to gather her belongings before Haranda hauled her from the tavern, not even the purse she kept hidden beneath her mattress, but Saldia hadn’t even thought of going to her room first. She eyed the Gypsy and saw someone who looked twenty-five or twenty-six, a bit taller and more serious than Saldia perhaps. Haranda had a tanned face and arms. She knew the outdoors. Highborn women kept their skin smooth and delicate, like the three giggling girls in the kitchen.
Hmm. So much for Gypsy riches. Saldia glanced down at her own arms, which were paler and peppered with freckles, and let her eyes drift to her dry, cracked hands. She moved her gaze back to the Gypsy. Haranda’s hands were smooth, she noticed as she watched the Gypsy rub her temples.
Saldia’s thoughts turned back to her abandoned belongings. “What did you do to me?” She wasn’t certain she wanted an answer to that, though.
