Mathy nodded. “I know the feeling. Nothing like a place beside a warm hearth when you’ve been on the road.” She smoothed her skirts and glanced around the room. The eyes of a dozen men were watching. “I’m off. Good night.”
Juilene watched her walk across the room, an exaggerated sway in her hips, her stride as languorous as a cat’s. One of the men leaning against the bar raised his glass to her as she passed and Mathy paused and smiled. Juilene pulled herself to her feet. How could Mathy be so brazen and so bold? Had she no fear?
Juilene slipped outside, her cheeks burning, aware of the same scrutiny as Mathy. She wished she had been clothed as soberly as the other women, the respectable women, the ones who were protected by husbands and brothers and fathers. But that was denied her forever. And the sooner she accepted that fact, the better off she would be.
She was painfully aware of the shabby condition of her dress, of the patches and the stains that even Deatrice’s laundry had been unable to remove. Maybe here in Khardroon she would buy something new. Maybe she would even buy one of the loose pairs of trousers and the knee-length gowns the women of Khardroon wore. With her hair covered by one of their flowing veils, who would know her? Lady Juilene of Sarrasin in Sylyria would truly be no more than a memory.
In the yard, the men were gathered in small clusters, some kneeling in the dust, throwing dice, others sitting on the long benches. A few smoked long clay pipes, and the scent of burning uster-wood filled the air. A pang went through her. It reminded her of her father, on the long winter nights when, it seemed, the scent of Jiroud’s pipe invaded every corner of the castle and clung to her clothes and her hair. She remembered all the nights she had flounced off, her nose held tightly shut, complaining loudly of the stink. What she wouldn’t give for one more chance to sit under her father’s roof and smell that pipe again. She would gladly smoke it herself, she thought.
She sighed and continued across the yard to the cart. Something scuttled in the dust before her, and she gasped. It was long and black, and moved like an insect, but she was sure it had a round, pinkish head. She shivered. Could it have been a mantling? They couldn’t survive the cold winters on the other side of the mountains, but Juilene had heard tales of the things. Khardroon was crawling with them. She suppressed another shudder and continued on. In the shadows of the stables, she saw two men talking. There was a furtive air about the way they stood, and with a start, she recognized Eral.
“—knew as soon as I met her something was up,” he was saying.
Juilene flattened against the side of the wagon, instinctively wary. She sidled around the back to get a closer look, and with a shock recognized her father’s colors, though not the man who wore them. She froze.
The stranger made a low reply, something indistinguishable, and Eral nodded and laughed. “Yes, we’ve taken good care of her. She’s the same as ever—no harm done at all. Now—what about the reward?”
“You’ll get the reward when I get the girl, my friend.”
Of course, thought Juilene. Eral had betrayed her for the money her father would have offered for her return. Was it by chance she had been found, or had Eral planned this all along? It didn’t matter now, she decided. She had to get away, and quickly. Who knew how many of her father’s men were here? And if she went back to her father’s house, it was only a matter of time before something terrible happened. She could see the lumpy shape of her harp in its wraps beside her pack. Could she possibly grab both? She reached inside the wagon and seized the pack. It made a dull thud against her side as she swung its strap over her head.
“What’s that?”
Juilene heard both men moving at the front of the wagon, and willed herself to be absolutely still.
“Who’s there?” called Eral.
Juilene held her breath. What would she do if the men caught her?
“There’s no one there,” he said at last. “Now, just how much were you saying—”
Her father’s man gave a soft snort, as though he recognized Eral for what he was. “Five hundred gold—”
Juilene waited no longer to hear her own worth. She seized the harp and dashed out of the stables.
“You there—”
She heard her father’s man shout as she ran as fast as she could toward the gate. And then she slowed. The road was the first place they would look for her. What were the odds of her getting away from men on horseback? She scampered into the inn, through the common room, past the barkeep and the patrons, and through the kitchen door.
A couple of the maidservants looked at her with some surprise. “Please,” Juilene cried, holding her stomach. “I need the privy.”
“That way—” one of the pointed.
She darted through the door. The smell of garbage hit her nostrils like a wall. Refuse rose in high piles on either side of a narrow brick walk. She pressed her lips together against the stench and picked her way down the path, holding her skirts high above the muck as best she could. The only light was a single wavering torch in a sconce set high near the door. She opened the low gate with trembling fingers, the metal crusted with rust. She pushed it, out of frustration, and the gate swung open with a bang. She looked back over her shoulder as she scampered through.
She darted a quick look around. The low stables rose in front of her. She could hear shouts and cries coming from the stables, and the pounding of hooves in the inn yard. To the right lay the inn, and if she was correct, if she went to her left, she could skirt the inn, avoid the stables, and end on the road. She drew a deep breath, grimacing as the odor of the garbage, now strongly mixed with the stables, reached her once again. She picked her way through the shadows, which grew deeper as she moved away from the meager light. In the dark, she heard the muck squelch under her feet. She tried not to think about what she might be walking through.
She followed the edge of the building, one hand held before her to feel her way. At the corner, she paused and looked around. A stand of trees rose immediately to her right, on her left was the inn, and before her was the inn yard, where most of the men still bent over their gaming, the smoke from their pipes, thicker now, lazily hanging over their heads.
She swallowed hard. This was the hard part, she thought, looking up, where the road lay perhaps a dozen yards ahead. If she could just get through the inn yard, if she could just gain the open road, she would be free. Sweat trickled down her sides, and stung her armpits. Once or twice, a man glanced in her direction and she froze, sure she had been seen. But each time, the man glanced away, and Juilene breathed a sigh of relief. She tightened her grip on her bundle, checked the straps of her harp, and let her skirts fall. She would walk across the inn yard as though she were any songsayer, moving on to a more congenial location. She started across, keeping to the side, her head down and her eyes lowered as she had seen the other women do. None of the men paid her any attention at all. She reached the entrance and slipped through the open gates. Just outside she paused and drew a deep breath. She was free.
“Thought you’d be abed, little sister.” Eral’s voice from the shadows startled her so much that she almost dropped her bundle. She turned, gasping. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just I had no idea where you might be going—it’s so unlike you to be abroad at this hour.”
Color rushed to her face, and her mouth was dry as the dust on the road. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it. “I—I wanted some air.”
“Air?” His white teeth flashed in the shadows, and his body loomed over her. “It’s a bit late for that.” He reached for the harp she carried. “And a bit late for this, isn’t it? Where do you think you’re going, little sister? With your pack and your harp? Surely you can’t be thinking of leaving us?” More quickly than she could react, he pulled the harp out of her hands. Juilene made a futile grab for it.
“What’s it to you, Eral, if she decides she wants air? At any hour of the day?” Eral swung around as Mathy walked up behind him.
“What are you doing out here?”
Mathy snorted. “Earning an extra bit of brass, if you want the truth. And what’s that to you? We’re not bound to you, Eral, not me, not her. We come and go as we please.”
Eral threw her harp aside and Juilene cried out as she heard it smash against the stone wall. She shrank back when she saw Eral reach for the long dagger he wore behind his back.
“Is that so, Mathy?” His voice was hard and Juilene shivered.
“Mathy, watch out,” Juilene cried.
Eral snarled and whipped his head around, and in that moment, Mathy sprang at him with a dagger of her own. He sagged suddenly, and his face reminded Juilene of a bladder suddenly bereft of air. She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as he crumpled.
Mathy pulled the dagger out from between his ribs, and looked at Juilene. “Go on. Go now. I know you mean to leave—go, while you can. Even in Khardroon there’ll likely be some questions asked, and you want nothing to do with this.”
Juilene hesitated, the urge to laugh gone. Eral lay bleeding at her feet, and in the dim light, she could see blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. His face was slack. “Mathy, what have you done?” she whispered.
“What I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Now go on and get out of here. There’s another inn not too far down the road. You can find shelter there for the night. Go. Now!”
This last Mathy said with a raised dagger, the blood dripping off the gleaming edge. Juilene saw the flash of madness in the girl’s eyes, and with a little gasp, heedless of her broken harp, she fled down the road into the dark night.
Chapter Eight
Juilene trudged down the rock-rimmed road. The sun was high and little dust clouds puffed beneath her feet with each step. The straps of her pack dug into her shoulders. Three days on the roads of Khardroon had given her an appreciation for the troupe’s wagon she hadn’t had before. She sighed and shifted her bundle to her other hand and shrugged, trying to redistribute the weight. The pack had never seemed so heavy before. She had learned to appreciate so many things in the last months, things she had never even thought to notice in the time she thought of simply as “before.” She was tired, so very tired. Her money hadn’t lasted very long, nowhere near as long as she’d hoped it would. And without her harp, she had little means of earning more. The two inns she’d passed had been squalid places, dung and refuse heaped in the inn yard, the women who lounged in the doorways looking disheveled and dirty. The few patrons she glimpsed had a dark and furtive air; she had shuddered and passed both those places by. Why invite trouble, when it so easily found her on its own? Neither of them looked as though they’d welcome a songsayer who merely wanted to sing.
She paused, listening. From a small thicket of trees, she thought she heard the rush of water. She stepped off the road, ducking under the high brambled weeds that grew chest-high along the roadside. A broad stream tumbled through the trees, the banks as rocky as the road. The sun sparkled on the water.
She shrugged off her bundle and let it fall against a tree. She kicked off her shoes and sank down on the rocky bank. The water foamed over sharp rocks, tumbling past her with a speed that was deceptive. Arimond used to warn her to be wary of such places. “You could be swept away in a minute, Jewels,” he’d say, his blue eyes wide and steady, his arm placed securely around her waist, as though the water might surge over its banks and carry her away. The thought of Arimond, of the carefree days of her childhood, flooded her eyes with tears. She gazed into the dark green water, at the sharp, pointed peaks of the rocks that broke the surface of the water, hinting at what lay below. Was it possible she had lost so much?
She bit her lip and stripped off the shredded remains of her stockings. In the first days of her flight, she had thought to save them, and had quickly learned that her feet blistered without them. She dipped her feet in the water and the cold water stung her skin. Dirt was embedded beneath her ragged toenails. Her hair was matted and she itched. She had never been so tired or so dirty in her life. The tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. She twined her fingers in the pathetic remnants of the stockings Neri had knitted for her, so long ago, and wept.
Everything and everyone was gone, everyone she had ever loved, everything she had ever treasured: all were lost to her. She was truly an outcast, no home, no roof, no place to call her own, and without her harp, no real means of finding a place, either. The man who had loved her was dead, the family she had loved was cut off from her forever. She had lost her innocence to a schemer who had tried to betray her trust for money. She was alone, in a strange place, where she had no friends, no family, no one to care about or to care for her at all. What difference would it make if she slipped into the water, and let the river carry her away?
She glanced down at the dull blue sapphire ring on her finger. It had been many days since she had thought to look at it, for it seemed to her that the stone never glowed its warning since that night in Lindos’s keep. She twisted the ring while she watched twigs, leaves, and other bits of debris swirl past in the foaming current. Although it might have value as a jewel, it could never be sold for money. The family legend said it would only fit the hand of one to whom it had been given. She sighed. Even something that might buy her bread was worthless. It would be so easy, she thought, as the tears slipped down her cheeks, so very easy to let herself ease down into the water, and lose herself to the current. Easier than the life she had lived in the last months, she thought, easier than trying to survive. Her family surely had resigned themselves to her death. No one would miss her or know that she was gone. She would let the water wash her away.
“Room for a fellow traveler?” The hoarse voice startled her out of her reverie. She jumped, turned, and reached for the little dagger she had taken to wearing concealed in her bodice. It was one of Mathy’s tricks.
Just on the edge of the thicket, a woman, stooped with age, leaned upon a staff. Her hair was white and fell in a tangled snarl to her shoulders, but her eyes, despite their web of wrinkles, were as clear and blue as a noon sky. “I mean you no harm, sister. I’m just looking for a place to rest.”
Juilene hastily wiped at her cheeks, her fingers still curled about the dagger. The old woman looked harmless enough, but Juilene had learned not to trust appearances. She narrowed her eyes. Another songsayer—this one looking so old and tired, she wondered how the woman managed to bear the weight of the pack she carried on her back. Juilene hesitated. She wanted to be alone. The old woman had not moved. She was clearly waiting for an invitation. Juilene dabbed at her eyes once more and gestured vaguely in the old woman’s direction. “Sit, if you please.”
The old woman nodded her thanks and slumped to the ground. She leaned back against a tree and shut her eyes. Insects hummed and the water splashed and gurgled, but over the sounds of the clearing, Juilene could hear the harsh rattle of the old woman’s breathing. She glanced around, wondering as if she ought to do or say something. She glanced at the ring on her finger. The stone was dull as one of the pebbles at the bottom of the river. There was no danger from the old woman.
“Come a long way, girl?”
The old woman’s voice startled her once more. She raised her eyes from the water and met those of the old woman, and this time she was struck by the penetrating quality of the woman’s gaze. “From Sylyria.”
“Long road.”
Juilene nodded. The old woman was staring at her with a fixed and almost glassy stare, and her chest rose and fell with each labored breath.
“Songsayer, are you?”
Juilene made a little gesture. “I was.”
“Was? Don’t you know that once the goddess sets her finger on you, girl, there’s no turning back? You can leave the life, if you will it, but you bring something of the road and something of the songs in everything you do.” At the end of this speech, she drew a huge breath, and the air rasped in her throat. She narrowed her eyes. “What are you thinking of, girl? Here, by the
water? Where’s your harp?”
Juilene stared at the woman. “How do you know I play the harp?”
“You have the look of it in your face. And the marks of it upon your hands. Oh, Merie might be old, but I can still see.”
Juilene bit her lip. “I lost my harp.”
“Lost it? Or was it taken from you?”
Juilene looked into the water. It foamed and swirled, pattern upon pattern, ever-changing, always moving. “I suppose you could say it was something of both.”
“I’ll give you mine on one condition.”
“What did you say?” Juilene stared at the woman. Was she mad?
“I said you can have mine on one condition.” The old woman shifted uncomfortably and coughed. “You must take the road to Eld.”
Juilene scarcely believed what she heard. A harp was far beyond the reach of her purse; there was no way she could take the old woman’s means of livelihood. “Sister—” she murmured, shaking her head, “I thank you—you are truly kind—but I cannot take your harp—”
“How long do you think I will need the harp, girl?” The old woman closed her eyes and winced as though a spasm of pain passed through her. “I can barely stand to carry it any farther—I will not lift it again to make a song upon it. Take it—but you must promise me to take the road to Eld.”
Juilene moved a little closer. The sun had changed position and the shade was deepening beneath the trees. “Sister, I wish I could take your harp, but, you see, of all the songsayers in Sylyria, I—I cannot. If I take your harp, harm will befall you—I cannot repay kindness with evil.”
The old woman fixed her with a stare. “We both have a need, have we not? And look at me, girl. Do you think it looks likely that I will ever rise from this spot again?” She made a feeble gesture with her hand. “The goddess is calling me, child,” she said in a gentler tone. “Take the harp and leave me to her. Only promise me to take the road to Eld.” She raised her hand and beckoned. “Unstrap it for me—I have not the strength to do that, even.” She smiled and she shook her head. “Who would have thought the goddess would come so quickly when she calls?”
The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 14
