Now, I'm not saying that's a bad plan. It's probably a good way to handle it; maybe even the best way to handle things. But it's not a Walter Slovotsky way to handle things. Sorry.
"Now," I said, babbling over the babbling of the stream, "anybody can get lost in the sense of not knowing where you are. No big deal, as long as you know how to get where you're going. Not knowing how to get where you're going is the dangerous kind of lost."
It was a nice-sized stream, maybe three yards across where we were, its broad banks providing a wide path. During rainy season, the stream probably overflowed the banks, but it wasn't rainy season.
"This is one of the easier orienteering tricks," I said. "Avoid heading across unfamiliar territory for a point-destination: a town, an oasis, whatever. Points—okay, okay: areas—are easy to miss.
"Roads and streams, on the other hand, are long skinny things. You tend to trip over them.
"So you aim for a road that you know leads to your destination, even if that means breaking right or left of whatever you're heading for. Now, I know the road from Heliven to Ollerwell—it's a long, wide one, crosses a lot of streams up in the hills, certainly including this one. So, unless there's a good reason not to, we follow this stream until we hit the road. Q.E.D."
She didn't answer.
"I know what you're saying," I said. "You're saying, 'Walter, that's all well and good,' you're saying, 'but you've walked out of Ehvenor before, and so this isn't unfamiliar territory to you.'
"You've got a good point, and that's a fact. But there's a difference between having been through this area before and knowing it well. Now, I do know the route that we took the last time I walked out of Ehvenor, but that was more than ten years ago, and I think they may even remember me in one of the towns we passed through, so perhaps we'd be just as well skipping it."
She looked at me, trying not to glare. That was an improvement. At least she was trying something.
I was tempted to try something; I've been in worse-looking company.
If you ignored the reddened eyes and the slumped shoulders, Andy was still an awfully good-looking woman, in or out of her boots and leathers.
But she still wouldn't talk.
There are things I like less than traveling with somebody who won't start a conversation, who won't answer in other than monosyllables, and who cries herself to sleep each night, honest. But most of those involve things similar to sitting up on the Posts of Punishment.
The stream bent up ahead, and I suspected there'd be some fish feeding under the fallen tree that didn't quite bridge the stream. The morning was getting old, and the food in our pack wasn't getting any more plentiful, so I shrugged out of my rucksack and beckoned to Andy to wait.
She dropped her own rucksack and squatted on the ground, silently obedient.
I would have rather she spoke up and spooked the fish.
I crept out on the log. Sure enough, just under the surface of the rippling water, in a quiet space sheltered by the tree, a trio of largish trout hovered in the shadow, either having a quiet chat about fishy life or eating something.
Not for long.
One of the gifts I got in transition to This Side is my reflexes, and while they've been more important, they've never been a lot more fun than when I lunged, scooping up one of the fish and flinging it high into the air, just like a bear with a salmon, except that I'm much prettier than any bear.
The trout thunked down on the riverbank, flopping madly. Flibitaflibitaflibita.
Nice-sized, the way local speckled trout often get. Maybe three, three and a half pounds.
I'd sort of hoped Andy would take over, but she just watched it, so I pulled the utility knife from my rucksack—I don't use my dagger or my throwing knives for this sort of thing—then quickly gutted the fish, rinsing off both the fish and my hands in the stream. Ick.
"Now, the right way to cook trout involves poaching it with vinegar and spices," I said. "Blue trout is one of the greatest meals that ever there was.
"A good second choice is to tie the trout to a green stick and then shove it head deep in nice, hot coals. On the other hand, we don't have nice, hot coals, and I'm not going to spend an hour building up that kind of cookfire."
Keeping up a steady monologue, I gathered some dry wood and built a quick cooking fire on the riverbank—if you've got some birch bark handy, which we did, and if you're willing to waste a little gunpowder, which I was, you can start a fire real quick.
I cut the fish down the back and seared the halves on the ends of a pair of green sticks, using a rough stone to grate just a taste of wild onion onto it. It only took a few minutes; all you really have to do with freshwater fish is cook them enough to kill any parasites.
A bit of salt from the saltwell in my pack, and, voila: fish on a stick. Lunch for two.
"What are you going to have?" I asked.
She didn't rise to the bait, and I wasn't irritated enough to let her go hungry, so I handed her one of the sticks and then quickly wolfed down my own.
Not bad. Not bad at all. Fresh trout, no more than fifteen minutes from the stream, is a dish fit for a king.
Or even for Walter Slovotsky.
I washed my hands in the stream and then scooped some water onto the fire. "Let's go."
* * *
The first days were like that. Andy slept when told to, ate what I put in front of her.
To my surprise, she stood her turn at watch and stayed awake and alert while she did, but that was about all.
The nights were cold, and I wouldn't have minded not sleeping alone. But it didn't seem like the right time to bring up the subject, not even of sleeping. I'm a sensitive guy, eh?
So, instead, I kept up the constant monologue as we walked. I swear, I began to run out of subjects; by the third day, I'd covered damn everything I knew (well, almost everything. Some things Woman Isn't Meant to Know). About how to set up a staff in a castle. About how to keep in practice with a bow. About why you keep flintlocks loaded, and how poor old Tennetty always scared the shit out of me.
We hit the Heliven-Ollerwell road late on the second day, and left the stream and trout dinners behind.
* * *
Just as we were breaking camp the next morning and I was launching into today's monologue—a reconsideration of the Nickel Defense and its suitability for college football—Andy looked up at me and frowned.
"Walter, shut up," she said.
"Well, well, well. It lives." I hefted my rucksack to my back and we started to work our way back toward the road through the forest.
She should have snorted, but she just looked at me deadpan. "Your sympathy is underwhelming. You don't know what I had to give up."
"Better than sex, so I'm told."
The corner of her mouth may have turned up a millimeter. "Depends on with whom."
"Was that an offer?"
"No."
Sometimes no doesn't mean no, but when it's accompanied by a weak shake of the head, lips pursed just so, that's exactly what it means. Which is okay. I can take no.
On the other hand, I was heading home to my wife, to make things work. It would have been nice to have one last dalliance. On the other hand . . . I've run out of hands.
Just as well.
* * *
We walked along, not talking. I can take silence, although you'll never get that in the forest. There's almost always the far-off cry of a bird, the chittering of insects, and if nothing else, a whisper of wind through the trees. Not silent at all. Not even quiet, not really; it's only the tallest trees that are quiet.
"What now?" she asked. Or maybe said.
I hadn't taken this route before, but I had passed through Ollerwell once or twice. "Ollerwell's just a few miles ahead, just across the river, and down aways. We can buy some fresh food. I don't think we'll be able to get more trout—they tend to fish it out around Ollerwell—but maybe some eel, or some of that bass you find in the lakes up this way. Not beef—I mean, they mig
ht have some, but the locals don't eat a lot of beef, and we'd smell of it for days. We could splurge on a chicken, if—"
"Shh." She waved it away, tiredly. "I mean, what do I do now? After we get back."
I shrugged. "Whatever you want, Andy. Except magic, so I'm told."
For the thousandth time, she took the battered leather volume out of her pack and opened it.
The letters blurred in front of my eyes, and apparently in front of hers, too.
They would have, even if she hadn't been crying.
* * *
Sometimes I call it right: a farmer at the edge of town had a fire going, and a fat capon turning over a spit, sending delicious flavors wafting off into the breeze. We could probably have made a better deal in town, but the crackling of crisp skin over the coals made me part with a Holtun-Bieme copper half-mark with Karl's face on it, which bought me a huge chunk of breast (no comments, please), and Andy an oversized thigh, each served on a fist-sized loaf of fresh brown bread hot from the oven.
I didn't wait for it to cool, and ended up burning my tongue. It was worth it.
I'd like to report that Andy wolfed hers down with hunger and gusto, but she just ate as we walked through the village, past a couple dingy rows of wattle-and-daub houses and onto the northern road.
Another couple of days and we'd be at Buttertop.
"How about you?" she asked.
At first I didn't answer. It took me a moment to realize that she'd picked up our conversation of hours ago where we had left it off. I hate it when she does that.
"Me?" I shrugged. "I think I'd better take it easy for awhile. Spend some time with the kids, and with Kirah. You?"
She sighed. "I might go back into teaching. English, basic math, the usual. Even if some of the Home youngsters do it better than I could. I don't know."
Maybe, just maybe, if I gave Kirah enough patience and attention, maybe that would do it. Life's like a fight, sometimes; there's times when you have to commit yourself, to lunge full, all stops out, not worrying about what happens if it doesn't work. See, you don't just put something of yourself in what you touch, but you put it in who you touch. After close to twenty years together, Kirah was part of me, and I wasn't going to cut that out, any more than I'd throw away my left arm.
* * *
Ellegon found us that night.
I was a bit nervous about camping on the ground close to a road broad enough to be navigable by stars and faerie lights, so we had moved well off the road, onto a wooded rise, and slung our hammocks high in a giant old oak tree while it was still light enough to see.
Actually, I'd done the slinging, and it had only been one hammock. Climbing was hard enough on Andy, but I picked her branches to make getting in easy for her. It had been some trouble, but we'd gotten her settled in and pretending to be asleep, while I climbed farther up the tree and seated myself in a crotch between two old limbs, too lazy, or maybe too tired to mess with it all. I just whipped one end of a piece of rope around the tree, and knotted it in front of my chest, so that if I leaned forward instead of back I wouldn't fall out and break my neck.
I let the day slip away. What was that old dwarven even-chant? Something about—
That was, of course, the moment that flame would have to flare loud and bright over the treetops, accompanied by the rustle of leathery wings.
*Wake up, folks. Your ride's here. If you hurry, we can be in Holtun-Bieme in the morning.*
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
In Which We Decide
What Those Who
Can Do, and Why
It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive.
—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Never come home unexpectedly. It's a break-even proposition, at best.
—WALTER SLOVOTSKY
Ellegon set down quietly outside the walls in the gray light just before dawn. I slid down his scaly side and landed hard on the hard ground, twisting my ankle.
"You're getting old, Walter," Andy said, as she lowered herself more gently down from the dragon's back.
*Happens to the best of them,* the dragon said, turning its broad head to face the two of us. *So I understand. What are you going to do now?*
"Me, I'm for bed," I said. "I don't sleep well in the air."
*So I noticed.*
Andy patted at her belly. "I'm going to go eat something, then probably some sleep. You?"
The dragon walked away, toward the main road, his wings curling and uncurling. *There's a sheep in the south pasture with my name on it. I'm hungry.*
It was nice of Ellegon to walk away far enough that we wouldn't be battered by dust and grit when he took off. Although, at this point, that would have been wetting a river.
*In that case . . .* the dragon leaped into the air, leathery wings sending dust and grit into the air to batter at my eyes and face.
"Me and my big mouth," I said.
Andy didn't answer.
The watchman at the main gate let us in through the small-door; we waved aside his offer to wake a welcoming committee. I just wanted to look in on my kids and wife, and then find an empty bed. Or, better, grab a few blankets and curl up in a corner of Kirah's and my room, and let her find me when she woke. I wouldn't slip into bed with her unexpectedly; that would set her off.
Andy touched my shoulder for a quick moment. "Look me up when you get up. I've got an idea I want to talk over with you."
I nodded, too tired to bother asking what it was.
Dawn had been threatening to break outside, but a castle is always dark until the sun is well up, and well before it's down. Not that the staff believed that. Some wisely frugal servitor or penurious asshole had put out most of the lanterns; I had to get one from the rack outside the kitchens.
I don't believe in madly tittering darkness, but the murk kind of giggled at me as I made my way up the stairs toward the bedrooms.
Dorann's room was next to Kirah's and mine. I crept in for a quick moment.
Barely illuminated by the flickering lantern, my baby daughter lay under her blankets, all curled up and tiny. It was all I could do not to sigh out loud, although I couldn't prevent a tear or two from running down my face. Dammit, but she looked like she had grown an inch since I'd been gone. You miss so much when you're on the road, whether your business is sales or steel.
I rested my hand against her warm cheek for a moment, and she stirred just a little, then reached up a pair of chubby hands and pulled my hand closer to her face, never coming close to waking. After a few minutes, I gently detached my hand.
God, little one, I never realized how much I missed you.
I shut her door gently behind me, then went to Kirah's and my room. The knob refused to turn; it was locked. Good; Kirah was still practicing ordinary security. I was willing to bet that the secret passage to the room next door was still properly blocked.
I dug in my pouch for my key. I turned the key in the lock with exquisite slowness, and gently pushed the heavy door open, hoping that the hinges wouldn't squeak and wake her.
The bed had been moved in my absence, and a full-length mirror had been set up next to the window, angled to reflect the first traces of dawn light down onto the pillows, to wake the occupants.
Very clever.
But a hint of predawn light was enough to let me make out the faces of both occupants: my wife, and that asshole Bren Adahan.
* * *
I don't know how long I stood there, not thinking. It seems long in retrospect, but it probably wasn't.
I do remember, vaguely, what I thought about, in between the moments of anger, and hate, and jealousy, and shame, and guilt.
I thought something about how I didn't believe in a double standard, really, truly I didn't, no matter how hard and fast my heart was beating, no matter how much anger flared red behind my eyes, in my mind.
I do remember realizing how it wasn't being touched that disgusted Kirah, it was being touched by me, that it was the feel of my hand, my body
against her that she associated with her old life, with rape and slavery.
What had I ever done to deserve that? Nothing, maybe. Fine. Who the fuck says you get what you deserve?
I do remember thinking, just in passing, that I could probably pick the lock to Bren Adahan's room next door, and be waiting for him when he made his way back through the secret passage.
And I do remember thinking that standing in an open doorway, tears running down my face, wasn't going to do any damn good, so I swung the door slowly closed and wiped my face on the back of my hand. I had the key almost completely turned when I heard soft footsteps behind me.
I hadn't been listening. Bad policy.
I finished turning the key, carefully pocketed it, and slowly turned, my weight on the balls of my feet.
Janie and Aeia stood side-by-side in the gray light. Janie in a heavy black sleeping-robe, belted at the waist with a thick velvet rope. The robe was far too large for her; its hem touched the floor, and her hands barely peeked out of the sleeves. It all made her look younger, far too young to be around for this.
Aeia had thrown on a thigh-length white silk robe. Slim fingers nervously toyed at the belt at her waist. Her eyes were puffy from sleep, but just a bit wide.
I was trying to figure out who had wakened whom, and decided that Aeia had probably wakened Janie. Aeia knew—hell, everybody knew—that Janie could always handle me.
"Hi, Daddy," Janie whispered.
"Hi, sweetness," I whispered back. "What's new?"
With a sad little smile—damn, I'd never seen Janie smile sadly before; I didn't much like it—she took my arm and brought me down the hall to the top of the stairs.
"Some things have happened while you were gone," she said, "some things we all pretend we don't know about. Aeia's been worried you'd do something stupid, but I've been telling her that my Daddy will handle things in a nice, civilized manner, that nobody's going to get hurt." Her face grew somber. "Tell her I'm right, Daddy."
Look: I am more than a collection of hormones and reactions. I could be livid with rage—and I was—but I decide what Walter Slovotsky does, not my anger. I decide, and I decided that I wasn't going to blow up. Not here and now; not ever. You don't solve this kind of problem with a knife and gun, you really don't.
Guardians of The Flame: To Home And Ehvenor (The Guardians of the Flame #06-07) Page 30
