by R. S. Ford
Horses’ hooves tramped the ground outside, diverting his attention before he could even begin to comprehend what had just happened. Garvin backed out of the room, unwilling to take his eyes from their guest until he reached the front door and warily stepped out into the yard.
Hedren sat atop his chestnut mare, smiling down at him.
‘Garvin,’ said the old man, reaching into his jacket and taking out a kerchief to wipe his wrinkled brow.
‘Hedren,’ Garvin replied, nodding and flashing an uncertain smile at the alderman. Old Hedren did his rounds every week, checking on Kantor’s outlying farmsteads. Garvin’s was one such farm. Not that there was much beyond the city-state’s border than empty desert.
‘Hot today,’ Hedren said, banal conversation being his speciality.
‘That it is.’ Though Garvin could scarcely remember a time when it wasn’t. ‘Any news from Kantor?’
Hedren shook his thin head. ‘None to speak of. The aldermen still argue over trade prices. The traders still argue over fees and everyone argues over taxes.’
‘I’ve no doubt of that.’ Garvin scanned the edge of the farm for the boys, but he couldn’t see sign of them. With any luck, they were about their chores as always.
‘Word is, the mountain bandits plaguing the eastern trade routes have stepped up their attacks. Nothing for you to be worried about, I’m sure.’
‘I’ve nothing for them to steal,’ Garvin replied, hoping against hope Hedren didn’t ask to come in for a cup of water. The waterskin by his hip looked full enough though, so this was most likely just a stop-off before he headed back to the city.
‘How are the boys?’ said the old man.
‘Oh fine. Growing fast. You know how it is.’
‘That I do.’ Hedren smiled a toothless smile. ‘I remember how fast mine grew. They’ll be men before you know it.’
Garvin just smiled back. The last thing he wanted was to engage Hedren any further. He didn’t want him in the house. If he discovered Garvin’s patient it would only lead to trouble. Officials would be informed back at Kantor. The council might want a full report, which would mean more aldermen coming to investigate. And if they discovered what Garvin had seen, that the victim was healing unnaturally fast and appeared to possess abnormal strength, they might well send the militia. Garvin was a man who valued his privacy. He could do without any intrusion from the aldermen of Kantor. Best they kept their beaks out of his business.
‘Anyway, good talking to you.’ Hedren tugged his wispy grey forelock. ‘Guess I’ll see you when the harvest’s ripe.’
‘Guess you will,’ said Garvin, reaching to tug his own hair, but Hedren had already put heels to horse and spun it from the yard.
Garvin breathed out slowly as he watched the alderman riding off, just as Fenn and Darrick came back from the field. Fenn struggled with the water bucket as he came, and Darrick carried the empty bag of feed he’d given the mule.
‘Is it dead yet, Da?’ Fenn asked, placing the bucket down on the ground and letting some of it slop over the side. Garvin almost smiled at his son’s morbid curiosity.
‘No, Fenn. It’s not dead yet.’ Whatever it was.
‘Can we go see?’
Garvin shook his head. ‘No. Neither of you are to go near it.’ The memory of how tight that grip was on his wrist made him say the words more harshly than he might otherwise.
‘Was that old Hedren?’ Darrick asked. Garvin nodded. ‘What did he think of it?’
Garvin shook his head. ‘Hedren didn’t see, and I didn’t tell him. And neither of you should either.’
‘But why?’ asked Fenn, disappointed he wouldn’t be able to brag about their find to anyone and everyone who happened past.
‘Because it’s no one’s business but ours. And there’s nothing to tell.’ Garvin paused, doubting his own words. Perhaps he should have told Hedren all about it. But there was something about the stranger that made him want to protect them and nurse them back to health. Something in the back of his head that told him this was the right thing to do. ‘Just stay away from it and don’t speak to anyone.’
He scanned the horizon, for once glad of their isolation. Sometimes they had no visitors for weeks on end, and they didn’t need to do another supply run to Stafkarl for days yet. With any luck, they’d be safe enough from prying eyes.
Before the boys could argue any further he sent them off on more chores – Fenn to pick wild berries, Darrick to sharpen the tools for the fields. If they were both occupied hopefully it would keep their minds off their new guest long enough for Garvin to decide what to do.
In the kitchen he stood in silence. The wounded body in his bed could well be dangerous. Something strange was going on; the Blood Lords to the north and the Crown Sorcerers to the south were long dead. There had been no miracles for a hundred years. Magic was a myth, stories of ancient rites and raging demons they used to scare children away from the fire. And yet…
A thump from his room made Garvin jump, memories of childhood tales fraying at his nerves. He rushed to the room, opening the door, half expecting some raging demon to have emerged from the bandages, licking its slavering maw, hungry for his children.
The body lay on the floor, one bandaged arm pawing at the bed sheets. Garvin watched, unsure of whether to help or not. He was afraid, but he would not simply stand there and watch a wounded soul struggle in vain.
He took the figure under the arms, gently lifting it as best he could back onto the bed. This time there was no struggle; the body didn’t try to grab him and the eyes in that bandaged head were hidden beneath heavy lids.
Once back on the bed the figure began to claw at the bandages covering its face, breath coming in short panicked gasps.
‘No,’ said Garvin, trying to take hold of the clawing hands. ‘You shouldn’t—’
But the bandages had already peeled away, to reveal mended flesh beneath. Instead of stopping the figure, Garvin gently began to help. Strip by strip he peeled off the makeshift binding. The hair atop the skull was short and singed but the skin was fresh. With each layer, more of a face was revealed until eventually Garvin stood back, regarding the woman that lay on his bed.
She looked up, her blue eyes regarding him with confusion.
‘Water,’ she croaked.
Garvin continued to stare before coming to his senses. With a blurted, ‘Yes,’ he rushed out to where Fenn had left the bucket. After filling a cup, he ran back into the room, offering it gingerly to the woman.
She took the cup greedily, pressing it to her lips and gulping down every last drop. He wanted to tell her to take it steady, not to drink too fast, but all he could do was stare. The flesh of her face was raw, filthy, and yet he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Garvin had not seen a woman so fine since Tilda had died. Silently he chided himself, guilt at his unfaithful thoughts filling him with sorrow.
She placed the cup back down by her side, then stared at him and smiled.
He smiled back.
‘What’s your name?’ Garvin asked. ‘Where did you come from? What happened to you?’
She regarded him for a while, mulling over his words, and he could see the confusion on her face grow as she turned them over in her mind.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered finally, voice gravelly and strained.
Garvin had no idea what else to do, until she offered the cup to him once more. He took it with a nod, and walked back to where the bucket stood.
As he filled it he knew he had to help this woman recover. Had to get her back to fitness. It was not in Garvin’s nature to simply hand her over and make her someone else’s problem. But he also knew that once she was well enough she had to go.
There could well be trouble here. If Garvin Longfeather knew anything, he knew that.
9
SHE stared at her hand in the wan morning light. It was all but healed. The flesh having hardened, the nails of her fingers almost fully repaired.
Memories came in fleeting bursts of viol
ence, of despair, but they were distant… unlike her dreams. Every night she dreamed of the rage. Of the violence and blood as though she had been a part of it. Every morning she woke gasping for air, drenched in sweat.
Garvin had been kind, but distant. He had fed her, brought her water and cleaned her as best he could. But he seemed wary of her. Almost afraid.
Elsewhere in the house she had heard the sounds of children but so far seen nothing of them; they never ventured into the room. One of them was called Fenn, the younger of the two from what she could gather. The elder was Darrick. Garvin had cause to talk to Fenn often, chiding him for his unquenchable curiosity. Darrick, it seemed, had little interest in her.
Still she had no idea what her own name was, or where she had come from. For now, she would have to satisfy herself that she yet lived, that she had not died anonymous and broken in the desert. The rest would have to wait.
The door to her room opened, gently as usual, the quiet creak of the door hinge bringing her back to focus. She was wary, though she knew it could only be Garvin come to check on her. As he entered, she also knew that from her position in the bed she could rise faster than he could react and kill him in any one of a dozen ways.
That was the most frightening thing of all. Her knowledge of his anatomy, of his vulnerable points; weak as she was she could still kill him with her bare hands if she chose to.
He stopped in the doorway, the light from the room beyond causing her to squint.
‘How do you feel today?’ he asked. The same question every day.
‘Better,’ she said, giving the same answer.
He entered, moving to her bedside, but remaining out of arm’s reach.
‘Do you think you can stand?’
She nodded. For the past two days, she had known she was able to stand, but had also known she needed to rest. Her recovery had been fast but still she had much healing to do.
‘Would you join us for breakfast?’ he said.
She could sense the unease in his voice, the uncertainty at his own words. He was afraid. More for his children than himself, and yet still he asked.
‘I will,’ she answered, pushing the blankets aside. She had to show him she was no threat – that he and his children were safe with her in the house.
She swung her legs gently over the side of the bed, her bare feet touching the floorboards. For a moment, she remembered the pain she’d felt walking through the desert but now there was nothing. She was eager to stand, to walk unaided.
Garvin took a step forward to steady her but she held up a hand, feeling the cool of the morning air through the trews and shirt he had given her.
She managed to stand, at first a little unsteady, but as her balance returned she surprised herself at the strength in her legs. Garvin stepped back as she moved forward, then opened the door and led the way into the kitchen.
His two boys sat at the breakfast table waiting for them. Both were silent. The elder, Darrick, glanced at her, then down at the plate sitting before him. Fenn, a child of no more than five summers, stared at her as though she had just risen from the grave rather than his father’s bed. Self-consciously she ran a hand across her stubbly scalp, before taking the nearest chair.
‘Fenn, bring the eggs. Darrick cut the bre—’ Garvin stopped when he realised the bread was already cut on the table before them.
Young Fenn brought a pan of cooked eggs to the table and Garvin began setting out the plates. Darrick offered her some bread, and without a word she took it.
The four of them ate in silence. The food tasted wonderful and she drank water from a pewter cup, realising she had wolfed down the eggs and bread while the others had barely started.
Fenn stared at her, his own meal ignored.
‘What’s your name?’ asked the boy. She stared back at him as he looked at her expectantly. She shook her head.
‘Where you from?’ he continued.
All she could offer was a shrug.
‘Is she staying, Da?’ he asked, still staring at her.
‘Eat your eggs,’ Garvin said.
Fenn glanced down at his plate, then back at her. ‘She could be our new ma.’
Garvin glared across the table at the boy. ‘As soon as she’s able she’ll be leaving. Now eat your eggs.’
Fenn would not leave it alone. ‘But she could stay here and help around the house. Where else is she gonna go? She don’t know where she’s from. Bet she don’t know where she’s going neither.’
She couldn’t argue with the child’s logic, but it was clear Fenn’s concerns weren’t shared by Garvin.
‘Fenn, eat your eggs.’ Garvin’s voice was raised and this time the boy went back to his meal. She could see tears welling in his eyes. ‘She’s not staying. She’s not… one of us.’
That much was true at least. She had no idea who she was, and she couldn’t blame Garvin for his concern. Already she had noted where the three knives in the kitchen were and how quickly she would be able to move to them. She knew it would only take two heartbeats to kill everyone in the room.
Fenn stuffed eggs into his mouth and chewed as though they tasted like dirt. When he’d finished, he slammed his fork down, looking up furiously with tears in his eyes.
Garvin stared across the table at him; he was desperately trying to stifle his anger. Before his father could speak, Fenn jumped up from the table and rushed out of the kitchen, leaving the door swinging and letting the morning light lance into the room.
When they had finished, Darrick cleared away their plates. She sat and watched as Garvin clenched his hands, showing the whites of his knuckles.
‘I should leave,’ she said to him.
‘No,’ said Garvin without much conviction. ‘You aren’t well enough to travel. Anyway, Fenn’s right – you don’t know where you’re headed.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she replied, standing. ‘I still need to leave. I am not your responsibility.’
Garvin didn’t argue. Instead he nodded, ordering Darrick to pack some dried meat and water for her journey. He gave her shoes, a change of clothes, and a cloak to guard against the cold desert night.
‘Kantor is two days’ walk westwards. You’ll be able to see it on the horizon after one,’ he said as she stood on their porch.
‘Thank you for all you have done,’ she replied.
Before she turned to leave she could see a look of regret on his face. He was torn, but he had his family to think of. She could not blame him for that.
As she walked from the farm, she could feel him watching her. She did not look back.
Out in the desert air she felt invigorated. She was alive, and there was much to learn. Once she reached Kantor she would try to find out who she was. Where she had come from. Perhaps her memory would return. Perhaps she would…
Darkness shrouded her vision. Black wings cut across her eyes – a fluttering of birds. A vulture’s squawk. A dark pit. Panic. A young boy’s fear. His desperation as the blackness yawned before him and his screams of terror. He was alone. There was no one to hear. North.
She staggered, the pack Garvin had given her sliding from her shoulder to hit the ground, and she was running, sprinting northwards. Up ahead she could see the ground rise to become rocky hillocks. That was where she had to go, she was sure of it. In the face of the hills there was an opening in the rock wall, shored up by brittle wooden beams. An old mine from the look of it.
Her legs pumped, muscles straining; too long lying in bed, not long enough training herself, restoring her strength. She mounted the rise, slowing as she strained up to the steep entrance, pulling herself inside, feeling the wooden prop give, dust spilling from the lintel. As she raced into the dark she knew this place was dangerous, but Fenn was in here somewhere. How she knew that she could not say – another mystery for her to solve in the fullness of time. For now she had to find him.
‘Fenn!’ she cried, her voice still fragile and croaky. Her eyes strained through the black. ‘Fenn!’ sh
e called again.
A faint echo emerged from the dark and she moved towards the sound. She felt panic begin to well up until, somehow, her eyes began to adjust. Down here, with no ambient light, she could still make out the shape of the corridor, twisting to the right up ahead.
Turning the corner, she saw him, grasping the edge of a pit, his lantern spilled and useless on the ground. She ran forward, seeing his face in the dark, his panic. His despair lifted for one moment before his grip gave way and he plunged into the black.
He fell.
She moved fast.
His wrist was in her grasp as she teetered at the edge. One-handed she lifted him from the pit and held him close. Fenn buried his head in her shoulder, quivering in shock and fear. She cradled him as she walked him back through the abandoned mine and out into the sunlight. Held him as she walked the desert back to the farm until Garvin saw them approaching.
When they were within a hundred yards Fenn struggled from her grip, sprinting off towards his father. By the time she reached them she could hear Fenn finishing his story, Garvin down on one knee listening intently.
She stopped some way in front of him as he looked up, gratitude in his eyes.
‘I’ve warned him about the old mine a thousand times,’ Garvin said. Darrick had come out of the house now to see what the commotion was about.
‘She has to stay now, Da,’ said Fenn.
Garvin stared at his son, then up at her.
‘If that’s what she wants,’ he said.
She could only nod.
‘You should have seen her,’ said Fenn, running up to his brother. ‘She was quick as silver. Snatched me out of the mineshaft like an arrow.’
‘Silver?’ asked Darrick, clearly unimpressed. ‘Guess that’s what we’ll have to call her then. Until she remembers her real name.’
Garvin looked back at his boys, then at her apologetically.
For the first time she could remember, she smiled. ‘Silver it is.’
10
THE cart trundled along the desert path behind them. Garvin strained in the heat, grasping tight to the leather strap attached to the yoke. Silver walked beside him, her breath coming steady and even, barely feeling the cart’s weight. She tried her best to take most of the strain but Garvin was determined not to be outdone. That brought a smile to her face.
