Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  The bull pushed her aside and slung the limp body over his shoulder. His face was grim as he met her gaze. “One night. We leave in the morning.”

  She pushed her ragged, wet hair out of her face with a shake of the head. “More likely the day after, or the day after that.”

  RATHUS SPLASHED ACROSS the brook and hurried toward the cottage. He cast a worried glance over his shoulder and grew concerned as Groush slung Tristan’s body over his shoulders. The past few days had been troubling. The young man had not looked healthy when they met in the catacombs beneath Feinthresh Castle. What improvement he experienced over the past weeks had been lost after the fights with the Dushken. He had seen Tristan’s wounds; the loss of the finger was neither the most nor least serious, but among the most shocking.

  At times Rathus wondered if it was the scars, Brenna’s stitchery, or sheer obstinacy that held the young man together. If it was the latter, he feared the coin of stubbornness was spent.

  Hurrying past the barn, the nobleman made for the cottage’s red-painted door. His mouth watered as the smell of cooking food struck him.

  “That’s far enough,” an accented voice said from behind him, rich with suspicion. “I’ve had my eye on the four of you for the better part of an hour. What business do you have here?”

  Rathus skidded to a stop in the muddy dooryard and turned toward the slender man lurking on the barn’s lee side. Amber hair fell around an unsmiling face fuzzed with a short beard the color of old hay. Cornflower blue eyes stared at him from behind a crossbow; the weapon was old and polished from use, but the bowstave gleamed as though recently forged – as did the point of the cocked bolt.

  The nobleman slipped his hands through the slits in the sides of his cloak and stretched his arms out wide. “Rathus mac Ranier of House Ranier, bard and traveler—"

  “Don’t have no use for bards. Bunch of thieves and liars. Almost as bad as noblemen – and it seems you’re both.” The man seated the crossbow more comfortably against his shoulder. Rathus started to protest the characterization but closed his mouth with a click of his teeth as the farmer’s finger rested on the crossbow’s tickler. “Now, Lord Liar, what is it you want?”

  “A companion of mine is quite ill and in desperate need of medicines. We need a fire, and food if you can spare it. We’ve been without either for days.”

  The farmer moved away from the barn as other footsteps approached but kept his crossbow pointed at Rathus’s chest. His eyes took in Brenna’s ragged appearance and the sword at Groush’s side, and frowned as he backed toward the cottage’s door. “How do I know you’re not brigands come a-thieving from the mountains? And you with a Hillffolk and a ginger corpse.”

  “Do we look like we’re any good at thieving?” Rathus asked with a humorless smirk.

  The farmer narrowed his eyes. “People have to start somewhere.”

  “Tristan isn’t dead, though he will be if we don’t tend him,” Brenna said, extending her arms in an unthreatening gesture. She shivered as the heat trapped within her cloak escaped.

  “What’s wrong with him? Not plague, is it?” The farmer’s lips tightened. “You’d best be turning around if it is.”

  “Would you not be in a bad way if you were lost in this dreadful weather, sir?” Rathus asked.

  “I’d have the sense not to be out wandering this time of year, but aye, I see your point.”

  Brenna kept her arms wide and voice calm as she took a few steps forward. “It’s not the plague. Our friend has taken some injuries, and they have festered. Please, we need to clean his wounds. If you have any medicines—"

  The cottage door creaked open, catching the attention of everyone but the farmer. The man centered himself in front of the door. “Go back in the house, woman. And you beggars, begone! I’ll not risk the plague here, nor risk waking with my neck slit by a lass dressed as a boy, a fop, and a pet Hillffolk!”

  Groush narrowed his eyes and growled at the insult.

  A young woman with a hand resting on her pregnant belly strode past the farmer before Brenna could open her mouth in protest. Eyes green as spring leaves shone beneath brows a shade darker than the honey gold plait tumbling over her shoulder. The hem of her simple brown dress swirled around her ankles as she moved toward Groush and Tristan. When she spoke, she did so in a rolling, liquid accent. “The lad’s taken ill, then?”

  The farmer moved to block her. “Don’t you be going near them, Heather. Look at them! Like as not, they’re ruffians who tangled with someone they shouldn’t have. We’ll be having someone coming to call for vengeance.”

  “Seamus Gann, ye worry too much about things not to be worried over,” Heather said, pushing the crossbow toward the sky. She rolled her eyes and stepped toward Groush, brushing back Tristan’s lank hair to peer at his sickly face. “Aye, look at them, ye nit – chilled, and naught but skin over bone. Even yon Hillffolk looks a wee bit on the spare side.”

  “Heather—”

  Rathus’s eyes darted between the pregnant woman and the nervous farmer. “You’re familiar with Hillffolk?”

  “Aye, they’d come to trade at me da’s house when I was lassie,” Heather said with a vague wave to the north and east. She clucked her tongue with a shake of her head as she laid her hand on Tristan’s brow. “The lad’s in a bad way. Best take him inside, so we can better see what ails him.”

  Seamus shook his head as he moved to block the door. With the young woman in the way of a clear shot, the crossbow remained pointed at the sky. “No. You can’t be sure they’ve not got the plague. I’ll not take the risk – not with you, and not with the bairn coming.”

  Eyes hard and lips pressed in a thin line, Heather squared her slender shoulders and rounded on Seamus with a finger lifted toward his nose. “Are ye a physicker?”

  “No,” Seamus said, backing up a step as his wife advanced on him.

  “No. Ye’re a decent tinker and a passable farmer. Was me da a physicker?”

  “Aye, he was—"

  “Did he no teach me what he knew?”

  “Aye, but—"

  “Then let me tell you this, Seamus Gann,” Heather said, waving her finger as the farmer’s back bumped the cottage wall. “’Twas yer idea to be moving away out here to Caledorn’s fringe, with the nearest village three days away at a good step. Stranger or neighbor, I’ll no be turning away people coming to our door needing help because ye mislike the look of them.” She ran her eyes across his dirty clothing. “Ye don’t look so much a prize yerself, so ye’re the last one ought to be judging!”

  Seamus scowled. “There’ve been rumors of plague—"

  “It’s not the bloody plague!” Brenna snapped.

  “I agree with the lass. Now, ye’d best be doing the right and good thing, Seamus. Put down that bow and show some kindness to those in need,” Heather said, glaring at her husband. She thrust a finger at Rathus. “You go with him to the barn and start setting up a place for yerself and the Hillffolk to sleep. Seamus will show ye how to work his forge. It’s not a hearth, but it keeps the barn warm enough.”

  Seamus looked as though he was about to protest but yielded with a slump of his shoulders. He frowned and waved his hand for the bard to follow him to the barn. The nobleman’s eyes slid toward Brenna, and he followed the farmer with a resigned shrug of the shoulder when the young woman nodded.

  “Show the man where to draw water and where we keep the soaps, aye?” Heather called after them. “He’ll be wanting to bathe, as will the Hillffolk. They’ll be wanting some clean clothes, so fetch them some. On yer way back from the barn, stop at the still and bring up a bottle of the whisky – as well as water and lye, aye?

  “Husbands,” the woman said with an exasperated sigh, turning to Brenna as the others walked away. “He’s a good lad. A bit dead from the neck up at times, though, and ye’ve no doubt scandalized him with yer dress.”

  Brenna glanced down at her muddy britches, filthy oversized shirt with broken laces at the neck
, and the too-large cloak. She had grown so accustomed to her appearance that it had not occurred to her how others might react. “It’s a long story.”

  “Och, no doubt, the way you lot look. Now, let’s get your man inside afore he catches his death from the ague in the wet and cold.” Heather gestured Groush toward the cottage. “Lay him there on the floor by the fire, lad. We’ll tend him soon enough. Close the door on yer way out so that the house can get warm again.”

  She pressed her hands into the small of her back and regarded Brenna with frank curiosity as the bull ducked under the lintel. “Ye’ve the Anahari look. ‘Tis odd to see one of ye with a ginger and a Hillffolk. Am I to guess ye ran together and came against a spot of bother?”

  “We did. Your husband’s not wrong, though. Someone will be searching for us.”

  “Dushken,” Groush said as he stepped out of the house and closed the door behind him.

  “I’m not worried about Dushken,” Heather said with a flip of her hand.

  Brenna’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You know of them?”

  “Aye, we see them coming out of Merid sometimes. Heard about the ones down in Anahar.” Heather’s eyes turned to the Hillffolk. “More like to see your kind, though. What’s yer name, lad?”

  “Groush.”

  “One of the southern tribes, are you?” Heather smiled as the bull started. “The skin’s a giveaway, lad, being so brown. Northern tribes are a mite paler. What are you called, lass?”

  “Brenna.”

  “Ye ken your friend doesnae have the plague. You a physicker, then?”

  “No. I know a little about it from books, and through practice.”

  “Well, then, I’ll be needing yer help. A little knowing is better than none, and Seamus can be squeamish about the blood. ‘Twill be an interesting day when the bairn comes, aye?” Heather laughed, patting the swell of her belly. “Very well, then. Groush, take yerself on down to the barn. Seamus will bring ye some soap and water. Ye’ll need some tending, too, but ye can wait ‘til I’ve seen to yon ginger.”

  “Go and rest,” Brenna said when he cast her a questioning look. “She may not be worried about the Dushken, but I think we’d best keep an eye out.”

  Groush turned toward the barn with a smirk of sour amusement. “I’ll have a word with Rathus. His verse may be shit, but there’s nothing wrong with his eyes and ears.”

  Chapter 58

  Brenna examined her surroundings as Heather took her sodden cloak. The Caledorn woman stepped around Tristan’s sprawled body to hang it on a peg near the fireplace.

  The cottage’s firelit warmth was almost stifling after so long in the chill autumn air, but not unpleasant. Tapers in pewter candlesticks brightened the cottage’s main room, driving back the gray light coming through the small windows framing the door and the chimney. To the left was the bedchamber, the foot of a bed visible through the open door; to the right was a kitchen area with stone counters and a large iron cookstove beside the hearth, its smokestack angled to meet the chimney. An oak table dominated the eastern wall, circled by stout chairs with seats cushioned in muted wools. She spied a spinning wheel in a corner, and freestanding cabinets and chests of drawers lined the room.

  “Ye heard me say Seamus was a tinker, aye?” Heather asked, leaning an elbow on the mantle mounted over the hearth. She gestured around her. “He built all this – the house, the outbuildings, and the furniture. Quite talented, he is. Had a shop in Darhadeen, doing carpentry and stonemasonry, and worked with metal and suchlike.”

  “Darhadeen?”

  “Caledorn’s crown seat,” Heather said as she rummaged through the topmost drawer of a chest of drawers. She took a roll of leather-bound in cord and set it on a small table by the hearth. “That’s how I came to meet him, in a way. Me da is a physicker with a sandy foot; likes to travel about, visiting those too far from town for easy care. When I was old enough, I went with him; me ma was happy to have one less child underfoot. I learned the womanly arts during the winter, but me heart always stayed with helping the poor souls out in the country. When we ran afoul of thieves, they took all me da’s knives and things. We needed replacements made, so off to Darhadeen we went.”

  “If he had a good business, how did you end up out here?”

  “Be a dear and get the lad’s boots off, will ye? The bairn’s due in a fortnight or two, and the weight has strained me back something fierce.” Heather moved a short, spindly table beside the rug on which Tristan lay and eased herself to the floor with a series of grunts before continuing her rambling. “Seamus wanted away from the crowds of too many people living too close together.

  “He’s a good lad, skilled with his hands,” she said with a wink and a rub of her belly, “and was looking for a bride when he ended up there. This is how things are the way they are – not at first, mind, but after months of seeing him for this piece or that. Sold all he had to buy the land, and didna ask me to take him to husband ‘til he had most of this built.”

  Brenna struggled with Tristan’s ill-fitting right boot, which was too tight across the heel and too narrow through the toe. The leather had cracked and stretched with wear, but constant saturation had caused it to tighten. She grabbed the back of his calf with her right hand and pulled on the boot’s heel with her right. “He sounds quite handy.”

  “Quite. Dinnae be getting the wrong impression, Seamus is a good man, but he – och, bloody hell.”

  Both women winced as the boot slipped off and took the torn wool stocking with it. Blisters had formed and burst, and trapped water and cold had turned the surface layers of flesh white. Hanks of dead skin hung in ribbons from his heel and along the sides of his foot.

  “Best to cut off the other boot,” Heather said with a frown. She took the leather bundle from the table and unrolled, revealing fine-bladed knives and other tools tucked into loops and pockets sewn to the inside of the packet. She selected one of the blades and handed it to Brenna. “This sometimes happens, usually with the shepherds in the high country. Easy to treat if caught early enough. This... is a bit worse than I like seeing.”

  Brenna held the knife and looked up at the other woman with uncertainty. “We need these boots.”

  “He’ll not be going anywhere for a few days. When you go, we’ll give you a pair of Seamus’ old boots. This lad’s feet are small, which is saying something for how large he is.” Heather lifted Tristan’s foot and prodded the skin with her fingertip. “Not as bad as I feared. We’ll need to prop his feet up and dry them, then salve with comfrey.”

  The woman frowned when she saw the inflamed skin and simple stitches through the tear in his britches. “Best tell me what all has happened to him.”

  “What hasn’t?” Brenna said with a humorless laugh. She began sawing through the other boot, cataloging the list of injuries that Tristan had taken and how. Using another short-bladed knife to cut away soiled clothing, Heather listened without comment. Her lips tightened as the Anahari woman explained the fight resulting in the bitten fingers.

  The door opened, admitting Seamus and a draft of cold air. He scowled as he saw the shreds of clothing and Tristan’s bared skin. “What are you doing with the man?”

  “What do ye think? Close the bloody door before you kill the lad with the cold. Did ye bring the whisky?”

  “Aye,” Seamus said, heeling the door shut. His face tightened beneath his beard as he held out the bottle cradled in his hands, his eyes moving across the scars, bruises, and cuts covering the younger man’s body. “The lad’s in a bad way. You’ll be needing the water put to boil, I’m guessing?”

  “On the cookstove, if ye please.” Uncorking the bottle, Heather took a long swig then handed it to Brenna. “For yer nerves, lass. If the finger’s as bad as ye’re saying, ye’ll be needing the fortification.”

  STRIPPED AND LAID OUT before the hearth with nothing but the glove on his left hand, Tristan looked more like a corpse than a living person. His belly was concave, and bruises fro
m the weight of his belt bloomed on bony hips. The mass of scar tissue where his right nipple had been had gone silver in the center but remained purplish at the edges; the coloring was made starker by the hollows between his ribs. Hard and sharp, his cheekbones were spared from severity by the heavy growth of his russet beard on his hollow cheeks.

  Heather washed him clean with a rough wool rag, removing the stench of old sweat and filth as Brenna and Seamus shifted his gangly frame. She wrapped his feet in cloths soaked in a salve of comfrey, calendula, and yarrow root. The stitches closing the gash in his thigh, back, and shoulder were cut and drawn from the skin, then debrided. Pus pockets hidden within the lesions burst under her ministrations; chickweed poultices were applied to draw out the remaining infection, held in place with thick swaths of wool. The abscess on his tailbone was lanced and drained, and a compress of honey and cabbage leaves applied.

  Tristan remained quiet through the washing and dressing of his wounds, his face pinched with discomfort. He would occasionally wake, uncomprehending eyes glazed and feverish, before fading back into unconsciousness.

  “My apologies. I thought for certain you were brigands looking for an easy mark,” Seamus said to Brenna as they rested. He had removed his coat, and his unbleached linen shirt clung to his sweating chest as he built the hearth fire higher. He cleared his throat and sipped from the whisky cup at his side. “You have to understand, there’ve been reports of a plague throughout the region and troubles near Merid’s border. With this one sickening...”

  He cleared his throat. “The gods tell us we’re to be generous to those in need. When they tested me, I failed.”

  Brenna shrugged as she flexed her bare feet. She was happy to have them out of her oversized boots. “I’d have been suspicious of us, too. We look dreadful.”

  Heather seated herself more comfortably beside her husband. She took the whisky bottle from the spindly table, poured a measure into a carved wooden bowl, and set several fine-bladed cutting tools to soak. “Ye look half dead yerself. What hurts are ye hiding?”