by Resa Nelson
Picking up her waster, Margreet delivered a couple of blows. She stopped to point across the floor, showing the path they would take. Astrid still looked confused, so Margreet physically placed her in the starting position, pushing the waster Astrid still had in hand above her head. “Now, stay there,” Margreet said. She took the exact same position at Astrid’s side. “Ready…strike!”
When Margreet stepped forward and delivered the blow, Astrid remained frozen in place.
Margreet walked toward Astrid and grabbed onto the wooden blade near the crossguard, which was all she could reach with Astrid holding the training weapon above her head. “Ready,” Margreet said slowly and clearly, looking into Astrid’s eyes. Margreet said, “Strike,” and she forcibly brought the blade down, pulling Astrid to make her step forward. “Ready,” Margreet said, raising the blade high again. On “strike,” she forced the blade down and pulled Astrid forward once more. When Margreet said, “Ready” and raised the blade again, Astrid brightened, babbling incoherently but excitedly.
Margreet smiled, motioning for Astrid to join her side at their original starting position. “Ready…strike!”
This time, Astrid brought her blade down and stepped forward in unison with Margreet.
Overjoyed, Margreet turned her head to look at Astrid, who smiled back at her. Nodding her approval, Margreet looked forward, focusing on an imaginary opponent whose skull she intended to open. “Ready…strike!” Again, the women delivered the same blow and footwork, side by side.
Throughout the day, Margreet and Astrid drilled together. It wasn’t until their work ended and they joined the master and his family for dinner that Margreet thought about Gershon for the first time that day. She experienced just a momentary thought, a brief remembrance of herself as a married woman despite the fact that she was beginning to feel like a maiden again.
Margreet smiled with surprise at how much that feeling delighted her.
This is right, the small voice inside her said. This is good.
Margreet kept smiling. For the first time since she’d escaped the attack at Limru, she listened closely to that voice instead of brushing it away.
CHAPTER 51
That night, Astrid kept to her new routine. After the sun set and all lingering light vanished from the sky, she joined Vinchi and Margreet in the great hall at a table near that of the master and his family for light supper.
Astrid and her companions sat together at a table covered with a plain linen cloth. They washed their hands in bowls of water brought in by servants and then wiped their hands dry on the end of the tablecloth hanging by their laps.
Astrid still had to remind herself to wait patiently for one of the master’s sons to speak before the servants delivered food to the tables. The boys took turns, and tonight the youngster who had handed his wooden sword to Margreet during practice stood and spoke quickly. He acted hungry and anxious, just like Astrid. At dinner, the boys spoke the Northlander language to stay in good practice. “Thank you Krystr for giving life to man. Food is life. We beg forgiveness for sharing this food with the lower kind, but we know the females cannot help what they are. We forgive your mistake in making them, we men.”
No matter how many times she witnessed it, Astrid couldn’t help but press her lips together in frustration as she watched the males at the master’s table say in response, “We men,” while the women and girls looked down in shame. Margreet always did the same, and no matter how many times Astrid spoke with Vinchi about it, he wouldn’t encourage Margreet to do otherwise, claiming Margreet showed wisdom in fitting in and that Astrid endangered herself by holding her head up.
Hogwash.
When she glanced around her own table, Astrid paused and smiled.
For once, instead of bowing her head in shame like the other women, Margreet sat with her arms folded, her face drawn in the most serious expression Astrid had ever seen her muster. Margreet stared into empty space.
Astrid cleared her throat until Margreet cast a glance at her. Looking directly into her eyes, Astrid smiled.
One corner of Margreet’s mouth turned up slightly, enough to make Astrid break into a grin.
She started at the moment Vinchi, sitting next to her, smacked his knee directly into hers, making it smart. Wincing, Astrid turned to complain only to be silenced by the frightened look in his eyes.
He’d warned her many times during the past weeks to remember that they were no longer in the Northlands or even the Midlands. Here, in the Southlands, they had entered territories already conquered by the armies of Krystr and monitored by his servants, the roving clerks. The master of this mansion had succeeded in preventing any clerks from making themselves at home here, but bands of them wandered the countryside and were likely to arrive for a visit—possibly even a long visit—at any time.
It was, therefore, in Astrid’s best interest to act with caution except when alone with Vinchi and Margreet. In fact, he’d advised her to follow Margreet’s lead in humbling herself whether in the company of men or women or children.
Astrid imagined his horror now that Margreet followed Astrid’s lead instead.
Even more reason to convince Margreet to begin a new life in Guell once the winter snows had melted in the Northlands, making it possible to travel through the mountain passes again.
While the master and his family ate a meal of white bread, venison stew, and pastries, Vinchi, Margreet, and Astrid received small loaves of bread with the insides hollowed out and a large wooden bowl of the stew to pour into the hollow of the bread. Pepper spiced the stew, laced with cloves and heavy with garlic. At the end of the meal, Astrid palmed a small wedge of cheese. She slipped away from the table at the same time the master’s wife prepared to sing the evening’s entertainment. Even though Astrid believed it a poor excuse, she’d asked Vinchi to explain to their hosts that because she was a Northlander, Astrid normally slept longer hours in the winter and shorter hours in the summer due to her body being attuned to sunlight. Margreet glared in envy when Astrid left, but this time Astrid paid her no mind.
At night, the rooms and hallways of the stone mansion glowed from the flames in the fireplace and the flickering light of torches sconced on the walls. Outside the Great Hall, warmed mostly by the bodies of all the people inside it, stark and chilled air drifted through the building. Walking through an empty chamber, Astrid borrowed a bearskin cloak draped across the back of a chair before she went out into the frigid night.
She strolled around one side of the manor, and the frozen brown grass broke under every step. Cattle lowed nearby. The light from the sparse quarter moon caught the light parts of their black-and-white patterned skin, making the grazing animals look like misshapen ghosts floating above the ground. Her eyes adjusted to the point where she could see the shape of each animal’s body.
Astrid smiled while an owl screamed like a woman being murdered in the distance. Long ago, she’d learned to recognize the difference between an owl’s screech and a woman’s voice, even though both sounds made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
She ran a hand around her neck, rubbing the skin to warm up. A few months had passed since Trep had used his dagger to cut her hair off close to the scalp at Astrid’s request. Her hair had grown about a thumb’s length since then, hugging her head in straight but shaggy locks. She smiled as she ran her fingers through her own hair, suddenly missing Trep and the way he called her “Girly.” She laughed, remembering the time she thought he looked glad to see her despite his true joy in winning a bet based on the day the blacksmiths would see her again.
This had become her favorite time of day. Astrid strolled to the back of the mansion and sat on a large rock by the tiny pond the servants had created for the children. This was when she remembered Guell and everyone she’d left behind. She thought of Donel and all the times he’d shown up at her doorstep, begging her to take him on as an apprentice. She thought about Randim and the other blacksmiths, wishing she could be with them i
n the heat of the smithery. She missed the smoke and the solid feel of striking iron on an anvil. She even missed clearing the slag, the metallic flakes that seemed to emerge magically from the iron after striking it. But she also missed the company of men who understood her in ways that no one else could because they were blacksmiths, like her.
Astrid kept thinking about Lenore, who once had married a wealthy man and lived in a manor like this one. Now Astrid clearly understood why Lenore could never be happy in such a place. After spending time with the master of this mansion and his family and observing the way they lived, she felt a deeper appreciation for everything Lenore had told her. Despite the mansion’s beauty, it looked too big and too formal. At first, Astrid had been impressed with the sheer size of the building and felt enchanted walking from room to room. But it didn’t take long before she began to see the place as impractical, drafty, and cold. She missed the cozy warmth of her small home back in Guell almost as much as she missed the warmth and companionship of her friends.
She shivered, feeling the cold from the hard stone seep through her clothes. Glancing up, she smiled at the sparse clouds in the night sky and the brightness of the moon and the stars. It wouldn’t be too much longer.
Almost on cue, mist began to rise from the pond in wispy, pale sheets.
Astrid drew her knees to her chest, hugging them close for warmth but also because she knew that if she tried to touch him, she’d feel nothing but the cold mist.
A familiar shape pressed itself into the mist and took form when it drifted toward her. Astrid smiled and said, “Hello, DiStephan.”
CHAPTER 52
“Every time I ask Vinchi about all of us going back to Guell, he makes up an excuse,” Astrid said to the misty shape of DiStephan sitting next to her. “He’s afraid we’ll run into Gershon, but I think it’s worth the risk.”
Astrid imagined it took all of DiStephan’s strength to keep the mist in the shape he’d had when alive. Mist rolled across his invisible skin and the shape of his dragonslayer clothing. The mist clung to his face, allowing Astrid to read his expressions. Under the moon and the stars, his ghostly body glowed eerily, although not quite as frightening as the reflection on the spotted cows that made them look like spirits hovering off the ground. That had been a disturbing sight the first time Astrid had seen them.
DiStephan’s misty face hadn’t changed. He simply listened, as he often did on these frigid nights.
“I want Margreet to come to Guell. She doesn’t seem to miss Gershon—not any more. And she’s not prissy like some of the people here. I think she’d have no problem rolling up her sleeves and working in the fields.”
The spirit extended his arms, holding his hands together in a grip, and the mist spilled down and took the shape of a sword.
“Yes!” Astrid beamed. “Isn’t it exciting? It was wonderful training with Margreet today. Did you see us?”
DiStephan’s ghost didn’t need to nod his head. His face, now beaming like Astrid’s, was all she needed to see.
“They have a blacksmith here, and he hates me. Said he wants nothing to do with a woman ‘pretending’ to be a blacksmith. Can you imagine?”
DiStephan’s ghost shook its head, his happy expression fading.
“It’s fine,” Astrid said quickly. “I don’t mind. I know my anvil waits for me at home. I don’t have time for blacksmithing now anyway. I’m too busy learning about swords with Margreet. Then once spring comes, I’ll take Margreet back to Guell. I’ve decided Vinchi can come, too, if he wishes.”
She paused. “You know he won’t give Starlight back to me because he says you’ve been friends since you were boys. Is that true?”
The ghost nodded.
Astrid sighed. “All right then. He may want to avoid Gershon, and there’s no safer place to hide than Guell. I’ve seen the skins Gershon sells. He may be skilled at killing bears and wolves, but he didn’t have a single lizard skin. I’ll wager he’s terrified of them, and I imagine that’s why Guell isn’t on his trade route and probably never will be.” A new thought silenced Astrid for a moment, and then she said, “If you and Vinchi were friends, does that mean you were also friendly with Gershon?”
DiStephan’s ghost shook his head.
“But you knew him.”
This time, the ghost nodded.
“And Margreet? Did you know her?”
The ghost nodded again.
A flush of happiness hit Astrid like the sudden whoosh of a fire. Learning she met the same people that DiStephan had known during his life made her feel closer to him. She could pretend he was still alive.
By asking a series of simple questions, she learned that DiStephan had recognized and seemed troubled by the problems Gershon and Margreet shared. But he’d never seen Gershon strike his wife. DiStephan had seen only signs of the aftermath and hadn’t known what he could do to help the woman, especially because she didn’t seem to want any.
She knew how seriously DiStephan took his responsibilities as a dragonslayer. It must have pained him to see a woman in need of help, all the while not being able to find a way to give her what she needed.
“You helped us,” Astrid said quietly, just now understanding what she’d witnessed weeks ago. “I recognized you at the entrance to the forest. You stood and let the hail coat your spirit body to form a shell. And the others—were they spirits you met in the forest?”
The ghost nodded.
“Were they spirits of the Keepers of Limru? The ones murdered by the followers of Krystr?”
The ghost nodded again.
Astrid remembered the way Margreet had chanted at the Temple of Limru on the day they’d created a funeral pyre for the people killed there.
Overwhelmed, Astrid’s eyes filled with tears.
She started at a cool, damp touch on her cheek. DiStephan’s ghostly hand lingered, ready to wipe away her tears. Astrid paused to collect herself. “It’s all right. I was just thinking about Margreet. They were her people. Did you know?”
Again, the ghost nodded.
“They helped you. By helping you, they helped us. And then we set them free.”
The ghostly fingertips trailed down Astrid’s cheek, making her shiver.
“Margreet knew, didn’t she? When we first saw you and the other spirits encased in ice, she must have recognized them. That’s why she helped us set them free.”
The ghostly fingertips faded, leaving only half of DiStephan’s hand intact.
Astrid glanced at the tiny pond. A slight layer of mist drifted through the tips of the dead grass blades. DiStephan had probably exhausted himself from holding a recognizable form together for so long. “I should go back inside.”
But she sat, as always, until DiStephan’s ghost had dissipated completely, leaving no hint that he had ever sat by her side on that or any other night.
Sighing, Astrid rose, stretching her arms wide and yawning at the night sky. Turning to leave, she hesitated.
There, in the moonlight, were tracks she had seen only once before. Tracks she’d discovered by Sigurthor’s dead body in the mountains of the Northlands.
Wide eyed, she stared in disbelief at the tracks the size of a man’s foot with the claws of a lizard.
They were the tracks of a monster.
CHAPTER 53
Early the next morning, Astrid cornered Vinchi in the practice hall before the boys arrived for their daily work with weapons. Although the winters were mild like autumn here in the Southlands, Astrid’s breath hung lightly in the chilly air. No one bothered to use the fireplaces in this room. Once the boys arrived and began their work, the room naturally warmed up to a comfortable temperature. But right now, whenever Astrid inhaled, the air left a chalky taste on the back of her tongue.
“A monster has followed us here!” she whispered to Vinchi.
“What?” Each week, Vinchi sat on a bench and rubbed linseed oil into each waster to prevent it from cracking or breaking during practice. Winter’s dry air af
fected the wooden weapons.
“A monster. I saw it in the mountains. In the Northlands. I don’t know how it followed us, but it has. Everyone is in danger!”
Vinchi poured oil the color of liquid amber on a rag and rubbed the blade of the waster in hand slowly, letting the wood drink in the liquid. “What kind of monster are we talking about?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does it look like?”
Astrid shrugged. She sat down on the bench next to him and pointed at the fuller carved down the length of the blade. “You missed a spot.”
Wrenching his mouth in a peeved expression, Vinchi handed the waster and rag to her. “Then fix it.” He picked up a dry waster, poured a dollop of oil in the center of another rag, and went to work. “Did you actually see this monster?”
Happy to have something to do, Astrid rubbed the oil hard into the waster’s fuller, what some people mistakenly called the “blood channel,” thinking it a place for blood to run down a sword during battle. In reality, the fuller simply made the sword lighter. Or, in this case, made the waster lighter. Answering Vinchi’s question, she said, “Not exactly. Not the monster itself. But its footprint is behind the mansion, and I saw the exact same footprint in the Northland mountains by the dead body of a merchant.”
Vinchi paled as he looked up from the waster. “A merchant?”
“Sigurthor. He’s a Northlander. He always brought sweet onions to Guell.” She hesitated. “DiStephan loved those onions. He said they reminded him of home—where he and his father came from.”
Vinchi appeared understandably shaken. No merchant wanted to hear about someone like himself being murdered on the road. Vinchi’s hands trembled while he ran the oiled rag over his waster. “Why do you think those footprints belong to a monster? Couldn’t they have been Sigurthor’s footprints? Couldn’t he have simply died a natural death? It happens to merchants all the time while they’re traveling.”
