Wherever that was.
—
Half a day’s weary trudging through the undergrowth just off the road was enough to convince Jerrah that her situation was hopeless. As the sun climbed in the sky, it beat on her head and caused sweat to break out beneath her leather gear.
Whenever she came to a stream, she drank to fool her belly into feeling full, as much to quench her thirst. Her stomach sent a constant gnawing reminder that the ruse didn’t work.
Still the moment she came upon another watercourse, she dropped once more, her ears ever alert for movement on the road. She’d drink what she could before wading downstream to throw off any trackers, but before she could dip her hand for a cooling draught, the dreaded thud of hoofbeats echoed in the heavy air.
She ducked into the brush that grew along the bank, her attention on the stone arch spanning the stream. A pair of armed men on warhorses trotted from the opposing direction. At the bridge, they slowed, scanning from horizon to horizon beneath the shade of their hands.
Jerrah held her breath.
One of the men pointed—but not at her. Moments passed until a cart came trundling toward the bridge. A young woman dressed in layers of floaty fabric hues of bright blue, a blinding pink, and deep green drove a plodding cob. A slight breeze stirred the loose strands of her purple hair, while the sun glinted on a number of gold bands jangling about her wrists.
If Jerrah dared move, she’d have shaken her head. What a silly girl to call attention to herself in such a way.
In the middle of the span, she reined her cob to a halt. One of the men kept his mount directly in front of her, blocking the road, while the other spurred his steed in a slow circle about the cart.
Jerrah’s heartbeat kicked up. Soundlessly, she let her fingers slip toward the dagger sheathed in her boot. Surely the men would pull the girl onto the riverbank to have their way with her.
While one of the men lifted a canvas sheet and began to rummage in the back of the wagon, the other barked questions.
“Who are you?”
“Where are you bound?”
“Have you met anyone on the road?”
Though the girl supplied answers, her voice did not carry as well as the soldier’s. Jerrah could not distinguish individual words; she could only pick up a particular cadence to the girl’s speech—a familiar cadence, one she’d heard often enough in the northern Freeholds when her brothers traveled there collecting followers.
“What business do you have in at Highspring Moor?”
Whatever the girl replied, it caused her interrogator to stiffen, his tanned face growing pale. His partner dropped the canvas.
“Carry on, then.” Without a further word, both men dug their heels into their horses’ flanks and galloped off.
Jerrah rolled her lips into her mouth and remained where she was, fully expecting the purple-haired girl to slap the reins and continue her journey. Instead, she jumped from her cart, grasped the reins, and led her cob to the roadside beyond the bridge. From there, her fingers worked the buckles that secured the harness to the cart.
Damn it. But it did make sense to water the animal with leagues of pulling a heavy load under a hot sun before it.
As the girl led her beast to the riverbank, Jerrah shrank back. Too far. To avoid overbalancing, she slapped a hand behind her. A branch snapped, the crack seeming to echo in the still air.
The girl stiffened. “Who’s there?”
Though the effort was futile, Jerrah stayed where she was.
No matter, for the girl’s gaze lit on her the next moment. “Ye’re the one they’re lookin’ for, aren’t ye?” The question emerged in the lilting accent of the Freeholds.
“Yes, and I don’t wish to be caught.”
Wrapping the reins about her wrist, the other girl crouched beside the stream. She nodded at the bloodstained and tattered symbol on Jerrah’s jerkin. “Ye’re one o’ ’em, ain’t ye? One o’ the Brotherhood.”
Jerrah focused on the tattoo of multi-colored stars arching across the girl’s cheek from the corner of her right eye. Gods, everything about her drew the eye. How had she managed to travel all the leagues between here and the Freeholds in safety?
More than that, she knew. Of course she did. Though the Brotherhood rode under a banner decorated with a Black Kerrick, a bird deemed to be an ill omen among the Eastern Strongholds, the free men to the north viewed matters rather differently, both bird and Brotherhood. Still, Jerrah said nothing.
“My younger brother rides with ye.”
“Younger brother?” Jerrah burst out. This girl couldn’t be much older than eighteen, and the only youth who’d joined the Brotherhood was Torch’s squire. Yet, the thought gave her hope this girl wouldn’t turn her in to the next troop of Magnus’s soldiers she encountered.
“What can ye tell me of him? I’d hoped to send news to our parents.”
“What’s his name?” If this girl wasn’t lying, she’d give Owl’s true name and not the alias he used among the Brotherhood.
“Allard.” Truth.
“He is with my older brother. In fine health the last I saw of him. You may call me Swift.” Honest or not, Jerrah wasn’t about to bandy her true name before an essential stranger.
“Artis.”
Jerrah pushed to her feet. A quick scan of the road proved her luck to be holding. For now. “I need to keep moving.”
“Ye need help hiding.”
Jerrah let her gaze travel from Artis’s purple hair to the turned-up tips of her bright pink boots. Everything about her screamed, Look at me, and remember what you see. “You’re going to help me hide?”
“I can change yer appearance. They’re looking for a warrior, not the daughter of Freehold drapers delivering cloth and dyes to the capital.” She reached out and tugged at a bright red tress of Jerrah’s hair. “I can change this to whatever ye like—pink, green, blue…”
“Brown. Dull brown.”
The corners of Artis’s mouth turned down. “That’s so uninteresting.”
“I don’t wish to be interesting.” She didn’t wish to be memorable. She didn’t wish to stand out in a crowd. “I wish to pass unnoticed. Also, I can’t pay you. I’ve nothing to offer beyond protection, should we meet more soldiers.”
Artis waved a hand, setting the gold bands about her wrist to clinking. “I think I’ve worked that part out.”
Jerrah took a step closer. “Yes, tell me about that. How did you get rid of them?”
“I had only to mention my delivery to Lady Damaris.”
“Who is she?”
“Besides the person who ordered a cartload of sheer Freehold cloth and dyes, I don’t know. But the name certainly gave ’em a fright.”
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