by Kalliver, AJ
He frowned, and made a vague gesture towards the hills to the west.
“I’ve kin in the hills, yonder. They have goats that they tend, and chickens, and a cow or two. I’m told they have a daughter of an age to marry, so I’m off to see if she’ll make a match for myself, or my brother back home.”
Lyra nodded; it seemed plausible enough, though Beyen in no way had the look of a farmer or herder about him. Inevitably, of course, the question was turned upon her.
“And yourself?” he asked, as innocently as you please, and she belatedly wished that she had remained silent. “It’s not so unusual to see a warrior wench--“ He caught himself, a bit late, and coughed into his hand to cover his slip. “That’s to say, there’s women warriors enough in the world, surely. Still, to find one so fair—“ here she nodded politely in acknowledgement of the compliment, “—and with such a fine warhorse and gear, and being a Sorceress thrown in for good measure… that’s more than a little odd. At least, it is in these parts.” He gave her a sideways, apprising look. “Are you some lord’s elite guardswoman, or maybe a general’s messenger?”
That ventured very far into territory she’d rather not explore, so she sidestepped his question.
“I am no Sorceress.” The stroking of the brush through her hair grew a bit agitated at the very suggestion, and she made herself relax. Beyen, for his part, merely raised his reddened, blistered hand for her to see.
“Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady; if you aren’t a sorceress then how did I get this?” She raised an eyebrow, and felt a stir of amusement as he stammered for a moment before qualifying his question. “I mean, I know it was forward of me, last night. It’s just that it was bitter cold, and I thought we might share blankets, to help stay warm.”
Lyra wasn’t so sure she believed that version of events, though there would be nothing gained from arguing the point. She contented herself with a small smile at his discomfort.
“I never said that I had no magic; I do, and more so than most who would call themselves adept. It’s just that I come by it naturally, and not by something as vile as Sorcery.”
This only seemed to confuse him further.
“Naturally? I have to say I don’t get what you mean by—“ His words wound down to silence, and his stare became wide-eyed as she finished the brushing of her hair by pulling the thick ebon mane to one side so that she could get at it from beneath. Without the hair to soften the lines of her face, she knew the angularity of her cheekbones was more pronounced. The slight slant to her eyes, too, was sometimes enough for an observant man to hazard a guess as to her nature. That her ears came to faint points at the tips was an even stronger clue, and also the reason she always wore her hair loose when in the company of others.
“You’ve elf-blood in you,” he breathed, looking torn between horror and wonder.
She put the brush aside, and located the small sack among her things that held the tea leaves.
“Only a quarter, through my mother.” She added the tea to the steaming water, and set the pot aside to steep. The cakes and bacon she deftly flipped with the tip of her dagger, and sniffed appreciatively at the mouth-watering smell that resulted. That she found an excuse to have the dagger in her hand at that moment was also prudence, though he looked less likely to attack her for the revelation than most lowlanders would have been.
Elves, and those few who possessed a bit of elf-blood, were not well liked, especially this near to the borderlands.
Although Lyra watched him as she served up the food, and the tea, he made no move that could be interpreted as hostile. He even drank first, putting to rest any fears that he’d tried to poison or drug her… and that was just as well. There was still all her gear to gather up, and Derofehr to tend and saddle. Those were chores enough; better if she didn’t need to kill a man along with all the rest of it.
* * * * *
An hour later they were on the road, Lyra riding and Beyen walking alongside her. For a time she’d considered urging Derofehr to a faster pace, in order to leave the man far behind. Unfortunately, the mare’s injuries were still paining her, and she would likely have trouble maintaining even a trot for any distance. The woman eventually resigned herself to being accompanied by the hillman. This was, however, made somewhat more difficult by the steady stream of questions with which he soon began to bombard her.
“How old’re you, anyway?” was the first, and most blunt. “From the hair, I’d say you were… older. Forty years, maybe, if you were a human woman.” She didn’t much care for the way he said that, as if she weren’t in any way a human woman. There was also the matter of her apparent age, which made her hand rise by reflex, to touch her hair. It was as thick as ever, and as sleekly-soft, and the threads of silver amid all the ebony were relatively few. There were more of them now than there had been a decade ago, though, and that bothered Lyra just slightly more than she cared to admit. She must have frowned in resentment, or perhaps he belatedly realized the tactlessness of what he had said, for Beyen hastened to make amends. “Everywhere’s else, though, all the rest,” a wave of his hand took in her face and form. “—Looks fine. Young, I mean. Younger than I am, surely.”
It was a clumsy attempt at a compliment, especially when it followed the insult so closely. It did, however, mollify her slightly, and prompt her to glance at him, and wonder at his own age. Less than thirty years, surely, though probably not by a great deal. He met her searching eyes, and smiled.
“So… how—“ a moment passed as he visibly strained to find a more diplomatic phrasing “—How long have you lived?” Lyra considered the man frankly. He was little more than a child to her, and a crude child at that, and still…. He was attempting to be charming. He was even succeeding, if only barely, and it was a more interesting conversation than those she had with her horse. She looked away from his stare, yet she did finally relent and answer.
“I’ve more than three centuries behind me now,” she said softly, scanning the woods around them as they moved along the narrow road. “It’s often difficult to judge what span one of mixed blood will be granted. If I age as do most of my kind, then I may have only another fifty years, perhaps less, before I truly begin to show age.” She was, if nothing else, human enough to dread the loss of her smooth face and firm body, as well as the vitality her long youth had granted her. She shook her head and pushed the thought away; time enough to face that day when it arrived. “I’ll likely live another century or two beyond that… unless I am killed this very day because some noisy fool drew foes upon us with his chattering.”
He gave her an unrepentant grin which made him look somewhat younger than she’d just guessed.
“’Only’ another fifty years of such beauty remaining to you? And still likely to see my grandson’s grandson put in the ground before you’re done?” He shook his head. “Forgive me; I’m guessin’ it seems to you that your time is growing short, but to such as myself, it’s forever and a day that you’ve yet before you!” She scowled, unaccustomed to being even so gently mocked, and showed her displeasure by kneeing Derofehr into a faster walk. On foot, Beyen was forced to hurry in order to keep up. He even managed to hold his tongue for at least a hundred paces or so, though he soon started in again.
“Hold on, here. If it’s true that full-blooded Elves age even more slowly than you, wouldn’t it take a man’s lifetime for ‘em to grow beyond the need for diapers? Is it th’span of an oak or two before they learn to walk, or talk, or---“
On and on he went in that vein; far from being angry or resentful at her mixed heritage, he seemed fascinated by it. Or perhaps it was more than that, for he had certainly gone out of his way to mention her beauty –several times in fact-- and from time to time she caught him staring at her in the manner of a man who sees a woman, and desires her. Given the circumstances, she judged it profoundly unlikely that their journey together would end in such a fashion, so she was relieved that he made no such offer. His talk continued, though, for more
than an hour and in such a constant deluge that it was with real relief that she saw a familiar stream crossing their path. Just beyond the creek there was a crossroads, and she looked carefully to be sure there was no one else near before she dismounted and allowed Derofehr to drink. While the horse slaked her thirst, Lyra knelt just upstream and filled her water bottles, watching somewhat uneasily as Beyen wandered off a short ways and began poking about at the forest’s edge.
“There’s been something through here,” he muttered, scuffing at the leaf cover with the toe of his boot. Lyra only shrugged.
“Deer, probably. Perhaps a bear.” He didn’t answer her. With his head lowered to peer at the ground, he eased off into the thickets that crowded thickly along the watercourse on that side of the road. “Bears are most often very angry, when they are disturbed,” she called after him, as loudly as she dared. When there was no response she glared at the brush and then turned back to Derofehr. She’d planned to cast spells upon the mare’s hooves at some point that morning, enchantments that would muffle her footfalls and make her nearly silent upon the road. There seemed little point in that now, with all the talking and calling the two of them had been doing. She settled for wrapping a bit of magic around the hide-wrapped bundle that rested in her mostly empty saddlebags. The occasional jingle it made had drawn the man’s eyes more than once already, and she rather thought he knew what it held. Now it would be silenced, though it was likely too late to do any good.
“There is a dead man over here,” came Beyen’s voice, from beyond the thicket. She said nothing, being occupied with locating her best map of the hills. “Did you not hear me?” he asked, faint shivers of the leaves and branches marking his movements among the thick undergrowth. “Killed with a sword thrust, a day or two gone, and his valuables are all taken.” She found the proper map and unfolded it against Derofehr’s side, studying the lines upon it that indicated roads. “Lyra!” His voice was impatient now. “Come and see this! I’m not lying, some poor fool is dead, here!” With one long finger tracing the map until she found the crossroads before her, the woman shook her head despite the fact that he could not see.
“No, I believe you. It just doesn’t matter a great deal to me.” She looked up, gauging the position of the sun behind the persistent clouds, then out at where the road diverged. One branch of the fork led generally northeast, and seemed to be tending down to lower elevations. The other went nearly due north, and headed even higher into the hills. A long moment of staring, while her teeth nibbled thoughtfully at her lower lip, and she made her decision. She refolded the map even as Beyen made his way back through the brush and back out onto the road. Staring openly at her, he watched as she tucked the parchment into a pouch on her saddle.
“A man’s been murdered here, and it doesn’t matter to you?” he asked incredulously.
“Not overly so, no,” she said, over her shoulder as she checked to make sure the girth was still snug, and her bedroll secure. “My path lies ahead, not through those thickets, and a dead man makes a poor obstacle in any case.” She turned away from the mare, and faced him full-on. “You seem overly interested in this nameless man, especially for a herder of goats who is merely passing by.” She cocked her head to one side. “And you also seem determined to cling to my side; doubly strange for a man on his way to meet his new bride.”
Beyen did not move from where he stood, and though he tried another of his disarming smiles, it had a brittle look to it.
“Perhaps I merely find you more intriguing than any farm girl could possibly be,” he said, mildly. “And as lovely as a winter’s night, too, though easily twice as cold.”
She snorted softly at that.
“Spare me your words, man, the insults and flattery both.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I notice also that your accent has grown much less, this last little while.”
He gave an elaborate shrug, one which almost hid the way his hands drifted closer to the hilts of his weapons.
“You seemed unimpressed by the bumpkin, so I thought to give the courtier a try.”
Lyra’s hand found its way to her own sword, and her quickest battle-spell danced ready before her mind’s eye.
“Courtier? Or is it assassin?” Five paces separated them; she could probably strike him down before he reached her. Probably. She was no longer so certain of besting him with steel alone. “Tell me; will you grow weary of waiting for my back to be turned before you strike? Will you face me here, now, and have done with it?”
They stood there, the two of them, for what seemed to be a very long time, though in truth it was barely the span of a few breaths. He studied her, eyes flicking from her face, to her right hand ready upon her sword and her left hand poised to hurl magic, and finally back to her face once more.
“I am no assassin,” he stated firmly. “And neither a courtier, nor a herder of goats, no matter how well-spoken, would wish to harm a lady. Especially one whose back was turned.” He had that look again, the one that told her he was seeing her as a woman, not as a foe. At least for that moment.
Forcing herself to move casually, she dropped her hand from the hilt of her sword and swung up into the saddle. It was a risk; the move showed him her back for an endless moment. She made it, though, and once there, she looked down at him with her face an expressionless mask. “Two paths lie before us, tell me, which would you suggest we take?”
He never looked behind him at the crossroads, never looked away from her eyes.
“If your intention is to put these hills behind you, then the lower road is the better choice. It will lead us to the town of Farrington, which is the largest settlement for many days travel. You can resupply there, rest under the roof of an inn, find a beasthealer for your horse… if you ask for my advice then that is the way we should go.”
She sat her horse, motionless, as she studied him.
“Is that town not also the seat of the local hedge-lord? My map says it is so. If he were to take a disliking to me, I would face many of his—“ here she smiled, if somewhat bleakly, ‘—soldiers. Or at least what passes for soldiers in this place. True?”
He looked as if he would prefer to lie, though with her eye upon him he seemed to think better of it.
“Yes, that is true.” A hard look came into his eyes, then, and his voice turned grim. “And yet, a peaceful traveler such as yourself would have nothing to fear from such a Lord, or his soldiers. Only a brigand would find herself in danger there. A brigand who had been camped near the road, preying on other travelers for a week, one who murdered a man and hid him in that thicket yonder; such a woman as that might have reason to avoid going into town.”
Through all of that she had maintained an air of polite interest; now she only nodded in acknowledgement.
“Mm. As you say.” She gestured towards the northern road, the one that led into the higher elevations. “I’ve a mind to go this way. The border is nearest, there, and with no settlements to complicate my journey. By nightfall it will lead me out of this little pocket of nowhere, and the morrow will see me far from any locals who might bear me ill will.” She reined Derofehr around, and the horse paced slowly past the man. “I suppose at this point a man, a herder of goats perhaps, might be inclined to hasten down the road and alert his lord that a dangerous criminal is seeking to flee his territory unpunished. It is likely that he would even be rewarded for such an act… perhaps with additional goats.”
He had turned in place to stay facing her, though he made no other move.
“Perhaps this is so,” he stated, his voice noncommittal.
“On the other hand,” Lyra went on, turning the mare so that she paced a complete circle around the man, forcing him to continue turning about. “A man who is not a herder at all, who is instead a skilled warrior who has been sent out to find and slay… brigands—“ Here she watched his face carefully, though he gave nothing away—“Such a man would surely continue to accompany the criminal, and do whatever was necessary to prevent her
escape. Would he not?”
Of a sudden, Beyen would not meet her eyes.
“He might do just that,” he said, while looking sightlessly at the crossroads. Lyra regarded him silently for a brief time, then shook herself slightly.
“I shall take the north road, as I said. And yourself?” When he turned his head to look at her, she gave him an ironic little smile. “Where did you say your kin dwelt? The ones with this daughter of marrying age?”
He did not return the smile, only gestured curtly towards the hills.
“To the north.”
She nodded, and nudged her horse into a walk even as she checked to be sure her sword was loose in its sheath.
“Then our journey together will last a bit longer.”
He resumed his place, walking alongside as they splashed through the shallow creek.
“Aye,” he answered as they reached the northern fork of the road. “A bit longer.”
* * * * *
“Tell me what happened.” Beyen’s voice brought her out of the reverie in which she’d been drifting since the crossroads, some hours past. Shaking her head as if by so doing she could disperse the unpleasant memories, she looked down to where he walked alongside her warhorse.
“What happened when?” she asked in reply. “The man you found? I gave him the same choice as the others; surrender his coin or face my sword.” She shrugged. “He was stupid, he chose the sword. And I’ll thank you not to call me ‘murderer’ on his account. When a man faces me with bared steel in his hand, he has chosen his own fate.”
The black-clad man looked up at her, his face showing a sudden understanding.
“Ah ha, he was the one who dealt you that wound,” his eyes flicked to the small rent in her armor which she had mended the night before, and she felt a sympathetic twinge from the minor injury beneath it. Beyen watched her for a time, then went on. “That’s not what I was asking. I wanted to know what happened to drive you here, to set you to preying on others.” He indicated her horse, her armor, and her weapons. “Do you not have skills that would earn your way in any land you chose? Had you simply presented yourself to my brother, he almost certainly would have given you a place among his warriors.”
