Chapter Thirty-Three
The rains turned to snow as Vren and Dust traveled toward Athelbryght.
They avoided the roads, mostly because they both enjoyed solitude. Easier, not to be questioned or observed, and their haste might draw questions. But also because more than once they had spotted groups of warriors returning home from the battlefields, weary, hurt, and angry. No need to give them targets for their wrath.
They took time to hide their trail, but as the days passed, they favored speed over caution.
There was a joy running with Dust, traveling swiftly and with confidence. The marcus and the vore were used to such weather. They hunted where they could and took shelter when they could find it. Huddling together for warmth, sleeping with Dust’s fur in his face, was a delight. Until such time as Dust returned to her human form, it was all he could ask and all that she would ever offer.
Each night he checked the mage key, the ring, and the red blood of the vial he carried. He kept them safe, tucked within his pack, wrapped well in a cloth and then again in oiled leather. Dust watched him every night, and he knew she was amused at his caution. He’d shrug, and she’d shake herself and let her tongue loll.
They found the body on the outskirts of Athelbryght. It was the horse that drew them, tied to a tree and struggling to free itself. A warrior had clearly made a camp, crawled into his bed roll, and died of his wounds.
Dust snuffed at the body, then sat and looked at Vren.
“I’ll try.” he said with a shrug, and moved toward the horse. “Easy now,” he crooned. “Easy.”
The horse was having none of it, rearing and snorting and making a fuss. It finally turned at the limit of its tie and kicked out at Vren, who backed off immediately.
Dust huffed. Vren shrugged, got as close to the tree as he could, and cut the reins.
The horse snorted and lunged away, but Dust caught the reins in her mouth and tugged as Vren backed off. The horse quieted, although its eyes rolled toward Vren.
Dust tugged again and led it off, presumably to take it to the near-by stream. The poor thing looked the worse for wear, thin and tired.
Not that Vren knew much of horses.
When she returned, still leading the animal, he raised an eyebrow.
Dust looked at the body and then at the horse.
“You know him?” Vren asked. When Dust nodded, he sighed. “If I remember,” Vren coughed, his throat not used to talking after the last few weeks. “There’s a village north of here. Think he was headed that way?”
Dust gave a nod.
“They’ll know you there?” Vren asked.
Dust nodded again.
“I’ll see to him, then, if you think it best.” Vren’s breath hung in the air. “I’ll wrap him up and gather his things and we can take them both to the village. There’s enough daylight left that we can risk the road.”
Dust held the reins, letting the horse reach fresh browse as Vren wrapped the body and gathered up the gear. It took some doing, with the horse jerking away at every chance, but Vren managed to heave the body over the saddle. He didn’t bother with the saddle bags, just threw them over his own shoulder.
The vore wasted no time tugging the horse toward the road. The horse was not thrilled, but it seemed more than willing to go where Dust wished once they took to the road. Vren stayed back, keeping his distance.
The village was fair-sized and seemed to be shutting down for the night.
“Wait, Dust.” Vren stood in the shadows and unstrapped the baby sling from his chest. The doll was worse for wear, but still held together. He placed it in his pack. “Ready.”
Dust trotted ahead, into the cobbled yard of the inn.
Vren got the attention of the stable-boy, whose eyes went wide at the sight of the body. The boy ran for the Innkeeper as Vren waited in the yard.
“What’s this then?” The innkeeper was a tall, skinny fellow; he’d brought two men-servants with him. “Who are you?”
Vren opened his mouth as Dust pushed forward, and gave a bark.
“Dust!” The innkeeper went to one knee. “Well, that’s all right then.” He scratched Dust’s ruff and looked at Vren. “She’d not be with ya if you’d killed him.”
Vren nodded. “Found him dead, with his horse fighting his ties. Dust wanted him brought here. You know him?”
“Bring a torch, lads,” the innkeeper said, getting to his feet with difficulty. “Damned knees,” he muttered as they brought the light and he pulled up the corpse’s head. “Aye, that’s Widow Harris’s oldest. Went off to fight for King Xywellan, Lord of Light and Lady of Laughter hold him close.”
“So you’ve had the news?” Vren asked.
“Aye.” The innkeeper shook his head. “Not good news, to my way of thinking.” he said glumly.
“War never is,” Vren said.
“Aye, well, you and Dust come in to the kitchen and get warm. Give ya a bed and a meal as thanks for bringing him home. There’ll be sorrow, but there will be certainty too. We’ll take him the rest of the way and break the news.” The tall man gestured and the other two took charge of the horse and body. Vren offered them the saddle bags, which they accepted.
“We can pay our way,” Vren offered as they watched the sad procession leave.
Dust huffed.
“Reckon I can afford ta feed a skinny one like you on my own coin—and your human,” the innkeeper said, laughing at his own joke. He started toward the door, where light and heat spilled out onto the cobblestones. “Dust, I know. What did you say your name was, lad?”
“Dithen,” Vren said.
“I’m Ian. Come tell us your news, Dithen, and we’ll share what we know. There’s been little news of the war so far, and yours will be the first that we trust. Let’s keep ya in the kitchen for now. You can eat while I gather a few that need ta listen. Lissa,” he bellowed. “Dust is here, with a guest.”
Lissa, who turned out to be Ian’s wife, fed them both and kept the curious out of the kitchen until they’d had their fill. Then she ushered them into the main room, where Vren found himself facing the Mayor and what had to be most of the adults in the town. Lissa made Ian move over on his bench and settled herself down beside him.
Dust sat with her back to the fire as the townspeople looked at Vren expectantly.
He spread his hands wide. “I’m afraid I have not much more to tell you. When we left, King Xywellan was dead and Queen Kara had just been defeated in the field before Edenrich. I’m sure that Xyrath and Satia have since taken the throne.”
“Well, that’s an ill wind,” Ian said and heads nodded all around.
“Any word of Queen Mother Tithanna?” asked another. “Now there was a Queen, mind you, took care of all the folk, not just the rich.”
“No,” Vren answered. “I’d heard no word other than that she was in the castle, awaiting the outcome.”
“And our lads?” another asked. “Any word of a pardon for those on the losing side?”
“Dust and I didn’t stay to hear,” Vren said cautiously, pleased that he received nods of understanding. “We passed a few straggling this way,” he offered. “I’m not sure if they’re local or not.”
“Word is that Satia is not the forgiving kind,” came a mutter from the back.
“Athelbryght was neutral to both sides, by the word of the Chosen,” the Mayor explained, “but she allowed any that wished to go to make their own decisions.”
“Harris’s boy had a horse, might explain why he was nearly home,” said a man off to Vren’s left.
“Now there’s a new King and Queen,” Ian grumbled, “and sure as I have hairs on my ass, there’ll be trouble.”
“Ian,” Lissa scolded even as chuckles rose all around.
“It’s the truth,” Ian said glumly. “Aye, our lads returning, but so are those that will turn to thievery. And there’s trouble in the Black Hills and—”
“Aye, and it’s all gonna end in fire and death,” the Mayor said, standing up. “Ian, you fret worse than an old granny. The Chosen and the vore have kept us safe here in Athelbryght for longer that my father’s and grandfather’s time. So it will continue, yes?”
Worried looks, then nods all around. Vren could hardly blame them. What happened in far off Edenrich touched them rarely—but it might dig sharp claws in now.
The Mayor continued, “Let’s be off. Morning comes soon enough and the Widow Harris will be needing our aid.” He bowed to Dust. “Our thanks, vore Dust, for this news and your service.”
Dust bowed her head in acknowledgment, then rose and headed for the door.
Vren paused. “I would aid in the digging of a grave, if there’s a need. Hard work in the winter.”
Ian rose and clapped him on his shoulder, pulling the marcus aside. “Ah, no, lad, many thanks. In Athelbryght, we burn our dead. Long tradition. Best you sleep warm tonight and be on your way in the morning.” Ian lowered his voice. “With Dust returning, there’ll be a Packmoot, most like.”
Dust looked over her shoulder and nodded.
“The Chosen lives, Dust, but,” Ian hesitated, then almost blurted, “last word is she’s slippin’.”
Dust huffed.
“Aye, then,” Ian walked them to the stairs. “Sleep well. Best you get on first light. You’ve still a bit to go before you reach the manor give them the news. We’ll see ya fed and provisioned in the morning.”
Vren hesitated, not wanting to offend, then followed the man, resigning himself to a sleepless night.
The room was small, not much more than a bed, a rug, a nightstand, and a fire in the hearth. The four walls were too close, the ceiling too low.
Dust stretched out on the rug in front of the fireplace.
Vren stripped down, climbed in, and sank into the soft bedding. Even with the warming pan, the bed felt cold and lonely. “You could climb up here,” he suggested softly.
Dust didn’t even lift her head.
Vren closed his eyes, rolled over, and willed himself to sleep.
A few days of hard travel found them at the gates of the home of the Chosen.
When they left the village, Dust had led Vren to the road, and Vren had agreed to follow it. There seemed little danger now and speed was necessary. The fact that the roads were lined with fields fully harvested, hay stacks neatly arranged, and livestock behind stout fences gave at least the illusion of peace and security.
Far better than piles of the fallen and weapons littering the ground.
Dust barked sharply as they crested the next rise.
From ahead came an equally sharp bark in response.
“Watcher?” Vren asked.
Dust snorted agreement as she continued, pace increasing to a trot. Vren kept up.
They weren’t challenged again until they reached the main gates. The snow-covered lands they were passing through sprawled with wooden trellises supporting mature grapevines, heavy with fruit.
At the gates they were met by two vore and a human, a short man, broad of face and brown of skin. He had dark hair, dark eyes, a goatee and a wide smile.
“Dust!” the man called even as the vore was surrounded by wagging tails and furry bodies.
“We did not think to see you for some time,” the human said to Dust. He offered one hand to Vren. “Welcome. I am Aramal of Athelbryght. Be welcome in the Chosen’s name.”
Aramal was deeply tanned, broad of face, with a wide smile. Vren took his hand. “My thanks. I am known as Dithen, traveling with Dust. We have news for the Chosen.”
“Then let’s get you both inside, where it can be shared.”
Aramal didn’t ask any questions as they walked toward the main house. The vore walking with Dust were quiet too, although Vren knew well enough that they had their own way of communicating.
“The Chosen will be in the kitchens, close to the hearth for the warmth. I’ll send word to the fields. We are preparing for a harvest, so all hands are in the sheds.”
“Harvest?” Vren asked, looking out over frozen fields.
“Icewine,” Aramal said. “The very best. But the grapes must be picked at just the right time, and that’s now.”
“So of course, we arrive,” Vren said with a chuckle.
“Such is always the way,” Aramal agreed. “But if it weren’t difficult, it wouldn’t be worth the doing.” He pushed open a heavy wooden door. “Latarie, Dust has arrived with news.”
“Hush, she’s sleeping,” came a soft voice. A lovely woman came into view. “Come in, come in, don’t let the cold air in.”
Dust and Vren stepped into a small stone kitchen where the hearth blazed high, filling the space with heat. In the center of the room was a large, well-worn, wooden table surrounded by benches and chairs; the walls sported shelves full of bright dishes and crockery.
At the far end of the hearth stood a rocking chair, moving back and forth very slowly. In the chair was a figure bundled in colorful shawls and blankets, with thick socks and slippers visible on its feet.
Dust went over, whining softly, and shoved her nose into the midst of the wrappings.
A hand emerged, frail and veined, to rest lightly between Dust’s ears. “Dust?” said a quavering voice as one scarf dropped away to reveal an ancient-seeming woman, frail and pale, with hair as white as the snow outside. Long, her hair was braided and wrapped neatly around her head, arranged so that just the points of her ears peeked out.
Vren drew a breath. Elven. She was elven. He’d heard of them but never seen one.
“Dust,” the old lady crooned. “How is my Princess Dusty?”
Dust whined and the old lady laughed. “You don’t like me telling that tale, do you? Do you remember how little Berla named you all, the first time she laid eyes on you? Red told me the tale, you know.” The old woman paused. “But we aren’t supposed to call her Red. Not in front of…” her voice drifted off and her head lifted and turned toward the newcomers, though her gaze seemed to look right past Vren.
“Chosen, Dust and Dithen here bring news,” Aramal said.
“Dithen? Do I know you?” The Chosen focused on him, her brown eyes sharp.
“No, milady,” Vren bowed his head. “I am newly come with Dust from Edenrich.”
“Well, you are welcome,” the Chosen said, her voice a bit stronger. “Drop your pack and pull up a chair. Latarie, get this young man some kavage, and make it strong and hot.” The Chosen smiled at Vren, her hand still stroking Dust’s ears. “If I know my Dust, she kept you moving at a fast pace. Wear a soul out, she will.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Vren said. He sat and accepted the mug Latarie handed him.
For a time all was quiet. Vren drank his kavage as the Chosen crooned softly to Dust. The door soon opened and others entered, stamping boots and taking kavage of their own.
“Make it quick, Dithen,” Aramal said, friendly enough but determined. “We’ll talk more after the harvest is done.”
Vren spoke then, fast and firm, and gave the basics.
“Well,” Aramal said when the marcus finished. “So yet again the Xyians war over land ill used and a city falling apart at the seams. Bad cess to them all, I say.”
Mutters of agreement. “Well, enough for now,” Aramal said. “We’ve a harvest to get in. Dust, I assume you’ll tell the others? Lessen you wish to be pickin’ grapes?”
Dust’s tongue lolled out.
“Thought not,” Aramal said. “We’ll be all night pickin’, Dithen. Rest yourself and we’ll have questions later.”
The group filed out and Latarie shut the door behind them. “Dust, before you join the others, there’s something you need to know.” She caught Dithen’s eye. “Dithen,” she said loudly. “Would you mind fetching wood for the fire?”
There was no need that Vren could see—the wood box was full and the fire burned high. But he nodded anyway and rose from his chair.
“Such a kind young man,” the Chosen said.
“The pile’s just by the path.” Latarie said.
Vren went out into the cold. He could see the lanterns of the pickers in the field, the large, brightly-lit sheds waiting for the grapes. Cold, hard work, he expected, but he’d heard wonderful things about icewine. Indeed, all the wines of Athelbryght had always been praised.
Giving Latarie time to say what she needed, Vren took his ease. After a few minutes he gathered an armful of wood and returned to the kitchen, loudly stomping his feet clear of snow before pushing open the door. The Chosen was still in her rocker, Dust at her side. Latarie was poking the fire.
“And who might you be, young man?” the Chosen asked.