Chapter Fifty-Nine. A Death Comes to Pass.
Fifty-Nine
A Death Comes to Pass.
After I have a wash-up in the tub, I re-dress in Julion’s outfit, which I’ve managed to clean to a fairly good standard.
Covering my face with a new layer of the turban, I put the bread in my pack, and then also Merc’s journal.
The latter is like a ghost creaking across the floorboards, a physical manifestation of all that haunts me, but I cannot leave it here just to be thrown out.
At the door, I pause. I’ll never see the inside of this room again, and I focus on the wall next to the bed …
where Merc held me up off the floor and pinned me with his body.
Underneath my sadness, something flares in the back of my mind, but I haven’t the strength to tease it out under the pressure in my head.
I can’t believe I’m going. On my own.
Without him.
Feeling the weight of my pack, however, I become even clearer about what I must do and where I must go. And that’s all that can matter. What did I think was going to happen with a mercenary, anyway? As Merc said, our arrangement has been met on both sides, and it is over.
The last glance is toward that window seat. I can still see him sitting there by the lantern, sketching in his journal.
Looks as though they’ll be refilling that lamp with oil for the next people who stay here.
Out in the hall, I close the door, and as I walk forward, I hear the voices.
There are many, talking fast and loudly, down in the pub.
When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I glance toward the knot of men who are so furiously addressing an audience.
They’re the ones who went off together. The herder, who first came running down the muddy lane and shouted the alarm, is at the bar, emptying a tankard down his throat.
A couple of the men glance in my direction, but the way they disregard me is a good thing. I continue on, leaving through the door Merc and I came through that first night—
The brightness overwhelms me and I put my arm up to shield my eyes.
After they adjust, I lower the brim of my hand and squint at the sky.
The clouds have broken up even further, and the sunlight is a resplendent shock after all the gray skies of the storm, and the gray wood and dingy oil lamps of the lodge.
The lane is an absolute swamp, and I slog along, keeping to the side for there’s a depression in the center that’s collected runoff and turned into a pond.
I recall the stables being among the first of the buildings as we entered the Outpost, and as I continue on, my slipper shoes are not just muddy, but become mud itself. The sound of neighing and the smell of fresh hay announce I’ve arrived.
And that’s when it happens.
Off on the far side of the lane, a fenced pasture of grass rolls down to a beautiful solitary realm tree that seems as big as my village.
The sun pours over its bright green leaves as well as the horses that are galloping round and getting out their energy after having been cooped up for days.
None of that is what captures my attention.
It’s that I’ve seen the bucolic scene before.
In a trance, I cross through the depths of standing water to the fence line.
Bending down, I thread the space between the parallel boards, and continue through the meadow.
A magnificent golden stallion thunders past me, his white mane and tail flowing, his ears pricked, his body sleek in his powerful strides.
Though he holds my eye, he’s not the one I’m coming for.
The one I need to see is going to be down by the tree.
As I descend, I tell myself I have it wrong.
I do not.
I find the village mayor’s chestnut gelding lying in the soft grass. His eyes are closed, his nose deep in the fragrant blades, his body at ease.
It’s as I saw when I looked into his eyes in the Lake of Lost Souls.
Falling to my knees, I bury my face in the springy mane and wrap my arm around his neck.
He’s still warm, but he is no longer living, and I pray that he’s gone somewhere where there are no more saddles, no more bits and reins, no more burdens to carry.
I feel responsible for this, for driving him so hard when that skystalker came at us, for making him cross that stark, waterless landscape in the heat, for taking him so far away from everything he’s ever known.
I cry for other reasons, too, and it all blends together—
“Oh, no. Oh, mistress, I am so sorry—I just let him out.”
Sniffling, I wipe my face and look up. Then do a double take.
It’s the maid—except … not. The dark hair is long and braided on two sides, and there are freckles dotting her face.
Instead of felt skirting, this girl is dressed in work pants that hitch up over her shoulders and barn boots that come to her knees. Her voice is different, too. Deeper.
“It’s all right.” I run my hand down his still side. “It was his time.”
“I swear, mistress, I cared for him as my own—”
“I know you did.” I offer her a smile and then glance around, watching the other steeds run. “And what a beautiful place for one’s heart to stop. Surrounded by what a horse loves most … freedom, sun, grass.”
The girl clears her throat. “I accept responsibility. I shall make this right—”
Putting up my hand, I shake my head. “Not to worry.” I feel for Mare’s coins, which are back in their travel pocket, as I’ve come to think of it. “Are there any horses for sale, then?”
Not that I know how to use the gold. At least I have it, though.
As the girl looks out over the pasture, I continue to stroke the gelding. Even though he’s gone and he wasn’t really mine, it seems beyond disrespectful to arrange for his replacement with his body still warm, but with what happened in the night, there’s an urgency I must operate under.
“We sold your husband the last of the ones available earlier. He told us to leave the chestnut for you.”
Ducking my eyes, it’s a moment before I can speak. “That was very kind of him—”
“Oy! What are you on about!”
A man comes rushing down the slope. He’s older than middle-aged, and has the ruddy complexion of either a drinker or someone who works outside. Perhaps both.
Before he can go after the girl, I get to my feet and stand off at him. “My horse was old and too well used, which is my fault. There is naught that she did wrong, and I shall not have an accusation in that vein.”
He stops by the girl, and in the pause, my heart cannot take any more cruelty—
The stabler removes the wrinkled hat from his sunburned, bald head, and he puts a craggy hand on her shoulder. “Aye, she would sooner hurt herself than offer ill care to any animal.”
My eyes sting and I have to blink in double time. “He was a very good horse.”
“I’m sure he was.” The stabler glances around the field. “We’ll see that he gets a fitting burial.”
“I have money to pay for his board and grain—”
“Your husband already took care of all that plus the next week, so we shall owe him recompense. Where is he now, then?”
“He’s departed ahead of me.” My chest feels so hollow, especially as I lie, “I, ah, I’m meeting up with him. I need to buy a horse, too, but I understand there are none for sale—”
The girl turns to the man and starts to speak in a language I’m not familiar with. His eyes grow large, and when she goes quiet, he puts his cap back on and looks out across the field.
I glance in that direction.
That beautiful golden stallion is galloping along the fence line, and the speed with which it travels is breathtaking.
“Can you come back in an hour,” the stable man says gruffly.
I think of Lena and Ronl.
“Certainly.” I look over at the maid’s twin sister. “And I’ll figure something out, somehow. Don’t worry about me if there’s none to be sold.”
The stable girl is staring out over the field, her eyes on the stallion.
“You come back then,” the stabler tells me. “We just need a little time.”
“Again, it’s not your worry—but I will take his tack.” Glancing down at the gelding, grief pierces my heart. “Please treat him well. He was very good to me.”
“We will,” the girl says. “He’ll be buried here, right beneath this tree he chose.”
Lowering my head, it is all I can do to walk away, my sodden slippers trudging up the incline, stepping through the fence rail, and carrying me back to the muddy lane.
I was going to stop by the new parents anyway, and seeing that infant in all its vitality is what I need right now.
As I go down the thoroughfare, there are all kinds of people out and about, their voices stressed and fast, their bodies overanimated—but that’s not just because of what they’re talking about.
I think of the horses, cantering and free in the sunlight.
Animals and people are not so different sometimes. But the humans here on Anathos are aware of what’s coming. The horses are just enjoying the sunshine and feel of their legs stretching.
When I arrive at the herbist shop, there’s a woman exiting with a small paper bag. She seems harried, her hair askew, and she bumps into me in her rush. Catching the door, I go inside—
There’s a line of talking women, and all of them look as though they’ve just rolled out of bed.
They’re speaking in the language the stabler used with the girl, their rushing syllables covering the air like layers of fallen leaves, everything a jumble.
Down at the register, Ronl is trying to get them to calm down, as he points at an empty glass container next to him.
I’ll bet whatever they’re looking for is to ward off evil. In an instant, I’m back at the burned-out settlement, looking at those markings by the doors … and the bloodstains on the floors.
Even though I’m scared, I’m doing the right thing in trying to go south, I tell myself.
As I catch his eye, he gives me a wave and nods at the door behind him. I hustle down and give his arm a pat as I scoot into the back.
“Lena?”
“In here,” comes the quick reply from the bedroom.
As I pass through, there are some swaddling blankets soaking in a tub by the water faucet, and a partially made breakfast on the counter of hens’ eggs, and a bread wedge.
Edging open the door, I smile at Lena as she feeds her precious daughter. Then I point over my shoulder. “It looks as though Ronl was making you something to eat and got interrupted. May I finish the job?”
“Oh, would you? I’m almost done with her, and I’m still a bit sore.”
“Just a moment.”
It feels very good to do a simple task, cracking the hens’ bounty over a cast-iron pan, and taking it over to the hearth. Sinking down onto my haunches, I go to put the—
The flames that curl up from the core of glowing embers bend toward me, their orange and yellow peaks tilting forward.
As I jerk back with a curse, Lena says with worry, “Sorrel?”
Shaking myself, I glance back at the bedroom door. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
I put my hand over my mouth. Then shove the pan onto the cooking grate and jump to my feet. “Oh, fine. Just fine, indeed.”
Rubbing my eyes, I tell myself that there’s a draft coming down the flue. A draft from the shop outside. A draft from the open window because the temperature outside is finally warming up.
By the time I deliver the plate, I’m recovered enough to trade the breakfast I’ve pulled together for the baby she birthed.
“Good morning then, little one…” I stroke the soft cheek and turn a finger over the downy sprinkling of dark hair.
Abruptly, I frown as it dawns on me Lena isn’t eating. “Have I burned the eggs?”
The new mother doesn’t appear to hear me. She’s staring at her baby, her brows down, her mouth in a tense line.
“Are you not feeling well?” I prompt as I go on high alert.
“There was a slaughter last night.” Her voice is soft, the words murmured absently, as if she’s speaking to herself. “In the sheepling pasture.”
“Ah … yes, I heard that there was a badness with some animals—”
“It was more than that. There was a death, of a man.”
Putting the bairn up on my shoulder, I try to keep my expression neutral. “Who was it?”
“The cook.” Lena shakes her head. “From the pub.”
When she goes no further, I prompt, “What happened?”
She looks away from her daughter when she answers. “The men who went down to look at the body said … it was a demon.”