Chapter Thirteen
A mountain path in Athelbryght
After three days, Halithe was done with “adventures.”
The trail wasn’t so bad during the first day.
It climbed steeply at the start but then mellowed considerably as it became more of an old dirt road traveling across open fields.
Then the ground sloped upward again, through scrubby meadow and sparse trees, which still wasn’t too hard.
But once it narrowed and started to do switch-backs, things got more precarious and there were a few washouts and boulders to navigate around.
Halithe wasn’t the only one struggling. Aramal didn’t seem to find the going too rough, but Ritathan was breathing hard, and they all had to watch their footing.
Except Bright Fang. The vore. Who had the highly irritating habit of racing up the trail, coming back, racing away again, and coming partway back, then lolling in the sun, tongue out, waiting for them.
Three days of sleeping on the ground, three days of struggling uphill, three days of peeing and—well, she’d really rather not think about that—three days of silence between two men, who clearly had a history and who were determined not to talk to one another beyond basic necessity.
Not looking at one another, not speaking to one another, going out of their way to avoid physical contact.
It made her grind her teeth.
Bright Fang seemed to think the whole thing hilarious.
Which finally made her stop that afternoon, suck air in between her teeth, and say, “Not one step further.”
Both men turned and looked at her.
“We are making camp early,” she said. “I am going to bathe, eat something, and crawl into my bedroll.” She turned to Bright Fang. “Water,” she demanded.
Bright Fang snorted, sniffed the air, and loped off the path, heading toward some low greenery. Halithe followed, not really caring what the two men did.
Bright Fang led her to a stream pooling among the rocks. Halithe flopped down beside it,
unlacing her boots. The vore lapped at the water.
“I don’t even care how cold it is,” she grumbled, pulling off one boot and sock and wincing at the tender, red spots. “That’s not good, is it?”
The vore sneezed.
“It would help if you could talk,” Halithe said, then rolled her eyes when he glared at her.
“I know, you can talk, I just don’t understand.
” She slumped as she unlaced the other boot.
“I mean, I can’t exactly ask Aramal to translate when what I want is to ask questions about Aramal, and, well, you know. The two of them. Their history.”
Bright Fang grinned at her, his tongue lolling.
Halithe slid closer to the water and dipped her hand in, pulling it out with a hiss. “So I’m either cold and clean, or warm and gritty,” she grumbled. “Cold it is,” she said, and started to remove her tunic, then glanced at the vore. “A little privacy, please?”
The vore stood, shook itself, and turned its back, settling back down in a patch of rough grass with a huff.
Halithe stripped, being careful, when she removed her breastband, to set her folded handkerchief carefully aside. Then she set to washing, clenching her teeth at the initial shock of the chilly water. She almost wished it was deep enough to jump in, at least she would then feel a bit cleaner.
As she washed, her gaze drifted to the vore’s carefully turned back.
She needed to know more. About them, about Athelbryght.
She could kick herself for not paying more attention to her history lessons, as dull as they had been.
Most of her education had been on court etiquette and how to make oneself appealing as marriage fodder.
Not so useful in current circumstances.
She wasn’t stupid enough to wash her hair. She just braided it up tight when she was done, sitting naked by the water to dry, skin starting to prickle in the breeze. Her hands ached, red, rough, and sore, and her nails…
Her teachers would have been horrified.
She grinned at that and pulled on her underthings, making sure her small, precious token was tucked safe in her breastband. She pressed her hand to her breast, thinking of Caris, still in the fine Palace, bathing in scented water and dressed in soft linens. A captive in a fine cage.
Given a choice, Halithe was where she wanted to be.
After pulling on tunic and trous, she sat back down to put on her boots. Maybe she was too quick to dismiss those lessons. After all, she’d learned, at the hands of experts, how to flirt, how to make conversation.
You want a man to talk?
Ask him to explain something to you.
Halithe rose and gathered her things. “Done. Let’s get back.”
Bright Fang jumped up and led her to where Aramal and Ritathan had made camp. Ritathan was already wrapped in his bed roll. Aramal was feeding sticks to a small fire, heating kavage.
At her look, Aramal shrugged. “Wood is becoming scarce. I brought some charcoal, for when we get higher up. Rocks don’t burn.”
“Depends on who ignites them,” Ritathan muttered.
Bright Fang yipped at them, then turned and disappeared up the trail.
“He’s scouting,” Aramal said. “Checking on those scent trails.”
Halithe settled on her bedding. “I have a question.”
Both men stiffened.
“About Bright Fang,” Halithe kept her tone light and innocent as she watched them relax. “So the vore language, it’s made up of sounds and body movements, yes?”
“Yes.” Aramal handed her dried meat and a nut bar. “Eyes, ears, fur, and teeth. Not everyone in Athelbryght understands it as well as those who interpret, but everyone has a basic understanding.” He glanced at Ritathan.
“I’ve forgotten more than I remember,” Ritathan said.
“You were born here?” Halithe asked.
“Fostered.” Ritathan bit off the word.
Aramal cleared his throat. “Some of us are better than others at the nuances of the language, but the vore are patient with us.” He chuckled. “For the most part.” He poured kavage into mugs and handed them around.
“And they live forever?” Halithe asked. “Fog said she remembered the time before the Mage Wars.”
Ritathan stared at her. “You spoke to Fog?”
Halithe nodded even as Aramal said, “They have remarkable healing abilities, but they can die.”
“The vore are magical constructs,” Ritathan sat up in his blankets, ready to launch into a lecture.
“But how did they survive the Wars?” Halithe asked. “You know, the ones that destroyed all the magic in the land?”
Ritathan shrugged. “That’s not something they will tell us.” he said, giving Aramal a side glance. “Unless things have changed.”
“No,” Aramal ignored him, looking at Halithe.
“I can tell you how they came to be in Athelbryght,” and at her nod he continued.
“The story goes that long before the Empire of Xy rose, the vore were rescued from being enslaved to the foul blood mage who created them. Their savior bore the birthmark of the Chosen. In return, the vore swore fealty to the mark of the Chosen. Since that time, Athelbryght has been under the authority of a Chosen and the Packmoot.”
“What’s a Packmoot?” Halithe asked, tearing into the dried meat.
“A gathering of the vore, where decisions are discussed and debated. The Chosen takes the advice of the Packmoot in all things, but she has the final word.”
“Had,” Ritathan pointed out. “Although, I’ve often thought that deciding on who should lead based on a birthmark was not a good way to choose a leader.”
“How is that different from a blood right?” Aramal demanded.
“Well, with a blood right, you can have multiple heirs,” Ritathan said. “Instead, you send people out scouring the countryside for a babe with a special birthmark.”
“Multiple heirs that kill each other for a throne,” Aramal pointed out, then bit off a piece of dried meat with more energy than necessary.
Ritathan snorted. “End up with some street urchin, and then where are you?”
“No worse and no better than some of the Blood, that is certain,” Aramal spat.
Well, at least they were talking. Halithe opened her mouth to change the subject, but Bright Fang came out of the darkness, scrambling over the rocky ground. He came to a stop and focused his attention, and movements, on Aramal.
“The scents are still there,” Aramal said. “Both Dust and the marcus. There is another as well, a female human. They did not travel the path at the same time.” He paused, watching the vore. “He has an idea that one is hunter, one is prey, but can’t tell which is which.”
“No other scents?” Ritathan demanded.
“None,” Aramal said. “Bright also says the path gets steeper from here on. He says you should double up your socks and avoid blisters.”
“Someone might have mentioned that before we left,” Ritathan sniped.
“Anyone with any trail sense knows that already,” Aramal growled. “You can’t even start a fire without magic.”
Bright Fang flattened his ears, shared a look of disgust with Halithe, then heaved a sigh and curled into a ball, clearly giving up on the lot of them.
Halithe smiled to herself, drained her cup, and started to curl her own self up in her bedroll. She ignored Aramal and Ritathan’s low grumbles at each other as she got comfortable.
Her eyes started to drift closed as she stared at the stars overhead, bright and sparkling in the darkness. She was clean and full and warm. Even the ground beneath her didn’t seem that hard. None of it was perfect, mind, but maybe being off on an adventure wasn’t so bad after all.
She shifted to lie on her side and imagined her Father’s anger if he could see her like this, his face boiled up in rage. He’d stomp around, sure enough, spitting fire and curse words at her.
It hurt, that he’d never forgive this. Even worse if he knew that she’d lost her heart in the process.
She closed her eyes and deliberately brought a different image to mind, of auburn hair and sweet brown eyes, and with that comfort, let herself fade to sleep.