Chapter Three
He left me with a blanket and a saddlebag. I rummage through and find one cheese round, a packet of jerky, two stale bread
rolls, an apple, a waterskin, a tinderbox, and a skinning knife.
These mountains are my home, and I’ve loved them my whole life—the crystal brooks with their jumping trout, the way sunlight
catches on the highest peaks of the granite Spires, the thick snow that envelops my inn like a warm blanket every winter,
the alpine meadow behind the stable that bursts into color each spring.
But Grimsvold holds many dangers, even to one born here, and I’ve little chance of survival in my current state. I can ration
the food to last several days, but it’s not enough to get me somewhere safe. I’m too weak to travel quickly or for long. If
I encounter mistwraiths, ice cats, or that banshee thing—or worse, more raiders—I’ve no chance of survival.
Purposely or not, Titus has left me to die.
I have one option. Track Titus to his next camp and beg him to take me to the nearest village. I’ll have to move fast—faster
than is good for me. He is healthy, strong, and on horseback.
Horseback! I need a horse. If I can backtrack to the enslavers’ campsite, maybe I can find one of their horses. Even some supplies. It might push me past the limits of my endurance, but a horse would be worth it.
I take off my filthy apron. Using the knife, I rip a hole in the center of the woolen blanket and put it over my head. I put
the apron back on, using the ties to snug the blanket against my body. It won’t keep me entirely warm, but it’s better than
nothing. It’s certainly better than adding it to the weight I must carry with only one good arm.
After grabbing the saddlebag, I close my eyes for a moment, remembering. We were in a clearing. Surrounded by pines. A babbling
stream at one end, a granite ridge at the other.
I open my eyes and look around. Titus would not have carried me far, strong though he may be. And he would not have set up
camp downwind from over a dozen dead bodies.
I turn in place. There. In the direction of the breeze, a slope that might lead to a small stream.
My bones ache as I jog down the slope. I need a week of food and sleep at least, but as Ma always said, no sense missing what
can never be. I ignore the pain.
Triumph fills me when I glimpse a line of bay laurel—a sure sign of water. I slow as the slope steepens, wary of a twisted
ankle, then push through the bushes to find a clear running brook. Beyond it is the clearing, and unmistakable signs of battle.
The wagon and carts are off to the side. The wagon is overturned, one wheel circling lazily with the wind. Bodies are everywhere.
As I approach, a cloud of tiny flies lifts from the bloated joints of a Suratian man. His legs are bare, and my arm tightens
in reflex against its scavenged sling.
I avoid looking at the carts where my sister and the others still slouch in their manacles, many of them in day-old blood. Someday, I promise myself, when I am healthy and strong again, I will come back to this place and erect a proper monument to my sister.
As I work through the site of battle, my nose itches with the sick-sweet scent of carrion. A few weeks from now, these bodies
would have frozen solid, but it is just warm enough for them to rot in the late-autumn sun.
On the other side of the wagon, I strike gold. Two horses are still hitched to the front. One lies dead on its side, an arrow
jutting from its neck. The other stands in its traces, its tail flicking at carrion flies, its neck pulled down at an odd
angle thanks to its dead harness mate.
I approach slowly, speaking in low tones. “Well, hello there, horse. You’re about to be my new best friend.”
The horse whinnies nervously and rolls its eyes to show me bright white. It’s a stout sorrel gelding, with a crooked white
blaze. I hope he’s saddle broken and not just a carthorse.
The horse shimmies as I approach, rattling the overturned wagon.
I pause. If I cut him loose, he might run away. If I spook him without cutting him loose, I could end up tangled in the wreck.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” I tell him. “I’m going to take good care of you.”
His nostrils flare.
Slowly, I reach into the saddlebag for the apple and knife. I slice off a chunk and take another step forward. The horse tosses
his head, but not, I dare to hope, in panic.
“Interested in this, by chance?” I say as I extend the chunk of apple.
He lips it from my fingers, tickling them. Then he cranes his neck, looking for more.
“I thought so. Been here a whole day, have you?” I offer him another piece, which disappears instantly. “No food or water
in all that time.”
If I had two good arms, I could hold his halter with one hand while cutting his harness with the other. I’ll just have to
trust him to want my apple more than he wants to run away.
After giving him one more slice, I reach for the harness ring and saw through the leather ties. The horse springs free and
trots several steps forward. I watch, my heart in my throat, as he pauses.
“Do you want some more?”
He steps toward my voice, tossing his mane.
“That’s a good, handsome boy.” I give him another slice.
Within moments, I discover that he loves carrots, which I find in a tumbled trunk in the back of the wagon, as well as a good
muzzle rub. I also learn that he is better than saddle broken—he’ll let me ride bareback. A good thing, since the other horses
ran off and there is no tack to be found.
I use a rock to mount, then lead him no farther than the brook before sliding off his back. There I tie him to a tree to give
him a chance to drink his fill—and give myself a chance to loot the dead.
I swallow revulsion as I turn over one body after another. The urge to pull my arm out of its sling and use it to hurry the process along is overwhelming, but I resist. Damaging that shoulder more will only hurt my chances of catching up to Titus.
Three of the enslavers carry coin—enough for a few nights at my father’s inn, with meals besides. I also find food to last
several days, another intact waterskin, and a pair of pants small enough to fit me. Maneuvering them off a dead body one-handed
almost proves too much, and the swarming flies make me doubt the wisdom of my course. But it can’t be worse than my own skirt,
which has been swimming in waste and vomit for weeks and now sticks, crusted, to the backs of my legs.
Once I have the pants free, I unbutton my skirt, peel it off my skin, and step out of it. I splash water from the brook onto
my legs—it’s snow runoff from the high peaks and as close to freezing as water gets. But it’s so nice to get clean, to feel
a little bit normal.
I rub grime away and splash again. The process reveals an awful rash on the backs of my thighs. It’s going to hurt like dragon
fire when I ride. But at least it won’t be dirty.
I work the pants up and discover that my waist has shrunk to nothing. I hitch the rope belt tight. The pants are too long,
but I won’t even notice while riding.
I ignore the bodies that got ripped open by the banshee thing. I take a step toward my sister, but I hesitate, not sure I
can bear to see her body in its current state.
“Cerastes keep you,” I whisper, and I turn away.
I drape my saddlebags over the horse’s back and untie him. Using the nearest boulder, I mount up, swinging a leg over. He’s
a good horse, staying perfectly still as I take too long about it, balancing with only one arm.
I gather the saddlebags over my lap, and I click my tongue and give him a gentle kick to set us off. We’ll return to the main road, where the caravan first encountered the massive stranger I now know as Titus.
“You need a name, my friend,” I say to the horse.
His ears flick back.
“You’re Grimsvolder now. You need a strong name.”
He tosses his head, which I take for dissent.
“Fine, you’re not Grimsvolder. But you can’t blame me for not wanting to mark you for the Surat Confederacy. How about Apple?”
He says nothing, which I take for assent.
“Apple it is, then.”
Apple and I ride all day. I haven’t ridden bareback like this since I was a small child, and my rear aches so badly that tears
sting my eyes with each rolling step. My rash is not as awful as I feared, though. Wearing a dead man’s relatively clean pants
was a good idea.
We’ve worked our way to the king’s road where Titus hailed our caravan. I turn us north, back toward the jagged mountain peaks.
The remains of my inn are up there somewhere. It will be months, maybe a year, before I can return. But it seemed to be the
way Titus was headed, so that’s the way we go. I’ll give it two days, I tell myself. And if we don’t find him, I’ll turn us around and head downhill in hopes of encountering a trading post. Maybe
I’ll even run into other travelers. I have coin now, a few items to trade.
No, this late in the year, traders on this route risk getting trapped by snow, and anyone I find is likely to be as desperate as I am. Titus is my best hope. Maybe my only hope.
The evening sun edges below the peaks, turning their snow sides soft pink. Apple’s breath, and mine, frosts the air. I steer
us off the road toward a granite outcropping that looks out over the trees. I’ll search for smoke until the day’s last light
is gone. Then, if the trees aren’t too thick, I should be able to see his campfire.
It takes some coaxing to get Apple to make the climb, but it gives me the vantage I need. Miles of road wind through the trees
below us, a soft silver ribbon in the wan moonlight of Alwin the Pale. Winfry the Swift will be rising later, but her brighter
light will not help me now.
Brightness winks through the trees. I blink, and it’s gone. But then it appears again, flashing yellow-orange with the wind-whipped
boughs, and I breathe deep of relief. It’s far off still. Maybe hours away. I could be there by morning, so long as I don’t
get lost.
I memorize the lay of the land until it’s a map in my head. Apple and I need to follow the road until the sharp southerly
bend, then head into the woods, angling toward the rising moon. We can do it.
“Let’s go, Apple. I know you’re tired, but all my carrots are yours if you get us to Titus.” I cluck, steering him downhill,
and he plods along with the same exhausted determination I feel myself.
I urge him into a trot when we reach the road, but the echoing clop of his hooves gives me pause. What if it’s not Titus whose campfire I saw? What if it’s a bandit? Another group of raiders? I’ll have to approach in stealth, be sure of my target before revealing myself.
The mountains have a peculiar darkness to them, a deep, deep black made of creeping shadow and thick forest that not even
a moon can penetrate, so when we finally reach the curve where we must turn off, I’m only mostly sure it’s the right place.
We move through the forest slowly, the carpet of pine needles muffling Apple’s steps. The temperature has warmed inexplicably,
and the day’s moisture steams off the ground. It’s a perfect night for mistwraiths.
“Stop right there or you’re dead,” comes a voice as deep as the shadows that hide it.
My heart is in my throat. Was that Titus? The echo makes it hard to tell.
“Slide off that horse. Show me your hands.”
I do as he asks, nearly toppling to the ground when Apple sidesteps nervously. I grab his mane to regain my balance, then
I stand straight, chin up. “I’m afraid I can only show you one hand, sir, as the other is injured and in a sling.”
A pause. Then . . . “Bria?” He slips from the shadows into view. His longbow is still drawn, an arrow pointing at my neck.
“Good evening, Titus. You left some cargo behind accidentally. I thought to return it to you.”
He lowers his bow. Finally. “What cargo?” he snaps.
“Me.”