Chapter 3
THE PRICE OF DISGUISE
The first outlying homesteads of Hillston were mean, rough-hewn structures of unseasoned timber and sod.
Suspicious eyes peered from behind grimy windowpanes as Gessa guided a reluctant Shadow past. Woodsmoke hazed the air, smelling of damp timber and poorly cured meat, carrying with it the faint, metallic tang from the smithy ringing in the distance.
The track widened into a muddy, rutted street churned by hooves and wagon wheels.
The sounds of the village grew louder: the rhythmic ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer, rough laughter spilling from a squat building with a sign depicting a rearing horse—The Dancing Stallion—and the lowing of cattle.
Hillston was larger and rougher than she’d expected, a current of wary, hard-bitten life flowing through its unpaved arteries.
She kept her head down, but she couldn’t block out the flash of the lockets.
They were everywhere. In the iron-choked air of the estate, every throat bore the milky blankness of the Unaspected; no one with a spark could survive the suppression.
But here, color bloomed. A burly man hauling grain sacks wore a pendant of rough, grey granite that swung against his chest—a Stone-seer.
A woman scolding a child in a doorway wore the soft, translucent green of a Mender, the glass warm against her skin.
Every person she passed broadcast their soul to the world.
Gessa pulled the edges of her torn dress closer, one hand instinctively going to the milky, opaque glass at her own throat.
The lie felt leaden against her collarbone, a stark contrast to the midnight-blue truth hidden in her bag.
She kept her hands, soft and uncalloused, buried deep in the folds of her skirt.
Her first need was to sell Shadow. The stable yard attached to the inn looked substantial, a collection of leaning sheds and fenced enclosures thick with the scent of old straw and manure.
A few tired-looking horses stood tethered to a rail.
Swallowing her trepidation, Gessa led Shadow through the wide, muddy gateway.
A stooped, wiry man with a face like a knotted root emerged from the largest building, a pitchfork in hand. He paused, wiping his hands on a stained leather apron. His shrewd, pebble-like eyes swept over Gessa and Shadow with unnerving speed.
“Looking for a rub-down and a stall, mistress?” he asked, his voice raspy as old leather.
Gessa shook her head. “I need to sell him.”
His eyes flicked over Shadow again, lingering this time, then back to Gessa, taking in her torn dress, her exhaustion, and the favor she gave her swollen ankle. A flicker of calculation crossed his face.
“Bit sudden. Good-lookin’ beast, though he’s got a wild look in his eye.” He reached out a slow hand. Shadow flinched violently, ears flattening, a low rumble vibrating in his chest. The man pulled his hand back. “Aye, skittish indeed. Like he’s seen a ghost, or carries one with him.”
“He’s been through a hard journey,” Gessa managed. The lie felt flimsy. “I can’t care for him properly anymore. He needs a good home, a firm hand.”
He stroked his chin, his eyes making a slow, insulting appraisal. “Fifteen silvers.”
Gessa’s head snapped up. “Fifteen? He’s worth ten times that. Look at his lines, the strength in his legs. He’s barely out of his youth.”
“Lines don’t mean much if the mind is addled,” he rasped. He gestured dismissively at the horse. “He’s got a touch of the mad-staggers, or he’s plain ill-broke. A nervous beast is a dangerous beast. More trouble than he’s worth.”
“It’s fire,” Gessa countered, her voice gaining a surprising strength. “He’s been on a hard road, but his spirit is strong.”
He let out a long, theatrical sigh. “I see a woman in a hurry to sell. A skittish horse is a risk, and I ain’t in the business of charity.” He let the silence press in on her. “Twenty-five silvers. It’s a generous offer for the trouble he’ll likely be.”
Gessa stood frozen. Twenty-five. It was highway robbery, a pittance for a creature like Shadow. But it was coin, solid and real, and her only path forward. The fight drained out of her, replaced by a cold, hollow ache.
“Done,” she said, the word sour in her mouth.
As he took the lead rope, his touch firm and businesslike, Gessa reached out a trembling hand. Quickly, before she could think too much about it, she laid it on the gelding’s warm, sweat-dampened neck.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Be well, brave heart.”
She turned away, sorrow tearing through her. As the man led Shadow toward the stables, a sudden, intense wave of peppermint scent hit her. A dizzying internal pressure built and receded in a heartbeat. Her hand flew to the hematite. No, not here. Not now.
The stablemaster didn’t look back. The moment passed, leaving her shaken, the clink of the coins in her pouch a cold, necessary comfort against the aching void.
Her first act with the money was to find a stall selling used clothing.
In a dim, musty corner of the market square—little more than a trampled patch of dirt between the inn and the smithy—an old woman presided over a jumble of garments draped over a rickety cart.
She had eyes like polished jet, missing nothing, set in a deeply wrinkled face.
A pendant of clear, flawless crystal hung around her neck—a Truth-seer’s mark.
Gessa froze. A Truth-seer would feel the dissonance of a lie the moment it was spoken. She kept her head down, offering no greeting, resolving to let the coin do the talking. The woman watched her approach without expression, her gaze taking in every detail but offering no judgment.
Mounds of folded garments crowded the trestle table, a sea of drab wool and faded linen.
The clothes smelled faintly of harsh lye soap.
Most were heavily patched or scrubbed thin, but Gessa searched for practicality, shielding her hands with her torn sleeves as she sifted through the piles.
The woman offered only a curt nod, letting her browse.
Gessa finally selected a pair of sturdy, patched woolen trousers the color of dried mud, a plain linen tunic of indeterminate brown that had faded with age, and a dark, hooded traveler’s cloak—well-worn but thick.
They felt rough and unfamiliar, worlds away from the soft fabrics Polan had allowed her, but they were whole. And they were anonymous.
In a secluded, filthy alley between two leaning shacks, heart pounding with the fear of interruption, Gessa changed.
She bundled her torn, stained dress deep into her survival bag.
Looking at her reflection in a murky puddle, she barely recognized the figure staring back.
Thinner. Harder. The poise Polan had beaten into her was gone, replaced by the brittle shell of a survivor.
Next, her hair. Polan had always admired its length, its darkness, toying with it in a way that had once felt like affection and later, a mark of ownership. She found a quiet spot by the stream at the village edge, downstream from where women scrubbed laundry. Their chatter was a distant hum.
She opened her satchel, pushing aside the new rough wool cloak to reach the small canvas roll—her survival kit.
It contained the sum of her thefts: the bundles of dried comfrey and willow bark, the roll of bandages filched from the linen closet, a stolen flint and steel, and a small, sharp paring knife she had taken from the scullery.
She drew the knife, the blade small but serviceable. Holding a thick hank of her dark hair tightly in one fist, she began to cut.
With awkward, sawing motions, she hacked through it.
The sound grated in her ears. The severed locks fell onto the damp earth like discarded remnants of a life she had to erase.
The result was brutally choppy, shorter than she’d ever worn it, but it altered her appearance completely.
She looked wilder. Less like a pampered lady, more like someone who belonged to the gritty fringes of the world. Someone Kestrel might overlook.
Returning to the town square, Gessa spent a few more coins on a hunk of dark bread, a wedge of sharp yellow cheese, and a small sack of dried apples. She kept her hands unobtrusive as she counted out the payment to the leathery-faced farmer.
The man’s eyes, shrewd and weathered as his produce, followed her brief glance toward the jagged line of the Spurs Edge foothills to the southeast.
“That way lies naught but trouble, mistress,” he grunted, bagging the apples.
“Wicked country. Only folk who use that pass regular-like are the Iron Spurs on their southern post run. They have the steel to hold the road; the rest of us don’t linger.
Besides them, the only soul daft enough to live deep in that misery is old Marta.
Keeps to herself, her and that wolf-dog of hers.
If you’re heading that way, best pray you don’t stumble on her cabin. She ain’t known for her welcome.”
Gessa gave a noncommittal nod, though her heart fluttered nervously. She filed the name away. Marta’s cabin wasn’t a warning to be heeded; it was a potential landmark, a single point of human existence in the vast, intimidating wilderness ahead.
She retreated to the relative anonymity of a shadowed doorway, sinking down with her back against the rough wood.
She laid out her purchases on her lap. The smell alone—yeasty, salty, and sweet—made her stomach clench with a painful, desperate longing.
She forced herself to be deliberate, breaking off a piece of the bread rather than tearing at it like a starving animal.