Chapter 9 #2
Three days later, it seemed to Henry as if he’d been walking through the forest for his entire life.
The aches had faded—or perhaps he’d simply grown accustomed to them—but his entire body felt worn and insubstantial.
And filthy. He was hungry too, having depleted his meager store of food.
Thankfully, Stefano had hopped around in the woods, indicating fruits and plants and mushrooms that Henry could eat, and that had certainly helped.
But he wanted a proper meal, with meat and bread.
Also, some conversational company would be nice. Stefano hadn’t uttered a single word since they’d crossed into Innisbar.
Every time that Henry’s thoughts strayed to the lover he’d lost, his heart felt frailer and more confined.
So it was with great relief that he noticed the trees thinning and then caught sight of the first human habitation he’d seen in days. The route had leveled out, and cultivated fields appeared with young plants in orderly rows. Henry was too much of a city boy to know what crops were growing.
He wondered idly what it would be like to be a farmer, faithfully tending plants and livestock. Always worried that a storm or sickness or other calamity would destroy everything, yet also proud to feed others. That might be an interesting life.
And what about the life of a blacksmith, muscles bulging, skin slick with sweat? A smith’s back might fail him early, but until then he was mighty, crafting necessary items out of useless chunks of metal.
Or a craftsman? Henry thought about the men and women who wove clever baskets, built sturdy kegs, created shoes or jewelry or fine clothing, who built ships or houses or stone walls that would last for generations.
Henry had never before given thought to his fate.
When he was very young, the assumption was that he’d eventually join his family at the textile mill.
Nobody questioned this because there were no other real options for people like him.
The only variable was how long his parents could afford for him to put off the inevitable.
A bit later, at the poorhouse, he’d been taught to make furniture, and he was expected to be grateful for the opportunity.
He had been grateful, vaguely, although mostly he was shrouded in grief and loneliness.
Then he’d been chosen to be the prince’s companion and whipping boy—he’d never known why he, specifically, had been their choice—and he hadn’t questioned that either.
Refusal wasn’t an option and, aside from the beatings, his new position was far grander than he could have dreamed of.
Eventually, of course, he’d become more than what he’d been hired for.
He’d become Stefano’s servant, friend, lover, protector.
These were all roles he’d taken on willingly, joyfully.
He hadn’t wanted any other destiny and so hadn’t considered alternatives.
But now, well, he still loved Stefano despite the curse.
And he would still lay down his life to protect his prince.
But what if he could be something more? What if Henry had a part of his own to play in the world?
A small part, perhaps, but every community was built of people with small parts: farmers, smiths, craftspeople, bakers, healers, shop clerks, chimney sweeps, lawyers, teachers, artists…
. If Henry’s emotions hadn’t been dulled, he might have become dizzy at all the possibilities.
He walked through a small hamlet, thoughts far away, until he noticed that people were staring at him.
At first he thought it was because he was a road-worn stranger with a scraggly beard and dirty clothing.
But when a small girl pointed at him and laughed, Henry remembered that Stefano was still on his shoulder.
He hurried past the scattering of houses and, when he was safely away from prying eyes, knelt beside the road. “Time for the cage again, I’m afraid.”
Stefano made a sad little sound but hopped in obediently when Henry placed the open cage beside him.
Henry poured in a little water from his flask to keep Stefano damp.
“Are we in Fraysia now?” Henry waited for Stefano’s nod before continuing.
“Innisbar was beautiful, I think. I couldn’t fully appreciate it, but I understand why you wouldn’t want it destroyed with mining. ”
He covered the cage with the thin cloth and attached it to his bag. As he continued the journey, he spoke as he walked, knowing that Stefano would hear.
“It’s curious. There used to be guards posted at the border of Innisbar and Thanytsia.
But now the border has shifted, yet there are no guards on the border between Innisbar and Fraysia.
I’m sure this isn’t an oversight on the king’s part—your father does nothing by accident.
He must have some reason for it, although I can’t fathom what.
I would make a poor strategist, I suppose. ”
Well, that was one thing he could cross off his prospective career list, should he survive the current adventure.
They passed through increasingly larger villages as the day went on.
None of them displayed anything close to the wealth that was evident in parts of the Thanytsian capital, but there were also few signs of poverty.
He vaguely remembered Stefano once explaining that there were no textile mills in Fraysia and no other major industry.
It was a small country with a small population, and why King Cyrus wanted it so badly was a mystery to Henry.
Maybe greed was all the rationale that some people needed.
Late in the afternoon Henry spied a walled city atop a hill. By this time the road had widened and there was some traffic, although not as much as in Thanytsia. He stopped an older couple who had, he thought, kind faces. “Pardon me, but is that the capital?”
They chuckled and shook their heads. “You’ve two days’ walk more,” said the woman. “Or since you’re young, maybe a bit less.”
That was longer than Stefano had indicated. The mistake could have been due to his usual difficulties with numbers and calculations—or it could be a sign that his human mind had begun to deteriorate.
“Don’t look so glum,” said the man, gesturing toward the hill. “Lonica is a nice place to pass a little time. It’s known to have the best ales in the country, and plenty of lively folks enjoying them.” He followed up with a wink.
“Thank you, but….” Henry gave up on offering an explanation. “Could you recommend an inn for the night? A quiet place, please, but comfortable.” He had definitely had his fill of sleeping on the ground.
The couple seemed to consider for a moment before the woman spoke. “The White Dog, I think. The tariff may be too dear for you, but if you can manage, it should suit you well.”
He gave them as deep a courtly bow as his burdens allowed. “My thanks to you.” And to hold off any questioning—he could see it looming in their faces—he hurried away.