To Green Angel Tower, Volume 2

  He held it up and carefully examined his hair. “It’s good,” he said. “It’s short in the back. Like Josua’s or someone like that.” He looked up at her. “Like Camaris.”

  “Like a knight.”

  Simon looked down at his hand for a moment, then reached out and took Miriamele‘s, enfolding her fingers in his warm grasp. He did not quite meet her eyes. “Thank you. You did it very handsomely.”

  She nodded, desperately wanting to pull her hand free, to be not so close, but at the same time happy to feel his touch. “You are welcome, Simon.”

  At last, almost reluctantly, he let her go. “I suppose we should try to sleep if we’re going to get up at midnight,” he said.

  “We should,” she agreed.

  They packed away their few goods and unfurled their bedrolls in friendly, if slightly uneasy, silence.

  Miriamele was awakened in the middle of the night by a hand over her mouth. She tried to scream, but the hand clamped even more tightly.

  “No! It’s me!” The hand lifted.

  “Simon?” she hissed. “You idiot! What are you doing?”

  “Quiet. There’s someone out there.”

  “What?” Miriamele sat up, staring uselessly into the darkness. “Are you sure?”

  “I was just falling asleep when I heard it,” he said into her ear, “but it wasn’t a dream. I listened after I was wide awake and I heard it again.”

  “It’s an animal—a deer.”

  Simon bared his teeth to the moonlight. “I don’t know any animals that talk to themselves, do you?”

  “What?”

  “Quiet!” he whispered. “Just listen.”

  They sat in silence. It was hard for Miriamele to hear anything over the pounding of her own heart. She sneaked a glance at the fire. A few embers still glowed: if there was a person out there, they had demonstrated their presence quite thoroughly. She wondered if it would do any good now to throw dirt on the coals.

  Then she heard it, a crackling noise that seemed a good hundred paces away. Her skin tingled. Simon looked at her significantly. The sound came again, a little more distant this time.

  “Whatever it is,” she said quietly, “it sounds like it’s leaving.”

  “We were going to try to make our way down to the road in a few hours. I don’t think we should risk it.”

  Miriamele wanted to argue—this was her journey, after all, her plan—but found that she could not. The idea of trying to make their way along the tangled riverbank by moonlight, while something followed along after them ... “I agree,” she said. “We’ll wait until light.”

  “I’ll stay up for a while and keep watch. Then I’ll wake you and you can let me sleep for a while.” Simon sat himself cross-legged with his back against a stump. His sword was across his knees. “Go on, sleep.” He seemed tense, almost angry.

  Miriamele felt her heart slowing a little. “You said it was talking to itself?”

  “Well, it could be more than one person,” he said, “but it didn’t seem to make enough noise for two. And I only heard one voice.”

  “What was it saying?”

  She could dimly see Simon shake his head. “I couldn’t tell. It was too quiet. Just ... words.”

  Miriamele settled back onto her bedroll. “It might just be some cotsman. People do live in the forest.”

  “Might be.” Simon’s voice was flat. Miriamele suddenly realized that he sounded that way because he was frightened. “There are all kinds of things in these woods,” he added.

  She let her head fall back until she could see a few stars peeping through holes in the forest roof. “If you start to feel sleepy, don’t be a hero, Simon. Wake me up.”

  “I will. But I don’t think I’ll be sleepy for a while.”

  Neither will I, she thought.

  The idea of being stalked was a dreadful one. But if someone was following them, someone her uncle had sent, why would the stalker go away again without doing anything? Perhaps it had been forest outlaws who would have slaughtered them in their sleep if Simon had not awakened. Or perhaps it had only been an animal after all, and Simon had imagined the words.

  Miriamele at last drifted into an uneasy sleep, a sleep haunted by dreams of antler-headed, two-legged figures moving through the forest shadows..

  It took them a good part of the morning to make their way out of the forest. The reaching branches and foot-snagging undergrowth almost seemed to be trying to hold them back; the mist rising from the forest floor was so treacherously dense that if they had not had the sound of the stream to keep them on track, Miriamele felt sure they might just as easily have gone in the wrong direction. At last, sore and sweaty and even more tattered than they had been at dawn, they emerged onto the sodden downs.

  After a short ride across the uneven meadowland they reached the River Road late in the morning. There was no snow here, but the sky was dark and threatening, and the thick forest mist seemed to have followed them—the land was shrouded in fog as far as they could see.

  The River Road itself was almost empty: as they rode along they met only one wagon, which bore an entire family and its belongings. The driver, a careworn man who looked older than he probably was, seemed almost overwhelmed by the effort of nodding to Simon and Miriamele as they passed. She turned to watch the wagon wheeling slowly eastward behind a thin-shanked ox, and wondered if they were going to Sesuad‘ra to cast their fortunes with Josua. The man, his scrawny wife; and their silent children had looked so sad, so tired, that it was painful to think that they might be traveling toward a place she knew to be deserted. Miriamele was tempted to warn them that the prince was already marching south, but she hardened her heart and turned around. Such a favor would be dangerous foolishness: appearing in Erkynland with knowledge of Josua would attract far more attention than was healthy.

  The few small settlements they passed as morning wore into afternoon seemed almost deserted; only a few plumes of gray wafting from the smoke holes of houses, a gray just a little darker than the surrounding mist, suggested that people still went about their lives in this depressing place. If these had been farming communities, there was little sign of it now: the fields were full of dark weeds and there were no animals to be seen. Miriamele guessed that if the times were as bad here as she had heard reported of other parts of Erkynland, the few cows and sheep and pigs not yet eaten were being jealously guarded.

  “I’m not sure we should stay on this road too much longer.” Miriamele squinted up from the broad, muddy causeway into the reddening western sky.

  “We’ve barely seen a dozen people all day,” Simon replied. “And if we’re being followed, we’re best out in the open, where we can see anyone behind us.”

  “But we’ll be coming to the outskirts of Stanshire soon.” Miriamele had traveled in this area a few times with her father, and had a fairly good idea of where they were. “That’s a much bigger town than any of these little places we’ve passed. There’ll be people on the road there, that’s certain. Maybe guardsmen, too.”

  Simon shrugged. “I suppose. What are we going to do, ride through the fields?”

  “I don’t think anyone will notice or care. Haven’t you seen how all the houses are shuttered? It’s too cold for people to be looking out the windows.”

  In answer, Simon exhaled a puff of foggy breath and smiled. “As you say. Just be careful we don’t run the horses into a bog or something. It’ll be dark soon.”

  They turned their mounts off the road and through a hedge of loose brush. The sun was almost gone now, a thin slice of crimson on the horizon all that remained. The wind increased, whipping through the long grass.

  Evening had settled in across the hilly landscape by the time they saw the first signs of Stanshire. The village lay on both sides of the river, joined by a central bridge, and on the northern bank the clutter of houses extended almost to the eaves of the forest. Simon and Miriamele stopped on a hilltop and looked down on the twinkling lights.

&n
bsp; “It’s smaller,” Miriamele said. “It used to fill this entire valley.”

  Simon squinted. “I think it still does—see. there are houses all the way across. It’s just that only half of them have fires, or lamps burning, or whatever.” He pulled off his gloves to blow on his fingers. “So. Where shall we stay tonight? Did you bring any money for an inn?”

  “We are not going to sleep indoors.”

  Simon raised an eyebrow. “No? Well, at least we can find a hot meal somewhere.”

  Miriamele turned to look at him. “You don’t understand, do you? This is my father’s country. I have been here before myself. And there are so few travelers on the road that even if we weren’t recognized by anyone, people would want to ask us questions.” She shook her head. “I can’t take the chance. We can probably send you in somewhere to buy some food—I did bring some money—but stay in a hostel? We might as well hire a trumpeter to walk before us.”

  It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Simon seemed to be flushing. There was certainly an angry edge to his voice. “If you say so.”

  She calmed her own temper. “Please, Simon. Don’t you think that I would love a chance to wash my face and sit down on a bench and eat a real supper? I’m trying to do what’s best.”

  Simon looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “I’m sorry. That’s good sense. I was just disappointed.”

  Miriamele felt a sudden gust of affection for him. “I know. You’re a good friend.”

  He looked up sharply, but said nothing. They rode down the hillside into the Stanshire valley.

  There was something wrong with Stanshire. Miriamele remembered it from her visit some half-dozen years before as a bustling, thriving town populated mostly by miners and their families, a place where even at night the narrow streets were full of lamplight—but now the few passersby seemed in a hurry to be inside once more, and even the town’s inns were quiet as monasteries and nearly empty.

  Miriamele waited in the shadows outside The Wedge and Beetle while Simon spent some of their cintis-pieces on bread and milk and onions.

  “I asked the owner about some mutton and he just stared at me,” Simon said. “I think it’s been a very bad year.”

  “Did he ask you any questions?”

  “He wanted to know where I came from.” Simon was already nibbling on his bread. “I told him I was a chandler from Hasu Vale, looking for some work. He looked at me funny again, then said, ‘Well, you’ve found there’s no work to be had here, haven’t you?’ It’s just as well he didn’t need some work because I’ve forgotten everything Jeremias ever told me about how to make candles. But he asked me how long since I’d left Hasu Vale, and was it true what everyone said, that there’s hauntings in the hills there.”

  “Hauntings?” Miriamele felt a thin line of ice along her spine. “I don’t like the sound of that. What did you tell him?”

  “That I’d been gone a long time, of course. That I’d been traveling in the south looking for work. Then, before he could start asking me about that, I told him my wife was waiting in the wagon up on the River Road and that I had to go.”

  “Your wife?”

  Simon grinned. “Well, I had to tell him something, didn’t I? Why else would a man take his food and hurry back out into the cold?”

  Miriamele made a disgusted noise, then clambered up into the saddle. “We should find a place to sleep, at least for a while. I’m exhausted.”

  Simon looked around. “I don’t know where we could go here—it’s hard to tell which houses are empty, even if there’s no smoke and no light. The people may have left, or they just might not have any firewood.”

  As he spoke, a light rain began to fall.

  “We should move farther out,” she said. “On the western edge of town we can probably find an empty barn or a shed. Also there’s a quarry out there, a big one.”

  “Sounds splendid.” Simon took a bite from one of the rather shriveled-looking onions. “You lead.”

  “Just don’t eat my supper by mistake,” she said darkly. “And don’t spill any of that milk.”

  “No, my lady,” he replied.

  As they rode west on Soakwood Road, one of Stanshire’s main thoroughfares, Miriamele found herself oddly disturbed by Simon’s words. It was indeed impossible to tell if any of the darkened houses and shops were occupied, but she had a distinct sense of being watched, as though hidden eyes peered out through the cracks in the window shutters.

  Soon enough they reached the farmland outside town. The rain had eased, and was now little more than a drizzle. Miriamele pointed out the quarry, which from their vantage point on Soakwood Road was a great black nothingness. When the road had climbed a little higher up the hill, they could see a flickering of reddish light on the lower walls of the quarry.

  “Someone’s got a fire there,” said Simon. “A big one.”

  “Perhaps they’re digging stone,” Miriamele replied. “Whatever they’re doing, though, we don’t need to know about it. The fewer people who see us, the better.” She turned them off the wide road and down one of the small lanes, away from the quarry and back toward the River Road. The path was muddy, and finally Miriamele decided that it would be better to light a torch than risk a broken leg for one of the horses. They dismounted, and Simon did his best to hold off the misting rain with his cloak while Miriamele struggled with the flint. At last she managed to strike a spark that set the oily rag burning.

  After riding a little farther they found a likely shelter, a large shed standing in a field that had gone mostly to weeds and bramble. The house to which it apparently belonged, several hundred paces away down the glen, looked deserted. Neither Miriamele nor Simon were certain that the house was truly empty, but the shed at least seemed relatively safe, and they would certainly be drier and happier than beneath open sky. They tethered their horses to a gnarled—and sadly barren—apple tree behind the shed, out of sight of the house below.

  Inside, the torchlight revealed a heap of damp straw in the middle of the dirt floor, as well as a few rusting tools with splintered or missing handles leaned against the wall in anticipation of repair. A corroded scythe was depressing to Miriamele in its forgotten uselessness, but also heartening in that it suggested no one had used this shed for some time. Reassured, she and Simon went back out and fetched their saddlebags.

  Miriamele kicked the straw into two even piles, then laid out her bedroll on one of them. She looked around critically. “I wish we could risk a real fire,” she said, “but I do not even like the torch.”

  Simon had stuck the burning brand into the dirt of the floor, away from the straw. “I need to be able to see to eat,” he said. “We’ll put it out soon.”

  They devoured what remained of their meal hungrily, washing the dry bread down with draughts of cool milk. As they wiped fingers and lips clean on their sleeves, Simon looked up.

  “So what do we do tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Ride. If the weather stays like this, we might as well ride by day. In any case, we’ll see no towns of any size until we reach the walls of Falshire, so there shouldn’t be many people on the road.”

  “If the rest of the countryside around here is anything like Stanshire,” Simon said, “we won’t see half a dozen people all day.”

  “Perhaps. But if we hear anything greater than a few riders coming toward us, we should get off the road, just to be safe.”

  There was a silence as Miriamele took a last drink from the water skin, then crawled onto her bedroll and pulled her cloak over her.

  “Are you going to tell me any more about where we’re going?” Simon asked at last. She could hear from his voice that he was trying to be careful, that he didn’t want to make her angry. She was touched by his cautiousness, but also felt more than a little cross at being treated like a child susceptible to tantrums.

  “I don’t want to talk about it now, Simon.” She turned away, not liking herself, but unwilling to spill out her secret heart. She could
hear him clamber onto his own bedroll, then a quiet curse as he realized he had not snuffed the torch. He crawled back across the shed.

  “Don’t soak it,” she said. “It will make it easier to light the next time we need it.”

  “Indeed, my lady.” Simon’s voice was sour. There was a sizzle and the light was gone. After a few moments, she heard him return to his sleeping spot.

  “Good night, Simon.”

  “Good night.” He sounded angry.

  Miriamele lay in darkness and thought about what Simon had asked. Could she even explain to him? It would sound so foolish to someone else, wouldn’t it? Her father was the one who had started this war—or rather, she felt sure, he had started it at Pryrates’ urging—so how could she explain to Simon that she needed to see him, to talk to him? It wouldn’t just sound foolish, she decided, it would sound like the worst and most reckless sort of madness.

  And maybe that’s true, she thought gloomily. What if I am just fooling myself? I could be captured by Pryrates and never see my father at all. Then what would happen? That red-robed monster would have every secret of Josua’s that I know.

  She shuddered. Why didn’t she tell Simon what she planned? And more importantly, why hadn’t she told Uncle Josua instead of just running away? Just the little bit she had told him had made him angry and suspicious ... but maybe he was right. Who was she, one young woman, to decide what was right and wrong for her uncle and all his followers? And wasn’t that what she was doing, taking their lives into her hands to satisfy a whim?

  But it’s not a whim. She felt herself divided into warring factions, like her father and uncle, two halves in conflict. She was coming apart. It important. No one can stop this but my father, and only I know what started it. But I’m so frightened....