The village was small, only a dozen mud-and-stone huts with thatch roofs. Madia had never gotten quite this close to such a place, had never been in the house of a serf. One of the huts was much larger than the rest. She could see a few sheep and cows inside its wide open door, and more sheep wandering nearby in a fenced-in field.
Small fenced gardens were in back of most of the huts, and chickens seemed to be everywhere. Two women carrying pails and followed by three young children came out of the largest hut and headed toward one of the others. They dumped the dark lumpy contents onto a big mounded pile at the near edge of the village, then stayed to throw dirt onto the pile. Another woman carrying a large earthenware pot and dogged by a handful of small children came wandering out from between a pair of cows near another hut. Milk, Madia thought, and her insides ached from hunger.
For three days since the attack she had stayed in the woods or crept through fallow fields, afraid to show herself to anyone, anywhere. No goblins or leshy had accosted her, no spirits had haunted her path, and she had seen no more robbers or soldiers about, but all her fears, both real and imagined, were beginning to pale in comparison to the physical punishment she had endured. She had found water in the small streams that trickled through the countryside, but she hadn't had nourishment of any kind, and she didn't think she could go another night or walk another step with her stomach so empty.
She hid among the trees of the standing wood several hundred feet from the tiny village. As the cool of evening settled upon her skin, her hands shook. The sun began to set and she watched other villagers returning from the fields, a few more women and children, and twice as many men. Not long afterward, what seemed like the whole population of the village gathered on the little main road and headed for the manor house—a small arrangement of walls and a keep barely visible on a rise to the south. They would take dinner there, Madia thought, and then they would return.
She watched them go, then watched the huts for a time after that, looking for movement, thinking of cow's milk. When she thought it was safe, she began to crawl out of her hiding place.
The fields around the huts had already seen a harvest; only torn and trampled leaves and the withered remains of once growing produce were left. Cabbage, Madia realized, crawling past a few discarded, rotting heads. She checked them carefully, then began crawling in a more serpentine pattern, checking for heads that might have been missed. She found none. Finally she reached the little garden behind the nearest hut.
Most of what grew here had been dug up, but there were small green beans still on some of the shortest bushes, and a row of carrots, still fresh and growing. She dug up a carrot and ate ravenously. The carrots were sweet and absolutely wonderful. When the food was gone, she crawled round to the side of the hut.
The nearest window, shutters open, faced away from the manor house. She waited for her dizzy head to clear, for her heart to slow its pounding. She peered inside and saw no one, then pulled herself over the sill and let herself down inside.
Coals glowed dark red in the small open hearth. The scent of the smoke filled the room, nearly covering many others—soured milk or cheese, unlaundered bedding, wooden tables and dirt floors soaked in ancient food spills. Across the room, through the open doorway, fading daylight sketched a table and chairs, a butter churn, a pair of short barrels, and a pair of beds from the shadows as she strained her eyes. One candle burned near the hearth, kept to light others, the one thing that reminded her of life at Kamrit Castle.
She worked her way around the little room, looking for anything that might be considered food. Inside one of the barrels, wrapped in burlap, she found a fair-sized piece of oatcake. It lacked sweetness and was already getting old and dry, but she was careful not to lose a single crumb as she ate it.
Then she spotted an earthenware pot near the door. She picked it up and shook it and heard a faint splash, then she tipped it to her lips. There was barely any milk left, but she was not displeased. She stood up again, the room in darkness now but for the glow of the fire and the one candle's flame. Outside the sun was setting, leaving a clear moonlit sky behind. Madia stayed still; the shaking hadn't stopped.
She tenderly crossed her arms, tucking her hands beneath them, and hugged them against her. Better, she thought. Then renewed fatigue seemed to fill her mind and body, rising like the moon outside, replacing one pallid reality with another. The shaking moved to her knees and she sank to her haunches beside the door.
Better, again, she decided after a moment. She just needed a moment's rest without the cold night dew settling on her hair, without the frightening unknown sounds of the night in the forest all around her, without the running. . . .
She closed her eyes briefly, huddled on the floor, leaning against the doorway. She opened them again to the sound and sight of shoes on the floor beside her.
Man, wife and child, Madia gathered, looking at them. They stood around her in a loose semicircle, staring at her in silence. The woman and the boy held one lit candle each up in front of them. Madia realized they could see her much better than she could see them. She got slowly to her feet, straining to gather detail. They were dressed in the simplest of clothes, nearly the same dresses, shirts and pants worn by beggars in Kamrit. The man had an ax in his hands, held at the ready.
"Had enough of our bread?" the woman said in a strong voice with a cold, even tone.
"Who are you?" the man asked in a deep, rough voice that was less taciturn. He looked to be in his thirties, and he still had several teeth. His breath smelled heavily of ale.
Madia opened her mouth, but the answer caught in her throat. Her instinct was to inform them of their place, tell them she was the royal princess of Ariman and was owed the service and allegiance of every soul in these lands, then tell them her bidding after that. But she still did not know who in Kamrit had sent the lone knight to attack her, or what he had wanted, or why Lord Ivran's men had killed the girl who wore her clothing—she didn't know who might have good reason to help her enemies by turning her over to them. How would these people react to the truth, she wondered, if they chose to believe her at all? . . .
The man looked at his wife and shook his head. "She's a thief, that's all! A stinkin' thief. We can take her up to the manor and let the lord deal with her."
"No!" Madia said, nearly startling herself with the outburst. "No, you can't do that."
"You see?" the man said. "She is a thief, wanted by the king's men, sure. Out with you, to the manor! I'll not have your likes in my house."
"Please," Madia said, finding the word somewhere. She tried to think of something appropriate—not the truth, certainly, but a lie, which was something she had a good deal more experience with.
"I am wanted for something I did not do. You must believe me."
"Where are you from?" he asked.
"Kamrit," she said, having no idea what else to say.
"What are you charged with?" the woman asked.
Madia searched her tired mind for lucid thoughts. These were ignorant folk, of course, so anything simple would do, and she had concocted the most elaborate stories at the castle dozens of times, often with no more notice than this. . . .
"The Princess Madia thinks I enticed a nobleman who was courting her," she said. "She ordered me thrown in prison. But I swear I did no such thing! I have no idea what drew the good fellow's attention, as I never so much as looked at him, and I only spoke to him when he spoke to me. Yet I am blamed! I barely escaped the city and have been alone on the road since then—four days now, without food or proper shelter."
"Aye, the good princess is a graceless, vexing little imp!" said the woman. "The whole kingdom knows it! Be the king's ruin yet, and everyone knows that, too."
"You have met the princess?" Madia asked, trying not to flinch, straining to hold her tongue.
"Oh, no," the woman said, shaking her head from side to side. "But it is common notice. The king's threatened to put her out in the cold, you know, is the latest word about. Same justice she did you! Sure serve her right, too."
"I hear the stories myself," her husband said. He frowned, the candlelit shadow of his ax growing longer across his rough, unshaven face. "But what of this one?"
"Could just put her out, on her way," the woman said. "It was the full moon that brought her, so we could just give her back."
"She is sort of pretty." The boy's voice. Madia could not imagine how he might see such virtues in her as she appeared just now—filthy, ragged, putrid—although she had already noticed that the smell was something these people were well enough accustomed to. She looked the boy over more closely. Quite young, really, perhaps thirteen. Nervous boy-eyes of a kind she had seen times before. Madia very nearly smiled.
"Thank you," she said.
"No need to steal a man's bread," the boy's father told Madia, looking her over much more carefully now himself. "You can ask."
"I really am sorry. I was not sure who to trust," she added, thinking this, at least, was quite true. I can't trust anyone!
"Could be there's a nice bounty on her head?" the man added, looking to his wife. Even the boy seemed to perk up noticeably at the idea. Madia thought of the gold coins she had carried, a pittance to her then, a fortune to her now, more than enough to buy the loyalties of these people. But she was poorer than they just now.
"I doubt there is any bounty," she said. "But your lord may wish to gain favor with the royal house by turning me in. I do not want to go to jail."
"She talks so fine," the man said, rubbing his chin, thoughtful. "High breed, or a servant to a high house."
"A servant, truly," Madia responded, "to many a fine lord and great baron who has visited the king." True also, in a very special way, she thought. "So you see, I know something of hospitality."
"Never mind that!" the woman snapped. She stepped forward once and stood toe-to-toe with Madia, breathing ale-soaked breath at her. Her face fell into shadow, but Madia could gather much from the ire in the other's tone. "There'll be no hospitality for outlaws here, believe that."
"Alright, Faith," her husband said, taking her by the arm, pulling her gently back. "Just a bit." He walked to one side of Madia and paused, puzzling, then went around to the other side near the boy. "I'll bet she knows something about work, bein' a servant to the king so long and all." He found Madia's eyes. "We got behind on cuttin' the lord's grain, enough so we'll have to work long and Sundays to get the last of our own garden done and stored for winter." He turned again to the others.
"What I mean is, we might let her stay about for a few weeks, or so, till we're done with harvest and stores, and we might feed her a little now and then. As well my brother could use some help." He made a gesture behind him, toward some other part of the village, then looked at Madia. "You can sleep with our cow, if you want." He stopped to look at his wife and chuckled. Madia saw her grin and shake her head. "And who is going to watch her?" she said.
"I can watch her," the boy said.
"Aye, and sure there is more than one young man about who will help with that," his father said, grinning.
"I guess that's right," the woman said, apparently relenting. "She is not so large. Might not eat that much anyway."
Madia did manage a meager smile now, a genuine smile. She didn't know if staying here was safe, and she had no idea what they would want from her, but peasant work had never seemed that difficult, and it had to be better than shivering and starving, or being set upon by more outlaws. "Thank you," she said, adding, "and you, Faith."
"Rous," her husband said, introducing himself. "And this is young Aust, my son. Now, tell us who you are."
Madia went to speak, saw the error in doing so and nearly choked on a hasty swallow. The three of them were waiting. Faith, she thought, seeing it now. . . . "Hope," she said.
"Same as my cousin's daughter," Rous said, nodding in apparent wonder. "Easy to remember! Come then, we'll show her where to sleep. And best sleep well," he added, then he nodded to his wife.
Faith gathered a blanket off the end of one of the beds and led Madia through the heavy burlap drapery that hung at the back of the room. They stepped through the opening into another, smaller room, no more than three or four yards across, then Faith held her candle up. The roof pitched down from the wall of the main house, too low to stand under at the far end. The floor was covered with hay. The room's single other feature was a sleeping cow. Opening its eyes, the animal looked dreamily at the two women; it stirred slightly, then shut its eyes again.
"See you come sunup," Faith said, handing Madia the blanket. She turned to go.
"Wait!" Madia said. "What will I sleep on? And—what of the cow?"
Faith stared at her for a moment, then something other than the candlelight flickered in her eyes, and she burst into a hearty laugh. "Aye," she said, "at least you still have a sense of humor, and after all you been through. You might do well after all, girl. Now, good night."
The woman slipped out and was gone. Madia turned in the darkness and made her way to the near wall, then she inched along, stopping as far from the cow as she could get—but the smell of dung grew heavy there, and she realized she was in the wrong corner. She slid back, then up the other side until she was in front of the animal, as far as she knew. She could hear it breathing. Leaning closer, she could feel the warmth from its large body. She lay down and wrapped herself in the blanket, listening to the cow's loud breathing, wondering if she would ever sleep a single moment like this.
A couple of days here, she thought, was all she would be able to stand. She thought of nothing after that until she woke.
Faith returned just after sunup. She told Madia to fold the blanket, then she brought her out to the table. Breakfast consisted of a barely edible gruel and wonderfully fresh milk, though Rous drank ale with his meal. Following that, Rous gathered scythes and rakes from the cow-shed and handed them to his wife and son. "A friend, Empil, lost his wife this past month," he told Madia, "so he will have an extra scythe you can use." Then he turned and went outside.
The air was brisk, but there was no wind and the sun shone clearly above the horizon. Warmth on the way. Rous introduced Madia to the other villagers as they gathered on the village street. She met nearly three dozen people whose names she forgot almost as soon as they were told her. Too many to remember, she thought, and she didn't see that it mattered in any case. Not for the few days she would know any of them.
They showed her the midden, an open heap of manure and dirt, the same one she had seen the women dump the buckets on the day before, then they told her now was the time to use it if she had to. She didn't. Rous told the others that "Hope" was from the town of Rill, which apparently lay somewhere east of the manor, and he explained the terms he had given her. No one seemed to object. Then everyone set out for the fields.
Most wandered to different sections of the manor fields, where they began to cut the tall browning grasses; some others set about raking and piling what had been cut and laid out a previous day. The hayward came by, overseeing the day's start. He wore a dark coat and brimmed hat and rode a well-groomed horse, the kind of man Madia might have teased at the castle more than once but never actually spoke to, except to give the most despotic decree. Here, he was master. She did not recognize this man, but she tried to glimpse his face as he road near, hoping he would not know her and would pass her by. She saw no recognition in his eyes.
Madia took up her scythe, watching the others work, and began to swing. The grasses fell, progress being made. She thought this would almost be fun, the novelty alone providing an entertainment of sorts. But after an hour, her hands and back were sore. By the time the hayward's horn sounded lunch, the day had warmed considerably. Sweat had soaked into her clothing and her hands had begun to blister.
Women came bringing bread and cheese and watered ale from the manor house. Madia followed everyone into the shade of the trees along the pasture's edge and ate as much as she could. She showed Rous her hands.
"What did you do in Kamrit?" he asked, shaking his head. Faith took a look and began to chuckle. "Hide from her duties, I'll wager," she said.
"Here," Rous told her, handing her a pot of ale. "Drink as much of this down as you can, and you will feel better about it."
Madia enjoyed the wine her father imported from the ports in Neleva, but she had never liked ale, even good ale, which her first swallow told her this was not. But she drank, then drank some more, until she was nearly too dizzy to get up. When the horn sounded a second time, though, she did get up, ignoring the stiffness in her back, and took her scythe to the wheel for sharpening before going back to the fields. By the end of the day, her hands were bleeding and her back hurt so that she could hardly walk. The ale had worn off and left her with a throbbing head as well. But the field was nearly all cut and raked.
She watched the hayward come around and talk to some of the men, including Rous, then he sounded the horn and everyone headed for the road. She went along, limping from the misery in her back and holding her hands against her ribs, palms up, arms crossed at the wrists. The evening meal lay ahead. Strangely, she wasn't awfully hungry.
"Will you go to the lord's house for supper?" Madia asked as they walked, trying to think ahead.
"Aye, every night. We get meat and fish twice a week," Rous said as the walked. "But you can stay behind if you want." He made a wicked face, not a kind sort of look, then he seemed to soften. "Maybe we can bring you something back, if you are afraid to go up."
Afraid, she thought, repeating the word in her mind. She had never been afraid of anything in her life. She was terrified of everything now—of just getting through another day.
"We will have two more boons this week," Rous said after Madia didn't answer. "Two more fields, and next week we take bundles on the wagons to go up to the manor yard. Week after, we got our own fields to finish, and what's left of the garden. Then we make ready for the coldest months, which is when you'll be on your way. You best figure what you plan to do for the winter."
Madia heard all his words, felt her head pound and spin. Her hands burned and her body ached. She didn't have a plan. Other than going to the trading city of Kopeth upriver. She numbly tried to tell them about this.
Rous looked at his wife and son, and all three of them frowned.
"What is it?" Madia asked. She stumbled, then got her footing before she fell. No one slowed or even seemed to notice. She forced her legs to propel her forward.
"You claim to worry about being caught and taken back to Kamrit, but soldiers and traders from all lands can be found in Kopeth. And freemen and mercenaries of every sort. You'd best hope you told the truth about the lack of a ransom on your head."
"It is a big and busy place, though," young Aust said, eyes distant and bright as Madia looked at him. "Travelers tell of Kopeth at every chance! I have always wanted to go there, just to see. I hear—"
"One tale too many, for a fact," Faith said, cutting the boy off. "It is a dangerous place for the unwary, and this girl is as unwary as any I know."
"Plenty of other towns in the north," Rous said. "Places where a soul could stay years and not be of notice to the rest of Ariman. Places only the tax collectors know."
"Then that is what I'll do," Madia said, thinking she could not work another hour in the fields, let alone many days. Any city would do. She knew dressmaking, and she had been taught to cook a little bit, and how to care for the sick and wounded; she knew something of the use of plants and herbs—sage and lavender, fennel and hore-hound and wormwood. And she could read, something no one of these people and not many in even the largest towns could do well. She would find less painful work and better food and real architecture, and perhaps a real bed that was not to be shared with livestock. A few days, she recited again in her mind. Maybe only two. Then I will go.
The following morning, Faith gave Madia two strips of soft cloth and showed her how to wrap her blistered hands. Then she cooked eggs and milk together in the kettle on the hearth, a meal that filled Madia's stomach with a warm and heavy glow, each mouthful tasting better than the last.
Rous watched Madia eat, fumbling the chunks of egg with fingertips that protruded from the wrappings. "You will stay here today," he told her as he rose, preparing to go. "Give those hands a chance to heal some. Stay in the house, if you know what's good for you. Others here about dislike anybody around their things, and the lord himself might ride out for a regular look. 'Course, were that to happen, we three would know nothing about any crimes at Kamrit. You heard what I told the others about you."
"Yes," Madia said, thankful, more truly thankful than she had ever been to anyone in her life before. They were good people, but she couldn't expect them to lie for her at risk to themselves, and she didn't think less of them for it. They were not so ignorant, either, not quite, anyway; they knew of an entire life that she did not.
"I understand," she added. "I will not bring harm to you or your family. I swear it. And as soon as my hands get a little better—"
"He knows, girl," Faith said, smiling a bit. "We would not have kept you if we felt you was no good."
Which was an odd thing to hear; she had only just barely begun to think of them in that way, yet apparently they had decided many things about her a full day ago.
She wanted to say something, but she didn't have any words just at the moment. It didn't seem to matter. Faith had already turned with her husband and son and headed out. Then she paused at the door, glancing back.
"See what you can do to clean the place," Faith said, gesturing broadly. "Tomorrow is only half a day of work. In the afternoon, we can see about making you an extra set of clothes."
Just a week, then, Madia thought. Maybe two. Then I will go.
November's first winds blew whispering half-bare tree limbs against each other and swirled leaves through the air, piling them against fences and doorways about the village. Madia finished her bread and bacon breakfast and sighed; she stared out the window, thinking about staying in the hut again most of the day, doing little else. There was no more work to do on the big fields or anywhere on the manor, even on Rous' own acreage. Rous and the other villagers had lately begun slaughtering many of the animals, thereby making room in their sheds, and were keeping busy putting dried meat up for the winter.
In two months' time Madia had put on a few pounds weight, though most all of that was muscle. She felt strong, fairly healthy, and . . . restless. She thought of the months ahead as she got up from the table, and decided that perhaps it was time.
Not that staying in the village was all bad—even though that meant getting used to smelling and looking and feeling like one of Kamrit's street beggars, but she had grown fond of these people, especially Faith, who had shown her the unusual art of cooking with almost no ingredients, and who seemed to possess an inner strength and endurance that left Madia in constant awe. In fact, Madia had grown rather fond of her own new personality, too, of "Hope" the servant girl, the peasant girl—though it was a role she would not cherish forever.
She had never guessed how hard such a life could be, nor how simple; too simple, at times. And too cruel. She had seen a newborn girl die of fever her second week here, and men and women whose bodies were so old and worn that they were like walking dead, yet they were no older than her own father. Rous was becoming such a man, and Faith, worn and weary, old ahead of her time. And the boy would follow them, accepting who and what he was. Something Madia had never given much thought to—in the past.
She did not want to spend the winter here, or the spring after that, or all those to come. She had already talked with the others about everything she dared talk about, and though there was no doubt much more they could teach her, she was only just so willing to learn the ways of such a place; she didn't want to die here.
And this village was still much too close to Kamrit for comfort, yet too far from the life for which she had been bred.
She started to bring up the subject of going, then decided to wait until after the meal that evening. She spent the day making clothes with Faith, then waited as usual as the villagers went up to the manor for the evening meal, but when they returned, Rous came to Madia and stood silently, looking at her, his expression strangely unreadable.
"There is news," he said. "You may be able to return to Kamrit, or eat at the manor with the rest of us if it suits you better. They say she is dead."
"Who is dead?" Madia asked.
"The princess, Madia, daughter of King Andarys," Rous replied, turning out a thin smile. "The very bitch what caused you your grief!"
"He put her out of the castle, he did," Faith said, wrinkling her nose. "The king warned her once and for all, before she brought the kingdom down around his ears, and she crossed him still! So by the gods he put her out on her own, and that was the death of her."
"How do they know she is dead?"
"No one has seen her in weeks," Rous replied. "And the pendant she was wearin' turned up in a merchant's stall in the market square. Fell victim to outlaws on the river road, they say. So you see, she won't likely be back."
"Yes, I see," Madia said, trying to sort everything out. But it had only been a few weeks! To give up hope so quickly meant that someone in the castle, perhaps even her father, truly must have wanted her dead and gone and must know of the attacks on her—one of them, at least. More, it meant that no one cared for her life; not her own father, certainly, and not anyone else! Her only value had come in death.
She still didn't want to believe that.
"How could a father do such a thing to his own daughter?" Madia asked, not looking at anyone.
"That would depend, I guess," Rous said, shrugging his shoulders, "on the girl."
You wanted to leave here, she told herself. Now you'll get your wish. Though of course, she could not leave to go back as the ghost of Madia Andarys. Obviously, there were those who would test her mortality.
"Well and good," Madia said, trying to smile. "I will go in the morning."
"And we will miss you," young Aust said, grinning at her, gazing at her with eyes that spoke of friendship now.
"All of us," Faith said, and Rous nodded, smiling too, just like the boy.
"I—" Madia said, telling the truth, seeing it as she spoke, "—I will miss you, too."
With the morning, Madia put the extra clothes Faith had made for her into a homemade shoulder bag and wrapped a thick cape around herself. Rous gave her dried pork and a hearty loaf of barley and rye bread. Finally she headed south, waving good-bye, watching them watch her go. When she was well out of sight, she slipped off the road and doubled back, heading northwest again, walking away from Kamrit, away from home.
Madia had never been one to overlook a good resource, and a patently effective piece of fiction had always been just that. She modified some of the details, foremost her approach; she walked straight into a most likely looking little peasant village before the onset of darkness. Wearing a lost-cow look, she began hunting for the most likely looking faces, then told her story as convincingly as any bard or minstrel at her father's castle ever had. The villagers listened intently, clinging spellbound to every word as she explained her crimes of insinuated passion, then pleaded the case for her innocence.
"The king thought I was in part responsible for his daughter's misbehavior," she finished, adding this newly concocted bit. "The princess tried to lay blame on me in order to satisfy her own misplaced jealously!"
The villagers, having little access to insider royal gossip so far afield, found Madia to be an innocent yet scandalous fountain of it. And they had yet to hear of the princess' supposed demise.
She asked for only a few days' food and shelter in return for her tales, and found that several families were willing to argue over the privilege. But before she grew to dislike the accommodation, and before she ran out of real or embellished tales to tell, she quietly moved on, traveling only by day now, wary of the bite the winds of November had begun to carry.
The third village she stayed in was larger than the others and was visited frequently by the manor's lord, a sour, rumpled man who seemed to look that way even in fresh clothing. There were no meat and fish meals at the manor house, but Madia learned that he paid wages high enough to allow some of the serfs to buy their freedom, or more land of their own on which to grow cash crops to be sold in the markets at Kopeth. There were even a few travelers about, relatives and peddlers from other villages, for the fief itself was a very large one.
Madia began to feel almost comfortable here. She came to stay with a mother who truly needed help with many things, a widow named Arie and her two daughters, girls half Madia's age. With no sons and no husband, Arie and her girls had learned to do a man's work each day, and bore a look in their eyes and posture that testified to this. She said her husband had died during the winter past, something wrong in his gut, a painful passing. The other villagers had helped with whatever they had, and still did, more generously than any people Madia had ever known at Kamrit Castle.
So Madia offered to help Arie with putting up the last of her winter stores, then she helped make ale and noticed, tasting older brews, that she had begun to develop a taste for the stuff herself.
She met other girls her own age here, most of them married, though a few that were not, and there were many young men, though she only flirted with them; she had known too many men of learning and power, men of adventure who were greater adversaries in games of romantic lure and chance. Already she had almost forgotten what that was like, though not completely. Food and shelter were one thing, but a princess' fancy was quite another.
She stayed nearly three weeks until, come a Saturday afternoon, Arie returned from taking a wagonload of the last of the season's apples to the market. When the wagon drew near, Arie was off the back and hurrying toward the hut before the wheels had stopped.
"Hope!" she said, a terribly serious look on her face. "I have news of Kamrit, of the king!" She said it all in one breath, then drew another. "We should go inside."
Madia nodded, went in and waited while the girl composed herself, waited for her to say that the princess was presumed dead, and so it might be safe for the servant girl Hope to return to the city of Kamrit.
"The long illness that plagues King Andarys has taken a turn, they say, and has worsened. The grand chamberlain, Lord Ferris, is carrying out the king's wishes for him."
Madia felt her gut tighten. My father, ill! And that cretin Ferris running the kingdom. . . .
"They say Lord Ferris is hunting enlistments, and his soldiers are said to be everywhere lately, especially in Kopeth, looking for young men to join their legions."
"Perhaps they will stay in Kopeth," Madia muttered, her mind going in two directions.
"But don't you see, they will come here soon, searching for freemen, or any man willing to serve the king. Did you not say you were still wanted by every soldier in Ariman? Or do you think, with the king's illness, your crimes might have been forgotten?"
"Perhaps," Madia said, paying strict attention now. "Though . . . I would doubt that."
Of course, she still had no idea who else was involved, which made trying to understand the possibilities just as frustrating as it had been the day she was attacked.
"Then I fear for you. You said that your service in the castle made you known to all."
"That is true," Madia replied. "When might they come?"
"A few days, I think. Perhaps a day."
She had heard of a town beyond Kopeth, known as Kern, nearer the northern border of Ariman—though not too close, as anywhere close to Bouren was nowhere she wanted to find herself just now. Still, there might be nowhere else to go. Except home. "Then I must leave tonight."
"You must let me help you."
"You say the king's illness is an old one. Do you know anything more?"
"No, only what they say."
Madia had never known of any such illness, so she thought it might well be a lie. Her father wouldn't do her the favor of getting sick and passing on. Rumors could start, though, and spread. . . .
"Where will you go?" Arie asked.
"I have a place to hide," Madia said, because Arie didn't need to know any differently.
"Will you be back?"
Arie stood looking at her the way Lady Anna used to, nights when Madia would leave her chambers; like Rous and Faith and Aust had looked at her the day she had said good-bye to them. She had said good-bye too often of late.
"Yes," she said, knowing it wasn't true.
"Then I would have you borrow something of mine." Arie went to the corner of the room, reached behind the pine storage chest there, and retrieved a sword. She handed it to Madia. A crude weapon, the blade was short and blunt and made of poor steel, most of it rusting and pitted at the edges. The hilt was homemade, carved from oak, and there was no scabbard.
"It was found in the fields, leftover from the wars," she said. "It might afford you some protection against the hungry beasts, or men. My husband taught me how to hold it, to protect myself when he was away. It is not hard to learn."
She went to show Madia what little she had learned. Madia let her, not letting on to her own abilities with a weapon.
"Thank you," Madia said when they were finished. She wrapped the sword in rags and tied it to her back. "I will return it, I promise." And she realized as she said it that, in fact, she hoped she might keep her word.
She dressed as warmly as time and the villager's generosity would allow. She took food for a week, hoping it would not take that long, uncertain she would survive longer in the cold that had gripped the land in recent days.
For a moment, she began to wonder if it might be better to just go home, or go to Kopeth, better to face her enemies and risk being killed or hauled away by her father—or by his enemies. At least that way, she thought, she might die running toward her life, instead of away from it—because that is what you are doing! It was an idea she still felt uncomfortable with, one she could examine only indirectly. Yet there were other concerns.
What if my father really is ill. . . .
But if she were ever to go back with the intent to survive she would need to know more, to understand many things that eluded her now. The decision could wait, a few days at least, until she'd had time to think things over a little more, time to decide what she was afraid of, no matter where she was; or perhaps, with luck, she would be able to learn something new in a real town. One way or another.
With the first light of the last day of November, she set out again, feet crunching on the morning frost covering the grasses in the fields along the road to Kern.