“Saints! That means they’ll come after us! We’re already in their haven!”
“Probably. Well. We’d better not be here when they come through. Take my hand. Feel with your other, and with your feet. Try to stay quiet. We’ll get through this, Winna. Trust me.”
“I trust you, Aspar.”
“Good.”
Now, he thought, if I only trusted myself. What a hell of a situation.
2
D’Ef
“Well, that’s it then,” Henne said, turning his sun-browned face toward Stephen and flashing him a chip-toothed grin.
“What is it?” Stephen asked. He didn’t see anything unusual—just the King’s Road, the straight, pale-barked columns of river birch all around, the green riot of cane that marked the edge of the river Ef, off to their right.
Henne pointed to a clump of ferns, and after a moment of incomprehension, Stephen realized they hid a stone boundary marker. From that point on the King’s Road, a track that might have been worn by deer wandered off through the forest.
“Past that is monastery grounds. The main road comes in from the south, but this’ll get you there quicker.”
“I don’t see the monastery.”
“Yah. It’s around the base of the hill, I reckon another league. I’ll ride on with you, if you wish.”
Stephen bit his lip. He had become more cautious about being alone in the forest, lately.
“They’ll probably feed you at the very least, for bringing me all this way,” he told the hunter.
“They would at that,” Henne said. “But then I’d have to stay and make pleasant with ’em for a while. Nothing wrong with that as it goes, but Whitraff village is three leagues downstream, and I fancy faren there in time for Evenbell. They have those pretty sort of people in Whitraff, the sort you won’t find in a monastery, no offense to you, lad.”
“Oh,” Stephen said. “Ah, none taken. And I’ll manage the last league by myself. Thank you much for your company on the journey.”
“Nothing to it,” Henne replied. “I’ll probably see you from time to time. Sir Symen sends someone down here every now and then to buy cheese and wine, and to make sure all is well. I may even stop on my way back. Maybe you can put in a word for a good price.”
“I’ll certainly tell the fratrex of the hospitality I received from the folk of Tor Scath,” Stephen promised.
“Good. Farst-thu goth, then,” Henne said, turning his mount back toward the King’s Road.
“Saints keep you,” Stephen replied.
A few moments later, for the first time since his kidnapping, Stephen found himself alone. To his surprise it felt good. He sat his horse for a moment, savoring the stillness of the forest. He wondered, suddenly, what it might be like to be As-par White, alone and at home in this great land. Free, not bound to anyone or anything, able to come and go like the wind.
Stephen had never known that. He likely never would. He’d never even thought about it, until this moment. His road was set; the youngest son, he had been his father’s tithe to the church since birth.
And Stephen wanted to serve, especially to study. He really did.
But sometimes …
Frowning at his foolishness, he kneed the horse into motion.
The forest began to open up. Stumps became as common as trees, and then even more so. The clearings were thick with blackberry and red-ticking, wild plum, horseteeth, and huckleberry. The drone of insects rose and fell around him, and for the first time in days the hot sun fell on him unhindered. It cheered him, and he began whistling a hornpipe.
A crash and a curse in the underbrush interrupted him and brought a rush of blood to his head. For a terrible moment, he was again being dragged from his mount, bound and gagged by men who might kill him at any moment. For a few drums of his heart the memory was more vivid than reality.
He calmed when he saw an old man in the habit of a fratir of the Decmanusian order.
“Can I help you, there?” Stephen called.
“Eh?” The old fellow’s bushy gray eyebrows rose skyward. “Who are you?”
“I’m Stephen Darige, of the Cape … Ah, Stephen Darige, at your service.”
“Well. Good, good. Going to buy cheese, then?”
“No, actually, I—”
“Yes, yes. Our cheese is noted far and wide. They come all the way from Fenburh for it. Well, since you’re going to d’Ef, the saints would smile kindly if you would help an old man.”
“As I said, I am in your service. What seems to be the trouble?”
“There is no trouble where saints prevail, young man, only challenge.” He grinned sheepishly. “But to be wise, it’s best to know when a challenge ought to be shared. I’ve a bundle of firewood here that I’ve, er … bundled a bit too large. I would be much grateful for some aid with it. It’s here, caught up in these blackberry vines.” To emphasize that, he kicked at something Stephen couldn’t quite see.
“No trouble,” Stephen replied, dismounting. “No trouble for a fratir. Are you a novice or a first initiate? I can’t tell the habits apart.”
“I am what you see,” the fellow said, looking a bit crestfallen. He brightened suddenly. “I am Brother Pell.”
“From Hornladh?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” He suddenly looked suspicious. “How would you know?”
“You’re named for Saint Queislas,” Stephen said, a little smugly. “His name has many forms—Ceasel, here in Crotheny—but it’s only in the rural parts of Hornladh where they call him Saint Pell.”
“Not so. He is called the same in Tero Gallé.”
“With respect, good brother, there he is known as Pelle.”
“It’s nearly the same.”
“Quite so. But distinct, nonetheless.”
Brother Pell blinked at him a few times, then shrugged. “Here is the firewood, then.” He smiled vaguely.
Stephen looked down. The bundle was huge. It probably weighed more than the old man did.
“It’s a good thing I came along, then,” Stephen said. “How far is the monastery?”
“Half a league. The saints dispose. You’ll give me a hand?”
“Rest a moment, Brother. I’ll get this.”
“Many thanks, young sir, so knowledgeable about the names of saints.”
“It’s no trouble,” Stephen said, heaving at the heavy cords that bound the sticks. With a great deal of tugging, pulling, and lifting, he managed to get it onto his back. It was amazingly heavy and unwieldy. His knees were almost shaking. Half a league! He’d be lucky to make it as far as his horse. Let the beast drag it.
But when he started laying the bundle down behind the horse, the old man said, “What are you doing, young sir?”
“I’m going to harness my mount to your firewood.”
“No, no, Master Darige. That won’t do. Saint Decmanus, the patron of our sanctuary, is quite clear on that point. Limbs must be gathered with limbs and carried with limbs. We may not bring the wood back with the aid of your horse.”
“Oh.” Stephen shifted the weight on his back a bit. He had never heard that. “Well then, could you take her reins?”
“Assuredly, Master Darige.”
They continued on down the path, Stephen grunting beneath the load, Brother Pell whistling a slip-reel.
The forest ended soon after that, and from his hunched position, Stephen had a good view of green grass and cowcakes. When he troubled his head to lift itself, he saw pleasant pastures cropped by slow-moving rust-and-white cattle.
“The source of our vaunted cheese, yes,” Brother Pell said. “Good stock these, but the secret is the grass. Dew-drenched— you’ve never smelled anything sweeter. Almost you’d rather eat the grass, eh!” The brother waved at a pair of cowherds, and they waved back from their shaded resting spot near a willow-bordered creek.
“Nice bream in that brooh,” Brother Pell remarked. “A good place to meditate.” He chuckled. “Bream in the brooh. Almost a verse, that.”