Jerratt had deserted his watch for some purpose she couldn’t fathom.
Kerian hung between concern and anger. Finally, anger won, burning her cheek with memory of her dream and of his determination that he’d have killed the boy to protect himself. She rose quickly, felt the knife in her hand that had killed a Knight.
Behind her, a footfall.
Kerian whirled. Firelight glinted in tiny spears of light from the honed edge of her knife, ran like ghosty blood on the polished flat.
“Nah, nah,” Jeratt said. “Put it up, Kerianseray.”
She frowned, not understanding. One long stride put him between her and the low flames and embers. Swiftly, he kicked up the dirt, covering the fire.
“What are you doing? Jeratt, you didn’t kill-?”
“That boy?” He hefted his pack and slung it across his shoulder; he kicked hers toward her. “Should have, I told you. We should have killed him. The whole damn valley is up and hunting. Moon’s down, night’s goin’-and the place is filled with torches. You tell me, what do you think is goin’ on down there?” He sneered. “You think it just might he that a whole village is tryin’ to find you and huy a little peace from the Knights?”
Kerian slung the pack over her shoulder, picked up her how and quiver, and said more evenly than she felt, “Right. It’s probably a good idea to split up. You go one way, I’ll go another. Go back to the falls when you think it’s safe, but I won’t. I’ll lead them elsewhere.”
He snorted. “Where will you go?”
“I don’t know.”
He laughed to hear that, and some of the steel had gone from his voice.
“We’ll split up-that does make good sense. We’ll meet at King’s Haunting, on the edge of the Stonelands. You know where that is?”
She’d heard of it, and she’d seen it from a distance, a staggered line of stony hills east beyond the ravines that scored the earth down the length of the border between Qualinesti and the barren land that lay between the kingdom of the elves and Thorbardin.
“Get there as best you can, and drop south but try to keep going east. I’ll see you there when the moon is dark.”
Four days.
“And the others? At the falls?”
“Fine time to worry about them now,” he growled. “Leave it to me. You just get going, and keep away from the roads.”
That much he didn’t have to tell her.
“Jeratt-”
“Get going,” he snapped. “No need to die for stupidity, Kerianseray, not yet anyway. You’ve got plenty of time for that if you make it out of this.”
Kerian left him with no word for luck and no word of apology. No matter what occurred because of her deed, she would not apologize for sparing a child’s life. With no backward glance, she faded into the dawning day, trying to remember where the road lay so she could take care to keep away from it.
Cold wind chased her through the woodland, nipping at her heels, moaning in her ears. She had nothing to eat the first day, for she dared not take time to hunt and could make no fire for cooking if lean winter hares had leaped into her hands. Along the way, she kept an eye out for what she could forage, but there wasn’t much. The finest nuts of autumn had been gathered by squirrels and the few farmers and villagers who ventured into the forest. What she found was broken shells, the nutmeats gone. She gathered pine cones and could not carry many. She took to stripping them of their small nuts, eating some and putting the rest in a small pouch. All the while, she longed for something more substantial.
On the second morning, Kerian woke in her cold camp, sheltered from the wind by three rising boulders. She went to drink from the rushing stream, and in the soft earth beside the water she saw boot prints. The marks indicated someone had knelt here to drink in the night. Suddenly afraid, she looked around her, listening. She heard only the wind. She glanced over her shoulder at the cluster of boulders that had sheltered her sleep. From here, one might not be able to see that a traveler had made camp, but one would surely see signs at the water’s edge that she had been here to drink.
Kerian drew a steadying breath. If the visitor to the stream had meant her harm, the harm would have been attempted. If he had moved on, she’d have seen signs of that. She slipped her knife from her belt, regretting the weapons left at the campsite. Arrows and bow sat snugly beside her pack. She made to rise slowly, silently, then caught sight of the prints again.
The boot prints showed sign of wear at the outside of the heels. It was the young elf Ander. Kerian looked again but saw no sign of his dog, not any print or droppings or the telltale tufts of fur a thick-coated animal leaves clinging to brush or tree.
Interesting, she thought.
Neither did she see tracks to indicate that Ander had gone north or south along the stream. He hadn’t crossed the water, and she saw no trail of broken branches or crushed vines to indicate that he’d slipped farther into the trees.
Quickly, Kerian made up her mind. Where she had slept cold and hungry last night, this morning she gathered kindling and wood, struck flint to steel, and had a fire among the sheltering boulders. From her pack she took her fishing line and a hook and cut a supple wand from a sapling for a rod. She found a sunny spot on the stream’s bank and settled to wait for breakfast. The morning warmed slightly, Kerian watched the forest across the stream and listened to the woods behind her. She heard only the waking birds, the purling water, and once the sudden rustle of a fox who’d come upon her from upwind and darted away.
Kerian caught three fat trout. By the time the rich scent of cooking began to waft across the stream, her patience had its reward. Ander trudged out of the forest and stood on the far side of the stream, and now she saw that he’d been in some scrapes since last they’d met. Bruises discolored his face, and his lower lip was split and swollen.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, nodding to the trout baking on the flat stone heated in the embers of her fire.
Ander stared at her. “Aren’t you worried I’ve brought half the village with me?
She laughed and gestured for him to cross the water.
“I’m supposed to believe all those people waited in silence through the night till I could catch them breakfast?”
Ander flushed, looking down at his scuffed boots.
Kerian poked the trout, releasing the mouthwatering scent of them into the air again. “Come and eat” She gave him a long, level look. “Tell me where your dog is.”
He crossed the stream in one long-legged leap.
Ander had a ball of hard cheese the size of his fist and a hunk of dark bread going dry and stale to add to their breakfast, “The last of what I came out with.” He showed her the tangle of his snares and told her ruefully that he hadn’t had much luck trying to catch food at night. The rabbits all seemed to hear him coming.
“You’re a miller’s son,” Kerian said, remembering what he’d told her when they’d first met.
“Well, the stepson of a miller.” His widowed mother had married soon after his father’s death. Ander thought about the word “death” for a moment, chewing a mouthful of the dry bread, then added, “My father’s murder.”
His eyes glittered. Startled, Kerian saw an expression hard as any she’d seen on the face of the bitterest exile in Jeratt’s camp.
“Who murdered him?”