Chapter 1
Gwen scurried from the kitchen carrying wooden platters of food, snaking around furniture and dodging the careless flailings of happily drunk men. Her arms trembled under the repeated weight of the heavy dishes, but it would be hours yet before food service was over.
Suddenly there was a scuffle to her left and Gwen looked up to see a clumsy drunk wheeling backwards toward her. She twisted nimbly and just managed to avoid the stumbling body, slopping her hand with hot stew in the process. It burned, but she soldiered on—it wasn’t worth it to drop her burden. If her attacker noticed he’d scalded and almost crushed her, he didn’t say so. Apparently she was invisible.
She dodged forward and slipped the food in front of the waiting patrons, a pair of black-clad Kravanite soldiers. They didn’t bother to look up at her arrival, didn’t hesitate in their conversation, didn’t acknowledge her at all. Their food might have arrived by magic for all the attention they paid her.
The invisible girl strikes again, she thought bitterly, wiping her stinging hand on her skirt.
But “strikes” wasn’t the right word. Invisible girls don’t strike, if they did they wouldn’t be invisible. But it was better this way. Visibility was a good trait in a big, powerful person, not in the small or the weak and Gwen was a whole lot of both.
But sometimes...she wanted to matter a little bit, to someone. Even if it was just the stupid soldier who was happy she brought his food so fast. He didn’t have to talk to her, or, God forbid, expect her to talk to him—her knees weakened at the thought. She wanted some reminder that she wasn’t the ghost she felt like so often. It was stupid, but then so was she. Everyone said so.
She let out a depressed puff and trudged back the way she came, the food would not serve itself and while no one noticed her, they did notice if their food didn’t arrive. She definitely didn’t want to be noticed that way. She eyed Master Stowe where he manned the bar and picked up her pace, doing her best to fade into the rough brown walls.
Once back in the kitchen, Gwen scooped more food to go out. The fare was simple, a thick country stew flavored with meat. Unimaginative, but on the upside it made taking orders easy—it was either a yes or a no
She shoved sweaty tendrils of hair out of her face with her bony forearm as she scooped, coming up on her toes to reach the bottom of the tall pot. The only inn in Farmstaad was usually pretty quiet, with only local farmers and the occasional trader for customers, but earlier this week a whole border troop from Kravan had arrived. They swarmed the place in their black uniforms like an infestation of beetles. The tiny kitchen was not meant to accommodate such a large crowd, and it was scorching hot from the constantly blazing fire. Stowe had purchased a conduit-spelled anti-fire charm to hang over the kitchen door, but unfortunately it did nothing for the heat.
Not unless I burn the place down.
But that would be very, very visible—not the actions of an invisible ghost-girl.
Stowe was in high spirits with all the business--so happy in fact that Gwen thought she saw what almost looked like a smile on his perpetually sour face. She couldn’t be sure—Stowe’s smiles were frighteningly similar to the expression most people wore when they had gas—but the military men were running up a high tab and seemed content to stay, two reasons for him to be thrilled. Of course Stowe saw no reason to hire any additional staff to deal with the massive amount of business they now regularly had. It was still just her and Magle, the cook.
Gwen grabbed up her load of freshly-filled plates and dodged through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the great room, hurrying toward a waiting table in the back. She quickly scanned the room for any more stumbling threats and spotted the mistress where she sat with her daughter and a bevy of troops. Her fingers were absently trailing over the hair of the spoiled young girl, tucking back loose strands. Gwen felt a pang of jealousy, but shoved it away fiercely, forcing her eyes back down.
The Mistress was not always cruel, and perhaps that is why it was so painful when she was. Her viciousness was interspersed with rare moments of kindness, even tenderness. When she was younger Gwen had desperately craved those moments. But no more.
At least that’s what she tried to tell herself.
Getting close to the mistress was like cuddling with an asp—comfort only for the desperately lonely and not worth the inevitable bite.
“Are y-y-you my ffffamily?” a young Gwen had asked, confused by a moment of tenderness from the mistress. The woman’s hands had stilled where they had been brushing her hair and Gwen had seen the knuckles briefly whiten on the handle of the brush.
“No, we’re not your family,” the mistress had finally said. She’d paused to let Gwen’s heart sink—then stomped on it. “You killed your family.”
Gwen had gasped. “I d-d-didn’t!”
“How would you know?” the mistress asked. Gwen didn’t, she remembered nothing. “No matter. Do you know what it means when you are the only one left alive? It means you are cursed. You have the black eye on you.” She set the brush down, then rotated Gwen so they were looking into each other’s eyes. “You don’t want to hurt us, do you?”
“Nnnno,” whispered Gwen.
“Then you’d better keep your distance.”
Gwen had fled.
She shook herself free of the memories. It wasn’t true, the mistress had only said that to hurt her. It wasn’t true.
"Gwen! Are we to starve these brave men?" fluttered Mistress Stowe loud enough to carry across the room. She was an attractive woman with a curvaceous figure and still-dark hair, although Gwen had suspicions that that was helped by the same tornum root Gwen used to dye her own. Unfortunately, the presence of so many young men had brought out the worst in her. Gwen abruptly changed course and scurried over, bearing dishes.
"My, but she is slow," drawled the mistress, emphasizing that she meant it in more ways than just speed. The black-uniformed men at the table chuckled. Gwen’s stomach sank.
So it was to be one of those nights.
Gwen ducked her head even lower, trying to shrink inside herself as she approached the table.
The Mistress eyed her and absent was any sign of the elusive kindness. Instead her eyes glittered and a slight smile creased her lips. It was a look Gwen knew too well, and she started to shake, her grip on the platters tightening.
Had she really just wished to be noticed? She regretted it now, desperately.
The Mistress always knew exactly where to strike. "Have you nothing to say for yourself?"
Gwen leaned in just far enough to set down the heavy dishes and tried to slip away, but she wasn’t fast enough. Mistress Stowe grabbed her arm.
"Go on. Apologize." She smirked slightly, her rouged lips blood-red in her pale face. Mistress Stowe liked to be the center of attention, and everyone was watching the show. "We take her in, an orphan from who-knows-where,” this for her audience “and then suffer her ingratitude, but I shouldn't like our guests to be so ill-treated." On her face the mistress was all apologetic smiles, but the grip on Gwen's arm tightened painfully. Gwen begged with her eyes to be let go, but hard experience told her it was no use. She was a mouse in the cagey claws of a cat, and she was going nowhere.
The mistress looked at her expectantly, and when Gwen remained silent she gave her a little shake to get started. Gwen opened her mouth but it was filled with the ashes of dead words. She couldn’t speak. The mistress bared her teeth in what everyone else interpreted as a smile, but Gwen didn’t. Smiles were supposed to be nice. Gwen swallowed hard and tried again.
"S-sss-ss-" she struggled with the stutter that had plagued her her whole life, trying to get out the words that would secure her freedom. The words wouldn’t come and she tried again, frantic to get free. “Ssssss--” the mistress quirked an eyebrow at her poor attempt and cut her off with a trilling laugh, which her companions joined. Gwen looked around for help, but there wasn’t any. There never was. All she saw were open mouths filled with sharp teeth and sharper laughter.
Except one soldier. He wasn’t laughing, but he didn’t look like he would help, either. Instead he wore the alert look of a bloodhound when it had a steak waggled in front of its face. Everyone else thought her humiliation was funny but he....he looked delighted.
That was worse, far worse.
Gwen’s attention was jerked back to the mistress as she added in a stage whisper, "Little did we know we were getting an idiot. She doesn’t even remember her family, though she was nigh’ six when we took her in. Only her name, ‘Gwendolyn,’” she laughed “Such a big name for such a little…” She trailed off letting them fill it in for themselves. “So benevolent is my husband that we decided to keep her on. Sometimes, I swear, it’s not worth it." Her attention returned to her prey, then speaking slowly, as if to a toddler she said, “Drinks, Gwen, we need drinks, today," and released her with a slight shove. Gwen scrambled out of the room, tripping over her own feet in her trembling haste and causing the room to erupt in laughter.
Laughter was better than beatings to turn a girl invisible. Beatings breed defiance, the victim wants to fight back. Beating a girl invisible was a long, hard battle even when the victim was much smaller. A small body can house a large spirit.
But laughter makes a person want to be invisible, and when that happened the spirit didn’t get beat down.
It left.
Once in the relative safety of the kitchen, Gwen collapsed against the wall, shaking. Her face burned with shame and laughter rang in her ears. She hated it, hated them, hated the mistress.
Hated herself.
Gwen’s respite lasted only for a few seconds before she was screamed at to start helping by the overburdened cook. Keeping her shoulders hunched, Gwen ran forward to fill mugs from the kitchen barrel. Hot tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them away fiercely.
Stupid. You asked for it. You wanted to be noticed. Stupid, stupid.
She didn’t want to go back out there, but the alternative was worse. She took deep breaths and tried to get herself under control.
It won’t be so bad, she told herself. And usually it wasn’t. While her public humiliation would eat at her for days, the perpetrators usually forgot about it minutes after their good laugh. It wasn’t fair.
She forced back a fresh bout of tears, breathing through her mouth and hiding her face behind a curtain of mousey brown hair.
You are invisible, this time she intended the thought to be comforting. You are invisible, no one will even pay attention to you. But it wasn’t comforting, it was sick, and she was sick of it. Her hands fisted and a part of her that she thought was long-gone, rebelled. It’s not fair, it whispered.
That was no surprise, of course it wasn’t fair. She knew better by now than to expect things to be fair.
But knowing better didn’t stop her from being angry.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a spice packet sitting inches in front of her. Heart pounding, she shot a furtive look at the cook. Before she could think twice she snatched it up, ripped it open and tipped its contents towards the mistress’ drink. But she paused, the spicy red powder quivering at the edge of the open package. She couldn’t do it, couldn’t taint the mistress’ drink.
At least not in such an obvious, catch-me way.
She dropped the packet onto the counter and, shooting another stealthy look at the busy cook, slipped into the pantry. She quickly searched through the medicine packets until she found the one to loosen Stowe’s bowels. It was flavorless—and the results, spectacular.
But still she paused. She shouldn’t do it. It would keep the mistress up all night on the chamber pot. That wasn’t nice.
But then neither was the mistress. Maybe life wasn’t fair, but it should be. Not-nice things should happen to not-nice people, and tonight at least, Gwen would see that it did. Chin set she dumped the packet into the mistress’ drink and gave it a stir.
She knew she would probably regret it, and if they ever suspected what she did….But right now she didn’t care. As she scooped up the mugs to go out, she put her chin in the air.
Maybe she had a little strikiness left in her after all.
***
Gwen finished tending the horses just as the sun was rising. This was always her first chore of the day as the horses had to be fed before first light when many travelers left. It was easily her favorite part of the day. She liked the warm scent of horse and hay, she liked stroking the warm bodies and having them nudge her with their noses. She liked the solitude.
And this morning, she liked walking past the open door and seeing that the light in the mistress’ room was still lit from the night before.
But that chore was done, and it was time for the next to begin. Their chickens didn’t produce enough eggs for all the customers they currently had, so Gwen was off to buy some from the neighbors. They would deliver but, of course, that would cost more. Gwen’s labor was free.
Fortunately theirs was a very small settlement, and even a trip to the furthest building away was less than a mile. Farmstaad was located in the Sengrel, the strip of grassland between the Balahab Desert to the south and the Lavazza Forest and the fertile farmland further north. The soil was poor, rocky and clay-hard near the forest, and dry and sandy to the south. Add in the fact that it was balanced on the border between two nations that seemed perpetually at war and the result was a place of last resort. The few buildings that made up Farmstaad were small and squat, like stumpy and brown broken teeth lined up on either side of the red clay road. The twisted, drought resistant trees that grew on the southern edge of the forest arched over them like a mouth about to close. Were the road not a minor trade route between the two kingdoms to the east and west and the desert people to the south, the town would no doubt have given up and been swallowed.
The settlement had been founded by the Molnese decades ago but this part of the country traded hands so often between Molna and Kravan it was hard to say which side they belonged to on any given day--if either bothered to claim them.
Gwen grudgingly traded the feed bucket for one of the many baskets that hung along the wall. It wasn’t the walk that she minded, it was the people she might see, and who might see her. Children were particularly vicious.
Dummy-Gwen-Dummy-Gwen, chanted in high singsong voices replayed in her mind. Her attempts to tell them to shut up had just made them laugh harder. She grimaced and shook her head to cast the sound from her ears.
Waiting wasn’t going to make it any easier. She gathered her courage around her like a tatty cloak, but had only taken two steps out of the stable before it was reduced back to shreds.
The man from last night was leaning against the inn, watching her. Waiting for her. When he saw her, his black eyes sparked and his smirk was all teeth.
Gwen’s shock made her stumble, but she immediately turned her eyes to her feet. She was sure he saw her step falter but still did her best to pretend like she hadn’t noticed him and continued walking.
Why won’t he leave me alone? she wondered frantically was she walked.
After her confrontation with the mistress last night, she had felt him tracking her with his eyes for the rest of the evening. Even when she wasn’t looking, she could feel them slither over her, making her skin crawl. She didn’t want to think about what had drawn his interest. It certainly wasn’t her looks.
Pretty girls weren’t invisible.
Every nerve was attentive to the movements of the Watcher, and they pinged with anxiety when she heard the crunching repetition of his footsteps behind her. Her heart pounded double-time and she picked up her pace. His pace increased as well, but not enough to catch up. Just to follow.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Gwen had a lot of practice judging the degree of danger an individual posed. Stowe, for example, was simple in his cruelty. As long as she did exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it, he ignored her. If she didn’t...he made sure she wouldn’t again. Most people were like this, carelessly cruel, more selfish than evil. The mistress was more complex, as changeable as spring weather on a windy day. She could be as tender as a soft rain or as violent as a thunderstorm, and she always kept Gwen on tenterhooks as to which it was going to be.
But the Watcher...he eyed her like a hyena right before it brought down the weakest member of the herd.
Then ripped its throat out.
He was not the first who’d looked at her that way. Before, when someone like the Watcher came through, she hid until they were gone. But the troop didn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. A steady pace, ten to fifteen feet behind her. Gwen forced herself to breathe. Even this early there was activity in the few buildings that made up the small town. It was a farming community and spring planting season, so the day began at dawn.
He can’t attack you in the middle of the street, she told herself. He just wants to scare you.
He was doing a fine job. The little hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and sweat swamped her, even in the cold spring morning.
She shivered.
Don’t let him know he’s getting to you, she told herself, forcing her shoulders to relax.
But he was, and it was impossible to hide it from him. A rabbit didn’t need to tell the wolf in order for him to know she was afraid. He knew. That was what appealed to him about her, her weakest-wildebeest, bunny-like vulnerability. That did not bode well for her.
The bunny never won.
She continued on, head down, uselessly trying to pretend she didn’t know he was there. It seemed she did have a scrap of pride left after all.
How far would he take it? Did he just think it was fun to bully her?
Suddenly there was a sudden scuffling from the footsteps behind her, they increased their pace for a half second, and Gwen couldn’t help it, she broke all pretenses and ran. She was halfway down the street before she became aware he didn’t follow her.
But his laughter did.
***
Gwen let out a huge, jaw-popping yawn and tried to shake the exhaustion away. Thanks to all the soldiers, food service took longer, which meant cleaning afterward took longer, so she didn’t finish her work until very late. Stowe was strict about the cleanliness of the kitchen.
Of course, you can be as fastidious as you like when you aren’t the one who has to do the scrubbing! Gwen mentally griped, shrugging her tight shoulders.
But worse than all the work was the Watcher. His unwavering stare and creepy smiles kept her tense and invaded her sleep. Her loft over the barn, usually her haven, suddenly felt too isolated, and she had slept on the hard floor of the kitchen. Constant physical labor was hard, constant physical labor while terrified was worse.
But what could she do? Tell someone? Depending on his mood Stowe would beat her or laugh at her, but certainly wouldn't risk a customer. It would be suicide to tell the Mistress that a young man was paying attention to her, no matter how ill-intentioned that attention. Cook wouldn't care, even if she were in a position to do anything. Gwen had always kept to herself, so taciturn that she knew many of the townspeople thought she was simple-minded. Her brief time at the parish school hadn’t helped that impression. Besides, all of them knew what kind of man Stowe was, but not one of the "good" townspeople had ever said a word about her constant bruises, her rags, or her thinness. They wouldn’t care if she told them about the Watcher. No one would care, she was alone.
So she waited, a rabbit frozen in the malevolent eye of a hawk, praying he’d pass over.
Gwen yawned again, her eyes watering, and filled the feed bucket from the barrel. The stable was made up of only six stalls, lined up side by side with a hallway that extended across the front of all of them. The hallway was just wide enough to get the horses out with enough room left over to store barrels of feed and empty barrels waiting to be refilled. Every stall was occupied with the troop in residence. The additional horses that the small inn could not accommodate were cared for by their own soldiers. When other traders came through, their horses were put in the paddock behind.
Gwen poured the oats into the suspended bucket in the stall of a friendly bay who huffed her sleeve. She was turning back for another scoop when she heard a noise behind her. Her constant state of nervousness made her jump, instantly spinning toward the entrance.
Where he stood. A black form against the grey dawn.
Gwen started and dropped the bucket, too conditioned to silence to make a noise.
"There you are, little lark." The Watcher said smoothly, and a sense of foreboding filled her. She backed up instinctively until her back hit the wall. She was trapped. Her heart started the racing rhythm of a cornered animal and panic made her see black spots in her vision. She realized she was holding her breath and let it out in a gush.
"Happy to see me?" His voice was smooth as silk and he strolled forward, leisurely. "I'm happy to see you.” As he came closer she could see that he was smiling. “But you wouldn't tell me if you were, would you?" His voice sharpened "You wouldn't tell anyone anything." It was a statement, not a question.
A threat.
Gwen stood frozen in panic. Then she felt something welling up in her, something filling her from the inside, demanding that she run, that she fight.
Run, an actual voice hissed in her ear, snapping Gwen out of her frozen trance. There was no one there but her and the Watcher.
Run, it urged again and she obeyed, looking frantically for an escape route. Suddenly he dove for her. Gwen was small for her fifteen years but fast, and her survival instincts overrode her terror. She kicked the dropped bucket at his feet, and he went down hard as she dove to the side, around him. He obviously hadn’t expected anything so bold out of her--she hadn’t expected it out of herself. She knocked over an upended barrel as she raced out into the early dawn to further slow him down.
She ran without looking back, as hard as she could, leaning forward over her flying feet. She needed to be near people, but no one was awake. She slammed into the kitchen and instinctively went for its darkest corner--the kitchen dish nook. She made herself as small as possible in its deepest corner, grabbing her knees and rocking slightly as the terror licked through her small form. She tried to quiet her breathing, petrified that he would hear her, would find her.
Minutes ticked by slowly, each stretched out to fill an eternity. Gwen strained so intently that her ears rang.
There was a noise in the kitchen, and her breathing all but stopped.
Oh God, he was coming closer, he wasn't even bothering to be quiet.
She was shaking and felt sweat pouring off of her.
This was stupid, why did I come here? I should have gone....she had nowhere to go.
Just as her heart stopped from fear she heard singing--Cook. Praise God it was Cook, up to start the day's breakfast. Gwen was so relieved she burst into smothered tears. She couldn't live like this, it couldn't go on, she had to tell someone.
And what was that voice?
Chapter 2
Gwen didn't see the Watcher the rest of the day, and she managed to calm down enough to come up with a plan.
She would tell his captain.
No one inside her world would care to help, but maybe someone outside would. It was a crazy plan, but the only one she could come up with. The Watcher was under the captain's command, and surely they didn’t condone attacks on the village’s inhabitants.
Surely, she told herself, but it was a struggle to believe it. Regardless, she had no options.
The captain was out now, making circuits, but when he returned she would speak to him.
Gwen was petrified.
She had never tried to get help before, she had never tried to speak to someone as great as he before. What if he ignored her? What if he didn't believe her? Just the thought of trying to form the words was enough to make her heart pound and her palms sweat; the actual content of her request made her downright nauseous.
When she didn't see the Watcher all day she began to think that maybe he would leave her alone. Maybe after her escape in the stable, he had given up, finding her not as defenseless as he thought. But she had seen enough in her short years to know that revenge was more likely than just letting her go, and it was only her dread of the impending conversation with the captain that was causing those thoughts.
She always had more chores than she could ever manage to finish so she deliberately chose ones that kept her near the inn, waiting for the Captain's return. She scoured the kitchen and great room, swept the packed yard that was more dirt than grass, cleaned up after the horses that were tied to the hitching post out by the road. She assiduously avoided going anywhere alone, making quick jaunts to handle the chores away from the inn that couldn’t be put off, like tending the horses, only when others were near. Like a prey animal, her eyes constantly scanned her surroundings, tensely aware of every person and every movement within her sightline. Every nerve was stretched to the breaking point such that even expected sounds made her jump.
The captain finally came in around dusk with the bevy of troops he had taken with him on patrol, and, after casually chanting the Sun-set prayer, immediately called for his supper.
Captain Groshawk was an unimpressive looking man, more given to fat than you would expect of a man who spent so much time in the saddle. He was on the downward slope of middle-age with more hair on his face than on his head--all of it gone grey. He had a loud barking voice that intimidated Gwen so badly that by the time she brought his food she couldn't get out the words she had rehearsed.
It’s better, anyway, to talk to him alone, she told herself, putting off the conversation. On his way to his rooms after supper would provide the perfect opportunity. And so Gwen worked and waited, one eye on the captain, the other on the door should the Watcher appear.
The captain finished supper, then called for refreshment, first one round, then another. The mood in the taproom was relaxed and congenial, comfortably crowded with soldiers but not packed. It soon became apparent to Gwen that the Captain was feeling social tonight and settling in for a long evening, and she became more anxious with every round she brought him. Soon he would be drunk or the Watcher would return. Time was running out. She had no choice--on the next round she would do it.
Sir, may I please speak with you? She rehearsed. She could do this, she could do this. She had to do this.
It was now or never.
Never? A cowardly part of her suggested.
No, she steeled herself, now.
Gwen set down the full mug in front of the captain, but didn't step away. He ignored her and continued on with whatever boisterous story he was telling. Gwen’s heart was pounding in her ears and she had to force herself to keep breathing.
"Ss-s-sir" She finally got out, but he didn’t seem to notice, so she tried again, cursing the stutter that kept the words trapped in her head.
"Pp-please, s-sir, p-pardon mmmmme." Captain Groshawk turned to her as if surprised to find someone there.
"Well lookat that! She can speak afterall!" He bellowed and laughed uproariously. Gwen’s heart dropped into her ragged boots as all the eyes in the taproom turned to her.
"P-p-please sssssir, I need t-t-to sssspeak with you." She whispered, focusing her eyes below his florid face on the bright buttons running down the front of his uniform.
"So speak!" He barked easily. Every eye was now focused on her, and she saw Stowe at his usual station behind the bar. He was not happy.
Gwen swallowed hard.
"Y-you ssssee ssssir, one of your m-m-m..." She got stuck on the ‘m’ so took a breath and tried again "O-o-one of your m-men, h-h-h-as been fff-following me." The room was tensely silent for a moment, then the Captain burst out laughing, and all his men followed suit.
"You? YOU??" He eyed her up and down and laughed as if it was the funniest joke in the world. "My men haven't been out in the bush that long." And he continued laughing. But Gwen wasn't going to give up so easily, she had come so far, so she continued, gripping her hands tightly to stop their trembling. Her eyes darted to a glowering Stowe who was shaking his head at her warningly.
"Y-y-y-yes, ss-sir, he fff-followed me out to the ss-stable and ttt-t-tried to attack mmmme." She was shaking so bad, she knew her audience could see the jerking.
"And which of my men finds such a thing like you worth 'following.'" He said, still chuckling. "Well! Point him out!"
"Hhh-h-he's not hhh-h-here."
"Ah not here is he? Well then, describe the desperate fellow." He said smiling, pulling long on his drink.
"Ttt-tall, dark h-h-hair and b-b-black eyes. A scar, jj-just h-h-here." Gwen pointed to her jawbone and saw the Captian's eyes get big behind the tankard and he swallowed hard. He was no longer laughing.
"Now see here you need to think hard before you make baseless accusations." Gwen didn't know what she had done wrong but something had changed.
"B-b-b-bb-bbut--" she tried, frantic to get it out.
"You shut your mouth. Your joke has gone on long enough! Speak one more word and I'll see you never speak again. A plain brown rat such as yourself, I could see why you'd be desperate to tell such a tale."
"Bbb-bb-but--" Gwen was so alarmed the words choked her.
"Silence!" He barked as he jumped into her face, hand raised. Gwen tried to scramble away but the sudden movement was too much for her shaky legs and she fell to the floor. "You will stop your stories, at once!" Then he bent low to the floor, his red fleshy face just inches from hers. "You will spread your tales no more, do you understand me?" He growled the last. She cowered in fear. "ANSWER ME!!" He bellowed in her face.
"Yyyyy-y-yyy-," she couldn't get it out, she covered her face.
The captain, satisfied that she was sufficiently cowed, straightened his jacket and sat back into his chair as if nothing had happened.
"Who ever heard of a storyteller that couldn't speak!" He bellowed jovially and the silent tension in the room erupted into too-loud laughter. He spared one more dark glance for her as she stayed cowering on the floor before barking, "Get me a drink!"
Gwen needed no more urging and scrambled to her feet. She fled the room, her ears ringing with laughter, her face on fire--
--And ran straight into the Watcher, standing on the other side of the door, leisurely awaiting her return.
"So my little lark can sing," was all he said and strolled past her into the great room. Gwen only just made it into the kitchen before her stomach heaved.
***
The next two days followed in a haze of fear and pain. As predicted, Stowe's response to her actions had been swift and brutal. As Gwen had become a source of amusement for all their guests, the mistresses’ comments cut even deeper and more unrestrainedly.
As for the Watcher, he was everywhere.
Gwen eventually learned he was called Jobe, and now, after her failed accusation, he approached her constantly, without any fear of reprisal. His reaction to her accusation was to act as if the idea were so ridiculous that it was funny. In the taproom he publicly declared his undying love to the laughter of all present.
When he caught her alone, however, he was not laughing.
"Little lark, you cannot get away from me." He murmured, as he cornered her in the upstairs hallway, a pile of linens filling her arms. "No one’s going to help you, that was foolish." and he trailed a finger down her cheek as she stood there trembling. He was interrupted by boots up the stairs.
"Ah, Jobe, did we break up a lover’s moment?" laughed the boisterous man and his companion on the stairs.
"But of course, begging my love to elope! Incidentally I also need my washing done. How convenient that my love and my chambermaid are all the same!" he pronounced to much merriment. Gwen took the moment of inattention to duck under his arm and dart down the stairs.
It was getting harder and harder to stay in the inn or get her outdoor chores done only when people were around. She walked a tightrope spread between Stowe’s demands and her terror of getting caught alone by the Watcher. She couldn’t balance much longer—it was only a matter of time before she tipped one way or the other. She was trapped, the helpless bunny quivering in front of a wolf.
No, worse than that, she snorted with disgust, a bunny is even less helpless than me. A bunny would at least run.
Run.
The word bloomed in the tamed landscape of her mind like an exotic flower, startling her with its strangeness. It sprung in the parched brown desert, outlandish, foreign, alien, shocking.
Beautiful.
She had never really considered running before. No matter how bad things got, that was just the way her world was. The way the world was. Where was any better? Besides, Farmstaad was in the middle of nowhere. She would starve in the wilderness or freeze to death, or become someone or something else’s prey. She’d simply had nowhere to go.
The difference was that now she had nowhere to stay. Stowe’s beatings were bad, but they were a business transaction, they lacked the delighted viciousness of what was coming. No matter what she faced out there it wasn’t likely to be any worse than what she faced if she stayed.
Strangely, the thought was as freeing as it was terrifying.
Chapter 3
It was the darkest part of the night when Gwen snuck out of the kitchen barefoot, her ratty boots and her few belongings bundled in her arms. She didn’t have much, a lump of soap, a few pieces of tornum root, some rags to pad her boots or wash with, and as many scraps of dried bread and raw vegetables as she had been able to scavenge. She hadn’t slept at all, just laid tensely waiting for everyone to settle down for the evening. For hours she lay, taut as bowstring, trying not to shake. Finally she crept out into the night as silently as she could, pausing only long enough to slip on her too-large boots before taking off into the woods.
She had no idea where she was going to go, hadn’t the faintest idea where she could go for help. She knew she couldn’t take the road as it would be too easy for them to find her. Instead she took off through the dark forest, finding comfort in its enveloping blackness that swallowed most of the streaming moonlight. She might die of exposure, she might die by some wild beast, she might die of starvation, but if she stayed she would die by the hand of Jobe.
Or wish she was dead.
She ran for as far as she could, finding release from her anxieties in the heart-pounding run. It felt good to be running, alone, feet thudding in the silent black night. Freeing. She might be running to her death, but at least she was running. The sweat rolling off her felt like a river of victory, utterly different, somehow from the swamping sweat of fear that had clung to her for weeks.
Maybe for my whole life.
Eventually she couldn’t keep up her mad pace, and she slowed, her many aches overcoming the euphoric feeling of freedom. The blood pounding through her veins made each of her many bruises throb rhythmically, and the lack of sleep over the past few weeks was making itself known in a sick sense of wooziness. Fear kept her moving briskly, but she could not continue her mad dash.
The night air was cold, it being only spring, and smelled of damp decay. Fortunately Gwen didn’t feel the cold, as she was moving too much. Besides, she was used to being cold. What she wasn’t use to was the deserted feel of the forest. At the inn she was always busy, always tied to the building by some labor. Someone was always no more than a wall away. Her brief jaunts into the forest to find edibles or the tornum root for her hair, were just that--brief and stolen, keeping her to the edges so she could hear if she were called. To her surprise she found the quiet peaceful, and the branches of the twisted trees looked less like claws and more like the gnarled hands of a beloved grandmother.
That is, until she heard the hoof beats behind her.
It couldn’t be.
She froze and dropped low to the ground, holding her breath to hear better. It was unmistakable--thuddump, thuddump, thuddump.
Oh God.
Instinctively she started to run, as hard and as fast as she could, blind panic sending her wheeling away from the sound. But it only got louder.
Of course it did, she couldn’t outrun a horse.
She looked frantically for somewhere to hide. There, a downed tree and brush. She veered sharply to the left and dove low onto the shrubbery, ducking her head. She felt the branches tear into her exposed arms, pulling at her clothes and hair, but frantically she kept going, wiggling as far as she could get.
The hoof beats were almost upon her now, and she froze as she saw horse and rider come into view. She prayed she had gotten in far enough, that in the dark horse and rider would continue past. Please, please.
They didn’t even slow. She could just make out the large dark shape as it flew past her on the trajectory she had been running. Gwen bit on her hand to keep silent as they went past. As soon as they were out of sight, Gwen began struggling further into the brush. She could see it thinning ahead and she wanted to get further away, out the other side. She was moving as quickly and as quietly as she could, and was almost to the clearing, when she heard the hoof beats returning.
He knew where she was!
She began to struggle against the grasping brush, but she knew it was too late. She froze again as he got near enough she was afraid he could hear her, the horse slowing until he was mere feet away.
“Hello, little lark,” she almost vomited. She bit her lip. He was on the other side of the brush, where her trail had veered. There’s no way he could see her, she couldn’t even make him out in the dark and he wasn’t hiding. “Do you really think you can hide?” she breathed in shallow little pants.
Yes, please. It was more prayer than answer.
“I’m a tracker for the troop, little lark, although I do appreciate the attempt. It makes it more like a game.” He paused, then said with slow deliberation, “I like games.” She couldn’t help it, she shivered, the little branches near her vibrating. She could hear him moving closer, leading his horse. She held her breath, frantically trying to come up with options.
“It surprised me, really,” he sounded fainter.
Was his voice moving off?
“I didn’t think you had it in you.”
He was definitely further off. Hope fluttered.
“When I came for you tonight, imagine my shock to find you were already gone.” He chuckled as if it were a great joke. His voice was even fainter now, further away. He couldn’t see her in the dark, he was going the wrong way.
Then everything got quiet, she couldn’t hear him at all. All she could hear was the thrumming of her own heart in her ears. Was he gone? She peered through the brush, straining her eyes for any movement in the darkness, but she couldn’t see anything. It had to be one of his tricks, he was out there, waiting for her to move. She cowered there in the brush, waiting.
“Gotcha!” he shouted delightedly, inches away, causing Gwen’s heart to stutter and stop, then resume triple-time. She had no time to react as his hands hauled her from the brush in which she cowered. Her terror choked her so badly she couldn’t even scream.
“Now let’s play my game.” he said through his teeth.
Gwen froze, terrified, unable to move as he pulled her from her hiding place. As her heart sped faster in fear, her thoughts seemed to move slower, unable to process what was happening or form a response. Her mind has disassociating itself from the horror, escaping slowly, swimming away as through syrup, refusing to participate in what was about to happen. He had her, out here, alone. She looked into his smiling face, and thought dimly that this was the end.
No! A savage little voice inside of her screamed, startling her, waking her from his trance. She recognized it as the coarse little voice from the stable.
Fight, it ordered. She couldn’t deny that voice and she began to struggle, surprising them both with her sudden ferocity. He lost his grip and she broke into a run. She only got a few yards before he slammed into her from behind. “Not this time, little lark,” he grunted, as she crashed face-first into the forest floor, tasting dirt and blood. She pulled up and could barely make out his horse in the distance, explaining where he’d gone and how he’d come so close so quietly.
If she could make it to the horse....
He pulled up briefly and she kicked back as hard as she could, hearing him grunt again. The little savage’s satisfaction welled within her at the noise, and felt her own lips curve. She was up on her knees in an instant, but he brought her back down again, dragging her onto her back. The smile was still on her face and he drew back, as if surprised by her dirty, bloody smirk. He backhanded her across the face, as if to wipe it away. Gwen’s head spun, and she barely had time to get her bearings before he hit her again, and again. Dimly she noticed that it was his turn to smile, and there was a sick happiness on his face. With each brutal strike the world seemed a little dimmer, a little slower, and she was swimming away again, struggling to leave her body behind to face him alone. She was too far away now to give orders to her deserted limbs, and they fell limp. Then he fixed his hands around her throat, and squeezed. When she didn’t move he drew back and slapped her.
This outraged the Voice and it hauled her back, unwilling. Fight, the little savage urged, growling its disgust at both her and her attacker. She felt its hate swell within her, along with an unfamiliar heat, and she began to struggle frantically, clawing his hands away from her throat. He laughed, delighted, and squeezed harder until darkness began to creep in around the edges of her vision. She felt her strength ebbing as he choked her. Her struggles became weaker, despite the urging of the Voice that she continue. Again she seemed to lose control of her body and her hands fell to her sides. This time the syrup was coming to her, filling her brain with its thick cushion, and in a wave pulling her away.
Suddenly he let go, and oxygen flooded her lungs. She gasped, coughing, not understanding, until she focused back on his face.
“You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?” He asked sympathetically. “Surely I deserve to enjoy my treat longer than that.” She looked up at him in horror. Him choking her to death was too easy? He deserved better? She almost laughed at the absurdity--she was losing her grip. What he deserved? What about what she deserved? Was this it?
No, the savage imp reappeared.
No, it breathed new life into her.
Give him what he deserves, it hissed. Gwen felt anger like she had never known fill her. She had had enough, she was tired of being abused, neglected. She remembered the joy of running through the forest, free. And he spoke of what he deserved? She felt the imp laughing within her, a maniacal laugh, and she felt herself swelling, her skin seeming to grow hot and too tight as the crazy rage filled her.
What he deserved? What he deserved?! Death, pain, destruction, fire. The little savage hissed. She felt something within her struggling to get out, incited by the Voice. A monster hot like fire clawed at her insides. Punish him, crush him, the Voice growled, inciting the monster to rage. Gwen felt herself feeling the same, adopting the Voice and monster’s emotions as her own. Jobe had turned around to get something, and when he turned back he had a blade in his hand. He put the sharp little knife to her cheek and smirked, triumphant.
That smirk was a match set to the tinder of her rage. The savage little voice was suddenly her own, and they screamed in a language of hate. The imp took over and released the fire monster from the cage of her skin. The beast exploded out of her hands, and both she and the little savage roared their satisfaction. The world turned white with instantaneous fire.
Then it went black.
Chapter 4
Gwen awoke nauseated and confused, and weak, so weak. It was a challenge to lift her eyelids so she just left them closed, trying to orient herself. Each breath rasped painfully through her damaged throat and it was that pain that brought the memories flying back, hammering into her disbelieving brain. She started and forced her eyes open, searching for her nemesis. What was before her was hard to comprehend.
He was gone.
Everything was gone.
She stared with blurry eyes into a star-filled night, confused. They had been in the forest, she was sure. Where were the trees? Now she was in some sort of clearing, she could make out the trees a distance away, faintly etched in moonlight. She squinted into the dark and tried to push herself into sitting position. The earth crunched under her hand like gravel and she picked up a fistful and put it to her face, trying to make sense of what she saw in the dim light.
Not gravel.
Black cinders and ash.
And underneath the black ash her palm was...glowing. Horrified, the dropped the ash and wiped her hands frantically on her skirt then held them in front of her face. They were webbed with veins of light, like lightening dancing across the surface of her skin. She looked around her again.
She had killed everything.
Incinerated it.
Including Jobe. Gwen began to shake uncontrollably. She had murdered him, reduced him to ash in a moment of rage. How could she have done this? Then she thought about the Voice, the fiery monster.
Was she possessed?
Insane?
She didn’t know. She had heard of creatures from the underworld taking up residence inside someone’s body and doing horrific things. Demons with amazing powers who managed to escape their bonds below. Or spirits of evil people who don’t want to leave, committed to seeking a body so they can return to life, but were permanently warped by death. But those were just tales, fireside stories told to frighten and delight children.
She had heard of conduits, untrained, destroying things before they were brought under control. She glanced around the newly created clearing. She had never heard of anything like this. And that Voice. She could still feel its euphoria pounding through her veins when she finally let it have its way and set the monster free.
She had also heard tales of rogue conduits, ones that abused their power, killed with it, who were put down like mad dogs.
Was she a conduit?
Was she mad?
Had she heard of anything like her glowing hands? She frantically tried to remember.
No.
The only thing she knew for sure was that she was a murderess.
He deserved it, he deserved it, she tried to tell herself, but she felt sick when she remembered the fierce joy that flowed through her right before she punished him, that gleeful voice within as she took her revenge. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked, trying to breathe. He deserved it, he deserved it, she repeated, setting the rhythm to her endless sway.
She didn’t know how long she sat there rocking when a screaming whinny broke into her thoughts. It startled her so badly a small scream escaped her.
His horse.
Gwen tried to scramble to her feet, but her legs gave out and she landed back in a cloud of ash. The horse’s pained cries forced Gwen to try again, and she was able to pull herself to her feet, and stumble toward the noise. Her legs felt like jelly and the world swam across her vision in waves as she made her way to the edge of her newly-made clearing.
What she saw when she made it to the horse made her swallow back sick. The poor animal was alive and flailing on the ground, on the edge of her clearing, but it was so burnt it was a miracle it was alive. The animal was in obvious agony, its flesh alternately black or red raw. Its legs were entirely charred. She had done this. She had done this.
Maybe Jobe had deserved what he’d gotten, but had the horse?
Knowing what she had to do, Gwen dug frantically through what was left of the packs strapped to its back, crying as the once-beautiful animal screamed. As she dug through the bag, the fabric blackened and curled away under her fingers. Inside was a whole collection of different blades, and Gwen shuddered. Most of the blades were warped and twisted from the heat and Gwen took the first one that was still usable, and knelt by the animals head. Without pausing, she slit its throat.
She tried to talk to it, comforting it as it bled out and stopped moving, but, as usual, words were too much so she hummed it a kind of lullaby. When she saw the light flicker and fade out of its eyes, she collapsed next to it and completely lost control. She vomited and laid in it, shaking and crying. What had she done? What had she done? She thought of the beautiful animal, an unintended victim of her utter loss of control, and felt sick.
She pushed herself out of the mess, and flipped onto her back, the combination of brittle cinders and decaying leaves crunching under her as she moved. What had she done? She looked at her hands, the lighting far less bright, but still evident. And what was she going to do now?
She stared up into the night sky, searching for answers. Should she keep running? They would chase her, not just as a runaway now, but as a murderess. She felt too weak to move, let alone run. Hollow and raw. She couldn’t run, they would catch her.
What then?
She closed her eyes. She could let them catch her. Just stay here until they tracked her and put her out of her misery.
No, she heard a whisper. Was it her voice, or the Voice?
She thought of struggling under Jobe, fighting for her life. She had wanted the attack to end, and it had. Was she going to just give up now?
“No,” she whispered, and this time it was definitely her own voice.
She would go back, get there before anyone knew she was gone. No one would suspect her, she was sure. He was a soldier, and she was a small....nothing. She could lay low. With Jobe gone there was no one to bother her. She had a few fresh bruises, but that was nothing new. She looked back down at her palms, the shimmers had faded and were just barely visible beneath her skin. She’d just have to be careful. She laid there for a few more minutes, trying to regain control of her body. Then resolutely she pushed herself to her feet. She had walked for hours, and it would take hours to return.
As she headed back toward town she thought fleetingly of the free feeling of racing through the woods, away from everything.
Chapter 5
Gwen made it back just before dawn and had just enough time to clean up in the stable before Cook came into the kitchen. Every single inch of her hurt, and she was more drained than she had ever felt in her life, both physically and emotionally. She was a limp rag, all wrung out. The bruises on her bruises ached, and her throat burned with each breath. She couldn’t force any food down her damaged throat, even if she had the heart to eat. Her collar covered the discolored ring around her neck, but nothing could hide what had been done to her face.
Unsurprisingly, no one seemed to care if they did notice the fresh on top of the old.
That is, except for Stowe. Everyone else assumed he caused the purple swellings, but he knew differently, and she caught him watching her speculatively. He didn’t say anything but the gears in his head were turning. Would he put it together once Jobe was found to be missing? The thought had her shaking.
But Stowe’s thoughts had traveled in a different direction entirely, if his knowing leer was any indication. Her relief nearly drowned her when she figured out the twisted path of his thoughts. He didn’t suspect her of any violence, but identified her as a victim. The glint in his eyes, the satisfied smiles—he realized he had an additional resource in her he hadn’t anticipated.
The inn was not the safe haven she had imagined it would be after Jobe’s....disappearance. She needed to leave anyway now, before Stowe could put his new plan in action. But she couldn’t leave until after Jobe had been discovered missing and she was free of any suspicion. Could she wait that long?
She didn’t know.
And what about the Voice and its pet monster? She waited in fear to hear from it and stole glances at her hands straining to see if the lightening was coming back. What if she lost control again? What if it that creature took over among all these people? She had no answer and the uncertainty kept her teetering on an already-unstable edge.
The first indication that someone had noticed Jobe missing came at dusk. Roll-call was informal as the troop was largely at rest in friendly territory, so no one noticed until evening prayer that he hadn’t been seen all day. No one said anything directly to Gwen, but then, she already knew the problem, so she could fill in the blanks with the snippits of conversation she overheard. Captain Groshawk seemed particularly agitated and ordered search parties.
No one said a word to Gwen and she kept her head down, pretending she knew nothing as the hours of searching extended into days. She waited on tenterhooks, any minute expecting someone to stand up, shout and point, but it never happened. But why would they?
A mouse is never suspected for the murder of a lion.
Fortunately, the upheaval in the troop stalled any of Stowe’s immediate plans for her, and Gwen did her best to stay out his sight.
Which is why she was now in the stables doing her chores at a snail’s pace, brushing an already spotless horse.
“Gwen!” Her barked name snapped her out of her reverie.
Stowe. In the yard, calling her. She hesitated, briefly considering climbing out the window and running.
“GWEN!” He barked again and now Gwen could hear the stamping of impatient horses and the jangle of bridles. They had new guests, that was all. She exhaled and walked briskly out of the stable. The last thing she wanted to do was make Stowe angry.
She kept her head down and tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. There were five riders, but in the dusk with her eyes lowered she couldn’t tell a whole lot more than that. She gathered up the horses quickly.
“Make room for these in the stables.” Stowe grunted before leading away the guests. Gwen bobbed a quick curtsey—the soul of obedience—before leading the animals to the stable, tying them up outside while she shifted the ones she had inside into the field behind to make room.
The horses were black, enormous beasts and badly lathered. Wherever they had come from, they had come in a hurry. She removed their saddles and tack—expensively made in black and silver with intricate designs. She had never seen animals nor gear quite so fine.
What are people like you doing out here? Her nerves jangled a faint warning—but all they seemed to do these days was jangle.
She cleaned the beasts, then fed and watered them last so they wouldn’t colic after their exertions. She left their tack hanging over their stalls instead of putting them away. It was obvious from the condition of the horses that their masters were in a hurry to get wherever they were headed, and she wanted to make sure their gear was readily available.
It was nearly the supper hour so Gwen headed to the kitchen to help in the kitchen. Better to go before she was summoned, that would only call attention to herself—the last thing she needed. She scrubbed quickly at the back trough, then headed in and joined into the familiar rhythms of the kitchen. It was a fairly slow night, with most of the troop out searching for Jobe. Mixed in with the few remaining troops were a few locals and a lone trader who was resting for a couple days before passing through. Gwen stacked a pile of dirty dishes to take back into the kitchen when the strangers came down the stairs at the opposite side of the room. Suddenly the room was filled with the sound of chair legs scraping the floor as all the troops jumped to their feet in subservience.
And strangers they were.
They were all dressed expensively. The first four down the stairs were dressed entirely in black but for the silver stitching flashing along the edges. Their button’s positively glowed in the dim light, they were so shiny.
But they were nothing compared to the fifth man. He was dressed in a scarlet robe with golden embroidered flames spiraling from from its hem like tongues of fire consuming him.
A priest. Oh god.
Gwen froze and had to concentrate on staying standing, bracing herself on the table. She had never seen one before, but all Kravanite priests were powerful conduits. The Kravanites believed conduits were specially selected by the Gods for Their work and were made priests. She had heard that conduits could torture a man without even touching him. They could stop the rain, or bring down lightening, make dark creatures appear from nothing but smoke, and pull the truth from an unwilling man’s lips. They were used to punish the Unrighteous—people who were suspected to be unholy—because they could both learn the truth and mete out the punishment. Gwen shivered. She didn’t know where they were going, but she was glad they would be going there quickly.
Then it struck her--they couldn’t be here because of one lost soldier could they?
It was a coincidence. It had to be.
She scooped up the more dirty dishes and scurried back to the relative safety of the kitchen, trying to still her racing heart. Who was this man, Jobe? She thought back to Goshawk’s reaction when she described her attacker, the amount of effort that was being put to find him, even days later. And now a priest shows up in the company of what must be Guardouns--the emperor’s own task force. Was it a coincidence?
Could she take that chance?
In the other room Gwen heard the singsong intonation of the evening prayer begin, a more formal version of what the men had been doing before the priest had arrived.
Gwen flexed her hands, looking for the traces of silver light under her skin. Would he sense that something was wrong with her? Could he sense her...magic? Or her insanity?
Did demon possession make her one of the unrighteous?
She had to come up with a plan. Tonight.
Chapter 6
Gwen ran, half bent to the waiting wagon, just in case someone was awake this late to see her escape. She cursed her skirt as it hung low in front, tripping her. It was only twenty feet or so away, but it seemed so much longer measured in the rapid thumps of her heart. She looked to the left and right, but still there was no movement on the dark dirt road. She finally got to the wagon, an old buckboard filled with assorted goods suitable for a trader favoring rural routes. She rapidly set to untying the protective canvas from the hooks that kept it lashed down. Trying to make a spot for herself among the pile of goods, she shifted the supplies in the back, wincing at the sounds they made. Finally, after what seemed forever, she managed to make a place just big enough for her small form. She clutched her own meager belongings, this time only a collection of food scraps and a tiny supply of tornum root tied in a piece of old sacking, as everything else had burnt in the forest. Gwen slid into the tight hole she had made for herself, feet first, shoving down the rough fabric of her skirt. She reached over her head and tied the canvas back into place.
She had made it. She had made it. She tried to use that thought to calm her pounding heart, to even her breathing. The trader was planning to leave before light this morning she knew, so Godwilling, she would soon be away, and they would never find her. There was nothing else to be done now but wait.
And pray.
Gwen was jounced out of sleep when the buckboard hit a deep pothole. She came awake with a start, soaked with sweat under the stifling heat of the heavy canvas. Her head ached and the inside of her mouth was the only dry spot on her. She was dying of thirst, but she’d had no way to bring any water with her, so she would just have to suffer. She desperately wanted to push open the canvas and get some fresh air, but she wasn’t stupid, no matter what anyone said. She had no idea how long she had been traveling in the back of that wagon, but it wasn’t long enough for her peace of mind.
She wasn’t sure it would ever be long enough.
There wasn’t anything else she could do, so she settled herself more comfortably. The constant exhaustion of the last month combined with the swaying of the wagon to rock her back to sleep.
When she awoke again it was to the thuddump of horses approaching. Gwen caught her breath.
They found her already.
“Halt, old man!” came a shout in Kravanite. The wagon slowed, but Gwen’s heartbeat sped faster.
“Aye?” Groused the old man in Molnese.
“We’re looking for a runaway. A young girl, from Farmstaad. You come through that way?” The rider had switched to Molnese. Gwen didn’t recognize the voice, alarmed. Had they sent soldiers to look for her? What did it mean? Was she wanted for murder? She tried to keep her breath quiet, fearful they could hear.
“Nah,” said the old man, and spat. What? Why was he lying?
“Are you sure?” The horseman was skeptical. There weren’t many other townships out this way.
“I know where I been.” Gods bless the crotchety old man. Gwen thanked every god she could name.
“Surely you won’t mind if we give your wagon a once-over. Just to be sure she didn’t sneak in along the way.” Gwen heard the creaking leather of dismounting riders.
Please God, please God, please God.
“I damned well do mind. Ye ain’t digging in my belongings less’n ye want to call me a liar. To my face.” There was a heavy pause. “Are you? Cause I got places to git.” Traders were notorious for protecting their privacy, one of the reasons Gwen had chosen to stowaway in his wagon. Well, that and she had decidedly limited time to shop around for a suitable ride. There was some murmuring from the direction of the horsemen. What they decided now determined her future. She held perfectly still, waiting.
Apparently they decided it wasn’t worth the trouble—either that or that he didn’t seem like the kind to help out a young girl in trouble. “No sir. But if you happen to come across a young girl, there’s a reward in it for you.” He paused, obviously waiting for a response from the trader. Gwen held her breath, waiting for the same thing. To her relief the trader said nothing and the man continued. “Fifteen years, dark hair, grey eyes, small. Just send word to Farmstaad.” Gwen heard the horses ride away, off to question the next traveler, no doubt. Gwen was finally able to draw a deep breath, then she heard.
“Ye might as well come out, girl, before ye suffocate. There’s a lot of road to cover, they ain’t gonna come back this way.”
