Moons' Dreaming (Children of the Rock) (29 page)

Her favorite reminder of who she was and why she was in exile at Soza was the exquisitely detailed vision of her brother
’
s smiling face as he bid her a safe journey. In the courtyard of the castle, in the exact spot where poor Emlie had died, he bent to kiss her cheek, helped her into the carriage, told her to be a good student, and wished her a safe journey. All the while, as she
’
d numbly gone through the motions of accepting that kiss, that helping hand, those kind words, she
’
d been looking into his eyes. Eyes full of predatory joy, gazing so lovingly on his little sister
’
s defeat.

As the wind and the people of Soza tried to take her mind away, all she had to do was conjure the vision of Damon
’
s eyes, and she found herself again. It was a self she kept well-hidden, deep beneath her genuine fear and confusion, protected from the Brownmothers, the unwanted orphans, the sick who were brought to Soza to die, and the other exiles who
’
d annoyed Prince Damon enough to be sent to this lonesome place on the edge of nowhere. It was a hard life, without joys or triumphs or kindness.

Another life no longer hers.

Vray brushed a few drops of rain from the tip of her nose. No more days to be spent at Soza. She was almost ready to believe it could be true. Almost. It was so difficult. Soza had drained her of imagination, of hope, of anything beyond itself. It was easier to remember Soza than to believe in the reality of the muddy road beneath her thin boots. A road they
’
d been on for days. Days and miles lay between her and her last truly coherent moments

She could remember coming awake to the sounds of a fresh gust of rain hitting against the tiny, cracked window high above the storage shelves. There were rags stuffed in the cracks to keep out the damp, but they didn
’
t do an effective job. In the spring there was always moisture on the thick stone walls. A trail of orange moss grew like a forest through a river valley, edging its way toward the floor. Vray kept her pallet by the door, on the driest bit of floor. In the early days, she
’
d frequently had to dispute her bit of territory with the storeroom rats who seemed to think they had some sort of precedence, having been there longer.

It hadn
’
t taken her, or them, long to discover who was tougher and more dangerous. That was after she
’
d stopped screaming in the dark each time she was locked away, after immeasurable days of being laughed at and beaten for daring to ask for a different cell. She
’
d learned to live in a state of watchful truce with the vermin, and to keep the big kitchen cat beside her. She
’
d named the ginger tom Dael when she
’
d first found him
—
a half-wild stable kitten willing to accept a bit of petting
—
and he became her ally when she brought him into the kitchen.

She
should have taken Dael. She might have, if she
’
d known she was leaving. If she could have conceived of the possibility of leaving. Instead, she
’
d last seen him racing across the yard outside the kitchen door, tail high, dashing around the largest puddles as if by his quickness he could defy the downpour and stay dry. Then a senior Brownmother had appeared in the kitchen, her expression sending the two slow-witted drudges scrambling for shelter, her pointing finger stabbing at Vray, choosing her for some unspoken but certain doom.

Vray had followed her away from the kitchen, through corridors, into public areas of the House that had always been off-limits to her, knowing that she would be punished for being presumptuous enough to be there. She hadn
’
t wondered where she was being taken, or why. Curiosity wasn
’
t approved of. She was brought to one of the larger sick halls, and the Brownmother walked away.

Jenil
’
s voice, saying,
“
I see you
’
ve grown, in spite of her,
”
had been enough to send Vray into a dead faint.

That, and the fact that she hadn
’
t had time to steal any breakfast.

Since then she
’
d had several breakfasts.
Midday
meals had been less available, not because they were short on supplies, but because the Greenmother seemed in a hurry and resented any interruption to their progress. The first day
’
s travel away from Soza had included several long breaks. Vray could never have walked even those few miles otherwise. Jenil had cooked her a hot dinner, liberally spiced with odd things from her sack of medicines. Whatever was in the food made Vray sleep without dreaming, and walk the next day, and each day since, without feeling tired.

Without feeling anything,
she admitted silently. She wished she could feel tired. Or frightened, or grateful, or anxious. Maybe she
’
d believe in this more if she could feel she was really here.

Wherever here was. Away from Soza. West of Soza, unless the sun had started behaving oddly. As oddly as the people they
’
d passed walking out the gates of the House. No one had seen them leave. People had looked right at them, but no one had seen. Jenil
’
s only comment had been a reassuring,
“
Don
’
t worry, dear. They
’
ll never even know you
’
ve gone.
”

At least the wind was familiar. She didn
’
t mind it so much now. Blowing across fields and pastures and stretches of spring-green woodlands was a proper way for wind to behave. She felt no offense, or fear, at its steady tug on her robes and hair.

Jenil was offended about something. Vray hadn
’
t dared ask what and was afraid to guess. It was probably her fault, somehow. They hadn
’
t seen anyone else until yesterday. Then they almost met a troop of guards on horseback, escorting a group of young men and women on foot. Jenil had heard them coming and dragged Vray out of sight to hide in some mulberry bushes. Vray had spent the time cowering, while Jenil grumbled under her breath about too many guards taking too much advantage. But she had done nothing to stop them. Vray had been glad. Guards frightened her. She was grateful that the Greenmother had no more interest in encountering them than she did.

Jenil seemed determined not to encounter anyone. Not to be seen in Vray
’
s presence?
You presume much, girl,
Vray thought silently.
You
’
re not that important. Not to a Greenmother
. But if she wasn
’
t valuable to her, what were they doing out here?

No. Don
’
t ask questions. You won
’
t like the answers.
One question kept occurring to her no matter how much she tried to put it out of her mind. Is someone dead? The King? Or Damon? Or Mother? That would change things. Sooner or later they had to arrive somewhere. Perhaps Jenil would tell her then.

* * *

The village square drowsed in
midday
solitude as Jordy led Stockings into the inn yard. The horse plodded along at his side, eyes half shut, totally oblivious to her surroundings. Jordy eyed the large front window of the inn, and Stockings
’
inexorable course toward it. Shaking his head, he stopped and said,
“
Whoa.
”

One, two, three, four. After each of her feet had taken another step, Jordy
’
s command filtered through to Stockings
’
brain, and she halted.

“
Someday you
’
re going to misjudge the distance, my friend, and find yourself paying compensation for a trampled fence or broken window.
”

Jordy turned toward the inn door.
“
Never, Herri. Undependability isn
’
t one of Stockings
’
faults.
”

The innkeeper descended the two steps into the yard to join Jordy in contemplating horse and wagon.
“
You made good time.
”

“
Aye. The weather helped.
”

“
Any luck finding oranges?
”

Jordy stepped up to the wagon and unlashed the tarp, while Herri went to the back to lower the tail board. He leaned one elbow onto the bed of the wagon and reached for a crate as Jordy flipped the tarp aside and said,
“
See for yourself.
”

One of the innkeeper
’
s large, meaty hands pried open the crate with a single well-placed jerk. He plucked an orange from the topmost layer and squinted at it.
“
Very nice.
”

“
There are two more crates just like that one. Yours, if you can use them
”

“
I can use twice that, and you know it.
”
Herri replaced the orange and straightened. He laced his fingers over his apron and tilted his head slightly to peer under the half-furled tarp.
“
Don
’
t I see others under there?
”

“
You do, but they are for Cyril.
”

Herri made an exasperated noise at the back of his throat.
“
Must you torment me?
”

“
Offering three crates of oranges when you ordered only two?
”
Jordy
’
s face crinkled into a smile.
“
That
’
s more than generous.
”

“
I don
’
t suppose it occurred to you to get six crates for the inn and two crates for your loving wife?
”

“
Not if I wanted to leave room for the rest of my goods.
”

Jordy jumped into the wagon and pulled the other two crates toward the tail board. Getting down on one knee, he slid a few bolts of cloth toward the front of the wagon, then beckoned the innkeeper closer.
“
These might interest you, Herri.
”

A pair of squat, dark brown barrels were lashed snugly to the right side of the wagon. Herri
’
s eyes widened with appreciation.
“
That
’
s not Dherrican ale?
”

“
Never say I don
’
t give due consideration to your welfare.
”
He began to unfasten the lashings, then paused.
“
You do want them, I suppose.
”

Herri growled.
“
You
’
ve a wicked streak in you, carter Jordy. Worse than the children, you are, trying my patience.
”
He stopped, looked up and down the wagon, then turned full circle, scanning his yard and the square beyond. Jordy expected some joke about his having traded his son for the ale. Instead he found himself under his friend
’
s sharpest scrutiny.
“
Jordy, you haven
’
t lost Tob, have you?
”

“
No. Of course not. I dropped him at the high meadow to tell Cyril and Kessit we
’
re back.
”

To his surprise, his explanation only seemed to make the innkeeper more uncomfortable.
“
Kessit. If only you
’
d waited.
”

Jordy dropped over the side of the wagon and faced Herri squarely.
“
Out with it, man. What
’
s happened?
”

“
Kessit
’
s son, Pross. They
’
ve taken him away.
”

* * *

Pross
’
family had one of the small farms occupying the fertile lowland between the river and the north ridge. To Tob
’
s eye the decorative carvings on house and outbuildings were far more attractive than some of the ornate metalwork he
’
d seen used in places like Hillcrest and Edian. Pross was always surprised when Tob insisted that Broadford was the best village in the world. But then, Pross never ventured far from home, so his imagination elaborated on the tales he
’
d heard, making other places seem more marvelous than they actually were. Tob enjoyed the differences in the many places his father traded, but he preferred Broadford. And, for visual variety and sheer three-dimensional exuberance, he preferred his friend
’
s house above any he
’
d seen.