Passion Play (13 page)

A man coughed, not six feet away. “Damned rain.”

Ilse froze. That was Niko’s voice.

“Go back to your tent then,” said Otto, one of the drivers.

“Not yet. Gimme another swallow.”

She heard a gurgling, then Niko smacked his lips. “Ah. That’s better. One more, and I’ll go.”

“You must want a headache.”

“Already got one ’cause of the damned rain.”

“You been sick a while. Did you catch something from the girl?”

“Nah. Gave her something else, though.”

Otto wheezed with laughter. “Well, if you didn’t give to her, then I did. If Brandt doesn’t get her back to Papa soon—”

“Doesn’t matter. Brandt’s got it all worked out. Gods, she’s a sweet fuck. I told Brandt to keep her. He says no, we can always get another one.”

They both took another swig from the bottle. She was lucky about that—all the guards were drinking hard these past few days—either from boredom or bone-deep weariness, or just because they could not bear the endless damp and cold. Alarik Brandt’s bitterest threats made no difference, except to force the guards to keep their liquor hidden.

Niko took one last drink, then shuffled away toward his tent. Otto remained by the horses. He was one of the rougher men. He’d pinch Ilse hard enough to leave bruises, and sometimes took her during rest stops, when Brandt wasn’t looking. If he caught her …

Her heart beating fast and hard, Ilse edged around the pickets, toward a ridge of boulders that lay just beyond the camp circle. The going was difficult. The rain had stopped, but the ground was soggy, and she feared the squelching mud would give her away. Twice, she paused, thinking she heard footsteps or voices from the perimeter guards, but once she passed the latrines and the trash pit, Ilse breathed more easily. The land ahead was covered in mist, with trees appearing as vague dark lines that reached upward to the darker sky, veiled by clouds.

She glanced back to the camp. The campfire sent up a dull gleam from its coals, throwing one of the wagons into relief. She thought she could pick out Otto’s figure, standing somewhat apart from the horses with his legs planted wide apart and his head thrown back, a misshapen shadow against the drifting fog.

She rose to her feet and started walking.

*  *  *

SHE WALKED UNTIL
dawn, then dug a pit beneath a stand of oaks and buried herself. For just a moment, she breathed in the scent of dust and decay, a rich aroma like that of magic, before sleep overtook her. Nothing broke her rest until the midmorning sunlight filtered through the dirt and leaves. She jerked awake with a cry, half-forgetting what had happened.

No Brandt. No bonds or guards. She was free.

And alone.

Once she might have feared the solitude, but now …

I laugh and hear its echo in my heart.

Ilse set off with Tanja Duhr’s poem running through her thoughts. She did not stop until she encountered a running stream, where she drank until her stomach was swollen. The scholar’s advice remained vividly clear, but she had no idea how to find pine nuts or groundnuts, or where carrots and thistles grew. She told herself stories as she walked to distract herself from the ache in her stomach.

Her stubbornness lasted until late afternoon, when her legs collapsed beneath her. Ilse propped herself against a stump, staring blankly at the trees around her.
Pine nuts,
she thought. She swept the ground. Her trembling hands met needles and pinecones and the typical detritus of a forest floor. Wherever pine nuts were to be found, they weren’t here.

Later, she wasn’t sure how, she stood up and walked on. The forest gave way to a meadow—she had climbed up a ridge without knowing it—and from here she could see the land falling away to the north and west. Somewhere out there, Brandt and his caravan were climbing through the hills toward the Gallenz River and its highway.

It was cranberries she found first, a tangle of bushes half-hidden under a boulder. They were dried and bitter to the point of making her ill. She ate them anyway. In the same field, she discovered rosebushes from which she plucked the hips to eat raw. Gradually, she learned to see more provender in the fields and underbrush. Wintergreen grew in the pine forests, wild onions on the open slopes. Pine nuts and grapes, raspberries and thistles. There were days she went hungry, but she always gathered enough to survive.

For ten days, she marched through the empty wilderness. The only voice she heard was her own, when she sang or wondered aloud. At first she reveled in her isolation, but when the nights turned cold, and her throat ached fiercely, she wondered if she would ever reach a village, or if she had accidentally wandered off the map of the known world. She could die of hunger or sickness or accident, she realized with a sudden pang, and no one would know.

On the morning of the eleventh day, she stopped. Ahead, a dull gray stone tower poked through the blue-green expanse of pines. A village at last?

“Hello?” she called.

No answer, except for a bird rousted from the brush. Cautiously Ilse approached the building. It was large, built of rough-cut logs and covered with creeping vines. Her first excitement faded when she realized it was not part of a larger village.

She edged closer, ready to bolt if necessary. Someone had dug a fire pit in the yard. It was cold, its ashes scattered with only a few charred sticks at the bottom. Closer to the lodge, she found a broken leash and a rusted knife, its blade chipped but still sharp. She picked that up, and holding it blade out, she pushed the door open. “Hello?”

No one answered. She ventured inside.

It was a hunting lodge, with just a single room and a stone-and-mud chimney. A few benches stood off to one side; straw pallets lay beside the empty fireplace. Most likely the owners used it in the autumn and winter, but visitors had come fairly recently—she found a stack of leftover firewood, three metal pans stacked in one corner, a net hanging from the rafters, with a cache of shriveled onions and smoked beef. Spare blankets and a carrying satchel had been stowed in one corner. It was the mantel above the fireplace that yielded the most valuable treasure.

A tinderbox.

She laughed, a breathy soundless laugh. With this she could boil water, brew hot tea, scrub herself clean. She could get
warm
.

That night, she built a fire and roasted slices of meat for her supper. Once she filled her stomach, she chopped up more meat and the onions, and set that mixture to simmer in the coals. She washed out another pan and brewed tea from raspberry leaves.

The night was fair, the moon full, and the skies clear. Ilse gazed upward into the violet expanse as the stars winked into life. “Ei rûf ane gôtter,” she whispered.

At her words, the air stirred, and a green scent, like that of pines, drifted past her face. She thought of the nameless scholar who had painted her fingers with magic. She hoped he was safe and wished him well.

CHAPTER SIX

ILSE STAYED THREE
days in the lodge. She slept, she foraged, she spent hours staring across the undulating hills, until her muscles unknotted, and the ache in her throat faded. But she knew she could not remain here through winter, and so, reluctantly, she packed her newly acquired gear into the satchel, along with blankets and as much food as she could gather, and moved on.

She resumed her steady march through the hills, which changed over the miles from pines to stands of oak and beech, with their leaves a shimmering mass of scarlet and incandescent yellow. The autumn days were bright and clear, but cold. Ilse wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, and bent her head against the sudden bursts of wind, which plucked the leaves and sent them spinning round her.

By the end of two weeks, she came to the southern edge of the hills. Below, the land fell away in pleats and folds toward a broad sluggish river—the Gallenz River. To the east, she could make out a golden blur. That had to be the port city Tiralien. Beyond it lay the dark blue band of Keriss Bay, whose waters also touched Melnek’s docks and quays.

Within the day, Ilse reached the highway beside the river and turned east. Six more days to houses and inns, she told herself. Six days to people and work and living inside. People. It had been a month since she’d spoken with another human being. The thought made her mouth turn dry.

She had the road to herself for a day. Then, late the next morning, Ilse heard the tramp of footsteps behind her, then grunts and squeals. She plunged into the brush and lay still, her breath coming fast. It was a drover, herding swine, nothing more. Once he passed, she retook the road, cursing herself for being a coward, but she did the same when a caravan of mules passed, and again, to avoid a farmer’s wagon.

On the third morning, she stopped to soak her sore feet in the river. One toe had a new blister. The heel was bruised from where she stepped on a rock. She would have to stuff more grass into her disintegrating boots. She had started to pluck some, when she heard a harness jingle. Ilse snatched up her boots and satchel, ready to dart across the road—

No.

She would not run away.

Ilse sat down by the riverbank, taking quick looks to the side as the two wagons approached. The horses were dusty and shaggy and broad-chested; they trudged steadily as though plowing fields, head down. Three men, and a woman. Farmers, most likely. None of them were young. It was the woman who held the reins of the lead wagon. Like the men, she wore a patched brown tunic and loose trousers, tucked into old scuffed boots. A yellow scarf covered her hair, making her square face stand out. From time to time, she tossed back a comment to her companions in the other wagon. Ilse’s pulse beat quickly, but she continued to stuff grass into her boots.

A rattling snort made her jump. It was the lead horse, leaning toward her as though to nip.

“Hey, Graysmoke.” Reins slapped against the horse’s flanks, bringing out another snort, and a shake of its head. “None of that.” Then, “Did that monster hurt you?”

Ilse shook her head. She edged back from Graysmoke, who eyed her from beneath his shaggy gray forelock. The woman slapped the reins again. The horse sidled, then took a few reluctant steps forward. “Stupid horse,” the woman muttered.

“What is it?” called a man from the second wagon.

“A girl,” the woman said. “Graysmoke playing his tricks.” She turned her attention back to Ilse. Narrow black eyes took in Ilse’s dirt-stained clothing, the worn-out boots with burst seams, the satchel and blanket. But all she said was, “You look tired, sweet.”

“I’m … I’m fine,” Ilse said. Her voice sounded rusty. “He just startled me.”

The woman tilted her head. A smile sent creases spreading outward from her eyes. “Glad to hear that. Where are you going? Tiralien? Or one of the little towns betwixt here and there?”

“Tiralien.”

“Want a ride?”

Ilse shook her head. “I’ve no money.”

“Neither do I. I’m going to Tiralien to get some. Me and the family, that is. You can ride a ways in our wagon—we’ve room enough for one skinny girl. Besides, you look as though you walked clear from the westlands. My name’s Nela, if you want to know. Those are my cousins, Gregor and Maxi and Uwe. What’s yours?”

“Ilse. They call me Ilse.”

Nela nodded. “Pretty name. So, will you come along with us? We have some sandwiches and ale, if that makes a difference.”

Kindness. Kindness and food. And a ride. Overcome by their generosity, she almost couldn’t speak at first. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

Nela leaned down and held out a rough hand, to help her into the wagon. “Gregor, she’s starving. Give her your sandwich. You’ve already had four.”

“I was hungry,” Gregor protested, but he handed her the sandwich with a wink and a smile.

Ilse bit into the sandwich and nearly cried with delight. Smoked beef, soaked in oil and vinegar and smothered in cheese. It was the most she had eaten at one time in a month. While she ate, she listened to the drivers talking among themselves as they discussed where they might eat supper that night, if Becker’s tavern still served that special autumn wine, and if Maxi’s brother might join the business next year. The caravan was small, its two wagons packed with crates that smelled strongly of vinegar and straw.

“We take the spoiled grapes from summer and turn them into vinegar,” Nela told her. “The fish markets like it for pickling.”

To their questions, she explained that her parents had died, and her aunt was unable to keep her. She was looking for work. “Any kind,” she said. “I don’t like begging.”

“What were you thinking of?” Nela asked. “Work, I mean.”

“Chambermaid,” Ilse said. “Or helping in kitchens. Whatever I can find.”

Nela gave her a long considering look, but said nothing. The others offered names of families she might apply to, though they had no guarantees. Business was off, they said, what with taxes and gossip about war with Károví.

It was late afternoon before they reached the city gates. Tiralien was a big city—far larger than Melnek—spreading across both riverbanks and climbing some distance into the nearby hills. As they waited in the queue of wagons, Ilse listened to the drivers trading news. It was more of what she had heard in Melnek—ships practicing maneuvers along the coast, troops moving along Károví’s border in response, and the endless speculation of what next year might bring for crops and profits and trade.