Horded - Kingdom Gone Book 2, page 15
She gathered their dishes together, wiped a spider out of the mug with the corner of her skirt and scowled at the filthy hem. She stank. Too many days on sparse water and outdoor living had left her rank and unkempt. She hadn’t even a brush or comb to her name, had rolled her hair into a knot and stabbed a stick through it to keep it from obvious hideousness.
Still, she held her head up, though perhaps not as stiffly nor as high as on her previous trip. The horde grieved and she could not forget why, for a second. She walked slower, too, and didn’t stare into the camps, but kept her eyes ahead and on her destination. So she reached that solitary cauldron long before she’d meant to. She stood beside the cook before old Gutra’s pack had reached the clearing’s edge.
Too soon. She needed access to them as a unit. The cook blinked at her and grunted. She stirred her pot and sniffled, louder perhaps than was necessary.
“Not done yet.” Her eyes flicked to Maera and then away to the Sol buta camp.
The gobelins there were stirring but only just. A few of the men had turned to watch her and the women still gathered their dishes and drifted from tent to tent. Maera looked away, looked around for the first time. The whole horde lagged this morning, and no wonder. They’d been grieving through the night, hadn’t slept even as much as she had.
“I’m sorry.” She took a step back, but the old woman grunted and waved one hand in an indecipherable gesture.
“Just wait a minute.” The spoon swirled steadily. The gruel bubbled and the gobelin cook never glanced in her direction, never gave any indication of her mood.
Maera waited. She stood as still as possible and willed herself to be invisible. Her bravado wavered in the sleepy yawns that echoed through the pocket. Up all night grieving and only one person to blame, the one standing in the middle of the open, begging food when everyone around her had the decency to be groggy.
Were there anywhere to run, she might have fled the gobelins then, even if it meant leaving behind that soft comfort she felt in the presence of one of them. Her face burned for the dead man, for Fak and the gobelins who would miss him. If it had been Torg who fell, how would she be feeling toward the woman who’d caused it?
She backed up. If the cook noticed, she said nothing, didn’t look up from her pot. Now the idea had lodged in her mind, she couldn’t shake it. If Torg had fallen, if he’d been the one to die...
“It’s ready now.” The cook’s growly voice startled her, and Maera dropped a bowl to the ground. She retrieved it, fumbling more than she should have. Her hands trembled. They needed to eat no matter what. She needed to bring the food regardless.
Maera stumbled forward and thrust out her bowls. She stared into them as the ladle did its work, slopping the thick gruel inside. She settled them along her arm while the woman filled the mugs. What would have happened to her if Torg hadn’t come, if he hadn’t put Fak and Tal in danger for her sake?
“Eh?” The old woman growled and broke back into her thoughts. “That’s all you’ve room for.”
“Yes. Sorry.” Maera shook off the sudden image of Torg lying in bloody grass and backed away from the cooking pot. “Thanks.”
Her lapse had given the Sol buta time to assemble. Now they eyed her warily and advanced, Gutra in the lead with her upper lip curling into the snarl. Then again, Gutra always snarled. The expression might be chiseled into her blackish-green face.
The Sol buta moved together, camped together, ate together. Even with one of them helping her, Maera would have to face the rest of them as a solid unit against her. Now seemed as good a time as any.
Maera didn’t back any farther, nor did she turn away. The gobelins queued in front of the pot, took their turns filling bowls, and she watched and waited. Gutra went first. She hugged two bowls and two mugs to her sagging chest and toddled to the side to wait, glaring at Maera through a squint that clearly meant to push her on her way.
Sorin avoided looking at her, and she didn’t mind that. Maybe she understood it. The woman had risked for her sake already, which was why Maera meant to ask this next thing of the entire group, why she wouldn’t risk breaking Sorin’s trust by doing what she’d have felt most comfortable with, catching the friendly woman alone and asking her to help.
Not that she had an unreasonable request. She’d been their guest, their captive, for three days now.
“What?” Gutra shouted at her. The rest of them had finished, but they waited in a huddle behind the old woman. All of them watched her and Maera heard the tremor of something in Gutra’s voice. Did she fear Maera might try to join them? Now of all times? “What do you want?”
Maera swallowed and took a step forward. It made the old woman flinch and confirmed her guess. The Sol buta expected her to come to them, beg them perhaps, to let her in. She grinned and stuck out her chin. She set her shoulders back and balanced her camp’s breakfast without spilling a drop. Her voice carried to the farthest of them when she spoke. She said each word very slowly. “I. Want. A. Bath.”
Gutra blinked and opened her mouth. Then she froze and frowned with her jaw still gaping. A whisper rustled behind her, spread through the Sol buta. They hadn’t expected that. Maera had caught them off guard.
“I can’t leave the pocket on my own.” That felt like an admission of inferiority and, in a sense, it was. She was inferior when it came to popping from bubble to bubble, and she knew they were taking advantage of that trick. None of them had stringy hair or filthy clothing. Not one of them was a prisoner here. She stretched even taller and felt her spine stiffen. If they refused her, she’d have to go to Tal or Torg. It had been embarrassing enough asking him to let her pee, and look how that had ended.
“It will be handled.” Gutra spoke, drawing her attention back and surprising her with an expression she might have called chagrin. Had she shamed them? Good. They should have thought of it, of her, at least once in the last three days. Now the matriarch nodded, but didn’t meet her eyes directly, and Maera felt the shift in power, just for a second. Then Gutra straightened and it was over. She grunted, shrugged and turned her back before finishing. “Sorin will come for you later.”
“Thank you.” It only earned her another grunt from Gutra, but as the Sol buta filed away to their camp, more than a few of them looked at her, squinted or nodded to themselves, mumbling to one another. Sorin caught her eye too, and at least one of the Sol buta smiled. One of them approved of her demands. If that got her clean again, she’d be more than grateful for it.
Maera broke from her trance. Her feet could move again. She left them and wove her way back to camp with more optimism about her hygiene. The hostile glares she earned on the return trip killed any hope that might have lingered around her future beyond the bathing appointment, however.
Both her gobelin patients were out of bed when she returned. They sat on opposite logs, drooping a bit at the shoulders but spry enough to alleviate any fears their nurse might have held in secret. They turned at her approach and she saw concern on both their faces. Did they think she’d run now? And how? The bubble they’d camped in wouldn’t allow her exit without assistance.
Perhaps that fact was easy to forget when you spent your life slipping in and out of pockets. She didn’t have such luxury, and the barrier around them was a constant whisper in her mind. It said, you are captive and dependent, and sometimes, you are inadequate and less. She couldn’t have articulated which was worse.
She carried a bowl to Torg, then quickly handed him a mug full of their root brew that she found similar to tea. She gave Tal his bowl and then sat beside him on the log facing his brother, the longer log that would allow some space between them, allow her to sit the farthest from both of them.
She wasn’t fit company for Fatfriar’s hogs today. She ate with her head down and her shoulders rolled forward to shelter what she could of herself from eyes and nostrils. Sorin would come soon, surely. She had no doubt the Sol buta would keep their word. They’d been too affected by her request to ignore it.
The gruel had cooled enough to eat, but as she scooped her first bite, Torg surprised her with an announcement.
“We may have to leave fast,” he continued a conversation that had begun in her absence. “And not carry much. Do you still have the thistledown?”
“A little.” Tal didn’t look up. He scooped his own gruel and answered as if they discussed the weather, but in hushed tones that suggested conspiracy. “We can get more, use it to trade.”
“Will your people pay for it?” Torg addressed her. Maera was certain the, your people, referred to her, but she only blinked at him. They meant to run for it? Now? Just when she’d cracked the shell of the Sol buta a fraction.
“The Tinkers will pay for it,” Tal answered for her. “We can always trade with the Gentry elsewhere.”
“Dust.” Maera tried to shift gears, but a lump of disappointment bloomed in her chest. She’d only won a small victory that morning, and Fak had still died on her account. If the horde turned against them, they would need to run. Of course they would. “The dust will sell more easily. They know what that is.”
They exchanged another look and nodded together. Torg answered with a grin and a twinkle of amber in his eyes again. “We can do dust.”
Of course they could. They could slip between the pockets without effort. They had the magic of the Gentry at their command, and she was…a stinking human three days behind on her bathing.
“I’ll collect today,” Torg continued. “Come with me?”
“What?” Maera jerked to attention. He stared at her, waiting for an answer. “I—I have something I need to do.”
Torg’s face held the smile, but it tensed. Disappointment shadowed his features even though he held it in check. “Well, then I’ll just go.”
“Thistledown and dust,” Tal added. He slurped the last gulp of his gruel and reached a hand out for his turn at the beverage mug. “I’ll pack us up.”
“Subtly,” Torg said. “Don’t pack too much.”
He watched her. She could feel it, but she curled tighter and didn’t look. They’d have time to sort it out after she’d washed and done something about her clothes. She stuck her fingers into the mug of gruel and pretended to be absorbed in her meal.
“Take the crystal,” Tal said. They moved to the pocket wall and switched to whispering in their own tongue.
Maera peeked between the strands of her filthy bangs and watched them. The gobelin brothers. They’d stumbled into her path and, now, they were discussing leaving their own people behind. She’d done that, somehow. The heartbeat might belong to her and Torg, but she’d managed to turn both their lives upside down. She could see it, too, in the way Tal passed over his magic crystal, in the look they shared. Both of them, parting like they might never meet again.
She’d done that, too. As Torg held the crystal out to trigger a picture on the pocket wall, she held her breath along with them. He’d be out there alone this time. Sure, he’d have the stone, but what if the other gobelins found him?
Bath or no bath, she should have gone along. Too late, she worked out the danger Torg was walking into, and before she could make a sound, he stepped through an invisible wall and was gone.
Torg shifted the pockets and Tal stared out at the damaged field of thistledown. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he should be here, that somehow that first time when the Gargoyle had met him amidst the fluff, he’d done the wrong thing, gone in the wrong direction.
He’d had a chance at the prophecy, and now, he’d probably have to run for his life. Rulak’s men would take the castle. He’d handed it over to them. Worse, he’d ruined any chance of a future for Torg and his woman. The gobelins had followed him to the meadow and Fak had fallen because of him. The man’s pyre still burned, and Tal’s back felt like it would never be the same.
Blood and magic! It pinched and tore afresh every time he moved, reminding him what an ass he was. How he’d ruined everything for them. Now the woman watched him from the log, and he had nothing to tell her. Her eyes had darkened when Torg left, filled with concern for his brother, and he couldn’t even reassure her.
She looked sickly, too. Tal frowned and examined her more thoroughly. She sagged, and her hair was dark and unkempt. They’d done poorly by her. Perhaps humans needed some special food or more water. She’d hardly touched the burdock drink at each meal. She only sipped at it after they’d finished. He’d seen her measure out water from the skin with undeniable care. She probably needed more fluids. He should have traded for a bowl for her, for a change of clothing and a comb maybe.
“Are you well?” He stepped gingerly back to the log and sat down, but she scooted to the very end of it and risked tumbling off. “Do you need more food?”
“Is it safe for him to go alone?”
“Torg is much more careful than I am.” Usually. Until he’d rushed off after a human. Tal clicked and tried to reassure her. “He has the spying crystal, and he won’t go beyond that pocket lightly.”
She stared into her breakfast and he couldn’t see her face through her hair. When she answered, he heard some of his own fears in her tone. “You think they will banish you?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t add that it might be worse, that they’d have to keep a very close eye on the horde’s mood. Olin would meet with his personal favorites today. Maybe the council already sat around his fire, discussing the things he’d claimed, the appearance of Rulak’s men and Fak’s death. They could decide any minute, and he should be packing what he could without being obvious.
“Will you tell me about tir talus?”
He hadn’t expected that, and his brain flailed for a reason not to answer her. He stared at the wall where Torg had left, sighed and gave in.
“Torg has always believed he would find his tir talus.” He couldn’t help the smile. Torg never doubted himself in anything. “Our parents had it and he knew he would as well.”
“You don’t all…” She hesitated, and he continued before she could take that idea to its end.
“It is very rare, this thing.”
“Oh.” Her fingers twisted a few strands of her hair together. She glanced toward the pocket again.
Torg had never asked her what she thought of this, had he? She was not a gobelin, and yet she’d had more than one chance to flee the horde. And she’d stayed. Perhaps she deserved a direct approach. “Do you believe that Torg is your tir talus?”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Your people do not have a sacred mating?”
“We marry.” She put her hands in her lap and stared at them. “But I don’t think it’s the same thing at all.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I know of this marrying. The tir talus is fated. They cannot mate with anyone else. The pairing is complete.”
“Oh.”
He swigged the last of the burdock and watched the pocket too. He could put the dishes into a pack as soon as they’d finished, use that to mask stuffing in a few of their other items and gathering the bags together.
“Do you think you ever will?” The witch dumped the last of her gruel onto the ground and stood up.
“No.” He reached out a hand. “Let me do that.”
“What does the word mean, Tal? Tir talus.”
He took her mug and shrugged. What did the word mean? More than one thing, more than the words of her language could explain. He sorted through possibilities and latched onto the best fit.
“It means, roughly, the heart’s beating.” He stepped away, bent down and banged out the last bits of food from the dishes. The woman didn’t move. She just stood by the log and stared at the pocket wall. His mind shifted to packing, to the list of things that needed done in the next few hours. When she spoke again, it took him a moment to realize what she meant.
“That makes perfect sense.” Her voice drifted like smoke, thin and far away. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”
He stopped moving, stopped breathing and wondered if she knew what she’d just said. The admission hovered in the air between them. In his world it meant everything. Did she understand that? Tal wished Torg was there. He wished he wasn’t. He peeked at her, just once, their witch. She stood by the log with her hands fiddling at her hair and her eyes glued to the pocket she couldn’t see.
She might not be a gobelin, but if he had to guess, he’d say she knew exactly what tir talus meant.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sorin arrived in the camp only moments after she’d confessed to Tal. Only a few moments to feel awkward before her opportunity came to escape. The gobelin had another woman with her, a younger girl with wide cheeks and a long white tunic belted with a yellow sash. This one eyed her like she might burst into flames at any moment.
“We will take you to bathe,” Sorin announced it much louder than Maera would have liked, but she was too relieved to complain.
She looked to Tal and saw understanding dawning on his face. She looked around the camp, nervous now that the time had come, but she had nothing to bring. She had no change of clothes, no toweling, nothing.
When she walked from camp she didn’t even have her dignity to claim. She followed Sorin and the other girl back toward the Sol buta fire, but they might have been leading her to the gallows. She didn’t know them. They didn’t like her, and yet what other choice did she have? Fated, Tal had said. Fine. But Maera and Fate had a rocky relationship. She couldn’t wait to see what the bastard dealt for her next.
They stopped shy of the Sol buta campfire, outside but near enough to draw the group’s attention. Gutra would witness her humiliation, perhaps? Maera breathed in and didn’t bother lifting her shoulders back into place. She knew what a mess she was.
“We will cross here.” Sorin held out a hand. Her green palm had a pattern drawn across it, thin, dark lines that might be dyed or inserted into the skin. Maera couldn’t tell, but she took the hand and felt the woman’s fingers close gently over hers. “Dotra will look ahead for us.”
