The threads of my memory are taken up again on a damp day in late winter, when I found myself waiting alongside a muddy road cutting past the far side of Master Borlan’s farm. Not too great a time could have passed since the night my parents were murdered because there was still a bone-deep chill in the air and the dreary weather remained.
I wore clean clothing that must have come from one of Master Borlan’s daughters and was shod in a sturdy pair of boots that felt too tight around my toes, but were infinitely better than standing on the cold ground. My old cloak had been washed and mended. Only from these details can I surmise what must have been the attitude of Master Borlan’s wife toward me. She had bundled me efficiently against the wet and cold, and I don’t recall that I felt afraid or ill treated, only curious, as I stood at Master Borlan’s side and stared up at the peddler atop the rickety wagon drawing to a halt before us.
“What kept you, man?” Master Borlan demanded. “The arrangements were made for dawn and we’ve been waiting half the morning. I was near to giving up and going back home.”
The elderly wagon driver showed no remorse. “On a day like this, you can thank the fates I came at all,” he said. “Bad weather for traveling.” He cast an eye toward the cloudy skies and the light drizzle raining steadily down.
The gray mare hitched to the front of the wagon curved her neck around to regard us with a long, lazy stare mirroring that of her master.
“You’ve the money?” the old peddler questioned, extending an upturned palm.
He had a bony hand, which shook slightly, though whether from age or overindulgence in the cheap spirits he reeked of, it was impossible to tell. When Master Borlan dug into his purse and deposited a few shiny coins in the peddler’s hand, the old man snatched the money greedily and pocketed it with haste.
Only then did he show any curiosity toward me. The brim of his hat was bent downward beneath the weight of the rainwater collected atop it and he had to tilt his head back to view me from beneath.
“This is the child, then?” he asked, his gaze critical. “Looks pale and skinny to me. You’re sure she hasn’t been touched by the plague?”
“The child is healthy enough,” Master Borlan said evenly, “and she had better be still when she arrives in the next province. I’m entrusting her to your safekeeping.”
“Aye, I’ll look after her right enough,” the peddler snapped defensively. “Gave my word, didn’t I? But it’s a powerful risk you’re asking of me. If I’m caught smuggling a young magicker over the border—”
“You’ve been well paid for your risk,” Master Borlan interrupted. “Plenty of children around here have the silver hair and pale skin of Skeltai ancestry, so no one should give this one a second look. Just deposit her in a safe magicker settlement in Cros and your duty will be discharged.”
The peddler grunted reluctant agreement.
Master Borlan lifted me up, setting me on the slippery wooden seat beside the old man, and tugging the hood of my cloak down to shield my head from the rain. It was too late for that. My hair was already slicked to my skull and I was shivering like a wet pup.
Master Borlan said to me, “You understand what is happening, child? You’re being taken to a place where you can be with more of your kind, a place where you'll be safe from the Praetor’s soldiers. All you must do is conceal your magic until you arrive there.”
I nodded but was suddenly afraid at the prospect of leaving this last familiar face behind me.
“Why don’t you take me there?” I asked.
He looked uncomfortable and it came to me in a flash that this large, strong man was afraid. Afraid the red-cloaked horsemen would come and murder him as they had my family and the other magickers in our village. Even now, none of us were safe.
A shadow seemed to fall over the day, and I shuddered beneath my cloak.
Observing the motion, Master Borlan squeezed my shoulder with a heavy, work-roughened hand. “You’ll be all right, girl,” he said briskly, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes as he pressed something cold into my hand. “You were holding this the night…”
I knew he wanted to say the night Mama and Da died.
For the first time, I really looked at the object my mother had given me on that last terrible parting. It was a big, fine looking brooch of the type a man might use to fasten his clothing and was made of hammered metal, inlaid with copper and amber colored stones.
Master Borlan said, “You spoke of your mother wanting you to keep it with you, so here it is. Only pin it to the inside of your waistband, where it won’t be lost or seen. I don’t know how your mother came about such a trinket, but there’re desperate folk who’d do you a harm for items of less value than this.”
I noticed he dropped his voice as he said so and cast a wary eye on Wim, but this appeared unnecessary as the peddler paid us no mind at all.
Once I pinned the brooch into my waistband, as instructed, I became teary and Master Borlan tried to sooth me. “Now you mustn’t cry,” he said. “Master Wim doesn’t want a wailing little girl on his hands all the way to Cros. Do you, Wim?”
“There’s plague about. Don’t touch me; don’t breathe on me,” was the peddler’s only response.
“I won’t cry,” I promised Master Borlan and he nodded approvingly in a way that reminded me of Da.
“Can we be off now?” Wim demanded. “I’ve delayed long enough and the weather’s not gettin’ any better.”
Master Borlan stepped down from the wagon and backed away. “Just you mind your word, Wim Erlin,” he warned. “I’ll hold you responsible if any harm befalls the child.”
“Right, right,” the peddler said impatiently. He snapped the reins and called to his horse, “Whitelegs, let’s be off.”
As the wagon started forward, I clung to the rattling seat. The peddler’s old mare was faster than she looked and having never ridden in anything higher than our rickety farm cart, I was afraid of being thrown from my seat and run over beneath the tall wheels. By the time I screwed up the courage to lean over and peer around the side of the wagon, Master Borlan, standing beside the road, was already fading into the distance.