“But it’s true! I think I’ve loved you since I first saw you, up in the tower with the sun in your hair.”
“You can’t love me.” She wanted to push him off, but she had no strength. “You don’t understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“You ... you can’t love me. It’s wrong.”
“Wrong?” he said angrily. His body was now quivering against her, but it was the trembling of suppressed fury. “Because I’m a commoner. I’m not good enough for a princess, is that it?” He twisted away, kneeling in the straw beside her. “Damn your pride, Miriamele. I fought a dragon! A dragon, a real dragon! Isn’t that enough for you!? Do you prefer somebody like Fengbald—a m-m-murderer, but a m-murderer with a t—title?” He fought against tears.
The rawness in his voice tore at her heart. “No, Simon, that’s not it! You don’t understand!”
“Tell me, then!” he snapped. “Tell me what I don’t understand!”
“It’s not you. It’s me.”
There was a long silence. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing’s wrong with you, Simon. I think you’re brave, and kind, and everything you should be. It’s me, Simon. I’m the one who doesn’t deserve to be loved.”
“What are you talking about?”
She gasped and shook her head violently. “I don’t want to talk any more. Leave me alone, Simon. Find someone else to love. There will be plenty who would be happy to have you.” She rolled over, turning her back to him. Now, when she most wanted the relief of tears, tears would not come. She felt high and cold and strange.
His hand clutched her shoulder. “By the bloody Tree, Miriamele, would you talk to me!? What are you saying?”
“I’m not pure, Simon. I’m not a maiden.” There. It was out.
It took him several moments to respond. “What?”
“I have been with a man.” Now that she was talking, it was easier than she had thought it would be. It was like listening to someone else speak. “The nobleman from Nabban I told you about, the one who took Cadrach and me aboard his ship. Aspitis Preves.”
“He raped you... ?” He sounded stunned, but anger was growing. “That ... that ...”
Miriamele’s laugh was short and bitter. “No, Simon, he did not rape me. He held me prisoner, yes, but that was later. He was a monster—but I let him come to my bed and I did not resist.” Then, to bolt the door for good, so that Simon would leave her alone, so that she would bring him no further suffering after this night: “I wanted him to. I thought he was beautiful. I wanted him to.”
Simon made an inarticulate noise, then stood up. His breath sawed in and out, in and out. For all she could see of him in the darkness, he could have been shape-changing: he seemed wordless and bedeviled as a trapped animal. He growled, then ran for the door of the cottage. It crashed open as he fled out into the dying storm.
After a few moments Miriamele went and pulled the door closed again. He would be back, she felt sure. Then he would leave her, or they would go on together, but things would be different. That was what she wanted. That was what she needed.
Her head felt empty. Those few thoughts almost seemed to echo, like stones rattled down a well.
She waited a long time for sleep. Just as she was beginning to slip away, she heard Simon come back in. He dragged his bedroll to the far comer and lay down. Neither of them spoke.
Outside, the storm had passed, but water still dripped from the ceiling. Miriamele counted the drops.
By midday the next day, Miriamele felt herself recovered enough to ride. They set out under dark clouds of more than one kind.
After all the pain and emotion of the night before they were both flat with each other, bruised and sullen like two swordfighters waiting for their final bout. They spoke no more than was necessary, but Miriamele saw signs of Simon’s anger all day, from the over-brisk way he saddled and readied his horse to the way he rode ahead of her, just close enough to stay in sight.
For her part, Miriamele felt a sort of relief. The worst was out now and there was no turning back. Now Simon would know her for what she was, which could only be for the good, ultimately. It hurt to have him despise her, as he so obviously did at present, but it was better than leading him on falsely. Nevertheless, she could not shake the feeling of loss. It had been so warm, so nice, to kiss him and hold him without thinking. If only he had not talked of love. If only he had not forced her to consider her responsibilities. Deep down, she had known that anything more than friendship between them would mean living in a lie, but there had been moments, sweet moments, when she had allowed herself to pretend it could be different.
Making the best time they could on the terrible, muddy roads, they rode well beyond the reach of Falshire by evening time, out into the wildlands west of the city. When darkness came down—little more than a thickening of the already murky day—they found a wayside shrine to Elysia and made their beds on its floor. After a sparse meal and even sparser conversation, they retired to their bedrolls. This time it did not seem to bother Simon when Miriamele unfurled her pallet on the opposite side of the fire from his.
After her first day in the saddle following several days of illness, Miriamele felt ready to sink into sleep immediately, but sleep would not come. She moved several times, trying to find a comfortable position, but nothing seemed to help. She lay in darkness, staring up at nothing, listening as a light rain pattered the roof of the shrine.
Would Simon leave her, she wondered? It was an unexpectedly frightening thought. She had said several times that she was willing to make this journey by herself, as she had originally planned, but she realized now that she did not want to travel alone. Perhaps she had been wrong to tell him. Perhaps it would have been better to give him some more face-saving lie: if she had disgusted him too completely, he might simply go back to Josua.
And she did not want him to go, she realized. It was more than the idea of traveling these gloomy lands by herself that disturbed her. She would miss him.
It was odd to think about, now that she had probably thrown up an unbreachable wall between them, but she did not want to lose him. Simon had worked his way into her heart in a way no other friend ever had. His boyish silliness had always charmed her when it didn’t irritate her, but now it was counterbalanced by a serious air that was very handsome. Several times she had caught herself watching him in surprise, amazed he had become a man in such a short time.
And there were other qualities that had become dear to her as well, his kindness, his loyalty, his open mindedness. She doubted that the most traveled of her father’s courtiers faced life with the same unprejudiced interest as Simon did.
It was frightening even to contemplate losing all those things if he left her.
But she had lost him now—or at least, there would always be a shadow over their friendship. He had seen the stain that was at the core of her; she had made it as visible and unpleasant as she could. She was not willing to suffer for lies any more, and seeing the way he felt about her was more suffering than she could stand. He was in love with her.
And she had been falling in love with him.
The thought hit her with unexpected force. Was that true? Wasn’t love supposed to come like a bolt of sky-fire, to blind and stun? Or at the least, like a sweet perfume that rose and filled the air until one could think of nothing else? Surely her feelings for Simon had been different. She thought of him, of the laughable way his hair looked in the morning, of his earnest glances when he was worried for her.
Elysia, Mother of God, she prayed, take this pain away. Did I love him? Do I love him?
It didn’t matter now, in any case. She had taken steps of her own to remove the hurt. Letting Simon continue to think of her as a chaste maiden worthy of his youthful ideals would be worse than anything—worse even than losing him completely, if that was the result.
So why, then, was the pain still so very strong?
“Simon... ?” she whispered. “Are
you awake?”
If he was, he did not answer. She was alone with her thoughts.
The next day seemed even darker. The wind was sharp and biting. They rode swiftly, unspeaking, with Simon again keeping Homefinder a short distance ahead of Miriamele and her still-nameless steed.
By late morning they came to the fork where the River Road joined the Old Forest Road. Two corpses hung in iron cages at the crossing, and had clearly done so for some time: It was impossible to tell from the wind-tossed rags of clothing or the grinning bones who these unfortunates had been. Miriamele and Simon both made the sign of the Tree as they crossed, passing as far from the clanking cages as they could. They took the Old Forest Road turning, and soon the River Road vanished from sight behind the low hills to the south.
The road began to dip downward. On the north side they could now see the edge of Aldheorte Forest, which flowed onto and over the foothills there. As they passed down through the outskirts of Hasu Vale and into the shelter of the hills the wind became less, but Miriamele did not feel comforted. Even at midday the valley was dark and almost silent except for the slow drip of the morning’s rains from the leafless branches of oak and ash. Even the evergreens seemed full of shadow.
“I don’t like this valley, Simon.” She spurred forward. He slowed to allow her to catch up. “It was always a quiet, secretive place—but it feels different now.”
He shrugged, looking away across the deep-shaded hillside. It was only when he stared so long at the unchanging landscape that she understood he did not want to meet her eyes. “I have not liked most of the places we’ve been.” His voice was cold. “But we are not traveling for pleasure.”
She felt a flare of anger. “That’s not what I meant and you know it, Simon. I mean that this valley feels ... I don’t know, dangerous.”
Now he did turn. His smile was a smirk that hurt her to see. “Haunted, you mean? Like that old drunkard said?”
“I don’t know exactly what I mean,” she said furiously. “But I can see it was a waste of time talking about it with you.”
“No doubt.” He gently but deliberately touched his spurs to Homefinder’s side and sent her trotting forward. Watching his straight back, Miriamele fought down the urge to shout at him. What had she expected? No, more to the point, what had she wanted, after all? Wasn’t it best he had been told the truth? Perhaps things would be easier when some time had passed, when he realized they could still be friends.
The road descended deeper into the valley, so that the thick-mantled hills seemed to be growing even higher on either side. The road was deserted, and the few rough cottages they saw perched on the hillsides seemed equally uninhabited, but at least it seemed they would be able to find shelter somewhere tonight—which was a reassuring thought, since Miriamele did not in the least wish to spend a night here out of doors. She had conceived a serious dislike of Hasu Vale, although nothing had actually happened to make her feel that way. Still, the smothering quality of the stillness and the thick, overgrown hillsides—and perhaps, just a little bit, her own sorrow—conspired to make her look forward to the moment they rode out of this valley again and saw the headlands of Swertclif, even though that would mean that Asu‘a and her father were very, very close.
It was also disheartening to think of spending another strained, silent night with Simon. Before their last unpleasant exchange, he had spoken to her only a few times today, and then only about practical things. He had discovered what he claimed were new footprints near the shrine where they had spent the night and had told her about them soon after they set out, but he had seemed quite offhand and uncaring about it. Miriamele secretly thought it likely that the muddy footmarks were their own, since they had tramped about a great deal while searching for firewood. Other than that, Simon had conversed with her only about whether it was time to stop and eat and rest the horses, and to issue curt thanks when she had given him food or shared the water skin. It would not be a pleasant night, she felt sure.
They were in the deeps of the valley when Simon abruptly stopped, pulling back on Homefinder’s reins so that the mare paced nervously from side to side for a long moment after she halted.
“There’s somebody on the road ahead,” he said quietly. “There. Just through the trees.” He pointed to a spot where the path hooked to one side and passed out of sight. “Do you see them?”
Miriamele squinted. The early twilight had turned the road before them into a dim streak of gray. If something was moving beyond the trees, she could not see it from her angle. “We’re getting near the town.”
“Come, then,” he said. “It’s probably just someone on their way home, but we haven’t seen anyone else all day.” He eased Homefinder ahead.
As they rounded the bend they came upon two figures hunching along in the middle of the road, both of them carrying buckets. When the noise of Simon and Miriamele’s horses reached the pair, they flinched and looked over their shoulders as guiltily as thieves surprised. Miriamele felt sure that they were just as startled as Simon to find other travelers on the road.
The pair moved to the verge of the road as the riders approached. From what Miriamele could see of their dark, hooded cloaks, they were probably local people, hill-folk. Simon lifted his hand to his brow in salute.
“God give you good day,” he said.
The nearest of the pair looked up at him and cautiously raised his own hand to return the greeting, but stopped abruptly, staring.
“By the Tree!” Simon reined up. “You’re the ones from the tavern in Falshire.”
What is he doing? Miriamele wondered fearfully. Are they Fire Dancers? Ride on, Simon, you idiot!
He turned toward her. “Miriamele. Look here.”
Unexpectedly, the two hooded folk dropped to their knees. “You saved our lives,” a woman’s voice said.
Miriamele pulled up and stared. It was the woman and man that the Fire Dancers had threatened.
“That’s true,” the man said. His voice was unsteady. “May Usires bless you, good knight.”
“Please, get up.” Simon was clearly pleased yet embarrassed. “I’m sure someone else would have helped you if we hadn’t.”
The woman stood, unmindful of the mud on the knees of her long skirt. “None seemed in a hurry to help,” she said. “That’s the way. Those who are good are given the pain.”
The man darted a glance at her. “That’s enough, wife. These folk don’t need your tellin’ what’s wrong with the world.”
She looked back at him with poorly-hidden defiance. “It’s a shame, that’s all. A shame the world works thus.”
The man turned his attention back to Simon and Miriamele. He was middle-aged, with a face reddened and wrinkled by years of harsh sun. “My wife has her ideas, mind, but the bottom of it’s true enough. You saved our lives, that you did.” He forced a smile. He seemed nervous; having his life saved must have been almost as frightening as not having it saved. “Have you a place to stay for tonight? My wife’s Gullaighn and I am Roelstan, and we would be pleased to offer you what shelter we have.”
“We cannot stop yet,” Miriamele said, unsettled by the thought of staying with strangers.
Simon looked at her. “You have been ill,” he said.
“I can ride farther.”
“Yes, you probably can, but why turn down a roof over our heads, even for one night?” He turned to look at the man and woman, then moved his horse closer to Miriamele. “It may be the last chance to get out of the wind and rain,” he murmured, “the last until ...” He broke off, unwilling even to whisper any hint of their destination.
Miriamele was certainly weary. She hesitated a moment longer, then nodded her head.
“Good,” said Simon, then turned to the man and woman. “We would be glad of shelter.” He did not offer their own names to these strangers; Miriamele silently approved of that at least.
“But we have nothing worthy of such good folk, husband.” Gullaighn had a face that might have been
kindly, but fear and hard times had made the skin slack, the eyes sorrowful. “It is no favor to bring them to our rude place.”
“Be quiet, woman,” her husband said. “We will do what we can.”
She appeared to have more to say, but instead closed her mouth in a grim line.
“It’s settled, then,” he said. “Come. It is not much farther.”
After a moment’s consideration, Simon and Miriamele dismounted so that they could walk beside their hosts. “Do you live here in Hasu Vale?” asked Simon.
Roelstan laughed shortly. “For a short time only. We lived once in Falshire.”
Miriamele hesitated before speaking. “And ... and were you Fire Dancers?”
“To our sorrow.”
“They are a powerful evil.” Gullaighn’s voice was thick with emotion. “You should have nothing to do with them, my lady, nor anything they’ve touched.”
“Why were those men after you?” Simon reflexively fingered the hilt of his sword.
“Because we left,” Roelstan said. “We could stand it no longer. They are mad, but like dogs, even in their madness they can do harm.”
“But it is not so easy to escape them,” said Gullaighn. “They are fierce and they do not let go. And they are everywhere.” She lowered her voice. “Everywhere!”
“By the Ransomer, woman,” Roelstan growled, “what are you trying to do? You have seen this knight wield a sword. He has naught to fear from them.”
Simon walked a little straighter. Miriamele smiled, but a look at Gullaighn’s anxious face made the smile fade. Could she be right? Might there be more Fire Dancers about? Perhaps by tomorrow it would be time to leave the main road again and travel more secretively.
As if echoing her thoughts, Roelstan stopped and waved at a track climbing up from the Old Forest Road, winding away into the wooded hillside. “We have made our place up there,” he said. “It is no good to be too close to the road, where the smoke of a fire might bring visitors less welcome than you two.”