Exile's Children (64 page)

Now Flysse looked embarrassed: Davyd thought he saw Arcole conceal a furtive smile.

“No,” Arcole continued, “we'd best travel light. Save the weapons, we'll take only a little food and—” He paused, thinking. “Does Gahame's enterprise run to clothing, Davyd?”

Davyd nodded.

“I've boots,” Arcole said, “and those clothes I came here in. But were it possible, I'd prefer sturdier gear. And Flysse can hardly travel in skirts and such.”

“I can get us all gear,” Davyd said confidently. “Breeches and jackets; boots. Shall we need topcoats?”

“Blankets shall serve as well,” Arcole said. “But sturdy boots for Flysse and yourself; also breeches, a shirt.” He looked to Flysse. “You and Davyd are of a size, no?”

She ducked her head. Davyd thought some of the ice had left her eyes when she looked at her husband.

“Then such gear as Flysse shall need,” Arcole said. “And you. For me, only a good jacket; and those other things.”

Davyd nodded vigorously.

“But all of it,” Arcole said as Flysse opened her mouth preparatory to speaking, “carefully. Is there risk involved, or the chance you be found out, then leave it. You'll not put yourself in jeopardy, eh? I'll have your word on that, Davyd. You do these things only safely.”

Davyd gave his word. He felt a tremendous excitement now, and absolutely confident that all should be as Arcole planned. He would, bit by bit, accumulate what they needed. He would plumb Laurens and Godfry and the others for knowledge of the river—even 'sieur Gahame, who was not averse to speaking of his ventures—and prove himself worthy of Arcole's trust. And then, when Arcole deemed the time right, they would go away together. Arcole and Flysse and he, like a family, to freedom. His talent should be no longer a burden to be concealed but a gift to be vaunted, used for their protection. It was an exhilarating notion.

“So then, carefully, eh?” Arcole's voice cut through his thoughts. “And slowly, so none suspect.”

Davyd grinned. Then straightened his mouth when Flysse asked, “Shall it truly be so easy?”

He wondered if she asked it only in argument. He felt the question was addressed to Arcole, but still, afloat on optimism and excitement, he said, “Yes. I can do all that.”

Arcole said, “No,” bringing him somewhat down to earth, “it shall not. It shall be hard waiting, and harder doing. Perhaps even impossible. But what else shall we do? Live out our lives as slaves to the Autarchy? Run hither and yon like trained dogs on our masters' bidding? Die old and weary in servitude? No, Flysse, it shall not be easy. It will be dangerous—for which reason I hesitated to involve you; because I'd not see
you come to harm. Neither you or Davyd; but I tell you this—I'll not die a servant of Evander.”

“Nor,” said Davyd, mightily enthused, “shall I.”

Flysse said nothing. Only tugged the quilt tighter about her, as if a colder wind blew through the little room.

“So,” Arcole declared, “for now we've plans enough. Best you return, eh, Davyd? We'd not want you caught out.”

“No.” Davyd turned instinctively toward the window, assessing the hour. Dawn was not now far off and he gathered his furs about him. “Shall I come back?”

“Best wait a while.” Arcole glanced again at Flysse. “We'll meet in church come Sunday, no? Tell us then how your part goes, eh?”

Davyd nodded, busying himself with the cords that held the furs about his body. There was something here he did not understand, but neither was he sure he wanted to examine it. That differences stood betwixt Arcole and Flysse troubled him, and he'd not now entertain troubles, only hope. He supposed they argued as he understood wed people sometimes did: he had no experience of such matters and trusted that their love should iron out the differences. He settled the bear's skull—should he have told them the forests contained such creatures?—over his head, and turned to the window.

“Be careful,” Arcole said; and Flysse: “God ward you, Davyd.”

Then he was gone into the windblown night, thinking he must not be so different to those things he had dreamed of as he scurried across the yard and jumped the fence to run shadowy and all befurred through the streets.

“Is there anyone you'll not use?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“To use Davyd.” She hugged the quilt about her body; Arcole still occupied the single chair. “Since learning he was a Dreamer, no?”

Arcole gestured: he felt helpless under her implacable gaze. “God, Flysse,” he said, “I didn't love you then. I guessed what Davyd was, and then he swore me to keep his secret. I thought—yes—that his talent might be useful if …” He shrugged and wiped a hand across his mouth. “If the opportunity to escape ever presented itself. I didn't know if it would, but … God! I never planned to fall in love with you. But I did!
And I am!
What can I say?”

She offered no reprieve from his misery, only stared at the frosty window.

“I told you true,” he said wearily, “when I said I'd not see you come to harm. I thought at first I might escape; and I'd not then deliver you into such peril. Now …” He set a hand against his chest as does a man taking a vow. “Now I'd not leave you, ever. Those vows we swore hold strong. You're my wife, Flysse. I love you. Does this dream come true, then I'd have you with me always. Can you say different?”

Flysse studied the patterns the ice made across the window. Beyond, the yard stood white with frost. The sky spread lightless above, the moon and stars hidden beneath the gloom preceding dawn. And that, she thought, cold and cheerless as the chagrin of her soul. She could not say different: she loved this man. But could she trust him any longer?

Once—no doubt of it—she'd have put her life in his hands. Her life and all her hope.
Had,
she told herself, done just that. Was that not what marriage meant? To trust, to believe in someone, placing your fate in their hands, confident it be well tended? But Arcole had held things back he should have told her. He had kept secrets from her—thought even of leaving her. She was not sure she could forgive that—even knowing she loved him—and it drove a knife into her heart that she could not say the words she knew he wanted to hear, that she wanted to say. It would be so easy to turn toward him and open her arms, knowing he should come into them with gratitude—with love—but she could not. There was, to her surprise, a cold, hard part of her that required more.

Commitment, she supposed; that absolute bonding she had assumed was naturally a part of marriage—that coherence of purpose and resolution she had seen in her parents, that she gave herself. She was no longer sure—could no longer be certain—that it was there in Arcole. He loved her, yes. But did the chance to escape present itself, would he take her with him, save she force him to it, or would he—be it easier, or more opportune—leave her behind? She could no longer know, not for sure, and that pained her. She wished she had his way with words—that she might trick out honest answers from him—but she did not, and could rely only on her own judgment.

She sighed and closed her eyes that he not see the doubt and hurt there.

Arcole said, “Flysse? Hear me, Flysse.”

She opened her eyes and turned toward him.

“I've hurt you,” he said, “and for that I'm shamed. Now I tell you honestly—do you forbid me, I'll forget all this—all my thoughts of escape. Do you tell me it must be so, I'll be a servant all my life. Only so long as I live it out with you.”

“Truly?” she asked, not yet ready to believe but wanting to.

He ducked his head. “This map?” He tossed the paper to her. It landed by her feet. “Tear it up. Come Sunday we'll tell Davyd to forget it all. I'll forget it all. Only that I not lose you.”

Flysse took the chart from where it had fallen and held it a moment. “Truly?” she asked again.

Arcole nodded again: “Truly. You're more important than freedom. God, you own my freedom! I'd not care to live without you.”

She held out the map and said, “Keep it.”

He took it and asked, “Are we reconciled, then?”

“Not yet, Arcole.”

And he must be satisfied with that, as she must be. And they both wonder what the future holds.

Captain of Militia Danyael Corm had never expected to find himself leading and armed column into Salvation's hinterland under such circumstances. When he had applied for posting to Grostheim, he had thought the transfer an astute career move. In Evander and the lands conquered in the War of Restitution, advancement depended overmuch on connections and social ties. He had few connections and no social ties, and consequently believed he might look forward to a slow—and likely limited—rise through the ranks. The new world offered opportunity to climb higher—without, he had thought, much risk.

But now he rode through the mud of early spring at the head of fifty mounted infantry, with two mule-drawn supply carts and the distinctly unpleasant belief he might well die. Had he been able, he would have left this duty to another officer: he had much rather remain in Grostheim, behind the city walls and cannons. But Major Spelt had left him little choice, and had he looked to evade the commission, he knew he must consign himself to remaining a captain until he died. Which, he could not help thinking, might now not be long off.

He had known there were what Spelt referred to as “problems.” All the officers had known that since last summer; there was talk in the mess—muted, but nonetheless fervent—and it was impossible to avoid speculation. It went no farther—the major had made clear that loose tongues
would earn his displeasure—but amongst the higher ranks it had been a topic of excited discussion.

Farms were burned out and all the inhabitants slain. Animals had been slaughtered or driven off, crops wasted, vineyards torched. Like most of his fellows, Corm had arrived in Salvation confident the land was empty—a vast fallow field for the Autarchy to plow with indentured labor. Now it seemed all that was wrong: Evander was not alone in staking claim—there were others. But neither Spelt nor Governor Wyme could say whom, or what. Only that folk died, and that the attacks be kept secret.

And Captain Corm was elected to a most unpleasant duty.

He must make a patrol of all the holdings north of the Restitution, to where the river disappeared into the wilderness timber, then north along the forest edge to the Glory River as far as the coast, and southwest from there back to Grostheim. It would take—assuming untroubled passage—the better part of two months. Was there what Major Spelt named “difficulties,” the duration could not be locked to any chronology.

In plainer words, Corm thought bitterly, they—or more particularly
he
—might never return.

The thought chilled him, and he shrugged his coat closer about him. It was a good bearskin, purchased from Rupyrt Gahame—warmer than this softening spring weather required, but he took comfort from its bulk. It held him warm, and he thought it might well be thick enough to slow an arrow's progress. Rogyr Stantin had told him they used arrows—whoever, or whatever,
they
were.

The lieutenant had found the wreckage of the Thirsk farm—the first to fall—and he had said there were stone-tipped arrowheads in the charred timbers. Captain Corm wondered what manner of savages would head their weapons with stone, and why the lieutenant did not lead this column. He was surely better suited to the task: he seemed quite unafraid.

Corm turned in his saddle and waved Stantin alongside.

“So, Rogyr, shall we find these monsters of yours soon?”

It was easy to make his question brave: far worse to admit his fears.

Stantin shrugged. “Who can say, Danyael? I know only that I found a farm slaughtered. But …” He turned his face toward the forest's edge. “I think they came from there. God, I'd sooner the major sent us into the woods to find them and punish them. A major expedition, eh?”

“Yes!” Corm returned with feigned enthusiasm. “Go in and teach
them a lesson! A full column—with cannon in support—should learn them.”

Stantin nodded, his polished tricorn glancing sparks of sunlight.

“Still,” Corm said, not quite able to contain his uneasiness, “I wonder what they are.”

Stantin shrugged again. “Who knows? Does it matter?”

“I'd think,” said Corm, “that it might be good we know our enemies.”

“Godless creatures,” Stantin replied. “Wilderness things out of the forests. Not born of God, and therefore to be destroyed. No?”

“Yes,” said Corm dutifully, glancing back along the column.

It spread in a regimented line behind him. Horsemen two by two, the wagons at the rear, warded by ten riders. All armed with muskets and sabers. Shot and powder and food and tents on board the wagons. They had checked nine holdings so far, and none with report of attack.

But they drew close to the forest now, and he could not help shifting in his saddle as his gut stirred uncomfortable.

“Are you well?” asked Stantin.

Corm said, “Yes, of course,” and hid his hatred of the younger man's senseless courage.

They bivouacked along the Restitution's bank that night, in a meadow damp with spring rain and ripe with snowdrops, and the next day found the Defraney holding burned down.

It was not as Stantin had described the Thirsk farm. It was far worse: Corm spewed when he saw the skulls—the farmer and his wife mounted on poles alongside pigs and cows and dogs, the indentured folk beside.

In two more days they came on the Cateham mill. It was only charred rubble, save for the waterwheel: Anton Cateham and his wife were pinned to that and spun on the river's turning. Fish nibbled at their flesh and Captain Corm threw up again.