Exile's Children (89 page)

Flysse said, “You are very brave.” And though he did not think it so, he basked in the accolade and endeavored to set his jaw in a stern and manly line. He could not bear to think that harm might come to her for want of his efforts. Yes, he would try hard; he would be their dream guide, if it lay in his power. He liked that—Dream Guide. That, he decided, was his title now, though he blushed to say it out loud. He nodded solemnly and returned his attention to the river ahead.

Arcole caught Flysse's eye and beamed his approval. God, to think that he had once considered her beneath him—a tavern wench, a farm girl. She was so much more than that, he felt ashamed of those old, near-forgotten thoughts. God, but he loved this woman!

By mid-afternoon he could row no longer. His arms lost strength and his back protested each sweep of the oars. He thought that did he not rest, the dinghy must drift on the current. And that was now all downstream: they were long past the influence of Deliverance Bay's tidal flow, the Restitution turning its power to the east. Did they drift, then it must be back the way they had come.

“We must halt,” he said. “I can row no more.”

Flysse said, “It's early yet.”

“Even so.” In unintended emphasis he missed his stroke, the starboard oar sweeping clear of the water so that he pitched backward, almost tumbling from the bench. “No, enough.”

“We'll take over,” she said. “Davyd and I.”

Arcole could do no more than hold them steady against the current. “You don't know how,” he said. “And it's hard work.”

“Then it's time we learnt,” she replied. “Nor am I a stranger to hard work.”

He hesitated, and Davyd lent his argument to Flysse's. “You said you'd teach us,” he reminded Arcole. “And can we all take turns at the oars, then surely we must make better time.”

“Very well.” Arcole bowed to their persuasions. “But first, bandage your hands, or they'll be raw by dusk.” He held the dinghy stationary as they cut strips from their shirts. “Then we must change places. But carefully, eh? Else we all find ourselves in the river.”

The dinghy rocked precariously as they shifted position. Arcole went to the stern, where he might watch them and issue instructions; Flysse and Davyd settled together on the rowing bench.

“So, you must do this in unison.”

“What's that?” asked Davyd.

Arcole said, “Together. Each oar must land at the same time, or you'll be fighting each other and we'll zig and zag and go nowhere. Now, this is how you do it …”

Their progress was at first erratic, and more than once one or the other tumbled backward off the bench. Flysse was glad she wore breeches: in skirts she'd have no dignity left. Twice, oars were dropped, and caught only by dint of speed and good fortune. For some time they did no more than hold station, but then they began to move—slowly—upstream again. Arcole voiced his approval, and was answered with two triumphant smiles.

He brought the map from his shirt and set to calculating the distance traveled. By his reckoning they should reach a holding before dusk. Wyme had not marked the farm as visited by the demons, but, he thought, the map was drawn some time ago. He decided they could not risk discovery, and blessed Flysse for her butcher's skill—there was ample meat they could eat well again. And, he thought, eyeing the sweaty faces of the two rowers, we all shall need sustenance tonight.

He rose a little, studying the river ahead. Wyme's maps had not run to such details as the marking of woods or highlands, and he thought to find a suitable resting place, hopefully sheltered from observation.

One appeared in a while. The terrain grew rougher, and a low bluff showed where the Restitution meandered southward. Loblolly pines grew tall on the crest, running down the steep flanks to form a screen between the river and the land. He pointed, advising Flysse and Davyd of their destination, then must explain how the boat might be turned in the desired direction.

It took some time before they reached the bench beneath the bluff and got the dinghy beached. Neither Flysse nor Davyd was reluctant to
halt their labors, and Arcole could not resist chuckling as they groaned and stretched their backs.

“Hard work, eh?” Flysse scowled; Davyd grunted. Arcole, somewhat rested now, told them, “Do you take your ease here and I'll climb up that headland, see what's beyond. Do we have … visitors … then fire a pistol, and I'll return.”

Flysse plucked her shirt away from her breasts and asked, “Can we safely bathe? I'm …” She grimaced her distaste.

“When I return,” Arcole said. “When we know it's safe.”

She nodded and said, “Be careful.”

“Yes.” He took his musket and set to climbing.

From atop the bluff he could see the Restitution sweep away in wide curves to north and south, thankfully empty. The far bank was a heathazed blur, and for a while he checked the sky there for sign of smoke. None showed, and he moved warily through the pines until he might see what lay inland.

At the edge of the hurst he perused the map again. As best he calculated, the closest holding was the Bayliss farm, a good league or more to the west. He wondered if he stood on Bayliss land, and if the farm survived still. He could see no signs of habitation; no cattle grazed the vast expanse of grass spread out before him, and there was no smoke to indicate fires of any kind. Faint in the distance he saw the glitter of a stream, and dotted over the plain were stands of timber. He hoped none hid demons, and decided that their watch this night should be set upon the bluff: that would afford a better vantage point than the bench.

As he returned it came to him that he fell back into a way of thinking he had believed lay behind him. This sense of ever-present peril, the need to set a guard each night, the endless vigilance—it all reminded him of the conflict Evander named the War of Restitution, the Levan the Conquest. Evander had won that struggle, he thought, but shall not win this small fight. No, neither Evander nor the demons—whatever they may be—shall defeat us.

He was grinning as he approached the others.

“The land stands empty,” he reported. “And the river. Flysse, do you wish to bathe, it's safe enough.”

Flysse said, “Praise God,” in a voice so earnest, Arcole could not resist taking her in his arms and kissing her soundly.

“And we'll get a fire ready,” he promised, then glancing at the sky: “Though lighting it must wait, I fear.”

“No matter.” Flysse lifted hair rendered heavy by her efforts from her neck. “The sun is still warm—I'll bask awhile.”

Davyd could not help the image that flashed into his mind at that,
and turned away so neither she nor Arcole could see him blush. “I'll gather wood,” he declared gruffly.

“There's plenty up there.” Arcole stabbed a finger at the bluff.

“Fresh pine?” Flysse shook her head. “That spits and smokes. Better search along the shore for drifted wood, or fallen branches. It's dry stuff we need.”

Arcole exaggerated a bow. “I learn apace,” he laughed. “God, what would I do without you? Without the two of you?”

“Go hungry without me,” she answered, chuckling. “And without Davyd …”

Her laughter died. She shook her head and turned away. Davyd watched her, thinking, I'll do my best. Is it in my power, I
shall
be your Dream Guide and see you safe from harm. Then added guiltily, Yours and Arcole's both, and set to searching for suitable kindling.

That night Arcole insisted he take the first watch, that he be able to sleep the remainder and, hopefully, dream of any danger ahead. Davyd took his musket and scrambled up the cliff to take station on the rim. The river ran smooth and dark as oil below him, and the banked fire was a dim red eye between the boat and the bluff. He could barely make out the shapes of Flysse and Arcole—and did not like to look too hard—but when he did, he thought they lay together and felt a sudden flush of … He was not sure, it was a feeling compounded of mixed emotions: envy and embarrassment and guilt. For a while he wished he were Arcole, and could not help imagining how it might feel to lie with Flysse in his arms. Then, angry with himself for such thoughts, he rose and patrolled inland, creeping stealthily through the pines until he reached the edge and looked out across the grass. Far off, he thought he saw faint light, as if from windows, or perhaps a group of close-spaced fires. He wondered if he should return to the river to report the sight. But what if Flysse and Arcole still lay together? He felt his cheeks grow warm at the notion of interrupting them, and decided that if folk—settlers or demons—sat around those fires, they could not know they were observed, neither were they close enough to represent any immediate threat. He stood awhile, watching, then returned to the bluff's rim.

All was silent below, save for the soft whispering of the river. Stars spread overhead, brilliant as jewels scattered across a velvet cloth, and the slender crescent of the new moon drifted leisurely westward. Davyd squatted, musket across his thighs, fighting against the images of Flysse that threatened to intrude. I must not, he told himself sternly, but still there came the insidious thought: What if Arcole were not with us?

He was grateful when Arcole came to relieve him. “I thought I saw lights,” he reported. “A long way off to the west.”

“The Bayliss holding's in that direction.” Arcole seemed in a great good humor; Davyd felt a rush of guilty envy. “It might be that: I'll take a look. Meanwhile, sleep well.”

Davyd nodded and climbed down to the river.

Flysse stirred sleepily as he found his bedroll. He saw that hers and Arcole's were laid together. He took his own a little way off and stretched out, telling himself, I am the Dream Guide. I must do my duty and not think of her.

He doubted that should be possible, but his efforts at the oars and the tension of the day seeped suddenly into him, so that he slept before he knew it. And dreamed.

“There was no danger in it,” he said around a mouthful of roasted beef. “I dreamed of a meeting, no more than that. I saw no faces, but I don't think they were demons.”

“Can you be sure?” Arcole said.

“There was no sense of danger.” Davyd shrugged. “I can't be
sure,
but before …” He scratched at his cheek, where the brand stood pale against his growing tan. “There was always the feeling of danger before.”

Flysse said, “You slept undisturbed.” And when he frowned, amplified: “You've always tossed and turned, cried out.”

He nodded thoughtfully and said, “I suppose I did. Surely when I dreamed of the attack on Grostheim, I woke frightened. This was not like that at all. This was quite peaceful.”

“So.” Arcole wiped grease from his beard. “We're to have a meeting, eh? Likely, a peaceful meeting.”

Davyd spread his hands in an equivocal gesture. “I suppose so; I don't know for sure.” He smiled apologetically. “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry?” Arcole laughed, and reached to slap his shoulder, turning to Flysse. “D'you hear him? He predicts our future and then apologizes.”

“It's not very clear,” said Davyd. “I'd hoped to do better.”

“You do the best you can,” Arcole returned. “I'd ask no more of any man.”

Davyd liked that: that Arcole named him a man. He felt better. “I'll practice,” he said, not sure how he would do that, but nonetheless determined.

Curious—and not a little wary—they loaded the dinghy and continued on their way. The sun was not long risen, but still it lit the river as if the water were molten gold. The sky was a pristine blue, the breeze that
came out of the west refreshing. Herons stood, patient fishermen, along the banks, and an osprey stooped to snatch a plump trout. Magpies chattered, and from a stretch of woodland a great black flock of crows took noisy flight.

Before midmorning, as they drew level with the Bayliss farm, Davyd's dream was proved true.

He crouched in the bow, scanning the shore and the river ahead, so he was the first to see them. He gasped, settling a thumb on the musket's hammer, then said, “People!”

Arcole backed water, turning the dinghy that he might see.

Flysse said, “Not demons, I think.”

“Evanderans are no less dangerous.” Arcole craned around, squinting shoreward. “Does some farmer see our brands, he'll look to take us in.”

“I think they're all indentured folk.” Davyd shaded his eyes against the brilliance of the sun. “They look all ragged.”

Arcole asked, “Are they armed?”

“They've axes and such,” Davyd replied. “I can see no guns.”

Arcole turned the dinghy closer to the shore and held it stationary as he surveyed the watchers. They crowded on a little jetty, studying the approaching boat. They appeared a sorry lot, four women and three men, unkempt and dressed in dirty homespun. They waved at the boat. He saw no firearms, but as Davyd had warned, they held axes and other tools. He brought the dinghy closer still.

“Flysse, do you pass me my musket?”

She obeyed even as she said, “Surely they offer no harm. Look, I can see their brands.”

“Even so.” Arcole nodded. “Davyd, do I give the word, fire over their heads.”

He let the dinghy drift a little nearer and called out, “Greetings, friends. Who are you?”

They seemed nonplussed as they saw the trio in the dinghy clearly. The oldest man shouted, “You've come from Grostheim?”

“We have,” Arcole replied. “And you?”

“Where are the others?” The man scanned the river as if he anticipated a flotilla. “Where are the soldiers?”

“Busy defending the city,” Arcole called. “We're all alone.”

A woman wailed at that, clutching a screaming child to her breast.

“No soldiers?” asked the man. “Oh, God save us! Did the master send you?”