7 – 2

I wake to the slide of a cold, bared foot between my calves. Her hand on the back of my neck curls, nails scratching goosebumps across the sensitive skin. There's a hot, damp wash of breath on the skin of my neck as the face tucked into its curve emits a half-woken grunt of satisfaction. The curl flattens as Clarke settles back into slumber. There is a warm and entwining closeness between us, made real by the sweat dampening our clothes. With sleep's languorous weight upon me, there dwell no other feelings within me than contentment and a strong, yearning affection.

It's easy to remember the dreams; those wrought of lingering magic that bound our slumbering minds in gossamer threads. Though in that space the barriers between us were fewer and less, this is better. In a way I can't quite put to words, this is better. Her hair is in my mouth and I've an arm that's numb from shoulder to fingertip. The smile I press into the crown of her head is quiet and sleepy. Perhaps, I don't need to. She's in my arms, I'm in hers, and that, perhaps, is enough.

Nearby is the sigh of cattails in the lake-breeze and the gentle lap of little waves on stony shores. There is the wispy slash of a horse's tail through the air in an endless battle against insects. The gray-dawn sky lightens by the minute. The sun will rise soon, and it would be wise of us to do the same. It's another day's travel to Amberdusk, Fort Tanner a further half-day beyond that. The sooner we start, the more we shorten the road. It's just that I don't want to. Why should I, when I am warm and comfortable in this nest of cloaks?

Because, my stomach tells me, I am empty.

Because, my bladder warns me, I am not.

The former is answer enough to motivate me, but the latter makes me hurry. Clarke, it would seem, is a heavy sleeper. Her only reaction to freeing myself is to roll into the space I once filled and steal my cloak. Wretch. I rub my arms and step into the wall of cattails for privacy. I'm not any warmer when I'm done, but I keep my feet dry.

I emerge in search of food. The cart creaks as I hop into the bed and start looking. A russet apple catches my eye. I'm about to bite in, anticipating the crunch of its skin and its tart-sweet taste on my tongue, when I see our horse from the corner of my eye. One of the large, dark eyes in its elegant head is looking at me. No, not at me. At the apple.

At my apple.

The horse can't have it, even if it is a very good horse who had done a very good job of pulling the cart yesterday. The road had been slick and muddied, and no doubt still was. It had labored from morning to sundown-past without complaint. No wonder the grass surrounded the post is cropped down to the dirt. In the face of its valor and dedication to the pull, what's one apple? I hop down from the cart bed and go over. The pale little hairs on its lips are soft and ticklish on my palm. It crunches the tart-sweet fruit while I stroke its neck with my free hand. A horse as good as this needs a name.

But what? I'm still unsure. It's something to think on, something that has nothing to do with the torn-ragged scrap of cloth I've tucked into the sleeve of my dress. The horse bumps its head into me, drawing a smile across my face. I scratch the space between its eyes. “Shall I name you Greedy, then?” I ask it, “Or perhaps Nosy?” It bumps me again, rocking me back onto my heel. I stroke under its chin and the wisp of a beard and confess, “I'm not very good with names. When I was little, I got to name our family's mules. They were so plaintive that I named one Soulful and the other, Doleful.”

The horse whickers, commiserating. It's either that, or wanting another apple. Since horses are creatures of great empathy, it is most likely the former. We continue to enjoy each other's quiet company as the sun rises in the east. The first reach of dawn over the mist-shrouded peaks of the Icewalls is a spray of soft, warm rays in pink, red, and orange. The dove-wing gray of the pre-dawn sky is ushered away in that slow, gentle wash of color. The night's chill is pushed back, the lake's waters brighten, and it is time for us to be moving on.

The horse is ready, stepping into its harness with little more than a wispy slash of its long, thin-haired tail. With a final scratch to Nosy, or perhaps Greedy's, nose, I go to put on my boots. To keep my socks dry, I'd balled them up and stuffed them in the heel. If they managed to get wet overnight, I'd go barefoot until they dried. To do otherwise would be stepping back into that moonlit hell of blisters and infection.

With that done, I'm ready to be off. Clarke, who is still asleep in a nest of cloaks, is not. To the horse, I confess, “I am beginning to think she didn't believe me, when I said we would rise at dawn.”

It's not the horse that answers. From the cloaks comes a groan, and a head of ink-dark hair emerges, blue eyes bleary and narrow in the growing light of dawn. She looks at me with an expression of such profound disappointment at being conscious. “No,” she says, voice thick and growling with sleep, “I believed you. I just...hoped otherwise.” To my smile, she adds, “Shut up.”

- - -

Come noon, we stop to rest the horse on the tree-line side of the road. Those slick puddles of muck, made by yesterday's rain, go mostly dry from their time in the morning sun. Without them to cake our wheels and drag our steps, I'm well pleased with how far we've gone. Wet lake-breeze tugs at what strands of my hair have escaped their braid and ripple through the stone-studded plain of pale grasses we've stopped beside. It rises up a steep hill to where the darkened canopies of the forest begin.

Somewhere in that vast expanse is a path, hidden to all but the Royah. My family travels down it, pulled by the mules I named. Do they think of me when they see them? Would they be understanding of what I've done? I hope they do. I fear they don't. Coming down from the driver's bench of the cart allows the thin blades of grass to prod at my calves through my dress. Though I know the itch of grass-on-skin well, it's yet to become less unpleasant.

Our horse finds it pleasant enough, tearing up mouthfuls of the long, thin grass to grind it between flat teeth. I watch it eat for a moment and again lament its lack of name, then turn my regard to the road we've yet to travel. Some miles ahead it begins its turn to follow the shoreline's curve. There, the forest encroaches upon the plain, swallowing it whole. The road becomes shaded by dark canopies, flanked on either side by water and wood. Once we reach that point, we'll be a six-hour ride from Amberdusk. Then, another six to Fort Tanner and the order of knights who reside there.

I've never met a knight. Don't think I've seen any, either. In the stories, they wear armor that gleams in the sun and ride everywhere on a white stallion. I should think they would be easy to spot. Then again, in the stories my people are roving bands of diseased, filth-riddled thieves and liars. “Clarke?” I say, turning away from the road. She's still sitting in the driver's bench of the cart, the beginnings of a meal spread across her lap. I see bread and cheese, a piece or two of fruit, and one of Mallory Knott's smaller pies.

She looks up from her preparations. “Mm?”

It's honestly a distracting amount of food, and entirely responsible for how far my words veer from my thoughts. “Is that – all for you?”

Her eyes drop to her lap, then back up to me. “Of course not,” she answers. Then, with sly smile, warns, “Though this pie will be, if you're not quick enough.”

Oh, I should think she'll find I am. My eyes narrow as I start back to the driver's bench of the cart. Her side of the bench. The first steps are slow, measured, and foreboding. They quicken as her smile widens, and by the time I'm climbing up to steal the pie from her hands she's laughing.

In the end, we split the pie, as well as the rest of the food. With our bellies full and our cart underway once more, I ask her, “What do you know of knights?”

“Well...” I hear the consideration in her voice, “some, I suppose. Why?” I shrug, which I suppose is answer enough. The lake-breeze's hiss through the pale grass, the clump of hooves on dried earth, and the rumble of rolling wheels fills the silence. “They'll listen,” she says eventually. “They will.”

I put my hand over my sleeve, where the scrap of fabric has been tucked since we left Valdenwood. She sounds so sure, and it can only be for my benefit. “Of course,” I agree. I don't want to think about what it will mean if they don't.