Chapter Six - Betrayal

Órlaith woke in darkness, and for a few moments she had no idea where she was. Whatever she was lying on was too soft, there was no movement so it couldn't be the wagon, and -

Then it all came rushing back to her. Órlaith sat up slowly, looking around on instinct despite the darkness.

The heavy curtains couldn't be that good at blocking out sunlight. It was still dark, and she hadn't gone to bed until late. So why was she awake now?

Then she heard it - a soft knock, then another. A moment later, she realised - it was coming from the wall between her and Leolin's rooms.

Somehow, Órlaith didn't think this was going to end well.

She hadn't unpacked anything last night - in fact, they'd left most of their things with the horses rather than carry them into the house. So it only took her a moment to change out of the nightclothes she'd worn, pick up the small bag she'd brought, and creep out of her room and into Leolin's. She didn't dare light a candle or even summon a magelight; instead, she felt her way through her room and along the corridor.

Leolin was waiting for her, a faint glow wreathed around his hand, providing barely enough light to see his dark expression by.

"I was right," he murmured, the words barely audible. "I'm sorry. Look." He tipped his head towards the window. The curtains were open, and Órlaith stayed low as she went to see.

Below the window, there was a little courtyard. Órlaith recognised it - they had taken the horses through there, to Aneirin's stables. It had been empty then.

Now, Aneirin stood there, facing three other men. All three were dressed in dark clothes - and all three bore the mark of magehunters.

Órlaith bit down hard on her lip to hold back the gasp that wanted to escape. Instead, she listened - the window was ajar, and she could just make out the words drifting up, when the breeze was in the right direction.

"- a better fee than this," Aneirin snapped, gesturing sharply. "I have put myself personally at risk keeping them here, and you -"

"Just give him the money, boss," one of the men said, shaking his head. "Easiest way forward. Longer we wait here, more likely it is that one or both of them will wake up."

Another man snorted. "As if they'd have any idea what's going on. The professor said they rode hard to get here, they won't be waking up as long as we're not shouting out here."

"Enough," the third man said, voice cool. "You'll have your fee, Aneirin. Once we have the spellweavers. Where are they?"

Órlaith stepped back from the window, heart pounding.

"We need to leave," Leolin whispered, jerking his head at the door. Órlaith nodded, and took the lead.

"There's a secret passage down to the stables," she told him. "I remember it. Follow me."

Her uncle had always been fond of the idea of secret passages and hidden paths. He'd once shown her all of the ones in his home - well, he'd said he had. Maybe he had been lying, just like he had lied yesterday.

Órlaith shook away the thought. It wasn't helpful right now.

They were lucky - they made it to the stables without being caught, and when Órlaith peeked out at the courtyard, the magehunters and Aneirin were gone. They wouldn't be gone for long, though - as soon as they realised Órlaith and Leolin had disappeared, they'd probably come back down here.

The horses were settled comfortably in their stalls, tack hung up neatly - Órlaith mentally thanked their past selves for having the foresight to do that, instead of just leaving it for the next day. She felt a little bad for waking them, so similar to their escape just a few nights ago - but there was no helping it. They had both horses tacked up in only a few moments.

"It'll be harder to stay unseen than in Leyfield," Órlaith murmured to Leolin, and he nodded. He'd already covered his hair - hopefully it would be enough. There was no way of knowing who else might be involved, or if the magehunters might have friends who knew about Órlaith and Leolin. It couldn't be a coincidence that Aneirin had been able to get in touch with them so quickly, after all.

...Unless he'd already known them. And that wasn't a thought Órlaith wanted to deal with right now.

Órlaith poked her head out of the stables, glancing around. There was no sign of the magehunters in the courtyard - but she could hear them, angry voices from inside Aneirin's house.

"They know we've escaped," she hissed, and started walking. The horses' hooves were loud on the cobbles, but there was nothing she could do - she could only hope that they got away quickly enough. And that the magehunters didn't have horses of their own.

"I know it's only happened twice, but I'm getting tired of escaping on horseback in the middle of the night," Leolin muttered as he swung up onto Cian. Órlaith snorted despite herself, already seated on Aelis.

"Hopefully it won't happen for a third time," she said, and then her eyes widened as she caught sight of a figure rounding the corner. "Go!"

---

They made it out of the city with only a little more difficulty than their last late-night escape - aside from getting lost and nearly ending up arrested by the guards, it went remarkably smoothly, Órlaith thought.

"That was terrifying," Leolin called, breathless as he tried to keep up with Cian's trot. They'd started out cantering, desperate to get out and away from Caelkirk, until Órlaith had glanced over and realised that Leolin was barely clinging on. Now they were just keeping both horses at a fast trot, hoofbeats thudding against the dirt track that led away from Caelkirk.

"More like terrible," she muttered, shaking her head. They'd been travelling for a while now, long enough that the pink of dawn was beginning to creep into the sky. Another night with hardly any sleep, for both humans and horses. "We should stop, when we can. We've probably made enough distance, and we need to sleep. And figure out what to do next. I don't know about you, but I didn't memorise that map." She wished she had, now, but it wasn't like she'd thought she would need to. They should have had plenty of time to study the map, figure out their next move, maybe even make their own copy.

They should have had a lot of things. There was no point in thinking about that.

Leolin coughed. "Well, actually..." Órlaith slowed to glance over at him - and the piece of paper he was clutching in one hand.

"You didn't."

Leolin shrugged. "You know I had a bad feeling about it all. So before I woke you - before the magehunters arrived - I went back downstairs and took the map. The book didn't seem to mind me ripping it out, since I couldn't have taken the whole thing without it being obvious."

"That's..." Part of Órlaith wanted to be shocked, upset at how Leolin apparently hadn't hesitated to steal from Aneirin even before they'd known he'd betrayed them. But her practical side outweighed that, along with no small amount of bitterness. "That's amazing, Leolin. I don't know how we would have been able to find a way to the City without that."

Leolin looked away, but he had a faint, pleased smile on his face. "We would have worked something out. Or you would have found someone you knew somehow who could help us. But I'm glad I took it."

"So am I," Órlaith admitted. "Once we stop, we can look properly at the map, and work out where to go next."

Shortly after, they did just that. After a brief debate, they agreed to rest first, taking it in turns to keep watch in case the magehunters had followed them from Caelkirk. When it was Órlaith's turn to stay awake, she couldn't help glancing at the bag they'd tucked the map into.

It was so tempting to take it out now, start working out where they could go. But she wouldn't; they'd agreed, her and Leolin, that they would look at the map together, once they were both awake. Leolin would know places that might be dangerous, places where magehunters tended to gather or set traps. And Órlaith would know towns and villages from travelling with the caravan, and hopefully know people who could help them there. Just like Leolin had said.

Órlaith sighed, realising that she was thinking of the caravan again.

The memories had come to her every night since that day. Sometimes she smelt the smoke in her dreams; other times the images just patterned themselves behind her eyelids, awake or asleep.

She didn't want to remember it. Not like this. Not when every memory of her family was veiled with the knowledge of how they'd died. Órlaith didn't want to forget her family, the caravan, didn't want to forget the life she'd lived before. But it was difficult to hold onto those memories when they all seemed tainted by what had happened.

And it wasn't as if there was anyone she could talk to about it, either. Not really. Leolin would probably listen, but... He had no family. And he didn't seem to understand how Órlaith felt about the caravan - who would, with a family that'd sold them to magehunters? It wasn't his fault, but it meant that Órlaith couldn't talk to him about what had happened, how she felt, without feeling a little bit guilty. Guilty that she'd at least had a family, even if she'd lost them. It almost felt like rubbing it in his face, in a way - flaunting the fact that Órlaith had had a family to miss. Even if she didn't think Leolin would see it that way.

Aside from him, though... there was no point in talking to the horses about it, not really. Not if she wanted actual understanding. And it was just them and the horses, again.

Órlaith sighed. She needed to stop thinking about it, at least for now. When they got to the City - when they were safe - then she could let herself break down a little. Then, she might be able to find people who would listen to her, even if they didn't know her well or at all. But until then... until then, she could manage. She had to manage.

The rest of the watch was quiet. And lonely.

When the sun was fully in the sky, Órlaith woke Leolin. Neither of them had gotten much sleep, but it was better than nothing.

"Map," Leolin muttered, fumbling it out of the saddlebag and spreading it across the ground. It was only a little crumpled, and Leolin smoothed out the few creases with steady, careful fingers.

"So," he said, after a moment of two of both of them staring at the map. "I have to admit, I don't know any of this well enough to really..." He shrugged. "I can tell you that here, and here, are both like... auctions, almost, for magehunters." He tapped a couple of points on the map - towns Órlaith wasn't familiar with. "They go there to buy and sell the spellweavers they've caught. And the towns turn a blind eye, or take part in it, because the magehunters pay them off."

Órlaith grimaced. "We'll avoid those, then." She cast a practised eye over the map - she hadn't been in charge of planning the caravan's routes or anything like that, not at her age, and for the most part the caravan had followed the same well-travelled paths anyway. But she knew how to read a map and find the best route, just as every child of the caravan did.

"Here," she said, tracing a finger slowly over a route. "If we take the north road through towards Easthurst, and then divert around Easthurst, then keep going north... And then we can either go around Dewhallow or go through it, depending. There's waystations along this route, but we might need more supplies by the time we reach Dewhallow, especially since we don't know how long it will take us to find the City from there." She glanced up at Leolin. "I know people at most of the waystations, or I used to, if they haven't moved on. We could avoid them, go to different ones, so that they won't recognise me, but..."

Leolin shook his head. "No, we should take whatever route you think is best. If they know you, they might help us, right? Like the person in Leyfield."

"Meredi," Órlaith said. "Yes. But..." She hesitated. "That's what I thought about Aneirin, too. And I was wrong then. I don't want... I don't want to be the one who leads us into danger again."

"He knew what you are, didn't he?" Leolin said. "Even before we went to him, he knew from when you were younger, right?" Órlaith nodded. "So we don't tell people. I'll cover my hair, and we can tell them - I don't know, some kind of excuse."

"They might have heard about the caravan by now," Órlaith said. "If... I think we should be open about that. Because if people know, but I don't mention it, that'll seem suspicious. So..." She thought for a moment, tapping a finger on her lower lip. "It was an attack of some kind," she decided. "Outside Leyfield - and we'd picked you up on the road beforehand, and we're heading to Dewhallow because you might have family near there. We'll say might, because that way it'll still be fine if people know anyone in Dewhallow. We don't know why the caravan was burnt, but the people of Leyfield helped us, and we think it might be something to do with your family, or your past. But you don't remember," she added, struck with sudden inspiration. "You're an amnesiac - we'll find something to dye your hair, as well. If we say that you can't remember anything before we picked you up, then we can avoid a lot of awkward questions, and it means we don't need to worry about making something up for Dewhallow, we just say you feel like you might remember something from there."

"I can do that," Leolin said, nodding. "It's not as if I'd talk about my past much to anyone anyway. So I would just suggest that I don't remember anything?"

"You wouldn't even really need to do that," Órlaith said. "We'll only bring it up if anyone asks - I think most people are going to be too shocked about the caravan to really question who you are much." She shrugged. "Anyone who recognises me will know I like to talk to people, it wouldn't be so strange for me to be travelling with someone else."

"We have a plan, then," Leolin said, glancing down at the map. "Should we draw the route on? Or will you remember?"

"I'll remember," Órlaith said confidently. "In the caravan, we grew up learning how to do this. If things change I can plot us another route, too."

"That's a useful skill to learn," Leolin said, starting to fold the map away again. "I suppose it would be especially useful if you travel as much as you said you did."

Órlaith nodded. "Mostly we travelled the same routes. But sometimes, the adults would let one of the children or one of us younger adults pick a route - it was sort of a way to learn by doing. We'd follow that route until we ran into a problem, and then we'd reroute." She smiled a little. "I remember one of my cousins, he accidentally misread the map - he thought a river was a road, so we were supposed to turn off towards a town, but then suddenly we were stopping next to a twenty-foot-wide river. We didn't let him live that one down for years."

Leolin looked wistful. "It sounds nice. I can't imagine it - that many relatives, or close to relatives, all together."

"Maybe the City will be like that," Órlaith suggested. "Some of the towns and villages I've visited are similar - everyone knows everyone else, and everyone helps everyone else, too." She grimaced. "It can be... a little unpleasant, sometimes, because everyone is nosy and wants to know your business, and sometimes people are strange about it if you'd rather keep to yourself a bit more. But there's ways to manage that, if everyone wants to try and work together."

Leolin shrugged. "We'll see, I suppose. I don't know if I'd enjoy everyone living on top of each other like that. Maybe the City would have different ways of living for different people, though."

They talked about what the City might or might not have all through tacking up the horses, packing up their bags, and setting off, only pausing when they passed other travellers on the road. It might not be immediately obvious that they were talking about the City rather than just any city, but it was still better to be safe than sorry.

---

Several days of travel later, they reached a waystation. They'd passed through a couple already, but this one was different; this one, if Órlaith remembered right, had not only supplies for travellers, but a place to stay. As long as things didn't go wrong again, they might actually be able to sleep on something other than the bare ground for once. Honestly, they were lucky it was summer; Órlaith didn't want to think about what it might have been like to try and make this journey in the depths of winter, snow thick on the ground. They would have been lucky to survive even a single night outdoors, if it were winter.

Just as Órlaith had hoped, the head of the waystation recognised her, and greeted her with delight. They spent a few minutes on the pleasantries - Órlaith dropped into the conversation a few words about the fate of the caravan, and got the appropriate shock and sympathetic remarks. Then they got down to business, haggling over the cost of a room for the night and a couple of stalls for the horses. It wasn't that the waystation head didn't care about the caravan; it was just that she had a job to do. And honestly, Órlaith was glad - she didn't want to stand for ages and be forced to listen to someone she only half-knew tell her how sorry they were.

Eventually, they'd negotiated for a room - though it was more of a cupboard, really, just enough room for Órlaith and Leolin to lay out the mattresses the waystation provided. It wasn't exactly a bed, but it was better than the ragged bedrolls that were all they had. Órlaith made a mental note to herself to try and get hold of better ones tomorrow, or at the next waystation if not here.

Both Órlaith and Leolin slept soundly that night. Neither of them had the energy to talk before they went to bed, instead just laying out the mattresses, settling down, and passing straight out. It was a relief not to have to keep watch for once, knowing that they were safe within the waystation.

Of course, they'd thought that at Aneirin's... The thought passed through Órlaith's mind just as she was drifting off, and she banished it firmly. There was no reason for them to be in danger here. Not when nobody knew what they were. They'd managed to find dye for Leolin's hair along the way - a cheap, shoddy brown, but it would do for disguise. Órlaith's hair was still thoroughly crimson, given how recently she'd dyed it. There was no reason for them to be recognised as spellweavers.

Despite that hint of fear, though, Órlaith slept soundly. When she woke the next morning, she felt better than she had since - well, since before the caravan had burned. It was amazing how refreshing a good night's sleep could be.

Leolin was still sleeping; a glance at the window told Órlaith that it was barely dawn. She was used to rising with the sun, especially in the summer when travelling was easiest in the cooler morning and evening rather than the hot middle of the day, but Leolin wasn't. Every morning so far, he'd been bleary-eyed and groggy - she wasn't sure how much of it was long-term exhaustion, and how much was simply not being a morning person. So she left Leolin to sleep, folding up her mattress as quietly as she could. She'd told him before how these kinds of waystations usually operated - he should be able to guess where she'd gone.

Órlaith stepped out of the little room they'd rented. The waystation was quiet, this early - most travellers either wanted the opportunity to rest a little longer than they could on the road, or they wanted to be up and gone with the sun. When Órlaith went into the little shared cookspace, there was only one other person there, ladling themselves some breakfast from the steaming pot of porridge that sat on the side. It was kept warm by magic, of course - someone at the waystation must have a knack for keeping the heat in things. It must cut down on the need for firewood.

The other person glanced at Órlaith as she joined him. He was tall, with travelworn clothes - usual for anyone using a waystation. A little stranger, though, were his hair and his face. A scar dominated most of one cheek, a scar in the shape of a hand, with the thumb splitting through the centre of his lips. It was almost enough to distract from his sharp, golden eyes. His hair, though... his hair was covered.

And that might not mean anything. Plenty of people covered their hair just to protect it from the sun, or because it was easier than washing it or daily brushing when you were on the road. If it weren't common, then it would have been too obvious when Leolin did it.

But something had Órlaith rooted to the spot. She stared; she couldn't help herself.

The man raised an eyebrow, setting the ladle back into the pot.

"I don't answer questions about the scar," he said, turning and walking away.

Órlaith felt her face turn crimson, and she barely stopped herself from calling him back to apologise. It was a perfect cover - for both of them. It explained why she'd been staring, and, if his hair was covered for a reason, it drew attention away from that.

She couldn't have put words to it, that feeling that there was something more going on here. All Órlaith knew was that something, some instinct, told her that the man wasn't just covering his hair for practicality's sake.

But he was gone now, had left the cookroom before she could say anything. And she probably wouldn't run into him again at the waystation or on the road. Whoever he was, whatever reason he had for hiding his hair... Órlaith would probably never know. Just as she would never know how many spellweavers she might have passed in her life, hiding just like she had always been.

She sighed, and scooped herself a bowl of porridge.

A few minutes later, when Órlaith was sitting watching the sunrise as she ate, Leolin joined her. He'd collected his own bowl of porridge, and he was grimacing at it, prodding it with one of the spoons provided.

"It's fine, they cook it fresh every day," Órlaith said, smiling. "Good morning."

"Morning," Leolin returned, still looking dubiously at the porridge. "It's not the freshness, it's - what is it?"

"Porridge," Órlaith said. "Have you not - it's practical, so you must have had porridge before, right?"

"It didn't look like this," Leolin muttered, poking it again. He spooned a tiny bit into his mouth, and blinked. "It didn't taste like this, either. This actually tastes good."

Órlaith snorted, though when she thought about it, it wasn't really that funny. "They do a good job here. Some of the waystations..." She grimaced. "It's not their fault, but some places it's harder to get oats, or harder to keep things at the right temperature. I think the worst one I had was some kind of gruel - it tasted of nothing. Not that it was tasteless, but that it had a taste, and the taste was actually like nothing."

"I'm not sure if that's better or worse than if it tasted disgusting," Leolin said, frowning. "Either way, though, at least this tastes good."

Once they were both finished, Órlaith took their bowls back to the cookroom and deposited them in the washing pot - for places like this, it made more sense to wash everything at once, and made it less likely that people would accidentally - or not-so-accidentally - take the crockery away with them.

The golden-eyed man wasn't there, and Órlaith told herself that she wasn't disappointed. She was always curious about people, when she'd been to waystations before she'd always made a few new friends. But this was different - something drew her to the man, piqued her curiosity far more than normal. Probably it was just that he was the only stranger she'd really met since leaving Leyfield, and she was craving new interaction.

They tacked up the horses in the early morning light - the sun had risen over the horizon now, but it still hung low, barely above the treeline. They had a few hours yet to travel before it got hot enough that they'd need shelter or a rest.

As they set out, back on the road once more, Órlaith felt better than she had in days. Good sleep and good food really did work wonders.

She glanced over at Leolin - then had to yank her attention back to the road in front of her as Aelis started, weaving a little. Muttering a curse, Órlaith got the mare back under control - when she had the chance to look, Cian was nervy but not dancing around as Aelis had, despite Leolin's white-knuckled grip on the reins.

"I apologise," said a familiar voice. "I hadn't intended to startle your horses."

Órlaith frowned, and she tugged Aelis a little closer to Leolin and Cian. Easier to break past that way, if they had to.

There, on the road before them, was the golden-eyed man from the waystation. He was mounted on a dainty-looking grey pony, and flanked by two others - a woman on a solidly built chestnut, and another man on a tall bay. Both humans were hooded, so that Órlaith could only barely make out their features.

"Who are you?" she asked, making her voice ring out. Anyone on the road nearby would hear it, know that something was going on. If there was anyone nearby, which wasn't likely. "And why are you stopping us?"

"My name is Gwydion," the golden-eyed man said. "And I'm stopping you because I believe we have something in common."

And with that, all three of them drew back their hoods to reveal snow-white hair.