Phoenix Unbound
Page 21
She tried to stand on her own, only to find Azarion suddenly in the water with her, blessedly warm hands under her shoulders and knees to lift and carry her back to the sun-heated rock. He waited while she dried off, then helped her dress. She tried not to dwell on the soothing touch.
Her feet were still cold in their wet shoes, and her damp hair left a soggy trail down her back, but the rest of her was soon thawing out in the familiar layers of her clothing.
“Your burns look much better,” Azarion observed. “They shouldn’t scar like these others. Did you get these from the magic as well?”
She was reluctant to tell him any more about herself than he already knew. He had a talent for turning information to his benefit and against the person who gave it to him. “Yes.” At least he showed no revulsion for her scars. Many who saw them did, as if she were somehow to blame for them. “Halani didn’t ask me about my other scars. Did she say anything to you?”
Azarion shook his head. “Don’t be surprised by that. These people are prudent with their curiosity. The less they ask about you, the less you’ll ask about them.”
As they walked back to the camp, he continued questioning her. “Do you feel well enough to leave the wagon and sleep outside?”
Even if she didn’t, she’d follow his example and lie that she did. Halani and Asil had given up their home for a sick stranger. Gilene didn’t know if they bedded down in other wagons with family or friends, or slept under the open sky, but it was time they got their home back. Her back and leg no longer hurt, and while she was tired from lingering illness, she didn’t need to sleep in their bed.
“Halani and Asil have been more than kind, and I miss seeing the sky at night. Maybe I can beg a pallet and a blanket from them. It would be nice to sleep under the stars.”
She frowned at the pleased expression that settled over his face. “Good. You can sleep outside with me. Hamod’s given me a pallet and several blankets to serve us both.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Trust me, the hospitality of these traders has been bought with the knife I used on that Kraelian tracker. Halani and Asil are good women, but don’t make the mistake in thinking the same applies to the rest, especially Hamod. You’ll be safer sleeping next to me, and as you’re my wife, it’s expected.”
His reason was as maddening as his threats. “The evil I know versus the one I don’t?”
He nodded. “Something like that.”
The caravan leader met them at the edge of camp. The camp itself was alive and loud with people setting up for the evening, preparing supper, and admonishing the half dozen shrieking children who tumbled through the chaos, chasing the caravan dogs or each other. Hamod spoke to Gilene this time, though his gaze was no less penetrating than before. “My niece has taken good care of you, mistress?”
Gilene spotted Halani among the crowd, talking to a stout man cutting onions on a makeshift table under one of the oaks. “She has. You’re fortunate to have her. She’s a gifted healer. I thank you both for helping us.”
Hamod gave a quick nod. “Your husband traded a good knife. It was a fair bargain.” He tipped a quick nod to Azarion. “Our cook will make good use of the game you trapped today. We’ll eat well tonight.”
Gilene watched him leave before turning back to Azarion. “You’re hunting for them?”
Azarion’s gaze remained on Hamod’s retreating back even as he answered. “I learned how to lay a trap when I was a child. It’s a useful skill on the Stara Dragana and an appreciated one when taking shelter with others.”
Gilene initially thought her captor was only good at fighting in the Pit. It was easy to forget that, like her, there was more to him than the life forced upon him by the whims of the Empire. The notion didn’t endear him to her, but it did make her wonder what he had been like before his enslavement.
People noticed them standing at the camp’s perimeter and quickly drew them into its circle. With Halani’s and Asil’s help, Gilene learned the names of everyone in the caravan, lamenting to herself she’d only remember half at best by the next morning. The temperature dropped as afternoon waned, and a woman brought her a shawl while another offered a pair of slippers to wear until hers dried. She protested Halani’s insistence that she sit on a blanket set not far from one of the fires, only relenting when the woman handed her two half-woven baskets.
“Can you weave a basket?”
Gilene clutched the baskets as if they were bags of gold coins. “In my sleep if need be.” It wasn’t a boast. Like Azarion and his game trapping, she’d learned the art of basket weaving while barely free of her mother’s lead strings. Her nimble fingers worked the strands of blackberry vines stripped of their thorns, and she sniffed appreciatively at the fragrant steam rising out of two cauldrons suspending over a fire nearby. Behind her, Asil sat and combed out the few tangles Gilene had gotten from her hair washing, before braiding the strands into a neat, simple plait.
Firelight illuminated the camp in flickering patches that chased shadows across the tree trunks. Gilene sat, facing away from the road toward the forest’s interior. The ever-flitting light exposed for brief moments the hulking shape of something tucked farther back into the trees. She turned a little to address Asil over her shoulder. “Do you know what that is behind those trees?” She pointed in the direction of the unmoving silhouette.
Asil’s fingers smoothed out her braid. “Hamod says it’s a grave. I don’t remember it from last year when we traveled this way. He and Halani have gone to take a look.”
Gilene hadn’t seen either of them leave, though when her gaze found Azarion, she noticed he stared into the wood’s gloom in the burial mound’s direction, his brow knitted into a faint frown.
Graves were meant to be left alone, not explored. After the terror of Midrigar, she planned to avoid any and all as much as possible.
She returned her attention to the basket, listening with half an ear as Asil rambled on about everything from who in the caravan had lost a tooth to what they all ate a week earlier. Still, Gilene couldn’t help but cast glances toward the mound and a few more at Azarion, whose scrutiny was not so obvious now but no less intense.
When Hamod and Halani returned to the camp, Hamod wore a pleased expression and Halani a dour one. What had they discovered at the burial site of some local village leader?
Such questions were risky ones, and Gilene kept her curiosity to herself, noting that Azarion made no comment to Hamod either. She worked the baskets, finishing one and almost the other by the time the stout cook Marata called them all to supper.
They ate in a communal circle instead of separate family gatherings, enjoying bowls of stew made of the rabbit Azarion had snared and the wild onions and parsnips foraged by some of the caravan women and their children. Everyone drank cups of thick ale from a barrel perched on a platform at the back of one of the wagons or from water carried in buckets from the nearby stream.
Gilene sat beside Azarion, trying her best to act as if his nearness and casual touches on her knee and shoulder were a natural thing between them. She didn’t talk to him, listening instead to the easy banter he exchanged with the other men and the occasional laughter that spilled from his lips at someone else’s ribald joke.
Across the fire, Halani sat with Asil and stirred the contents of her bowl with little enthusiasm. Her features only lightened when, after supper, someone called for a story.
Her feet were still cold in their wet shoes, and her damp hair left a soggy trail down her back, but the rest of her was soon thawing out in the familiar layers of her clothing.
“Your burns look much better,” Azarion observed. “They shouldn’t scar like these others. Did you get these from the magic as well?”
She was reluctant to tell him any more about herself than he already knew. He had a talent for turning information to his benefit and against the person who gave it to him. “Yes.” At least he showed no revulsion for her scars. Many who saw them did, as if she were somehow to blame for them. “Halani didn’t ask me about my other scars. Did she say anything to you?”
Azarion shook his head. “Don’t be surprised by that. These people are prudent with their curiosity. The less they ask about you, the less you’ll ask about them.”
As they walked back to the camp, he continued questioning her. “Do you feel well enough to leave the wagon and sleep outside?”
Even if she didn’t, she’d follow his example and lie that she did. Halani and Asil had given up their home for a sick stranger. Gilene didn’t know if they bedded down in other wagons with family or friends, or slept under the open sky, but it was time they got their home back. Her back and leg no longer hurt, and while she was tired from lingering illness, she didn’t need to sleep in their bed.
“Halani and Asil have been more than kind, and I miss seeing the sky at night. Maybe I can beg a pallet and a blanket from them. It would be nice to sleep under the stars.”
She frowned at the pleased expression that settled over his face. “Good. You can sleep outside with me. Hamod’s given me a pallet and several blankets to serve us both.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Trust me, the hospitality of these traders has been bought with the knife I used on that Kraelian tracker. Halani and Asil are good women, but don’t make the mistake in thinking the same applies to the rest, especially Hamod. You’ll be safer sleeping next to me, and as you’re my wife, it’s expected.”
His reason was as maddening as his threats. “The evil I know versus the one I don’t?”
He nodded. “Something like that.”
The caravan leader met them at the edge of camp. The camp itself was alive and loud with people setting up for the evening, preparing supper, and admonishing the half dozen shrieking children who tumbled through the chaos, chasing the caravan dogs or each other. Hamod spoke to Gilene this time, though his gaze was no less penetrating than before. “My niece has taken good care of you, mistress?”
Gilene spotted Halani among the crowd, talking to a stout man cutting onions on a makeshift table under one of the oaks. “She has. You’re fortunate to have her. She’s a gifted healer. I thank you both for helping us.”
Hamod gave a quick nod. “Your husband traded a good knife. It was a fair bargain.” He tipped a quick nod to Azarion. “Our cook will make good use of the game you trapped today. We’ll eat well tonight.”
Gilene watched him leave before turning back to Azarion. “You’re hunting for them?”
Azarion’s gaze remained on Hamod’s retreating back even as he answered. “I learned how to lay a trap when I was a child. It’s a useful skill on the Stara Dragana and an appreciated one when taking shelter with others.”
Gilene initially thought her captor was only good at fighting in the Pit. It was easy to forget that, like her, there was more to him than the life forced upon him by the whims of the Empire. The notion didn’t endear him to her, but it did make her wonder what he had been like before his enslavement.
People noticed them standing at the camp’s perimeter and quickly drew them into its circle. With Halani’s and Asil’s help, Gilene learned the names of everyone in the caravan, lamenting to herself she’d only remember half at best by the next morning. The temperature dropped as afternoon waned, and a woman brought her a shawl while another offered a pair of slippers to wear until hers dried. She protested Halani’s insistence that she sit on a blanket set not far from one of the fires, only relenting when the woman handed her two half-woven baskets.
“Can you weave a basket?”
Gilene clutched the baskets as if they were bags of gold coins. “In my sleep if need be.” It wasn’t a boast. Like Azarion and his game trapping, she’d learned the art of basket weaving while barely free of her mother’s lead strings. Her nimble fingers worked the strands of blackberry vines stripped of their thorns, and she sniffed appreciatively at the fragrant steam rising out of two cauldrons suspending over a fire nearby. Behind her, Asil sat and combed out the few tangles Gilene had gotten from her hair washing, before braiding the strands into a neat, simple plait.
Firelight illuminated the camp in flickering patches that chased shadows across the tree trunks. Gilene sat, facing away from the road toward the forest’s interior. The ever-flitting light exposed for brief moments the hulking shape of something tucked farther back into the trees. She turned a little to address Asil over her shoulder. “Do you know what that is behind those trees?” She pointed in the direction of the unmoving silhouette.
Asil’s fingers smoothed out her braid. “Hamod says it’s a grave. I don’t remember it from last year when we traveled this way. He and Halani have gone to take a look.”
Gilene hadn’t seen either of them leave, though when her gaze found Azarion, she noticed he stared into the wood’s gloom in the burial mound’s direction, his brow knitted into a faint frown.
Graves were meant to be left alone, not explored. After the terror of Midrigar, she planned to avoid any and all as much as possible.
She returned her attention to the basket, listening with half an ear as Asil rambled on about everything from who in the caravan had lost a tooth to what they all ate a week earlier. Still, Gilene couldn’t help but cast glances toward the mound and a few more at Azarion, whose scrutiny was not so obvious now but no less intense.
When Hamod and Halani returned to the camp, Hamod wore a pleased expression and Halani a dour one. What had they discovered at the burial site of some local village leader?
Such questions were risky ones, and Gilene kept her curiosity to herself, noting that Azarion made no comment to Hamod either. She worked the baskets, finishing one and almost the other by the time the stout cook Marata called them all to supper.
They ate in a communal circle instead of separate family gatherings, enjoying bowls of stew made of the rabbit Azarion had snared and the wild onions and parsnips foraged by some of the caravan women and their children. Everyone drank cups of thick ale from a barrel perched on a platform at the back of one of the wagons or from water carried in buckets from the nearby stream.
Gilene sat beside Azarion, trying her best to act as if his nearness and casual touches on her knee and shoulder were a natural thing between them. She didn’t talk to him, listening instead to the easy banter he exchanged with the other men and the occasional laughter that spilled from his lips at someone else’s ribald joke.
Across the fire, Halani sat with Asil and stirred the contents of her bowl with little enthusiasm. Her features only lightened when, after supper, someone called for a story.
