The woman might have fancied herself within the grip of a dream, for how familiar it all felt.
The earth had a ruddy hue, and its nakedness upon the road made the lush green of the landscape on either side all the more striking. The world was not flat here, but rose to the left and right in hills that were proud and lofty, yet with tops rounded in their ancient years. Summer still held sway, though for how much longer, only oracles who spoke with the earth might dare to guess. Autumn was something felt before it was seen, and she could feel it in the warm air. The sun was not quite so high, its rays less brazen on the golden crown of her head. Small insects chirped and twittered in the tall grasses that swayed and whispered in the wind. Soon, hues of gold and crimson would appear and paint the world in a glory of splendor before the hard fist of winter fell once more.
She had ridden this road before. Once with a man of her homeland; gentle, kindly, selfless and brave. And once alone, with only the hulking black-and-white stallion for her company. She had dreamed of riding it many other times in the past half-year. So many dreams of going home again, though they were often plagued with fearful, bewildering, or frightening specters.
“Dearest Jack,” she said aloud, and her voice surprised her, for she was thinking deeply and did not mean to utter words. She studied her hands where they rested over the salt-and-pepper strips of his mane, with the reins held loosely beneath. “‘Tis only us once again. You and I.” Then she fell quiet, and the backdrop of the journey returned with the squeak and rattle of leather and bridle, and the echoing calls of birds in the high boughs.
Jack said nothing in reply. He walked at a leisurely pace. The countryside here was sparsely settled, but brigands and highwaymen were scarce. They were yet within a day’s ride of Bree-town, and even closer still to the village of Herne. Men who might lay in wait to cause trouble for travelers were likely further to the south, where cities and villages could not be found at all for many leagues.
Now and then, a niggling itch arose in her right cheek, and she lifted a hand to rub at the lumpy scar there. The ragged line of flesh was numb, and no amount of pressing and worrying could make the itch go away. She scratched irritably a few times, then sighed with a huff and gave up the cause. The trifling vexation brought to mind the man who had sewn closed the wound, nearly a year before exactly. And the thought of his service to her brought about a keen, unwelcomed aching in her breast.
She did not know where he was. Or if he was alive. All had been a gaping chasm of unknowns for weeks upon weeks. To sit and fret over uncertainties was torment to the woman. She could not aid him, and to know that someone she cared for was suffering, and she could not help, was unbearable. She had endured too long an existence being flung about by the whims of Fate. Since the moment she had leapt onto Boltin’s back and bid him to flee from the encroaching horse-thieves in the Westfold, her life had been a tempest. A thin plank upon a stone, precariously balanced, tilting wildly, endlessly, never giving rest or peace or calm. She could not live so any longer.
Everywhere she turned, people wanted to tell her what to do next. Advice offered, pleas uttered, exhortations poured onto her. She needed silence. A quiet of the mind, of the heart, of the soul. She had survived capture, captivity, torture, escape, injury, heartbreak, and endless miles of weary wandering. It was time to stop surviving, and to find a way to live again. On her own terms.
As she rode south, the shady trees gave way and fell back, like a slowly parting crowd. The sunlight beat against the right side of her face and neck, so she drew her hood. Ahead, among the scattered, rust-coloured boulders and thick, scrubby grasses, a bridge appeared, running flat across a deep-cut ravine. She could hear the tumbling whisper of water in its bottom.
Jack was halted at the brink while she dismounted and walked ahead to ascertain the soundness of the old stone passway. Chunks had broken off and crumbled from the walls on either side, but the walkway seemed solid.
“As good a place as any,” she said aloud to the horse, breaking the quiet for the first time that hour. “There are trees below beside the water. Let us climb down and rest for the night.”
