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When the Elders drew Aine's name from the Lady's Well, the
stripped holly wand dripping wet, a stunned silence hung
over the square. It was not that Aine was ill-liked;
indeed, there were few in Halme who would have a bad word in
their mouth for her.
The town baker, she was a young woman of middling height who
looked like she enjoyed sampling her wares. There was always
dough under her nails, her belly was soft and round and she
blinked at the world as if through a cloud of flour even
when she wasn't working. She was not a great beauty – not
like the mayor's daughter or Deire the cheesemaker's
daughter, whose father was tormented with suitors roaming
his garden like so many cats – but she was pleasing enough
made, with her short brown curls, freckles and ready smile.
For cakes and bread, she would be the first that anyone in
town would go to. She could be relied on to help her
neighbours in times of trouble and there was little that was
too much trouble if someone asked.
Well-liked or not though, she was no-one's idea of a hero.
And with the rebel's army only a few days from the village
they needed a hero.
Mayor Tiller had suggested that that perhaps the Lady had
meant Arne, the blacksmith. With his ruddy complexion and
hearty appetites the towering, broad shouldered smith was
cast in the mould of a hero. A mumble of agreement rose
from the crowd.
'Surely, Arne,” they said. “Surely.”
But the Elders would not be moved. The Lady had selected
Aine to represent the village and the Lady was not to be
questioned by the likes of them. She knew what was needed.
Aine would save the village from pillage and rapine.
Somehow.
Privately, Aine thought that maybe Mayor Tiller was right.
Their Lady was a saint of growing things and childbirth and
fat lambs in the field. She was not known for her
scholarship. No-one asked her opinion, though.
Instead they gave her an axe blessed by the Lady, a battered
suit of leather armour and a packed trailbag with a token
from every house in the village. Aine, clad in her Da's old
trews and tunic, girded herself in the armour and gathered
up the sword. She trudged out of town with the rising sun,
waved on her way by the gathered villagers.
They watched until she was out of sight. It did not take
long. The trees were thick around the village and Aine's
small, plump figure soon disappeared amongst them. Once she
was gone everyone went to their daily chores. Only the
Elders were left standing by the Well – three old men and
two old women, all in white and with strands of holly
braided through their hair. With no-one to see them but the
birds they traded uncertain looks.
Finally, the eldest of the Elders sighed. She picked the
holly from her head, wincing as it tugged strands of wiry,
grey hair from her scalp.
“We just have to trust that She knows what She's doing,” she
said with forced brightness. “She has always cared for us
till now.”
Somewhere in the woods hours later, so badly lost that she
would not even have known if she'd gotten back on the right
track, Aine was less than convinced The leather armour was
hot and sweaty, the axe was clumsy to carry and did look in
any way blessed and the weight of the trailbag pulled at her
shoulders.
The sound of running water led her to stream that splashed
and gurgled along a shallow rocky bed. Aine sat down next
to it and worked the straps of the trailbag off her
shoulders, wincing as her aching shoulder-joints popped and
grated, and lowered it to the ground. The tokens and charms
the Elder's had donated to it rattled and chimed – rubbed
smooth bits of glass and polished stone glittering in the
dim light that filtered through the leafy canopy overhead.
She dipped a handkerchief in the water, soaking it, and
wiped her face and the back of her neck. Then she cupped
her hands in the water, soaking her cuffs, and drank deeply
of the cold water and occasional bug. With her thirst
quenched and her brow cooled she turned her attention to the
pack. Might as well explore it now as later.
Complicated knots held the flap down. By the time Aine
picked them loose her fingertips were sore and red. She
thought she had a blister coming up on one – lurking under
skin kept soft by her daily labours.
Her first hero's wound.
It was somehow less impressive than the story of Hero Dumar,
who was burnt to the bone by dragon fire and whose wounds
were slathered with honey by bees moved to mercy by his
plight. Or that of Hero Vyr, who pushed his intestines back
into his gut, bound them there with cheesecloth and went
back into battle.
Aine dabbled her fingers into the trickling water.
Or course, both Dumar and Vyr died of their wounds. A
blister was slightly less likely to prove fatal. It was not
the thought of a hero, but Aine was glad of that.
She tried to wipe her hands dry on her trews, but leather
was not as absorbent as homespun so she wiped them on the
grass instead. Then she opened the trailbag and unpacked
it, sorting the offerings into neat piles.
Some of them were practical: Meat, spices, bread, wine and a
roll of cheese wrapped in paper, a small, paring knife with
a blade honed down to a razor-sharp sickle, a length of
leather studded with needles, a roll of twine, candles, a
flask of oil and a tinderbox.
Others were less so: a comb with chipped crystals on the
handle, tightly wrapped leather charm bags, three
handkerchiefs with the crest picked from the corner, an
empty scroll case and a single quill – but no ink or paper.
There were also a few rubbed smooth stones, a collection of
starling feathers held together with wire and a small wooden
box with a single chocolate in it.
From the village children, Aine supposed.
She packed everything up again carefully, even the things
she could see no use for. It was inviting bad luck to do
otherwise. She pinned the starling feathers to her jerkin,
a jaunty touch to cheer her, and ate the chocolate, licking
the sweetness of her fingers.
Oddly enough, she felt a little less hopeless once she was
done.
With a grunt she slung the trailbag across her back,
hitching her shoulders and wriggling to get it settled
comfortably, as comfortable as she could manage. She picked
up the old axe, and looked at it hopefully. It failed to
look suddenly blessed or divine: there was no carving or
etching, no subtle glow of magic and it was not unnaturally
light. Anything but. It was an axe: the head was heavy,
utilitarian steel and the shaft was simple, carved oak.
Only the Lady's sigil charred into the base of it
distinguished it from one taken from the woodcutter's shed.
The Lady had, of course, been a woodcutter's daughter before
she became a hero and then a saint and then a goddess. So
that made sense. Although, the thought did occur to Aine
that perhaps the Elder's had retained the real axe for a
more suitable hero and just blessed this one for the
occasion.
Real or not, it was what she had. So she shouldered it,
checked the sky and set out in what was hopefully the right
direction to bring her to the rebel's camp. Once she got
there she would work out what to do next. Elder Megret had
told her, whilst he annointed her brow before leaving the
village, that the saints would guide her. With luck they
would start to do that soon, since she had no ideas of her
own. The last time she got into a fight she'd been ten, and
that had been with her brother. Against one armed man she'd
have little chance, never mind an army of them.
She would just have to trust in the Lady and keep walking.
It turned out there was no need to worry.
The King's army had found the rebels first. Perhaps his
saints had a better sense of direction than the Lady. Where
the rebel army had been there was nothing but churned and
bloodied mud, charred carts and tents and the occasional
battle-dazed horse or wounded soldier. Squads of the King's
soldiers would ride or march by periodically, grim-faced men
in scarlet livery, and they captured the horses and killed
the wounded.
Aine stayed in the shadows of the forest and away from their
attention. She wasn't sure what to do next. If the army
Aine had been sent to save the village from had ceased to
exist why was she here? Perhaps the Lady had only sent her
here in order to see this? So she could reassure the other
villagers that the threat was gone. It would explain why
she had chosen Aine instead of someone more suited to
battle. If a hero's only task was to bear witness it didn't
matter how able they were.
It seemed reasonable, but terrible things happened to heroes
who left their tasks undone. Shanno of Pyrian had
surrendered the Holy Objects of the Temple to the invading
Barle's in the days of Empire. It had been two decades
before he was forgiven and allowed to return to his wife – a
broken, crippled man to whom sleep was denied. Shanno had
been under the dominion of the Battle Saints, of course.
The Lady was gentler than they were. A little. It still
wasn't a good idea to think of trying to thwart her.
The King's soldiers galloped across the battlefield, the
horses hooves churning the mud and casting it up their
flanks. One man caught sight of Aine and turned his horse
towards her. She ducked back into the trees and ran,
sliding on leaf mulch and tripping over the humped, mossy
roots. The axe seemed determined to trip her.
The soldier leant over the horse's neck and urged it after
her.
“Damned rebel,” he yelled. He batted a branch from his face
with one gauntleted hand. “If you do not meet your end on
my blade, the Saints will see your suffer for your
rebellion.”
Aine's foot caught in a bramble, strung like a tripwire in
her path, and she went down hard on her belly, shocking the
breath out of her. Her chin hit a rock, slamming her mouth
shut and clicking her jaw together, and the trailbag landed
heavily on her back. The branches closed over her.
She wheezed weakly and struggled to fill her lungs with
air. By the time she could breathe again the soldier was
right behind her. Aine sucked her already sore lower lip
and held perfectly still. A sword, the blade chased with
silver, acid-etched and considerably more impressive than
her axe, stabbed through the branches and into the dirt in
front of her nose. Aine bit her tongue to avoid screaming
and squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
It seemed that the Lady wasn't done with her after all. The
sword was drawn back, rattling the branches, and she heard
the soldier curse and walk away.
Aine buried her face in her arm and breathed raggedly. Her
heart was thundering and her bladder felt like there was a
frozen stone in it. She closed her eyes and tried pretend
that it wasn't happening, pretend until she woke up back in
the warm, floury bakery. Except heroes didn't pretend and
she was a hero. That's what the Lady had said, anyhow.
Aine took a deep, mulch scented breath and raised her head.
She waited until she couldn't hear the soldier and got to
her hands and knees to peer through the tangled
briar-branches. Broken branches and crushed plants showed
where the soldier had been but there was no other sign of
him. There must be more pressing tasks that pursuing a lone
rebel through the forest. Aine wiped the blood from her
bitten lip from her face and got up. The axe was tangled in
the roots of the briar and she had to wrench it to get it
free. She climbed out over the branches and took
inventory. Her hands were scraped and her knees and chin
felt bruised. It could have been worse. She started to
brush herself down and stopped when a familiar smell caught
her nose.
Burning bread.
Habit made her take a step in that direction, hands going to
her waist in search of the cloth she usually carried to
protect her hands. All she found was the heavy, leather
belt, without sheath, that went with the armour.
She stopped, forcibly reminded that she wasn't in her
bakery, and chewed the inside of her lip. Then she took a
deep breath and, lacking any other plans, followed the
smell. The Lady would guide her footsteps? Maybe the Lady
was using her nose to do it.
Her nose led her to a clearing dominated by the lightning
charred trunk of a huge oak. In the crevice created between
the stump and the trunk a makeshift shelter of pegged
together cloaks had been created. Since Aine had made no
effort to be quiet, and lacked the woodcraft to do so even
if she'd wanted, the two men who'd constructed it awaited
her with swords in hand. They were young men, no older than
Aine, but hard-faced and hard-worn. Their faces were filthy
and, under the dirt, drawn and haggard looking. One of
them, thin, fair and bespectacled, had a blood-stained
bandage around his upper arm. He held his sword in his
other hand.
“Drop the axe,” the darker man said. When Aine didn't
immediately do as he'd demanded he jabbed the point of her
sword at her chest. “Now.”
Aine hoped the Lady would understand the disrespect and let
go of the handle. The axe dropped to the grass with a muted
thump. Aine held her hands up to show they were empty.
Neither man relaxed, exactly, but a certain trip-wire
tension did fade from their muscles. The swords lowered
slightly and the tightness in their eyes softened.
“Who are you?” the dark man asked.
“Aine Trevyn,” she said. “Of Otterbridge.”
“Loyalist?”
She blinked. It wasn't really a question that had ever come
up. They were a small village and far from the centre of
the kingdom. They had a lord. Some in the village even
knew his name, but no-one had ever seen him. His
tax-collector came by at the end of each calender quadrant
and occasionally a herald would bring news or new laws.
“I...don't know,” she said. “No one has told us.”
The dark man's mouth took on a wry twist. His companion,
holding his bloodied arm carefully across his chest,
sputtered.
“Do you need to be told right from wrong? Just from
unjust?” he demanded. “Natural instinct should lead you to
the moral choice. An usurper rules from the throne of our
kingdom and the rightful royal line scrabble for the means
to claim back what is theirs-”
Someone snorted. Both men stared at her and Aine realised
that the noise had come from her. With both of them looking
at she felt obliged to say something. She opened her mouth
and the words came spilling out.
“Natural instinct, my lord,” she said. “Tells us that the
doings of lords and princes and kings is best left to lords
and princes and kings. The likes of me have nothing to gain
by interfering. If the side we aid loses that we're the
ones to lose our heads; if they win then we get no thanks.”
The blond drew himself up with indignation.
“It's an affront to the saints themselves that he rules,” he
said.
“
Maybe,” Aine said. “Maybe our King is an usurper, or maybe
his family was chosen by the saints to take the throne like
he claims. How are we to know? What we do know is that it
won't change anything; who sits on throne might change, even
our lord might change – but the tax collector will still
call and we'll still labour to pay.”
She stopped the words by the simple expedient of closing her
mouth. Her cheeks felt scalded and she knew she was the
colour of a hot oven She looked down and mumbled.
“Or that's what I think, my lord.”
He stiffened, his shoulders going rigid.
“I'm not a lord,” he said sharply.
His companion laughed and sheathed his sword, sliding the
steel into leather without having to look. The hilt clicked
against the metal-rimmed lip of the sheath.
“Only a lord would have asked those things, Mor,” he said.
“Well, Aine of Otterbridge, if you have no loyalty to either
side, why are you here?”
The blond, Mor, scowled but reluctantly sheathed his own
sword, without the ease that his companion showed. Now that
no-one was pointing a sword at her Aine lowered her hands
back to her side. Without the axe to hold she wasn't sure
what to with them, odd that you could grow so accustomed to
the weight of a thing. She twisted them together in front
of her.
"Our Lady sent me," she said.
Mor interrupted, "I thought you said you took no side in
this war. Yet your liege-lady sent you here-"
His companion's hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"She means their Saint," he said. "Many of the border
villages still follow the old ways had have their own local
saints, instead of worshipping those approved by the state."
Mor's thin face turned ever more pinched and unfriendly.
"Idolators," he muttered.
"We worship both," Aine corrected. "But we'd no more bother
Saint Vyr to deal with our potato blight than we would go to
our Lord to judge a dispute over chickens. Why would he
care?"
She paused and sniffed, wrinkling her nose.
"Your bread is burning," she said.
The darker man cursed and hurried back to their makeshift
hearth, snatching the rough round of bread from the glowing
stones. He juggled it from hand to hand, blowing on it in
an attempt to cool it. Large pieces crumbled from the burnt
black edges of the bread, leaving his fingers covered with
ash. What was left when he finished was obviously not
edible.
"Damn," he mumbled, dropping it to the ground.
"Was that the last?" Mor asked.
The darker man nodded, rubbing his forehead tiredly.
Aine cleared her throat and carefully slid the trailbag from
her back.
"I've some food," she said.
The look that both men gave her suggested that she'd grown a
second head instead of made a simple offer. She hung on to
her bag, uncertain if her offer of food was wanted. Mor
swallowed and licked his lips.
"We can't pay," he said.
Aine stiffened, offended at the suggestion. She would make
no claim to being learned, but she had gone to the village
school with the rest of the children. She could figure and
write, as much as she needed to, and she knew her scriptures
and the stories of the saints.
"I did not ask," she said. "You are in need and I have
plenty. I am not Telemon, with overflowing fields and a
selfish heart."
From Mor's expression she could have been talking
gibberish. His companion put his hand on his shoulder,
murmuring something, and inclined his head towards Aine.
"My apologies" he said. "We have been gone from our home
for a long time. Perhaps we have forgotten more than we
realised of our own ways. Thank you for your hospitality,
Aine of Otterbridge. I am Reme. The lordling here is Mor."
He did not offer Mor's family name and Aine didn't ask. She
carried her bag over to the still smouldering fire and got
out the carefully packed food. The pie and the bread were
set carefully on a stone next to the fire to warm. She
unwrapped the cheese and used the paring knife to slice
thick wedges from it as the smell of fresh bread and meat
pie rose from the fire.
"You never told us why you're here," Mor said, still
sounding sullen "In our time of need, with food to share."
Aine cut rough slices from the bread, layered them with
cheese and impaled them on the knife. She held it over the
fire to toast.
"Our Lady sent me," she repeated. "I was meant to find the
rebel's army and stop them from over-running our village.
Only, She must have know that the army was already..."
She trailed off. Both men had been part of the battle on
the plain, they did not need reminding. She shrugged,
awkward in the stiff leather, and offered the toasted bread
to Reme. He took it and passed to Mor, ignoring the younger
man's weak protests.
Aine layered more cheese and bread.
"I would have returned straight to the village," she said.
"But I didn't know if I had done all the Lady asked of me."
Mor, stomach rumbling, took a bite of the still hot bread.
He winced, cooled it with a slug of cold water, and
swallowed. Then he took another bite and repeated the
process, too hungry to wait.
"Maybe your Lady sent you for us," he said through a
mouthful of bread. A quick smile lit up his face, turning
it handsome and unexpectedly charming. "To succour us in
our hour of need."
Reme took the bread from Aine, wiping the dripping cheese on
his finger, and sat back on his rock. Unlike Mor he cradled
the bread in scarred hands and waited for it to cool. And
where Mor laughed at the idea the Lady had sent Aine, Reme
looked grave.
"Perhaps she did," he said solemnly. "It would not hurt, to
know at least one saint is on our side in this."
Mor wiped his face on his sleeve.
"Of course, they are," he said. "I...we...have justice on
our side."
Reme gave a humourless grunt.
"Maybe," he said. "But look at us, Mor. Our army is
scattered, our enemy is triumphant and we are hiding in the
forest - dependant on the kindness of some common-born...."
He hesitated.
"Baker," Aine provided. "Common-born baker."
"I mean no offence," Reme said.
"None taken," Aine assured him. "Tis only the truth.
Perhaps you are right though. The Elders told me that the
Lady would guide my steps and she led me here. It would
explain why she sent me too, instead of Arne. He is the
blacksmith, and would have been more suited to a fight."
"He couldn't have worn that old armour though," Mor said.
"It was made for a lass, if a stout one."
Reme closed his eyes.
"Please, Mor," he said. "Be silent. Before Aine's Lady
changes her mind."
There was a pause. Then Mor realised what he had said and
flushed like a lass at her first summer dance. He busied
himself with his bread, stuffing his mouth so full that no
further ill-judged word could have escaped.
Aine took a slice of slippery cheese and moved away from the
heat of the fire. She sat cross-legged and nibbled at the
corner of it. Cookery seemed an unlikely task for a hero,
but there had been stranger stories told. One hero had been
tasked to find the purest white sheep in all the world to
shear and weave a blanket to swaddle an infant Saint in.
If she had been sent to give them succour, then it seemed
unlikely her task was over yet. They might be fed for the
night, but they were fleeing soldiers from a defeated army.
Pursued by the king's red-surcoated guards, just as she had
been.
"What will you do now?" she asked, breaking the silence.
"If the rebellion is over?"
"It's not," Reme said. He finished his meal and licked his
fingers clean. "The battle was not as conclusive as it may
have looked; our forces were scattered, not decimated. We
will regroup - across the border where the Prince will be
safe in his grandfather's court."
Aine frowned down at her tented knees, worrying over the
question of what to do next. Her fingers rose to the brooch
of feathers pinned to her shoulder, stroking the delicate
vanes, and she made up her mind.
"I will help you get to the border," she said.
Reme and Mor traded looks across the fire. They didn't look
convinced that her offer was of any use.
"Do you know the way well?" Reme asked. He got up and went
to pick up her axe from the ground. Somehow in his hands it
looked like a weapon instead of a tool.
"The Lady will guide us," Aine said.
From Reme's faint grimace he didn't have any more faith in
the Lady's sense of direction than he did Aine's. She gave
him a cheerful smile.
"And even if she does not," she said. "If we meet anyone, I
will vouch for you. My cousins, from Grett. Near the
mountains. No-one will question me. After all, what
business would have a baker have with a lord and his man?"
"None," Mor said. "That is why you aren't coming with us."
He shifted on his rock and winced when the motion jarred his
arm. Fresh blood appeared on the already grubby bandage
around his forearm.
"Let me look at that," Aine said.
He pulled his mouth to the side reluctantly but held his arm
out towards her. She unwrapped the bandage. Under the
ripped cotton there was a deep gash in his arm, ragged-edged
and still bleeding. Aine's stomach turned over. She
swallowed hard, reminded herself she had seen worse wounds
from accidents and started to clean it up, using the flask
of wine from her bag.
Mor hissed as the liquid stung the word and paled when she
got the thread and needles out. He turned his head away and
bit into the heavy cuff of his tunic. The soft, smothered
whimpers that escaped him made Aine's fingers tremble more
despite her attempts to steady them.
She finally finished and had just tied the last rough stitch
off when Reme spoke.
"Very well," he said. "You will accompany us to the border,
Aine."
It was what a hero would do. The part of Aine that was
still a baker was not so eager. Unfortunately, most of her
seemed to be baker. She took a ragged breath and pretended
to be brave.
"It's what the Lady wants," she said.
Reme looked at her oddly and nodded slowly.
"I pray you are right," he said. "You two should sleep
now. I'll take the first watch. Tomorrow, we'll head for
the border. If your Lady watches us, perhaps we will get
there without any encounters with the King's men."
"Usurper's men," Mor corrected.
An inclination of Reme's head acknowledged the correction.
While Aine and Mor settled themselves by the fire he sat
down on a rock with the axe still held over his knees. Both
hands rested on the carved handle.
Aine used her trailbag as a pillow. Before she went to
sleep she sent a quiet, heartfelt prayer to the Lady that
she was doing the right thing.
Mor waited until the baker in the badly-fitting leather
armour went to sleep. She snored. Just a little. He
uncurled himself from the hard ground, cradling his injured
arm carefully over his body, and went to join Reme. .
"Your Highness," Reme said quietly.
The exiled prince crouched beside his general. He cocked
his head to the side.
"Is it really so obvious that I am noble?" he asked. "I
always thought I had a common touch."
The smothered laughter that escaped Reme at that notion was
not flattering. Mor resisted the urge to sulk - he was the
leader of a rebellion not a spoilt child. Or, at least,
that's what he tried to be. What he owed those who'd died.
"Why are we taking her with her?" he asked, pointing to the
baker-girl. "She's more likely to be burden than help."
Reme rubbed callused hands along the handle of the axe.
"Is she, now?" he asked. There's no rivers around here,
Prince Mor."
He said it like it meant something but Mor couldn't think
what it was. After a moment of struggling with his pride he
admitted that. It earned him an approving smile.
"No rivers. No great lakes. A stream or two, but that is
all. So why name a village Otterbridge?"
Mor pushed his spectacles up his nose and shrugged one
shoulder.
"Perhaps there were otters here once?" he said. "Or it's a
corruption of something else. Her accent is near
unintelligible."
Reme lifted the axe from his lap and turned it so Mor could
see the charred mark seared into the base of the wooden
handle. It was hard to make out in the dimming light. Mor
reached out and traced it with his fingertip. When he
realised what it was his heart stuttered in his chest.
"Otar's
Bridge," Reme said. "That's who her Lady is. Saint Otar of
the Axe, the founder of our kingdom and your ancestor. If
any of our saints were to choose your side, Mor, it would be
her. Our little baker is her hero and living proof that you
have divine support."
Mor pressed his finger against the brand till it felt
imprinted on his skin.
"So, she comes with us," he said. |
