Simon looked from Miriamele to the old man, then back to the princess. He had been neatly outflanked. "Oh, very well," he growled. "But I'm staying up on first watch, old man, and if you do anything the least bit suspicious, you'll be out that door and into the cold so fast your head will spin."

He gave Miriamele a last look compounded of annoyance and longing, then settled back against the shed door.

Simon awoke in the early morning to discover Miriamele and the old man both up and chatting amiably. Simon thought that Heanwig looked even worse in daylight, his seamed features smudged with dirt, his clothes so tattered and soiled that even poverty could not excuse it.

"You should come with us," Miriamele was saying. "You'll be safer than by yourself. At least join us until you're far away from the Fire Dancers."

The old man shook his head doubtfully. "Those mad folk be most everywhere, these days."

Simon sat up. His mouth was dry and his head hurt, as though he were the drunkard of the company. "What are you saying? You can't bring him with us."

"I certainly can," said Miriamele. "You may accompany me, Simon, but you may not tell me where I can go or who I can bring along."

Simon stared at her for a moment, sensing an argument that he had no hope of winning, no matter what he did. He was still weighing his next words when he was saved from the useless engagement by Heanwig.

"Are you bound for Nabban?" the old man asked. "I never have seen those parts."

"We're going to Falshire," Miriamele said. "Then on to Hasu Vale."

Simon was just about to upbraid her for telling this complete stranger their travel plans-what had happened to the need for caution she had lectured him about?-when the old man made a gasping noise. Simon turned, angry already at the thought that the old tosspot was now going to be sick right in front of them, but was startled by the look of horror on Heanwig's mottled face.

"Going to Hasu Vale!?" His voice rose. "What, be ye mad? That whole valley runs haunted." He scrambled a cubit toward the door, grasping fruitlessly for a handhold in the moldering straw beneath him, as though the two travelers had threatened to drag him to the hated place by force. "Sooner I'd crawl down into quarry with those Fire Dancers."

"What do you mean, haunted?" Miriamele demanded. "We've heard that before. What does it mean?"

The old man stared at her, eyes rolling to show the whites. "Haunted! Bad 'uns, bogies from out the lich-yard. Witches and suchlike!"

Miriamele stared at him hard. After a year like the last one, she was not inclined to dismiss such talk as superst.i.tion. "We're going there," she said at last. "We have to. But you don't have to travel any farther than you want to."

Heanwig got shakily to his feet. "Don't want to go west'ard. Heanwig'll stay here'bouts. There's folk in Stanshire as still have a morsel to spare, or a drop, even in bad times." He shook his head. "Don't go there, young mistress. You been kind." He looked pointedly at Simon to make it clear who had not been.

The old sot, Simon thought grumpily. sot, Simon thought grumpily. Who gave him the wine, anyway? Who didn't break his head when he could have? Who gave him the wine, anyway? Who didn't break his head when he could have?

"Go south-you'll be happy there," Heanwig continued, almost pleading. "Stay out the Vale."

"We must go," said Miriamele. "But we won't make you come."

Heanwig had been sidling toward the door. Now he stopped with his hand already on the wood and ducked his head. "I thank you, young mistress. Aedon's Light be on you." He paused, at a loss for words. "Hope you come back again safe."

"Thank you, too, Heanwig," Miriamele replied solemnly.

Simon suppressed a groan of irritation, reminding himself that a knight did not make faces and noises like a scullion did-especially a knight who wished to stay on the good side of his lady. And at least the old man apparently would not be traveling with them. That was an acceptable reward for a little forbearance.

As they rode out of Stanshire into the countryside, the rain began to fall once more. At first it was little more than a flurry of drops, but by the time mid-morning came, it was falling in great sheets. The wind rose, carrying the rain toward them in cold, cascading slaps of water.

"This is as bad as being on a ship in storm," Miriamele shouted.

"At least on a ship you have oars," Simon called back. "We're going to need some soon."

Miriamele laughed, pulling her hood down low over her eyes.

Simon felt warmer just knowing he had amused her. He had been feeling a little ashamed of the way he had treated the old man; almost as soon as Heanwig had gone shuffling away down the lane, heading back toward the center of Stanshire, Simon had felt his bad temper evaporate. It was hard to say now what it was about the old man that had so perturbed him-he hadn't really done anything.

They headed back toward the River Road along a succession of wagon-rutted lanes that now were little more than sluices of mud. The countryside began to look more wild. The farmlands around Stanshire, although mostly given over to weeds, still bore the mark of past human care in the fences and stone walls and an occasional cottage, but as the town and its outlying settlements fell away behind them, the wilderness rea.s.serted itself.

It was a peculiarly bleak place. The nearly endless winter had stripped all of the trees but the evergreens, and even the pines and firs seemed to have suffered unkind handling. Simon thought the strange, twisted shape of the trunks and branches resembled the writhing human bodies in the mural of The Day of Weighing-Out which stretched across the wall of the Hayholt's chapel. He had spent many a boring hour in church staring in fascination at the scenes of torment, marveling at the invention of the anonymous artist. But here in the real, cold, wet world, the gnarled shapes were mostly disheartening. Leafless oaks and elms and ash trees loomed against the sky, skeletal hands that clenched and unclenched as the wind bent them. With the sky bruised almost black by clouds and the rain flung slantwise across the muddied hillsides, it made a much drearier picture than even the decorations in the chapel.

Simon and Miriamele rode on through the storm, mostly unspeaking. Simon was chagrined that the princess had not once mentioned, or even hinted at, their kiss of the night before. It was not a day conducive to flirtatious conversation, he knew, but she seemed to be pretending it had never even happened. Simon did not know what to do about this: several times he was on the verge of asking her, but he could not think of anything to say about it that would not sound stupid in the light of day. That kiss had been a bit like his arrival in Jao e-Tinukai'i, a moment in which he had stepped out of time. Perhaps, like a trip to a fairy-hill, what they had shared the night before had been something magical, something destined to fade as quickly from memory as an icicle melting in the sun.

No. I won't let it fade. I'll remember it always ... even if she doesn't.

He stole a glance at Miriamele. Most of her face was hidden by the hood, but he could see her nose and part of her cheek and her sharp chin. She looked almost Sitha-like, he thought, graceful and beautiful, yet not quite knowable. What was going on in her head? How could she cling to him as she had, then say nothing about it af terward, until he wondered if he had dreamed the whole thing or was going mad? Surely she had returned that kiss as eagerly as he had given it? Little as he knew of women and kissing, he could not believe that the way she had responded meant nothing.

Why don't I just ask her? I'll go mad if I don't find out. But what if she laughs at me, or gets angry-or doesn't remember?

The idea that Miriamele might have no strong emotions corresponding to the feelings that churned within him was chilling. His resolve to make her talk abruptly vanished. He would think about it more.

But I want to kiss her again.

He sighed. The sound was lost in the hissing tumult of the rain.

The River Road was muddy and almost entirely empty; as Simon had predicted, they pa.s.sed fewer than a dozen other travelers all day. Only one man bothered to do more than nod, a short, bandy-legged fellow whose k.n.o.b-kneed horse pulled a tented wagon full of tinker's goods. Hoping for information about what might lie ahead, Simon took courage at his pleasant greeting and asked the man to stop. The tinker stood in the downpour, apparently glad for someone to talk to, and told them that there was a way station ahead that they should reach not long after sundown. He said he was on his way out from Falshire, and described that city as quiet and the business he had done there as poor. After quietly making sure that Miriamele approved, Simon invited the man to come join them beneath a stand of pines that kept out most of the rain. They handed him the wineskin, and while their new acquaintance took a few healthy swallows, Simon repeated his story of being an itinerant chandler.

"Thank you kindly." The tinker handed back the wineskin. "Cuts the chill a bit, that does." He nodded. "You'll be hoping to do some trade for Saint Tunath's and Aedonmansa, then. Good luck to you. But if you'll pardon advice not asked for, I think you'd best go no farther west than Falshire."

Simon and Miriamele locked eyes briefly before turning back to the traveler.

"Why is that?" asked Simon.

"People just say it's bad there." The man's grin seemed forced. "You know the sort of tales. Bandits, the like. Some talk of odd happenings in the hills." He shrugged.

Simon pressed him for details, but the man did not seem inclined to elaborate. Simon had never heard of a traveling tinker who would not happily finish a proffered wineskin while regaling his listeners with tales of his journeying; whether this man was an exception to the rule, or whether there was something that had disturbed him enough to keep him quiet, Simon could not tell. He seemed a reasonable sort.

"We're looking for nothing but a roof over our heads and a few fithings worth of work here and there," said Simon.

The tinker c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at the sword on Simon's belt and the metal hauberk protruding beyond his sleeves. "You're tolerable well-armed for candle-making, sirrah," he said gently. "But I suppose that shows what the roads are like these days." He nodded with a sort of careful approval, as if to suggest that whatever he thought of a chandler wearing the gear of a knight-albeit a tattered knight who had seen better times-he saw no reason to ask further questions.

Simon, catching the implicit message that he was expected to adopt the same courteous disinterest, offered the tinker a handclasp as they all walked back to the road.

"Anything you need?" the man asked as he once more took the bridle of his horse, which had been standing patiently in the rain. "I get a few things in trade from them as has not a cintis piece to pay-some vegetables, little bits of metal clutter ... shoeing-nails, the like."

Simon said that they had everything they needed until they reached Falshire: he was quite sure that the things they most needed would not be in the back of a rain-soaked wagon. But Miriamele asked to see the vegetables, and picked out a few spindly carrots and four brown onions, giving the tinker a coin in return. Afterward they waved him farewell as he took his horse and went squelching away east along the muddy road.

As the gray afternoon wore away, the rain continued to spatter down. Simon was growing tired of it pounding on his head.

Wish I'd remembered to bring my battle-helm, he thought. But that'd probably be like sitting under a bucket and having someone throw stones at you-rattle, rattle, rattle till you go mad.

To entertain Miriamele, he tried to sing a song called "Badulf and the Straying Heifer" that Shem Horsegroom had taught him, which had a rainstorm in it and seemed appropriate, but most of the words had slipped his memory, and when he sang the parts he remembered, the wind flung rain down his gullet until he thought he would strangle. He abandoned the experiment at last and they continued in silence.

The sun which had been invisible all day at last sank beneath the rim of the world, leaving behind a deeper darkness. They rode on as the rain turned even colder, until their teeth were chattering and their hands grew numb on the reins. Simon had begun to doubt that the tinker had spoken truly when at last they found the way station.

It was only a shed, four walls and a roof, with a smoke hole and a circle of stones dug into the floor for a fireplace. There was a covered spot outside at the back to tie the horses, but Simon, after unsaddling them, tethered them in a copse nearby where they would be almost as dry, and would be able to crop at the thin gra.s.s.

The last inhabitant of the station-Simon guessed it was the tinker himself, who had seemed a decent and conscientious fellow-had brought in fresh wood before leaving. It had to be new-gathered, because it was still wet and proved difficult to light: Simon had to restart it three times after the smoldering tinder fizzled out against the damp branches. He and the princess made themselves a stew with some carrots and one of the onions and a bit of flour and dried beef from Miriamele's stores.

"Hot food," proclaimed Simon, sucking his fingers, "is a wonderful thing." He held the bowl up and licked the last drops of gravy from the bottom.

"You're getting stew on your beard," Miriamele said sternly.

Simon pushed open the door of the way station, then leaned out and let his cupped palms fill with rainwater. He drank some and used the rest to rub the grease from his whiskers. "Better?"

"I suppose." Miriamele began arranging her bedroll.

Simon got up, patting his stomach contentedly. He went and dragged his own bedroll loose from the saddle, then came back and laid it out close to Miriamele's. She stared at it silently for a moment; then, without looking up, pulled hers around the fire, putting several cubits of straw-matted floor between them.

Simon pursed his lips. "Should we keep watch?" he said at last. "There's no bar on the door."

"That would be wise. Who first?"

"Me. I have a lot to think about."

His tone finally made Miriamele look up. She eyed him warily, as though he might do something sudden and frightening. "Very well. Wake me when you get tired."

"I'm tired now. But so are you. Sleep. I'll get you up after you've had a little time to rest."

Miriamele settled back without protest, wrapping her cloak tightly about her before she closed her eyes. The way station was silent but for the patter of rain on the roof. Simon sat motionless for a long time, watching the flickering firelight play across her pale, composed features.

Sometime in the earliest hours after midnight, Simon caught himself nodding. He sat up, shaking his head, and listened. The rain had stopped, but water was still dripping from the way station roof and drizzling on the ground outside.

He crawled over to wake Miriamele, but paused by the bedroll to look at her in the red light of the dying embers. She had twisted in her sleep, dislodging the cloak she used as a blanket, and her shirt had pulled loose from the top of the men's breeches she wore, exposing a measure of white skin along her side and the shadowed curve of her lowest ribs. Simon felt his heart turn over in his chest. He longed to touch her.

His hand, seemingly of its own volition, stole out; his fingers, gentle as b.u.t.terflies, lit upon her skin. It was cool and smooth. He could feel gooseb.u.mps rise beneath his touch.

Miriamele made a groggy noise of irritation and brushed at him, flicking as though the b.u.t.terflies had become less pleasant insects a-crawling. Simon quickly withdrew his hand.

He sat for a moment trying to catch his breath, feeling like a thief who had been nearly surprised in his crime. At last he reached out again, but this time only clasped her shoulder and gave a careful shake.

"Miriamele. Wake up, Miriamele."

She grunted and rolled over, turning her back to him. Simon shook her again, a little more strongly this time. She made a sound of protest and her fingers groped for her cloak without success, as though she sought protection from whatever cruel spirit plagued her.

"Come, Miriamele, it's your turn to keep watch."

The princess was sleeping soundly indeed. Simon leaned closer and spoke into her ear. "Wake up. It's time." Her hair was against his cheek.

Miriamele only half-smiled, as though someone had made a small joke. Her eyes remained shut. Simon slid down until he was lying next to her and stared for a few long moments at the curve of her cheek glowing in the emberlight. He slid his hand down from her shoulder and let it fall across her waist, then moved forward until his chest touched her back. Now her hair was all along his cheek and his body wrapped hers. She made a noise that might have been contentment and pushed back against him ever so slightly, then fell silent once more. Simon held his breath, fearing she would wake, fearing that he himself would cough or sneeze and somehow spoil this achingly splendid moment. He felt her warmth all down the length of his body. She was smaller than he, much smaller: he could wrap around her and protect her like a suit of armor. He thought he would like to lie this way forever.

As the two lay like nestling kittens, Simon drifted into sleep. The need to keep a watch was forgotten, eased from his mind like a leaf carried away by a river current.

Simon woke up alone. Miriamele was outside the way station, using a leafless branch to groom her horse. When she came in, they broke their fast on bread and water. She said nothing of the night before, but Simon thought he detected a little less brittleness in her manner, as though some of her chill had melted away while they lay huddled in sleep.

They traveled six more days on the River Road, slowed by the monotonous rains that had turned the broad track into sloppy mud. The weather was so miserable and the road generally so empty that Miriamele's fear of discovery seemed to lessen, although she still kept her face covered when they pa.s.sed through smallish towns like Bregshame and Garwynswold. Nights they slept in way stations or beneath the leaky roofs of roadside shrines. As they sat together each night in the hour between eating and sleeping, Miriamele told Simon stories of her childhood in Meremund. In return, he recounted his days among the scullions and chambermaids; but as the nights pa.s.sed, he spoke more and more about his time with Doctor Morgenes, of the old man's good humor and occasionally fierce temper, of his contempt for those who did not ask questions and his delight in life's unexpected complexity.

The night after they pa.s.sed through Garwynswold, Simon abruptly found himself in tears as he related something Morgenes had once told him about the wonders of beehives. Miriamele stared, surprised, as he struggled to control himself; afterward she looked at him in a strange way he had not seen before, but although his first impulse was shame, he could not truthfully see anything contemptuous in her expression.

"I wish he had been my father or my grandfather," he said later. They had retired to their respective bedrolls. Although Miriamele was, as usual, an arm's length away, he felt that she was in some way nearer to him than she had been any night since they had kissed. He had held her since then, of course, but she had been asleep. Now she lay nearby in the darkness, and he almost thought he felt some unspoken agreement growing between them. "He was that kind to me. I wish he was still alive."

"He was a good man."

"He was more than that. He was ... He was someone who did things when they needed to be done." Simon felt a tightening in his chest. "He died so that Josua and I could escape. He treated me like ... like I was his own. It's all wrong. He shouldn't have had to die."

"n.o.body should die," Miriamele said slowly. "Especially while they're still alive."

Simon lay in silence for a moment, confused. Before he could ask her what she meant, he felt her cool fingers touch his hand, then nestle into his, palm.

"Sleep well," she murmured.

When his heart had slowed, her hand was still there. He fell asleep at last, still cupping it as gently as if it were a baby bird.

More than the rains and gray mist plagued them. The land itself, under the pall of bad weather, was almost completely lifeless, dreary as a landscape of stones and bones and spiderwebs. In the towns, the citizens appeared tired and frightened, unwilling even to regard Simon and Miriamele with the curiosity and suspicion that were usually a stranger's due. At night the windows were shuttered, the mucky streets empty. Simon felt as though they pa.s.sed through ghost villages, as though the actual inhabitants had long departed, leaving only the insubstantial shades of previous generations, all doomed to a weary, pointless haunting of their ancestral homes.

In dim afternoon on their seventh day out of Stanshire, Simon and Miriamele rounded a bend in the river road and saw the squat bulk of Falshire Castle looming on the western horizon before them. Green grazing land had once covered the castled hill like a king's train, but now, despite the heavy rains, the hillside fields were barren; near the hillcrest some were even patched with snow. At the base of the hill lay the walled city, bestriding the river that was its lifeblood. From docks along the sh.o.r.e Falshire's hides and wool were loaded on boats to travel to the Kynslagh and beyond, returning with the gold and other goods that had long made Falshire one of the richest cities in Osten Ard, second in importance in Erkynland only to Erchester.

"That castle used to be Fengbald's," said Miriamele. "And to think my father would have had me marry him! I wonder which of his family lords it there now." Her mouth tightened. "If the new master is anything like the old one, I hope the whole thing falls down on him."

Simon peered into the diffuse western light that made the castle seem only an oddly-shaped black crag, then pointed to the city below to distract her attention. "We can be in Falshire-town before nightfall. We can have a true meal tonight."

"Men always think of their stomachs."

Simon thought the a.s.sertion unfair, but was pleased enough to be called a man that he smiled. "How about a dry night in a warm inn, then?"

Miriamele shook her head. "We have been lucky, Simon, but we are getting closer to the Hayholt every day. I have been in Falshire many times. There is too good a chance someone might recognize me."

Simon sighed. "Very well. But you don't mind if I go in somewhere and get us something to eat like I did in Stanshire, do you?"