Chapter 9

IT WAS another two days before he came upon a village--nothing more than a hamlet, really. Small wooden cottages with waxed parchment tacked to the windows to keep out the approaching winter winds, the occasional sod-roofed hut, grubby children drudging about the dirt courtyards in weary semblance of play. They stared at him as he approached, goodwives' brooms stopping in midsweep and hard looks from thin, weathered men, faces set wary and harsh, careworn features shadowed stark in every angle beneath the weak autumn sun. Almost all of them were armed--daggers and short swords at their belts.

Wil kept his head down, only darting quick sideways glances from beneath his fringe. 'Hunch in, make yourself small and unthreatening, keep your head down, and keep walking.' The state of his clothes and hair probably spoke his poverty--no point in robbing him--and the lack of any obvious weapon, he hoped, spoke his lack of threat. No one need know about the little dirk in his boot--at least, not if they left him alone.

He passed an old woman stirring something fragrant and spicy in a small cauldron in her kitchen dooryard. The smell made Wil's belly growl and flop about a bit in his empty gut, and he couldn't help the desperate glance he gave the steaming pot. The woman merely gave him a guarded perusal, frowned, opened her mouth as though she meant to say something.... She caught herself just in time and closed her eyes with a slight shudder, then turned her head and deliberately looked away. Wil looked down at his boots and kept walking.

When he'd woken that morning, the unmistakable ring of mallet to metal, butting up against the otherwise smudgy gray stillness, had announced a forge less than a mile distant. He'd followed the sound without much thought. Now it was deafeningly absent as grimy, besweated, and leather-aproned men gathered at the open doors of the dilapidated building and watched him shuffle past.

He'd spotted the grange hall as he'd spied from the ridge rimming the outskirts of the tiny village, and he headed there, risking daylight for want of an alternative. It wouldn't do to come strolling down after dark, not in this sort of forgotten, misbegotten hollow, and he no longer had a choice. It was either take his chances here, or give up and starve to death in the woods.

No store to speak of, not here, but the grange looked like the most prosperous and promising place to try his luck, and they might sell him some bread, at least. If he was lucky, they had some vegetables laid up they might be willing to part with. Harvest was only a month over, after all. Barter would do better in a place like this, but he had nothing with which he could part. He'd have to hope the grange wardens did enough trade with the outside world that the few coins he had in his pocket would be worth something to them. The presence of the smithy added to that hope.

Three voices came from inside the hall, two deep-timbered and one somewhat higher and younger, and all with the thick country accent that made everything they said sound lilting and musical. When he'd come to this country, Wil had loved the sound of the language first, and he'd never got tired of listening to people speak it, regardless of whether they were welcoming him to a village or running him out of it. He brushed it away and made his careful way past the public well and up the two steps that led into the grange.

Strange, how even something so simple as a wooden floor beneath his feet could make his throat go tight and those idiotic tears rise to the backs of his eyes. Wil stepped through the open door of the hall, slid his back to the frame, and dipped his head lower, waiting to be noticed.

It didn't take long. The talk of scarce game and a lucky harvest tapered quickly into expectant silence. Wil could feel three sets of eyes on him, boring past his thin coat and dirty shirt and right through his skin. He shivered.

"You'll pardon," he said quietly, gave a respectful tug to his fringe, and bobbed his head. "I've had a difficult road, and more to go. I'd hoped I might replenish my supplies here and p'raps get directions to an inn."

Silence greeted this. Wil chanced a quick glance up. Father, son, and grandson, he guessed, for three identical sets of hard blue eyes stared warily from faces aged by seasons that sat harsh on their weathered brows. Brown hair, curling at the collars of coats almost as threadbare as his own, and great callused hands, palms rough and red and knuckles gnarled too soon. Like looking at the same man caught frozen in three different stages of his life, and none of them easy.

The din from the forge resumed outside. Wil had no idea why it relieved him so, but he nearly sagged with it.

"What kind of supplies are ye lookin' for?" the eldest asked slowly, the rough brace of his voice in contrast to the almost friendly tilt of the tone.

"Meat, if you have it," Wil answered, paused at the resigned snorts, then pressed, "bread if you don't, and potatoes." It was just as well that meat seemed unlikely. He hadn't dared a fire yet, and potatoes were just as filling raw as cooked. "And water. An extra skin, if you've got one."

Silence again. Wil kept his eyes to the rough grain of the wood floor, but he could almost see the three men looking at each other, speaking silently through raised eyebrows and facial twitches--a language that only three men who shared blood and years could know. After a moment, the youngest turned and made his way across the wide hall and into what Wil guessed was the larder.

"No fresh meat 'til the slaughter," the middle one said, his thick voice still cautious but a little less wary around the edges. "There's a handful of deer jerky I could part with. Bread and potatoes we can do with ease, and we can likely scrounge up a water skin, but I'll want to know how ye plan on paying first."

Fair enough. Wil dug three billets from his pocket and held them out in the palm of his hand. "Two for the food," he said, "the other for the water skin, and I'd like to fill it at your well."

This was where it would go wrong, if it was going to, and he could never tell until he was in the moment which way it would go. Either they were honest men and would take fair payment and let him buy his goods and go, or the sight of the coins would make them wonder how much more he had in that pocket. His gaze remained downcast, but he watched every move from beneath his lashes, waiting for a start or sudden step, his body tense and ready to rabbit through the open door at his back if he had to.

But there was only a shrug from the eldest and a wave of a big hand toward the yard. "Water's free, son. For three billets, I can give you the water skin, the jerky, two loaves of black bread, and as many potatoes as you can carry."

Wil's heart gave a relieved little lurch. He could probably carry at least a score comfortably.

"Unless you'd rather half potatoes and half apples," the man went on. "The Mother was generous, bless Her."

Relieved almost beyond sense, Wil let a low sigh loose from a chest gone far too tight. "I would." He chanced a quick glance up and a smile. "Thank you."

It was a mistake. The man's gaze caught on Wil's, and all kindness vanished.

Wil quickly looked down again and held his breath. The too-abrupt turn from watery relief to a startling immersion inside the confused, nebulous fear of a stranger, the bewildering slide of his own guarded hope into someone else's blurry panic; it was too much, catching him in the chest like a hammer blow. The younger man felt it too--Wil could tell by the stiff stillness. And beneath it all, that want crept out from the men, that greed they didn't even know they possessed for something they didn't even know they wanted, a spider skulking on a sticky gossamer thread from their hearts and into his. The rhythmic strike of metal on metal from the smithy was now more distant in Wil's ears than it had been when he'd stood a mile away this morning and wondered if it was worth the risk. And then a grinding scrape and a grating curse, and that stopped too.

Silence.

A splinter in his brain. Unformed thoughts that weren't his own, brilliant colors melting like wax and dripping through his soul, then hardening into pebbles and pelting over his senses in scattershot patterns that bruised the mind.

"Do I know you, boy?" the older man asked slowly.

Do I know you?

Do you know me?

How many times had that same question been put to him in different forms?

I won't hurt you.

Give it to me.

Let me take it.

I want it, you have it, give it to me, giveitgiveitgiveit--

Wil clenched his teeth and tried to breathe deeply, but his chest was too tight.

"No, you don't know me," he managed.

He didn't trust himself to speak more, only hunched down, shook his head, and slowly leaned onto his right leg, readying for a sprint. It was the hunger and exhaustion doing it, he knew, breaking his concentration, weakening the barriers. A decent night's sleep and a full belly, that was all he needed, and then he'd have the strength to beat it all back, lock it away. Last time it had been the fear, roiling in a black cloud over his senses, reaching out all around him and choking him as Orman closed in, and by the time Palmer had snuck up behind him, it had been too late--he'd already lost his grip on it. All he could do was weave the thread between the two of them and step back.

They'd meant to kill him, he'd told himself, or at least one of them had, and what Palmer wanted didn't bear thinking about. They were not good men, there hadn't been a good intention between them, and it was their own natures that had been their undoing.

And yet what was he supposed to do now? These were good men. He could feel it, he could see it, and they were kin. What was he supposed to do if father turned on son? How was he going to tell himself--

"Found it, Da!"

Wil jumped, and he only just kept himself from screaming and bolting through the door as the other two jumped as well. But they made no move toward him, only turned toward the youngest man with identical blank, confused expressions as they watched him cross the hall from the back room.

He held up a dusty water skin and jiggled it above his head. "'Twas under the empty feed sacks on the back shelf." He paused with a tilt of his head. "Everything all right?"

The quiet had a physical weight to it, pushing down on Wil's shoulders and constricting his chest. Fight or flight--he couldn't tell which, wished someone would move, speak, do something so the heaviness would either crush him or let him go.

Then the old man merely cleared his throat and said, "Well done, Brayden."

Brayden?

Wil nearly choked again and flashed a terrified glance to the young man.

Kindred. A trick. They knew. How could Wil have been so incredibly stupid as to walk into the same trap twice?

But the young man only gave his grandfather a sideways smile and a nod, obviously pleased by the small bit of praise.

Wil closed his eyes and leaned against the doorframe. His knees felt weak. Stupid, stupid, stupid!--it was a common enough name, whether given name or surname, and none of these men could possibly be confused with that behemoth of a constable who'd stared Wil down with eyes that knew and didn't know at the same time. For all Wil knew, the man hadn't even said what Wil had thought he'd said, and Wil's overtaxed mind was just playing cruel tricks on him. He was too hungry, too tired, jumping at shadows he was inventing out of so much nothing.

"Are you all right, boy?" That was the father.

"Thank you. I'm very tired." Wil nodded toward the water skin. "If you'll let me have that, I'll fill my skins while you ready the rest of my purchases." He took a wobbly step toward the young man and held out his coins, trying to tame the jitters that were coursing through every limb, but he couldn't. He allowed the coins to be plucked from his fingers and replaced with the water skin. Glad to be able to breathe again, Wil turned and made himself walk normally through the door and out to the well.

He hadn't noticed how warm the grange hall was until he was back outside it. His breath oozed heavily from his chest in thick plumes, and the weak sun bit into his eyes with a white, high-pitched drone. He concentrated on the ripple and pull of the muscles in his arms and shoulders as he primed the well's pump, the icy brace of the water that spilled down his throat as he drank deeply from the spigot and then over his fingers as he filled the water skins.

They were watching him, all of them. He could feel it like knives between his shoulder blades, pressing, seeking, and he was too raw and open to tether it, clamp it down. He looked down at the muddy water puddling around his knees beside the pump and realized, with a dull sense of weary anger, that he couldn't bring himself to care. Let them look.

Reckless, he stoppered the water skins and put them aside, then sucked in a deep breath before he plunged his head under the spigot and let icy water sluice over his scalp. It was *cold*, so cold it drilled a sharp ache behind his eyes, spearing down his nape and backbone, but the pain was a welcome thing. Fear was so exhausting, and this... this merely hurt. Hurt, he could stand. If he wasn't so tired, he'd've stripped naked and washed every bit of filth from his aching body. Let them watch, what did it matter, at least then he'd be clean.

Sputtering, Wil let go of the pump handle and flung his hair back, collar soaked through and hands red, frozen lumps on the ends of his arms. His fingers were numb, but he drove them through his tangled hair, squeezing out as much water as he could into the mud. There'd be icicles dangling from the ends soon, but at least his scalp wasn't so itchy now. Blowing and gasping, Wil made to mop the water from his face with the dirty sleeve of his coat, thought better, and merely swiped at his eyes with his cold hands.

"Which way were you headed?" came from behind him.

Wil didn't jump this time, only turned calmly to see the grandfather standing behind him, holding out a sack. The coarse fabric of it was darkened in spots with drops of water. Wil let his gaze drift up, noting the same on the sleeve and breast of the man's coat. The man had been standing behind him for a while. A dark little chuckle lurked at the back of Wil's throat, manic and drained, but he choked it down.

"West" was all he said.

The man nodded and hooked his chin to the left. "There's an inn over to Dudley. Ten leagues due west. Take the road out through the village, then turn south a little ways 'til you see the dairy on your right. There's a trail through the tree brake--a little hard to make out, so you'll have to look for it. Pick that up and follow 'til it peters out, then just keep on west and you'll find it." He paused to peer up at the sky. "If you keep on steady, you're like to make it before sundown tomorrow."

"Thank you," Wil mumbled. Hands shaking only a little now, he rechecked the stoppers on the water skins and stored them carefully in his pack. Sliding his arms through the straps, he stood, straightened, reached out, and took the offered sack. He swung it over his shoulder without checking its contents; if they'd shorted him, they'd shorted him, but he somehow doubted it.

"You don't look well, son," the man told him. "No meat on your bones, and you look like you en't slept in a while. And you oughtn't to be haring off in this cold with a wet head." A pause, then softer, "If you need it, there's a bit of space in the storeroom for a pallet. My wife en't the best cook, but her supper's hot, at least."

It was a sorry state for a man to find himself in when the least little show of kindness rose pathetic tears to his eyes. And what wouldn't Wil give for that gesture to come from something real? But oh, he was tempted. One night of warmth, one hot meal, and he needed it....

giveitgiveitgiveit

Wil jammed his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets, pressed--hard--and called to his mind's eye the bewildered craving on the man's face not five minutes ago, the vicious animal light in the eyes of Palmer and Orman, and more before them. He shook his head.

"No." He scrubbed a hand over his damp face and shifted his burden on his back. "Thank you, but I have to go."

The man nodded slowly. "As you will." He shifted uncomfortably, then reached out a hand but pulled it away when Wil flinched back. The man turned his hand palm up and said quietly, "My apologies, young sir, it's only...." The hand dropped away, the man's voice falling to an unsteady whisper. "I think... I think I dreamed of you."

It was the tone--the complete absence of pride or guile.

giveitgiveitgiveit

With a tiny, strangled gasp, Wil jerked a nod, turned, and headed out of the dirty little village.

He didn't look at the villagers still standing in their yards staring, and he didn't look back once he'd passed them. Only kept his head down, eyes to the ground.

He didn't hear the chime of the forge again until he was at least a mile gone.