The False Martyr (15 page)

If I could just find
Dasen
.
If we
could just get away from here. If things could just be like they
were.
She told herself that time and
again, but she did not know what the next part was, could not say
what followed the ‘if’. Did she think she could run, could hide,
could escape the horrors in her own mind? That Dasen could somehow
cure her of them, could somehow expunge what she had seen, what she
had done?

The truth was that the
battle had damaged her in ways she could not see, and she could not
be sure that she would ever be the same. It was even worse than
when those forest masters had found her, had caught her, had . . .
. Then she had felt helpless, had felt small and weak and scared
and ashamed. She had sworn to herself after – crying and quivering
in her bed, dreading that her aunt would come home, would find her,
would learn what had happened – that she would never be weak again.
Then there had been something to do, a way to vanquish the fear.
But that had been nothing in comparison to the battle. Even in the
forest with the monsters chasing them, the threats had not seemed
real. It was one thing to be chased. It was another to see a
creature tear a man apart and know that you were next, to see the
blood, hear the screams, smell the death. She had never been so
scared, had never been so close to death as she was in that battle,
but even more, she had never been responsible for death. Over and
over, she had faced it outside Thoren, had participated in it – how
many men had she killed that day, not just monsters, but men? She
was a killer now, and that was not something that Dasen or anyone
else could ever change.

Teth felt her emotions
turning and looked away from the tower. She had given up screaming
at it though she wanted to more than anything. She took a deep
breath and walked away. She needed a plan, a way to get into that
fortress, a way to find Dasen, but she couldn’t think, couldn’t get
her heavy thoughts moving through the haze of insomnia and
insanity.

The heat doesn’t
help
, she thought as she stepped from the
shade of the garden and walked toward the river. It had been
scorching day and night since she arrived with not a drop of rain,
without even dew on the brown, brittle grass. And now it was as hot
as she had ever felt. The sun was like a hammer, the air was like a
wall, the breeze was the blast of an oven when you open the door to
add the wood. The stones of the path were far too hot for her bare
feet, so she kept to the grass, but even it felt jagged and
hot.

She had replaced the
Weavers’ woolen robe with simple canvas pants and a rough cotton
tunic that she had fashioned from various sacks, towels, and scraps
that she had pilfered from the compound. She had found a long cloth
to wrap her breasts and a pair of sheers to shorten her hair – it
was little more than an upside-down bowl hanging on her head,
failing to reach her ears or eyes. She kept her face smudged, hands
dirty, feet bare (though she had used the sheepskin covers of the
Weavers’ books to make shoes). Somewhere in her mind, she knew that
the invaders were coming, that there was no place that was safe,
yet she could not leave. As much as she wanted to run, she needed
Dasen. She knew that she would lose what shred remained of her
sanity without him, without that last shared connection, that one
person who understood. So she tried to hide, to make herself into
something insignificant, something that was not worth
killing.

She could almost believe
that the Weavers had forgotten her given the attention they paid
her. Even when she was around them, she might as well have been
invisible. They would not look at her, would not talk to her, would
walk through her if she happened to be in their way, would not have
spit on her if she were on fire. Their routine was easy enough to
determine, and it was always the same, so she planned her own days
to avoid the compound’s automaton inhabitants. To some extent, she
was afraid of what had happened that first afternoon, but even
more, the Weavers made her uneasy, made her want to run from this
unnatural place, to run and never stop.

Arriving at the river,
Teth walked along it past the fields where the Weavers grew their
food. They did not appear to eat any meat, sustaining themselves
instead with the vegetables and grains that they grew in their
incredibly ordered gardens. Even now, two rows of Weavers worked
the soil with hoes, striking in unison at the rich, black earth
where not a single weed had existed to hoe away. As they worked,
they hummed, a low buzz that was nearly lost to the scratch of
metal on earth. Teth watched them for only a second. She had become
so accustom now to their patterns, to the exact harmony of their
movements that she had lost interest. Like watching the workings of
a clock, it was fascinating until you learned how every piece moved
and then it was just a clock with the minutes ticking by into hours
with nothing to hold you beyond a desire for dinnertime to
arrive.

Past the fields, she
descended a hill to a small grove of trees hugging the bank of the
river where it flowed at the level of the ground around it. Teth
had discovered this place on her second day and came here often. It
was one of the few places that she felt comfortable and safe. She
supposed it was having the branches of the trees above her, having
their trunks around her, their roots beneath her. The shade helped
too, she thought, as she pushed the sweat from her dripping
head.

Without even bothering to
remove her clothes, she walked into the river. She knew from
experience that it was shallow here for several feet before
starting to drop away, and she waded out until the water rose to
her hips. It was cool enough to make her shiver. It felt wonderful.
She reached her hands into the grey swirl so unlike the crystal
streams of her forest and splashed it onto her face, felt it
running in cool beads down her back and chest. Finally, she spread
her arms to the sides, leaned back, and allowed herself to fall.
She splashed into the water, felt it surround her, pull at her,
cool her.

There was a thump, a
splash, a creaking, sounds that did not belong to the river. Teth’s
head shot up. Her body tensed, heart raced, chest heaved. Her hands
clenched the mud beneath them as if hoping to find a weapon in the
muck. The sound came again: thump, splash, creak. It was in many
ways softer now that the water was not carrying it, so it must be
in the water, but there was nothing in her grove. Thump, splash,
creak. Thump, splash creak. She followed the sound and realized
that it was coming from the rounded wall twenty yards up river just
before the bank sloped down to her grove. Something was on the
other side of that wall. It sounded like a boat, but who or what
did it carry? Why was it here? Why near the compound? Why near her
grove? Why now? Teth could not think of an answer to any of those
questions that did not make her heart leap into her
throat.

Staying low, she retreated
to the safety of the trees and drew herself out of the water behind
the nearest, its trunk standing in a foot of water from the flooded
river. She stared at the steep bank, terrified of what could be
hiding behind that bend. Waiting, listening, she wondered what she
could do. She expected to hear voices or weapons or feet splashing
through water, but there was no change, wood slapping water,
tapping stone, creaking as it is bends.

No
people
, she told herself,
you’d have heard them by now
. But that didn’t mean that they didn’t exist. Maybe they’d
already gone ashore. Maybe they were searching for her now. Maybe
they were in the compound, were asking questions, were getting
answers.
Only one way to find out and no
more risk than standing right here.

With a deep breath, she
sprinted up the side of the hill. She stayed low, feet spread wide,
hands out to help, tall brown grass swirling around her hips and
shoulders. She fell to her hands and knees then to her belly as she
crested the hill and looked down the other side at the small cove
where the river bent around the thumb that made up her perch.
Trapped there against the rocks was a boat.

Teth stared at the vessel
in disbelief. It was empty. It had to be. She scanned it for signs
of life. A dozen paces long and five across, its deck was almost
completely open. A low railing surrounded it. A long, closed hatch
sat in the middle. A canvas tarp stood over the aft section where
the pilot would handle the vessels great rudder. Teth could see
under the tent from her angle. No one held the rudder, slept on the
straw mat, or sat on the wooden stool. There was no one on the
deck, the boat was not tied in place, and surrounded by sheer
limestone cliffs twenty feet high, there was no chance that anyone
could have gotten off.

The question then was the
hold. She watched the hatch for a long time, imagining what was
beneath it then looked at the deck for clues. There were no signs
of human occupation, no scraps of food, no tools beyond a great
pole stowed along one side and several neat coils of rope, no
clothes on the line that ran from a pole near the hatch, no fishing
lines. So why was it here? The only clue was a fragment of rope
hanging in defeat from the front of the boat. Its end was frayed
and worn, showing all the signs of having snapped.

For a long time, Teth
considered. The boat was lodged against the bank, was not going
anywhere. It had clearly been abandoned, had broken free without a
person on board. It was perfect for their escape. And that was what
finally spurred her into action.

Teth descended the hill
until she could jump easily into the water. She walked around the
bank toward the boat. The water rose to her chest then the ground
fell away. One second, she was walking against the current, the
riverbed firmly beneath her feet; the next, her foothold was gone.
She lost her balance, and the river caught her. She tumbled as
memories of another time in another river took hold, but this river
was a kitten compared to the one that had claimed her on her
joining day. She soon found the ground again. Gripping it with her
hands then toes, she brought herself back up and took a deep
breath. She had been close before, only a few paces from the shred
of rope at the boat’s keel, but to clear that distance, she was
going to have to swim.

She weighed that. The boat
was exactly what she needed to get away from the Weavers. No matter
Dasen’s condition – he must be unconscious to have never responded
to her calls – it would carry him. They would not have to wander
through barren plains with no water, no shelter, no food, no sense
of location. The river would carry them to Wildern without even
having to row. It could carry all the supplies they needed, could
provide shelter, anonymity and a story if questions were anyway.
They had to have it. She had to swim.

That decided, Teth walked
back out along the cliff to where the bottom fell away. She peered
around the corner, saw the boat so close that she could nearly feel
it. She had only to grab the rope and pull herself on board.
Bracing herself, she leapt around the side of the bank. Her head
plunged beneath the water. The current caught her and threw her
flailing limbs into the cliff at her side. Her shoulder pounded
against the stone, her elbow scraped. The force of the blow removed
a layer of skin. With a gasp, she braced herself against the stone
and brought her head up for a breath. The boat was there, almost
within reach, but the current was stronger here where the face
concentrated it. She could feel it pulling her down and away from
the boat. Clinging to the rock, feeling it bite at her, she took a
breath and leapt away, reaching toward the rope. The current pulled
her under, pushed her again toward the rocks, but she felt hemp
brush her fingers. A second later, it was stinging her palm. She
pulled and felt herself rise from the water.

Gasping, she held the bow
of the boat and forced herself to breathe. She had only been under
the water for a few seconds, but she gasped as if half-drowned.
Cursing, she pulled herself up with trembling arms until she could
throw a leg over the railing and climb into the vessel. She sat
there panting and brought her emotions into check. With another
breath, she looked down at her elbow, stared as blood mixed with
the water and dripped to the deck in a pink puddle. She’d had worse
scrapes climbing trees as a girl, but it surely did sting. She
squinted against the pain and rolled her shoulder, felt the bruise
that was forming along its back.

Cursing again, she looked
around the boat. The deck was just as empty as it had appeared from
the cliff. She crept to the hatch and unlatched it. “Hello,” she
called into the hold. Her breath caught as she heard a banging then
subsided when she realized it was just the boat scraping against
the rock. “Hello,” she called again. “Is anyone there? My brothers
and I found your boat. We thought you might need some help.” She
looked around her, wishing that the stout brothers were actually
there. She waited, listened, but there was no response. “I’m coming
down,” she declared. “It’s okay, Will. Your shoulders will barely
fit through there. I’m sure it’s safe, but you and Kev stay up here
just in case.”

She waited another minute
to allow her imaginary brothers to take their positions, then
turned and started down the slanted stairs. It was dark inside with
the only light coming from two small, round windows on either side
and the hatch above. After the brilliance of the afternoon sun, it
took her eyes some time to adjust, but even through the gloom, she
could tell that the hold was empty.