The Wind-Witch (7 page)

Kellis misliked the iron sickle. Dislike was not at all a strong enough term-the tool terrified him. The boy laughed when he didn’t know how to use it—but Kellis didn’t want to know how. He didn’t want to grasp barley stalks in one hand and then swing. a fell crescent of cold iron—keener and more deadly than the best flint knife—at them with the other. He wasn’t even sure his shins were safe.

There was a smooth wooden handle on the tool, but Kellis could feel the iron rang buried not very deeply under the wood—it wanted to bite his lingers, just as much as the sharper blade did. More, because it thought to take him unawares. Kellis blinked sweat out of his eyes, struggled to make the pale grain stalks come into focus.
I’m going to cut my hand off,
he thought helplessly. His head was pounding, and every movement made the world dip and sway around him, as if viewed from a ship’s deck in heavy weather. It was not the time to be learning to use a deadly instrument . . . but he had no choice. He had pledged he would work, and this was what he was set to do.

Even if he set aside his pledge, escape demanded that he be able to run, and he could barely keep himself upright. He could smell the sea, but reaching it would avail him nothing-. All the other directions were equal mysteries to him, and unreachable ones, as well. The horse was hitched to the wagon, and looked stolid and slow. He’d be too slow stealing it, that was certain. He’d be stopped.

There was another horse, this one only saddled. His nose brought him scents of well-kept leather and sweet hay, and horse sweat in smaller measure, because this horse had not been pulling a wagon. His eye found it eventually, grazing at the field’s edge. It was black as the edge of a storm, saddled but otherwise unencumbered. Trusted, it did not even seem to be hobbled. Kellis drew in a longing breath.

The horse looked at him. From across the tossing grain, its eyes met his, and it seemed to know very well what Kellis was hoping to do. It made him a promise in trade—a fall likely to part him from his body entirely. His for the asking, if he came near it. In the darkness of the horse’s eyes, lightnings flashed.

Kellis looked away. He frowned at the wavery grain, grasped a handful, cut at it, his lips shaping a prayer to Valint—though he no longer believed that there was any protection for him, whether the Wolfstar shone upon this land or not.

There were five of them bending and stooping in the golden field after the girls arrived, amid the gently waving grainstalks, cutting and binding sheaves. After a time, Druyan moved the wagon closer and started throwing sheaves onto its bed—the man came and helped her with that, looking a question at her over his armload of grain first, moving slowly and obviously intending there’d be no misunderstanding. He was sweating heavily—but so were they all. It was a sweat of exertion, not the nervous wetness of deceit. She looked to Valadan for confirmation of thatshe had sent Rook to the sheep that the girls had been forced to leave. The stallion flicked an unconcerned ear. All was well.

Druyan nodded permission, and when they had loaded the last of the waiting sheaves that dotted the stubble, the prisoner went back to reaping, with never once a covetous glance at Valadan or the horse hitched to the wagon. Not that he’d have gotten far essaying a horseback escape—the gray mare was elderly and had never been known for her speed—but if he’d used the sickle to cut the traces, he’d have ruined the harness and they’d all have wasted time more profitably spent reaping.

Nightfall was a gradual affair at that season—with the sun far away behind the shielding overcast of the sky, the reapers had no clues of sunset color or twilight. Eventually they simply could no longer see what they were cutting, and Druyan’s belly complained that it was well beyond the supper hour. They had sheared a ragged third of the field Splaine Garth’s lady felt a twinge of hope, under her weariness. They’d have seed grain, at least.

Dalkin ran ahead, to assure Enna they were alive and tell her they were coming in, so she’d set the food out, ready for them. The girls would get a hot meal before rejoining their flock for the night, and Druyan would have let them ride back on the wagon, but they were used to walking and better content to swing along beside it, easing kinks out of backs, flexing tired fingers, and casting sidelong glances at the stranger.

She’d probably have done better to make him foot it, as well, Druyan suspected, but the man looked done up, and since the wagon wasn’t full laden, there was no telling herself the mare couldn’t or shou1dn’t pull the load. One man’s weight more or less made no matter. Druyan gave him a surreptitious glance herself, as the wheel negotiated a deep rut and they both swayed on the broad seat. Roomy enough that they didn’t need to ride shoulder to shoulder, she was glad—if he’d smelled before, he was twice as fragrant after a few hours of hot work. The odor reminded her that the root cellar would need cleaning once the barley was in, before the turnips were dug. It was a hard place to air out.

The prisoner’s sweat had pushed out through the older dirt, then trapped an uneven layer of gray dust and flakes of chaff. His pale hair was threaded with green-gold barley stalks, brown bits of weed. His brows and lashes were dustpowdered—he looked, all in all, rather like a badly made com god, left to winter in the field. His stillness bolstered such fancies—save when the wagon rocked him, his only movement was of his fingers, which were clenched tight around the edge of the seatboard but would shift sometimes for better advantage.

Pru dragged open the barnyard gate for the wagon to pass through. The wheels rattled on bricks laid to prevent mud puddles near the well.

“Kellis.”

He didn’t react.
Did I mishear his name?
Druyan wondered. She shook her head.
I can’t be that far off,
She reached to tap his shoulder. “
Kellis.
”

He gave a surprised start, throwing his head up like a shying horse, and Pru giggled. “
Asleep!
” she crowed, and doubled over the gate, hooting. Her brown braids danced on either side of her averted face.

The man ignored her, fixing his attention on Druyan with what dignity he could. “Lady?” His eyes looked muddy brown in the dirnness. They were red-rimmed, from chaff and salt sweat and pure weariness, and the right still hadn’t opened fully. His mouth drooped.

“Get down,” Druyan said, too gently to be an effective order. “This is as far as we go.”

The man didn’t seem likely to exploit her weakness—he had his own to contend with, evidently. Merely obedient, he dropped off the side of the wagon. Druyan couldn’t be sure, over the creaking of the wagon’s springs, but she thought he groaned. “Lyn, please tell Enna we’re here and to send something back with you for him to eat. Pm, you can help us unload the wagon.”

They off-loaded the grain into one end of the barn, spreading the sheaves in a wide heap so they could dry a bit—easier to thresh later. Piled up in the vast space, the barley looked even more insignificant than the shom end of the field—so much work, so little result, Druyan thought, but refused to be discouraged. Five folk had done what they could. Travic had mustered a score of reapers, so of course a day’s yield had been greater. She was too weary; to judge their efforts now would be unfair. That they had done it at all, she must reckon as success. And see to it that the performance was repeated, day by day till all the barley was cut.

When the day’s sheaves were all stowed, Lyn came back with Kellis food—a wooden bowl of mutton stew. Druyan frowned when she got it into her hands. If there was a single bone left anywhere in the rest of the pot, she couldn’t imagine it. And the bread thrown atop it had got too close to the oven wall, and was half charred, half soggy. As mistress of Splaine Garth, she was ashamed that even a thieving prisoner should be fed so meanly in her sight.

Her prisoner was trying not to cast too eager an eye on the bowl, she thought—or waiting to be led back to the root cellar and locked inside. He leaned against the wagon , shoulders drooping, his expression neutral. Damn. She had meant to tell Dalkin to plug the hole at the back of the cellar, and it seemed rude to give the order now, right in front of the man. Though why she should concern herself with manners—security should be her only interest.

She made Kellis help her park the wagon so its wheel spokes would bar the opening on the outside. Hopefully the man wouldn’t realize that he’d just shored up his own jail, or figure out a way to escape in spite of the barrier. Likely he would not—he looked as if he’d be asleep on his feet, except that he kept smelling the food. His nostrils flared, and he sighed, very faintly.

“You did a good job,” Druyan said heartily, handing over the bowl as if it was a fair payment, gesturing to indicate the cellar, that he should go in. “Tomorrow will be a longer day, but by weeks end the harvest should be in, if this weather holds.

He nodded, too weary to show much interest in a freedom promised but still days away—and maybe never granted. How did he know whether he could trust her? He was as alone, as vulnerable, as she was. Druyan put her hand on the root cellar’s door, ashamed.

“Lady?”

Oh, gods
. Pity flared into panic.
He wasn’t going to go in!
And she had made the mistake he had waited for, she was alone with him! The girls had gone, Dalkin was off feeding the horses. Had she counted the sickles? Rook was off in the marsh, not by her side. Druyan stared at the raider, her heart lodged choking in her throat, trying to keep her fear out of her face. She heard Valadan give the back wall of his stall a mighty kick, and wondered whether he could tear his way out to rescue her. She ought to have left him in the paddock, close, instead of letting Dalkin put him inside. She should have had some weapon handy, and instead all the tools were in the barn. . .

Kellis could see how frightened the woman was the instant he spoke. She tried not to show it to him—wise of her—but he could read it in her eyes, her whole body, like the one deer in a herd that was prey, when all the rest could safely run. It didn’t matter, he was in no position to take any profit from it. And if he panicked her, she might hurt him, he thought.

There was meat in the bowl he held—or there had been meat near it. He could smell gravy, and cooked vegetables, and his mouth began to water, helplessly. He was glad she hadn’t flung the bowl at him, made him eat out of the dirt, even though he was hungry enough to manage that, aching head notwithstanding. Yet starved as he was, there was something he craved more than food. . .

Showing her fear would be the worst thing she could possibly do. Druyan lifted her chin, stalling for time, trying to look confident, keeping an eye out for a purloined sickle. Someone would come, see what was amiss. . .

She was startled to see that the raider was standing stock still, his hands where she could see them both, holding no more than his supper, making no move more threatening than drawing a breath. Their scared glances skittered nervously, met again. Then he dropped his gaze to the ground.

“I was wondering if I could .. . have some water? To wash,” he explained hesitantly. Then he ducked his head disconsolately and went into the dark of the cellar.

Druyan couldn’t decide whether the sickness she felt was relief or shame. The chaff inside her own clothing scoured at her skin, like furious fleas. She, of course, could ridherself of the irritation, and would, in her own tub in her own clean room, before she slept in her own clean-sheeted bed. She snatched up the wooden bucket, dipped it hastily into the horse trough, thrust it half filled and slopping at the man, then shut him into the root cellar for the night, out of sight and guilty thought.

The kitchen was too warm, as it often was in summer, and mostly empty. Pru and Lyn had bolted their food and returned to their flock. Damn. She’d wanted to tell them to be back at first light, so she wouldn’t need to waste Dalkin’s time fetching them in. Maybe they’d know that, but that didn’t mean they’d appear without a direct order.

“Oh, Lady, thank the gods you’re safe!” Enna turned from the oven. “Dalkin said there was only one of those brutes left still alive, and him a frightful villain with a scar, and only one eye—”

Druyan sank down wearily into her chair. Her bones felt very ancient, the rest of her no younger. She wondered if this was how Enna’s bones ached, if she had fmally caught the malady from living near it so long, like a cough spreading from one of them to the other. She shut her eyes and saw uncut grain waving to the horizon, like sea billows. So tired she was, and such a little of the task done. So much still to do.
We’ve begun. But if it rains? Storms? I have to be sure that doesnt happen, and I’m too tired to think how to do it
.

“Did they kill one another, Lady? Like rats in a trap?”

Druyan blinked at the dish of stew set before her, conjured there out of thin air. Not a single white bone could she see, only tender chunks of mutton swimming in a rich gravy. A lovely loaf of bread lay sliced beside it, almost glowing in the candle’s light. She ought to eat, before she fell into sleep. . .

“Lady?”

Druyan shook herself awake and found her tongue to answer. “No one’s dead, Enna. They pushed out part of the wall and escaped, probably the first night, right after they were put in.”

Enna fumbled at her full skirt. Probably she’d hidden one of the carving knives there, for protection. Druyan was too tired to smile at that—and could she call it foolish, in truth? A knife was a very fine weapon, even if it was meant for slicing bread. It could slice raider flesh just as well.

“They aren’t still here, Enna,” she said reassuringly. Ironically, when they’d needed to worry, they’d been blissfully unaware of any danger. “Probably the ones who got out went back to the sea, and their boat, and they’re gone. One was wounded, and they left him.” She sighed. “I suppose they’re like that, don’t even care about their own. He says he’ll work, so I have promised him that I’ll let him go when the barley’s in. It’s not much, but it’s one more pair of hands.”