Brightly Burning (47 page)

No one looked askance at a Green-clad Healer riding pillion behind a Herald; evidently that was just as familiar a sight as that of the Heralds themselves riding south. They were through the village quickly, and out into the countryside just as the first flurries began to fall.

Through air chill and quiet, without so much as a stirring of breeze, the tiny flakes dusted over the old snow and softened the edges of the bare branches. For a while it was a pleasure to ride beneath; he and Tuck actually started a game of trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues before they began to get truly hungry. By the time their stomachs were making embarrassing noises so that even Pol glanced back with a thin smile, they reached a village large enough to support an inn at last.

The Companions slowed to a walk just as Lan spotted the welcome sign hanging over a door, and Pol pulled them all up beneath it. They didn't dismount, though, much to Elenor's open dismay, and Lan's secret disappointment. One of the inn servitors brought hot meat and berry pies wrapped in napkins, and mugs of cider that steamed in the cold air. They ate in the saddle while the servant went back inside—though perhaps ate was too tame a word for the way they wolfed down the food—and exchanged empty mugs and napkins for packets of paper-wrapped sausage, bread, and cheese when the servant returned. Pol saluted the man, tossed him a coin as a tip, and they were off again before a quarter of a candlemark had passed.

The snow thickened as they ate, and soon after their departure it was no longer flurries, it was fat flakes. The air seemed a trifle warmer and held a distinct dampness; snow curtained the road in front of them, and the Companions slowed, although their pace was still faster than any horse would set.

:This is going to get thicker,:
Kalira said at last, the first that she had actually spoken since they left the Collegium.
:Not a blizzard, but a thick snowfall.
We
won't be terribly slowed, but they'll have to get the road crews out before nightfall.:

“It's going to take us longer to reach our inn than I thought,” Pol called back over his shoulder. “Are you all right with that, or would you rather we stopped at the first inn we find at about the time we expected to stop?”

The look of agony that Elenor cast back over her shoulder decided Lan. “Stop when we find an inn, please,” he replied. “It might not be as comfortable, but we're not used to riding for this long.”

“Ah. Right.” The startled, then thoughtful look that Pol gave back to him suggested to Lan that the senior Herald had understood who “we” really was. His next move confirmed it, as he directed them all to stop for a moment and get down to stretch their legs and take care of other pressing business. The snow was thick enough now to provide a modesty curtain for them all, which relieved Lan considerably. The cold made things awkward enough without the added factor of embarrassment in front of Elenor.

“She's not doing too badly yet,” Tuck observed, as they washed their hands with snow. “Not a peep out of her.”

Lan kept his doubts to himself, and just nodded. He really hoped that the rigors of this journey would convince Elenor to turn back around.

Pol mounted Satiran and extended his hand to his daughter. He pulled Elenor back up onto the pillion, and she tried not to wince. “No, sweetling, don't sit astride,” he told her, as she tried to get her leg over Satiran's rump. “Sit side-saddle fashion. We aren't going to be going that fast, you'll be safe enough, and it's a different position for your legs. You'll be all right.” The young Healer obeyed him. Although this was a less stable position, it clearly gave her aching legs a lot of relief, given her expression.

Pol looked back to see that the other two were mounted, and waved them on.

The snow was so thick now that Lan couldn't see more than a wagon's length to either side of the road, or ahead. They might just as well have been moving along on a treadmill, going nowhere. It was an odd feeling.

The snow itself, light and fluffy, took no effort for the Companions to push through. Things might be different, though, if the wind began to blow. Wind would create drifts and pack the snow hard where it collected. He hoped they wouldn't get any before they stopped for the night; it could turn the last hours of the day into a waking nightmare.

Not to mention what it would be like for the poor Companions.

:Thank you for thinking of me at last,:
Kalira teased.

:Perhaps I ought to stop thinking of things that can go wrong,:
he observed ironically, as a light wind picked up and blew the falling flakes toward them.

:Isn't that like trying not to think of a blue cow?:
she replied, and bowed her head into the wind.
:Better fasten your cloak tight while you still can.:

Lan took her advice, making certain that every clasp on his cloak was fastened tightly and that his scarf was wrapped around his neck and tucked in, tying the strings of his hood tight around his face. Glancing to the side, he saw that Tuck was doing the same, so he must have been warned. Pol, the old hand at this, needed no warning; he must have buttoned himself up while waiting for them to come back from stretching their legs.

The wind picked up noticeably, and as darkness fell, it was impossible to tell where the road was, much less where Pol and Tuck were. Lan just put his head down and closed his eyes, keeping one hand just holding the reins loosely, the other tucked inside his cloak. Wind-blown snow caked his cloak and hood, and after a few futile attempts to shake it off, he gave up and allowed it to collect. As the light faded into a thick, blue-tinged dusk, and from dusk into full dark, there was no sign of anyone living along the road, although Lan knew that they must be passing by farms and even small villages. Candles and lanterns couldn't penetrate this weather.

:The only way we're going to find an inn is by running into it!:
he said anxiously.

:No worries; we know where we are, even if you can't see,:
Kalira replied.
:Tuck's keeping track of exactly where the farms are in case we have to go to ground as someone's guest. He just opened up his shields a bit, without actually hearing anyone's thoughts; he can lead us straight to a farmhouse if need be. And Pol and Satiran have been this way a dozen times. It might seem like forever, but we'll be at an inn before they clear away the supper dishes and close the kitchen for the night.:

He certainly hoped so; with all of his precautions, he was still getting awfully cold. The wind found its way under his cloak in so many places it was useless to try to identify them and close them off. And luncheon was wearing mightily thin . . . he worried off one snow-caked glove with the help of his teeth, biting into the ice-crusted fingertips to hold it while he slipped his hand out. He certainly couldn't
see
well enough to keep track of a loose glove, and as for holding onto it with his other benumbed hand, already clutching reins and pommel, that was out of the question.

He fished his paper-wrapped package of bread and cheese out of his belt-pouch, unwrapped it, managed to stow the paper in his pouch and wriggle his fingers back into his glove without dropping anything. The cheese and bread weren't cut; a small, hand-sized loaf had one end cut out, a hollow made, and the cheese stuffed into it. That made less to drop, and it was easier for gloved hands to hold. He bit into it, getting drink as well as food in the form of the snow that coated every bite. The bread, cold-toughened and chewy, made his jaws ache, but it eased the hunger pains in his gut, and he was glad to have it. There was one thing to be said for tough, chewy bread; it didn't crumble the way pastry would. He had no way of cleaning up a mess at the moment.

Poor Kalira had nothing at all to sustain her, and he saved half of his bread for her, although it wasn't much more than a generous mouthful. He held it down near his knee and felt her turn her head and take it from him. With the bitless bridle that Companions wore, she could chew in complete comfort.

:Thank you, love,:
she said gratefully.
:That helps.:

He wondered how the others were faring. Elenor at least had her father's broad back to shelter behind; she couldn't possibly be as cold as he, Tuck, and Pol were. And she had Pol right with her; for all that he could sense, he and Kalira might have been completely on their own in this storm.

The wind howled and sobbed among the trees on either side of the road. At least, he assumed there were trees on either side of the road, since wind usually didn't make those sort of noises sweeping by itself, unintercepted across an empty plain. He
thought
he heard branches rattling above him, and hoped that none of them were weak enough to come down just as they were riding beneath.

:That would be bad,:
Kalira agreed.

Her response didn't exactly comfort him.

Soon,
he told himself.
She said it would be soon. If nothing else, we'll have something hot to eat and drink, a fire, and a flat place to sleep soon.
But it was impossible to tell how fast or slow they were going, and there was nothing to give him any clue to the passing of time. If his life depended on it, he couldn't have told how long it had been since he'd eaten that bread.

:We're nearly there,:
Kalira told him as he wriggled his numbing toes in his boots to try and get them a little warmer.
:If we could see through this muck, we'd see the inn windows from here.:

Wherever here was. But his heart warmed, even if his feet didn't, and he sat up a little straighter in the saddle—which turned out to be a mistake, as he immediately let in another cold draft under his cloak. Still, nearly there was accurate; sooner than he'd thought, they were dismounting stiffly in front of a tiny inn, distinguished chiefly by the wooden wheat sheaf over the door. Their hostess herself, a round bundle of cloak, conducted them to the stables after helping Elenor inside.

The stables were nothing but a single, stoutly-built shed, but the shed had thick walls made of mud-brick and a thatched roof, and that freedom from the driving wind alone made it seem as warm as a cozy kitchen. With the help of the hostess, Pol and Tuck dragged in straw for bedding and hay for fodder, while Lan filled buckets of water from the pump and set up more buckets of grain, then stripped all three Companions of their tack and rubbed them down. With straw knee-deep on the floor and blankets of wool patchwork thrown over them, the Companions munched their way gratefully through their belated dinners, and the Heralds followed the innkeeper back into the tiny inn.

Tiny it might be, but it was a snug little place, nicely warmed by a good fire. Elenor huddled beside it, but she wasn't just warming herself, she was tending a pot that bubbled over it.

“Ye be my on'y guests, sir Herald,” the innkeeper said to Pol as they both took off their cloaks and hung them on pegs cemented into the wall of the fireplace. “This's nout a big place, belike—” Her round face was anxious. “Have'na got guest room; on'y me own bed above. Girl can sleep wi' me, but—”

“So long as you have enough straw for us,” Pol replied. “We'll make do on the floor, and be grateful.”

Her anxious face lightened. “Ne need of straw—got featherbed beg enow for three. Pease pottage suit ye, or ye druther I kill a chicken?”

“
Anything
hot right now is far preferable even to a feast in a candlemark,” Pol laughed. “Come along, boys, let's give our hostess a hand.”

The inn was nothing more than a single room, really. There was no kitchen; all cooking was done on the hearth. The brick floor was spotlessly clean, though, with any vestige of dirt dug out with ruthless strokes of a straw broom and sent out the front door. With a bake oven built into the sides of the large fireplace, itself big enough to comfortably roast a small pig, and warming shelves built into the upper level, she had everything she needed for a kitchen. Shelves beside the fireplace held her dishes and pots, water came from the pump outside. There was one table, rough-hewn and black with age, two benches, and four little stools. The room was dominated by the barrels ranged along one wall; beer, soft cider, hard cider, and one small barrel of wine. This was not so much an inn as a village tavern, a place to eat a little and perhaps drink a great deal, but not a place intended to house travelers.

Nevertheless, this round, brown little woman was equal to her unplanned task. They all settled on stools on the hearth, wanting to soak up as much heat as possible. She scurried up into the loft after serving them all hot bowls of pease pottage and warm, buttered bread. While they ate, she lugged down a featherbed that preceded her and followed her on the ladder; she shoved the table to one side and piled the benches atop it, spread the featherbed on the floor, and added a couple of patchwork blankets identical to the ones she had supplied to the Companions.

Lan cradled his bowl in his lap, absorbing heat from it as he ate. He wasn't so much hungry now as just weary, and he basked in the heat like an old cat while he took slow bites of his bread, alternating with spoonfuls of pottage and sips of cider. When he finished the bowl, their hostess was at his elbow immediately.

“More?” she asked, taking his bowl. He shook his head. “Just sleep,” he told her, handing her his cup as well. As the heat soaked into him, so did weariness. He stood up as she bustled over to the wall, filled a basin with water from a bucket and began the washing-up.

He plodded the few steps over to the featherbed, took the spot nearest the wall, wrapped one of the blankets around himself, and sank down onto the mattress. For once, he didn't even dream of fire.