THAT'S ALL: A STORY IN TEN SCENES
This is an accompaniment to Dawn Rising. If you haven’t read it yet, I suggest you go away and do that first. Fabithe’s attempt at developing emotional literacy will still be here when you get back.
The girl in his arms is bleeding, and there’s not a single cursed thing Fabithe can do about it. Because if they stop, even for the short time it would take to apply a bandage, they’ll be caught – and then she’ll die anyway.
“Is he following us?” she mumbles.
He looks down at her. She’s slumped against him, cheek pressed against his chest. One hand clutches his coat. For an instant he feels a surge of protectiveness, but he quashes it ruthlessly. She’s more useful to him alive, that’s all.
“No,” he tells her. “You’re safe.”
“Is he following us?” she mumbles.
He looks down at her. She’s slumped against him, cheek pressed against his chest. One hand clutches his coat. For an instant he feels a surge of protectiveness, but he quashes it ruthlessly. She’s more useful to him alive, that’s all.
“No,” he tells her. “You’re safe.”
Alyssia really does care about the Sapphire girl. Fabithe watches as she talks softly, reassuring her. He can’t conceive of what would make someone put their own life in danger for the sake of a person they’d only ever seen in a vision. She’s my friend, Alyssia said. But how can she be, when they’d never met before tonight?
His gaze moves to Oriana. She’s in much the same position as he was yesterday: trusting a stranger because she had nothing to lose. His trust in Alyssia has gained him … well, Oriana herself, he supposes. Even now, part of his mind is busy with ways that he might turn this to his advantage. Use her against Ifor. Gain the revenge that he’s awaited for so long.
But then what would Oriana’s trust have gained her?
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. She’s a means to an end. That’s all. But there’s an edge of unease to the thought, a quiet discomfort.
Alyssia looks up. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
His gaze moves to Oriana. She’s in much the same position as he was yesterday: trusting a stranger because she had nothing to lose. His trust in Alyssia has gained him … well, Oriana herself, he supposes. Even now, part of his mind is busy with ways that he might turn this to his advantage. Use her against Ifor. Gain the revenge that he’s awaited for so long.
But then what would Oriana’s trust have gained her?
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. She’s a means to an end. That’s all. But there’s an edge of unease to the thought, a quiet discomfort.
Alyssia looks up. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Fabithe storms down the stairs and out of the house without a backwards glance, ignoring Luthan’s half-formed question as he passes. His stomach is churning with a mixture of anger and bitter memory.
He carved his name into her back. I knew he was a monster, but this …
Once he’s lost himself among the trees, he tries to relieve his feelings by kicking one of them. It doesn’t help. He wishes he hadn’t stabbed the table, back in that little upstairs room where they’re tending to Oriana, but only because now he wants to stab the tree and he can’t leave a trail of embedded knives all over this island like some kind of lunatic.
He’s not felt this unbalanced since he left the Westlands. He’s dangerously close to having no control over himself at all. The knowledge does nothing to improve his sense of stability.
A reminder of the past. That’s all. Being confronted with another example of his enemy’s endless talent for destruction has awoken fresh pain from an old wound. He just needs to get a grip on himself. Work out how to make the best of the situation. It doesn’t matter that Oriana did nothing to deserve what’s happened to her. It doesn’t matter that she and he have something so fundamental in common. If he wants to take his revenge for what happened to him, he has to be willing to use her. He has to be willing to be as ruthless as Ifor himself. In fact, he should never have listened to Alyssia in the first place, when she begged him to put saving Oriana’s life above everything else. He should have stayed in the Citadel and made an ending, one way or the other.
He carved his name into her back. She must have felt –
“It doesn’t matter how she felt,” he snarls, kicking the tree again.
But it does.
He carved his name into her back. I knew he was a monster, but this …
Once he’s lost himself among the trees, he tries to relieve his feelings by kicking one of them. It doesn’t help. He wishes he hadn’t stabbed the table, back in that little upstairs room where they’re tending to Oriana, but only because now he wants to stab the tree and he can’t leave a trail of embedded knives all over this island like some kind of lunatic.
He’s not felt this unbalanced since he left the Westlands. He’s dangerously close to having no control over himself at all. The knowledge does nothing to improve his sense of stability.
A reminder of the past. That’s all. Being confronted with another example of his enemy’s endless talent for destruction has awoken fresh pain from an old wound. He just needs to get a grip on himself. Work out how to make the best of the situation. It doesn’t matter that Oriana did nothing to deserve what’s happened to her. It doesn’t matter that she and he have something so fundamental in common. If he wants to take his revenge for what happened to him, he has to be willing to use her. He has to be willing to be as ruthless as Ifor himself. In fact, he should never have listened to Alyssia in the first place, when she begged him to put saving Oriana’s life above everything else. He should have stayed in the Citadel and made an ending, one way or the other.
He carved his name into her back. She must have felt –
“It doesn’t matter how she felt,” he snarls, kicking the tree again.
But it does.
After his first real conversation with Oriana, he doesn’t sleep for a whole night. Usually he snatches some sleep, somewhere in the long darkness. Even if it’s only a moment or two, an uneasy doze. But on this particular night, every time he closes his eyes, guilt stings him awake again. Guilt, and his own words.
Think of it as a wedding gift.
My interest in you is as a weapon, nothing more.
All I need you to do is stay alive. Surely even you can manage that.
He’s not sure why it’s bothering him so much. This is what his life is, now: all sharp edges and defences. He’s not exchanged a kind word with anyone in years. There’s no reason for his interactions with Oriana to be any more pleasant than his interactions with the rest of the world. There’s no reason for him to be hot all over with shame. It’s just Alyssia, getting inside his head.
Be nice to her! She’s terrified of you!
But he doesn’t know how. Not any more.
By the time dawn comes, he’s admitted to himself that for whatever foolish, half-baked reason, he wants to apologise to her. Not hold her hand or bring her flowers or whatever nonsense Alyssia would define as being nice. Just tell her he’s sorry. That’s all.
But since he doesn’t know how to do that either, he’ll simply stay out of her way from now on. It’s the least he can do.
Think of it as a wedding gift.
My interest in you is as a weapon, nothing more.
All I need you to do is stay alive. Surely even you can manage that.
He’s not sure why it’s bothering him so much. This is what his life is, now: all sharp edges and defences. He’s not exchanged a kind word with anyone in years. There’s no reason for his interactions with Oriana to be any more pleasant than his interactions with the rest of the world. There’s no reason for him to be hot all over with shame. It’s just Alyssia, getting inside his head.
Be nice to her! She’s terrified of you!
But he doesn’t know how. Not any more.
By the time dawn comes, he’s admitted to himself that for whatever foolish, half-baked reason, he wants to apologise to her. Not hold her hand or bring her flowers or whatever nonsense Alyssia would define as being nice. Just tell her he’s sorry. That’s all.
But since he doesn’t know how to do that either, he’ll simply stay out of her way from now on. It’s the least he can do.
Alone in a small clearing, Fabithe sits on a tree stump and practises throwing knives at a knot in the bark of a nearby tree.
Swish. Thunk. The blade cuts the knot neatly in two. He retrieves the weapon and does it again.
Swish. Thunk. Retrieve.
He’s been out here since first light, after fetching water for the household and restoking the fire. Better to keep himself apart. Better to avoid the conversation and the company. It’s that or run the risk of forgetting why he’s here.
Swish. Thunk. Retrieve.
Oriana’s voice rises from elsewhere on the island, a brief teasing call whose words he can’t make out, and his hand wavers.
Swish. Clatter. The knife bounces off the tree trunk and falls into the undergrowth.
Fabithe stares at the spot where it disappeared. Maybe he should go to her and say … what? He’s not sure. He just wants to see her, that’s all.
Ridiculous.
And given that he’s the last person she’d want to see, frankly counterproductive.
As he fishes the knife out of the brambles, he thinks about leaving. His revenge, after all, is becoming more non-existent by the day. Keep Oriana safe. What kind of plan is that? He might as well be back in Easterwood, gambling with rich fools and drinking away the profits. At least then he wouldn’t feel so consistently, unrelentingly terrible.
But he’d also lose the chance ever to make things right with her – and apparently, that now matters to him.
Briefly he considers stabbing himself, in the hope that pain might somehow snap him out of … whatever this is. Instead, he returns to the stump and seeks out a smaller, more distant knot in another tree trunk. He’ll stay, for now. It’s not beyond possibility that a chance to murder Ifor will still present itself. And if not, he can always leave. He can leave any time he likes.
Swish. Thunk. The blade cuts the knot neatly in two. He retrieves the weapon and does it again.
Swish. Thunk. Retrieve.
He’s been out here since first light, after fetching water for the household and restoking the fire. Better to keep himself apart. Better to avoid the conversation and the company. It’s that or run the risk of forgetting why he’s here.
Swish. Thunk. Retrieve.
Oriana’s voice rises from elsewhere on the island, a brief teasing call whose words he can’t make out, and his hand wavers.
Swish. Clatter. The knife bounces off the tree trunk and falls into the undergrowth.
Fabithe stares at the spot where it disappeared. Maybe he should go to her and say … what? He’s not sure. He just wants to see her, that’s all.
Ridiculous.
And given that he’s the last person she’d want to see, frankly counterproductive.
As he fishes the knife out of the brambles, he thinks about leaving. His revenge, after all, is becoming more non-existent by the day. Keep Oriana safe. What kind of plan is that? He might as well be back in Easterwood, gambling with rich fools and drinking away the profits. At least then he wouldn’t feel so consistently, unrelentingly terrible.
But he’d also lose the chance ever to make things right with her – and apparently, that now matters to him.
Briefly he considers stabbing himself, in the hope that pain might somehow snap him out of … whatever this is. Instead, he returns to the stump and seeks out a smaller, more distant knot in another tree trunk. He’ll stay, for now. It’s not beyond possibility that a chance to murder Ifor will still present itself. And if not, he can always leave. He can leave any time he likes.
Fabithe has never tried teaching anyone anything before. Turns out, it’s not easy as you might think. Particularly when you’ve previously succeeded in terrifying your student with the intensity of your own misguided rage.
He looks at Oriana. She looks back at him, shame and frustration clear to read in her face. She’ll not learn anything from him until she’s no longer afraid – which means that first, he has to prove she can trust him. And there’s only one way he can think of to do it.
“Let’s try something different,” he says. “Have you ever thrown a punch?”
She shakes her head.
“Curl your fist like this.” He reaches for her hand. Tension radiates from every line of her, but she lets him wrap his fingers around hers. “Stand a little wider – swing from the shoulder –”
Stepping back, he spreads his arms wide. Calm. Relaxed. Not a threat.
“Now,” he says. “Hit me.”
“I –”
“It’s all right. I won’t retaliate, no matter how hard you do it.”
Still she hesitates. And fair enough, it must go against every instinct she possesses. She’ll be used to swift vengeance if she puts a toe out of line – but he swallows the flare of anger provoked by the thought, because it really won’t help if she senses anger from him right now.
“It’s all right,” he says again.
She punches him softly on the upper arm.
“Again. Harder.”
Her cheeks heat, but he also catches an answering spark in her eyes. Like him, she has reason to be angry – but unlike him, her anger won’t frighten anybody. Far better for her to release it than to let it burn inside her.
“Oriana,” he says, catching her gaze with his own. “Hit me again.”
She does it, putting more of her weight behind it this time. He falls back a step before recovering himself. “Harder.”
She punches him. Then again. And now he no longer needs to encourage her. One fist. The other fist. Both together. She pummels his chest, as hard as she can, driving him backwards. Tears brim in her eyes and spill down her cheeks as she hits him and hits him –
“See?” He catches her wrists, because it’s really starting to hurt now. “You’re stronger than you think.”
She crumples against his chest, weeping. And suddenly he’s not sure what to do. He was comfortable with being punched, but this is something else entirely.
Very tentatively, he puts his arms around her. A surprising warmth coils in his stomach: a combination of fear and contentment. He had no idea such an emotion could even exist. It’s thoroughly confusing.
But it doesn’t have to be, he tells himself. It doesn’t have to be anything. Better that she trusts him, that’s all.
He looks at Oriana. She looks back at him, shame and frustration clear to read in her face. She’ll not learn anything from him until she’s no longer afraid – which means that first, he has to prove she can trust him. And there’s only one way he can think of to do it.
“Let’s try something different,” he says. “Have you ever thrown a punch?”
She shakes her head.
“Curl your fist like this.” He reaches for her hand. Tension radiates from every line of her, but she lets him wrap his fingers around hers. “Stand a little wider – swing from the shoulder –”
Stepping back, he spreads his arms wide. Calm. Relaxed. Not a threat.
“Now,” he says. “Hit me.”
“I –”
“It’s all right. I won’t retaliate, no matter how hard you do it.”
Still she hesitates. And fair enough, it must go against every instinct she possesses. She’ll be used to swift vengeance if she puts a toe out of line – but he swallows the flare of anger provoked by the thought, because it really won’t help if she senses anger from him right now.
“It’s all right,” he says again.
She punches him softly on the upper arm.
“Again. Harder.”
Her cheeks heat, but he also catches an answering spark in her eyes. Like him, she has reason to be angry – but unlike him, her anger won’t frighten anybody. Far better for her to release it than to let it burn inside her.
“Oriana,” he says, catching her gaze with his own. “Hit me again.”
She does it, putting more of her weight behind it this time. He falls back a step before recovering himself. “Harder.”
She punches him. Then again. And now he no longer needs to encourage her. One fist. The other fist. Both together. She pummels his chest, as hard as she can, driving him backwards. Tears brim in her eyes and spill down her cheeks as she hits him and hits him –
“See?” He catches her wrists, because it’s really starting to hurt now. “You’re stronger than you think.”
She crumples against his chest, weeping. And suddenly he’s not sure what to do. He was comfortable with being punched, but this is something else entirely.
Very tentatively, he puts his arms around her. A surprising warmth coils in his stomach: a combination of fear and contentment. He had no idea such an emotion could even exist. It’s thoroughly confusing.
But it doesn’t have to be, he tells himself. It doesn’t have to be anything. Better that she trusts him, that’s all.
On their second day out from Othitali, Oriana succeeds in literally flooring him.
He’s decided to move on from how to throw a punch and how to hold a knife. It’s not as if she’s trying to become a warrior; what she needs more than anything is self-defence. Hence the demonstration of how to catch a man off guard, how to disarm him and run. Apparently that lesson was more effective than the rest.
He hits the ground hard enough that he’s completely winded. He lies there trying to catch his breath, conscious of a glow of pride that he does his best to rationalise as pride in his own teaching. After a while, her anxious face appears above him.
“Are you all right?”
“That hurt.” He intended it as a compliment, but her expression becomes more nervous still.
“I am sorry. I did not intend –”
“I mean it was good.” He picks himself up, wincing internally as she backs away a step. “You’re a fast learner.”
She looks uncertain.
“It’s true, Oriana. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
It was a throwaway remark, really, but she scrutinises his face as if she’s weighing up the words in her mind.
“No,” she agrees finally. “I do not believe you would.”
He doesn’t know what to say. No matter which way he cuts it, he can’t see what she just said as anything other than a compliment. And somehow, it’s left him more breathless than when he was on the floor.
“Thank you,” she adds. “For the lessons.”
He represses the urge to give her a shy smile, on the grounds that he’s never done anything of the kind in his life and doesn’t intend to start now.
“Just helping you stay safe,” he says gruffly. “That’s all.”
He’s decided to move on from how to throw a punch and how to hold a knife. It’s not as if she’s trying to become a warrior; what she needs more than anything is self-defence. Hence the demonstration of how to catch a man off guard, how to disarm him and run. Apparently that lesson was more effective than the rest.
He hits the ground hard enough that he’s completely winded. He lies there trying to catch his breath, conscious of a glow of pride that he does his best to rationalise as pride in his own teaching. After a while, her anxious face appears above him.
“Are you all right?”
“That hurt.” He intended it as a compliment, but her expression becomes more nervous still.
“I am sorry. I did not intend –”
“I mean it was good.” He picks himself up, wincing internally as she backs away a step. “You’re a fast learner.”
She looks uncertain.
“It’s true, Oriana. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
It was a throwaway remark, really, but she scrutinises his face as if she’s weighing up the words in her mind.
“No,” she agrees finally. “I do not believe you would.”
He doesn’t know what to say. No matter which way he cuts it, he can’t see what she just said as anything other than a compliment. And somehow, it’s left him more breathless than when he was on the floor.
“Thank you,” she adds. “For the lessons.”
He represses the urge to give her a shy smile, on the grounds that he’s never done anything of the kind in his life and doesn’t intend to start now.
“Just helping you stay safe,” he says gruffly. “That’s all.”
He doesn’t realise that Oriana is panicking until she’s deep in the throes of it. He was focused on running. On making sure both of them leave Bridgehold not only alive, but free. But now she’s wavering on her feet, looking sick and dizzy and like she doesn’t know quite where she is, and it’s too late to head it off.
“Breathe,” he says, supporting her as she starts to fall. “It’s all right.”
Perhaps she’d have been better off falling, because his touch only tips her over the edge. A flailing fist connects with his cheekbone. The toe of her boot drives sharply into his shin. He loses his grip on her; she drops to her hands and knees, gasping.
“I’m sorry,” he says, though the glazed fear in her eyes tells him that she’s not really taking it in. “I can’t leave you in the middle of the street.”
He hauls her back to her feet again and half-drags, half-carries her down a side alley, gritting his teeth against the clawing and the kicking. It says a lot about Bridgehold that despite her obvious distress, no one makes the slightest move to intervene.
“You’re safe,” he tells her. “I promise.”
In response, she sinks his teeth into his hand. The shock of it makes him swear. Immediately her fierceness fades, to be replaced by frozen terror. She crouches on the ground without looking up, as if she expects instant retribution.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, throat tight with painful empathy. Trying not to loom, he sits down beside her and very cautiously rests a hand on her back. Her ribcage heaves beneath his palm. “I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, but you really are safe. He’s not here. I …”
He hesitates. There’s no reason to give away too much of himself. Just because he recognises what she’s feeling, doesn’t mean he has to tell her so. She might not even hear him, so consumed is she by the shadows of her own past.
“I understand,” he says finally. “That’s all. I’ve been where you are, and the memories will fade.”
Maybe her breathing is slower. Hard to tell. He wants to wrap his arms around her. He wants to absorb her pain so she doesn’t have to feel it. He knows all of that is silly, but he can’t bring himself to care.
“It’s all right,” he tells her again. “You’re safe.”
“Breathe,” he says, supporting her as she starts to fall. “It’s all right.”
Perhaps she’d have been better off falling, because his touch only tips her over the edge. A flailing fist connects with his cheekbone. The toe of her boot drives sharply into his shin. He loses his grip on her; she drops to her hands and knees, gasping.
“I’m sorry,” he says, though the glazed fear in her eyes tells him that she’s not really taking it in. “I can’t leave you in the middle of the street.”
He hauls her back to her feet again and half-drags, half-carries her down a side alley, gritting his teeth against the clawing and the kicking. It says a lot about Bridgehold that despite her obvious distress, no one makes the slightest move to intervene.
“You’re safe,” he tells her. “I promise.”
In response, she sinks his teeth into his hand. The shock of it makes him swear. Immediately her fierceness fades, to be replaced by frozen terror. She crouches on the ground without looking up, as if she expects instant retribution.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, throat tight with painful empathy. Trying not to loom, he sits down beside her and very cautiously rests a hand on her back. Her ribcage heaves beneath his palm. “I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, but you really are safe. He’s not here. I …”
He hesitates. There’s no reason to give away too much of himself. Just because he recognises what she’s feeling, doesn’t mean he has to tell her so. She might not even hear him, so consumed is she by the shadows of her own past.
“I understand,” he says finally. “That’s all. I’ve been where you are, and the memories will fade.”
Maybe her breathing is slower. Hard to tell. He wants to wrap his arms around her. He wants to absorb her pain so she doesn’t have to feel it. He knows all of that is silly, but he can’t bring himself to care.
“It’s all right,” he tells her again. “You’re safe.”
On the night they spend in the Iron Fortress, after his customary snatch of sleep, Fabithe wakes up feeling happy. This is sufficiently unusual that he stops to think about it. He’s used to waking up to something along the lines of Guess I’m still alive, then. Not This is a beautiful day in which anything is possible. The latter is so unfamiliar an emotion that he finds it quite suspicious.
Upon careful examination, he’s able to identify a single reason for this unnatural ebullience: last night, Oriana held his hand.
She overcame her very reasonable discomfort around you for a very short time, he tells himself, cursing his own foolishness. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.
Yet he can’t stop the swell of happiness.
Upon careful examination, he’s able to identify a single reason for this unnatural ebullience: last night, Oriana held his hand.
She overcame her very reasonable discomfort around you for a very short time, he tells himself, cursing his own foolishness. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.
Yet he can’t stop the swell of happiness.
“Not so cloudy tonight,” Fabithe says.
The horse keeps walking.
“Makes a change to see the stars.”
The horse keeps walking.
“Ever wonder what they’re made of?”
The horse snorts.
“That’s what I like about you, Hilu. You’re a brilliant conversationalist.”
Fabithe and the horse are the only two people awake in the entire world, or at least that’s how it feels. When he stops talking, it’s just the creak of the cartwheels and the whisper of the wind and Hilu’s steady feet, and the darkness seems to press in around them like muffling fabric. He and the others are taking turns to walk and to sleep in the cart, but since he barely ever sleeps, he’s doing most of the walking. Which is fine. He and the horse get on well enough.
“Not far now,” he says, patting the horse’s neck. “You’re doing a grand job, Hilu.”
“I thought you did not want to name him,” a voice says behind them, and he spins on his heel to find Oriana peering over the side of the cart. How long has she been there? His heart is racing; he tells himself it’s just surprise.
“You can’t name someone who already has a name,” he says. “Did I wake you?”
By which he really means Did you hear me talking to the horse about the stars? But Oriana shakes her head.
“Bad dreams.” She hesitates a moment, then ventures, “Would you like some company, for a while?”
Her eyes are shadowed. He can imagine what kind of nightmares she has.
“That would be nice,” he says.
He lifts her down from the cart. She wobbles, clinging to his arms a moment before letting go.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling up at him. “I hope I will be a better conversationalist than Hilu.”
So she did hear. And now she’s teasing him about it. He shouldn’t like it, but he does.
“Hilu and I have an understanding,” he says, as they set off walking side by side. “Don’t we, Hilu?”
Plod. Jingle. Snort.
“Can I ask you something?” Oriana offers.
“As long as it has nothing to do with the horse.”
“We would all be happy to take a turn keeping watch. And you must be tired. So –”
“Maybe you’re not the only one who has bad dreams.” He intended it flippantly: a way of heading off the question unasked. But she nods as if she hears every dark thing he wants to hide.
“How about another lesson?” he suggests hastily.
“Your lessons have already helped me kill a man,” she says, the shadows returning to her eyes. It’s not an accusation, but he feels it in the pit of his stomach like one. “What else is there?”
“This one is different.”
“All right.”
“See that line of three stars? That’s called the Knife. It points to Thiolri, the Guiding Star. Brightest star in the sky. It’s always due north, wherever you are in Endarion.”
She gazes in the direction of his pointing finger. In the starlight her expression is rapt, as if this small fact is a thing of wonder to her.
“Handy for navigation,” Fabithe adds. “Assuming there’s no cloud, which ...” He shrugs.
“I like this lesson much better than the others,” Oriana says softly. “When I was a child I always dreamed of travelling. Seeing the world, the way you have.”
He waves an arm to encompass their surroundings. “And what do you think of it so far?”
“It is darker and muddier than I expected.”
He laughs. “That about sums it up.”
They walk on in comfortable silence for a while. Then Oriana offers, “You know … you are always welcome to talk to me, if you are awake at night and want company.”
He looks sideways at her. This is dangerous, his sense of self-preservation tells him. You have enough foolish feelings about her already. No need to encourage them.
But a warmer emotion is also blooming inside him, something he’s not felt for a long time. Because perhaps, after all, it would be good to have a friend.
“And you’re always welcome to talk to me,” he says quietly. “If you have bad dreams.”
A friend. That’s all.
The horse keeps walking.
“Makes a change to see the stars.”
The horse keeps walking.
“Ever wonder what they’re made of?”
The horse snorts.
“That’s what I like about you, Hilu. You’re a brilliant conversationalist.”
Fabithe and the horse are the only two people awake in the entire world, or at least that’s how it feels. When he stops talking, it’s just the creak of the cartwheels and the whisper of the wind and Hilu’s steady feet, and the darkness seems to press in around them like muffling fabric. He and the others are taking turns to walk and to sleep in the cart, but since he barely ever sleeps, he’s doing most of the walking. Which is fine. He and the horse get on well enough.
“Not far now,” he says, patting the horse’s neck. “You’re doing a grand job, Hilu.”
“I thought you did not want to name him,” a voice says behind them, and he spins on his heel to find Oriana peering over the side of the cart. How long has she been there? His heart is racing; he tells himself it’s just surprise.
“You can’t name someone who already has a name,” he says. “Did I wake you?”
By which he really means Did you hear me talking to the horse about the stars? But Oriana shakes her head.
“Bad dreams.” She hesitates a moment, then ventures, “Would you like some company, for a while?”
Her eyes are shadowed. He can imagine what kind of nightmares she has.
“That would be nice,” he says.
He lifts her down from the cart. She wobbles, clinging to his arms a moment before letting go.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling up at him. “I hope I will be a better conversationalist than Hilu.”
So she did hear. And now she’s teasing him about it. He shouldn’t like it, but he does.
“Hilu and I have an understanding,” he says, as they set off walking side by side. “Don’t we, Hilu?”
Plod. Jingle. Snort.
“Can I ask you something?” Oriana offers.
“As long as it has nothing to do with the horse.”
“We would all be happy to take a turn keeping watch. And you must be tired. So –”
“Maybe you’re not the only one who has bad dreams.” He intended it flippantly: a way of heading off the question unasked. But she nods as if she hears every dark thing he wants to hide.
“How about another lesson?” he suggests hastily.
“Your lessons have already helped me kill a man,” she says, the shadows returning to her eyes. It’s not an accusation, but he feels it in the pit of his stomach like one. “What else is there?”
“This one is different.”
“All right.”
“See that line of three stars? That’s called the Knife. It points to Thiolri, the Guiding Star. Brightest star in the sky. It’s always due north, wherever you are in Endarion.”
She gazes in the direction of his pointing finger. In the starlight her expression is rapt, as if this small fact is a thing of wonder to her.
“Handy for navigation,” Fabithe adds. “Assuming there’s no cloud, which ...” He shrugs.
“I like this lesson much better than the others,” Oriana says softly. “When I was a child I always dreamed of travelling. Seeing the world, the way you have.”
He waves an arm to encompass their surroundings. “And what do you think of it so far?”
“It is darker and muddier than I expected.”
He laughs. “That about sums it up.”
They walk on in comfortable silence for a while. Then Oriana offers, “You know … you are always welcome to talk to me, if you are awake at night and want company.”
He looks sideways at her. This is dangerous, his sense of self-preservation tells him. You have enough foolish feelings about her already. No need to encourage them.
But a warmer emotion is also blooming inside him, something he’s not felt for a long time. Because perhaps, after all, it would be good to have a friend.
“And you’re always welcome to talk to me,” he says quietly. “If you have bad dreams.”
A friend. That’s all.
