“Like your boots?” Aramal jerked his chin towards Vren’s foot.
“Aye,” Vren wiggled his toes in the hole. “And to see what I need to leave behind.”
“So? Worried about weight?”
“No,” Vren smiled. “The Wastes tolerate nothing forced by the hand of man.”
“So the stories are true?” Aramal’s curiosity was clear.
“Truth,” Vren said. “Step into the Waste with this,” he held up his steel dagger, “and it will return to the elements. I need to rid myself of that as well as things like this.” He held up a small tin box holding flint and steel.
“And I have to sharpen these,” he added, digging out his set of bone knives.
“Ho, now, those are lovely,” Aramal set harness and tools down and reached for the blades. Vren gave them up willingly. “The handle’s horn, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” Vren said. “But they don’t hold an edge like steel does, so I have to keep sharpening them.”
“You don’t use stone?”
“Never,” Vren said as a shiver ran down his spine.
Aramal didn’t seem to notice. He ran his fingers over the yellowed blades. “An odd sort of life, seems to me,” he said slowly.
“The one I know best,” Vren said.
“What are the Wastes like?” Aramal asked.
Vren took a moment to think.
“I’d not offend,” Aramal said quickly, into the silence. “I’ve never been out of Athelbryght and only travel to trade at our borders. I had a chance to leave once but…I didn’t take it. Not that I have a reason to leave, mind, but sometimes I get an itch to know.”
“No offense taken,” Vren said. “Just not sure I know the words. To your eye, the Wastes would seem desolate. Plant growth is sparse and scrubby. Trees don’t get much taller than me and the ground is stony, full of grit and sand. Water’s scarce.” He shook his head. “Shades of brown, yellow, tan.
“And the heat?” Vren rolled his shoulders at the memory. “At the height, sun burns like the hottest fire. I come to the border of the Wastes, I won’t be wearing leathers.” He reached into the depths of his pack and pulled out a cloth tunic and trous, and a rather battered straw hat.
“I’ll not tread in the full sun, either.” Vren smiled. “Walk early in the mornings, or after the sun peaks.”
“What about snakes?” Aramal asked. “And I heard tell of creatures called gurtles that hunt in packs.”
“Well, you always walk with both eyes open,” Vren said. “‘Cause everything in the Wastes is trying to kill ya.”
“Why live there, then?” Aramal asked, eyes alight with curiosity.
Vren hesitated. How to explain ancient oaths that bound them? “There’s a beauty to it,” he said, settling on something Aramal could accept. “In the Spring, after the rains, the Wastes become alive with color and the scent of growing things.” Vren lifted his head and flashed Aramal a grin. “And ya might be cold, but ya never find yourself balls deep in snow.”
Aramal laughed and returned Vren’s knives. “True enough, friend.”
“It is home,” Vren said; the longing in his voice caught him by surprise. “I am called to return.”
Aramal nodded. “As I would miss the scent of the harvest, and maybe, just maybe, the snow as deep as my balls.”
They shared a grin.
“What about that doll, then?” Aramal asked.
Vren turned to look. He’d forgotten he’d propped it against the wall, wrapped in its sling. “A distraction,” he grinned. “For any who might pursue me.”
Aramal shook his head. “Well, I’ll not pretend to understand, or ask for explanations. Just know you’d be welcome to stay, if you wished it.”
