“I don’t remember any of it after falling from my horse. I must have heard the sound of the river.” His gaze flicked over the spot, taking it in, before he turned to her. “There was no sign any of my men came this way?”
She shook her head. “It looks like they turned just past the creek and went deeper into the forest. I’ll see what I can find.”
She moved away from him, not liking his nearness. It made her skin itch. He returned to the horses, taking them down to the water to drink while she studied the ground. She confirmed what she’d already suspected. His men had all fled south, following…something. She saw no sign that any of them had returned. She crouched at a bare spot at the top of the hill, staring at what looked like a wolf track…if the wolf in question had daggers for claws and ten-inch paws. The rain had likely distorted the track. It couldn’t really be that big. Nothing was that big.
There was a small cluster of Lorsan that had been crushed underfoot. The tiny white flowers had withered to gray. The leaves were black and slimy as if touched by disease, but the rest of the land here was healthy.
She could feel that where her hand was pressed to the ground. This spot hadn’t yet been taken by the sickness that infected the deep woods. The trees whispered to her gently.
Child… Child…
There was nothing hostile in it. The blackened Lorsan was out of place, a wound on otherwise healthy ground. She looked up at the sound of a footstep behind her.
“Can you track them?” the witch hunter asked.
“Yes.” The same way she’d tracked him—with blood and magic. She couldn’t tell him that though. She couldn’t let him see it, or he’d do worse than just brand her. “The trail still points toward the swamp.”
And the fort…and the witch.
He peered past her into the darkening woods. “We follow for two hours and then set camp. We want to be well settled before dark.”
She had no argument with that.
She founda safe spot for them to sleep—safe-ish anyway—in the lee of a hill that would shield them from the wind, beneath trees that still hummed with good health. The witch hunter saw to the horses. She gathered wood for the fire. He cooked a small stew from some dried meat and a handful of potatoes he pulled from his bag. She cleaned the dishes when they were done. They took turns washing in the nearby stream.
They didn’t exchange more than a few terse words as she changed his bandage. She focused on the scabbed gashes on his torso and didn’t let her eyes wander over the stretch of skin and muscle. She didn’t think about the warm give of his flesh or the light dusting of hair on his body that caught the fading light. She didn’t notice any of it at all. And she would keep on not noticing it until they parted ways.
They worked remarkably well together for strangers who hated each other, moving like they’d been doing this for years. She supposed the witch hunter was accustomed to this life, sleeping on the hard ground, eating food cooked over an open fire, washing in streams. And she was accustomed to dealing with whatever fresh fuckery came her way. So it worked, their temporary truce. She didn’t have to like him. She just had to focus on the two hundred cord he’d promised her. A few days of awkwardness and discomfort was surely worth that much.
He handed her a cup of tea and sat down beside her before their small fire. Steam rose from the dented rim. The scent wrapped around her like a hug. It was her mother’s blend, for peace and restful sleep.
“Are you very sore?” he asked. “The first days on patrol can be difficult for a new rider.”
“My thighs are chafed and my backside is bruised, but I have liniment and an assortment of salves in my bag. Don’t worry. It won’t slow me down.”
He gave her a bemused smile. “Are you always so blunt?”
“You asked the question.”
“I did,” he admitted. “I didn’t expect a straight answer.”
“Why not?” she asked, curious despite herself.
He took a sip of his tea as he considered it. “Most of the women I know would have evaded the question and then thanked me for my concern before changing the subject.” She must have still looked confused because he added, “It’s considered rude for a woman to talk about her thighs and backside to a man who isn’t her husband.”
“That’s stupid.” She wrinkled her nose. “What if they get hurt and have to go to a healer?” Did they just gesture vaguely at the injury or ignore it until the wound festered?
“I imagine the rules are different for healers and female soldiers,” he said. “I don’t come into contact with them oftenenough to know. They don’t allow women to ride on patrol, so most of my interactions are with town society.”
It reminded her of all the rules her mother had made her follow in Jarn. She’d forgotten most of them. She supposed she’d have to relearn them all once they moved.
“Why don’t they allow women on patrol?”
His gaze moved over her face, touched her eyes, lips. He shook his head and looked back at the fire.
“The Church says it’s because witches are always women. No one knows why. Some people think it’s because they’re the weaker sex, but I don’t think there’s much truth to that. Physically, maybe, but men are as likely to fold to a witch’s influence as women are.”
“I’ve heard that it’s a corruption of women’s ability to bring life into the world. The same force that can bring a child into the world can bring darkness too. That men can’t hold another life inside them, even if it’s an unnatural one.”
