"I did," Rhavas agreed.
Even more slowly, Ingegerd went on, "I thank you for it—do not mistake me, very holy sir. But mayhap it would be well to remind you once more that I am Himerios' wife, and still have every hope of finding my husband once more."
"I hope you do. I am with you to help you do it, as Himerios himself charged me to do," Rhavas said, and most of that was true. The first four words? Perhaps not. He thought of asking her what she would do if she could not find Himerios, or if she found he had fallen in the fighting. He thought of it, but kept silent. The question, he judged, would make her angry or make her wary. He wanted neither.
He looked back over his shoulder. The woods were well distant now. One Khamorth came out into the open and stared south, no doubt wondering how all the horses could have disappeared. That made Rhavas laugh, but only for a moment. If mounted plainsmen found the others, they might all pursue.
Ingegerd looked back, too. She saw what Rhavas had not. "The clouds are boiling out of the north," she said. "Another storm is coming. I was hoping we were through with them."
"We had better look for shelter, then," Rhavas said. "I would not want to be caught in the open." If his voice was troubled, who could blame him? He saw nothing that looked like a refuge, not even more trees ahead.
"With all these horses to keep us warm, we can shelter in the snow if we must." Ingegerd sounded more confident than Rhavas felt. But she went on, "Still, you are not mistaken, very holy sir. Shelter would be better."
Rhavas pointed ahead, to a low swell of ground. "Maybe we will be able to see something from there." He did not really believe it, but sometimes hope had to do. He and Ingegerd rode forward. Even as they did, the wind began to freshen. The air had a raw feel to it, a feel of storm, of snow, of sleet.
And when they reached the top of the hillock, the prelate and the Haloga woman both exclaimed in glad surprise. There not too far ahead stood a farmhouse and a barn. Whether anyone lived on the farm these days was liable to be a different question, but the buildings would help hold out a blizzard either way.
Snow started swirling around the travelers before they reached the farm. When they came up to the farmhouse, Rhavas saw it was fire-damaged. He hallooed, but only silence answered him. He and Ingegerd got the horses into the barn, which had also seen the touch of flames. That didn't worry him so much. Khamorth ponies endured all sorts of hardships out on the steppe. He doubted one more snowstorm would faze them.
By then, he also doubted whether one more snowstorm would faze him. Had he been back behind Skopentzana's walls, he would have grumbled about the dreadful weather. All the natives of the place would have laughed at him as an effete southerner. Everybody would have been happy.
These days, happiness involved smaller things—or rather, larger ones. Staying alive another day kept people happy. Escaping enemies made them happy. And seeing those enemies fall over dead . . . Yes, Rhavas knew he had rejoiced when the Khamorth sentry crumpled.
Not finding any frozen corpses inside the battered farmhouse also made him happy. The folk who'd lived here must have got out before the plainsmen set fire to the place. Rhavas prayed they'd reached the shelter of a walled town before barbarians came upon them.
Even as he asked that mercy of Phos, he wondered how much good the prayer would do. The good god seemed to have ignored every other prayer he'd sent up. He did not know why Phos had turned his back on Videssos and on him in particular, but only a blind man, he thought, could have doubted it was so.
Outside, the wind began to howl in earnest. Snow blew by almost horizontally. The stone walls and what was left of the farmhouse's roof did give some protection, though.
"I think we will have to break up some of the furniture to build a fire on the hearth," Ingegerd said.
"Lucky it didn't all burn already," Rhavas said, and she nodded. They tore a couple of stools to pieces. She used flint and steel to start a small blaze, then put more wood on it. And then she produced strips of smoked meat and a leather sack full of coarse flour. Rhavas gaped. "Where did you come by those?"
"I searched the saddlebags on some of the steeds we took," she answered. He bowed, honoring her good sense. He wouldn't have thought of that—he hadn't thought of it. She found an iron griddle the nomads hadn't bothered stealing. "Let me get some snow to melt into water and I can make wheatcakes," she said. "They will not be of the best, but they will fill our bellies."
She had that exactly right. The wheatcakes were anything but delicious, ending up both bland and burnt. The meat was tough enough to challenge Rhavas' chewing. But all of it was ever so much better than going hungry.
After that unlovely but still satisfying supper, Rhavas glanced toward the bed against the far wall. The night would be cold—it was already cold. Even so, he said, "I will sleep here on the floor by the hearth if you like."
That Ingegerd even paused to think about it wounded him. But she quickly shook her head. "No need for that, very holy sir, for we can both use the warmth we give each other." Her smile held just a hint of mischief. "Not that sort of warmth, as you will understand. We are both enjoined against that, even if each for different reasons."
"Yes," Rhavas said. "I do understand."
"I thought you did." Ingegerd's smile grew warmer; firelight danced in her eyes. "I told you before that you were not to blame for what happened a few days ago, and I meant it. Would I lie down beside you if I did not?"
"Not if you were wise, as you plainly are," Rhavas replied.
"No doubt you give me too much credit," she said in a low voice, looking away from him as she spoke.
"No doubt I give you not enough." Rhavas started to say more, but saw that even so much flustered her. Had her husband never praised her many virtues? If Rhavas told her she was as wise as she was beautiful, he got the feeling he would sleep on the floor.
Surely no harm can come from lying beside a woman. We are cold, and we are decently clothed, he told himself. His ecclesiastical colleagues might—would—have a different opinion about that. He knew as much, even if he did his best to pretend to himself he didn't.
But his ecclesiastical colleagues weren't here, and were in no danger of freezing to death. Rhavas and Ingegerd lay down on the narrow, lumpy bed. As usual, they started out back to back. "Good night, very holy sir. I hope you sleep sound," Ingegerd said with the odd formality they'd both used before.
"Good night. May you also sleep well." Rhavas used the same scrupulous politeness.
Ingegerd sighed. Lying there beside her, Rhavas felt her go limp. Her breathing grew slow and regular. She started to snore. Rhavas, closer to the wall, stayed wide awake. He was much more conscious of her as a woman than he had been when they first escaped from Skopentzana. And the more he tried not to be, the more he was.
Outside, the wind howled and moaned. The fire guttered down to a last few embers glowing red as blood. Rhavas lay alone with his thoughts: alone, but not alone. Suppose that in spite of everything—in spite of aftershocks, in spite of civil war, in spite of invading barbarians—he succeeded in bringing her safe to Videssos the city. Suppose he did not touch her that way in all the long journey. How many priests in the capital would believe he hadn't? Any at all?
The more he thought about it, the more he doubted it. They would be sure he'd fleshed his lance to the very hilt. And why would they be so sure? Because they would have done the same thing themselves. They took the vow of chastity, yes—took it and spent the rest of their lives regretting it.