“I know,” she said, and he knew she wanted to believe it.
He stood and stretched, groaned when his muscles protested. “Why’re you up so early?” she asked.
He hesitated for a moment, braced himself, then dived in. “I’m going on a hunt, Elle.”
“What?” Instantly she sounded fully awake. The grooves had returned to her brow, deeper than before.
“We need to put up some meat,” he said.
She shook her head. “No, it’s not safe. We saw Sakkors in the night sky only last month. The Shadovar keep their creatures away from the villages but let them wander the plains. Only soldiers and those with official charters walk the roads safely.”
“Neither the Shadovar nor their flying city will take an interest in a lone hunter. They just want no one in or out of Sembia without their permission, especially during a time of war.”
“No one has come to the village in months, Gerak. Why do you think that is? It’s not safe.”
He could not deny it. Peddlers and priests and caravans had once roamed the Sembian countryside, tending to the villages. But Fairelm had seen nothing in a long while, nothing but old Minser the peddler, who seemed to enjoy spinning tales more than selling wares. But Minser had not returned in more than a month. The village seemed to have been forgotten out in the dark of the plains, all alone and surrounded by monsters.
“There are worse things than Shadovar,” she said. “Don’t go. We can manage-”
“I have to. I’ll be gone not more than two days-”
“Two days!” she said, half sitting up.
“Two days,” he said, nodding, his resolve firming up as he spoke. “And when I return, we’ll have a stag or three to dress and smoke. And that’ll keep us in meat through the winter and then some. You and the baby need more than roots and tubers and we need the chickens for eggs.”
“I need my husband and the baby its father.”
He bent and put his hand on her brow. She covered it tightly and lay back, as if she had no intention of letting go.
“Nothing will happen to me.”
“How can you know?”
“I’m a soldier, Elle.”
“You were a soldier. Now you’re a farmer.”
“Nothing will happen to me.”
She squeezed his hand. “Swear it.”
“I swear.”
“If you see something bigger than a deer, you run away. Promise.” “I promise.”
She gave his hand another squeeze and let it go.
He cleared his throat and went to the chest near the hearth, feeling Elle’s eyes on him. He opened the lid and removed the weapon belt and the broadsword, still oiled and sharp, that he’d earned as partial payment for his military service. He had not worn more than an eating knife and dagger in what felt like a lifetime, and when he strapped on the heavier blade, the weight felt awkward on his waist.
“I used to feel awkward without this on,” he said, and Elle said nothing.
His bow sat in its deerskin case near the chest, his two quivers, both stuffed with arrows, beside it. He undid the tie on the case and removed the yew shaft. He strung it with practiced ease and placed his hand in the grip. It felt as smooth and familiar as Elle’s skin. He imagined himself sighting along an arrow, a stag in his sight.
His talent with the longbow had been a matter of comment among his fellow soldiers, and he had not let his skills atrophy over the years, even after taking up the plow for the sword.
“Wait for the rain to end, at least,” she said.
He strapped the quivers on, did a quick count on his various arrows. “The sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll return.”
“You’ll get sick from the wet.”
“I won’t.”
“Then at least eat something before you go.”
“I can eat when I-”
“Eat, Gerak. The rain and cold is bad enough. I won’t have you out there with an empty stomach.”
He smiled, nodded, went to the small table he’d made, and broke off a large chunk of two day old bread from a loaf. With it, he swabbed yesterday’s stew slop from the bottom of the cauldron hanging near the fire. Elle watched as he ate. There was no meat in the turnip and kale stew and the absence only strengthened his resolve to hunt. He would fill his waterskin in the pond and could forage for additional food in the field, should he need it.
“You eat, too, Elle.”
“I will. The baby’s always hungry. Takes after its father, I suppose.” He went to the bed once more and gave her a lingering kiss.
“There’s ample stew and bread. A few eggs in the coop. I’ll be back before you know it.”
She stayed strong, as he knew she would. “You’re leaving me here with none but the fools and cowards.”
“You manage fools and cowards quite well, Sweets.”
“Again, I think our marriage seals that ward.” She smiled as she spoke and he thanked the gods for it.
“I think I like you better asleep.”
She turned serious. “Be careful, Gerak.”
“I will,” he said, and pulled on his boots and cloak. “Go see Ana while I am gone.”
“A good idea,” she said. “I’ll take her a couple eggs. They’re suffering.”
“I know. See you soon.”
He opened the door and the wind rushed in.
“Wait,” she called. “Take my locket. For good fortune.” She leaned over and took the locket, a bronze sun on a leather lanyard, from the side table.
“Elle, that’s-”
“Take it,” she insisted. “Minser sold it to my mother. Told her it’d been blessed by one of Tymora’s priests.”
He came back to the bed, took the locket, secreted it in a pocket of his cloak, and gave her another kiss.
“I’ll take all the luck I can get.”
She smiled. “You need your haircut.”
“You’ll cut it when I return,” he said. “Everything will be fine.”
With that, he headed out into the storm. He opened his mouth to the sky and tasted the rain, found it normal, and thanked Chauntea. The crops would live another day. He stood for a moment, alone in the dark, alone with his thoughts, and eyed the village, nestled amid the elms.
The other cottages sat quiet and dark, each a little nest of worry and want. The dozen or so elms rose like colossuses from the plains, whispering in the wind. The rain beat a drumbeat on his cloak. Gerak had always liked to think that the elms protected the village, wood guardians that would never let harm befall those who sheltered under their boughs. He decided to keep thinking it.
Holding his bow, he pulled up his hood and cut across the commons to the pond, where he filled his waterskin. Then he headed up the rise and toward the open plains.
Chapter Three
The limbs of the malformed trees rattled in the wind and rain. Sayeed recalled the Sembia of a century before, before the Spellplague, even before the Shadowstorm: fields of barley, forests filled with game, rivers that ran fast and clear, merchants everywhere. But all of that was dead.
Like him, Sembia was alive while dead.
The last time Sayeed had walked the Sembian plains, the nation had been in the midst of a civil war, and he and Zeeahd had worn the uniforms of the overmistress’s armies. They and many others had been captured and maimed at the order of a Lathandarian, Abelar Corrinthal. Sayeed had taught himself to fight left-handed over the intervening years. And now Sembia was in the midst of a war again. Damp air and bad memories caused the nub of Sayeed’s thumb to ache distantly.
“Why do you slow?” Zeeahd barked over his shoulder.
Sayeed had not realized he had slowed. He hurried forward, the cats eyeing him as he moved through them to his brother’s side. Zeeahd’s hood obscured his face.
“I was. . thinking.”
“About?”
“The plains dredge up old memories.”
Zeeahd grunted.
“I was thinking about the Spellplague. About why we were. . changed as we were. I wonder if there’s purpose in it.”
Zeeahd spat, the cats pouncing on the spittle. “There’s no purpose in it. We were on that ship when the blue fire struck, just the wrong place at an ill time. And we were there because of this.”