Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Glancing over my shoulder at the food, I have absolutely no appetite, but I’m glad there’s a sufficiency for two. After I eat a portion of the bread, and down both mugs of the refreshing drink, I take the case from the pillow that has not been used, and put the rest of what she baked for me in it. The cheese makes my stomach revolt—not that there’s aught wrong with it. But then I remember Merc saying to eat up in the tunnel before we made our swim.
That feels like a lifetime ago.
As I force myself to consume the cheese, I count the nights we’ve been here—I’ve been here, rather. So few. It feels like a hundred, and all I can feel is sadness and dread over what’s ahead.
Except there’s no help in wallowing in emotion.
And the truth of it is that this decision, this choice, has been coming since we first arrived. I need a purpose, other than doing what I did in my own village for people who will eventually betray me to their own superstitions and the reality that the Fulcrum is failing. I was only thinking of staying because I can’t face what lies before me if I keep going.
But Merc said it best.
Only forward, never back.
Fifty-Nine
A Death Comes to Pass.
After I have a wash-up in the tub, I re-dress in Julion’s outfit, which I’ve managed to clean to a fairly good standard. Covering my face with a new layer of the turban, I put the bread in my pack, and then also Merc’s journal. The latter is like a ghost creaking across the floorboards, a physical manifestation of all that haunts me, but I cannot leave it here just to be thrown out.
At the door, I pause. I’ll never see the inside of this room again, and I focus on the wall next to the bed … where Merc held me up off the floor and pinned me with his body. Underneath my sadness, something flares in the back of my mind, but I haven’t the strength to tease it out under the pressure in my head.
I can’t believe I’m going. On my own.
Without him.
Feeling the weight of my pack, however, I become even clearer about what I must do and where I must go. And that’s all that can matter. What did I think was going to happen with a mercenary, anyway? As Merc said, our arrangement has been met on both sides, and it is over.
The last glance is toward that window seat. I can still see him sitting there by the lantern, sketching in his journal.
Looks as though they’ll be refilling that lamp with oil for the next people who stay here.
Out in the hall, I close the door, and as I walk forward, I hear the voices. There are many, talking fast and loudly, down in the pub. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I glance toward the knot of men who are so furiously addressing an audience. They’re the ones who went off together. The herder, who first came running down the muddy lane and shouted the alarm, is at the bar, emptying a tankard down his throat.
A couple of the men glance in my direction, but the way they disregard me is a good thing. I continue on, leaving through the door Merc and I came through that first night—
The brightness overwhelms me and I put my arm up to shield my eyes. After they adjust, I lower the brim of my hand and squint at the sky. The clouds have broken up even further, and the sunlight is a resplendent shock after all the gray skies of the storm, and the gray wood and dingy oil lamps of the lodge.
The lane is an absolute swamp, and I slog along, keeping to the side for there’s a depression in the center that’s collected runoff and turned into a pond.
I recall the stables being among the first of the buildings as we entered the Outpost, and as I continue on, my slipper shoes are not just muddy, but become mud itself. The sound of neighing and the smell of fresh hay announce I’ve arrived.
And that’s when it happens.
Off on the far side of the lane, a fenced pasture of grass rolls down to a beautiful solitary realm tree that seems as big as my village. The sun pours over its bright green leaves as well as the horses that are galloping round and getting out their energy after having been cooped up for days. None of that is what captures my attention.
It’s that I’ve seen the bucolic scene before.
In a trance, I cross through the depths of standing water to the fence line. Bending down, I thread the space between the parallel boards, and continue through the meadow. A magnificent golden stallion thunders past me, his white mane and tail flowing, his ears pricked, his body sleek in his powerful strides. Though he holds my eye, he’s not the one I’m coming for.