softy

At last he reached out again, but this time only clasped her shoulder and gave a careful shake. "Miriamele. Wake up, Miriamele." She grunted and rolled over, turning her back to him. Simon shook her again, a little more strongly this time. She made a sound of protest and her fingers groped for her cloak without success, as though she sought protection from whatever cruel spirit plagued her. "Come, Miriamele, it's your turn to keep watch." The princess was sleeping soundly indeed. Simon leaned closer and spoke into her ear. "Wake up. It's time." Her hair was against his cheek. Miriamele only half-smiled, as though someone had made a small joke. Her eyes remained shut. Simon slid down until he was lying next to her and stared for a few long moments at the curve of her cheek glowing in the emberlight. He slid his hand down from her shoulder and let it fall across her waist, then moved forward until his chest touched her back. Now her hair was all along his cheek and his body wrapped hers. She made a noise that might have been contentment and pushed back against him ever so slightly, then fell silent once more. Simon held his breath, fearing she would wake, fearing that he himself would cough or sneeze and somehow spoil this achingly splendid moment. He felt her warmth all down the length of his body. She was smaller than he, much smaller: he could wrap around her and protect her like a suit of armor. He thought he would like to lie this way forever. As the two lay like nestling kittens, Simon drifted into sleep. The need to keep a watch was forgotten, eased from his mind like a leaf carried away by a river current. Simon woke up alone. Miriamele was outside the way station, using a leafless branch to groom her horse. When she came in, they broke their fast on bread and water. She said nothing of the night before, but Simon thought he detected a little less brittleness in her manner, as though some of her chill had melted away while they lay huddled in sleep. They traveled six more days on me River Road, slowed by the monotonous rains that had turned the broad track into sloppy mud. The weather was so miserable and the road generally so empty that Miriamele's fear of discovery seemed to lessen, although she still kept her face covered when they passed through smallish towns like Bregshame and Garwynswold. Nights they slept in way stations or beneath the leaky roofs of roadside shrines. As they sat together each night in the hour between eating and sleeping, Miriamele told Simon stories of her childhood in Meremund. In return, he recounted his days among the scullions and chambermaids; but as the nights passed, he spoke more and more about his time with Doctor Morgenes, of the old man's good humor and occasionally fierce temper, of his contempt for those who did not ask questions and his delight in life's unexpected complexity. The night after they passed through Garwynswold, Simon abruptly found himself in tears as he related something Morgenes had once told him about the wonders of beehives. Miriamele stared, surprised, as he struggled to control himself; afterward she looked at him in a strange way he had not seen before, but although his first impulse was shame, he could not truthfully see anything contemptuous in her expression. "I wish he had been my father or my grandfather," he said later. They had retired to their respective bedrolls.

Although Miriamele was, as usual, an arm's length away, he felt that she was in some way nearer to him than she had been any night since they had kissed. He had held her since then, of course, but she had been asleep. Now she lay nearby in the darkness, and he almost thought he felt some unspoken agreement growing between them. "He was that kind to me. I wish he was still alive." "He was a good man." "He was more than that. He was ... He was someone who did things when they needed to be done." Simon felt a tightening in his chest, "He died so that Josua and I could escape. He treated me like ... like I was his own. It's all wrong. He shouldn't have had to die." "Nobody should die," Miriamele said slowly. "Especially while they're still alive." Simon lay in silence for a moment, confused. Before he could ask her what she meant, he felt her cool fingers touch his hand, then nestle into his palm. "Sleep well," she murmured. When his heart had slowed, her hand was still there. He fell asleep at last, still cupping it as gently as if it were a baby bird. More than the rains and gray mist plagued them. The land itself, under the pall of bad weather, was almost completely lifeless, dreary as a landscape of stones and bones and spiderwebs. In the towns, the citizens appeared tired and frightened, unwilling even to regard Simon and Miriamele with the curiosity and suspicion that were usually a stranger's due. At night the windows were shuttered, the mucky streets empty. Simon felt as though they passed through ghost villages, as though the actual inhabitants had long departed, leaving only the insubstantial shades of previous generations, all doomed to a weary, pointless haunting of their ancestral homes. In dim afternoon on their seventh day out of Stanshire, Simon and Miriamele rounded a bend in the river road and saw the squat bulk of Falshire Castle looming on the western horizon before them. Green grazing land had once covered the castled hill like a king's train, but now, despite the heavy rains, the hillside fields were barren; near the hillcrest some were even patched with snow. At the base of the hill lay the walled city, bestriding the river that was its lifeblood. From docks along the shore Falshire's hides and wool were loaded on boats to travel to the Kynslagh and beyond, returning with the gold and other goods that had long made Falshire one of the richest cities in Osten Ard, second in importance in Erkynland only to Erchester. "That castle used to be Fengbald's," said Miriamele. "And to think my father would have had me marry him! I wonder which of his family lords it there now." Her mouth tightened. "If the new master is anything like the old one, I hope the whole thing falls down on him." Simon peered into the diffuse western light that made the castle seem only an oddly-shaped black crag, then pointed to the city below to distract her attention.

"We can be in Falshire-town before nightfall. We can have a true meal tonight." "Men always think of their stomachs." Simon thought the assertion unfair, but was pleased enough to be called a man that he smiled. "How about a dry night in a warm inn, then?" Miriamele shook her head. "We have been lucky, Simon, but we are getting closer to the Hayholt every day. I have been in Falshire many times. There is too good a chance someone might recognize me." Simon sighed. "Very well. But you don't mind if I go in somewhere and get us something to eat like I did in Stanshire, do you?" "As long as you don't leave me waiting all night. It's bad enough being a poor traveling chandler's wife without having to stand in the rain while the husband's inside slurruping down ale by a hot fire." Simon's smile became a grin. "Poor chandler's wife." Miriamele looked at him dourly. "Poor chandler if he makes her angry." The inn called The Tarbox was brightly torchlit, as if for some festive holiday, but as Simon peered in through the doorway he thought the mood inside seemed far from merry. It was crowded enough, with perhaps two or three dozen people scattered around the wide common room, but the talk among them was so quiet that Simon could hear the rainwater dripping off the cloaks that hung beside the door. Simon made his way between the crowded benches to the far side of the common room. He was aware of many heads turning to watch him pass, and a slight increase in the buzz of conversation, but he kept his eyes to himself. The landlord, a thin, tuft-haired fellow whose face sparkled with the sweat of the roasting oven, looked up as he approached. "Yes? D'you need a room?" He looked at Simon's tattered clothes. 'Two quinis the night." "Just a few slices of that mutton and some bread.