Scholar

20

Worried as he was, Quaeryt remained in the tree and rested, grateful that the misty fog, while beginning to lift, still remained thick in places. After a time, certainly less than a glass, he sipped water from the tin bottle and then slowly chewed some of the hardtack. A good quint later, he was finally recovered enough to ease himself down from the tree and to resume walking. The one thing he was sure of was that he needed to get as far from the wreck as he could … and as quickly as possible.

The first mille or so from the tree was almost pleasant. By the second he was feeling warm, although the air was still cool. By the third mille, a good glass or so later, the dampness combined with his own body heat and the lack of a breeze to make him feel uncomfortably hot, and he loosened his shirt and jacket. His arms were getting tired from carrying the canvas bag, even though he was switching it from hand to hand as he kept walking.

To keep his mind away from how he felt, he went back over what had happened. He hadn’t been thinking as well as he should have been. He should have imaged red pepper into his scent, so that the hound wouldn’t have been able to smell anything at all for a time. That just showed how tired he was. Yet he definitely needed to put as much distance as he could between himself and the dead reavers and the poor hound, whose only fault had been its masters.

For a time, he concentrated on just putting one foot in front of the other.

After perhaps another half glass, he came to the ruins of a cot, one that had been burned, it appeared, and then razed. He looked along the road, only to realize that he stood at the southern edge of a small hamlet where every building had been fired and leveled. The destruction had not been too recent because scraggly grass grew up to the remaining foundation and wall stones and the only path was the well-worn one from the road to the ruin, but it had happened within the past few years, because the soot on the mud bricks had not faded that much.

Despite his feeling feverish, or possibly because he was, Quaeryt shivered, then shook his head. The destruction merely refueled his intention to put the Shallows Coast behind him. Even so, he forced himself to sit down on a flat portion of the cot wall and to drink some of the water and eat more of the hardtack. The very thought of eating any of the cheese gave him a queasy feeling.

After taking that brief refreshment, he rose and made his way along the road and through the ruins. He couldn’t help but note that not a wall remained standing above knee height. What had been the cause of such devastation? Reavers usually just raided and departed. They weren’t known for such thorough destruction, even when villagers resisted. Had the village been burned because of a recurrence of plague? That didn’t make sense because no one would have stayed around afterward to level the walls.

Nothing else he saw as he passed the twenty-odd ruined buildings shed any more light on the reason for the destruction. There were no signs of animals, either, except that the rolling hills to the north of the hamlet had been recently grazed.

He kept walking, but he had to pause more frequently as the day grew somewhat warmer and the fog and mist lifted into low clouds. For all the greenness of the land, he saw no cots or holdings-none at all. While he did see signs the grass had been grazed, he saw no herds or flocks. The lack of human habitation bothered him, because there seemed to be no reason for it, yet he knew full well that such an emptiness was anything but natural and had to have a cause.

Sometime around midday, he passed through another village that had been leveled and burned, and it seemed slightly larger than the first he had encountered. Once more, he stopped and rested. This time, he had to force himself to stand and resume walking, and when he did, he had to stop for several moments because he coughed so violently he almost retched. Yet the cough was dry and hacking. Still, the coughing stopped, and he was able to keep walking.

He felt more than warm, more like feverish. Was that because he’d imaged more than his body could bear at a time? Or was it because he was sick?

More likely sick. But there was little point in stopping in the middle of nowhere with little food and less water.

His pace slowed some, but he kept trudging along.

In midafternoon, he came to a large stream, or small river, crossed by an old stone bridge with two spans anchored in the middle by a stone and brick pier. The bridge was barely wide enough for a wagon and a team, and there was no sign that any carts, wagons, or mounts had passed that way recently.

He decided against refilling the water bottle that was close to empty. Who knew what lay upstream? He certainly didn’t want to court a flux on top of whatever illness he was fighting.

Less than a mille past the bridge, after he’d followed the road up a gentle slope, he saw a small cot down a lane to the west of the road, and then several dwellings along the top of the next rise on the east side of the road. When he walked past the lane, he saw hoofprints and cart or wagon wheel tracks in the road for the first time since he’d scrambled ashore.

He could feel his steps slowing as he clambered up the next rise toward the hamlet, but when he reached the top, he paused to catch his breath after another spell of dry hacking coughs. While he recovered, he studied the buildings and realized that the place was not a hamlet at all, but a single holding. Four mud-brick outbuildings with thick thatched roofs surrounded a large and sprawling one-story dwelling, also thatched, situated on the highest point of the rise to the east of the road. On the south side of the dwelling, less than a hundred yards away, was a small orchard.

The clouds had lifted enough that, beyond the sandy hills that bordered the grasslands east of the holding, Quaeryt could see the ocean, still a dull gray under the clouds. Finally, he began to walk again, directing his steps along the road until he reached the brick-paved narrow lane that led to the main house of the holding.

He was halfway to the front entry of the main house when a tall and broad-shouldered, but gray-haired, man carried a large basket of fruit-late cherries, Quaeryt suspected-out of the small orchard and set it down in a small cart. He walked swiftly to meet Quaeryt.

“Greetings!” The single word was spoken in what Quaeryt thought of as unaccented Tellan, and his voice was cheerful as he stopped short of the scholar. His smile turned to a worried frown. “You look a sight.…”

“I’m sure I do.…” Quaeryt’s voice was hoarse and felt raw. “I was set upon.… Lost my mount.” Quaeryt looked over his shoulder toward the south.

“You don’t speak Tellan like a native. Do you speak Bovarian?” the man asked in that tongue, if with a heavy Tellan accent.

“I do.”

“Then I will. I need the practice. You traveled through the Shallows Coast?” The man shook his head. “Not even the Lord’s armsmen go there, except in force.”

“The reavers? They’re not a problem for you?”

“These days they don’t come north of the Ayerne.”

“That’s the little river with the bridge?”

“It is indeed. Vaolyn keeps her folk south of there. We had to burn a few hamlets to get that across.”

“Is there anywhere I might find a mount?” Quaeryt’s throat felt rawer with every word.

“Nawlyn’s the closest. Times, Zachys will part with a horse.…” The holder paused. “If I do say so, you’d not be looking ready to ride.”

“Where is Fairby? I must have missed it.”

The holder laughed. “Don’t see as how you could have found it. That was one of the places we burned … razed the very stones.”

When Quaeryt tried to look at the man closely, his eyes burned, and flashes of light that jabbed like needles pierced his eyes. He could also feel heat pouring off his forehead. “I wondered … why … who…”

“We didn’t have much choice. Some people just won’t be reasonable.”

Quaeryt’s legs felt weak and very unsteady. “I beg your pardon … I think … I need to sit down.”

“You need more than that, friend. Best you come with me. Oh … I’m Rhodyn.”

“This is … your holding?”

“Don’t know as it’s a holding. The lands have been in the family forever. We don’t even know how long.” The holder paused. “I’d not wish to be forward, but I could carry that bag for you.”

For a moment, Quaeryt thought about demurring, but the way he felt, he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. “Thank you. It’s been a long hike.” He extended the canvas bag.

Rhodyn took it. “Heavy to be carrying across the Shallows Coast. This way.… We’ll go around to the side door and get you something to drink.… I think Darlinka’s still in the kitchen, but if she’s not, Raisa or Shaentyla will be.”

“You’re most kind.…”

“Nonsense. We don’t get many travelers here, even those that didn’t mean to be traveling our roads.…”

Quaeryt made it to the stained and oiled side door, with the polished brass lever handle. Then the sky fell, and hot rain and darkness swirled around him.