The Lion of Farside by John Dalmas

The towns had no defenses; not even a bailiff’s stronghold or a reeve’s stockade. Varia hardly noticed. Repeatedly her lids slid shut, her mind drifting dreamward from lack of sleep.

In mid-afternoon, Cyncaidh, who seemed an iron man, took pity on them and stopped at a large crossroads inn. A sign outside proclaimed that the bedding was boiled with every change of users, and each room treated by sorcery to destroy possible vermin. An expensive place then; Cyncaidh’s expedition, she decided, must be well financed.

It was early enough that they had a choice of rooms. Cyncaidh’s choice, not hers. Off a larger room there was a smaller, without an independent exit. The larger, Cyncaidh would share with Caerith. The smaller was hers, complete with undersized chairs and a low table, clearly intended for children. But the bed was long enough.

She looked at the door—all that would stand between her and Cyncaidh when night came. It had no bolt. She didn’t like the twinge of excitement that accompanied the thought. Don’t be silly, she told herself. If he was going to try something like that, he’d have done it days ago.

She looked for some thought to displace it, and escape came to mind; each day now was a day in the wrong direction. She went to the window and peered out thoughtfully. I could use bedding as a rope, and climb down into the courtyard tonight. Or jump, as far as that’s concerned! It’s not as far as I dropped from the palisade, escaping the Cloister.

The problem was, she’d still have to get out of the courtyard. And if she did, then what?

Wait, she told herself, and see what opportunities time provides. Maybe when they’re done questioning you—maybe they’ll let you go. Maybe even with a horse, and money to eat with. Cyncaidh seems decent; he might do that. It seemed to her he would.

Someone knocked—Caerith, with clean traveling clothes for her, obtained from the innkeeper, who also kept a small store for travelers. Clean clothes and word that the inn provided baths—two of them, actually, one for women. They went downstairs together and crossed the courtyard. The tub she found was scarcely large enough for four or five—women travelers would be few—but she’d have it to herself, with bathing utensils, towels, a small bowl of soap and one of sweet-smelling oil, all neatly arranged along a low bench. The tub was oval, with a ledge to sit on, and its distinctive tiles were surely Cloister made, arriving through who knew what avenues of trade. She fiddled with the water gates. The flow was fast, both the hot and the cool, for this was limestone country, with great flowing springs, and abundant good oak to heat water with. She stripped while it filled, then stepped down into it.

It was the most luxurious bath she’d had since she’d left the old Cloister at Ferny Cove. Her scalp, its hair less than an inch long, she scoured thoroughly under water. The rest of her she scrubbed till her skin was pink, then soaked some more at her leisure, relaxing, watching her toes peek out at her from the water.

When she’d soaked long enough, she toweled off, and tried on the new clothes. They were a reasonable fit, and included a light tunic with a hood that would hide her scalp. She was grateful for that. She left, to find Caerith waiting, still unbathed. For the first time his aura reflected sexual thoughts; perhaps he’d fantasized sharing her bath. It was nothing like the aura of a Xader or Corgan though; more like that of Curtis in adolescence. She discovered she felt a sisterly fondness for the half-ylf.

“When do you get to bathe?” she asked.

He smiled ruefully. “As soon as I deliver you to the Cyncaidh for safekeeping.”

She surprised herself by laughing for the first time in more than a year, and they sauntered together across the courtyard, toward the wing they were housed in, Caerith carrying her dirty clothes. “What if your Cyncaidh’s still in the bath?” she asked.

He shook his head. “The enlisted men, perhaps. But he’ll have been quick so I won’t have to wait. He’s a rare commander, the Cyncaidh.”

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