“I’ll follow on foot, sir,” he said. “It won’t take me long at all.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Cyncaidh answered heavily, and nudging the horse with his heels, started for the bridge.
* * *
No one talked when they got back. Without changing into dry clothes, Cyncaidh and Varia got on their own horses, and when the soldier on foot got back, the column started west again. They didn’t stop till they came to a substantial village. At the common, Cyncaidh pulled his party off into its open, parklike woods. A soldier dug his commander’s gear bag from a pack, while Hermiss dug out Varia’s from another. Then Caerith accompanied the two of them to the nearby chairman’s house, recognizable by the pennant on its roof, and knocked at the door. Another soldier had followed, carrying the bags.
Seeing imperial uniforms, the chairman’s wife let them in, got towels, and led them to rooms where they could change. When she was dressed again, Varia walked barefoot into the hall, where Cyncaidh waited alone. He put his arms around her, clasping her tightly. “Promise you won’t do anything like that again,” he whispered, then held her at arms length. “What have I done that you fear me so?”
“Fear you?”
“Enough to try killing yourself.”
She shook her head. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
He gawped. “What, then?”
“I was trying to get back to my husband. I thought I could find a boat. Hoped I could.”
He stared, his face slack. His emotion, it seemed to her, was dismay. After a moment he shook his head. “Come,” he said tiredly. “There’ll be an inn here. The men need to eat.”
It didn’t rain for several days, and they made good time. Then they turned north again, and a few days later reached the border with the empire itself. Once again the country changed. The main roads all were graveled and ditched now, and frequent mansions showed the existence of a sizeable upper class. With the mansions were compounds, whose cabins could hardly have more than three rooms plus loft, but even they had fruit trees, and small gardens where bean and pea vines climbed frames, while gourd vines climbed the walls.
At the first military post, the quartermaster fitted Varia with a pair of field uniforms. And a female soldier, an ylvin corporal, replaced Hermiss, who’d be sent back to Fort Ternass and the colonel’s daughter. Physically, Corporal Keoth could be considered gifted, but personality-wise she was stiff, a stick. She wore her hair in a military bob; its typical ylvin black shone from a good diet and much brushing.
They rested there a day, replaced worn equipment and their whole complement of horses. When the column was ready to leave, Hermiss and Varia embraced. “I don’t suppose you’ll write to me,” Hermiss said.
“Why not?”
“Because—because you’re wiser than me, and I’m not ylvin or a Sister or anything.”
“I’ll write if I can.”
“I—hope you’ll be happy. You should be. I mean, you ought to be. You deserve to be.”
“Everyone deserves to be,” Varia answered, then wondered. Do they, really? Does Idri? Sarkia? Corgan? What would it have taken to make Xader happy? Let him hump every good-looking woman he saw, probably, whether she wanted to or not.
“I’ll write to you, Varia, I promise. And you won’t have to write back unless you feel like it.”
“Thank you, Hermy. I’ll feel like it, but . . .” Varia shrugged. “Who knows what will happen when I get where they’re taking me?” She paused, feeling that was a poor note to end their goodbye on. “I’ll be glad to get your letters,” she finished.
They hugged again. Corporal Keoth stood waiting with a scowl of disapproval. Varia couldn’t be sure whether it was for the merely human Hermiss or the evil Sister. Both, she decided. She turned, went to her horse, and climbed into the saddle; Cyncaidh gave the command, and the column moved out. As they turned onto the road, Varia looked back. Hermiss still waved, and briefly Varia waved back before looking ahead.
So much for not knowing how to relate, she told herself. And wondered briefly whether she’d ever see either of her remaining children again. Curtis’s children. Or know them if she did. Or whether they’d care; they’d probably scorn her for deserting the Sisterhood. Idri would make sure they knew.