Straying From the Path Page 8

  Dumbly, she stared. She stood apart, a seeress, a legend, and she had long since stopped thinking of herself as anything like pretty.

  “Tell me, what is the matter?”

  She had to remember words and took a deep breath before speaking. “Thinking dark thoughts, I suppose.”

  “May I join you?”

  “In thinking dark thoughts? How could I stop you?”

  He sat beside her in the grass.

  “I am Conrad. You are?”

  Being flirted at, and the novelty of it startled her. “Elsa.”

  “Elsa. Very good to meet you.”

  She didn’t have a clue what to say next. She’d spent her childhood in libraries and her young adulthood wandering at the whim of a haunted horse skin.

  He rescued her from a confused silence. “Will you dance with me?”

  She grinned at him like he’d sprouted mule’s ears. “Do young men always come right up to women and ask them to dance?”

  “Yes, they do. You must be from a strange kingdom, if you’ve never before been asked to dance.”

  The kingdom Elsa came from was not much different than this one, which was part of the reason she’d stopped here to rest. But the road between this one and that was a long one, and she frowned thinking of it.

  Sensing the change in her mood, Conrad urged more gently. “Come, dance. Just a round or two. It will distract you from your troubles, whatever they are.”

  He stood with a noble flourish, bowing as he offered his hand. His eyes were alight. His smile seemed honest. Elsa took his hand, and suddenly could not remember the last time she’d touched another living creature. She’d missed the warmth, the blood.

  She danced until her heart pounded. Arms flung, legs working, bow and turn, circle with another couple, and there Conrad was to take her hand again and lead her back to the start. His gaze never left her, and she only had to see his face again to smile. Bow, cross, turn, bow again, her skirt swept behind her, the musicians quickened the beat, and she kept pace until she thought she’d trip and fall.

  In one movement, a couple would touch hands briefly as they crossed to the other side of the line. It was meant to be tantalizing, a moment of flirtation, of seduction. The music lingered at the step, as though to tempt. Once, after Elsa had lost count of the rounds, she and Conrad came to this step. Instead of the touch, he picked her up. Took her by her waist, lifted her, held her close so their bodies pressed together, then he set her in her new place in the dance with a touch to her cheek. This audacity wasn’t unheard of, it had happened before—when a man had a particular fancy for the girl he danced with.

  The musicians stopped for rest and drink, and the dancers paused to catch their breaths. Conrad kept Elsa by his side by holding her hand.

  This wasn’t meant to happen to her. She walked in gray spaces.

  And he—perhaps he really was a rogue from a legend. Perhaps that was why he’d found her, legend to legend.

  “You’re a thief,” she said.

  He grinned a sly fox grin. “Why do you say that?”

  “You’ve got that air about you. You’re famous for it, I imagine.” By this time she had some experience with legends and thought she was right. In the stories about highwaymen and professional scoundrels, when such men weren’t utterly reprehensible, they were handsome and dashing. They swept girls off their feet. Stories were true sometimes, Elsa knew that very well.

  She touched his cheek, ran her hand on the stubble. He felt warm, rough, giving.

  He took her hands and pressed a coin into them. “We’re both thirsty. Buy us a flask of wine. I’ll be waiting where we left our packs.” He kissed her cheek and smiled.

  The head groom warned her that the Wizard would not like her playing with Falla. But Elsa kept on, because it was so clear the mare longed for such attention. For her part, Elsa didn’t like the Wizard. He wore black leather armor, rings in his ears, and he scowled and cursed. When he had to consult with her father, the librarian and great scholar, the Wizard treated him like a common servant. Even the King was a little afraid of him. He was powerful. He had called rain from blue sky, had changed lead to gold. He rode out on his spotted mare to slay dragons and returned with the horns of the beasts slung on his saddle, the mare prancing with pride.

  He was kind enough to Falla in his own way, petting her, speaking to her. But he never fed her carrots or scratched her ears. Nonetheless, Falla kept close by him, whenever he was near. Elsa’s father said Falla was his familiar, and his magic was bound to her, or came through her. But Elsa didn’t think the Wizard loved the mare.

  Elsa didn’t go to buy the wine. She went away from Conrad, toward the market stalls and out of his sight. Then she slipped between a bread merchant’s stand and a fruit seller’s and went around back, made her quiet way to the copse at the edge of the market, and found a view of the tree, a strong oak that guarded the market square, where they’d left their packs together.

  And there he was, crouched by her pack, searching inside it.

  She stepped from her hiding place and went to him. “You are a thief. I knew it,” she said, smiling. She wasn’t angry. She had no valuables except the book, and she could see why a well-stuffed bag like hers would attract attention.

  He hardly noticed her. He didn’t flinch with surprise or even glance up at her approach. Stricken, he was staring at something he’d found in her pack. He said, “And you’re the Dreamer. The prophet. Here’s the spotted horse’s coat the tales speak of. You’re her.”

  She sat with him. When she moved to touch his shoulder, he cringed. He pushed himself away from her and the pack, propping himself against the tree trunk.

  “What of it?” she said, a bit sadly. With him, she had almost felt normal, just a girl at a market dance.

  “I never expected—I didn’t think to find—” He stared at her pack with the blank, shocked expression of someone to whom she’d just delivered a prophecy. Good or bad, they never knew what to do with her visions.

  “You flirted with me just to distract me and steal from me.”

  He huffed at her disbelieving tone. “It is a common enough strategy, milady. All the better when the woman’s pretty.”

  The musicians were playing again, but their music sounded distant, and Elsa felt as though she heard the laughter of the townsfolk through the haze of sleep. Sun scattered flecks of light through the tree branches; their place here was shaded and separate. A breeze made the leaves rustle.

  “You really think I’m pretty?”

  He laughed a little and wouldn’t look at her. “You’re not supposed to be here, part of the world with the rest of us.” He made it sound like she’d done something wrong, being here with him and pretty as well.

  “And what of you? You’re a famous highwayman, I know it.” He had to be, a dashing thief, a flirting rogue. “Tell me which one. The Raptor? Oslo of Pinnace? Robin of the Greenwood?” All were stories in her father’s book.

  “No, none of that. I’m just a common thief, milady.”

  “Don’t call me that. I’m Elsa, a librarian’s daughter. And no one has ever before called me pretty.”

  “It’s no doubt hard to tell, with that horse skin pulled over your face.” She barely heard him, he spoke so softly, his face turned away.

  Elsa had a daydream that she made up herself and had nothing to do with prophecy. In it, she buried Falla’s coat in a dark wood and never chanted visions again. But the story always got away from her, and instead of living free, she was pursued by Falla’s voice, which cried after her not to abandon her.

  “You’re frightened of me,” she said. “Why don’t you run away? Doesn’t the Dreamer’s wrath frighten you?”

  “It should. But you—you don’t seem very much like the seeress in the stories. You—you’re young. Alive.”

  And the stories were old and dead. “I’m not the Dreamer, when I’m not wearing the skin. I’m just a girl. A librarian’s daughter.”

  “I
saw the book.”

  “It was my father’s.”

  They sat together quietly, Elsa thinking all the while that he’d leave her at any moment.

  Instead, he asked, “How did this happen? That isn’t part of the stories, how you came to wear the horse’s skin. How did a girl like you become the Dreamer?”

  If she told him the story, he would only become more horrified. It wasn’t a story for telling, without the filter of decades of legend. She wanted to talk to him, though, and wanted him to talk to her. She wanted to tell him something that would keep him here, talking to her. She did not know when she would have a chance to touch another living being again.

  “The horse was magic, and when she died she called to me. It’s hard to explain.” She wasn’t used to talking; her words faltered. She shook her head, swallowed, and spoke again. “How does a man become a famous thief?”

  “I tell you once and for all, I am common. Nameless.”

  If she wouldn’t tell her story, she couldn’t expect him to tell his. After this, they had sat so long in an uncomfortable silence, she thought he’d surely leave her now. But he didn’t. He stayed. He was even watching her.

  “Elsa the Prophet. Can you tell me my future?”

  “You probably wouldn’t like it. People usually don’t, especially when they ask for it.”

  “What do you do, to learn someone’s future?”

  “I sleep a night wearing the skin. I dream the answer, and the next morning tell the person.”

  “Spend a night with me, Elsa. Tell me my future in the morning.”

  Falla wouldn’t like it. Elsa could almost hear the mare chiding. This was selfish, the dreaming turned into a parlor trick. If the dream were terrible, none of them would be happy. But to spend a night with Conrad—she would dream what she had to.

  She knelt beside him. He touched her cheek, then kissed her, slowly and gently. It was lovely.

  They found a hidden place in the woods outside the town. They stripped each other, quickly and desperately, as though afraid of interruption or afraid this wasn’t real. Cool air chilled their skin, making every touch that much warmer. Elsa didn’t think to open her eyes to look. They made love on her wool blanket, spread on the ground under a thicket. When Conrad lay back, spent, she crawled on top of him, bit his ear and whispered, “Again.” He said, “Yes,” and they did.

  When they finished, Elsa move a little way away, leaving him to the wool blanket. She took the spotted horse skin from her pack and wrapped it tight around her. Silent, Conrad watched as she curled up to fall asleep and dream.

  She never dreamed for herself. Others asked her to wear the skin, and she did so because the skin demanded it. Tonight, the skin was reluctant.

  Tell me about Conrad.

  I cannot tell you, Falla said, her voice like the rustle of hay.

  Even dead, she smelled of horse: warm hair, hay, and dust. In memory, Elsa felt her breath and heard her nostrils snorting.

  Why not? Is he wicked? Is there a mystery surrounding him? If he is common as he says, then so is his future. Why not tell me?

  Do not ask me this.

  I have served you for ten years, why can’t you answer me now? Is it because I like him?

  It will hurt you to hear this. I do not wish to hurt you.

  Falla was her friend, despite all that had happened, despite the fact her devotion to Falla made Elsa something other than human. Elsa used to hang on Falla’s stall door and wonder what the mare would say if she could talk. If she had known then, what the mare would say—I do not wish to hurt you—Elsa would have cried with happiness, because this meant that Falla loved her as much as she loved Falla. But love caused pain as well as joy.

  Tell me his fate, Falla. I must know.

  You are sure?

  Yes!

  You cannot save him. You will stand watching, his fate in your hands, and you will do nothing. Is that what you wished to hear?

  Elsa cried, because Falla spoke truth, always. Falla, Falla, I can’t do this anymore.

  Hush, dear friend. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

  Once more, Elsa felt her soft muzzle against her hands, and Falla’s dark eyes gazed at her.

  The first time she put on Falla’s skin, it was still wet with flesh and blood.

  One day, the King needed a prophecy, and the Wizard worked his most powerful spell. But the spell failed, the prophecy did not come. It was a black day, as the Wizard stormed out of his workroom and the King despaired of overcoming his troubles. Folk everywhere wondered how the great Wizard could have failed.

  Spying, the librarian’s daughter discovered the truth. She first went to the stables, to see Falla, but the Wizard’s familiar wasn’t in her stall. With a pounding heart, she went next to the Wizard’s tower, which was empty, because the Wizard was in the great hall, arguing with the King. By the front door to the tower, she found stairs leading down to the cellar.

  There, the Wizard had sacrificed his familiar to raise power for the spell. The girl found the horse dead, her belly sliced open, her guts spilled over the floor, a slick mass of intestines and organs that made no pattern and offered no portents. She had been a noble animal, and the girl cried at the injustice of it. In her grief, a power took her. With the Wizard’s own sacrificial dagger, lying abandoned on the stone floor, she skinned the horse. She took the bloody skin to the great hall where the King pleaded with the Wizard to try again and the Wizard insisted such a prophecy was impossible. Wearing the skin wrapped tight around her, she delivered the prophecy that the King sought. “Betrayal! This is a Wizard who will slay his dearest servant for power. This is a Wizard who will covet his King’s throne!”

  The Wizard denied it, the King disbelieved it, and the librarian pleaded for his daughter’s life, which the Wizard threatened to take. The King granted the librarian’s request, because while he did not understand the magic, he could see the girl was helpless in its grip. As she fainted, her father carried her home from the great hall. They both cried a bit, and he helped her run away, into exile. A year later, the King died of a mysterious creeping illness, and the Wizard took the reins of power before chaos could disrupt the kingdom.

  The next morning, she awoke, naked and tangled in the legs and neck of Falla’s coat, a fringe of white mane tickling her nose. Conrad still slept nearby. She lay still and watched him until he stirred.

  When he opened his eyes, looked at her, and smiled, her heart beat faster.

  He could be a friend, she thought to Falla. My only other friend beside you.

  Do not fall in love. Your fate won’t allow it.

  I know, Falla. I know.

  Elsa and Conrad sat and faced each other, Elsa wearing the mare’s skin, Conrad wrapped in the wool blanket.

  “Well?” he said.

  She lowered her gaze. “I didn’t dream. Your future isn’t for me to know.”

  He gave his fox-sly smile, a joyless expression. “You’re lying. You cried in your sleep. Thrashed like you were having nightmares. You must have dreamed something terrible.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. Sometimes, as with the princess and her marriage, she dreamed paths as clear as plate glass windows. Other times, like last night, the dreams were murky, little more than emotions and terror, which Elsa had to express. Conveying them meant reliving them.

  “Tell me,” he said. “I’m not afraid.”

  She quelled her own fear and spoke softly. “I dreamed of betrayal.”

  He considered that, his expression falling to a frown. “Am I the betrayer or the betrayed? Whose betrayal?”

  “Mine,” said Elsa.

  After a long moment watching her, he pursed his lips and nodded, content to live with the enigma of prophecy. “Then I should leave, I suppose. If we are not near each other, we can’t betray each other.”

  The princess’s cousin thought he could escape prophecy, too. Perhaps Conrad could actually succeed. She watched him dress, still wishing he was a famous rogue. Then perhaps
his own legend would save him from hers.

  He straightened his cuffs, fastened the last straps on his boots, and took up his pack. “Well then, I’m off.”

  So that was that. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. About.” He paused and bent for a last kiss, dry and warm. His smile was bright, genuine. Perhaps he’d remember her. “God bless you and your hard path, Dreamer.”

  Elsa dressed, packed her blankets, and started on her way more slowly. It was almost midday when she returned to Brewersville and saw a crowd gathered by the oak at the edge of the market. No musicians played today. She pushed through to the front to see what had happened.

  The town constable was about to hang a man from the tree. The condemned man—barefoot, stripped to his waist and wearing ragged, third-hand trousers, stood on a stool with his hands bound behind his back. The noose around his neck was tied to a sturdy branch.

  The man was Conrad, his expression slack, his gaze staring forward at nothing.

  “That man,” she said to a laborer beside her. “What’s he done?”

  “He’s a thief.”

  Elsa still carried hopes. “A famous one? A highwayman or a rogue or such?”

  “No,” the man said. “Just a common thief. Got caught this morning cutting the mayor’s purse.”

  Then he saw her. He hadn’t seemed to be looking at anything, but his gaze found her. A look of such tenderness, such regret passed over his face. Like he would have kissed her right then, if he could have.

  She knew what to do.

  She knelt and pulled at the tie that fastened closed her pack.

  When she wore the spotted horse’s skin, she became the Dreamer, and her words were prophecy. He will be a hero! Free him and he will lead your armies to victory! He is a savior! She could say these things and make a grand story, how the Dreamer snatched the rogue from the maw of death.