Just before nightfall, Ost Guruth’s guards climbed to the holes in the outer walls they called their watchposts. There was no gate to close against intruders, so all were attentive to riders on the road, especially those who stopped at the stables at the foot of the broken stairs leading to their derelict castle. The stablemaster held up his lantern to the Men on the ridge, swiveled the shield three times, and signaled that the newcomer was a friend.
As Redstart climbed the stairs in the dark, its cracks and craters memorized, she hailed her brethren once she emerged into the glow of their lanterns. Mutterings of greetings, quick news, and wishes of good night passed quietly so the rest of the camp could fall asleep in peace.
In the mess she found Frideric, taking his late supper as usual. The first to rise in the morning and the last to bed, she sometimes wondered if his wear and wisdom came from his age alone or were hastened by his years of service to their community.
She took a seat across from him as he tiredly poked at his supper of boiled potatoes and poached chicken.
“How was the road?” he inquired mildly.
"Quiet," she said, catching her breath. The news she’d held the whole ride from the Inn to Ost Guruth had throbbed like an organ inside her about to burst. It came out as a low puff of air, deflated. “Kerr didn’t make it.”
Frideric was silent out of respect for the peddler’s fate. “I feared as much. He was always a prompt man, always sent word.” the old man said, not unkindly, spearing a slippery potato on his fork.
“I know,” she said, closing her eyes. “I still hoped…”
“That is the best any of us can do.” He set his fork on the edge of the plate and pushed it towards her. She picked it up and stabbed at the remnant potatoes and meat, devouring them with barely a breath in between.
He let her catch her breath and calm her appetite. He stepped away to pour them both some cider that had been cooling since the camp’s supper, hours ago. He placed the cup in front of her and sat with both his hands on his own.
“What happened?” he asked gently.
Redstart slowed her eating, took a drink, and then lay the fork on the edge of the plate. “Goblins. Like I told Anlaf. Found him on the edge of the marsh. Nothing of real value stolen—food, cloth, tools all intact. What was gone was trinkets and shiny things. They didn’t bother hiding the body. They don’t care about any of that. They know there is no consequence to ambushing our people and—”
“Redstart,” the Elder interrupted gently, like a benevolent cloud passing beneath the sun on too hot a day. “This is the way of things. Be glad it was goblins and not worse. His body will be returned to his widow, some of his goods can be salvaged. Think of those who have lost so much more and of others who are never found.”
“I know,” Redstart answered, glaring at the plate between them. Her fingers twitched to grab it and hurl it against the wall.
“You did well…” Frideric’s hand fell on her own clenched fist and she realized how cold she had been. “You found the fate of a man dearly loved. You allowed him to be buried. You are not responsible for the goblins in the marsh, nor the wargs in the plain. You are responsible for your people, as we all are.”
Redstart was too tired. She nodded and let her head fall forward to rest on their joined hands.
“Come,” he said and let her lift herself up. “You’ve earned a bed and a breakfast besides. Rest and we will talk in the morning. I have an errand for you, in Bree.”
“Bree?” she asked, frowning as she lifted her head to look at him. “What could possibly be in Bree that concerns us?”
Frideric paused. “I’m not certain. Maybe nothing, but I am curious. We will speak of it in the morning. For now, you’ve earned a rest.” The Eglan chief helped Redstart up and led her to one of the only buildings in their ruined city that could still boast a roof. He helped her into the low bunk she kept and had words with the watchperson to leave her be, she’d had a long ride the day before.
Redstart was bone tired, but she could not fall asleep. Frideric was right—they should be grateful. There were so many worse off, but still…
As a girl, Redstart had sewn into the underside of the mattress in the bunk above her little hooks and threads. She strung from them models of stars she’d pinched together from wax and hung them in constellations—some real, some of her own design. She thought of memories of fireflies from her childhood and imagined a light like a slow heartbeat pulsing inside every gem of wax. Late at night when she couldn’t sleep she would move the stars along their belay lines, sometimes to recall her own scouting of the sky, sometimes in a rhythm with her wandering thoughts.
She reached up to the current calculus of stars on their strings and tried to find some meaning in Kerr’s death, just another casualty of the wild-infested desert they called their home, but she fell asleep instead, and the wax stars did not shine.
