She felt older than she had any right to feel. The young woman with the silver-gold braid swaying just above the swell of her rear, brushed her palms over her face as she walked out from the back door of the rambling old inn. The air was heavy with the sweet musk of a summer evening. Spilled ale that was long-soaked into the very timbers of the tavern, simmering stew in the kitchens, the honeysuckle vine draped over the porch eaves, and whiffs of earthy manure from the stables across the square.
It was all familiar. So familiar. Wearily familiar. How many summer evenings just like this one had she seen? Countless. Too many. Too many to still be a childless, wandering widow. By the time a woman had so many summer days under her belt, she ought also to have a good, strong man smiling down at her, walking close at her side. She ought to feel the warmth of a small hand slipping into her palm, or the weightless weight of an infant strapped to her breast.
She heard townsfolk mingling and passing and bustling around her. Laughter. Names called. Friends. Families.
A curious chill struck between her shoulder blades and ran up and down her spine. Her shoulders stiffened, then writhed in irritable circles to shake it off. She glanced at the evening sky while her feet carried on over the cobblestones. The twilight in the west seemed oddly vivid. Vibrant gold, flaming apricot, darkly thick crimson.
A familiar snort broke through her brooding thoughts, and she lifted her eyes.
In the stable ahead, Jack stood in his stall, obediently expectant for his mistress’ arrival. His forelock dangled carelessly over one gentle, brown eye. Its twin lit upon her briefly, before the great head swung off to the side, and he regarded someone else who was standing there.
It took several, ponderous seconds of confusion before she realized that the dusky, matted horse who was standing outside of the stable, was Son of Mouse. His coat was caked in dust, his tail tangled and untended. The woman frowned and stepped closer, passing her eyes over him quickly, trying to decipher the puzzle. If Son of Mouse was here, then where was Ryheric?
Her gaze raked abruptly over the town square, even while knowing she would not see him. He was not there. He would never leave the colt in such a state. The young horse was often spirited, fiery, and rambunctious, but now he seemed anxious, puzzled, and subdued. She laid her hand against his neck and watched the little cloud of dust float down and away.
A thought came to simply mount him and bid him to carry her to wherever he had last seen his master. But she put this idea away. If trouble had befallen them, it would hardly do to gallop straight into it, unarmed and unaware. She unbolted the door of an empty stall and led Son of Mouse within, speaking softly to him. Once inside, she went to work on the tangled burs in his tail. All the while, her mind churned.
He planned to go away. He had said as much. But when? And where, exactly? And for what purpose? Their last parting had been a sweet one. He would not have gone away without any word, any farewell. He would not leave Son of Mouse behind. The colt must have wandered for days, judging by his unkempt state. She did not know where this new village was, that his friends had constructed. She could hardly run to it and ask for aid or for answers to the mystery, without knowing its location.
Trouble followed him like a shadow. Even here in the idyllic, quiet north. He spoke now and again as a man who wished for a more peaceful, domesticated existence. Yet it seemed as far out of his reach as her own fantasies of family and motherhood. How could he ever realize such dreams when he seethed with scars in both his mind and his flesh, and seemed to fall into hazards and danger with each step he took?
Still, he was strong and fearless. The strongest man she had ever known. And he was surrounded by friends, more devoted than family. They would surely know what had befallen him, and where he was, and what to do. If word needed to be sent to her, she was easy enough to find.
“What happened, hmm?” she said aloud to the colt, as if he might give her an answer. He swung his head about and looked at her with a gleaming, black eye, and his hide gave a little shudder.
Jack blustered through his nostrils in the neighboring stall, and put his chin over the separating partition. Son of Mouse chuffed in a higher pitch, wheezing a bit through his chest. The old white hen was perched on a feed bucket in the corner, feathers fluffed and eyes shut, taking little notice of the scene.
The woman carried on in the way that seemed best for the moment. She could not ride to the rescue when she knew not what had taken place, or where it had happened. She was no warrior, and had not brought her leather armor nor her sword north with her, after the escape from Dunland. There was a stout refusal within her breast, to think that any grave danger had befallen Ryheric. To permit such thoughts would be to suffer torment, as only a helpless soul can suffer, when they cannot give aid to another. And so she brushed the colt. She tenderly untangled the burs and knots from his mane and tail, and combed every speck of dust from his coat, and brought him oats and fresh, cool water. She told herself that surely in the morning, the tall hooded man would be standing at the stable, perhaps wearied or hungry or with tales of adventure and tribulation to share as he reunited with his beloved horse.
Surely.
