To my holy gratitude, my sleep is deep and dreamless. To my dismay, the morning is cold and wet. I wake to the deeper calls of the hardier birds, the ones who stay the winter's course rather than flee it. The soft sound also of hooves, most likely a mule's, is also heard in the distance, growing slowly louder. Based on the trail before me, turned to a thin mud by the dew, it would not be the first cart to pass by this morning.
I try to stretch out my sore and aching limbs, and they cry in protest. It will take more than a few hours' travel to work out this stiffness. My clothes are soaked through with the damp. I heave myself onto my feet and clamber up out from under the bush in a way that I know is anything but dignified. The sharp briskness of the morning cuts through me in my wet clothes. I don't particularly want to be seen in this state, but I don't know that I have any choice before I can get my limbs to wake up. I look up and down the road, hoping to find my bearings and ascertain the direction of the approaching cart. My exhaustion hasn't yet left me, but my resolve has returned. I left my bag behind-the reminder brings an unwelcome twinge of pain-and I need to make it to the castle, before nightfall if possible. It's time to start acting like the priestess of Avalon again, and not a frightened girl. The owner of the cart is likely heading to or from the castle and can direct my way. I square my hips, and try to pull as many leaves from my hair as possible to prepare to meet it with some dignity.
The donkey-pulled cart cracks toward me down the road. The donkey seems to be straining, and the man by its side seems to be very upset about that. His walking stick seems to also be suitable as a motivation tool.
I allow him and his braying companion to close the distance before I address him. He doesn't look up and notice until he's nearly driven his cart right over me. I hold a hand out, palm forward. Meant in greeting, but also to prevent just that from happening. I greet him formally. "Peace, sir. I'd be grateful if you could point me on my way to Anshire castle."
My formality is lost under the deep, sub-English growl ordering me to one side.
"Otaway. S'blood aim werking kere." His hand brushes me out of his way like a fly out of his face. His cart is loaded with goods. The donkey eyes me for the seconds it takes to pass.
I certainly wasn't expecting a deep bow and a m'lady from the weary and impatient looking traveler, but I hadn't considered that he wouldn't acknowledge me at all. I taste a bit of fear, wondering how long it might take for someone else to pass by if he won't answer me, or to make a guess at the direction and head off blindly. I step directly in his path this time, less formal now myself. "I need no more of your time than it takes to point a finger. Anshire. Which way along the road?"
"Swear I'm head'd, yawatch! One side, less Matti'ear bites off the finger you scold." The donkey's eyes are still on me. "T'won side!"
I jump smartly to one side as he said, out of the donkeys range and allow the cart to pass, leaving a healthy distance as I fall in step to follow behind in silence. He needn't be bothered with another peep from me if he can lead me right to the castle gates. Besides that, the creaking rumble of his cart and the low bickering sounds of man and beast complaining to one another are welcome distractions from the eerie silence of the road in early morning. Fog lies as heavy and unpleasant as damp wool on the road and its travelers.
I look from donkey to master, wondering which is the less agreeable. I note that their expressions and countenance are uncannily similar. Though they don't offer much by way of companionship, I'm hoping that their presence will remediate the dangers of traveling alone.
The road offers an hour of such entertainment and pondering. It must be still so early that the fog hasn't cleared. My bones ache less as I walk. I pull Eve's tunic closer against the chill, to little but some effect. The road's ruts deepen, then the road levels and widens. Pairs of floating points of fire, five and fifty feet off the ground, fade in through the fog. All at once the dark stone of a castle wall breaks through the fog. Wisps of fog tear at its windows, stones, and merlons. The damp stone is menacingly dark, but the untouched surfaces of the ashlar offer a sense of the castle's more comforting day façade.
The merchant heads straight for the gate, he must have a merchant pass to let him in. I'd been lucky enough leaving Islingard through a secret door, I'm doubtful I'll be so lucky as to get in as easily as a merchant. I don't know how I'm going to get in. It was impossible to plan, not knowing the nature of the fortifications and guards posted at the entrance-but Anshire's peace keepers appear vigilant and solemn. What sort of kingdom is this? Are they enjoying peace and a year of good harvests, or stretched thin from war? It's impossible to tell from the outside.
The cart bearer and his donkey are paying me no notice, as they have our entire trip together. Perhaps I could walk in behind him, and be taken as his steward or companion? If I could get something from his cart to hold, and keep silent and just behind him...
As discretely as I can, I let my long sleeves partially conceal my upraised hand, pointed at the cart, and marshal all of my concentration... and am rewarded with nothing but the gentle flapping of the loose corner of canvas covering his wares. Can I really still be as weak as this? Frustrated and slightly alarmed, I find myself under the shadow of the massive gate's threshold. There's no time left for planning. I may need to talk my way inside. This time, the truth will have to serve.
At the last moment I draw up the front of my tunic, lacing as tightly as I can. I still don't know how or if they will react to my Mark here. I must put my arms down to avoid making a noticeable gesture, and I don't know if the Mark has been fully concealed before I find myself under the eyes of the nearest guard. My heart pounds.
"Aye you. What business have you in Anshire?"
I keep the fear out of my voice when I answer, "I am traveling and in need of fresh supplies. I hope to barter my skills as a healer in the marketplace." I make sure to meet his gaze.
"Aye, I bet you have quite the skill." He reaches for my collar.
"Marcus."
Instinctively I shrink away from the man's touch, but he roughly grabs the hem of my garment. A deep voice behind me.
"Thanks enough, Marcus. You're off the night shift if you think the lady before you, coming at *this hour*, is underdressed for the winter because she is a peddler." To his face at close range. "And I know you can't afford it."
"Sir."
The new man turn to me. "And a warning to you, my lady. You will not be permitted to leave Anshire dressed as you are. A skilled healer should know this."
His brisk and scolding tone does not feel harsh, considering how lucky I am to have his kindness. I bow my head and curtsy deeply in deference to my timely savior.
"I thank you for both the words of advice and for repairing our misunderstanding." It is immodestly gratifying to see the guard standing stiffly at brisk attention, red in the face and unwilling to look at me in front of his superior. "I intend to amend my poor planning as soon as possible. Could I further impose upon your good will and ask if you know of any in need of my services?" I know not to waste kindness where I find it, and it's too much to hope that a someone might twist an ankle or go into labor before me in the village square.
"I intend not to waste such skill. The ward's to the left against the wall. Tell the guard Sir Borin send ye. Could use ye. That's how ye'll thank me." He nods you off with an upward thrust of his chin. I bow once more in respect.
"Good health to you and yours, sir."
Without further deliberation I take off in the direction he has indicated. Keeping the wall on my left shoulder, the ward is not hard to find. The sound-and scent-of death and disease are never hard to place. The ward will soon tell me all I need to know about the state of this castle.
The early hours mean few people are this far out in the town. The few travelers in and out of the gate means the town is probably large to have plenty of fresh wells. The guard makes more proper form of himself as you approach the ward, heeding and relenting to the sound of his superior's name. There is already another woman here, clearly tired and busy.
I know better than to interrupt or get in this woman's way, or to enter her sick room before getting her permission. Standing in the doorway, I knock a few times and announce myself: "Could you use another pair of hands?"
She looks at me over a patient, brushing her hair out of her eyes.
"The pay is 5 qwel a day, like it or not."
Bowing, "Thank you, sister, I'm happy to serve." It is now that I take stock of the room and the figures inside.
My heart skips a beat. I look from face to face, seeing everywhere the signs with which I am painfully familiar. I take in the entire scene, and suddenly the air feels too thick and choking to breathe. I reel back a step. This looks like the sickness I fought in Avalon.
A woman to my right screams out in pain and arches her back. Her screams include the name of the Lord, but not in blasphemy. "If you're not sure where to start, you could make some sweet plaster," the nurse behind me poses, "we're almost out of wild petals."
I force myself to calm down. I look again. This might not be the same thing I faced before. I don't hear anyone coughing. Not yet.
"How are they suffering?"
"Their limbs are burning. Soon the fire makes their limbs useless. If their limbs start to spasm or curl, warm wraps help..." She seems to be losing hope, or maybe patience, in the person before her.
Burning? "Here, let me help you with that." I finish wrapping the limbs of the writhing figure on the bed before her. I look around, and I see the hands and feet cricked into unnatural positions. Wait... I have seen this. I fight back the ghosts and try to place the memory.
"Have any of them suffered from delusions?"
"This isn't a house for the mad."
I look down again, bring my face nearer and study the blasted and swollen skin of the nearest victim.
"Does this kingdom grow rye?"
"What kingdom doesn't grow rye. It's there only food most can afford around here. Those who can't usually get offerings from the church."
"These people included?"
"Aye."
My head snaps up. "This is Saint Anthony's Fire."
I put a hand on her arm. "Please, sister, will you take me to where the grain is stored? Where is your mill?"
"No mill... The church." She looks away. "I'm sorry, I can't go with you..." She bashfully pulls up her hair, revealing a horrendous rash. She looks at me sadly.
"That's alright, sister. These people will be alright." I shake my head. Such suffering, so easily prevented. "Your rye store is infected. My kingdom has fought this sickness. You must not let anyone more eat it raw-you must boil it to make it safe to eat. Keep these ones as comfortable as you can, and give them ginger and parsley to open their veins again. It will not cure, but The Fire will ease while it works its own way out. But you must destroy any bread that's already been made and boil the remaining stores. Please, point me to the Church."