"I'm sorry," Iltha admitted, watching as I set the bucket down. Six trips, and enough well water drawn to submerge myself in completely; she insisted on heating it for me. Her ladle scooped more into the black-iron kettle, and I sighed. I would have been content with a strip wash; a rag and some soap. The 'bathhouse', she explained, was in need of repair; the wood was rotten, and needed replacing. She had had to make do with a water-butt lined with a sheet while her father poured the bucket over her.
I should have realised her agenda, but I was too distracted. Ever aware we were nearing Firkraag, I was wondering how to confront him, and how I would bend him to my will. I had not searched myself since I had given to Imoen; I believed the wellspring empty. I was afraid to look, afraid of what it meant to simply be mortal. Between such thoughts, I was dimly aware of the approaching night; how it was already dark outside. Here, on the flagstones before the fireplace, I wondered how many more nights I would see.
Iltha went to fetch the barrel; I realised too late she had lugged the heavy thing by herself, and shame graced me. I made to take it from her, and she smiled, shaking her head. Instead she prepared the sheet, and poured the kettle's contents. The cloud of steam that arose seemed almost mystical; it had been days since I had been able to wash myself. Tipping a bucket of well water in, she tested it with her finger, smiled and nodded. Modestly, she turned around, and shedding my clothes, I dreamily took the soap, wet the cloth and scrubbed myself down. Then I climbed in.
She seemed surprised I would take the time to wash first; I had not felt the chill, and as I sank into the liquid warmth, she trapped the steam with the sheet. Leaning forwards, I soaked my hair, and lost myself. Tentatively at first, she rubbed soap onto my shoulder, wet it, and wiped it dry. I should have been more aware of it, but I wasn't. After she had soaped my back, oiled and rinsed my hair, she added another load from the kettle and left me. I drifted between thoughts, between dreams, and the ride, its ache and saddle-soreness became a distant memory.
As I dozed, she washed my clothes; by the time she hung them to dry, the water had cooled. I came to with a jolt, vivid images of floating in darkness, of being stuck in a jar seizing me. My eyes snapped open, and as I took in everything, including the faintly scented herbal soap, I relaxed. From the corner of her eye, she watched me, and calmly, after folding my cloak over the makeshift line, she held out a towel for me. It was half the size of a bed-sheet, its weave coarse, but soft compared to the rags I used. She hid her smile as I stepped out dripping onto the flagstones, and found myself wrapped and rubbed dry. I had to wonder if she did this for all her 'guests'. Holding out a dressing robe, her father's, I presumed, I had little choice but to accept it or prance naked through her home.
Stepping back, she half curtsied, "I'll show you to your room now."
I immediately knew it was her room, and not 'mine'; the room was at the very end of the house, and set back from the other two bedchambers. A single bed, neat, filled one corner, a shelf another, and a narrow chest sat tucked out the way. Her fingers held mine, catching them just before we left the main room. As all my socks (as well as all my other clothes) now decorated the chamber, I had opted to go barefoot across the fur rugs and woven carpets. She carried no light, so I supposed I could forgive her for leading me by the hand…
I turned to face her; she had planted herself between me and the door. "This is your room."
"I want you to have it."
"Why?"
"You were right; Delryn should have his own room."
I didn't believe her.
Curling a lock of hair around her fingers, she pressed her lips together, her eyes lowered; then she lifted them, "You interest me, he doesn't." When I did not reply, she confessed, "You're not a paladin." After another lack of response, she looked down, "Anomen wounds a brother knight, won't listen and charges into battle…" A quick glance up, "I heard what happened. What you didn't tell my father. Ilvastarr told us… how hot-headed his squire is. You didn't have to tell us; you do not wear the signs of battle. I doubt you are a coward; you would not have been so calm earlier." She paused, "He owes you a debt… they both do."
"And we your father."
She shook her head, "You are not a paladin."
"What makes you say that?" Why were we having this conversation in her bedroom behind a closed door?
"My father's friends with Keldorn Firecam. I've seen enough knights to know." Trailing off, she took a breath, "I've something to show you."
Before I could stop her, she twisted and unlaced the side of her dress; it fell, doubled over at her hip. I stared.
"My father," she began sadly, "he's a good man, a generous and kind man, but he drinks. He drinks because of my mother… and sometimes he beats me." She turned around, stepping close and taking my hands; her bunched dress barely covering her. "Once your business here is done… take me with you?"
Her eyes were pleading, desperate; I froze. There were so many objections; something was still wrong in the back of my mind. Why me and not a paladin? Because of her father? But there was something else, something… deeper. This was too easy, too… convenient.
Her soft lips brushed the side of mine, warm, longing, hesitant. "I've little coin," whispering, as if hardly daring to breath, her hands touched my shoulders.
She still blocked the door.
