They reached the camp by the bridge late the next afternoon, found Saelon on watch by the road. He greeted them with relief, jostled Anna's good shoulder and chuckled at her curses. The camp was comfortable, and they rested the next day, sleeping and eating and doing little else. Miriel sat with Calen again in the evening, not speaking much, for they had already told each other all there was to tell about what they had seen and done since midsummer. But she leaned against him and was content, glad of his warmth as she drowsed by the fire.
Low, heated voices roused her, Anna and Halbarad, away from the others on the edge of the firelight. She could not hear what they said. But in the end Halbarad shrugged and muttered, "Have it your way then." And she knew even before Anna told her that they would leave in the morning.
It was a wrench again letting go of Calen, of that brief shelter of comfort and home. He embraced her, warm against the dawn chill, said softly in her ear, "Valar guard and guide you."
"Valar guard and guide." And again she heard the word that had not been spoken, but was there and would be, one day.
She and Anna each took a Druadwaith sword, the short blades not what they were used to but better than nothing. The harness for Miriel's fit her well enough, but Anna's was too small, and she growled in irritation as Halbarad helped her strap it awkwardly to her back. Yet she seemed stronger after a day of rest, her face not so pale, movements sure and smooth. She did not use her left arm if she could help it, but seemed otherwise no worse for the wear.
She was also as close to cheerful as Miriel had ever seen her, and so Miriel chanced the question, as the sun rose over the mountains behind them. "Where are we going?"
"Bree." Short and quelling, but then, as if relenting, "Pick up any messages are there, and then north to Elenost. I need to tell the brannon taid what we found. Letter won't do; he needs to hear it." When it seemed there would be no more, Miriel nodded. It was in truth a better answer than she had expected to get, not only where but why. Bree, and then home. Home. Her mother and father would be there, and her sisters. But not Meren. It will be strange without him. She shrugged. But home is home.
The road went swiftly under their feet, and they came at last to the Breeland, tidy and almost strange after so long in the Wild. The South Gate was open, but before their feet touched the causeway over the dike, Anna stopped. Eyes narrowed, she watched the gate. After a time, she drew a breath, glanced at Miriel and then away, and she nodded. "We'll see the smith first. Need a proper sword harness, had enough of this thing bumping at every step." She gestured to the Druadwaith sword strapped across her back. And then more slowly, choosing words with care, "I may not be welcome. You should know."
Miriel frowned, but said nothing. If she's going to explain, she'll do it without my asking.
"Been fifteen years," said Anna at last. "People have long memories in a place like this." She shook her head. "Fifteen years, and that man hasn't forgotten I beat the shit out of his son."
"What?" Miriel couldn't help it – a laugh burst out of her, incredulity and amusement, but also pride that Anna, younger than Miriel was now, had gotten the better of a smith's son.
"He was a bastard. Not literally, but might as well have been. His mother died young, and the smith was a hard man. And as it is with the sons of hard men, he took it out on one he thought was soft. A girl, an outsider. And," brief twist of a grin, "a real bastard. But whoever the fuck my father was, he must have been strong. I was no older than the boy, I think. But I was big, and I knew how to fight. He started it." And again the brief, fierce smile. "But I finished it. And that boy never lived it down. Died a few years ago, I heard. Illness, though some said it was drink. So there's no love lost between me and Giles Smith." She chuckled dryly. "But he's a man of sense. If I pay him, he'll do as I ask."
The man did a double-take when they came into the yard, narrowed his eyes and blew out a breath, stared at them as they crossed the hard packed dirt to the forge, under its open-sided roof. But at last he grunted, "What do you need?"
"Afternoon, master smith," Anna said pleasantly. She swung the sword down off her back. "This isn't mine, but I need it to fit me."
The smith's eyes went down to the sword, and then back to her face. "Ain't yours, eh? Whose is it?"
Still the pleasant smile, an expression so foreign on Anna's face that it made Miriel uncomfortable. "Don't know his name. He's dead."
"You kill him?"
Anna nodded, then jerked her chin at Miriel. "Or maybe she did. Don't know which was whose." And then the smile dropped with an abruptness that made the smith step back, large man though he was. "Druad. Would've made you fix his gear and not paid, and you'd have been lucky to get away with only a lost fee."
The smith stared at her, at last grunted again and jerked a nod. "Very well."
She held out sword and harness and he took them, but he noticed the slight wince, and the mended slash in the cloth. "Marked you, eh?"
The pleasant smile was back. "There were ten of them, and five of us. One of them was bound to get through. But none of them got far."
Again the smith stared at her, shook his head and without a word turned back to his forge. "Round noon tomorrow, most like," he called over his shoulder. "Got a pile of other work first."
"Very well." Anna nodded, made to turn away, but then looked back in surprise. "Who's the boy?"
A young face peered out from a door.
The smith grunted. "Cap Ferny's son. Cap died last winter, Rosie the year before. I needed an apprentice." He shrugged, as though no more explanation was needed. "Name's Jona. Cap was a strong man; I hope the son is too. And I treat him better than some others treat theirs."
Anna's lips curved in a thin smile, but her eyes were cold. "You'd better." And then, softening a little, almost as though she could not help it, "What happened to Cap and Rosie?"
"Rosie was fever. Cap was thrown from a horse."
She pulled in a breath, let it out slowly and said nothing.
The smith met her eyes for a long moment, and something passed between them that Miriel could not read. "I'll take care of the boy, Anna."
"Good." She jerked a nod, and turned away out of the yard so abruptly Miriel had to jog to catch up. She strode down the main street of the village at the same ferocious pace, looked neither right nor left, gave no sign of noticing the heads that turned to watch them. But the village was not large, and soon they passed back through the South Gate, and were out in farm country on the open road. Anna slowed a little, said nothing and did not look at Miriel, but the tightness in her shoulders eased, and it seemed that a burden was lifted. At last she said, quietly as if to the air, "Cap and Rosie were friends. Didn't have many back then. But they were. I'd forgotten they had a son."
They went on along the road, meeting no one but a farmer in a pony cart and a girl herding sheep. The light began to fade, far too early for sunset, and Miriel looked back to see dark clouds riding up from the west. Rain. And then, Shit. We couldn't have stayed in the village?
But as the first heavy drops darkened the dust around them, they came to a gate in a high stone wall. Anna pushed it open and strode into the farm yard, glanced round and found the short, stocky farmer unhitching a hay wagon in the barn door. Her face broke into a smile, wide and genuine such as Miriel had rarely seen. "Make hay while the sun shines, eh, Will?"
The farmer kept a hand on the horse so it did not startle, but turned with an answering grin on his lined, ruddy face. "We-ell, that's so indeed. Anna my girl!" And he strode up and embraced her, slapping her on the back. "Been a day since I saw you last." He stepped back, looked her up and down. "And the days have been good to you, so it seems."
"They have, Will. They have." She half-turned, blinking a little. Miriel hung back, but Anna gestured her forward. "Will Rushlight, Miriel daughter of Sirhael. Apprentice to the Rangers. To me." A dry chuckle. "Someone thought that was a good idea."
Will smiled, but he did not laugh. "Someone who knew you well, Anna. Better than you knew yourself, maybe?"
Anna shook her head, but did not contradict him. The farmer turned to Miriel, bowed slightly, and she returned it. "If she took you on, you can't be all bad."
Anna's smile widened to a grin. "Not hardly."
A crack of thunder sounded, close and loud. The horses stamped, jingling their harness. The farmer turned back to them, calling over her shoulder, "You go on in, Elma'll get you some food. Tell her I'll be there directly. She'll be worrying, with the storm."
The farmhouse was built of stone, long and low with thickset windows that let in only a little light in the fading afternoon. But the door was half-open, and as they approached a woman appeared from the gloom within. She did not look much older than Anna, sturdy and thickset like Will, with reddened hands and eyes that missed nothing. But now she was smiling, and waving them in. "Come out of the rain. Take your boots off, no doubt they're filthy. And leave your weapons at the door." She shook her head. "Just mind the children don't get at 'em." They obeyed, and as Anna straightened, Elma slung an arm over her shoulders and pulled her into a hug. She was half a head shorter, and Anna drew a sharp breath as Elma's shoulder pressed against her bad arm. Elma let go at once, stepped back to look at her. "Eh, what happened to you then?"
"Nothing."
Elma raised her eyebrows, and cocked her head, and waited. At last Anna sighed, and a faint, grudging smile curved her lips. "A sword. Man who held it's dead, and I was the only one hurt."
Elma snorted. "Of course you were. Charged in with no caution, eh? Friend of yours in trouble?" Miriel barely suppressed an astonished laugh, so accurately was the situation described. And it seemed Elma's eyes did indeed miss nothing, for she turned to Miriel. "That what happened, eh?"
Anna said nothing, so at last Miriel answered, "More or less." But the farmwife grinned, and an answering smile tugged at the corners of Anna's lips. "Not much changed?"
Anna blew out a breath, shook her head and allowed a smile. "Suppose not."
They ate their fill that night, and slept on straw pallets by the hearth. A boy a few years younger than Miriel came in with Will, sunburned and dusty. There was a girl of perhaps ten, dark-eyed and shy and beautiful. Like Darya. Abrupt, and disconcerting, and she fought down the instinctive flare of resentment. And there were also two younger ones, a boy and a girl. Twins, Elma said, "And the two of them might as well be four for the noise they make." After so long in the Wild, Miriel felt almost overwhelmed by the constant cheerful din, and she was glad when at last the children went to bed, and she could lie down on the straw in peace. She was aching, beyond weary, and found herself drifting almost at once into sleep. But Anna talked with Will and Elma, candlelight flickering on their faces as the cookfire subsided into coals. The storm above them raged, rain pounding the roof, and at last rolled away, and still they talked, long into the summer night.
Elma sent them off the next morning with packs full of food, and extracted promises from Anna and Miriel both to return when they could. "And when that will be, the earth only knows," said Elma, with a resigned smile. "But we'll be here sure enough, waiting for you." Anna embraced her, eyes very bright.
With Elma's food, they needed nothing in the village, and stopped only briefly at the inn to check for messages going north. Anna left Miriel in the inn-yard, came back out after a short while with a waxed paper packet that she put away carefully deep in her pack. And then they returned to the smith.
He was not there, but the boy came out with the sword, handed it to Anna without speaking, eyes wide. She inspected the newly-wrought clasp, nodded in satisfaction, and he silently accepted her coins.
"Where's the master, Jona?" Anna asked at last, surprisingly gentle.
"Gone to Blackburn's farm," said the boy. His high voice cracked halfway through, and he flushed, cleared his throat and went on. "Said I was to tell you farewell and safe travels."
"Well." Anna smiled thinly. "Nothing lasts forever. Even grudges." More to herself than to Miriel or the boy, but then she turned to him. Still in that strange, gentle tone, "I knew your mother and father. They were good to me, when few others were. You remember that."
The boy swallowed, nodded, said nothing. And when Miriel looked back at the gate, he was still standing there, round-eyed, watching them go.
'Remember that.' How could I not? Who is she? From Rohan, Calen said, and had not explained, perhaps did not know. But Anna seemed almost thoughtful after they left the village, striding up the Greenway with the sun on their faces. And as they sat on a bank at noon, Miriel asked, as if off-hand, "How do you know so many folk in Bree?"
Ten years earlier...
"Take me with you."
"What? Go home, girl."
"Take me with you. I can fight."
Mahar frowned, narrowed his eyes and looked her up and down.
And unexpectedly, a voice from the watchers. "She can." Mahar turned to the boy, perhaps a year or two younger than her but tall and strong. "Knocked me to the ground last week." He flushed, and the hangdog look on his face and the grins of his fellows made Mahar think it was true. He turned to the girl.
"Can you use a sword?"
"Yes, captain."
Yes, captain. She's thought about this. "We'll see. Belegon, give her yours." He gestured, and the young Ranger raised his eyebrows but handed it over.
She lifted it without struggle, and he drew his own and stood before her. "Defend yourself."
He said nothing more but came at her, and though her movements were tentative and clumsy, it was clear she had had some training. He did not press hard, for both blades were sharp and he would not risk a slip that might lead to injury. But it was enough, and though she was breathing hard by the time he stopped, she stood straight and looked him in the eye.
He smiled faintly. "Now attack." A pause, and then, in answer to the consternation on her face, "I won't let you hurt me."
She stared at him a moment longer, shrugged, and then her eyes hardened and she came at him. This was clumsy still, but the hesitation was gone, and she moved with a speed and lightness he did not expect. She was big and tall for her age, and in his experience, young bodies that grew so quickly outgrew their ability to control themselves, and they became slow and cautious. Especially girls. But not this girl, he thought, and a tight smile creased his face. He defended easily, but she was stronger than he expected, and as the fight went on the Rangers began to whistle and cheer. "Go on, girl, keep at it! She's a tough one, eh? Having fun yet, captain?"
In truth he was, though it surprised him. The girl, clearly trained but not in the Dunedain way of swordsmanship, did things he did not expect, and he found his mind narrowing in the fierce concentration that was to him the closest thing to true joy there was to be found outside of a lover's bed. He made himself ignore the crowd, ignore the sun and dust and the insistent thirst that tugged at his throat, made himself focus only on her. He gave openings and she took them, shoved her back and she stumbled but did not fall, blocked and she disengaged swiftly and tried again. At last, he pushed her away hard and called into the space, "Enough! That's enough."
She stood before him, breathing heavily and streaming with sweat, but she straightened her shoulders and held the sword loosely, easily in her hand. And though both Rangers and villagers called to her, she ignored them and looked only at him.
He nodded, and his smile now was warm and real. "You spoke the truth, girl. Your way is not our way, but I think you can learn ours, if you're willing to work. For it will be work, hard work. Perhaps the hardest you've ever done," though even as he said it, he felt the anger and desperation in her, and knew she had seen hard work indeed. And likely worse.
It was a judgment call, and not an easy one, for the Rangers did not often take outsiders. But his heart spoke clearly, and in matters like these it was seldom wrong. He gazed at her a moment longer, then nodded sharply. "Very well. As long as your mother and father are willing, you can come."
She frowned, and for the first time looked uncertain. "I—I don't have a father. And my mother died."
"Then who cares for you? Who do you live with?"
She barked a bitter laugh, and the uncertainty was gone as if it had never been. "No one cares for me. I live with Rory Miller." She gestured behind her, to the miller's shed from which the sound of grinding could be faintly heard.
"Well, then I'll need to speak with him." Mahar turned to the patrol. "Wait for me outside the West Gate." They moved off, muttering, and he gave the crowd of village boys a look so sharp they shrank back and edged away. Then turning back to the girl, he nodded and followed her toward the shed.
It was dim inside, and it took him a moment to find the trudging figure of a man, guiding an ox in circles round a grindstone. But the man saw him, and the girl, and he stopped short.
"Eh, what's this then? What do you want?"
"I am Mahar son of Marhalion, captain of Rangers. Your girl here"—he realized suddenly, disconcertingly, that he did not know her name—"says she wishes to join us. She has strength and skill enough, and I am willing to take her if you will let her go. But I would not take a child from her own people if her family does not wish it. You must understand—"
"She's not ours," the miller cut in. "She ain't from here, and I ain't her family."
"She says she lives with you, and you are thus responsible for—"
"Do I care? She can do what she wants. Too much trouble, that one's always been."
Mahar's lips tightened, and he forced himself to say nothing to the man but turned to the girl, held her eyes, and she did not look away. At last he said quietly, "Is this truly your wish?"
"Yes." Swift and fierce, and an edge of relief.
"Then get your things. Quickly."
Again no hesitation nor question, and she darted into the house and was back out moments later with a bundle tied in cloth, and a rusty piece of metal that hardly deserved to be called a sword.
He frowned. "Let me see that." She handed it to him, but he knew the answer even before he touched it. "Leave it here. Worse than useless, likely break in a fight. We'll get you a better." He leaned it against the wall with distaste. "That everything?"
"Yes, captain."
He turned back to the miller. "Very well, sir. She will be no more trouble to you." And without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and strode from the shed back out into the afternoon sun.
He walked quickly, heard the girl behind him, but he did not turn, for he did not yet trust his voice. At last, as they neared the West Gate, he slowed, gestured her to walk beside him.
"I can see why you wanted to leave," he said quietly. A pause, but she said nothing, and so he went on. "You must meet many tests, and if you fail them, we will return you here." Another pause, and then, "Or wherever you wish to go."
She glanced at him, nodded, then looked away.
He smiled a little, reached out and squeezed her shoulder, but when she flinched he wished he hadn't. His lips tightened, but again he pushed back anger, and asked more gently, "What's your name, girl?"
Again she flashed him a glance and looked quickly away. "Anna."
Miriel kept her eyes on the road, but still she felt Anna tense, lips pressed together, face gone tight. But then a deliberate loosening, and she felt the reluctant intentionality of it.
"Grew up there," Anna said, looking toward the south, where the village lay half a day behind them. She blew out a breath, looked away, and her lips tightened again. At last she turned back to Miriel. "I tell you things, you keep your mouth shut."
Miriel nodded. "Of course."
Anna grunted, looked off again toward the south, and for a while she did not speak. But at last, almost quietly, "The Rohirrim are not kind to bastards, nor to the women who bear them. I was born there, little village at the foot of the White Mountains. Not far from the Great Road, or what's left of it. Maybe my father was a trader; she never said. Leastways, the man who took us away from there was. By the time I was five, maybe six years old, Mother'd had enough of the village, and the villagers. Took up with a man going north. Another when that one didn't work out, and then another. The fourth," she swallowed, and her face showed nothing, but her hand gripped her knee, "he stuck around. Until I was twelve, thirteen maybe. Then he died." Her voice was flat, emotionless. But something whispered beneath it, felt more than heard, and Miriel repressed a shudder.
Anna seemed not to notice, and went on without pause. "We were near Bree, so Mother drove the wagon there. Put herself, and me, on the mercy of the town." She huffed out a scornful breath. "Little enough there was. But some were kind to us, and for once—for the first time, maybe—Mother found a good man. Didn't last, of course. They both died of fever a couple of years later, and I was put out to the miller to earn my keep." She grunted, not quite a laugh. "Could have been worse. He looked at me, tried to touch me once. I kicked him in the balls and told him if he did it again I'd tell his wife. He didn't do it again. Even he was afraid of her." Miriel let out a surprised little laugh, and a thin smile flickered across Anna's lips. "So I hauled sacks of flour, and cleaned the millstones, and drove the oxen round and round so many times I'm surprised I could walk straight after." The brief, wintry smile again. "And I learned to fight. Got big enough to do it well, and when a Ranger patrol came through the village, one spring day a few years later, I…persuaded the captain to take me with them." For the first time that Miriel had ever seen, genuine fondness softened her eyes. "Mahar took a chance on me. If he hadn't—" she shook her head. "Something to remember there, girl." And then abruptly she stood up. "That's how I know folk in Bree."
She turned away, shouldered pack and weapons, winced a little at the incautious movement. And Miriel almost wished to reach out to her, to the pain that she now felt as well as saw. But she knew it would not help, would in fact be the opposite of helpful. And so she said nothing, and turned back to the north, and followed Anna up the ancient grassgrown road of the kings.
