Ch2

The following day dawned clear and bright and Rwen found herself up with the birds. Which was, in itself, a good thing. She needed to hunt, and hunt badly. And all those little birdies were just too tempting to resist… despite her need her skills were dreadful. Coryn would have thrown a fit. But four days without food and weeks on short rations had done nothing for her reflexes, besides give her a trigger that was so close to 'hair' it scared her.

Three 'marks later and very much stressed, Rwen found herself back at camp with two fat grouse, and a lizard. The last she had tripped over, and, while lizard was not normally part of her dietary supplement; she had heard it tasted like chicken. Rwen's mouth twitched. According to Those Who Knew, everything tasted like chicken.

Since her impromptu flight from home Rwen had learned that most of the creatures that were guaranteed to taste like chicken only did so when the chicken they were being compared to was either a) old, deranged, and gamy or b) old, deranged, gamy, smelly and so strong as to actually taste completely different from the original and commonly known taste of chicken.

And standing here wool gathering is not going to get the 'chicken', deranged, gamy, or otherwise, into my stomach any faster. Rwen thought.

With a small laugh at herself she went about making a fine breakfast, lunch, dinner, and many snacks in between.

…

As midday moved into late afternoon Rwen contemplated moving camp. She looked around at her ragged belongs as she thought. It wasn't like she had much to pack. No tent, that had been the first thing to go, instead she slept on Salome's blanket, which doubled as a saddle during the day. Her month with the Shin'a'in had done more than heal her; it had added new skills to her growing repartee. The clearing also contained a freshly scraped fire pit from the night before, and, well actually that was it aside from the packs she hadn't eaten. Even empty of provisions they were useful, and though their taste was worse than anything she had previously experienced, they had allowed her to live long enough to survive the Comb. Her winter clothes were drying in the branches of some nearby saplings, and as soon as she'd dismounted Rwen had strapped all the weapons she owned to herself. She even slept with them. Uncomfortable, but practical. And then of course, there was the gold. Another reason she had not wished to abandon the last remaining packs and their useful, hidden, pockets. All up those packs held a thousand gold nobles, a paltry sum compared with what she'd left with back with the Clan. Blood money, death money. Money for bribes, money to pay out secrets, money to buy solders. Money to get her country back.

My Velvar. Her heart ached with the thought.

Rwen would get her country back. Even if she had to buy it, one furlong at a time. The money went with the crown, and the weapons. Another burden to carry. Another geas.

Death or dishonor…

As if I ever had a choice, Rwen thought bitterly.

Uneasy sits the crown, they always say, of Kings… whispered a voice

Rwen knew that now, knew without a shadow of a doubt. However the crown was not without its benefits, the ability to detect poisons was a useful one, especially now, with poison swiftly moving up the ranks of her 'How To Get Killed' list. The crown also possessed some minor healing ability that it passed on to its wearer, though Rwen was wary of this one. It only seemed to work when it felt like it, so she wasn't planning any great acts of bravo.

Death is a hard disease to cure…

It had saved her once already; Rwen traced the scar that split the left side of her face in half. Too close that one, too close. She'd almost lost the eye, without the crown, she would have.

So I owe you that one, Rwen admitted, That one but no more.

There were also other, stranger gifts. Every since waking to find the circlet on her brow Rwen had been… seeing things around those she met on the road. Not like talking birds or the like, images that were the product of too much ale, or the mushrooms that had once grown around her home, just…things. Colours, hazes, shades, they were almost like visible music, a symphony solely for her enjoyment. Except not all of the parts were nice. In fact some of them were down right evil. The strange thing was that Rwen was able to read these colour hazes… and rightly so as well. Like that… monster in Kata'shin'a'in, the one who had killed 'Nela. Rwen pushed her mind hurriedly from the matter, she could not deal with that death, not yet, the pain was still too fresh. At least that thing was no longer walking this plane; she had owed 'Nela's daughter that much. The avenging of her mother's death. One good thing to come out of the colour hazes was this; Rwen now had the ability to tell when someone was lying to her. And that was a useful ability for a Queen to have…

If you ever get to Haven… another voice hissed. Rwen had forgotten, the Assassins, with the Blizzards starting early than predicted this year those that had stayed behind would have little choice but to wait until the Thaw, and that was a good three months away. Three months, enough time to get herself to Haven and established, find the woman the shaman said would help her get lessons in their Collegium. She was descendent they said, from the great Kethry, and would be honor-bound to aid her. Rwen kept the letter the shaman had sent with her close. At this moment, that letter and a name, was all the chance she had of getting into their school.

Kerowyn.

A strange name, in Velvar. Not common. Old. But who was Rwen to pick at names? She'd been named for the first Queen of their great nation, Rhianwen fa' Lorane. The people had named her the Warrior Queen, and like a true warrior she had met her death in glorious battle, triumphant until the last. Her daughter Kiaradel had succeeded her. She had ruled long and in peace, a peace solely won over her mother's bloody corpse. After the recent death of their last great King, Llewellyn, the crown was meant to pass to his Heir Apparent, a cousin of the Blood, Josiah. Except that by the time the King was murdered Josiah was already dead, as were his mother and sisters, and their children, and all their relatives. Every member of the Blood had died that night. Every one but her. And was it any surprise? Her father, a distant cousin of the King's, had only acknowledged her birth after it was proven without a doubt she was his daughter, it seemed his wild dark locks had bred true, and that was enough for the Courts and her mother, a minor Noble, had won her case. Timathus had acknowledged her and named her Heir, then banished Rwen and her mother to a backwater broken down Keep with only an aging nurse and a mercenary turned Swordmaster for company.

Denied the pleasures of a normal childhood Rwen had grown up knowing nothing of Court politics, and yet a great deal on most other things. Her mother had drilled her mercilessly in dancing and etiquette and all the other studies to befit a highborn lady, but when you were taught these skills from birth, subject matter ran out rather quickly. So when Rhianwen had reached seven she was turned over to Coryn's care indefinably, with her other lessons simply… weaving through. And under Coryn's tutelage was when her real skills began to show. Her father's wild mane was not the only talent to have bred true. Rwen had also inherited his eye for war. She called it a knack, Coryn called it beautiful. For the next nine years Rwen mixed dancing and painting with daggers, sword work, as well as any other weapon Coryn could lay his hands on, much to her mother's disgust. Her 'formal' lessons had ended just months before she had left. Rwen had fought eight consecutive bouts against Coryn, each bout scoring a death strike and yet earning none herself. Coryn had compared her ability with that of her namesake saying that he had no more to teach her. Her mother had just snorted and ordered her back to her history lessons…

The call of a bird overhead brought her out of her dreams. Rwen cursed and grabbed her winter clothes, bundling them into her packs. She kicking out the small fire that she had roasted her catch on. The remaining food went into her packs and her 'bed' was slung over Salome. After giving the clearing another once over Rwen set off north towards Valdemar's Southern Trade Road, riding through the night in the hopes of reaching a settlement come morning. What she found was not exactly what she had been expecting.

…

As Rwen came upon the settlement it seemed a burden had been lifted from her shoulders, finally. Rwen had ridden all night, decided to put as much distance between her and the Comb as was possible. Coming upon the small village had been a blessing in disguise, or so she thought. Hostile faces greeted her as she road up to the dwellings. Rwen could feel her shoulder blade burning from hidden stares. A prickle of unease skittered across her back and down her spine. Rwen froze as she caught the eyes of a large farm worker. She called out a greeting, asked if there was a local inn. Deliberately he spat on the ground. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor Rwen road on.

A couple of 'marks later Rwen, or rather Salome, found a small track that led off the main road. By cautiously following it Rwen found herself in a clearing containing a small shack, a lean too for what was obviously stabling purposes, and the quite sound of water.

"Hello?" Rwen called in the Trade Tongue. Receiving no answer she silently dismounted. Keeping one hand on her weapon Rwen ordered Salome to Stay as she moved towards the dwelling's door…

………………..

Rwen lead Salome towards the lean-to and fed her generously, but not to generously, from the oats she'd found inside. The dwelling was deserted, and had been for some time judging by the layer of dust on some of the food bins. Rwen carefully only took what she needed, leaving a single noble as payment, it was more than enough, she knew, but she was so grateful for the food in whoever's house she was robbing that she didn't care. Not wanting to impose anymore on the absent owners hospitality Rwen set up her fire pit outside, preparing a thick porridge for her mid-morning meal. She had also manage to pick up something that looked like the Waybread of her home as well as some small packets of oats and barley for future soups. Rwen was careful not to eat too much, and only plain fare, knowing that he stomach would have shrunk during her stint in the Comb. She had also made sure to take only the oldest of everything, still a spike of guilt accompanying each 'liberated' product.

After consuming most of the porridge Rwen checked on Salome, making sure she had enough water and was doing well on the oats and some dried hay at the back of the lean too. With Salome taken care of Rwen rolled herself up in her blanket and went to sleep. She had decided that traveling by night would perhaps be wiser for the moment, at least until she reached more… liberated towns.