Reclamation(145)

She picked up a stick and handed it across to Eric.

“Thank you,” he said, and Arla decided that would be enough for now.

The day must have been a fairly dry one. Green flies and splinter-chasers glided low over the ponds. The earth under the grasses only squished a little. Arla smiled. One thing about the Skymen you had to like—their boots kept a person’s feet good and dry.

They continued on. Eric seemed to be having trouble with his footing. He splashed and stumbled along behind her. Arla made herself ignore him. She had a feeling he would not welcome too much attention right now. Maybe it was nothing more complex than his having gotten used to the unnaturally straight and even flooring the Skymen had. Maybe it had nothing to do with the shattered look she had seen when she handed him the walking stick. But then, even before he’d left, he couldn’t have done much stomping about in raw marsh. The Nobles were used to cobbled roads and wagons and ox-backs. Well, he’d have to get used to this. They wouldn’t be within reach of such luxuries for a while.

Her harsh thoughts startled her a bit. Something was slipping from her. She was a Notouch again, low as she could be. As soon as they hit company, she’d have to fall back into the endless bent-back playacting and wheedling language. She realized she did not want Eric to see her like that.

Despite her gloomy thoughts, part of her could not help but relax. The air was warm enough. Her head sat firmly on her shoulders and her eyes could see clearly without burning in harsh, bare lights. She was using her own legs to get somewhere and, even better, she knew where she was going.

She started whistling.

In a couple of days, she might even see Reed and Trail again, and Mother.

What’s she going to think of what I’ve done ? I haven’t got any idea. And my children? Her breath caught. Except, I’ve surely been divorced and so they won’t be my children and Nail in the Beam won’t be … there. She shoved the thought aside. Maybe not. Maybe he’ll have held out. Even if he didn’t, I know it must make sense. With what I’m doing what land of wife could I be? She glanced at Eric.

I know my children are my children and they know it, too, and the Teachers’ law can go drown itself. She shook her head ruefully. Right back into it, aren’t I? Keep on like this and I might as well have never left at all.

Eric tripped, splashed, and swore.

“Use your stick,” she prompted. “Swing it in front of you, watch the ground. We may have a long way to go.” She looked for the slant of the shadows. There was maybe half the day left. “And we need to do some serious traveling unless you want to spend the night in a tree.”

“Arla?”

“Hmm?” She cocked one eye toward him. He had stopped dead. Brown-tipped reeds waved around his knees. A small hillock of muck rose at his feet. Arla looked again. It wasn’t muck. It was a shoulder, and a head.

“Nameless Powers preserve …” Arla moved closer. The corpse lay facedown in a pool. It was pale and bloated with water and had been picked at by eels. She swallowed her gorge and laid her hand over her mouth, grateful for once for Lif’s ever-present smell. It covered the corpse stench.

It was a woman, she decided. A Bondless tattoo still showed against her greying hands. Eric, showing no signs of nausea, crouched beside the body. Arla was surprised for a moment, then remembered as a Teacher he had surely dealt with his share of unpleasant corpses. He braced himself and levered the body over onto its back. It splashed into the water and Arla got a look at the face. She gasped.

“Do you know her?” asked Eric.

Arla nodded. “She’s a Skyman. She’s … her name is Cor. She’s the one who took me to … who …” She swallowed hard again. “What did the Servant’s Eyes see here?” she whispered.

“I don’t know.” Eric fingered the waterlogged pouch at Cor’s waist. He gave an experimental yank. The cord snapped and he stood up. “It happened at least a day ago, whatever it was.” He tore the mouth of the pouch open and shook it.

Several coins fell into his palm, along with a translator disk, and a polished piece of pinkish quartz.

Arla’s chest tightened like she’d been hit. She snatched the quartz up. It was a long, ragged chip, carved and polished until it looked like a fat lightning bolt the length of her little finger.

“Trail,” she croaked.

“What?” Eric asked.

“This is my sister’s namestone. My sister, Broken Trail.” She stared at the corpse and the horror inside her redoubled. “Eric, what was she doing with my sister’s namestone!”