“I am in the Arch-Rike’s service,” he responded, the first time she had heard his voice that day. “I am protected by powerful magic.”
She nodded in respect, realizing the display of his power had been deliberate. He was showing her that nothing she could do would hurt him. The small axe tucked in her belt would be of no use against him.
“So the arrow Trasen shot did not even harm you,” she said.
He nodded at her astuteness and said nothing. He looked back at the hollowed-out house. That was why he did not conceal his approach when he tracked them into the mountains. He knew he could not be killed. A stone of fear sank into her stomach. How was she, a poor homestead girl, supposed to escape him? She realized that it may not even be possible. The sense of dread was paralyzing.
“Can we rest here tonight?” she asked, trying to hide the pleading in her voice. “It will be dusk soon.” She stared back at the house. She would love to fall asleep in the house, dreaming of what it would be like to live in Stonehollow forever. She had a feeling their journey to Kenatos would not take very long. Anything to drag it out longer would be a treasure.
He frowned, as if dubious of her motives.
“I will walk faster tomorrow,” she promised. “We can make up the time. Please? I am so weary.”
She did not want to beg. Biting her lip, she gazed down at the dripping honeycomb in her hand.
He nodded once and turned away from her.
“Thank you,” she offered softly.
Phae ate part of the delicious chunk of honeycomb and then had the idea to combine it with a pear. The sweetness was almost too much, but she enjoyed it and licked her fingers when it was gone. She wandered the orchard a bit, counting about a dozen trees producing fruit and another dozen that were so wild they were barren. The Kishion entered the house to examine it and she had the sudden impulse to flee. She continued her deliberate walk, letting her hands brush the tips of the grasses. Glancing back at the house, she wondered if he was watching her from inside, waiting to see if she would run.
She wanted to. Though she was tired from the day’s walk, she was more rested than she had been the previous day, and more alert. Her body felt firmer and her joints did not ache like they had. In the tall grass, she could almost disappear if she dropped low. Was he watching her? Was he testing her? It would be night soon. Did he need to sleep as well?
Phae decided it would be foolish to flee. She did not imagine that her endurance could outlast his. If she ran, he would chase her and he would catch her. Would he punish her? Or simply plunge one of his knives in her heart? She could not risk it. The best thing to do was to earn his trust by proving herself trustworthy. She decided to stay awake as long as she could and see if he fell asleep. She needed to learn everything she could about him, his strengths and—hopefully—his weakness. That was what she needed to learn more than anything else.
After exploring the perimeter of the house, she entered it from the main doorway. The door was missing completely. The inner hall was made of stone tiles and weeds grew in the mortar cracks where the sunlight touched it. There was a crumbling stone hearth with what looked to be the abandoned bed of a wolf or a fox. Dried droppings from mice and other small creatures showed it was used occasionally. Their presence would frighten off any creatures returning that night.
The remains of a loft were smashed on the floor, covered with rotted shingles. The Kishion had cleared away a space by the hearth, the farthest from the windows.
“No fire, I suppose?” she asked tiredly but she did not believe he would answer. She gazed about the innards of the cottage. It would take some work, but the place could be fixed. The walls had been constructed by a master mason. They were thick and solid and had not yielded to the elements or time. They were stones set to last five hundred years. A new roof was needed. The loft could be rebuilt. The orchard could be tamed once more. Horses and goats and oxen fixed in the pen. The cottage was lonely, all it needed was a family to care for it. The owners had likely died of the Plague. So many people gathered in cities that there was truly more land than available people to work it. She wished for it more than anything else.
“How old are you?” she asked, gazing at him covertly. He seemed younger than thirty by his looks.
Ignoring her, he rubbed his hands together, gazing at the dust motes twirling in the fading light. The sun was descending quickly.
“Did you have a name before you became a Kishion?”
He tapped some old rotting wood with the tip of his boot, staring down at it curiously.
Realizing that he would not engage in conversation, she slumped down near the hearth and imagined living in the cottage. In her mind, she began listing all the things she needed to do to make it inhabitable. She would need saws and hammers. Barrels for collecting rainwater. A broom for certain. Her eyes searched the room in the fading light, growing heavier and heavier. She tried to keep her eyes open, missing Trasen with a piercing pang that surprised her. He was alive. She could thank Kishion for that at least.