The Fires of Cerran

Chapter Thirty-One

They left the ruined tower by daybreak, and it was quick ride along the road that led them further North along the borderlands. This place, largely wide-open lands dotted here and there with farm buildings and intersecting stone walls of long forgotten cattle grazing fields, was a welcome change from the harsher trails of the woods and forests further South. The sun was set high, the morning breeze light and the sky the clearest that had been seen that year, a welcome diversion from the cold, misted weather of the days prior. Along these trails they passed small collections of travellers, some sat at roadside with makeshift stalls, selling fruits and vegetables, whilst others offered watered ale barrels to quench a rider's thirst. Lenren commanded them to ride through them all, stopping for none, wasting little time. To Melran, the night before had seemed like a distant dream, or more so a nightmare, a dark thing of twisted shadows and distant howling shrieks. She had slept little, instead watching over the distant hillocks and plains, waiting to see the terrible shadow appear before her again. Lenren had said little to her all evening, and he and Ramon had returned from what they had called a 'quiet walk' with little cause for conversation. The camp had eaten supper, a cabbage and rabbit stew, in quiet self-contemplation, and had watched the firelight slowly die until at last they fallen each to an uneasy sleep.

Now, riding again, the days seemed to be merging into one for the young girl. And though she looked out towards the road ahead, keeping close control of her mare and riding with the speed and skill required, her mind wandered almost every hour. Her lies and deceptions were growing thin, and though her youth had been sent with an almost constant regard for learning the arts of deception, they now seemed to be failing her. Being in such close quarters to the King, along with the dark figures that had stalked the halls of Ceraborn, were beyond her control and far beyond her own comprehension. The task she had been given, clear and precise, now seemed muddied and confused. Surely, he could not have foreseen the events that had transpired. She thought, her glazed eyes scanning the road ahead as her mare galloped below her. Surely, he would have told me what to do? She argued, now almost wanting the shadow that followed to pull her from her ride and take her, so that then she might receive the answers she truly desired.

A few miles past, and Ramon kept close eye on the girl as he rode behind her. Her body seemed hunched, riding but unfocused on the journey ahead. Her tugs on the reins were almost automatic, perfectly timed and rhymical. Even he, with as many years of riding experience as he had, did not ride in such a fashion.

The previous night's exchange with Lenren had left the man pondering deeply, and as the troop rode on her found himself beginning to take the same riding form as the girl in front of him. He patted the mare every now and then and eyed the East in search of any hidden enemy that might try to come upon them, though in the back of his mind he knew this to be unlikely in these lands. With her head exposed to the winds, her riding cloak and hood flapping in her wake, he could not help but look to her features and see if he could identify any as being familiar to him. It was true he was from Garth, but it was far from true about his self-exile from that place, and he though he shivered when he thought of it, he felt more shame than fear.

Her dark hair and pale features, distinct to those of those South East, gave away little to him. Her skin was soft, smooth, her veins showing blue, like spilt ink upon snow. She was little older than eighteen, and he wondered at what age she had been taken to the care of the Sisters. Again, he shivered. The Sisterhood was often the first to arrive to those homes of those who offered up cripples or bastards to the faith, with the Welling far more reserved in its approach to new Maesters. Indeed, he even heard talk that Velgar himself had come under scrutiny from his peers, though he knew or cared little for the fat man's lineage. But as he looked closer, he could have sworn that her ears were misshapen, or at least that they curved oddly against any he had seen before. The Elder Folk were little changed from those of Brodon's, but it was said that they were shorter than man today, but quicker and lighter in combat. A distinct advantage that he, for certain, did not possess.