Midnight Moon

Chapter 36 - Fury and Hope

Jate stepped out of a squat shack that passed for an inn, glancing habitually over his shoulder as he pulled the door shut behind him. The town was ugly in the daylight, but he could not afford to be picky. He had found it as darkness closed in the day before; sunset arrived during the afternoon now the winter solstice was only days away.

The rain that chased him south had eased overnight, though it left the earth spongy and slick. He was grateful that the downpour had thawed the ground, meaning Farilyth would be more comfortable when they rode on. It was better than snow, anyway.

Jate rubbed his face, the scratch of a beard unfamiliar on his jaw. Shaving wasn't compulsory in the army, but the fewer options an opponent had to grab a soldier, the better. Besides, he preferred to look smart and tidy, respectable and authoritative - one of the benefits of leaving his family's farm. Even the longest of his postings were less bleak than this, and returning to barracks meant access to a wash and fresh clothes.

Now, he had little time or energy to spend on his appearance. Looking shabbier probably helped him to fit in here.

The late morning light was thin and low, fair clouds scuttling across the sky. Jate could see candles lit in a few windows, his stomach turning with the realisation that today must be the Day of Ashes, the memorial for all those who had died in the War of Two Kings. Even though he had only been a child at the time, these small acts of grief were heartbreaking.

He was surprised that the Southlands commemorated the day - it was so disconnected geographically and politically from the capital - but everyone had lost someone. This close to the border with Niskas, they could have fought for either side - many towns jumped from kingdom to kingdom over the centuries until most had forgotten in which territory they were founded. People from this town may have killed each other in the heat of battle, ready to destroy those they would once have viewed as kin.

Even as a soldier, the thought of a true, drawn-out war chilled him.

Jate pocketed his coin pouch as he strode towards the stables, disturbed by how light it was. The room overnight had been cheap, but the information he had bartered with the innkeeper for this morning was more expensive and less useful. He didn't know what he would do when the last coins bestowed by the King ran out: sleep rough and scavenge for food in the wild midwinter? Don his uniform and sacrifice the secrecy he had maintained so far for entry into barracks? Return to Beyall and tell the King he had failed?

No, even when out of all options, he could not do that. He could not go back without her.

Farilyth whinnied as he entered the stables, her chestnut nose peeking over the stall. Stables was the generous name given to the barn divided into half a dozen stalls by wooden planks crookedly nailed together, all of them empty apart from his mare's.

The stablegirl tucked onto a rickety chair by the door jerked awake as he passed, tightening the blanket around her shoulders. He could have sworn she narrowed her eyes at him, and wondered whether this was the first time she had been required to take care of a horse. Then again, she could have just been suppressing a yawn.

"Hello, my lady," Jate murmured as he held out his hand, and Farilyth obligingly lowered her head so he could stroke her nose. "I hope you haven't been too cold." She gave a snort that he swore sounded disgruntled, and he smiled as he set about preparing her for the day's travel.

"I hear you're after information about the Princess."

Jate spun, his feet skidding as his hand leapt to his sword hilt. A skinny man leant casually against the door to the opposite stall, lank white-blond hair falling into his face. The only ripple in his nonchalant demeanour was the unease with which he viewed Jate's weapon.