Snowberry's Veil

Part 5

On the road, the caravan kept moving. A few of the travelers looked at the forest, wondering what Erkenbrand had seen and where he'd gone, but all they could see was the dense wood and the stark mountains above the trees. The sky was blue and it was fairly warm in the wagons where Thealea tended her younger brother Scate. His full name was Scathan but no one called him that save his father, and only when angry. Tall, thin, with unruly straw blond hair that never would stay in place and eyes like ice, the girls all noticed Scate but he never believed it. Too tall, too skinny, a boy who hadn't made a name for himself yet, he thought. Thealea knew not a few girls back in Fostban who'd have been willing to make a name for them both together just to have those eyes look at her with love and see that easy smile turned her way, but when father had said it was time to move, they both went without a complaint.

When her mother had died, Thealea was just a gangling child of eleven but even then she could see her father's soul was destroyed. He had adored his wife Aleyna and had lived for her. When she died, it was like someone had taken a shovel and carved out his whole chest. He went through the motions of life and work, but his joy was gone and it showed. The farm suffered, the deals were poorer, he wouldn't try to go out of his way to sell their eggs and milk, and over time the little farm fell into disrepair. It was as if it suffered alongside tall, broad-shouldered Merin, a man without a heart.

When the King issued his edict of land and expansion, for the first time in ten years Thealea noticed a change in her father. Merin had stood up when he heard the news and a distant light had shone in his eyes. Maybe it was the prospect of a change of the familiar sights and sounds. Maybe it was a new challenge unrelated to the memories of his wife that haunted him still with the sound of her footsteps in the old house, the plans they'd made. Whatever the reason, Merin had life in him, a determination and at least some sparks of the old fire he'd once had. Thealea and Scate had been raised tirelessly and with love by their father, and neither complained at the change. Thealea was fascinated by the idea of living on the frontier; see the mountains, a new beginning in an exciting land – maybe they'd meet elves! Scate knew it would be hard work and even dangerous, but it was a chance to prove himself, to make a life for himself and perhaps even find some modest fortune so that he could find a likely lass and take up his father's footsteps. So they'd sold the farm to another villager and set out with the others leaving the old farm and one particular memory behind.

When the goblins had attacked, Scate drew his dagger and fought as well as he could, helping account for one of the green attackers despite his relative inexperience, and the other men had congratulated him on his courage. Scate only thought of the stab he'd taken in the side from a stone-headed spear and the bruise on his thigh from a slingstone, but he was glad to be thought of as brave. He wanted to be up doing his share again, but Merin had said one more day, and Thealea was making sure he kept to it. The bleeding had stopped, that herb that Erkenbrand had given them to help heal faster was working wonders at ending the ragged hole through his side but she could tell it still hurt him with every bounce of the wagon.

The other wagons creaked along the ruts of previous travelers, bouncing and rattling. The water barrel along the side sloshed with the uneven road, and on occasion one of the animals made some noise: a bark, a cluck, a nicker or bray. The oxen were silent and dedicated, heads down and tireless as they pulled the wagons. Thealea wondered what they thought of their lot in life: a little food, a little water, and brutal exertion for hours each day. Huge beasts with wickedly sharp horns, they simply did what they were told. That ranger, Erkenbrand, he'd told her about cattle that were less docile; and things like cattle that were dangerous to face. He had told of the yale with its four horns and mighty stomp, and how the Elencal would face one as a rite of passage. He had shared tales of rivers and ruins, of mountains and deserts, oceans and plains – of riding with the centaur – never on the centaur – in the Steedlands and of hunting in the Loftwood.