Figurehead

six

The road is well-worn, lined with clumps of lush grass and the occasional shrub or tree dotting this land. I suppose it's reminiscent of what used to be here, and of what it used to be like here.

The winds are cold, and I tug the hood of my cloak further over my head as the dark sky sprinkles light rain over the earth. I try to stop myself from glancing behind me every now and then, try to remember that the Lord is with me and it's alright, I'll be alright.

In the distance, I can see the remnants of what used to be a fence, now broken down and collapsed. The farm must have stretched across the border, with fields in both provinces. There are similarly deteriorated fences scattered across the horizon, and the occasional skeleton of a tree.

Despite the greenery... It is bleak. Barren. Something of a wasteland.

That is what war does to a place, I suppose.

I shove my hands in my pockets, and try not to reach for one of my daggers for reassurance. I'm not alone because the Lord is with me keeping me safe. I try not to forget. I try.

As the fragments of old fields, now dry and crumbled earth, come into fuller view, I see the farmhouses. There are heaped piles of burned wood; tree's trunks, branches. Houses long abandoned-

Thin plumes of smoke rise from several rooftops.

There are people here; not many, but they are here. Soldiers, warriors, crossing the street once in a while, fully and openly armed and patrolling.

Although the rain is growing heavier now, I yank the hood back from my head and force myself to keep walking. These are Escatin soldiers. Escatin militia. I'm a trusted messenger, protected by decree.

I don't flinch when one of the warriors sees me, raising a throwing-knife in warning. I raise my forearms, show her I'm unarmed (she doesn't need to know about the dagger in my boot) and wait as she approaches me, narrowing her eyes in scrutiny. Her auburn hair is cropped short to chin's length, her light tan skin pale against dark armour almost as dark in colour as her eyes. Her left arm stops short just above where her elbow would have been. Former High Commander or not, she is intimidating.

"Pev?" Her hair was shaved close to her scalp when I first saw her a few seasons ago, during a High meeting.

Her gaze sharpens. "You know my name, but I don't know yours. Who are you?"

"Janf. I'm a trusted messenger who's here by your request." She doesn't ask to see the symbol that shows my legitimacy, although I'd expected her to.

She slides the throwing-knife into her belt. "You came alone?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.

I shake my head. "I came with Nirs, but she's helping out in Aranakiu." She nods once. "What message did you need sent?"

Her expression becomes solemn. "I have a message for the king." Her eyes flick over our surroundings, and I realise the rain has stopped, and I am drenched. She would be too, although her armour has kept her relatively dry. Her gaze refocuses on me. "Come."

She turns on her heel and starts walking down the cracked street, not waiting for a response, not looking back to see if I'm following. As I hurry to catch up, the winds blow past, leaving me shivering. I heave a silent groan; I've been carrying my belongings on my back. My pallet, sheet and pelt are probably soaked through.

She leads me to a house that is relatively intact and quite large in comparison to neighbouring dwellings. More importantly, it is completely dry, and also warm, with the firepit full of flames and encircled by several of the Escatin militia, who barely spare me a glance as I follow Pev past the long line of pallets into one of the only other rooms in the building.

The room is lit by a single lantern, smells of must, and is sparsely furnished. There is one pallet rolled up tightly, leaning against the corner of the wall, a sheet folded neatly beside it, and in the centre of the room there is a large table and a handful of chairs arranged around it. On the surface of this table is an open map, marked with dotted lines, crosses and symbols and annotations, and several smaller maps beside it. The lantern takes central position on the table, casting shadows all over the walls and table. There are blank scraps or full pieces of parchment, several wells of ink and a large amount of nibs scattered across the table's surface, as well as a small bowl of mud.

"Wait here," she orders, and I stop, remaining beside the pallet and she crosses the small space to the table, rifling through the parchments.

She straightens and turns to look at me as she holds a sealed folded parchment in her hand.

"I suppose you planned to stay here for the night," she says.

I nod. "If you don't mind, yes. I'll leave early in the morning."

She examines the seal on her message before handing it to me. "It's fortunate you found me before I left for Vrendust." I nod, trying not to think about the greater risk of travelling there. "Even more fortunate that this is only the outskirts of Kalsemir." I nod again, not sure what to say.

"Yes." Is all I manage.

She brushes past me. "You'd better dry off," she tosses over her shoulder.

"Yes." Apparently my parents didn't teach me enough vocabulary.