The Lady at the River's Edge

24 - Reborn

The morning dragged as they walked, for while Janos kept a vigilant watch of their surroundings, Erzsebet watched Janos, with such keen obsession and tail-chasing thoughts that each minute was unraveled to eternity. In her mind she replayed the flicker of hatred, the glimpse of true loathing that had flashed in his eyes. She saw it vividly, though not consistently–at times his look would sharpen with hostility, at others it would tighten in disgust. She knew her panic was running away with her, but as ever, that knowledge was no comfort.

When they walked abreast, she would steal glances of his profile; when the terrain forced them into file, she watched his stride openly, analyzing the set of his shoulders, the weight of his footfalls, trying to descry the secrets of his body. Was he thinking of betraying her? Had he already done so? Were they marching to a farmhouse in truth, or into the clutches of the palatine?

Only the sight of the barn at last convinced her that their destination was true. Further on she could glimpse the modest farmstead, the fields plowed in regular furrows, humps of dark tilled earth stark against the dried topsoil. She saw no animals at pasture, though as they drew closer she could hear the clucking of fowl somewhere on the barn's far side.

The building matched the grounds for modesty, hardly larger than the larder at Petervarad. The wood planks of the sides were weathered, and the thatched roof had spots of color that looked like rot, at least to Erzsebet's untrained eye. Hardly a bastion of security–the building seemed unlikely to weather a stiff breeze, much less an armed assault. After witnessing the fall of her father's castle, though, there wasn't a fort in the world that she would call safe. Their hope lay then in remaining undiscovered, and in this at least the dilapidated barn would serve ably.

Janos made straight for the side door, and Erzsebet followed him inside. She looked around, appraising their new abode. It was mostly empty, save for some tools leaning against the walls, a couple low milking stools, and a small pile of hay in a corner. Wooden posts stood around the room, reaching up to brace the roof, jointed and affixed, like a skeleton laid bare. At one end was the hayloft, with a ladder leading up to it, the low ceiling making the platform little more than a nook. Hopefully she did not jerk too suddenly awake that night–she might put her head right through the thatch roof.

The ground was packed soil, its smell muted but distinct. There was an animal stink as well, but not as bad as she had expected, little more than a hint atop the scents of wood and soil. It was an odd place to stand, a mixture of indoors and out, and she had only been there for a moment. How would it be to stay overnight? Would she find any rest, alone with Janos, packed close up in the loft? There wasn't even so much as a bar for the door.

"I am conflicted," the knight said as he set his pack in a corner.

"As am I," Erzsebet replied, still eyeing the precincts critically.

He looked at her, an eyebrow quirked, returned to his old careless irony. "I meant that I am unsure whether I should let the farmer know you are here."

She faced him, scowling. "He doesn't know?" she asked, then her mind leapt to opposition. "Why should he know? Those tracking me would ask after a young woman..."

"They would," the knight agreed, "but if you are seen, dressed as you are, you'll be known not just as a young woman but a young noble woman. If the farmer can spare some of his wife's clothes, we need not fear being seen quite so much."

"Ah–but to make such a request would let him know a woman was with you." She looked down at her dress, torn from where she had made Janos' sling, stained with grass and mud. Somehow Ilona's two dolls still clung to her belt. She didn't want to think about how she would appear in a looking glass, though from the reek of her body and the oily film on her face, she guessed she would be hardly recognizable, dress or no. She shrugged. "I'll trust your judgment."