Daughter Of The Wind: Western Wind

By Sandra Elsa

A young slave girl kills a man in self-defense but realizes she'll be punished if not killed, no matter why it happened. She runs away before her crime is discovered and after evading slave-hunters and hounds ends up in a small mountain town in the care of Johann, a man who used to be a wizard in the king's corps.

When Pinks past catches up to her she and Johann depart for Ronan where he hopes his connections can keep her safe. Along the journey she picks up traveling companions in the form of a half-breed unicorn and a wolf who has been alive over two-hundred years and didn't start life as a wolf.

In Ronan, Pink and her companions attract the attention of the Captain of the King's Guard and she finds herself signed on as the newest guard and sent to Telgar on a mission to rescue the heir to the crown.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandra Elsa
• Release date: Mar 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476147314

Book preview

Chapter 1

Pink yanked the door closed and leaned against the rough oak planks trying to collect her scattered wits. Garec's attention was uninvited and unwanted. His business took him west into Swadan and she’d never been so glad to see the dust rise up behind someone. The farther from Hallowisp Manor, the better.

Mistress Henna had firmly turned down Garec's offer to buy Pink earning her eternal gratitude. Never before had a man looked at her in such a way. Both nights he was under Hallowisp's roof she trembled every time footsteps sounded in the third floor hallway.

The stares that Huntmaster Kalor, and the young groom, Tibold, turned on her as she watched the departing wagons from the safety of the stables increased her anxiety. At sixteen she had never hada problem with men. Most thought her little more than a child, with her slight build. Why had the merchant, and now her friends, suddenly decided she was a fair target for the games the other slavesand the maids played?

#

Throughout the day, men she had known for the past four years grew bolder. Their stares from a distance turned into attempts to reach out and touch her. A twist here, a dodge there, kept her safely out of their reach. Much to Pink’s relief, Mistress Henna noted her travails and sent her upstairs to gather the linens for washing. No man would bother her at the wash tubs.

Bending to scrub and then stretching to hang the sheets on the line she felt the distant stares. Ignoring them, she chatted with Carlena as together they washed the lot.

Tibold approached, straying from his usual confines within the barn, carrying three sets of breeches and shirts. He seemed scarcely aware of them as Carlena took them from him and assured him they'd be dry by nightfall.

The blonde woman laid a hand on Tibold's shoulder and turned him back to the barn. Even if she was interested, you're too young for the thoughts you're wearing on your face. She placed a hand on his back and gently pushed him on his way. The twelve year old boy stumbled as he glanced back over his shoulder.

Carlena asked, What are you doing to these boys?

Pink lived up to her name as her cheeks burned. I'm not doing anything. I'm no different today than I was yesterday.

Carlena nodded agreement, but as yet another man tripped by the barn, jealousy flared in the older woman's face. They finished their work and Pink hurried upstairs.

Two dresses hung in her tiny closet of a room. She looked at them closely and chose the frumpiest one. Frumpy was a polite description. Mistress Henna had permitted her to keep it when one of the lodger’s daughters had left it behind. It was hideous. Buttons ran all the way up to her jawline where the collar flipped back down in what amounted to a bib to snarl the eyes if they tried to find her bosom. She pinned her hair in a severe bun, and smudged dirt across her cheeks from the potted flowers on the window sill, then hurried back to her tasks.

With the dining table set, Pink rushed to the clotheslines where a steady breeze dried the sheets and the groom's clothes. She unpinned them from the line and folded them neatly, piling them in the basket. Carlena helped fold sheets, then took Tibold's clothes to the barn, earning a grateful grimace from Pink.

Pink carried the basket upstairs and began making up the beds. At the bottom of the basket she found the third set of the stable boy's clothes. Rather than expose herself to the scrutiny of the men, she took the clothes to her room and tucked them under her straw mattress.

Normally she was expected to serve dinner, but after the first course, Mistress Henna sent her upstairs. She grabbed a couple slices of bread and some cheese and gladly retired.

The scraping of chair legs and the manor's guests arriving in their rooms on the second floor announced the end of the meal. When the hallways quieted, she snuck down to the kitchen to help clear away the left-over food and dishes. The best of the scraps she stashed away, the rest went to compost in the midden heap.

At the edge of the pile lay a perfectly serviceable pair of boots. They were a couple of sizes too big for her but she picked them up with a grin. They would work much better in the woods than the slippers of a house slave. If the next few days went like today, she would spend as much time as possible collecting herbs for poultices and tinctures.

Pink slid the boots under her bed and piled the cheese and the small jar, which contained only two cucumbers floating in dill and vinegar, beside the boots. She changed to her shift and lay down to sleep, mentally taking stock of her small cluster of possessions. Somehow she would have to return Tibold's clothing, but she would wait to see if whatever affect she was having on men dissipated.

She spent a goodly amount of time in the herbalist's shed. Since Mistress Gelora, her previous owner, and Temn's herbalist, passed away, the locals of the small mountain village had come to rely on Pink for their herbal remedies. She pondered the possibility of having inadvertently created an aphrodisiac.

In her mind she thumbed through the requirements of the potions she knew to have that affect and she knew her shelves were missing key ingredients. Perhaps she had stumbled on a new recipe. What would she do if it didn't stop?

She looked at the boots and the breeches sticking out from under the mattress and contemplated running away. Mistress Henna was the kindest of owners. Many paid servants had worse lives than she had. But what if this didn't end? Would she have to live her life in fear of being groped…or worse?

If she ran she could travel east. Maybe start her own business. From overheard conversations of travelers, she gathered skilled herbalists were in demand everywhere. Nobody would recognize her in Ronan. If she wasn't a slave, men wouldn't dare to treat her in such a manner. As long as she kept her brand covered who would know?

She bolted the door, blew out the candle, and lay back on the bed, but her mind refused to quiet.

Moments later a gentle knock on the door brought her to her feet. She stood just inside the door and asked, Who is it?

Open the door, Pink. Henna's voice betrayed irritation, but it was undeniably the Mistress waiting on the other side. Pink reached out a hand and pulled the bolt back.

The latch lifted and Henna bustled through carrying a candle inside and setting it down. What have you done?

No preamble. That was Mistress Henna, direct to the heart of the matter. But Pink didn't have an answer.

Did you mix up a love potion for someone and spill it on yourself?

Pink shook her head. Her lip trembled and moisture threatened to tumble from her eyes. No Mistress. I was just going over my stores in my head. I don't have the ingredients for those. I don't know what's causing this.

Mistress Henna's gaze turned calculating. Pink was reminded that she owned a brothel in Temn, not just Hallowisp Manor, and the Mistress, kind though she was, was first and foremost a businesswoman. Surely Pink's skills as an herbalist were worth more than her body could earn in the brothel. Nerves on edge, Pink stretched a steadying hand to the bedpost and felt the tears course down her cheeks. Whatever it is, I'm sure it will go away, Mistress. Pink desperately hoped her voice sounded more confident to the Mistress's ears than to her own.

Henna pursed her lips and looked down her aquiline nose at Pink. We'll give it a couple of days…see what happens. In the meantime, remain in the background. Go collect herbs. Aren't the large mushrooms Cook is so talented with, in season? Hopefully out of sight will be out of mind.

Pink nodded her head. Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, she tried to smile and look confident. The Mistress wasn't fooled, but she stood and left, leaving Pink's mind in even greater turmoil. Now the threat of the brothel was hanging over her head. She would leave first thing in the morning for the depths of the forest. She should be safe there. She knew the woods better than even the huntsman.

Without further thought she reached down and wrapped a blanket around the food under her bed.

Early the next morning she crept from her bed and down the stairs, pausing long enough to grab a basket and then darting down the path between the scraggly pines that surrounded the manor. She looked back at the immense stone building, her gaze captured by motion near the barn. Tibold looked out at her holding the reins to a large grey horse. A reed-like man with dark hair stood beside the boy, his head turned to follow Tibold's gaze. Pink turned and fled into the forest.

She spent the morning collecting herbs and the afternoon laying them out to dry in the herbalist's shed. After carefully scanning for men, she darted into the kitchen, snatched some food, and ran back through the woods. When she was deep within her private world she leaned back against a tree and gulped down her purloined food. The curtain of night settled through the forest and Pink crept back to her bed. The next two days passed much the same. The second morning the man who had been with Tibold on the day of her exile was waiting by the kitchen door. Pink dodged back within the kitchen and begged two of the maids to accompany her.

Together they walked to the forest and once her feet were on the path she thanked them and dashed away, basket swinging from her right hand. That evening, Mistress Henna returned to Pink's room. Harner has been asking about you.

Harner?

He's been here for two days now. Apparently he is friends with Mister Garec.

Pink sat down on the bed. The merchant?

It seems Garec is determined to possess you and sent his friend back to keep watch over what he covets.

Pink couldn't stop her hand from shaking as she smoothed back her copper tresses. He was waiting for me outside the kitchen today. I got a couple of the girls to walk with me into the wood.

You still don't know what the cause of this infatuation is?

No ma'am. I've bathed. I scrubbed with lye in the river yesterday still the huntmaster scented me as though he were one of his own hounds when I returned to the manor. He looked ready to accost me and he must be sixty years old. If Carlena had not been out doing laundry, there's no telling what may have happened.

Henna folded her hands behind her back and paced the length of the room, red hair floated about her shoulders as she looked at the ceiling in silent contemplation of the problem before her. A lot of work is being slacked off these past three days. It's all I can do to get a meal out of Cook. The men turn often to watch the wood, waiting for your return.

I'm sorry, Mistress.

I've eyes in my head. I can see it's not of your doing. It's just… Mistress Henna quieted as heavy footsteps trod down the hall pausing in front of Pink's door. The latch was lifted but Henna had shot the bolt home when she entered.

The latch fell and the footsteps retreated. Pink huddled against the wall behind the bed, Henna turned with a frown. Tomorrow I will have Carlena bring food and a flask of water to the forest. Leave here before first light and do not return for the next three days. If you need anything leave a rock in the basket. I'll send Carlena to recover it every evening from the clearing near the stand of birch trees.

Pink hugged herself tightly. Fear held her tongue, stopping her from answering with anything more than a wide-eyed nod of her head.

In three days I'll expect you to return. Young Tibold seems to be one of your admirers--we'll use him to see if it's safe for you to stay. Henna lifted a hand to the door and said, Bolt this behind me.

Her words were unnecessary as Pink was already rising to do just that.

Before daylight, Pink was out the door. Quiet footsteps hurried down the stair but she didn't pause to look back and was grateful when one of the kitchen maids called out to her follower, Master Harner, you're up early. Will you be leaving today then?

Harner's voice was gruff as he paused to answer. Pink took advantage of his delay and pelted down one of the animal tracks that most people overlooked in the woods. The first half of the day was quiet. She checked periodically to see if Carlena had left her food and when finally the basket appeared she was ever so grateful. The basket contained rinds of cheese, day old bread, several hard-boiled eggs and some of the jerky that Pink had never had to eat before, but she had helped in its drying and seasoning for travelers.

She ate sparingly and when full, stuffed the remaining food in a fold of her dress and returned the basket to where she had picked it up. That evening she checked the birch stand and found the basket had been returned with the blanket from her bed and more food. This fare was going to get old. She found a quiet place, piled leaves deep and wrapped in her blanket to stay warm. The autumn air was starting to chill. Running away crossed her mind again. If she was going to go, she would need to do it soon or she wouldn't get out of the mountains before snowfall.

She decided against that course of action. Harner would move on. Whatever was happening to her would end and she would reclaim her life.

The next day, footprints which did not belong to Carlena, or any woman for that matter circled the basket of food. Pink snatched up the basket and fled back into the darkness of the denser woods.

She hid in a thicket, listening for some time before daring to delve into the food. When she finished, she left the basket where it was. There would be plenty of time to return it after she was sure Harner did not lie in wait. She turned her efforts toward repaying Mistress Henna's kindness and filled the basket with the mushrooms Henna liked. It would not be much longer before they too were gone for the winter.

She returned the basket to the place she had picked it up and was disturbed to see even more footprints. As she placed the basket down, she heard him.

Harner blundered noisily along the trail. Pink turned to run but the arrogant noble stretched his legs into a lope and pursued her deeper into the forest. His glazed eyes and erratic movements frightened her more than his quiet stalking had. As he closed the distance between them, grasping claw-like fingers snagged the shoulder of her dress, tearing it down the front. The impetus of his motion threw her to the ground and for one long, impossible moment, fear froze her in place.

Harner’s weight, crushing her to the ground shattered the paralysis gripping her limbs. Shock held her mind as she writhed underneath him. Frightened screams and panicked struggling brought nothing but more violence--until her knee connected with his groin. He doubled up in pain and Pink twisted her diminutive body out from under him. His face a mask of agony and insanity, Harner reached for her throat.

Pink twisted her head around and bit his hand. The coppery taste of blood flooded her mouth. The hand was snatched away--only to return folded into a fist. Her head rocked backwards from the blow to her jaw. Scuttling away, her questing fingers came in contact with a fallen branch and she swung it with every ounce of terror driven strength she had.

A dull thud, followed by a sharp crack, left her holding half a bloodied stick. He dropped to the ground like a sack of flour thrown from Cook’s supply wagon. The skin on the side of his head, just above his ear was torn; the skull indented. The branch had been more than adequate for her needs.

Wary of deceit in spite of the condition of his head, she prodded Harner with the bloody end of the wood she held. His head lolled to the side, eyes open.

As the herbalist for the valley of Temn, she had seen death before. Sometimes she couldn't prevent it, but never before had she caused it. If anybody found the body, there would be no question of her fate.

With shaking hands, Pink covered the evidence of her crime with sticks and fallen leaves. As long as she was working she wasn't thinking. When the body was covered, her trembling became uncontrollable. Her stomach clenched. She leaned over and vomited then stood back up and wiped her mouth with the bloody shreds of her clothing. As she regained control of her body she knotted the ripped dress, snatched up the basket of mushrooms, and ran back to the manor.

A chambermaid emerging from a guest's suite, was the only person to see Pink sneak into her room.

Pink changed into Tibold's clothes, pulled the boots on her feet, and covered the whole ensemble with her other dress. She cleaned the blood from her face, snatched up a blanket with her cheese and cucumbers bundled in it, then carried the basket downstairs. Leaving most of the mushrooms in the kitchen, Pink tucked herself away in the wine cellar.

Hiding amidst bottles of Mountainberry Wine, Pink quivered as each new pair of feet entered the manor overhead. She strained to hear muted conversations, afraid that Harner’s body had been discovered and her chance at escape blocked.

Dusk was heralded by the silence which reigned on the floor overhead. She crept up the stairs, and clasping her hands together to stop them from trembling, Pink walked out the front door with an air of calm she did not feel.

Flitting from shadow to shadow she fled down the winding path away from the great stone manor of Hallowisp farm. When she dared to stop and look back, the forest hid even the flickering glare of lamps at the front door.

Her heart raced. Sweat beaded on her forehead in spite of the chill night air. The cut on the left side of her face burned. Purpling bruises ached when she bent to reclaim the blanket and food she'd hidden earlier. She placed the eggs in the jar with the cucumbers to preserve them longer.

Harner's hat lay inches from her stash. Pink stepped out of her house slave's dress and stuffed it inside the bundle then pulled the wide-brimmed hat down over her unruly curls, completing her transformation into a young boy.

She made her way back to the road. A loud thump announced the stable door being thrown open. Muffled voices carried on the night air brought the threat of discovery. Pink bolted down the path.

Out of sight was nowhere near far enough away.

If she was caught after tonight, one of three things would happen. The best Pink could hope for was being sent to work the fields--for having run away, she would lose her position in the house. She could survive that. If they discovered Harner‘s remains, she would be executed. The grimmest possibility was that she would be sent to work in Mistress Henna's brothel. She shuddered, remembering the lewd stares and gestures she had dealt with in the past week. The degradation of the brothel was not something she was strong enough to live through.

Chapter 2

Pink hoped she'd have the two days Henna expected her to be gone before they began searching for her. Nobody would believe she'd run away from Hallowisp...unless they found the body. If Carlena reported that the food was not being taken, perhaps they would begin the hunt early. With Harner's disappearance, Mistress Henna might even think she would be rescuing Pink.

There was no going back. She had to get as far away from Hallowisp as possible. Her legs carried her at a speed only fear could sustain.

She followed the road east toward Ronan at a steady jog. More practical to traverse the mountain road than the slippers she normally wore, she wished the boots were smaller. Blisters grew and popped as she ran.

Pink separated her mind from the pain by concentrating on the future. Somehow the potions Pink prepared for Mistress Gelora, had always been more effective than those the old herbalist prepared. Pink had acquired a reputation as a knowledgeable herbalist around the mountain community by the time she was twelve, a fact that increased Gelora's bitter cruelty.

Pink just needed to survive this run, and then she would command her own life.

Her steps slowed, but she continued with dogged persistence until the sun brightened the morning sky. She sought out a crevice between two large rocks to hide away the daylight hours. Pine needles from the scrub growing on the near vertical cliff lining the road padded it. Curled in her blanket, using the dress as a pillow, she lay out of sight of the traveled way, to await the concealing black curtain of night. She rested uneasily, blistered feet throbbing, muscles, unaccustomed to continuous jogging and walking, burned.

She roused several times during the day and curled deeper in the rocks as hoofbeats passed by on the road. Barely daring to breathe, she listened to the snatches of conversation the wind brought to her hiding place. Each group of riders that passed from the west, she expected to be slave hunters, but darkness fell without discovery, and she returned to the road.

#

The third day, she was awakened by the baying of hounds. The first bark lifted her to her feet. Pulse racing, she scrambled up the treacherous slopes. Long before the hunters arrived at the place she’d been sleeping, she was high above the road.

The huntsman maintained the pack at Hallowisp only for sport. These would be the hunters’ hounds from the auction in Temn, trained especially to hunt and take down without killing, two-footed prey.

When the herbalist owned her, Pink had seen the results of several of these hunts. The slaves usually survived, but neither hounds, nor hunters, were gentle.

With the speed of a fleeing doe, she climbed higher into the mountains. Scrambling over rock outcroppings, she heard the hounds begin to bay in earnest; they had her scent.

As she ran, she remembered Gelora's, cutting remarks about the stupidity of slaves as she worked on a runaway, torn up and recaptured by the dogs. All they have to do is cover their scent and the hounds have nothing to hunt. Run through the water, bathe in strong scented herbs, but are they smart enough? Bah... Little better than animals, that's what slaves are. Mistress Gelora had so detested slaves that she said things in front of Pink as though she were incapable of comprehension. For the first time since Pink had been sold to the old woman, she was glad of those four hard years.

A pond glinted in a depression down the slopes to the northeast. It was faraway but it was her best chance. She flew toward it as fast as her feet would carry her.

The sound of rocks sliding under scrabbling paws where the hounds turned off the road, reached her ears. She looked backward over the top of a small ridge, to check their progress. What she saw, spurred her to greater effort.

There were five hunters. The hounds had the scent and they were sure of their quarry. The men worked their way methodically up the mountainside, beating the brush to make sure she had not doubled back. The dogs strained at their leashes. Pink did not stay to watch.

Blisters a distant memory, Pink tore down the slope toward the pond, and leapt into it barely registering the shock of the icy mountain water. She used handfuls of sand to scrub herself and her clothing down. Standing on the edge of the pond she dug through her bundle and grabbed the small jar of cucumbers.

As she poured the juice onto her filthy tunic and wiped herself down with it, Pink thought, Dill, to ward off evil. If ever it has truly worked for such a purpose, let it be today. The hounds were getting louder and she bolted again. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of racing paws, and heavy panting.

One of the hounds had gained his freedom and was closing fast. Pink slipped on the slick stones and rushing water of the rill and the hound was on her. He grabbed her arm and began to shake it as though she were no more than a rag doll.

She could do little but scream. Agony raged through her torn flesh. She caught the dog’s eye and moaning in pain, begged him to stop.

A miracle occurred. She didn’t pause to question it. As she begged the hound for her life and her freedom, he stopped worrying at her and sat back on his haunches. The baying of the other hounds quickly became louder, her screams drawing the hunters more surely than the hounds’ noses.

Keeping a wary eye on the dog at her feet, she wrapped the arm in her tunic, and fled downstream in the widening trickle of water that flowed from the pond.

Confused baying announced the hunters’ arrival at the pond. Raised voices and cracking whips told her when they found the hound that let her go. She left the stream after several hundred yards, trusting to the dill to cover her scent. Climbing out onto a hard ridge of shale, she followed the ledge of rock deeper into the mountains. The terrain grew steadily harsher. Bewildered barking grew more distant. She did not slow until her muscles refused to hold her weight.

Dizziness overwhelmed her and she stumbled, sliding down a ravine, headfirst. She lay at the bottom, unable to move.

Breathing was agony. Legs quivered uncontrollably and blisters—forgotten during flight—burned as though a fire consumed her feet. Her flayed arm was still wrapped in the grimy tunic. The shredded chemise, exposed scrapes and bruises, too numerous to count. Red, black, and purple covered her stomach and chest from the slide.

Amidst the pain, the absence of baying still lightened her concerns. The hounds and hunters had continued down the rill. She tried to force her body to move on, but it refused.

When the hunters arrived at the end of the flow of water, however far away that might be, they would return. Whether or not they would find trace on the second pass she didn't know. But she was done.

Lifting an arm and dragging herself to a more comfortable position was beyond her abilities. She closed her eyes and prayed to Falo, goddess of lost causes, that neither the hounds’ noses nor the hunters’ eyes would be able to pick up her trail. If they did…she prayed it ended quickly.

#

Shadows swept up the steep slopes of the ravine as the sun sank in the west. Damp clothes and mountain chill brought her back to a frigid consciousness, forcing her to move.

A finger length at a time, she crawled her hand through the bundle, clamping her lips tight over the moans that tried to escape with every motion. She pulled out the slave’s dress, removed the tattered men’s clothing, and wriggled into the dry warmth of the despised garment. Then she wrapped her blanket around herself and settled back down on her uncomfortable bed of stone.

Morning brought golden light filtering through thin twisted branches. She stretched cramped muscles, as warmth seeped into her bones, tortured throbbing sang across raw nerve endings. Fresh scabs broke and bled when she flexed her arm.

Everything hurt and nothing moved willingly. The early morning singing of the mountain birds was incongruous with the way she felt. But she far preferred their music to that of the hounds.

She reached into her pack and grabbed a crust of bread, forcing herself to eat. Water would have to wait until she found another stream. The leather flask she had brought with her had disappeared at some point the day before. She didn’t even know if she had dropped it or if it had been snatched from her shoulder by a grasping tree. Either way it was a small price to pay if that was all she lost.

By noontime she had worked enough kinks from her muscles to convince her legs to carry her along the bottom of the ravine in the downhill direction it traveled. She was sure it wasn’t the shortest way to cover distance, but she couldn’t imagine climbing the steep sides to continue in a straight line.

Hours later, throat swollen with thirst, she dropped gratefully to her knees to drink from a trickle of water which tumbled down the shale slopes of the ravine to form a rivulet in the bottom of her prison. Thirst slaked, she dug through her bundle, searching through packets of herbs stashed in the bottom.

She unwrapped goldenseal and chewed on it, swallowing some of the bitter plant. When it was moist, she made a poultice for her arm and bound it in a strip of the rags that used to be a chemise. There would be time for better care when she was certain the hunters were gone and she could brew teas and tinctures. For now, she hoped her efforts would stave off infection.

As twilight once again draped itself across her ravine, she put the pants and tunic on under the dress. Wrapped in the blanket, she settled into a bed of leaves.

The following day started earlier and she worked her way up the sides. Might as well have stayed in the bottom for all the good being able to see where she was did her. Wincing in agony with every step, she journeyed as straight into the rising sun as possible. The weather forced her to keep moving. If she was still in the mountains when winter struck, she was as good as dead.

#

Every passing day lightened the load Pink carried.

The herbal lore gleaned from her first owner helped her survive. She foraged from the countryside, and succeeded in stretching her meager supplies another three weeks. But all too soon she found herself spending more time searching for food than traveling. As fall faded to winter, little that was edible could be dug from the rough, mountainous countryside.

The weather varied, the skies darkened often to rain. She stumbled on despite the chill soakings. The need to get out of the mountains kept her putting one foot in front of the other except in the most torrential downpour. Every time the clouds gathered she scented the air, expecting that snow was not far in the offing.

Elation mingled with fear when she found a road. She wasn’t sure if it was the same one she had been on, or a completely different one. But shivering in her blanket and hungry enough she considered digging for grubs to eat; Pink decided she had gone far enough.

Chapter 3

Plumes of smoke warned of a human settlement. Pink carefully scouted the population from the shelter of surrounding forests.

The village consisted of less than twenty, tightly clustered wooden houses. The countryside was dotted with small farmsteads. On the northern side of the village and behind her to the west, mountains rose sharply, covered with dense deciduous trees. To the east and south, rolling hills provided fertile fields. She was nearly to the eastern edge of the Swa Caran Mountain range.

A two-story inn, its lower floor made of stone, the upper of log, dominated the western end of the village. A hundred feet away from the inn, open air stalls stood waiting to be occupied on market day.

After spending half a day watching the village and the surrounding dwellings, she selected a small, neatly kept wooden cottage, surrounded by gardens. It stood a quarter mile distant from its nearest neighbor on the southwestern border of the holdings. The cottage’s sole occupant was an old man. Even having made certain of this fact, she approached with great trepidation. Her need for shelter and food barely outweighed her fear of capture or attack.

The old man was working in one of several small gardens with his back to her. Stray wisps of white hair stood up about his head, pulled loose by the work he was doing from the tail that fell barely past his shoulders. He wore tan woolen trousers, stained with rich black earth, and a dark green tunic that fell to his hips.

It encouraged her to see the gardens filled with herbs. She recognized clumps of rosemary and thyme, and over in a corner some sweet cicely clung tenaciously to life. They looked well-tended but not heavily harvested. This time of year, most of them should have been cut back to prepare them for winter. Perhaps he will trade me food in exchange for help with the gardens.

He didn't turn around as she approached, but a brief hesitation in his motion told her he sensed her presence.

Excuse me, she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. She hadn‘t spoken in three weeks, and the nights spent cold and wet, freezing in the mountains, left her coughing harshly. The husky squeak that came out didn’t sound the least like her normal speaking voice.

The old man finished covering his plants with straw, then turned to look at her.

She knew she looked horrid. Many of the bruises and scratches remained livid. The hat had been lost in the chase, her hair was knotted and filthy, her clothes--little more than rags--could no longer conceal her gender. Though the lean weeks had done away with the youthful curves the men had seemed to find so appealing. She looked down at the ground, ready to flee if she had read him wrong.

With no hesitation he turned back toward his house and said, Come along girl, supper’s already warm. You've the look of a starving wolf cub.

Pink couldn’t have hoped for more, but her feet hesitated, it was too easy. Her mind urged her to flee. Her grumbling stomach overruled her fears. I can work for my supper, she offered, following him into his home.

At the doorway her steps faltered, fear made her glance back at the open path to freedom behind her. A strange compulsion urged her forward, pushing gently at her shoulder blades. Once she was through the door, the aroma of the simmering stew drew her on. The choice was no longer hers if she wanted to live. She would not survive another week outside any better than the herbs in the old man’s gardens.

What is it you think I need you to do? he asked, ignoring the panic written across her face. You are rather fetching, but I think I'm a bit old for that sort of thing.

Relief at his words followed her brief start of fright.

Piercing hazel eyes watched both reactions.

That simple statement eased her mind of one fear. Back at the farm she had felt threatened by the older men as well as the young, married and unmarried alike.

The old man led her to a washtub filled with warm water, next to the fireplace. He handed her a rough towel and made her wash her hands and face before seating her at the finely carved mahogany table. The dinner plates were displayed in a glass-fronted hutch that matched the design of the table. Fine crystal and plain clay mugs shared an upper shelf.

Two open doorways entered into other rooms.