Page 19 of Veiled Flames
My surroundings reveal a steep elevation change in the direction from which I came, explaining why what started as a subterranean passage emerged into a river.
I’m fairly certain I’m still in Achotia but can’t see a trace of the castle behind me. From the texts and maps I’ve seen, this must be the area of our kingdom known as the lowlands. Assuming I’m correct, there are several villages in this region—Morvain and Landros at a minimum. Hoping one of them is onthis waterway, I head along the riverbank as the morning sun brightens the violet sky.
Hunger growls in my belly. Save my two bites of bread and cheese on the stairs, I’ve not eaten since yesterday morn, and all the activity, combined with lack of food, is catching up with me now. Finding a flat rock to stand on, I use my hands to scoop up some water, finding it clear and cool. I’m grateful that the river’s current runs away from the junction through which I emerged. The water flowing close to the castle was undoubtedly foul.
The water fools my belly into thinking it’s full for the moment, and my mood cheers. Morning sparrows sing from the treetops, and the rising sun paints the world in her pink splendor and turning the violet sky a soft lavender. The sun must be female, I reason. She provides so much light to the world, without seeking thanks.
I walk close to the river for nearly an hour before I hear voices. Looking through the hanging branches of a wyllow tree, I spot a road atop the embankment. A cart passes by, ladened with goods that look to be headed to market.
Pushing branches aside, I climb up to the roadway, arriving at the top just as another cart comes along. This will be my first test to see if I can pass for a boy.
“Good sunrise!” I call out to the man driving the cart.
He nods but doesn’t answer. A woman, riding in the back, stands after they pass and says something to the driver.
The cart slows.
“Hey, boy!” the man calls back toward me.
He thinks I’m a boy!
I race to catch up to them, joy flooding every part of my body.
“We be headed to market if ye’d like a ride.”
“Oh, yes. Very much, sir.” I try my best to deepen my voice. “Thank you for your generosity.”
The man shoots me a quizzical look, and I wonder what I said wrong, hoping I haven’t revealed my sex.
“Go on then,” he says. “Climb in the back with the missus, or ye can ride up here on the bench with me.”
I’m so exhausted that both options sound fabulous, but after a rapid debate, I step onto a piece of bent iron jutting out from the cart, and the man shifts to make room for me to join him on the bench. If I’m meant to be a man—or at least a boy—it seems more appropriate for me to ride up front with him.
I’m wondering what topics of conversation will be best—I don’t want to make a mistake that will give me away—but the man slaps the reins against his oxen, and soon the clattering of the wooden wheels saves me from having to choose.
The ride proves quite bumpy, and the bones in my bottom ache against the hard wooden seat, but after the past day and night, I could not be more grateful to have a ride.
Soon, we pass a few cottages, and then a few more, until I realize we’ve entered a village. Not certain which village it is, I mentally scold myself. I paid more attention to the maps of faraway kingdoms than my own.
Soon, the road is lined with small buildings, most formed from unworked stones stacked together, and their roofs are covered in thatch so thin it’s hard to believe they keep out the rains. I see no people in the village, but smoke rises from many chimneysand my stomach growls at the scent of bread baking and smoked boar fat cooking over fires.
The cart turns into a square that’s lined with taller buildings, some made from more uniformly hewn stones, like the ones comprising the castle. On one side, two boys work together, setting supports into holes in the ground and then raising large pieces of woven hemp to create shade.
My driver stops his oxen in front of a small table with a hemp tarp stretched above.
“This be us,” he says. “End of the road.”
“Thank you very much, sir.” I jump down from the cart.
The woman is already unloading baskets of their wares—plums and pears and at least four varieties of apples—and placing them on the table.
“Would you like some help?” I ask.
“We don’t got any coppers for ye, boy,” the man says, from where he’s still sitting at the front of the cart.
“As payment for my ride, then.”
He nods and then climbs down to check his oxen's yoke.
