furze

Shem Horsegroom used to do that all the time. Then it doesn't matter if they're a little old." "If you say so," Miriamele replied. Miriamele leaned back and licked her fingers. They still smarted a little from the hot apple skin, but it had been worth it. "Shem Horsegroom," she said, "is a man of astonishing wisdom." Simon smiled. His beard was sticky with juice. "It was good. But now we don't have any more." "I couldn't eat any more tonight, anyway. And tomorrow we'll be on the road to Stanshire. I'm sure we can find something almost as good along the way." Simon shrugged. "I wonder where old Shem is," he asked after a few moments had passed. The fire popped and spat as the leaves in which the apples had cooked began to blacken. "And Ruben. And Rachel. Do you think they're all still living at the Hayholt?" "Why shouldn't they be? The king still needs grooms and blacksmiths. And there must always be a Mistress of Chambermaids," She offered a faint smile. Simon chortled. "That's true. I can't imagine anyone getting Rachel to leave unless she wanted to. You might as well try to drag a porcupine out of a hollow stump. Even the king—your father, I mean—couldn't make her leave until she was ready." "Sit up." Miriamele felt the sudden need to do something. "I said I was going to cut your hair." Simon felt at the back of his head. "Do you think it needs it?" Miriamele's look was stern. "Even sheep get sheared once a season." She got out her whetstone and sharpened her knife. The noise of the blade on the stone was like a louder echo of the crickets that chirped beyond the light of the small fire. Simon peered over his shoulder. "I feel like I'm about to be carved for the Aedonmansa feast." "You never know what may happen when the dried meat runs out. Now look straight ahead and be quiet." She stood behind him, but there was not enough light to see. When she sat, his head was too far above her. "Stay there," she said. She dragged over a large stone, digging a rut in the moist earth; when she sat on it, she was just the right height. Miriamele lifted Simon's hair in her hands and stared at it judiciously. Just a little off the bottom ... No. Quite a bit off the bottom. His hair was finer than it looked. Although it was thick, it was quite soft. Nevertheless, it was grimed with the days of travel. She thought of how her own must look and frowned. "When is the last time you bathed yourself?" she asked. "What?" He was surprised. "What do you mean?" "What do you think I mean? Your hair is full of bits of sticks and dirt." Simon made a noise of disgust. "And what do you expect when I've been crawling through this stupid forest for days and days?" "Well, I can't cut it like this." She thought for a moment. "I'm going to wash it." "Are you mad? What do I want it washed for?" He drew up his shoulders protectively, as though she had threatened to stick the knife into him.

"I told you. So I can cut it." She stood and went to fetch the water skin. "That's drinking water," Simon protested. "I'll fill it again before we set out," she said calmly. "Now lean your head back." She had thought momentarily of trying to warm the water, but she was just cross enough at his complaining to enjoy the spluttering noises he made as she disgorged the chilly contents of the water skin on his head. She then took her sturdy bone comb, which Vorzheva had given her back at Naglimund, and combed out the snarls as best she could, ignoring Simon's indignant protests. Some of the twigs were so entangled she had to unbind them with her fingernails, difficult work which made her lean close. The scent of wet hair added to his pungent Simon-smell was somehow quite pleasant, and Miriamele found herself humming quietly. When she had done the best she could with the knots, she took up her knife again and began to trim his hair. As she had suspected, merely taking off the ragged ends was not entirely satisfying. Moving quickly in case Simon should begin to complain again, she began to cut in earnest. Soon the back of his neck came into view, pale from the long months hidden from the sun. As she stared at Simon's neck, at the way it broadened at its base, at the line of red-gold hairs gradually thickening toward the hairline, she was suddenly moved. There is something magical about everyone, she thought dreamily. Everyone. She ran her fingers lightly up his neck and Simon jumped. "Hoy! What are you doing? That tickles." "Oh, shut your mouth." She smiled behind his back where he could not see. She trimmed the hair up over'his ears as well, leaving just a little bit to hang down in front where the beard began. She lifted the front and shortened that as well, then stepped to the side to make sure it would not fall down into his eyes. The snowy streak was as vivid as lightning. "This is where the dragon's blood splashed you." The white hair felt no different than the red as it trailed across her fingertips. "Tell me again what it was like." Simon seemed about to make some flippant remark, but paused instead, then spoke softly. "It was ... it was not like anything, Miriamele. It just happened. I was frightened, and it was like someone was blowing a horn inside my head. It burned when it touched me. I don't remember much more until I woke up in the cave with Jiriki and Haestan." He shook his head. "There was more to it than that. Some things are hard to explain." "I know." She let the strands of damp hair fall, then took a breath. "I'm finished." Simon raised his hands to pat at the back and sides. "It feels short," he said. "I wish I could see it." "Wait until morning, then have a look in the stream." She felt herself smiling again, stupidly, for no reason. "If I had known you were so vain, I would have brought one of my mirrors." He turned a look of mock contempt upon her, then sat up straight. "I do have a mirror," he crowed. "Jiriki's! It's in my sack." "But I thought that it was dangerous!" "Not just to look at." Simon rose and headed for his saddlebags, in which he began to rummage energetically, like a bear seeking honey in a hollow tree. "Found it," he said. A frown crossed his face. He withdrew the hand that held the mirror, then reached back into the saddlebags with the other and continued to search.

"What is it?" Simon withdrew his drawstring bag and brought it over to the fire. He handed her the Sithi mirror, which she held carefully, almost fearfully, while he scrabbled with increasing desperation in the large sack. At last he stopped and looked up at her, his eyes wide, his face a picture of loss. "It's gone." "What's gone?" "The White Arrow. It's not in here." He took his hands out of the sack. "Aedon's Blood! I must have left it in the tent. I must have forgotten to put it back that time." His face then registered a deeper shock. "I hope I didn't leave it up on Sesuad'ra!" "You took it back to your tent, didn't you? That day you wanted to give it to me?" He nodded slowly. "That's right. It must have been in there somewhere. At least that means it's probably not lost." He looked down at his empty hands. "But I don't have it." He laughed. "I tried to give it away. It didn't like that, I guess. Sithi gifts, Binabik told me, don't take them lightly. Remember on the river, when we were first traveling together? I was showing off with it and 1 fell out of the boat." Miriamele smiled sadly. "I remember." "I've done it this time, though, haven't I?" he said morosely, and sighed. "Still, it can't be helped. If Binabik finds it, he'll take care of it. And it's not like I need to have it to prove something to Jiriki. If I ever see him again." He shrugged and tried to smile. "May I have the mirror back?" He held it up and carefully examined his hair. "It's good," he said. "It's short in the back. Like Josua's or someone like that." He looked up at her. "Like Camaris." "Like a knight." Simon looked down at his hand for a moment, then reached out and took Miriamele's, enfolding her fingers in his warm grasp. He did not quite meet her eyes. "Thank you. You did it very handsomely." She nodded, desperately wanting to pull her hand free, to be not so close, but at the same time happy to feel his touch.

"You are welcome, Simon." At last, almost reluctantly, he let her go. "I suppose we should try to sleep if we're going to get up at midnight," he said. "We should," she agreed. They packed away their few goods' and unfurled their bedrolls in friendly, if slightly uneasy, silence. Miriamele was awakened in the middle of the night by a hand over her mouth. She tried to scream, but the hand clamped even more tightly. "No! It's me!" The hand lifted. "Simon?" she hissed. "You idiot! What are you doing?" "Quiet. There's someone out there." "What?" Miriamele sat up, staring uselessly into the darkness. "Are you sure?" "I was just falling asleep when I heard it," he said into her ear, "but it wasn't a dream. I listened after I was wide awake and I heard it again." "It's an animal—a deer." Simon bared his teeth to the moonlight. "I don't know any animals that talk to themselves, do you?" "What?" "Quiet!" he whispered. "Just listen." They sat in silence. It was hard for Miriamele to hear anything over the pounding of her own heart. She sneaked a glance at the fire. A few embers still glowed: if there was a person out there, they had demonstrated their presence quite thoroughly. She wondered if it would do any good now to throw dirt on the coals. Then she heard it, a crackling noise that seemed a good hundred paces away. Her skin tingled. Simon looked at her significantly. The sound came again, a little more distant this time. "Whatever it is," she said quietly, "it sounds like it's leaving." "We were going to try to make our way down to the road in a few hours. I don't think we should risk it." Miriamele wanted to argue—this was her journey, after all, her plan—but found that she could not. The idea of trying to make their way along the tangled riverbank by moonlight, while something followed along after them ... "I agree," she said. "We'll wait until light." "I'll stay up for a while and keep watch. Then I'll wake you and you can let me sleep for a while." Simon sat himself cross-legged with his back against a stump. His sword was across his knees. "Go on, sleep." He seemed tense, almost angry. Miriamele felt her heart slowing a little. "You said it was talking to itself?" "Well, it could be more than one person," he said, "but it didn't seem to make enough noise for two. And I only heard one voice." "What was it saying?" She could dimly see Simon shake his head. "I couldn't tell. It was too quiet. Just ... words." Miriamele settled back onto her bedroll. "It might just be some cotsman. People do live in the forest." "Might be." Simon's voice was flat. Miriamele suddenly realized that he sounded that way because he was frightened. "There are all kinds of things in these woods," he added. She let her head fall back until she could see a few stars peeping through holes in the forest roof. "If you start to feel sleepy, don't be a hero, Simon. Wake me up." "I will. But I don't think I'll be sleepy for a while." Neither will I, she thought. The idea of being stalked was a dreadful one. But if someone was following them, someone her uncle had sent, why would the stalker go away again without doing anything? Perhaps it had been forest outlaws who would have slaughtered them in their sleep if Simon had not awakened.