her why she had chosen that path, forsaking even her name in submission to the Gods. It was not, she said with her throaty laugh, from any virtue or an excess of devotion. But she had grown up in a village herself, and decided that anything was better than grubbing in the earth for turnips all year round, surrounded by a whining cloud of children.
“Don’t you like children?” Mia had asked, rather shocked.
“I love them," the Slave had replied, "so long as they belong to someone else.”
At supper, they sat cross-legged on the earth floor, Mia, Marna, the Slave and the two acolytes, who, like all such, were not named, but identified by village and number. They were quiet young men, one tall, one short, both skinny, passing around bowls and spoons and tankards in silence. They all shared a solid stew, mostly vegetables with a little meat, and the dark unleavened bread eaten in most villages. There was no wine, just thick foamy ale which Mia rather liked, although Marna pulled a face.
After the meal Marna went off to the alehouse to be with the guards, and the acolytes disappeared. The Slave watched Mia in silence, her head tilted to one side. She was perhaps in her mid-forties, a well-rounded woman, gentle and sociable, whose ample flesh wobbled when she laughed, which was often.
“You are very quiet, Most High," the Slave said. "Do you want to talk about it? Whatever it is.”
“Do you want to listen, Most Humble?”
“Always, my friend,” she replied, spreading her hands wide in invitation.
“Well then,” Mia began, shifting so she could lean against the wall, “I will tell you what I saw at the funeral tower after my sister died, and you can tell me that I imagined it.” And so, in simple terms, she described the five figures silhouetted at the windows against the blue glow of the lamps, and although the Slave’s eyebrows rose, she listened without interruption.
Rather to Mia’s surprise, she then said, “And who else have you told about this?”
“Only Hurst. He told me it was impossible, just the light playing tricks on my tired eyes.”
The Slave closed her eyes for a moment, as if considering. “When the dead – and their Companions – are left at the funeral tower, the doors are locked.” She opened her eyes again, looking straight at Mia. “There is no way for anyone to get in from the outside. There is no way for those inside to get back out. That is what the Silent Guards are there for, to prevent it.”
“You think I imagined it, then?”
“I think you saw what you saw, Mia. I just don’t know what that might be. And I’m not sure it is very – helpful, whatever it was.”
Mia laughed. “No, you’re right about that. But it bothers me.”
“Mia…” The Slave watched her intently. “I would never presume to advise a Karningholder, but if I were to do so…” Again she eyed Mia, then sighed. “No, it’s not my place.”
“You may speak freely, my friend.”
“Well then, I will. I think you should forget about this. There is nothing to be gained by worrying over such matters. Life holds many mysteries, and it’s not… not always useful to pursue them. Set it down as a secret of the Gods, and think no more about it.”
The Slave was unusually serious, so Mia nodded. “But this isn’t what you expected me to want to talk about, is it?”
“Not really. After all, there have been some changes at the Karninghold, haven’t there?”
Mia bowed her head a little in acknowledgement, but she was not sure quite what she could say about it. She could hardly tell a village Slave that her husband couldn’t quite bring himself to share her bed. It was too humiliating. Eventually, she said, “Well, things are still… a bit unsettled.” Then she fell into silence.
In the end, it was the Slave who spoke. “There is a lot of chatter in the village about blue arrows. I have told them the Karningholders are too sensible to try that, but the oldest villagers remember the
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