Ghoul’s Breath

By Inger Marie Hognestad

Marjory was in trouble. She was looking at the enemy’s campfire from the top of a tree, and her fellow conspirator had vanished from sight. She would very much like to know the whereabouts of the hostile Mezade scouts in the forest below her, but how to communicate without drawing undue attention? The problem caused her some deliberation, especially as they hadn’t planned for the event of being split by enemy patrols. Birds don’t sing in the middle of the night. Any loud and harmless beasts in the wild forest outside the city of Charlang would by natural selection be long extinct. Predatory sounds would stir up undesired interest; the more so since the city at the moment was the scene of the yearly market and a famous horse race. Travelers from near and far camped both inside and outside the city walls, making the likeliness of predators in close vicinity very remote. The enemy patrols prowling the forest below her belonged to the camp in sight, and the campsite was both the temporary home of a Mezade tribe and a corral guarding their famous racehorses. Anything that could be perceived as a threat would be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly. And Marjory well knew that she would be taken for a predator in her own right, and rightfully so.

At last she chose the least suspicious method, all things considered. She neighed, using the long agreed on signal to let her partner, Philip, know that the danger was over and that she was all right. She sent a silent prayer to Scorn, Goddess of thieves, hoping that nobody was near enough to discern that the neighing came from the top of a tree.

Then she started to climb down. She was in a hurry and managed to add a few bruises to her more or less permanent collection, but when she came to a halt on a limb a few feet above ground, she hesitated. Philip hadn’t answered as he should have, and suppressing a pang of worry her well-honed sense of caution took over.

She melted into the shadows around the tree trunk. The quiet seemed absolute. Usually Marjory loved nights like these; the darkness hid the grotesque face that the daylight so brutally revealed. Oddly enough, the empty presence of the night was a comforting companion, maybe because the loneliness of her life was usually set off in company with others. But right now the dark emphasized Philip’s absence. Of course he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. But part of their relation was the habit of looking after each other. For Marjory that meant a lot, though she would never confess to it.

She jumped noiselessly to the ground. She landed nimbly, rolling forward to get away from the spot where she dropped. Nothing happened. No voices called out, no arrows or spears arched through the night, and no Philip showed up. She recalled what she had spotted from the treetop. Their mark, the campsite, was about a hundred meters to the west. The guarded corral consisted of twelve wagons in a circle, brightly lit by the roaring campfires in the middle. The horses were tied to a picket line surrounding the wagons. Knowing what she did about the Mezade, they would have more scout patrols out; they were probably trawling the area. Could they have found him after all? But she hadn’t heard anything. Philip wouldn’t have been taken by surprise, she was sure of that, and any action would have been notable in the night.

She moved furtively through the semi-dense underbrush, and circled in the direction he had disappeared when they chanced upon the scout patrol. Where was Philip? She stopped to focus her perception, trying to disappear into the night. It was a trick she had learned in the old days at the keep; it was a useful stratagem when you wanted to avoid attention. Closing her eyes she listened. A faint wind rustled through the leaves. An acorn dropped. Small sounds from the ground disclosed a forager at work. From a distance she even heard the frightened cry of an animal as a predator jumped the inattentive creature. The silent aftermath seemed all the more quiet, but she couldn’t hear anything unusual.

The wind was picking up and carried with it the sting of the north. She was getting chilled. The rustling was increasing, sending more acorns to the ground. Then the growing wind brought with it a hideous rotting scent, a whiff of decay and death. Marjory smiled at the familiar stench. She followed the disgusting odor easily enough, and soon came upon the enormous flower that emitted it. Once Philip had introduced her to the secret of this particular flora. The deep shadows hid its repulsive colors, but ugliness never put Marjory off, she was too familiar with it.

Not many knew that the huge flowers known as Ghoul’s Breath hid under-ground chambers the size of small dirt cellars. The smell was enough to keep curiosity at bay and fuelled superstition. It was connected with death. The Dappled Cats used the chambers as winter lairs. One plant could have up to five different chambers of varying size and in varying stages of development. A cat would sleep in one chamber and use another as winter storage, and the plant lived off the remains of the carcasses the cat dragged in during the warm season. An empty chamber was the perfect hideout if you could abide the reek. It was basically a giant hollow tuber that had burrowed its way to the surface with a tendril that dried up and hollowed as soon as it broke through. The largest chamber entrances were thick enough for a slender and agile person, or a Dappled Cat, to squeeze through. It was unlikely there would be any cats nearby at this time. She respected the Dappled Cats, but for Philip she braved a lot.       A thorough search revealed a chamber entrance on a small slope somewhat away from the flower itself. Marjory carefully pried away the stiff circular leaves that protected the opening. There was a flicker of light at the end of the tunnel, and a stinking gust of humid air reached her and made her gag.

“What took you so long,” a deep voice grumbled from down in the dark. “Come in and close the door. I need some help.”

Relieved, Marjory slipped between the hard leaves and crawled on her hands and knees down the sloping tunnel. As always, she had to fight nausea until she got used to the stench. The tunnel, or the remains of the dried up tendril also called the Ghoul’s Throat, ended in a narrow circular chamber and was lit by a burning candle. A soft draft made the flame flicker and caused the shadows to dance on the sponge-like walls of the chamber. The ceiling was too low to stand, so she squatted on the floor next to the tunnel opening. Unconsciously she positioned herself so that the marred side of her face turned away from her partner.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “I was expecting you to return, or at least signal, when the patrol disappeared.”

“Couldn’t move much,” he replied a little gruffly. “I have a small problem.” With that he pointed to his right leg, and now that her eyes had adjusted to the candle light she could see the arrow shaft that protruded from the back of his thigh.

Marjory cursed with feeling. “Do you still have my pouch?” she asked.

He nodded and pointed to the ground. He had already laid out the herbs and potions she would need. Now she noticed that he was holding his knife blade over the candle flame, preparing it for surgery with the heat. She met his eyes.

“You’ll have to cut,” he said. “You wouldn’t happen to have a gallon of booze with you, would you?” He tried to make a joke of it, but she saw the sweat on his brow.

“Sorry,” she said. “I only have numbroot powder. I’ll apply it on the knife and in the wound. It won’t help a lot when I cut. It’s mostly useful after.”

He just nodded and lay down on his stomach, still holding the knife over the flame. “Freaking paranoid Mezade,” he groaned through clenched teeth, “I hope the bitch is worth the trouble.”

Marjory shrugged and made herself busy over his leg while Philip told how a scout had fired a chance arrow into the bushes where he sat, and hit him.

“The wind will make the horses jumpy you know. Even I won’t be able to quiet them when they are jittery enough,” Marjory commented. “We can’t get near the camp tonight. We’d have had to stay put anyway.” She cut away the pants from his wounded thigh. “Besides, you’ll need to rest. It’s only a flesh wound, but it’ll be a few days before you can walk much.”

Philip grunted a reply. Marjory retrieved the knife he held over the candle and handed him the sheath with her own. It was well used, made of plain hard leather.

“Bite,” she said. “The scouts may still be around.” He accepted the sheath wordlessly.

“Brace yourself,” she warned and cut into the tender flesh around the arrow.

He neither cried nor twitched. His whole body stiffened and he passed out before she was finished. She had expected it and kept working without letting herself be interrupted. She had done her first surgery as assistant and errand girl of her old lord’s physician when his men were hurt in brawl or battle. Later on she had had to patch up the members of the thieves guild on various occasions. She finished with quiet efficiency, and dressed the leg with cloth cut from his shirt.

When she was done, she cleaned up as well as she could with the water from their water bags. Then she sat back against the rough surface of the Ghoul’s chamber wall, and looked at her patient. The candle threw a reddish golden light, softening edges and smoothing features, but even accounting for the gentle illumination, it was obvious that Philip was a very handsome man. Marjory found him exceedingly beautiful, even. She always had, from the minute she’d first seen him. The dark hair that now clung to his head in sweat was usually thick and soft. He had a long, almost gaunt face, and when he was awake, his eyes shone with blue amusement and the mouth was quick to smile and kissed oh so tenderly.

Marjory shrugged to herself. Sentimental feelings weren’t something she could afford to indulge. But he did kiss well. She grinned, and snuffed the candle. Sleep would do them both good.

She woke up when he moved a bit. She sensed his even breath, and relieved that he was breathing in a healthy feverless sleep, she snuggled up. The chamber was sufficiently heated by their bodies to feel warm, and the muffled sounds from the storm outside almost made it cozy by contrast. She gave a start when she felt Philip’s hand slip under her shirt and come to rest in the curve of her hip.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” she whispered guiltily and lifted herself on one arm to see his face. It was too dark to see his features, but when he replied she imagined the familiar reckless curl on his lips.

“Whatever you put in the wound, it helped for the pain,” he whispered back. His hand ran up her backside, then down again to the front, and confidently began to loosen her pants. She smiled in the dark.

Silently she started to unbutton his shirt and pants, reveling in the sensation of his well-muscled body. Their lovemaking was rare enough to make each occasion a sensual feast. Knowing what she did and thankful for the dark, she let go of her inhibitions and savored the feel of him with quiet passion. But when he softly called out that other name like she knew he would, she was glad he was too far-gone in carnal delirium to notice her involuntary reaction. Her regrets stayed a well-hidden secret.

The next day came with gray clouds and stiff wind. Aided by Marjory’s herbs the wound had started to heal and Philip wanted to return to Charlang. Marjory objected. She pointed out that their hideout was perfect; it was actually inside the Mezade perimeter. In his condition he wasn’t fit to take on the challenges that were bound to come with all the strangers within the city walls. He wouldn’t be of any use to the guild, and his routine businesses could wait. When he gave in, it was because he knew she was right, not because the idea appealed to him. He was too restless for that.

“Curse those bloody Mezade scouts,” he said for a hundredth time. “How can I keep business running if I’m not there?” He hit the ground in frustration. “You know, they’ll wonder what I’m up too. When you bugger off with that stallion they’ll all think I did it. Those Mezade are going to go for my hide! Besides, I hate this STENCH! Accursed plant, it is meant for cats, not people.”

Marjory grinned wickedly.

“All you have to do is to convince that lady of yours to tell the truth, as soon as we snatch her,” she teased him. “Why, you have the perfect love nest here already. Keep her happy, and she’ll tell them anything you want. What is a little smell compared to the bodily delights?”

He leered at that: “What, are you telling me that you’ll do anything I ask?”

“Of course I will,” she replied, and cleverly disguised the truth as irony. “I’ll even stay here with the two of you if you want to.” She smirked at the look of fascinated distaste on his face, and added: “You’ll get a kick from screwing us while comparing her flawless complexion with mine.”

“Shut up,” he replied with sudden anger. “You’re sick.” He looked at her with a strange expression. Marjory showed him the ruined part of her face like she always did when she wanted to demonstrate her indifference and didn’t bother to reply. It was a strain though. Sometimes, clinging to her defiance to keep her feelings at bay wearied her to the bones.

She went through their packs and decided she had to return to Charlang to get the food and drink that they’d need. They hadn’t been prepared to stay away for more than the night.

It was late afternoon before she was back. Philip slept soundly, and she woke him up to redress the wound. It looked good, and there was no fever. Over a cold meal consisting of roasted chicken and bread they discussed the outlay of the Mezade camp, and the best way to achieve their goals.

“It would be easiest for you if I got the horse first,” Marjory observed while she chewed at the stringy meat. “When they realize he’s gone, half the camp will set off on a chase. That will leave a lot fewer people to deal with, if that lady of yours won’t agree to your suggestion.”

“I was counting on having you as backup,” Philip objected. “If you are all over the place with the horse I don’t have anyone to cover my back.”

Marjory nodded reluctantly. It was hard to see how she could hide a prize stallion without being found out, especially as the Mezade were master trackers. Her only option was to take him, run, and shake the pursuers before she made the delivery.

“If we do it the other way round, chances are that they will be alerted and make it more difficult to snatch Nightshade,” she said. “That won’t do.”

“Girl, you’re talking to the prince of thieves, the master snatcher himself. If I can’t spirit away a horse, I’m as good as useless,” Philip snapped.

“I’m talking to the only Mezade who is afraid of horses, hotshot!” Marjory retorted. His timid bearing around horses was one thing she couldn’t reconcile to his dashing appearance. Philip glowered, but they both knew she was right. It was one of the secrets they shared, one that made their relationship more than just that of the master thief and his apprentice, protector and protégée.

Marjory drank deeply from the canteen and looked closely at him. There was something he wasn’t straight about, she was certain of it.

“Why do you want that woman anyway?” she asked.

Philip shrugged. “A bet. Ransom. She’s good looking.” He grinned suddenly. “You never know, maybe I’ll get her to love me.”

“Hah!” Marjory deliberately turned the marred side of her face toward him. “Love isn’t for the likes of us, you romantic fool.” Let him see what the fire had done to her, that night when he was careless, whoring by candlelight in the stable.

They had never talked about it, but she had long ago realized that he knew that the four-year-old girl who was so hideously burnt that night fifteen years ago, was her. She had fallen asleep in an empty stable box while waiting for her mother who worked at the inn. That was the last thing she recalled about her mother; an impression of a voice telling her to be a good girl and wait in the kitchen. She did remember how she had snuck out to the stable to talk with the horses. They were so big and gentle, she always felt at home with them.

Ten years later she had sought Philip out. It was easy to find him; after all, the innkeeper had blamed the fire on him. She had been intent on making him suffer for ruining her face and her life. Instead, he had rescued her from yet another rape and a beating. One thing led to the other, and she became a member of the thieves’ guild, its bridgehead into the keep. They became the family she’d never had. If not close friends, at least people that accepted her and her appearance. But this time Philip reacted with unexpected viciousness.

“What do you know about love, freak! If that face of yours hadn’t scared even your own mother away, then your tongue certainly would have!”

Marjory stared at him. She was used to remarks about her face, but not from Philip. It was an unexpected breach of confidence and it stung like a betrayal. But it was impossible to show him how deeply he hurt, so she turned without a word leaving the chamber once more. As she left the Ghoul’s throat, she could hear him call her name, but didn’t care.

Outside, it was dark again. The moon was up, throwing a cool light between the trees. The reek from the flower was overwhelming, but somehow Marjory found the smell reassuring. The ugly and the vile, she thought. We go well together. I should rename it “Marjory’s Scent”. Who knows, maybe I can stay out here, live off the forest. I don’t need him. Why do I care? She clenched her teeth against her misery. Giving in to it wouldn’t do any good. She deliberately sought out the flower itself, where the stench was at its most repulsive. She bent over and touched the flower petals close to the ground. They were huge, a couple of feet across. The smell clung to her hands when she stood up. She lifted them to her face and inhaled, almost vomiting in revulsion.

Aimlessly and heedlessly she turned and walked in among the trees, habit made her seek out the darkest shadows. But habit couldn’t substitute caution. It was merely a matter of minutes before she was hailed from behind:

“Who goes there?”

Marjory stiffened. She recalled the arrow shaft in Philip’s thigh. She was standing in even distance from several trees, but they were all too far away to reach with a dive. No doubt the hidden person had chosen the spot with intent. To hell with it all!

“A thief.” She called out, loud and clear. There was a pause. Obviously that wasn’t the expected answer.

“So what are you out to steal?” Was there amusement in the voice?

“A horse,” she replied. “Then a woman. Then something else, probably.”

“Don’t attempt to move,” another voice came from the right side of the first. “We’ve got you covered.”

Marjory just shrugged, and waited for what would happen next.

Somebody came up to her from behind. She could hear the soft steps on the moss that covered the forest floor. Deftly, and from behind, the scout removed her worn knife from its sheath. The following frisk revealed her boot daggers as well, and she was promptly relieved of them both.

“Turn around, slowly,” came the voice from the dark again, and she pinned down the voice to the shadows somewhere to the left behind the person at her back. She turned, and looked into a face that was at once both familiar and strange. Philip was the only Mezade she knew. He was an outcast, so he didn’t socialize with anyone from his former tribe, or any other Mezade tribes, but it was obvious that he shared their general features. The man looking down at her had the same thick dark hair and narrow face. And she wouldn’t be surprised at all if daylight showed that his eyes were blue. She noticed the usual look of shock and repugnance as the scout took in her face, and Marjory cautiously took a step backward.

“Stay where you are!” The voice from the shadows was closer now.

“Come have a look,” the scout in front of her called. Yeah, right, Marjory thought bitterly. Share the entertainment, idiot. According to the sounds there were only the two of them. She had to bolt now, while the one in the dark had his line of sight obscured by the scout in front of her, and the latter was still in shock by her appearance. But it was still too far to the nearest bushes; she’d be shot in the back before she got in cover.

“Do you think me pretty, lover boy?” She asked in her sweetest voice. She could sound like the innocent girl of any man’s dreams when she wanted. She used that trick to the fullest effect now, and saw the man in front of her try to reconcile the childlike voice with the words and her face. She lay on a girlish smile with the good part of her face, and knew that the other part was grotesquely expressionless. He took an involuntary step backwards.

Marjory saw her chance, and leaped right at him, baring her teeth and produced the most animal like growl she could muster. The hands she stretched out for his eyes sent a wave of stench from the Ghoul’s Breath at his face, and he stumbled backwards again, lifting an arm to shield from the brutal attack on his senses as well as his body.

“What…?” The voice from the shadows queried querulously just as Marjory propelled into the scout’s chest and sent him reeling into the man now at his back. They both staggered, and Marjory used her momentum to rush past them toward the deepest shadows she could see. Her hand was caught in the scout’s clothes and she pulled sharply, coming loose with a jerk. She heard a thud and a curse, and gleaned that at least one of them had stumbled to the ground. She reached the bushes, and remembering what Philip told about the scouts shooting wild, she immediately changed direction, and ran as quietly as she could. She heard them take up pursuit, but it was also clear she was out of their line of sight. She took care avoiding all the moonlit areas and tried to step on dry ground only. She would have to circle the Ghoul’s Breath and approach it from another direction. It wouldn’t do to leave a path straight to the hideout.

She credited her training in the guild for managing to shake the scouts. The night was hers. Not many could track her or spot her when she was using every trick she’d ever learnt to conceal herself. She spent some time in a tree within sight of the entrance to the Ghoul’s chamber. Finally she risked the exposure, and slithered quickly down the tunnel, into the welcoming flicker from the candle.

Philip was awake. He sat up when she came in, and his question died on his lips when he saw the look on her face.

“Shut up, I wasn’t followed,” she snapped, and sat as far away from him as she could.

“What have you been doing?” he asked, visibly choking at the fresh Ghoul stench that still clung to her.

“Having fun,” she replied sourly. Then she noticed what had trapped her when she rocketed into the scout: an amulet pouch in a leather thong was attached to her sleeve. She yanked it loose and threw it to Philip.

“I brought you a souvenir.”

He caught it in the air and held it close to the candle for a better look.

“A Mezade tribe token,” he commented, and looked strangely at her. “What happened to the owner?” Marjory shrugged and retorted:

“What is a tribe token?”

“A holy symbol, showing the tribe and family ties of the owner,” he replied while he worked on opening the pouch. A stone fell to the ground. Philip picked it up, and stiffened.

“What happened to the owner?” he repeated, staring at the stone. Vexed, Marjory replied: “Last time I saw him he was on the ground, who cares?”

“I do,” Philip replied. “He was my brother.”

Marjory laughed outright.

“You want to go back and hold him in your arms? Do you think you can limp far enough with that lame leg of yours?”

“Bitch!” He spoke quietly with a venomous voice. “What did you do to him? No Mezade leaves his tribe token!” He half rose, but she could see him pale when he tried to put weight on the wounded leg.

“No? Did they take yours when they threw you out of the tribe then? You never told me why you were cast out. Did you screw somebody you shouldn’t, or did they just decide it was too shameful to have a cousin that was afraid of horses?” The scornful words were out of her mouth before she could think. Philip reacted in spite of his wound and threw himself across the chamber floor, catching her by her collar.

“What – did - you - DO?” The words came out with each syllable emphasized by a yank at her lapel. Even with the wound weakening him he was much stronger than she, and heavier too. She struggled to get her hands between him and her throat.

“Let me go!” She clawed futilely at his face.

“Answer me!” He shoved his face close to hers; offering a chance to admire his finely chiseled features up close. She replied by turning her head with an effort, the grip on her collar was choking. The dead part of her face came to glare grotesquely back at him. He lost his temper completely and hit her squarely with his fist. Her head was thrown back and hit the chamber wall. Spitting blood she slumped against the wall, only half conscious.

“Marjory!”

She heard the command from afar. Philip shook her, none too gently, and collecting herself, she aimed through half closed eyelids and kicked out, hard, at his wound.

He gasped and collapsed in spasms of pain and looked like he was about to pass out. He didn’t, but retched on the floor. Marjory quickly got up and removed his dagger to prevent an uglier development and to make certain he didn’t surprise her again. The kick had taken the spirit out of him and he didn’t even look at her.

They lay both still a while, their heavy breathing was the only sound in the chamber. At last Marjory stirred. She was soiled with her own blood. For some reason she hated being bloody. She used some extra rags she had cut from Philips shirt and started to wash up. When she cleaned her face, the rags came away full of blood with a tooth from her mouth.

“I hate you”, she whispered hoarsely. Philip moved and looked at her.

“No you don’t,” he replied wearily. “You love me. You know that”.

She felt like crying but couldn’t allow it. 

“Yeah. Great,” she said. “Prince of thieves. It wasn’t enough to steal my life, you have to steal even the shreds of my dignity, don’t you?”

She didn’t expect him to reply, and he didn’t. She lowered her voice and added:

“You know, your brother might be standing just outside the entrance, wondering where all the noise came from. Would he kill you if he knew you were here?”

“I don’t know,” Philip replied. “Maybe.” He stared angrily at her. “I thought you’d killed him. Why didn’t you say you didn’t?”

“Why did you assume that I killed him in the first place, idiot?” Marjory didn’t know why she bothered responding at all. She felt spent, used up. “Why do you care so much anyway? I thought you left the tribe behind you years ago.”

“I don’t know.” His whole bearing was bleak. “He was my elder brother. He used to look after me.” He added with unexpected fondness in the voice: “He taught me to use a bow you know.”

“Oh great,” Marjory replied sarcastically. “Maybe it was he who shot you.”

“Could be,” Philip conceded.

Marjory started to pack her things.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Away.”

“Away where?”

“Somewhere. Somewhere where I can have a life.” Involuntarily she touched the marred side of her face. He looked pitying at her.

“From your good side you look very much like your mother, you know.”

Marjory stiffened.

“How do you know my mother?”

He hesitated.

“You know that night when the stable burned?” He avoided her eyes. “I was with her then.”

“Are you telling me you’re my father?” Marjory asked incredulously, too stricken to fully register the obscenity.

“No, not that,” he said hurriedly. “It was someone at the keep I think.”

Marjory dropped everything and sat heavily, head in her hands.

“You’re making this up,” she finally said. “You’re trying to relieve your guilt by dragging my mother into it. Why do you do it? Why do you want me on a leash? Why can’t you let me go?”

“Like she did?” The ugly reply felt like a whiplash, a numbing shock quickly followed by a searing pain.

“Shut up!” Marjory cried. “Shut up! Liar!” Then a thought struck her with a rocking force.

“You loved her didn’t you? It’s her name you always call out. You still love her!” She balled her fists, watching Philip who lay on his back looking into the ceiling.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “I did. I was only sixteen. When you’re so young that word has still got a meaning.”

“Curse you!” Marjory moaned. “It’s you who don’t know what love is. How could you keep this from me all these years? How could you do this to me?” She couldn’t help it, her tears were running, she didn’t even attempt to conceal it, and she lashed out: “Was it your twisted idea of revenge? Did she spurn you at last?”

Philip still didn’t look at her.

“In a way I guess she did,” he replied. “But it wasn’t revenge. Do you know that you’re half-blood?”

The sudden turn of the conversation baffled her. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Your mother is a Mezade, like me. When I was banned, there wasn’t any way we could see each other.”

“What are you saying?” Marjory entreated. For some reason she had always pictured her mother as dead. Because if she wasn’t, and still hadn’t come for her daughter… The thought of being thrown away like trash by her own mother was too intolerable to bear. It was easier to live with a dead mother, than a cold one.

“She’s dead, isn’t she? Isn’t she?” With increasing dread she saw the answer on his face.

“Oh Gods,” she whispered, as realization struck. “The woman at the camp. It’s her.”

            He only nodded.

“She married a man from another tribe some years ago. He was killed in a hunting accident last year and she moved back to my family’s tribe. You’ve got siblings, even.”

“I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to hear about it!”

“Denial and self-pity doesn’t get you anywhere, Marjory. You of all people should know that.” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice. She realized that he inadvertently had let her see a well-hidden part of his soul, but she didn’t know how to deal with it. The silence stretched, but at last she asked:

“What do you want with her now?”

“I just want to talk to her.” He looked uncomfortable. “I want to know if she blames me. I want to know…” he hesitated before he went on. “I want to know if there is anything left of what we shared back then.”

Marjory choked on a bitter laugh. “How did you intend to introduce us? Hello dear, here is your freak daughter that you left fifteen years ago. I’m screwing her now. Oh, and do you still love me?” She saw him close up. He didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to believe in the dream and a world of hope and possibilities.

 “I don’t think she knows that you live,” he replied at last.

Marjory reeled.

“What do you mean? She left me after the fire. She must have known that I lived… Oh Gods.” She took a deep breath to calm down.

“Why didn’t you tell her? You knew!”

“I couldn’t!” The anguish in his voice seemed real. “The innkeeper had me locked up and the only reason she got away was that her kin took her with them the same night. They never approved of her city life. Everybody assumed you were dead, the stable boys had seen you sleep in the stable and your mother was half crazed, trying to run into that inferno screaming that you were inside. And the stable was ablaze. I saw them knock her over the head and take her with them. Then they just left the city.” He saw her confused expression and added: “It was at the city festival then too, like now. They were there only for the races. That night was total chaos. After, I was told that by some miracle you had been found alive the next day, hiding under a water trough of stone. They brought you to the keep where everybody assumed your father lived. I was an outcast already back then. Every message I tried to get through to your mother was turned away.”

Marjory swallowed.

“So now you are offering me as a reconciling gift? You’re going to tell her how you’ve looked after me the past ten years? How I became a guild member? Did you plan to use me to regain her love?” She almost spat, her anger burned like a furnace.

“What about my first years at the keep? The butt of everybody’s joke and foul temper? I barely survived, damnit! I was four years old, and it was your doing, all of it!” She almost shouted the last sentence at him, shaking from the shock of the betrayal.

“Yeah,” he replied in a tired voice. “Don’t I know it.”

“Shut up!” Marjory’s voice was thick. “I don’t want to hear of your suffering. It’s nothing. NOTHING, do you hear me? To think of how I’ve loved you, how you’ve used me…” Her voice trailed off into silence. There was a long pause. When Philip added his last comment to the conversation it was in a low voice, almost despondently:

“Scorn curse you Marjory. I was lonely too, you know.”

***

Marjory woke up to the sound of birds outside. A gray light filtered through the leaves at the end of the tunnel, making the candle unnecessary. Philip lay on his back, sleeping. The bandage about his thigh was red from blood seeping through. She had probably kicked open the wound last night. She didn’t care. She checked that he had what he needed to change his dressing, and some water, and then she left. Outside, she stretched and tried to listen to the forest sounds to find out if there were any scout patrols close by. She didn’t notice anything special. She shrugged to herself. That didn’t necessarily mean anything.

Slowly, she began to walk westwards. Before long, she heard the neighing from the horses on the picket line. What was wrong with those Mezade, did they think that the only dangers came at night? She had barely finished the thought when a shout told her she was spotted. She stopped, and before anybody could tell her what to do, she sat down, crossed her feet and raised her hands to show them they were empty.

“I am the thief from last night,” she called to the air. “The freak. I want to speak with the scout that lost his tribe token.”

“Hand it over, and you won’t be harmed,” came the reply. A different voice this time.

“I don’t have it. I want to tell him that I know who’s got it, and where he can find it,” she countered.

One man came out of the thicket to her right, and another dropped down from a tree in front of her.

“You don’t look like a demon to me, girl,” said the man at her right.

“Look again,” Marjory replied, and turned her face toward him. He stared, like people always did when they saw her for the first time.

“All right, who are you?” he asked curtly. “You claim to be a thief, why should we let you near our camp?”

“My name is Marjory. I’m not going to steal anything today.”

It was obvious that the two men didn’t know what to make of her, so she asked for the scout again, a little impatiently.

One of the men shrugged.

“Stay put. I’ll wake him up.” He disappeared into the bushes, and Marjory settled for waiting. She studied the scout that was left guarding her. He seemed to have taken wisdom from the encounter last night, because he stayed at a distance, with an arrow casually nocked at the bow. He was dark haired as Philip, but with different facial features. Marjory realized that the likeness in the scout from last night was a family likeness. At least Philip spoke true about that, she thought bleakly. Her apprehension was growing, not so much at the thought of meeting Philip’s brother again, as to what was going to happen if she got to meet her mother.

She didn’t have to wait long. A tall man followed the scout when he reappeared, and Marjory immediately recognized him. He even moved with the same grace as Philip. They stopped several feet away. Philip’s brother looked like he had been woken up from sleep.

“Who are you? Where is my amulet?” His voice was still gruff from his rest.

“It’s for your ears alone,” she replied. He looked surprised.

“Are you a demon?” he asked suspiciously.

“Of course not, idiot,” she replied tiredly. “I’m just ugly and I’ve washed off my stylish perfume. Can we have some privacy?” The last was directed at the scout patrol that had stopped her, and they retreated cautiously to the forest edge. It was almost ridiculous how careful they were about her.

“I’m Gard,” the man said. “What is it you want to say?”

“Your brother has got your amulet,” Marjory said matter-of-factly. Gard frowned.

“I don’t think so,” he replied with a look of annoyance. “He’s still at the camp. What are you up to?”

“Not that brother”, she said again, hoping that Philip hadn’t lied after all. “He calls himself Philip.”

Immediately Marjory saw that Philip had spoken truth. The look on Gard’s face revealed it all; annoyance, hope and fear.

“Yeah, that brother,” Marjory said. “If you want your amulet back you’ll have to go to him.”

“Why? What does he want? Why are you speaking for him?” Gard sounded confused and anxious at the same time.

“I’m not speaking for him. He doesn’t know that I’m here. The amulet caught at my sleeve by accident last night, I didn’t know what it was so I asked Philip. He told me it belonged to his brother.”

“So why did you bother to search me out?” Gard looked troubled, and no wonder.

Marjory took a deep breath.

“Because I need something from you. There is someone in the camp that I want to see.”

“Who?”

“Alassa. It’s the only name I know of.” She didn’t mention how she had come to know it.

He looked startled. “Alassa? Why do you want to see my betrothed?”

Marjory felt a hysterical giggle bubbling up. She suppressed it with an effort.

“Because,” she said, “Philip has just told me she’s my mother.”

Shock, horror and a fleeting glimpse of denial crossed his face, before understanding finally dawned. He sat and stared at her in silence for a long time. Marjory hid her nervousness and barely controlled the urge to turn the dead part of her face to him. Too much was at stake now, for that.

“Gods,” he muttered. “She thinks you are dead, you know.” Something made him turn his gaze away. Repulsion, probably, she thought with defensive cynicism.

She nodded. “I thought she was dead too, because she never came for me…” her voice trailed off, and she loathed herself for its unsteady quaver. “I only realized last night.”

When he looked back at her, he looked cold and forbidding.

“Why would I want to let you see her? You’ve been out of her life for fifteen years; she’s got two daughters and a son. We’re getting married at the end of the season. She is happy now.”

“You mean, why would you let someone like me disturb your cozy world?” Marjory snapped back. “You don’t have to. But if you want your amulet back, you do. Even if you take your chances without it, how do you know that I won’t show up some time in the future, and tell her all about this conversation?”

            He looked sullenly at her.

“And you better be very sure you can kill me right now, if you decide to try. Because if you fail, I’ll make sure she knows that you tried.” Marjory got a leaden feeling at the look of him. He didn’t want to associate with her, that much was clear. Who could blame him, she thought tiredly. I’m not exactly the stepdaughter anybody would wish for. The thought almost made her smile.

“What’s so funny?” he asked suspiciously.

“You’re going to be my stepfather, that’s funny,” Marjory replied. “And you’re already thinking of having me killed.” He looked stricken.

“No…” he said, “No I’m not.”

“Who are you kidding,” she said, almost kindly. “Anyway, all I want is to talk with her. What do you have to lose? You’ll get your tribe token back, and a chance to see your brother.”

He hesitated, and made up his mind.

“All right, I want the amulet back. I’ll send for her so you can talk.” Marjory closed her eyes from relief and fear at the same time. He noticed, and with unexpected gentleness he said: “I’m sorry for the harsh words. It was unworthy of me. But only last night I thought you were a demon. It was a shock.”

Marjory nodded mutely, not interested. He got up, waved one of his friends over and explained the deal, except he left out that the man holding his amulet was his brother. His friend gave Marjory a curious glance, and disappeared toward the camp. Marjory explained about the chamber belonging to the foul smelling flower and Gard stared in wonder. From the look of him Marjory thought he didn’t know that Philip and her mother had been lovers.

“Make sure you tell him you’re going to marry Alassa. He’ll like to know,” she said truthfully and sadistically. He just nodded.

When he disappeared into the forest, Marjory was left waiting for her mother.

***

She came in a brisk walk, escorted by the scout. He retreated discreetly out of hearing distance, assuming that Marjory’s call for privacy was still valid. Marjory noted that his seemingly casual attitude was merely put on, his bow and arrows was within short reach. She didn’t doubt that he would shoot if he judged it necessary.

“I am Alassa,” the woman said. “Gard wanted me to come. Who are you?”

            She was a slender woman, about Marjory’s height. Marjory thought she recognized her own eyes, or one of them, anyway, she thought harshly. Alassa looked at Marjory with an expression alternating between horror and compassion.

Suddenly Marjory was bereft of words. She could only look, it seemed so important to memorize these facial features, to search for likeness, something of her self and her history in them. There were lines. Of course there would be. Alassa had to be in her mid-thirties, life as a nomad doesn’t leave silken skin untouched. Marjory didn’t even know why she thought of her mother’s skin as especially soft. A long forgotten memory? She swallowed. She didn’t have any memories from before the fire except for a few sense perceptions, a smell, the sound of a voice, and the soft touch of a chin against hers. Fighting not to start crying, she said in a small voice:

“I’m so sorry… I don’t remember you, mother. I hardly remember anything at all, from before… from before the flames. I’m so sorry.” Then she couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. She refused to give in to sobbing at least. She just looked through her tears, clinging to the defiance that had kept her alive for all her short life.

The woman stared. She made a small sound, lifted a hand to her throat, and sank to her knees in front of Marjory. She looked into her face from an even height, as if beseeching a hidden truth. 

“What are you saying, woman?” she whispered. “Marjory? Marjory, is that you?” She lifted a hand and lay it against Marjory’s ruined face, “My little girl, it is you.” She cupped her hand and tried to hide the dead flesh on the ruined half of the face.

“How can it be?” she whispered hoarsely, “You were so beautiful, my little Marjory. Oh gods… what did we do to you?” Then she started crying; the tears that welled down her cheeks matched the flow on Marjory’s.

Marjory felt leaden. The moment of joy in a heart for a moment transformed into a child’s was extinguished. She looked at her mother before her, but all she could see was she and Philip in the haymow over the stable, and the candle.

The wet in her eyes dried up.

“I wanted to see you, once,” she said, “before I leave.” She regained control; she was good at that. “Maybe it was a mistake.”

“A mistake? How can it be a mistake? All these years, I thought you were dead. I have grieved so. I have blamed myself. I have blamed…” she stopped.

“Philip?” Marjory resignedly filled in. Alassa startled, and stared.

“How did you know?”

            “We are old friends,” Marjory replied. “We go a long way back. I guess you can say that in a sense I filled up the space that you left in his world. Gard is off to see him right now.”

Alassa stared incomprehensibly at Marjory. Suddenly Marjory didn’t feel like explaining. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t her business. Whatever Alassa and Philip had shared, would share, wasn’t something that concerned her anymore.

“I only learned of you yesterday,” she said. “I thought you were dead all these years, since you didn’t come for me.”

Her words wrung a wail from Alassa.

“I didn’t know! Oh Gods! Please believe me! They must have kept it from me! My little Marjory, I’m so sorry!” She grabbed Marjory’s hand, and squeezed it so hard that it hurt. “What happened to you, after…” the words trailed off, and to Marjory, looking into Alassa’s face was like looking into an old familiar book. The pages were filled with writing of guilt and remorse, perversely intertwined with old love, and grief. It was mirrored on Philip’s face. She fought to get out of Alassa’s grip.

“The rest of my life,” Marjory replied, oddly unwilling to share her history with this woman. Maybe the difference was the freshness of Alassa’s hurt, the agony, which reflected that of her own. Her own pain paled a little in light of the raw regret that was so plainly written on the face that in so many small ways resembled her own. 

“I just had to see you,” she choked a little on the next word, “mother. I’m leaving for good. There is nothing for me here any more. I must find another…” she hesitated, searching for the words, “I need another direction in my life. I had to see you, to see what I leave behind, if there was anything worth remembering.”

Alassa seemed to compose herself. The small act of putting on a façade, so intimately familiar to Marjory, endeared Alassa a bit to her. It was like looking at an act of her own, but on the face of another.

“And is there?” Alassa asked, only the small quiver in her voice told Marjory that the answer was important.

For once, Marjory didn’t turn to her defiance to cope with her self.

“I wish I could remember more of you from the days before the fire,” she said quietly. “I think that would have been worth it.”

Alassa’s eyes moistened over again, and she nodded. 

“Stay,” she asked. “Stay at least for a few days. Let me share my memories of those days with you. Maybe you’ll find back to some of your own.”

Marjory swallowed. The suggestion was frightening, yet compelling. At last she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “Not now. I’m not strong enough for that now.” She searched the other face for signs of acceptance or rejection when she continued.

“Later, when I have found my own place in the world. Then I want to come back to speak with you.”

Alassa was pale, but didn’t balk or protest.

“Promise me,” she said. “Promise me that you will. I can live with knowing that you exist, if I know that you don’t hate me so much that you never want to see me again. Please promise me you will return.”

Someone crashing through the forest interrupted them. Marjory wasn’t surprised when Gard appeared in front of them, breathing heavily. He was pale and looked ill at ease. He stopped dead when he saw them sitting next to each other, in deep conversation.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked Alassa accusingly. He didn’t have to explain, the intimacy they had shared until now immediately made her understand. His face contorted with such hurt that Marjory winced.

 “It was fifteen years ago. I hardly thought it mattered,” she replied unsteadily.

“So it is true! He is my brother! How can’t it matter?” Gard’s anguish was mixed with anger, Marjory noticed. In her experience that was a dangerous combination. But maybe he was different from Philip. Maybe.

“He’s an outcast. He’s nobody’s brother anymore. I haven’t given him a thought since that night…” she swallowed and shut up, abruptly. “I’m sorry Gard, if it hurt you. But it is a long dead past. It doesn’t concern us anymore.”

Gard sighed heavily. “Woman, since when did our past stop being of concern to us? Aren’t you just now sitting next to the greatest sorrow in your life, and hasn’t it concerned you?”

Alassa stopped talking at that. Gard looked at Marjory.

“He deserves to die, for what he has done to you,” he said. Marjory realized that Philip had told him all about their relationship. She was caught off guard, and felt a deep blush spread over the unscarred part of her face.

“Why didn’t you kill him then?” she asked, reverting to the familiar defiance again.

“He’s my brother! I can’t,” Gard replied with distress. Marjory smiled humorlessly.

“I bet he reminded you of that fact, didn’t he?”

Gard looked oddly at her, and nodded before he replied: “I’m no cold-blooded murderer. He deserves to pay for his misdeeds, but it isn’t within my power to do it. If I turn him in to the tribe, he’ll be killed. I can’t let that happen.”

“I know,” Marjory replied wearily. “Some things are better left off undone and behind. You don’t have to do anything on my behalf. If I wanted him dead I could have taken care of it myself.”

Alassa sent her a startled look, and Gard stared too.

“Don’t look at me that way. I’ve just learned that lesson.” She replied to what seemed like the most significant part of the unspoken question. Instantly she realized that Alassa and Gard probably placed the significance on the last part of her reply. It made Marjory feel old.

“Alassa,” she continued, looking at her mother. “One day I’ll come and see you, and learn about those early years. If you still want to share your memory of them with me, that is a promise.”

Alassa didn’t reply, just nodded.

Marjory looked at Gard.

“You probably don’t want any advice from me, but you get it anyway. Don’t let Philip ruin anything of the good things in your life. It isn’t worth it.” She rose, brushing grass and clover off her clothes.

“I’m leaving. One day we’ll meet again. Marry. Have kids. I’ll bring gifts for them next time.”

With that she left them, one standing, one sitting, in the grass. She entered the woods quickly before any of them could say anything to keep her back.

She went back to the chamber where Philip still rested. She picked up the pouch of herbs and left him a few leaves that would keep the wound clean and help it heal. She refused to answer any of his questions or accusations. Something in her demeanor made him hold back. She stayed until night, shared a meal with him in complete silence, and left when darkness filled the chamber and the forest with its sounds. She searched out a brook safely away from the Mezade camp. There she removed her outfit and washed and scrubbed herself clean of the horrible stench from the flower. She washed her hair and clothes as well, using fragrant herbs to get rid of the last remains of the foul odor. She didn’t bother to dress again, but bundled her wet clothes together and put them in a bag made of her wet shirt. Then she fastened the bundle to her naked waist using her belt.

She kept to their original plan, and managed to steal a horse. Not Nightshade, just a decent horse. With a little luck the tribe would be too busy with the upcoming race the next day to bother following the track of a less significant animal. Anyway, she didn’t plan to hang around waiting.

She rode quietly and quickly, staying on hidden forest paths so not to be seen and stopped. By daylight she was firmly on her track to a new life, determined to let the last fifteen years be but an interregnum of something that might have value.