A feast day was a fine thing, in Astora. From his window Eragos could see parades of men marching in the street, playing all instruments of almost every kind, and in the livery of noble houses. it was latticed in iron, this window, with stained glass but for the winged messengers of Armas who carried each a sword and shield. It was through these winged creatures that he peered down, and out, but the novelty wore off quickly. Sitting on a stone sill, waiting for the rain to let up, had the appeal of sitting on stone to stay out of the rain. It was precisely that exciting. Eragos felt every ounce of every wound that had been inflicted on him since departing Malondir. Even if most of those injuries had been healed by one of the court mages who danced attendance on the prince and his. Quite a sight, riding into the city like that, throwing up a column of dust and flying the prince's colors ahead of them like a weapon. They'd had enough time to open the gate and little else.

( That was all the time that was needed. )

Each jostling of the wagon, brought on by poorly made wheels which seemed more square than round reminded Eragos of the pain that he was in. Even if the healing had worked he was still swathed in bandages. Those and the exhaustion creeping through his limbs made him unable to do more than grunt sourly when another rough patch was struck by the driver, who seemed perpetually in search of them. It was an oddity to his eyes but probably a necessity. Covered on all sides, including top and back. Really a box that was drawn by horses with a driver outside of it. This was no way to travel; he wanted to be able to breath in cool and flowing air. Instead he was staring at the toes of his boots and wondering whether or not they were going to make it to the capitol this way. The four of them, a king and a princess and a lady and a mercenary, were not precisely the most suited to avoiding notice.

( Take the last. )

The old wooden chair creaked and whined as Vera shifted her weight, leaning back slightly on the loose legs. A healthy fire roared in the hearth but she was the only soul in the kitchen with the exception of the healer who passed through for hot water and the occasional herb Vera could name but didn't. The healer needed these things for the wound as much as the potential sickness hovering over Eragos like a shadow. A local mage and medicine man was the only one Vera could bribe to help them. Holy magic, for some reason, did not work on Eragos. The first temple they visited, a temple of Lorien, refused to help him at all. One of the priests cursed and spit at her for bringing him there.

"Don't you know what those markings mean?" the priest shouted at her, pointing at Eragos arms. "Get out."

Vera probably hadn't helped the situation when she called the priest's religion a collection of superstitions and hypocritical oaths. Eragos hadn't seemed particularly charmed with her then. Lady Cithia had been horrified. She thought she'd done well. She could have fought the priest for spitting at her, a daughter of a powerful lord. She should have. Her childhood teachers would have named her weak for walking away. But the tattoos were none of her business. Vera didn't know why they should inspire a holy man to abandon a good man and didn't care to.

Instead of retaliating, Vera added that anger to the rest she carried along and led them here. A shack in the middle of the forest that she learned about from threatening a local with one of her knives. Normally she had a more diplomatic mind, but Eragos had been running low on time. He hadn't been harmed in the battle with Sir Galatin, as the King suspected, but he had managed to tear open the stitches she'd done. Vera saw the blood after Eragos got to his feet. He was bleeding far too long by the time they'd reached this medicine man. Lady Cithia and her father slept in the side room as the healer did his work. Vera sat at a table by the hearth.

For a White Rider there was no better place to rest than a kitchen.

"You shouldn't lean that way," the healer muttered from the doorway.

"I won't fall over," Vera replied, not looking at him.

There was a small hmph from the old man. "I'm more worried about my chair."

"You should be worried about my friend."

The healer scowled at her and went back into the room. Vera counted it as a blessing. There was one less person she was tempted to point a knife at in this world.

Mist pushed over the ground in the early morning, making the dirt roads hazy under the rising sun. Frost cracked free of the trees and filled the fields with soft noise. Lady Cithia had a smile on her face. The King's brow was not as creased as it was the night before. They were nearing Rutelas. The thatch roofs poked through the haze like miniature mountain peaks. An insignificant circle of cottages in the shadow of the forest, the village was not enough to be considered civilization. Farmers were known to enter the wilderness for the sake of finding "gold soil"; they worked the land and brought their goods into the centers of commerce hoping to create the premium product. By making a name for themselves, a name was earned for the village. That village had the potential to lay the groundwork for a town and one day, a city. Oisea was such a village once. It was a lucrative and dangerous venture, but a respectable one considering the luck involved. Vera chose to enter Rutelas because of its obscurity. This was a new settlement. The wood used to build the homes still looked fresh. No one would believe a princess would seek rest here.

Since there were no established store or inn, Vera had her party rest their horses in front of a farmer's house. She paid the man in gold for the use of the space and water. The farmer was shocked enough by her use of wealth to keep quiet. Gold was hard to come by in a place like this. Vera was here for the small market that nomads set up in the center of the village. She explained this to Lady Cithia as the girl kept up with Vera's brisk walking pace -- the princess did not seem to believe in slow grace as much as she used to. Caravans were not uncommon so close to the Gate. Traveling merchants would do anything to get some profit before having to travel the human misery dwelling between Malondir and Astora.

"What do you want to buy?" Lady Cithia asked. "Do you think they have fruit?"

Vera laughed. Fruit in winter. She shook her head. "We're here for supplies. Our traveling is far from done, my Lady, and we lost some in our run through the Gate."

There was also the small chance that they might stumble across a horse suitable for making the ride to the capitol with them. Although Gildas was easy when having two people on his back, it made defensive maneuvers far easier if Eragos rode separately from the Princess. There was also the princess' image to consider. Riding into Malondir with a man was not appropriate for a woman of rank. Enough tension was pushing on the negotiations without starting something with Malondir's prince.

She was again reminded of the distant end to their journey. Eragos' brief humorous answer to her question at the campfire stuck in her brain -- sleep. She wondered if she would have the opportunity to sleep when the princess was safe. She wondered if she should have invited Eragos to Simanel last night. There was always an honest job in Simanel. There was no need for him to be a mercenary after all this was done. At the same time, offering him work was a line she didn't feel she had the right to cross just yet. They were barely friends. He might come to think she was trying to be charitable, rather than kind.

Vera drew up her hood and kept Lady Cithia close as they approached the small marketplace. Lacking in civilization or not, she only trusted merchants as far as she could throw them. Eragos and the King walked not far behind. Eragos would have to be their eyes while she tried to bargain. Her mask was over her face now. Her uniform was usually helpful in rural areas because people believed her to be part of a religious order or knighthood. People were always easier to influence when they thought one believed in the divine.

She stopped first at a small stand of dried meats. The vendor stood beside the salt pork with a large grin.

"I prefer rabbit," Lady Cithia said to Vera. "This is disgusti--"

Vera gave the princess a sharp look. If she could have told a monarch to shut up, she would have. Instead, she turned her eyes on the offended merchant and did her best to convey a charming smile behind her mask. It didn't matter, she thought. Damage done. The price here was going to be high.

Eragos sat back on his heels as the fire roared to life. Somewhere in the deep wood beyond the gates, beyond the walls with their collapsing stone and vicious twisting paths, Eragos could allow himself just a slight amount of rest. Lady Cithia and the King had already taken to dreams. Dreams where the world was not so ugly, or dreams where its ugliness defied description? He would have asked if he thought the answer was worth knowing. He was almost certain of which, and didn't want to know. Hopefully he could convince himself that they were not so bad. The dreams. Despite the cold he'd stripped off the tunic - it was in tatters now, and not worth wearing - to get a closer look at his wound. Or rather, to let the Lady Vera stitch it. Patching his own injuries was not a talent of Eragos Feareborne. There were few enough things that were these days.

( Most of them were foul. )

There were always stories to go in advance of a thing, to let you know its grandeur and its status. Despite repeated descriptions from the Lady Cithia - regardless of whether he wanted them or not - Eragos found he was unprepared for the sight of it. A massive structure that rose impossibly high into the narrow throat of the valley with mists that obscured its true height swirling above them. Eragos pulled the cloak tighter around him, including the hood of grey wool that had been sewn onto it by a gracious pair of homeowners. Something about this land was strange and monstrous. There were multiple pathways around them, with wooden bridges that started on the ground and took winding labyrinthian courses for the sky. Of course, Eragos noted with dismay that the gate was not one gate but five, smaller sliding doors in the massive wall of stone and steel. Each door was at a different height. He realized abruptly that all of the pathways led to the gates themselves, which were distant to his eyes but had a stone scaffold of their own built in. This was where the soldiers perched.

( Perched, and watched. )

Eragos lifted the crossbow to his shoulder with a fair amount of trepidation. It was easier to say than to do when it came to weapons of this sort. He was never good with weapons of this sort. Mostly because he considered them to be wastes of time if not outright dishonorable weapons. Remembering how to make a repeating crossbow from a set of plans he'd seen and knowing anyone with the woodworking skills required was something else entirely. There were only four crossbows between them, and rudimentary designs at best. Every quarrel was worth its weight in gold by this time. He couldn't afford to miss the target, or to go digging through the snow for hours looking for it. So when he placed the stock against his shoulder and peered through the eyeslit Eragos knew he couldn't miss. But if he didn't miss, it was more luck than skill. Showing someone how to use the crossbow effectively was the work of a master, not of a knight who put all of his faith in his sword and was rewarded for it. Still, the snap was even and rewarding. That wooden dummy - nothing more than a bowl for a head, with rushes and sticks tied together as a body - suffered a blow to the body, and would have been dead if it had been real.

( The Lady Cithia clapped more enthusiastically than she should have. )

Somehow or another they'd found a cottage in the winter of the land that had beds to spare. Eragos could remember each terrible step that had brought them here. Until his legs were unsteady and his hands numb with cold. The wound had surrendered a great deal of blood, the owner of the cottage said, but he should be fine in a day or two. Until then? Until then he was as useless to them as any invalid. Yet he refused to rest, he refused to make himself into true dead weight. If his father had ever lost blood in battle he walked until he forced his body to make enough. There was always more blood, always more fire to bring out of a creature. And Valos Feareborne had found most of it. So standing in the cold, with the vibrations of his flambard ringing in his ears, Eragos wondered why his limbs still felt cold and wretched. How long did Valos work at such things before he achieved the end he intended? It seemed long enough ago that Eragos couldn't remember. So he drove the blade into the snow, and thought about what the dawn would bring. Change. For the first time since he'd left his home he rode with a purpose. And a good purpose, an honorable one, at that.

( That troubled him. )

Endless snow, as far as the eye could see, as though it had consumed the entire world and still did not plan on stopping. Eragos had lived in the north for most of his life. Weather like this was spring, back home, and he welcomed it. Warmer by far than the dead of winter. At the head of the column in that flowing cloak of purple and gold rode the lone king's man. Barada. He'd demonstrated a tendency for laying hands upon women and spitting. Knight. If he were a knight, a true knight, Eragos would have challenged him to a duel. There was no reason to think Barada would have accepted such a proposal. And even if he did, it was pointless to think about. Fighting a duel was not the reason he was here. It had developed that travel in winter, when the roads were either iced or fouled with mud, became necessary for the king of Astora. Since many of his liege men had retired to their estates for the winter it had become necessary to hire a force of armed guards for the journey. That he was one of those guards, Eragos could not deny. Yet he doubted the rest of them even knew what the word 'honor' meant - let alone how to live with it. Brigands and thieves, and mercenaries if not. The latter being little better than the former in his mind.

( Two countries. )