Chapter Thirteen - Bridge Over Swift Water

(Part II)

The cottage beside the mill was not large, and its low ceilings were packed with all manner of cupboards, shelves, chairs and tables, pressed in against the walls in a maze of well-worn clutter. The result was a rather overcrowded space, and Ren was forced to take more care than usual so as not to bump into anything when they entered, but the hearth was broad, and the smell of cooking filled the air, so it did not take long to settle into a comfortable lull of pleasant talk around the table whilst they waited for their lunch. Ted's wife, a young, slender woman with dark, smiling eyes and shoulder-length fair hair, hurried about the fire busily, stirring and seasoning her pots with a methodical efficiency. A mug arrived for each of them (water for the boys, something stronger for Ted), and they talked for a time of small things, of the weather and the harvest, hoping for a mild winter, idle talk for idle minds. Even Trin seemed to have relaxed in the lazy firelight, though he was more quiet than usual. Ren thought of how scared he had been of the miller as a boy, remembering the fearsome man with his scarred neck and deep voice that had raked their dinner table at the farm with his dark eyes. It was a memory that fit the man beside him about as well as a child’s boot might fit its fathers. He started to feel a little guilty for avoiding him, whenever he visited the farm.

‘Heard you were heading to Overwood, last week.’

Ren blinked, looking up from the fire to find Ted watching him over his mug. He swallowed.

‘Took a cart to the market with grandfather.’

‘How is the old goat?’

Ren hesitated. ‘He’s… he’s well.’

Ted took a swig of his ale, not a little wistfully. ‘Used to live up there, you know. Overwood, I mean. After the soldiering, when the Black Breath took my Da. Coughed up his own lungs, ‘fore it got ‘im. Always was a scrapper. Not easy, losing someone like that.’

Ren swallowed, looking away, and the miller’s eyes softened.

‘Your Ma, too, boy, I know. Damn shame.’ he said apologetically, and Ren decided not to correct him. ‘Long time before I came out here, anyways.’

‘You fought in the war?’ Trin asked tentatively.

‘I fought in the rebellion, boy.’ Ted corrected him. ‘Was only one King, back then.’

Trin swallowed, looking at the floor.

‘But that was a long time ago now. Afore you were born, I reckon. Not a lot of work for soldiers in peacetime. Must have dug half the privies in Overwood before I earned the coin to up sticks.'

‘Earned?’ Werla snorted from beside the fire, cheeks dimpling. ‘Swindled, more like.’

Ren looked over at her. He had always thought her a little young for the old miller. He was well past forty, and with his weathered brow and ugly scar he was hardly an obvious match for a pretty young girl not long from twenty when they had wed a couple of summers back. He wondered, not for the first time, how they had fallen in together to begin with.

‘Now, don't be giving our guests the wrong idea.’ Ted told her, grinning, and the scar on his neck knotted. He turned back to the boys, holding up his hands earnestly. ‘An honest game of chance, I swear it. Northerner, he was, didn't know dice from a pebble.’

Ren and Trin both nodded sagely at his explanation, neither of them knowing one jot about dice, or gambling, or Northerners, for that matter. Werla swept to their rescue, appearing at the miller's shoulder and planting a kiss on his cheek.

‘Swindled.’ she said pointedly.

Ted smiled in spite of himself, shooing her away. She chuckled and turned back to the stew, humming softly to herself.

‘I hear there’s a lot of new folk in town.’ Ted said, turning back to the boys. ‘From up in the Stonelands.’

‘Enough to notice.’ Ren replied, thinking of the unpleasantness on the road. He frowned. ‘Unfriendly types.’

‘Been a while since I made it over that way. Couple of winters back, now.’ He frowned thoughtfully, then smiled in Werla’s direction. ‘A lot can change in two years, though.’

Werla looked up, flashing him a smile, then went back to her stew pot again, humming. The miller paused, scratching at his scar, then gave the boys a curious look. ‘So, then. What brings you out this far?’

Ren lowered his eyes, and Trin shifted uncomfortably beside him. Ted laughed, weathered face creasing into a smile.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

‘Come now.’ he told them. ‘Can’t hardly turn you over to your grandfather from here, can I?’

Ren swallowed. ‘We were just out for a ride…’

‘Mister Derin told us never to cross the bridge.’ Trin finished for him, scowling. ‘He said it was too far from the farm. Not safe, he said. So of course that’s exactly where Ren has to go. We’ll be in for it when we get back!’

‘You didn't have to come, Trin.’ Ren told his friend patiently. He thought of his grandfather’s old map, carved with rivers and mountains and cities in dark ink. The Swiftwater wasn’t even big enough to merit a line, and the distance they’d travelled this morning wouldn’t be more than a nails-breadth.

‘Well you didn't tell me where we were going.’ Trin replied, fidgeting nervously. His fingers twisted around a stray tear in his shirt, tugging at it. ‘And besides... Hardly going to let you go running off on your own. Too risky. It's not safe this far from the farm, for you most of all, so they says.’

‘Who’s they?’ Ren asked, scowling.

‘Hector. Your grandfather. And Ma, too! Everyone!’

‘Your Ma doesn’t know everything, Trin.’

‘Still a damn sight more than you!’

‘Easy, boys.’ Ted was smiling, and his scarred neck twisted. ‘I wager the north side of the river is much the same as this one.’

Trin lowered his eyes, and his cheeks reddened. Ren thought of the shadows moving in the trees over the bridge, the way he had fallen when Ted had found him, and started to feel very foolish indeed. His thoughts had been dark, unpredictable, these past few days, since the trip to Overwood. He never had been a good sleeper, but his nights had been more restless than usual, too, his dreams a little thicker with shadows. Shadows with faces, and a hunchback with gold eyes to give them voice. Turning every doorway to the gloom of the fortuneteller’s tent, every flame the silver light of his brazier. He frowned at himself. Just rhymes and empty words. Best not to dwell on it.

‘Food's ready!’ Werla said suddenly from the fire, and a few moments later they had steaming bowls of fragrant brown stew sitting in front of them on the table. Ted carved up some slices of soft, pale bread for them to soak, and they set to eating it all in relative quiet for a time, content with good food and the soft warmth of the fire, and it was not long before all thoughts of the bridge, and the shadows beyond it, had gone entirely from Ren's mind. He found himself staring wearily into his cup, watching idly as the clear water rocked and rolled against the rim, listening to the rumble of the river outside.

‘Won’t turn to ale just by looking at it.’ Ted told him, and he looked up to find the miller looking at him curiously, taking another mouthful of bread. Trin was still quite engaged in his food, and Werla was sipping her mug contentedly, pale hair brushed back behind her ears.

‘What?’

‘Come, now, boy. What’s got you twisted?’ Ted asked, taking sip of his drink.

Ren hesitated. ‘I was thinking about the market.’ He said after a moment, looking up. It was true enough.

‘Ah. Town ain't what it used to be.’ Ted looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then began rubbing his thumb around the rim of his mug, staring at it. His young wife watched him with a slight frown. ‘All these unsavoury types arriving. You hear the talk, even out here. City folk, some of them, and worse. Heard… there’s talk of Brothers abroad, up in the Westmere. Out in the open, again, like.’ He pressed harder against the mug, thumb turning white. Werla reached out and pulled his hand away, folding it in her own and meeting his eye. Ted frowned, squeezing her hand, and the ugly scar on his neck gleamed. Trin had stopped eating.

‘But the Westmere’s a long way from here, and I ain’t one to be complaining. Got a good roof over my head, and a good living. A good woman, too, and might have a son of my own by next winter, Makers willing.’ He grinned at Werla, putting a hand to her belly, and she smiled, pulling it to her mouth and kissing it softly. ‘Reckon I’m a lucky man.’

Ren smiled at them both, lowering his eyes.

‘Say hello to your folks, for me, boy. Tell your old man I better see his arse over here before the snows.’

Some words of thanks, warm, earnest ones, and one or two more for goodbye, then they were homeward bound again, ponies snorting in the afternoon sun, promises of a return visit ringing in their ears. Ren was left with the distinct feeling that he had misjudged the old miller, scar and all. But it wasn’t long before his thoughts turned towards the rumours he had imparted from the Westmere, his white knuckles pressed against his mug. To Hector’s words in the shadow of the farm hill. To the ugly fortuneteller and his tent of oddities and silver fire. Words whispered in the dark. He’d not mentioned the encounter in the tent to anyone. Not even his grandfather. In truth, he’d been doing his best not to think about it at all, without much success. He frowned, hunching over his saddle.

A mask on fire.

Neither of them spoke for a long while. Trin, for his part, was busy trying to subtly feed Pol the stash of small treats he had smuggled away from the cottage, glancing over at Ren occasionally to make sure he hadn’t noticed. He had, of course, but there was little use in pointing it out.

‘Trin.’ Ren said once they had crested the hill, looking back towards the river-bound cottage in the distance. Trin started and stuck his hand quickly back into his pocket, hiding a scrap of bread.

‘What?'’

‘You heard what Ted said?’ Ren asked. ‘About Brothers?’

Trin frowned. ‘Suppose so.’

Ren was still looking back the way they had come. 'What do you make of it?'

‘Reckon he’s right.’ Trin shrugged. ‘Westmere’s a long way away.’

He hesitated, frowning.

‘But Hector’s been saying it for years. Overwood’s not what it used to be. Strange folk coming and going by night. No safe place for good folk that side of the Swiftwater. Brothers or no.’

‘Grandad says there haven’t been Black Hand this far south in years.’ Ren murmured, still looking back towards the river. ‘Not since we were born, at least.’

‘Wouldn’t pay it any mind. Plenty to worry about without them.’ Trin told him, giving him a serious look. ‘You’ve been acting up more, these past few weeks. Ever since the old man came calling.’

‘Have I?’ Ren scowled, shooting his friend a sideways glance.

‘You know what I think about him.’ Trin told him seriously. ‘Can’t be trusted, that one. And you can’t be taking so many risks. Not with your… Well, you know.’

‘Your ma tell you that, too?’

‘Don’t make it wrong.’ Trin grumbled, turning away in his saddle and trotting off south over the crest of the hill. Ren waited a moment longer, frowning to himself, then followed him reluctantly. The sound of the river was long gone behind him, but he caught one final glimpse the gleaming water before he shook the reins and disappeared finally over the brow of the hill, bound for home.