Anna 3.

Verity was broken when I found her, a ragged heap of muddy cloth and bone. She shook like leaf when I picked her up and tied her to myself to ride Rosie. She sits there now, slumped against my back like a sack of vegetables, jostled with every stride of the horse. I now face the crisis of what to do now – where to go. It was unbelievably lucky to find Verity out on the moor like I did – the sun literally shone out through a chink in the clouds and alighted on a scrap of white fabric on the other side of the valley. A rare occurrence even this deep into the provinces, and something to marvel at regardless of where it led me. I have only seen the sun twice in my life – in its true glory, not a diffuse bright dot in the clouds. The first time was when I was very young, I remember staring until I nearly blinded myself. I had sunspots on my vision lasting for the whole of a given day, swimming red then green in the centre of my focus.

This time it led me to Verity. Some in the east worship the sun and some here would certainly call such an event a miracle, or fate, or favour from the dawn Queen. I wouldn’t even call it lucky – the sun is a superheated ball of gas, and it is only the boredom with its ever-presence in the east and the mystery associated with its absence in the west fuelling its religious aspect.

I am certain that Verity at least would be safe in Cork, but for how long I do not know. The house of Cork has made dangerous allies in the northmen, and they gamble with the safety of their city. I will not take Verity back to Cork where she will either become a traitor to the Queen or a prisoner of one. It is not that I believe in the divine right to rule or the power the east claim over the sun, but I do believe in the might of their armies and their ruthlessness in crushing dissent. History will repeat itself and no province has ever withstood the empire. In other circumstances my loyalty to the house would have compelled me to help as best I am able, but far away from Cork and with Verity to look after I do not see the merit in supporting a doomed war.

The callousness of the house is not altogether surprising, in sacrificing Summerfield to the one called ‘Striega’ they have gained a much more powerful ally. Striega will now have no choice but to hold his lands against the oncoming army as he stands in the path to Cork. Their plan could be to push east together and make a bid for the throne. This might even work with the eastern army mainly tied up in fighting the other northerners at the moment. But I will not involve Verity in such dicey schemes. So where does that leave me? For certain we cannot stay in Summerfield, and Cork is out of the question. That leaves me with no choice but to head east, to the brightly superficial land that so fascinates Verity. If war is coming, she could be used as a hostage or killed, but the east is not looking for us and their cities are vast and populous. It makes for the best destination available, Verity’s wish finally becoming sensible in the worst of ways.

We ride east along the moor for almost three turns. Verity is only barely conscious, sleeping during the ride despite increasingly violent bumps. Rosie is tiring, and I am sore from bare backed riding for half of a given day. I look around in the half-light for a sheltered spot to camp until we are rested again, hopefully one that will shield us from the worst of the wind and rain. I find a tiny gully between two small rises, steep enough that it should do the job.

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There is no hope of a fire in the wild, and the best I can manage to help Verity recover is a relatively dry spot and our combined warmth. The drivers coat at least is warm, though this is on Verity now and I am starting to feel the effects of exposure myself. My fingers white icicles can barely prize themselves away from the reigns to untie Verity and carry her to the gully. She is light and almost insubstantial – the experience being much like carrying dirty laundry.

We bed down in a little alcove, Verity already asleep. Strange that I remember a time when I would have considered this wildly improper, but as always this is my duty to follow, protecting her above all else. I cover us both in the driver’s coat, loath to get its inner lining wet with the dampness of our clothes but with little choice if I want us to stay warm. Verity starts muttering, breaking me out of sleep. She is facing away from me, with my arms wrapped around her, and is no longer shivering which must be seen as a good sign. I know it is terribly rude to listen to one asleep, but I have to admit to being rather curious. She mutters… something about Veronica. Of course, the other runaway from Trellis house, as it occurs to me, I realise that she may well be dead by now.

I read about survivor’s guilt once. It seemed a wholly irrational feeling to me but is an apparently common phenomenon. I do hope Verity isn’t troubled by such things, although one never can tell with her. It might be brushed off in a moment or send her mood spiralling downwards for days on end. Soon though I fall back into sleep, Verity’s mumblings reverberating through my skull.

The morning is discernible now in a scarcely brighter light covering the gully. No longer given day but true day, one of the only mornings I have ever seen. It fills the world, not with the sickly light of gas or the weakly flickering glow of flame, but with a steady and uniform brightness. I decide to let Verity sleep longer, strapping her to Rosie again and setting off at a slow walk for the ridge in the east.

The going becomes gradually rockier and more mountainous, gaining us hight until we crest a rise and see the whole of Cork laid out before us, the road to the east winds in the other direction. The rain stopped a quarter turn ago, marking the symbolic border between the province of Cork and the formal empire. Over our homeland, a vast and complex city of black clouds hangs, drizzling down a haze of thick drops on the people below. I imagine each individual drop falling towards a precise, ordained spot – the gutter, the brim of a hat. The road to the east is made of a golden stone and though the sun is still obscured by clouds, the mountains in that direction seem gilded with a mantle of light. I untie Verity, who has yet to fully recover, from my waist and lower her to sit in the shelter of the cairn topping this hill.

It is an oddly peaceful moment, the lands around us seem still, and without the rain drumming on the ground there is a silence in the air. The absence of rain, for almost the first time in my life, leads me to associate this great wide-open place with the indoors and the great lamp-lit ballroom in house Cork. Looking to Verity I see that she has regained some of her vigour, as if she were merely outcompeted by the chaos of the last few days and now feels she must fill the empty space with her own brand of disorder.

“Anna?” she begins. I look sideways at her slightly fragile frame, nested in stone, and hung about with a filthy, yet still rather expensive, rag. Then she pushes herself up to an upright position, gesturing at the ridgeway with an expansive motion. “Look at that big wide-open world!” she lets her hand fall limply to her side again. “Where are we going now?” Deference to my decision is not strictly right and from Verity it is rather surprising.

“Now we head to Mainsford” I say, confidently picking the wealthiest city this close to the border. We will be unable to take the river, as we would be too easily outpaced and halted by agents of Cork. “Then along the water roads and on to the Empire.”