“A healthy fear.” Xir smile was the cat’s smile. “I’m going to look for breakfast before Ziha comes back to scold us, again.”
Iktan left, but she idled behind, xir words nagging at her. Why did she drink? Was it as simple as what she had blithely quipped, some philosophy about drowning sorrows and fears, or was it because that was what sailors did, and it had become a habit? Or was it something else? She felt that pressure again, the feeling that told her she was digging too deep at her own insides and was not ready to face what she would excavate there. Her mother’s house, a pool of blood not hers, a body at her feet. She slammed shut the door to that memory, threw the lock, and barred the chain. If she let herself face what lurked there, she was sure it would eat her alive. She was not ready for it, perhaps never would be.
The camp was a shadow of what it had been when she had arrived the day before. Most of the tents save a couple here and there had been struck and packed away, and now the company was making final preparations before the march began. Someone was breaking down the cookfire, and she could hear Iktan’s voice over the din, complaining about the lack of breakfast. Others shoveled over a latrine. And yet others were down at the river filling their drinking skins. She saw Ziha moving through it all, keeping things orderly and progressing. She watched her for a while, admiring her way with her people. It was like running a ship, Xiala figured, and, like any good captain, she was efficient and seemed well liked by her people. She decided Iktan’s assessment of her was too harsh.
“Here.” Iktan was there, handing her a warm cup. It was filled with an unfamiliar gruel.
“What is this?”
“Your breakfast. Drink it, and be glad I got that much out of the cook. Oh…” Xe pulled a small package from xir pocket and sprinkled a bit of salt on her meal.
She drank the creamlike mixture from the cup. It was grain and ash, not unlike the street breakfasts popular in Cuecola. “It’s good,” she remarked.
Iktan made a sound as if her opinion was offensive. She wondered if all ex-priests were such snobs.
“She’s good, too,” she said, gesturing toward Ziha with her cup.
Iktan watched the Golden Eagle commander at work. “Yes, Ziha makes a lovely despot.”
She laughed, unimpressed by Iktan’s negativity.
“You laugh now,” xe said, “but wait until we’ve been traveling under her thumb for a week. Then tell me what you think.”
Ziha shouted to them, as if she had known they were talking about her. She warned them they were marching out, and they each needed to pick up a pack from the ones yet to be claimed, and once they had a pack, they were to join her in the front. Iktan sighed and lifted a hand to Ziha in a half-hearted salute. Xiala drank the last of her breakfast and grabbed a pack. She threaded the straps through her arms so it rested comfortably on her back, and fell in with the rest of the company.
Together, they walked north across the empty prairie toward the river called Puumun.
* * *
The first days of the journey were the monotony of endless walking, setting camp, and then breaking camp, only to do it all again the next day. And again the next day. Xiala found that traveling on land was much like traveling by ship. There was a sameness to the work of taking one step after another that was similar to that of working a paddle, and the Golden Eagle company passed time the same way Cuecolan sailors did; they gossiped, sang bawdy songs, and told stories.
At first, Xiala had tried to stay close to the front. Ziha and Iktan were the only people who spoke to her, and they both led the company. She would catch the others staring, most looks simply curious and none truly hostile, but she was wary of the fact that she was still among Serapio’s enemies, which made them her enemies, and she did not desire to make friends. She did, however, enjoy the stories, in particular those of the folk heroes called cliff runners and a queen who wore a pair of wings made of hammered gold and took many lovers, so she lingered close to listen. Golden Eagle’s Tovan was slightly different from both Carrion Crow’s and Water Strider’s, with crisper vowels and swallowed word endings. It took her a while to pick it up, but once she did, she enjoyed the shared tales. She imagined telling them to Serapio, his delighted looks and tentative smiles, the rare occasion when she could coax a laugh from him. And oh, her heart ached at the memories. Perhaps they had not known each other that long, but the time they had spent together had meant more to her than any other. It was the first time since she had left home that someone had cared about her, had been genuinely interested in her—not for what she could do for them but simply for her company. She treasured it, and she missed him more with every mile she walked.